Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4)

by Thater, Glenn

  The seating area behind Korrgonn brightened, and the sinister, deformed, inhuman aspects of the Arkons of the League of Shadows came into Tanch’s view. Tanch shuddered and his head swam. It was all he could do not to scream; not to flee in terror from those cursed chambers. But the throng about him failed to stir; those sights of no alarm to them at all.

  Through a murky haze and debilitating waves of dizziness Tanch cringed as Mortach’s long dagger plunged into the bound merchant and laid him open, throat to groin.

  Even as Mortach and the priests collected the man's lifeblood in golden chalices to share with the faithful, guards dragged a long procession of bound and struggling citizens, men, women, and children, toward the sacrificial altar. Dead gods, they were mostly children; their eyes wide with fright. Tears streamed down their faces. Tanch’s stomach churned; bile rose in his throat. He wanted to save them, though he knew he could not. He wanted to call up every magic he knew — each cantrip, conjuration, and incantation, every spell and sorcery, but he dared not or else invite the merchant’s fate or worse. The masses of mad cultists would pull him down and tear him to shreds, and his comrades too. Even Theta could not survive here, so outnumbered. He wanted to run, but his legs betrayed him, weak and trembling. He could do naught but stare in horror as the cultists dragged the captives, one after another, to the sacrificial altar. Their piteous screams were stifled by rags the cultists stuffed in their mouths.

  Even more shocking than those heinous sights was the crowd’s reaction to them. No cries of alarm; no shouts of protest; no shocked gasps. Instead, nods of approval; whispers of support; even a scattered smile and cheer. The wretches thought those murders right and proper. Truly a den of madness and monsters; the stuff of fevered nightmares. No place for any goodly man was that, though Tanch dared not flee, if even he could find the strength.

  On instinct, Tanch mouthed words of protection; ancient words taught him by his old master. Mystical words of power from the old tongue of the Magus Mysterious carried down from the Dawn Age; words lost if ever known by normal men and each nigh unpronounceable. From deep within, he felt his arcane powers stir, and with a rush of adrenaline that made him shudder, his vision cleared, his mind calmed, and his tension ebbed.

  It was as if he awoke from a dream; as if a veil lifted from his eyes, and a plug of wax was plucked from his ears. With this clarity, the scene before him suddenly changed. Now it appeared altogether different. Now Tanch saw it the way it truly was.

  Mortach was no monster. His true face was handsome, almost perfect to behold, with long straight hair, black as pitch. His form, tall and lean, but powerful. Beside him, Korrgonn wore no stolen face, but his own. Even more beautiful than Mortach; his skin of golden tone; his eyes, a piercing blue; his body, tall and stately. Each chaos lord held an aura of majesty about them; a spark of the divine. With every breath, they exuded strength, wisdom, and power. These were more than mere mortals; they were holy messengers of the heavens, of paradise.

  No blood dripped from the dagger Mortach held. The chalices were filled not of blood spilled from the captives’ chests, but of red wine poured over their brows. The merchant stood now beside the altar unharmed.

  The gruesome blood sacrifices and all their trappings were merely a performance, an illusion — religious ritual, symbolism, ceremony, and such, nothing more. Nothing bad, nothing sinister. Not a scene of horror, not a march of madness.

  Tanch knew now what had clouded his mind. It was Theta's magic; there was no other explanation. But why? He turned toward Theta—

  —But now Tanch was back on the deck of The Black Falcon as it sailed down the Grand Hudsar River and passed through the Dead Fens. Wind lashed his face; freezing rain pummeled the deck; it was bitter cold.

  The Einheriar battled Theta on the Bridge Deck. Its form was blurred and indistinct, but from what little Tanch could tell, it was a monster. A creature that perhaps was once a man, but was now corrupted, a mockery of humanity, a twisted, misshapen offense to life itself.

  And there was Theta with his ankh that glowed with unholy fire. A gleaming mountain of muscle and steel, Theta floated just above the deck and glided hither and there, faster than any man could move.

  Of a sudden, a strange beam of light emanated from Tanch's hand with a will of its own. He knew at once that the beam was his own spark of mana, a projection of the holy light of his immortal soul, enhanced by decades of mystic training, by his art.

  The beam sped at Theta and engulfed the hellish glow of his preternatural ankh. The dark magic that powered the ankh resisted Tanch's light, but for a few moments, not long, but time enough, did Tanch's light hold mastery. It enwrapped the ankh and covered it. It suppressed its evil rays and dampened its unholy magic. It pulled back the veils of lies that it wove.

  And while it did, the scene changed; the Einheriar changed; Theta changed.

  The Einheriar was now no monster, no menace out of hell. He was a man, a warrior in gleaming armor, a long dagger in each hand. His brow noble; his expression determined, resolved. He and Theta taunted and threatened each other.

  “I'm on god's side, deceiver,” said the Einheriar. “I've sworn to destroy all evil and destroy you, I will.”

  “Dead gods, he is a holy warrior,” mumbled Tanch. Sent down by the gods to face the unfaceable, to struggle against the unconquerable, to die for the lord and for all that's good and holy in the world. How did Tanch not see that before? How was he so easily beguiled?

  Tanch tried to look at Theta, to see his true face now that the veil of clouding magic had lifted, but he was paralyzed with fear. He had to know. He gathered all his will and courage and forced himself to look—

  —But then he was in the ancient temple in the Vermion Forest the night Sir Gabriel died. A mind-rending din pounded against his ears, so loud, so utterly overwhelming.

  Tanch saw the rear of the temple. There lurked its altar; a stark slab of gray stone, stained brown and red from untold sacrifices. Atop the altar, an orb of madness and mystery, blacker than death, a sphere of the outer realms that pulsed with forbidden powers and terrible temptations.

  Behind the altar, the rear wall of the temple, embossed with a geometric pattern of flaming, melting, golden coins, shimmered, fluxed, and strained. It strove to tear open the fabric of the dimensions. The magic of that ancient orb was birthing a gateway — a dark portal to the realm of Nifleheim, a place of madness, chaos, and death. A breach that would join the two worlds in an unholy union of light and dark that would herald the end of civilization, the end of mankind. For when that gateway opened, the beasts from beyond, the demon hordes of hell, would gain passage into Midgaard to ravage the world of man.

  Men struggled toward the rear of the temple as they strained against the unnatural cacophony; the nauseating mist; the bone-chilling cold; the flailing pseudopods, the very arms and claws of hell; sacrificing all to safeguard mankind and avenge their fallen liege. Each, a named man, a hero — armed with honor, clad in courage, and girded with honest steel, helm to boot, sword, dagger, and axe.

  One amongst them plodded at the van and trudged through the murk where brave men faltered. Angle Theta, a shiny mountain of sculpted steel and determination, red-faced and sweating despite the chill, struggled forward, slowly, as if he pulled some vast weight. Every inch was a battle; every foot a war, as Theta strained against some unseen force, some power beyond the sight of man that held him back.

  And then, for a fraction of a second, the bizarre scene grew even stranger when the cloud of deluding sorcery lifted from Tanch's eyes, and another reality, the true reality, flashed into view. Two Valkyries, holy sword-maidens of the gods, appeared from nowhere, blinking into existence. Each sat atop a white, winged steed that hovered aloft behind Theta. Each gripped a gleaming silver rope that was corded about Theta's cloak and shoulders. They labored to hold the juggernaut back, dragging at Theta's cloak with all their supernatural might.

  Then they were gone: Valkyries, horses, and
ropes; vanished from sight, though Theta struggled still.

  The orb of darkness pulsed wildly on the altar and empowered the doorway to Abaddon, but the relic could not release the vast energies needed to drop the veil between the worlds.

  For long moments, Theta trudged forward, his aspect blurred and obscured by the unnatural haze within the temple and the pounding din that assailed Tanch's ears. When at last he reached the altar, Tanch’s vision sharpened and cleared, and Theta's form changed. The Valkyries blinked back into view, and this time remained, still struggling in vain to pull Theta back. But he was Theta no longer. Now he was Thetan. Thetan, the evil; Thetan, the traitor; Thetan the fallen.

  Tanch’s face became a twisted mask of shock and horror. He wanted to turn away, but he could not.

  What had appeared to be Theta's great steel helm now was revealed to be two great horns that protruded from his forehead. What had been his cloak was really two great, black, leathery wings, like those of a giant bat. Theta's face sharpened and morphed — that protruding, boney jaw; the sharp, long nose and flared nostrils; the deep-set eyes; the muscular physique beyond that of any mortal; the reddish tinge to his skin. This was Thetan; Theta in his true form, revealed at last for what he truly was. A monster. The Prince of Lies, the Great Dragon, the Lord of Demons. Evil incarnate. The Harbinger of Doom. He who betrayed the Lord and was cast out from the heavens in time immemorial.

  As Tanch watched in horror, Theta raised a great hammer and smashed the orb of darkness. It exploded on impact, and crackling streaks of deadly lightning flashed along the Valkyries' silver ropes and engulfed them. The brave sword-maidens and their valiant steeds screamed, burst into flame, and burned instantly to ash.

  The orb's eerie energy, released in one titanic blast, powered the vestigial gateway, tore it open, and thereby created a gap in the fabric of reality — an unholy bridge between the worlds. Such had been long hoped for by those who lurked on its threshold for years beyond count. Their prayers answered, the demons of nightmare vaulted through in triumph. Thetan’s booming laughter shook the temple to its core.

  Tanch felt himself falling; felt his world grow dim.

  The mystical connection broke and Pipkorn staggered back from the marble font, his heart racing. “Dead gods,” he said.

  Tanch sprang up and gasped for air. His heart pounded in his chest; his head throbbed; drenched in sweat; his hair plastered to his face; his shirt soaked through. For some moments, he knew not where or when he was. Soon his head cleared; his vision, sharpened.

  He was in his bunk, off the Captain's Den, on The Black Falcon.

  He was awake. A nightmare. He thanked the gods it was all just a nightmare.

  Tanch rubbed his hands to stifle the nagging itch and persistent burning that plagued him since the very moment he’d thrown that great blast of fire on the docks of Tragoss Mor. He shuddered at the thought of it and the power that had coursed through him, a power not his alone, but born of the Ring of the Magi gifted him by Pipkorn and affixed evermore to his right hand. That ring, its very aspect alien, whispered of secrets best not known. The golden band cupped a singular, faceted, green stone that was no emerald, its true lineage unknown, its unplumbed depths at once afire and murky beyond man’s sight or reason. Tanch struggled to avoid thinking of the horrors that he'd seen in Tragoss Mor, of the death and suffering that he'd wrought. He had to block that from his mind, and distract himself with saner thoughts, but after that nightmare, sane thoughts were hard to find.

  He pulled himself from bed, put on a clean shirt, and made his way to the Captain's Deck, still groggy and fatigued.

  The guards admitted him into Claradon's stateroom without a word. There lay his young friend and liege; bloody bandages wrapped about his chest, looking much the same as he had the previous night. His face and skin were pale, deathly pale; his breathing shallow, but dear gods, he did still breathe, did still cling to life, where near any other man would've long since passed, his wounds so grievous.

  The part-elven woman, Kayla, was at his side from the moment they carried him aboard. She tended to him however she could, though of what medical skills she had, if any, Tanch had no idea. The young knights Paldor and Glimador were there too, tired and forlorn. It was good that Glimador was there — he was Claradon’s oldest friend, not to mention his first cousin. If Claradon slipped away, at least one family member that loved him would be at his side to mark his passing and mourn him. Ob was there too, and he was practically family, though as Tanch expected, he was passed out in a chair beside the bed, a collection of wine bottles empty at his feet.

  Dear gods, please let Claradon live.

  I

  GODS OF THE SWORD

  Like all the young, he thought himself immortal. Now he knows better.

  — Milton DeBoors

  The wide avenue that led to Tragoss Mor’s dock ward sang with swordplay and ran red with blood. A dozen Kalathen knights, a squadron of House Alder’s marines, and two born killers battled Brother Claradon Eotrus, newly named Lord of Dor Eotrus, and his small band. Bartol of Alder’s arrest warrant for Claradon and “his mercenary” lay trampled underfoot.

  In a somber alley just off the avenue, Claradon dueled a legend — a sword master and bounty hunter famed and feared throughout the land for a generation. Kaledon of the Gray Waste was his name, better known to most as The Wild Pict, a born killer that stories claimed had slain a thousand men by his own hand. The Pict stood before Claradon, battered, bloody, and dazed, his chest smoking and scorched, courtesy of Claradon’s magic. The Pict’s sword was still in his hand and the fight had not yet left him, but he was weak and unsteady. In truth, Claradon fared little better — but now came his chance to end their lengthy battle and to defeat a legend.

  Claradon advanced and thrust his sword at Kaledon's bare chest. The wounded Pict’s parry was far too slow and failed to keep the blade from his flesh. It sank deep. Blood spurted from the wound and splashed Claradon's face, already bloodied and dripping sweat. The Pict roared in pain but returned Claradon's strike before the last of his strength was spent. His war blade slashed Claradon's breastplate, cleaved through at the center, and shattered. The young lord stumbled back in shock and disbelief.

  The broken remnant of Kaledon’s sword slipped from his fingers and clattered to the pavement. The Wild Pict clutched his chest and tried in vain to stem the flow of his lifeblood. His eyes burned with hatred and never left Claradon's face. He dropped to his knees. Moments later, eyes still open and staring, he fell face forward to the ground. He did not move again.

  The Duelist of Dyvers, Milton DeBoors’ eyes went wide and he knew at once that he’d underestimated Claradon Eotrus. When Chancellor Barusa of Alder hired him to kill Claradon and his foreign mercenary, he expected a challenge — not from their personal martial skills, but from the combined might of the fighting men that traveled with them. He never dreamed that the young Eotrus could stand up to the Pict, his friend and ally of long years, little less best him. Such mistakes were foreign to DeBoors and costly when rare they came. The Chancellor’s coin was not worth this.

  DeBoors rushed forward through the smoke, blood, and din of the melee; too late to save his comrade, but in good time to avenge him.

  Claradon's sword hung loose from its guard; his eyes were glassy, his face pale, his legs unsteady.

  “Eotrus,” boomed DeBoors.

  The young knight turned, grievously wounded; sweat poured from his brow as he gasped for breath.

  DeBoors aimed his thrust for the narrow gouge in Claradon's armor where that last strike of Kaledon's had laid it open. DeBoors’ wicked blade passed unerringly through the center of the rent, and clear through Claradon, garment, flesh, and bone. Through the heart.

  Claradon wore a look of shock. Like all the young, he thought himself immortal. Now he knew better.

  DeBoors pulled the blade free. It made a curious, sucking sound as it slid out; a spray of blood followed it.

  DeBoors r
aised his sword to take Claradon’s head — a trophy for Chancellor Barusa, and a bit of satisfaction for him, but before he struck his blow, a mountain fell on him. The world spun into chaos and he sailed through the air. He crashed to the ground, the air crushed from his chest; something massive atop him; something alive. At first, DeBoors thought it a horse, felled in the battle and fallen on him; such was its bulk. But it was a man; one of Eotrus' mercenaries; a veritable giant.

  A snarling face appeared over DeBoors, and two vise-like hands clamped about his neck. The power of that grip would've crushed another man's throat in moments, but the thick, corded muscle of DeBoors' neck held, though he could not manage a breath.

  DeBoors' hands were pinned between his torso and the giant's; his sword lost from his grasp; no room to swing it anyway.

  His throat screaming for air, DeBoors wrenched one meaty hand free and pummeled the giant's jaw. Unfazed, the giant clamped down tighter; his thick digits dug deep into DeBoors' throat, his hot breath washed over DeBoors' face; his sweat dripped into DeBoors' eyes.

  The duelist squirmed, twisted, and stretched to align and leverage his next desperate strikes. His fist slammed unerringly into the giant’s head, again and again and again.

  The giant grunted, spit blood in DeBoors' face, and squeezed ever tighter. “Die,” he said; that was all he said. In all his years, DeBoors had never battled a man of such strength — strength to match his own. Close to blacking out, he struggled to pull those hands of doom from his throat. After the uncountable battles he’d weathered, he would not fall to some random mercenary. That was inconceivable; the moment surreal.