Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4)

by Thater, Glenn

  Sevare dived toward Frem, grabbed his wrist, and strained to stay his slide. But it was a powerful pull, beyond the strength of mortal men. Sevare’s feet dug deep into the sand but he could not hope to hold Frem back. “Cut him free,” yelled Sevare to whoever was near. “Now!”

  The weeds dragged them both inexorably toward the water;

  Swords and daggers came out all around. Putnam, Storrl, Moag, and Sir Roard hacked the weeds that coiled about Frem. With each blow landed, the weeds emitted sharp, rhythmic sounds, unholy crinoid cries of pain, and mayhaps, calls for help. Even in death, the weeds wreaked havoc. Each one that they severed shot a small cloud of noisome, acidic mist into the air that choked the men and stung their exposed flesh before it finally went silent and still.

  With alarming speed, more corded weeds slithered from the water and advanced like snakes across the sand. How long they were, none could tell, for one end of each remained in the water. They wrapped en masse about Frem’s feet and legs, acting in concert, and ignoring all else. Frem rolled to his back, pulled a second dagger from his belt, and slashed the weeds that coiled about his torso.

  Without warning, a volley of thicker weeds rocketed from the water. They screeched as they sailed through the air — a high-pitched, discordant wail, sharp and painful to hear. Their ends held toothy maws, small but wickedly sharp and ravenous. The barrage slammed into the Pointmen. Men dived, reeled, or were knocked from their feet.

  One weed slammed into Sir Roard’s breastplate. Its fangs bit deep into the tempered steel as easily as a snake punctures a man's flesh. Another did the same to Storrl’s hauberk, embedding its fangs in the thick leather. It wouldn’t let go. Storrl grabbed the thing even as it pulled him toward the water. A desperate series of slashes with his blade severed it and he turned and bolted back to Frem's side. Dozens more hellweeds deflected off armor and shield or crashed into the sand. They coiled, hissed, bared their fangs, and struck like cobras, sending the men scurrying up the strand. The Pointmen tried to form a defensive line but the weeds were too quick, chaotic, and unconventional in their attacks. The men were assailed from all sides and were nearly overwhelmed, their only recourse was to move farther back from the water's edge and get beyond the weed’s range.

  Only Little Storrl, Sir Roard, and Sevare remained at Frem's side, the surf now licking his calves. Little Storrl tore desperate at the weeds, hand and dagger, his weight on Frem’s chest to stay him. Sevare was half buried in the sand up by Frem’s head, his face red, and arms burning from the strain of holding Frem back.

  Roard stood at Frem’s feet and held more weeds at bay with sword and shield. Over and over the snarling weeds slammed into his shield and breastplate, but Roard was sturdy and strong and stood his ground. He beat them back as best he could, his expression determined and confident despite the inhuman onslaught he faced.

  An angry coil of weed rocketed from the surf and slipped past Roard’s guard. It whipped about his neck and knocked the big knight from his feet. Dazed, Roard’s hands went to his throat and sought to tear the weed free even as it clamped down and cut off his air. Before any man could come to his aid, it dragged him headfirst and face up into the water, his desperate struggles and great strength were to no avail. As quick as that he disappeared below the muck. He was not seen again.

  “What hell shit these out?” spat Little Storrl as he stared at the spot where Roard disappeared into the surf.

  “Save yourself, boy,” grunted Frem through clenched teeth. “You too, wizard. I’m done for.”

  “No!” said Storrl as tears welled in his eyes. “I’m not leaving you, boss.”

  “You got to,” shouted Frem. “You must tell Coriana that I love her — you tell her that! Now get gone.”

  “No!” said Storrl.

  “Help us,” yelled Sevare over his shoulder toward the rest of the Pointmen. The others couldn’t approach, though Putnam and more than a few others tried, beset as they were with the hellweeds.

  “What do we do?” said Storrl to Sevare, desperation in his eyes.

  “I’ve a spell that I can try,” said Sevare. “I just need a moment,”

  “I’ve got him,” said the young lugron. “But hurry.”

  Sevare stood, whirled his hands, and wove an eldritch incantation. Harsh guttural tones, sounds never meant to be uttered by the throat of man, escaped through Par Sevare's lips. Yellow fire, mystic brought, beamed from his hand, roaring like a thunderstorm, and impacted the evil weeds coiled about Frem's feet. The raw power of that arcane blast severed them one and all, incinerating the weeds at the point of impact, though it left Frem unscathed. An inhuman wailing filled the air and the masses of seaweed about the strand bucked, roiled, and roared, and then mercifully receded, sliding, slithering, or rocketing back into the water and out of sight. A thick covering of weed still capped the water's surface but what remained was common and quiet, the devilish things having fled. Par Sevare’s arms shook. Smoke rose from his hands and pain racked his body. He fell backward to the sand, unconscious. Frem scrambled up and away from the water and stumbled to the rocks at the back of the beach, his legs numb and barely responsive, owing to the effects of the constrictive coils. He tore at the dead remnants of weed that still clung to him, even as many of the slimy coils still squirmed in their death throes. Storrl dragged Sevare by the arm across the strand until others moved in to help.

  “Pull the boats back,” said Frem. “All the way up the beach. Get everything away from the surf.” The men did so and then joined him at the back end of the beach. Someone threw a helmet full of water on Sevare to bring him around. His hands still steamed from the magic he’d thrown.

  “Roard served with me for six years,” said Putnam. “A good man and a good knight. He has a fine wife and three young ones. What's to become of them now? He shouldn't have died like this. Drowned by a damned weed in the middle of nowhere. It's senseless. Not a way for a soldier to die.”

  “He died trying to save me,” said Frem. “That makes him a hero in my book. What better way for a soldier to go?”

  Putnam was quiet for some moments. “Aye, true enough,” he said, nodding. “Then a hero's death we'll mark it. We'll toast Roard at the next feast.”

  Sevare joined them, wet cloths wrapped about both hands, though he looked a bit unsteady. “No need to worry about his family, the League will see that they are well provided for, I’m sure.”

  “You’re always right quick to speak up for the Leaguers,” said Putnam. “You’re getting a bit too much religion, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t,” said Sevare.

  “You think that devil weed got our patrol?” said Little Storrl as he gazed up at the darkening sky, a storm moving in. Thunder pealed in the distance.

  “We would have seen the battle from the ship,” said Frem as he placed a hand on the young lugron's shoulder. “They would not have gone quietly.”

  “Couldn’t have taken all of them, anyways,” said Putnam. “Just the same, I figure they’re dead, probably to a man, rest their souls.”

  “Something else waylaid them,” said Sevare before he spit a wad of tobacco to the sand. “Something inland, back in those rocks. Something we haven’t seen yet.”

  “Something we don't want to see,” said Frem.

  “Whatever it is, let’s hope it got its fill already,” said Sevare as the first drops of rain fell on his head.

  “More likely, they’ve just developed a taste for us,” said Putnam. “Stinking cannibals. We need to secure the area before the others land. “I’ll see that the boys get to it.”

  IX

  SEERS AND STONES

  Mother Alder gripped the stone with all ten fingers. Swirling mists, green and gray, yellow and gold, blue and turquoise, leaped and morphed about the stone’s interior. The vapors slowed, images appeared, rich in color, realistic and sharp, and slid into focus.

  And there sat Azura, disheveled, drained, and aged. Blain stepped up behind her, no closer than ne
cessary to see the stone’s sights.

  “Blain?” said Mother Alder, her voice somehow projected through the stone as clear and sharp as if she were in the same room. “Is that you?”

  “Good to see you, mother,” said Blain, his voice slightly distorted as it passed through Azura’s Seer Stone.

  Mother Alder smiled from ear to ear for a moment, then resumed her cold scowl. “Where’s my little Eddie?” she said. “So help me, Blain, if you've let another hair on that dear boy’s head get harmed – I’ll have you and Bartol both hung from the rafters by your feet.”

  Blain sighed. “Edwin’s fine, mother. He’s right here, just a bit green about the gills.”

  “The stone will do that,” she said. “A cup of hot tea — chamomile with honey will fix him straight away. Your brother?”

  “He’s well, but not here at the moment.”

  “Where in the Lord’s name did you find a Seer Stone to contact me with, and when did you arrive back in Lomion? Why not just come home? Are you in trouble? Is someone after you?”

  “We’re not in Lomion,” said Blain. “We’re in Tragoss Mor.”

  “That far?” said Barusa.

  “Impossible,” said Mother Alder, her brow furrowing as she spoke. “No common Seer can initiate contact over that distance, stone or not. It would take an Archseer or a master oracle to make such a contact. Even then, over that distance, a two-way conversation is not possible. Who sits the stone before you? I don’t know her face.”

  “Mistress Azura of Tragoss Mor,” said Blain.

  “Hmm,” said Mother Alder. “The only Seer called Azura that I know of is from Dyvers, if memory serves. I met her years ago, but she would be much younger than this woman.”

  “I am Azura du Marnian of Dyvers and yes, we’ve met.”

  “Then the years have been cruel,” said Mother Alder. “You use your stone recklessly, du Marnian. Now tell me, how did a second-rate soothsayer like you acquire a Seer Stone?”

  “I see that your reputation and my old opinion of you were honestly earned,” said Azura. “What is it they call you, the ‘witch-mother?’”

  Mother Alder cackled. “At least I have a reputation. I’m not the one hiding in some barbarian hovel of a city. Bandy no more words with me, du Marnian, once of Dyvers, and perhaps you’ll yet see tomorrow.”

  Azura’s eyes dropped and she made no response. She had no strength left for such sparring.

  “Now tell me,” said Mother Alder, “where did you get the stone?”

  Azura glared at Mother Alder. “It has been held by my House for twenty generations.”

  “Has it now? I do seem to recall a tale or two about the du Marnian Stone.” Mother Alder turned to Barusa. “A minor House of little consequence,” she whispered, though loud enough to be heard through the Stone. “And how did you contact me over such a distance? Have you some token that enhances your powers or your Stone’s? A bauble perhaps, dug up from some archwizard’s tomb? Or did you sell your soul to some demon of the nether realms to acquire this skill? Tsk Tsk — did he take your youth in exchange? Is that why you’ve gone so gray, so lined, so decrepit?”

  Azura’s expression was bitter, but she was too battered to fight. “No tokens do I have, and I don’t ally with demons. How it worked, I know not. They forced me to try, and somehow it just worked. I can’t explain it, nor do I care.”

  “In any case, this contact is well planned and timed,” said Mother Alder. “We’ve been eager for news. It seems at least some of my sons prove not quite useless after all,” she said, glancing toward Barusa.

  Barusa’s jaw was clenched; his eyes firmly glued to his shoes.

  “I suppose I should ask after your quest, dearies, afore your brother pees himself.”

  “Were you able to kill or capture the Eotrus?” blurted Barusa.

  Mother Alder spun about. Her hand snapped out and whacked Barusa hard across the face. “I gave you no leave to speak,” she shrieked. “Stay your tongue until I do so, firstborn, or you’ll regret it.”

  Barusa glared at her, but said nothing more.

  “How fare the Eotrus?” said Mother Alder.

  “Claradon is done for by all accounts,” said Blain. “Skewered by DeBoors’ sword — through the heart.”

  “His body?”

  “Carried off by his lackeys.”

  “So you don’t know whether he’s truly dead?”

  Blain looked to DeBoors who was only partially visible at the edge of the stone’s field of view.

  “Let the bounty hunter speak,” said Mother Alder. “Have him move closer so that I can see him properly,” she said, smirking. No doubt, she was amused by the thought that the great warrior would grow sick before her eyes from the stone’s magic.

  DeBoors stepped closer, leaned in toward the stone, and crowded Azura aside. He exhibited no reaction to the stone’s emanations and took his time before speaking, making clear to Mother Alder that the du Marnian Stone had no effect on him. “No mortal man could survive the wound I gifted him. Even now he feeds the worms.”

  “So say you truly?” said Mother Alder.

  “Aye.”

  “So be it or not, time will tell. What of the other?”

  “Theta runs free, mother,” said Blain. “He fights like no other. Our marines were no match for him and even the Kalathens could not stand against him. Five fell to his sword.”

  “That may prove it then,” said Mother Alder. “I’ve prayed each night that the rumors about him were false, that he was just some puffed-up knight, but five Kalathens seems beyond the pale of mortal combat skills. What say you, firstborn?”

  “He’s allied with the Eotrus — that makes him our enemy. He killed Mortach who may have been more god than man. An enemy that dangerous must be eliminated, whether he’s the Harbinger or not.”

  “A kernel of wisdom,” whispered Mother Alder. “I’m overwhelmed.”

  “He’s dangerous, there’s no doubt,” said Blain. “But he can’t be the Harbinger of Doom. There’s no such person, not in truth. The story is an ancient myth, a fable, nothing more. I’ll not fall for such foolishness. I can’t believe that you have, Mother.”

  “You can’t deny he’s a grave threat,” said Barusa.

  “Not in Jutenheim, he’s not,” said Blain. “It’s halfway across the world. Let him go and good riddance.”

  Barusa nodded. “With young Eotrus dead, perhaps it is time to bring you home. But if Theta is the Harbinger, he may be a threat to us even in Jutenheim.”

  “Blain — if we believe in good,” said Mother Alder, “we must also believe in evil, for they are opposites – perhaps they cannot even exist without each other.”

  “Then how did Theta come to Lomion?” said Blain. “Korrgonn and Mortach came through the Gateway from Nifleheim — called down by the League's mages. Or so they claim.”

  “You have your doubts, do you?” said Mother Alder.

  Blain shrugged.

  “Interesting. A skeptical mind is a keen one. Perhaps you are less worthless than you so often seem. As for Theta, perhaps he crept from some portal betwixt Midgaard and the nether realms. Some foul hole opened by an upstart what stumbled on an old tome of magic far beyond him. Or mayhaps he has been here all along — hiding in some dark corner of the world, biding his time, working his evil when chance permitted.”

  “You speak of the bogeyman,” said Blain. “A vaporous spectre of fable and children’s tale. I’ve seen him. He’s a man of flesh and bone and blood. He can be killed, the same as any other.”

  “Can he now, deary? Seen his blood, have you? Does it run red like ours, or some other color?”

  Blain had no answer.

  “Are you the man what can bring him down, Blain Alder? Are you? No, for all your skills, you are not.”

  “DeBoors was hired to kill Theta,” said Blain. “That’s his job.”

  “You know nothing of Theta’s nature,” said Mother Alder. “None of us do, not truly. Theta ha
s always been the primary target of your mission, not Claradon Eotrus; he’s of no real import. You know this — we discussed it at length before you set off. Nothing has changed. Pursue Theta no matter where he goes; no matter how long it takes, even unto the ends of Midgaard. You must also follow Korrgonn’s ship, an easy enough task since Theta follows it too. I must know if the priest is successful in his conjuring. I must know if he opens another Gateway. And I must know what comes through. You must see this through, my dears, however hard it may become.”

  Blain took a deep breath before responding. “I’ll see Theta dead then, but only if DeBoors and the Kalathens continue with us.”

  “Is that in doubt?” said Mother Alder.

  “No,” said DeBoors. “We’ve a contract; I’ll see it through. I always do. My word is my bond.”

  “Good,” said Mother Alder. “Duelist, the question remains, are you Theta’s match?”

  “I have the skills to bring him down,” said DeBoors. “Though the task will not be easy no matter how well planned.”

  Mother Alder nodded. “You choose your words carefully, but your doubts bleed through. No doubt, you’ll need your every skill to best him, but if your reputation is honesty earned, you may yet prevail. Be on your guard, my dears, for as long as you pursue Theta, your peril grows, be he truly man or beast. If he’s the Harbinger, swords may not avail you despite the duelist’s skills. You must use your wits to take him down — if you can uncover any. Now, what of your Seer?”

  “What of her?” said Blain. “She’s served her purpose.”