“If it's so dangerous, maybe best we leave things be,” said Bire. “Maybe take down Theta some other way. A dagger in the back or the throat works well enough, I hear. But I’m not saying I’m the one to do it.”
Darg shook his head. “Better men than us have tried that on Theta and come up dead for it. Olden magic is the only way with the likes of him. If something wicked comes through our doorway, like as not it’ll try to kill all aboard and maybe even sink the ship. That would be the end of us and our mates, but Theta would get dead too. In the end, stopping him is more important than us, or the Captain, or even The Falcon herself. That’s the hard truth of this whole business, but truth, nonetheless. If the Brigandir comes through as planned, he will go after the Harbinger and best him, the lord willing. Either way, Theta might end up dead and that’s all we’re after.”
“It’s just that we might end up dead too.”
“It’s not easy being a hero, lad.” Darg knelt, pulled out a piece of chalk, and added to the pattern on the floor planks. “That’s why heroes get famous. Some folks may even sing songs about us in days to come. They might know our names from Lomion to Ferd and beyond.”
Bire’s eyes brightened. “Us, famous? A song with us in it? That would be something. You think maybe someday they would put our names down in a book?”
“Who knows, lad, maybe someday, hundreds of years from now, some folks will read about old Darg Tran and Bire Cabinboy, and how we stood up to the Harbinger and put him down or got dead trying. Either way, heroes they’ll name us. That would be something, wouldn’t it?”
“That would be something,” said Bire, beaming.
“Now, stand by the door and keep a good watch. Not a peep from you except to warn me if someone comes.”
“And if they do?”
The navigator pulled out a long knife from beneath his robe and handed it to Bire.
Bire paled. “I never killed no one,” he said as he wiped his nose again. “I stuck one of the monks good back on the docks, but I don’t think I killed him. My knife was small and maybe not as sharp as it could've been. What if two or more of the Eotrus come? What if it’s one of our boys?”
“Improvise.”
“What? What if Theta comes? What do we do then?
“Pee ourselves, pray he slips on it and cracks his rotten head. Now be quiet.” When his chalking was completed, the navigator set to murmuring strange words. He placed various mystical paraphernalia about the pattern’s perimeter: a stone idol of a rotund woman, naked; a flask of spirits — rum, spiced; a vial of quicksilver; the foot of a rabbit; and the mummified hand of a gnome.
“Everything's ready,” said Darg.
“You sure we shouldn’t do this later?” said Bire. “Maybe we’re rushing into something what there’s no coming back from. Maybe give it a bit more thought?”
“No, we’re doing this now. It’s time, I feel it,” he said, a strange look in his eyes. “Now keep your teeth together and don't step inside the pattern or you will come to a bad end.”
Bire stepped back into a shadowed corner as Darg began his invocation. The navigator’s voice was strong and melodic. He chanted in standard Lomerian instead of one of the strange wizarding languages mages were often wont to use, though many of his words were big or old and incomprehensible to Bire. Darg carefully extracted orb shards from the pouch with a long-handled metal spoon. With each stanza chanted, he broadcast a spoonful across the pattern. Strange, soundless sparks erupted when the shards hit the deck’s surface. As the spell progressed, the room grew colder and the light from the candles diminished and flickered, threatening to plunge the room into darkness. The navigator's breath steamed; icy droplets formed on his face but his chant continued unabated to completion.
By power words and runic script bound of ancient oaths,
And shards of wisdom from magic’s weave, lately spared by fate’s reprieve,
I do bid the heavens’ heed
And blessed boon, turn celestial will to my behest.
By Loki’s luck, let lock be loosed,
Of Surtur’s sigil shall seal be sundered,
By Hildskjalf and Odin’s grace
Lift the sacred veil betwixt the nine and clear the elder paths.
For a hero of heroes is needed now in olden Midgaard land,
So blessed stir from sleep a warrior born in beloved Nifleheim,
Holy and proud, fearless and strong, righteous and golden, the elite of Odin’s hand is he,
Come now forth, oh Brigandir,
For without your hand we hath no hope
To stand the minions of the dark,
For this, we beg you, champion of Azathoth’s divine spark,
Come now to your journey’s end, your trek across the worlds, from Nifleheim to Midgaard,
Appear, appear, honored Brigandir.
When Darg completed the last stanza, the deck beneath the pattern dissolved and fell away, though the chalked pattern hung in place, suspended in the air by means unfathomed. It hovered, not statically, but shimmered and vibrated from side to side, a high-pitched hum spewed from it. Below the pattern, nothing but blackness, an abyss impenetrable.
The navigator tossed a last spoonful of orb dust across the pattern. The shards of wisdom glinted as they fell, slower than they should, as if nature itself sought to repel them. When they struck the pattern, a high-pitched crack rang out, akin to a shattering pane of glass. With that sound, the veils betwixt the worlds abruptly dropped. The pattern vanished and in its place, a void; blacker than black, opaque to the eye, though a flood of hot, acrid air rushed from it, scented of smoke and sulfur and odors unknown. Darg resumed his chanting; this time he mumbled a verse in some forgotten tongue nigh unpronounceable, filled of sounds short, sharp, and harsh. The only recognizable word, “Brigandir,” he repeated now and again through his casting.
After a time, the blackness stirred. Its surface rippled like water. Some thing from beyond its horizon sought to pass through. Bire’s heart ran cold; his breath caught in his throat. Comes now a Brigandir of the heavens or a fiend of the nether realms, none yet could say. Sweat poured from Darg's brow. He held his ground and continued his chant though his voice quaked.
From the void’s depths slowly emerged a hand. But it was not the hand of a man. Long black claws extended from spindly, boney digits, seven in number on a hand of reddish brown hue. The arm whence it sprang crept behind, heavily muscled, rough in texture, more hide than skin, more beast than man. A musky, bestial odor and waves of shimmering heat came with it, flooding the room.
Bire shrank into the corner and begged the shadows to conceal him. He thought he should pray, but knew no prayers. As he watched, transfixed, he quivered in terror, too afraid to flee. The thing crawled up and out of the pit. A head, two arms, two legs; its body, a tall, broad-shouldered mass of harsh muscle, reddish brown in color, head to toe to black barbed tail. Naked save for loincloth and swordbelt. Its eyes a fiery gold. From amidst its wide forehead extended a single thick horn of black. Its teeth, yellowed and large; its mouth the larger. Its tongue, forked, thick, and black. Incisors extended over and past its lower lip even with closed mouth.
The creature sprang fluidly to its feet despite its bulk. Startled, Darg took a half step back, and then braced himself and rooted in place. His arms gesticulated wards of protection, but whether they were naught but feeble wisps of hope or steely mantles of magic, only time would tell.
The creature extended its arms downward and to its sides, as if stretching. From its back now unfurled great wings, black, membranous, and bat-like. Its eyes, uniformly golden; no whites to them at all. The turn of its head the only tell to which way it gazed.
Heat poured off the creature like an oven. Wisps of smoke escaped its mouth and ears. Brimstone fouled the air and set Darg to coughing.
Bire pulled up his shirt, pressed it tightly to his face, and breathed through it, hoping it would stave off any coughing and keep his presence unnoticed.
/> “Well met,” said Darg between stifled coughs, his voice quaking. “Do you understand my words?”
“Aye,” said the creature after a time, its voice husky and strong. Its head turned this way and that, scanning the room; its golden eyes no doubt penetrated the room’s darkest depths.
“I’m Darg Tran, son of Karn, of the old House Elowine. Great deeds need doing, so I called you down to help us set things to rights. What are you called?”
The creature turned fully toward Darg; its eyes bored through him. An expression, half smile, half leer, came across its face. “Brigandir,” it said as it took a step closer to the outer edge of the chalk pattern, within arm’s reach of Darg. Its hands met the unseen barrier raised by Darg’s protective magics and it halted. It pushed the barrier, but could move it not. Its smile grew wider. “I care little for your purposes, magling,” it said in a strange accent, wisps of smoke trailed its words, “for I have my own.”
Confusion covered Darg’s face. “You’re only hereabouts by my come-hither — so what other purpose could you have?”
The Brigandir paused, apparently gathering its words. “Your summoning was but one move in a game far older, wider, and more dangerous than you can know, magling of the Elowine.” The Brigandir straightened and expanded its chest, towering over Darg. “I am charged with ending the great dragon's existence — with sending cursed Thetan at long last to the void and freeing Midgaard of his evil. That is my purpose — so commands mighty Bhaal, Lord of Nifleheim. You’ve served the great lord’s purposes, though you knew it not, and you will continue to serve . . .” Smoke rose from about the creature’s feet; the floorboards scorched and smoked wherever it placed its feet.
“Then we have common cause,” said Darg. He held his ground and trusted to his wards. “If your Thetan is the same tin-can what we call Lord Angle Theta.”
“The beast goes by many names,” said the Brigandir. “I will know him when my eyes gaze upon him, for evil such as his cannot long hide despite its guise.”
“Good. Then by the celestial powers, I command that you do my bidding until our deed is done. Then you will be off again home, doing me no harm or foul,” said Darg, taking care to keep well outside the pattern.
The Brigandir laughed — a frightful sound that grated on the ear as a wayward fingernail across a chalkboard. “You think me your creature? Your tired prattle and sorry scribbles cannot contain me, nor can your babbled magic control me. I am wrath. I am vengeance. I am justice. I am the Hand of Bhaal. I’ve walked these worlds since the Dawn Age, long before your lauded line began. Insult me not again, magling, or be it to your peril.”
Darg’s face went white; his mouth dropped open but no words fell out.
The cabin rocked as the ship swayed in the waves. “We’re aboard a ship?” said the Brigandir; concern now on his face.
Darg took a deep breath before responding. “The White Rose out of Lomion City.”
“No matter. Where hides the traitor Thetan?”
“Aboard,” said Darg. “With him, a contingent of forty or so soldiers, several knights, and a wizard.”
“Who lurks in the corner?” said the Brigandir, gesturing toward the shadows within which Bire hid.
“A scrawny cabin boy what works for me.”
“What aid can you offer me against the Harbinger and his men?” said the Brigandir.
Darg was taken aback. “I didn’t think you would need nothing to get this done. But you’ve my magic and my sword if you want them. No disrespect, but I need to ask — your look is not as legend tells. Not by a long stretch, I would say.”
The Brigandir laughed again, as frightful as the first. “The journey betwixt the worlds is not as simple as stepping through a doorway, magling. By Lord Bhaal’s grace, this form he did provide me to safeguard my journey.”
Before Bire’s eyes, the creature instantly transformed into the shape and likeness of a normal man — plain and undistinguished save for a tall height, wide breadth, and golden tint to his eyes. “Just as this shape better suits my purposes now, as I would take the Harbinger unawares, if I can,” said the Brigandir, his voice still husky and deep.
“Smart that,” said Darg, staring at the transformed Brigandir. The Brigandir’s features were smooth, with little texture. The varies of skin tone, blemishes, and small lines and wrinkles that mar the aspect of all men did not afflict him. “With a hood about your head, no one will mark you,” said Darg. “If we’re lucky, you will get to walk straight up to Theta and stick him good and quick.”
“Pray Bhaal it be that easy. But even if not, I’ll see the deed done.”
XV
DAGON
Dagon heard the call, the age-old chant of his worshippers, his dwellers of the deep. They begged for his favor and his blessing and prayed for his presence. Merely to look upon him, they would kill, they would die, they would give all they had and ever would have; such was their devotion.
But he was tired; he would not answer their call this time, just as he had ignored it the last, and the time before that, and so often over the last age. He had neither the energy nor the desire to endure the hardships of the surface world. Each time he ventured to that alien place, he felt vulnerable and blind. It was so hard to see in the bright light; his hearing and sense of smell sorely diminished. On the surface, he drifted in a fog, only half-aware of the world around him. Even moving was a labor, all his bulk supported only by his legs. He hated trudging through wide-open spaces, exposed on all sides to whatever unknown horrors lurked about while he struggled to breathe the rarefied gas that abided there.
Not a place for Dagon was the surface world. It didn’t suit him, mind or body. He was a creature of the depths and the dark. He preferred the comfort of his watery tunnels whose ways he knew so well — where nothing could venture without his notice or leave. In the depths he was king; he was god.
Better to slumber there, quiet and still, in the cold dark beneath his tiny island, his one refuge on this pathetic little sphere. Better to go unnoticed. That had kept him secret and safe down through the lonely years of his long exile. Too much time on the surface invited notice — and notice would eventually attract the ancient enemy, a dreaded man-thing that lived only to hunt and destroy his kind; a fiend whose armies shook the world and ravaged all not in their image. That creature was called the Harbinger of Doom — for in his wake came little but death and despair.
Dagon had hid for ages beyond imagining. He would not risk revealing his location now. He was too weak to fight, too tired, much too tired, devoid of energy and will.
Then something changed. He smelled the essence of life drift through his water. Blood — manling blood, the sweetest elixir in all the infinite spheres. His beloved children, always faithful, always true, poured it even now into the well of worship, foregoing their own enjoyment to gift it to him. Not just some token measure, buckets of it, fresh and strong and pungent; the living essence of multiple manlings. Not in years had his children made such an offering. His dwindling minions, still devoted, still loyal, and still strong, not like of old, but still strong.
When he absorbed the living essence of the blood, even diffused and afar, Dagon felt his old strength return. His heart beat faster, stronger. The water pumped through his gills again. The taste and scent of the sea brine mixed with savory blood ignited a fire in Dagon’s belly — a hunger for manling flesh. An irresistible longing for blood and souls.
With this, his fatigue ebbed. His energies simmered and grew and this stirred something in Dagon. Feelings; emotions he hadn't felt in long years. His minions' devotion, after all this time, made him feel alive again. He hadn't felt alive in so long. He had slumbered too long. For this awakening he was grateful. And such favor should not go unrewarded.
He would honor his followers with his presence. He would relish in their prostrations, and enjoy their melodic song. He would delight in partaking of their human offering, and relish devouring the human souls and absorbing their im
mortal energies.
Dagon reached out with outré senses and knew at once that his labyrinthine tunnels remained sacrosanct from the well of worship’s rim to the nethermost tunnel’s most stygian depth, to the long passage between his solitary lair and the open sea. Nothing had dared venture into his domain — not a single fish, not one lonely mollusk, not even the older, stronger things of the black and gelid depths. Dagon could as yet sense almost nothing of the sea and surface world beyond his demesne. It would take time to fully awaken; to be himself again.
Dagon's limbs moved slowly and stiffly at first, barely responding to his will as the tug of gravity challenged and strained his muscles. But after a few moments, they became again as they were of old, strong and supple and powerful. Dagon swam toward the ululating sounds, toward the song of his children.
The cold of the watery depths did not assail him, nor the pressure, how could they, for had he not traveled the interstellar ether and endured the nigh-endless void among the spheres, an abyss colder and emptier than anything? Had he not traversed the frozen wastes of Nifleheim, the fiery depths of Gehenna, and the ruins of fabled Archeron? In truth, these dark tunnels were a minor pleasure, a relief, a joy in their way, or so he told himself.
Soon, he glided effortlessly through the network of dark caverns and dismal tunnels that were his home beneath the isle, though in truth, the isle was ever more prison than home. He swam and swam and pulled himself through passages wide and passages narrow, through the icy depths, up, up toward the thin air and stinging light, toward the dreaded surface world.
Upward he swam. The light came into view, the blood scent grew stronger and the chanting louder. His followers gathered en masse for his glory. He heard their voices; he sensed their beating hearts pulsing blood, though they had no more soul, no more spark of divine essence than did the cold stones of the deep.
Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4) Page 18
