Frem’s hand went to his sword hilt and slowly pulled it from its scabbard. Sevare’s heart pounded. He knew they were close — the things that had killed their men. He felt blind and naked without his magic, blast it all. He gripped the staff tighter.
Alongside Sevare, Ezerhauten tensed. His steely gaze penetrated deep into the twilight, his face etched with the sinister grin he always wore before a battle. He unsheathed his sword and held it at the ready. The other Pointmen did the same. The lugron sniffed the air, their broad noses keener than most men’s. They caught a scent. They leveled spears; all their energy coiled, muscles and tendons poised to spring, ready to unleash the wanton bloodlust that ever consumed their ancient race.
A slight breeze passed from the north and now Sevare smelled it too. A putrid, fishy odor that fouled the cooling breeze that followed the rain ashore. A heady smell, a mixture of fresh and rotted fish; a scent of the sea; of life, but also of death and decay.
From off to the right came the creature’s call. A sharp, startling, croaking sound that came not from man or known beast. It was full of menace, consumed of hate, old, dark, and deep. Ezerhauten, Sevare saw, looked left, while the others stared to the right whence the sound derived, though nothing emerged from the gloom. Now from the left came low-pitched, booming croaks, akin to the first call but louder, closer, even more menacing.
Sevare felt the hairs on his head stiffen, and a chill trickled down his spine. His hands grew icy cold. He’d never heard the calls of those things before, whatever they were, yet their cries were all too familiar, and with that realization a memory crept up from the depths of his mind and a fear took him. Something old, some primordial terror long dormant deep in his psyche. A gnawing memory buried within his bones, etched on his soul, passed down through the long years in his very blood. For somewhere in the grim and ancient past his ancestors knew well those sounds, and feared them, and that primal fear carried down through the ages as some racial memory that abided at the core of his being and called out to him through the veil of time, warning him to flee, to run, to live.
And then on they came, from the front and from the right and from the left; the denizens of the dark places deep in the bowels of Midgaard. Creatures left over from the old world, bygone days long sullied, withered, and best forgotten.
Each had two arms and two legs, but they were most assuredly not men. The smallest stood seven, perhaps eight feet tall; the largest well more than ten, though their size was deceptive for they bounded forward, croaking and gibbering, as much on four limbs as two; their uneven gate more batrachian than human.
Green or brown in color for the most part, their fronts lighter, white or gray, all scaly and glistening. Each had a large, ridged protrusion, some vestigial fin that extended from the crest of their heads down the center of their backs; their hands and feet webbed. But what struck terror in the hearts of the Pointmen were their heads — far oversized and narrow, dominated by expansive, toothy maws, and large, glassy eyes that moved independently and were rooted more to the sides than the fronts of their narrow faces. Their appearance was bizarre and alien and marked them part of some forsaken family tree long since lost, calling to mind an unholy union among man, fish, and reptile. Male or female, one could not tell.
But these were no mere beasts, no lowly animals pack-hunting prey — a spark of sentience, a semblance of civilization was theirs, for some carried weighted nets and bolos into battle; some held daggers of shell or stone. Others advanced with but teeth and claw. Most wore armor fashioned of seashell and stone strapped about their otherwise naked bodies with fibers of unknown make.
Knowing the carnage these giant beasts were capable of, normal men, sane men, would have fled howling, but Frem’s Pointmen were no ordinary men. Rugged veterans of a hundred bloody battles with man, and beast, and darker things, their courage held, as it always held, and kept them to their duty. Only Frem’s order to hold stayed the lugron from charging forward with their iron-banded spears. Par Sevare shuddered where he stood, but he would not run; he would not abandon his comrades; he would not shame his order, though on that stony ground he might meet his end.
Frem, Ezerhauten, and the sithians met the creatures as they came, swords blazing, fire in their hearts. The lugron lunged with spears and howled the same war cries as when they hunted the cave bear and the great cats in the high country whence they came. And when that wave of sea devils crashed down, the very stones of Midgaard shook and quaked. The powerful stench of the sea things washed over the men, a weapon in itself, for despite the boiling blood of battle, it was all they could do not to stoop and retch.
Tips of lugron spears shattered against the sea beasts’ hides, but here and there, a weapon found its mark and impaled the things, sinking deep into their flesh, evoking high-pitched screams that were their death-cry, though these fiends met not their end with ease. They thrashed about, all flailing claws and gnashing teeth, they rolled, kicked, and clawed until they breathed their last and the spark of life finally fled. Their blood ran milky white and foamed up all bubbly when it tasted the air. Tempered steel clashed with primitive knife and claw, nets and bolos were thrown and men went down; claws raked, great teeth gnashed, and men died.
Sevare ducked and spun, dived this way and that and evaded the claws and teeth. He felt the coward to not stand and fight, but he knew these were foes he could not match, not without his magic, not without disobeying Lord Korrgonn’s orders. Sevare feared Korrgonn’s disapproval and his wrath, perhaps more even than death, though why, he did not know.
The battle lust full upon him, Frem roared and his sword crashed and thundered and pummeled the beasts with all the power of his mighty thews, but only the surest strokes pierced the scabrous hide of the fish-men, their very flesh as hard as the old stone of their isle. One great beast, the largest of the pack, a gnarled, thick-limbed one-eye, traded Frem blow for blow with a massive club of gray bone, until at last the creature blasted Frem’s sword from his grip. Frem tripped it, and took it from its feet, but its huge webbed hands found his throat and clamped down with strength Frem had never felt before. Only Frem's steel neck guard staved off a quick death. Frem’s iron grip found One Eye's throat and squeezed with all the strength that any mortal man did ever possess.
Lord Ezerhauten’s swordplay dazzled the eye and kept the beasts at bay, but profited him little, for though his strokes carried great power, his style relied on swift, sure cuts and thrusts, and not on crushing blows. He could not easily pierce their hides, at least not fighting three to one as was his lot, so he wove a dance of death about him, moved and spun, and twisted and leaped to keep from their deadly clutches until aid arrived or his strength failed him.
Then above the din came a mighty roar. Mort Zag’s great bulk bounded into the fray. Taller even than most of the fish-men and far broader than any, the red giant’s axe crashed down with indomitable power and chopped through ichthyic limb and torso alike.
And then Lord Korrgonn was there. His great sword swung and thrust with inhuman, celestial power, his eyes wild as his blade bit deep in the fish-man flesh.
And then a wave of spears and swords crashed into the fish-men, the whole of The White Rose’s shore party fell on them, the tide now inexorably changed. The fish-men croaked, hissed, and slavered as they fought, and killed, and died, but no words as we would call them ever passed their lips. They fought on until the last, without fear or hesitation, though their fellows died grisly about them. What ones escaped Mort Zag’s and Korrgonn’s weapons were pulled down by force of numbers, a dozen blades thrust into their eyes, necks, and groins, their hide elsewhere too hard to pierce.
The last of them was the great beast that wrestled with Frem, their digits still locked about each other’s throats, the life fast draining from both. Korrgonn stepped up and grabbed One Eye’s head, and swift and sure, twisted until a sickening crack was heard. The creature struggled no more and fell limp and lifeless atop Frem.
Ginalli picked
his way across the bloody, corpse-riddled stone toward Korrgonn. “My lord,” he said, “are you hurt?”
“No,” said Korrgonn, his eyes and face still afire as he searched for more foes, his body quivering from the thrill of the battle.
Ezerhauten sank to one knee, breathing hard. “There could be more,” he said hoarsely. “Keep alert.”
Sevare and Putnam dragged One Eye’s corpse from atop Frem.
Frem’s eyes were open, and his chest heaved up and down with his breath, though he laid still, his face dripped with sweat. The upturned steel that served as neck protection at the top of Frem’s cuirass was badly bent; the indentations of the fish-man’s digits marred it, as a man’s hand would leave an impression in clay. Blood trickled from Frem’s neck where the armor’s edge abraded his skin. He lifted his hand to his neck and tugged at the armor. “Get this thing off me,” he said. “I can’t breathe.”
“Roll over and we’ll unstrap it,” said Sevare. He did and Sevare fumbled at the cuirass’s fastenings.
“Move aside, wizard,” said Putnam. He had the cuirass off in moments. Frem took a deep breath and clutched at his throat, now a mottled black and blue. Blood dripped onto his padded shirt, yellowed from sweat and age.
Sevare checked on the other Pointmen while Putnam went to work on the cuirass, bending the neck-piece back with a pliers. “I’ll have it serviceable in a minute. We’ll fix it right as rain when we’ve time.”
Frem sat up. “Never thought nothing could be that strong,” he said. “My armor’s solid Dyvers steel; the best there is and that thing bent it between its fingers. It would have crushed my throat in a second. In a second!”
“It’s alright, Captain,” said Putnam. “It’s dead and you’re not. Let’s get this back on you before any more of them things show up.”
Sevare returned, his face grave, Ezerhauten on his heels. The Commander looked them up and down. “Eight men dead,” he said, “Par Landru amongst them, and two more will soon join them.”
“Landru?” said Sevare. Shock filled his face for he knew Landru was as skilled a wizard as he, in some ways better.
“They took his head clean off,” said Ezerhauten. “Seems you archwizards can die the same as any man. Not so all-powerful after all, are you? Best remember that.” Ezerhauten kicked the corpse of one of the fish-men. “We gave better than we got. Twelve of them are dead. Not one escaped. How many Pointmen do you have left?”
Frem and Putnam looked around uncertain.
“There are thirteen of us in fighting shape,” said Sevare. “Two others are badly wounded.”
“That’s enough, I expect,” said Ezerhauten.
“Who’s dead?” said Frem, looking about. Concern filled his face. “Maldin, Moag, Royce, and Carroll look okay,” he said, pointing at four of his squadmates that stood nearby.
“I sent Borrel, Dirnel, Wikkle, and Ward up ahead,” said Sevare. “Lex and Torak are watching our left flank. Bryton and Jorna are sorely wounded. The rest are gone: Boatman, Held, and Storrl.”
Frem started. “Storrl?! Little Storrl is dead?”
Sevare nodded; his expression grim. “Over there,” he said, pointing. Some five yards away, atop a flat slab of stone, the young lugron’s small body lay limp, his right arm missing below the elbow.
Frem lumbered to his side and knelt on one knee. The others followed him over. “Storrl! Storrl!” he said. He gently shook the lad, but he did not stir. He took the boy's remaining hand in his and held it tightly. “He was just a child,” he said as tears welled in his eyes. “Stinking, fish-things! Evil beasts! He had no family left — there’s no one even to mourn him, save us, and we ain’t worth much.”
“A good lad,” said Putnam as he gently draped a blanket over the boy’s body, leaving only his head exposed. “Always did as he was told. Mostly, anyways. I’ll give him a good writeup in the annals.”
“Had the makings of a fine scout,” said Sevare. “Quick and brave, but not reckless. A good Pointman.”
“Last of his clan, he told me,” said Frem. “Some sickness took them all, winter before last. There’s no one to remember them now, or him. No one to tell their tales.”
“We’ll remember,” said Putnam. “Storrl and all the rest of our fallen.”
“And toast them,” said Sevare. “And not with any common ale or even Rebma Red. We’ll crack a bottle of Everquist and praise our fallen Pointmen, one and all.”
“Kernian brandy,” said Frem.
“Brandy?” said Putnam. “The only time I saw you drink that was—”
“—up in Cinder Falls,” said Frem. “After the battle, I gave the boy a sip from that bottle we liberated. He fancied it. Made him cough and turn a bit green, but he fancied it all the same. Made him feel grown, I expect, like he was really one of us, which he was after all. I told him I would buy him a bottle when he came of age. He liked that, he did. But now I never will.”
“We’ll drink to his memory,” said Sevare, “If we ever get off this stinking rock and back to the world.”
“What!" started Frem. “Storrl!” Frem bent close to the boy's face.
“What is it?” said Putnam.
“He squeezed my hand. He’s alive. He squeezed my hand.”
Sevare looked over at Putnam. “Get a tourniquet, you fool. Bind his arm before he bleeds full out.” Sevare knelt down alongside Frem and held a small mirror to Storrl's nose and mouth as Putnam wrapped a belt about the boy’s arm. “He breathes!” said Sevare, smiling. “Shallow and weak, but there’s some life left in him.”
Ezerhauten stepped up to the group.
“He’s alive,” said Frem. “We’ve got to get him and the other wounded back to the ship.”
Ezerhauten leaned over and examined Storrl. “Aside from the arm, I don’t see any serious wounds. He’s lost a lot of blood, but he may yet live. The others are worse off. Most will be dead within hours at best. Moving will kill them outright.”
“I need to get Storrl back to the ship,” said Frem. “I’ll carry him myself.”
“We need every sword for what’s coming, especially yours,” said Ezerhauten. “Leave him here or carry him with us — as he’s your squadman, you can make that call, but make it quickly, we’ve a mission to finish, and we’ll be moving out forthwith.”
“To Hades with the mission,” said Frem. “If we’re not headed back — we should track down and kill every one of these fish-things. They don't deserve to live. What in Odin's name are they, anyways?”
“The priest says they’re minions of the Harbinger,” said Ezerhauten. “Some fiends he created or called up with dark magic; stationed here to stop us from finding the talisman.”
“Then we’ve two reasons to see them things dead,” said Frem, balling his hands into fists. “And another score to settle with the Harbinger.”
“Now that’s a good lad,” said Ezerhauten smiling. “You couldn’t have said it better had Ginalli put the words in your mouth. What a good little sheep you are.”
Frem looked confused; anger flashed on his face. He looked to Sevare for support. “What’s that mean?” Frem stood and faced Ezerhauten. “You making fun of me?” he said, menace in his voice.
“It means Ginalli’s spewing more bunk,” said Ezerhauten, “and you’re all too ready to believe his humbug. That’s most of what spurts from his mouth if you haven’t noticed. Open your eyes and ears once in a while and it’ll be clear enough. It’s easier to blame your enemies for every misfortune. Makes it easier to hate them, doesn’t it? These things were just animals, nothing more, same as a bear or a lion or a pack of wolves. Not minions of anything.”
“You’re a man of little faith and less imagination,” said Sevare.
“Don’t talk to me of faith,” said Ezerhauten. “I—
“—Ginalli says what he says,” said Sevare. “That doesn’t change our quest. We’re to help the League open the portal for Azathoth. To bring him back to us. To save the world. So what if Ginalli spews s
ome humbug along the way. He—”
“—He’s supposed to be the high priest,” said Ezerhauten. “If you can’t believe him, who will you believe?”
A tall figure appeared behind Ezerhauten and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re supposed to believe me, Commander,” said Korrgonn.
Ezerhauten turned and looked Korrgonn in the eye. Korrgonn kept his right hand firmly on Ezerhauten’s shoulder; his other hand grasped his ankh.
“For I am the way and the path and the truth,” said Korrgonn. “You and your brave company are my strong right arm on this quest. You are the sword to smite my enemies. You will stand beside me in a place of honor when the portal opens and our almighty father comes through to liberate the world.”
A hint of a smile formed on Ezerhauten’s face.
“For this, you will be rewarded beyond even your brightest ambitions,” said Korrgonn, his ankh glowing softly in his hand. “But I must have your loyalty, and your obedience. It must be unquestioning. Will you follow me, Lord Ezerhauten?”
“Aye, Lord Korrgonn,” said Ezerhauten mechanically, his eyes glazed over. “I will. To the end.”
XI
KING, COUP, AND CONSPIRACY TOO
“In Midgaard, nothing is as it appears. Nothing.”
— Ob A. Faz III
The king’s corridor was wide, as far as corridors go, and floored in gleaming white marble streaked with blue and black. The stone carried up the wall for three feet before transitioning to dark wood panels that kissed the coffered wood ceiling high above. Closely spaced marble columns lined one side of the passage and jutted from the wall, creating a series of alcoves. In each, was either a door or a marble shelf that displayed an ornate bust or a carving of a past king, legendary hero, or famed wizard of history, each piece more rare and majestic than the last.
Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4) Page 13
