Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4)

by Thater, Glenn

  “Out of my way, you dolt,” shouted Bertha as she pushed a second man into the hallway. That one, a young tough called Eolge, didn’t have much smarts, and less to say, but was good in a scrape. Bertha stormed out of the hold, bristling, and scoured through the dog-eared ledger she held, her girth blocking most of the passage. Darg swore she grew an inch wider with each passing month. “The onliest other place it might be is the rear locker, unless some scalawags got into it, and if they did, they will rue the day that I catch them.”

  She looked up from her ledger and made eye contact with Darg, now just a few feet from her group. “By the luck of the Vanyar, just who I needed,” she said from behind Eolge and Mock. “Darg — have you got my keg of Minoc Blue in the rear locker? I’m fixing to bring it to the captain to lift his spirits.”

  “Nope,” said Darg. “No spirits at all back there. The last was that case of Kernian Brandy the captain called up months ago. Now it's as dry as a bone back there. Did you try the closets off the main hold?”

  “Dagnabit! I had that one saved up for three years at least. Some scum nicked it for certain. Fine thing to do when the captain's half-dead and has a need. I’ll hang them from the yardarm by their privates — that’ll fix them.” She rolled up her ledger and stuffed it under her arm in disgust. “Who’s that tall one with you? One of the Eotrus?”

  “He’s the young lordling's man — he got turned about and I’m setting him straight.”

  “No need for a hood in here, deary, it’s dark enough,” she said to the Brigandir with a smile, her voice softening. “Show us your face won't you — I like to see who I’m sailing with.” She smiled from ear to ear, all white teeth and dimples.

  “He's late for something, Bertha. No time for flirting with you, however fun that might be,” he said with a wink.

  Bertha rolled her eyes at Darg’s remark and waited for the Brigandir to pull back his hood or respond in some way, but he stood rooted and silent.

  “Fine, be all secret and rude,” said Bertha, the edge returning to her voice. “I don’t fancy tin-cans, anyways. Just stand aside. I’ll scour the rear locker myself before I give up on that keg. Move it, I’ve no more time to waste with you.”

  “Wait,” said Darg, holding his hand out. “My charts are laid out on the floor, arranged how I need them. I can’t have them walked on or moved. We’re on a tough course — we can't afford any mistakes. In any case, I’m quite sure the keg is not there.”

  “I’ll be respectful of your charts,” said Bertha. “I won’t even let these dullards in, unless I find the keg. Now be a good man and stand aside.”

  Darg hesitated, his face reddening. “It was Tug.”

  Bertha's eyes narrowed. “What? Are you saying that Tug nicked my keg?”

  “I’m no stoolie, but I can’t have you walking on my charts. He had one too many one night and went looking for something better. Busted the Blue open, sloshed the floor with most of it, and chugged the rest until he passed out in his cups. Guj and a couple of others slopped up whatever was left. Don’t tell him I told you — he’ll toss me into the drink, or worse.”

  “Don’t worry on that, Darg Tran. That big turd will be scrubbing the lower decks with a brush for the next month at least.”

  Relief washed over Darg’s face. The arcane pattern on the rear locker’s floor would remain secret for now — it needed to, at least until they found Theta, or else the alarm might be raised and the element of surprise lost. Unfortunately, Bertha noticed Darg’s reaction. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Nothing. What do you mean?”

  “Fine. I think I’ll just have a quick look at the locker anyhow. Stand aside.”

  Nearly panicking and out of excuses, Darg pressed against the passageway's wall to give her room to squeeze by, but the Brigandir didn’t budge. His broad shoulders squared across the hallway.

  “Stand aside, tin-can,” said Eolge sharply.

  The Brigandir shook his head dismissively. “It is you that should stand aside,” said the Brigandir, his voice deep and menacing. “You’ve delayed me too long already.”

  “What’s this?” said Bertha.

  “Come on, laddie,” said Old Mock. “Don’t be making any trouble. There’s no call for that. You be a guest on this ship, and Bertha’s our Quartermaster — an officer, so you best show some proper respect, or your Lord will hear of it.”

  “My lord is not on this vessel,” said the Brigandir, “and respect is what you show your betters, not sea scum.”

  Eolge put his forearm to the Brigandir’s throat and tried to shove him against the wall, but the Brigandir brushed his arm aside, and shoved him back. Despite Eolge’s bulk, he careened into Old Mock and both men went down on their rumps. “Dare not touch me again,” said the Brigandir.

  “Oy,” shouted Bertha. “There’s been enough fighting on this ship. Stand down!”

  Eolge bounced up and returned the Brigandir’s shove with a double-handed one of his own. Surprise filled Eolge's face when the Brigandir didn’t budge. Eolge’s hand moved toward the hilt of his sword. In the next instant, the Brigandir's short blade penetrated clear through Eolge and lifted him into the air.

  Blood splattered over Bertha and Old Mock as they gaped at the scene in shock.

  “I forgave your first transgression,” said the Brigandir, “but not again.”

  Eolge’s mouth moved, but only gurgling sounds seeped out. His eyes bulged with shock; his hand gripped the Brigandir’s as if to push it back and pull the blade out.

  “Murder!” cried Old Mock. “No-good stinking tin-can!”

  Bertha screamed — a bellowing, high-pitched wail that would’ve been the envy of the banshee queen herself. Blood spatter dripped down her forehead and cheeks onto her nose and lips as she stumbled backward in a panic and fell on her rump. She scrambled to her feet, turned, and scurried down the hall with surprising speed — Old Mock just steps behind her.

  With Eolge still held aloft, the Brigandir flicked his arm forward and Eolge slid off the end of his blade. He flew through the air for several feet before hitting the deck with a loud thump. His body twitched and spasmed as the last of his life left him.

  Staring at Old Mock's back as he fled, the Brigandir spun his sword, and threw it underhanded. It struck the seaman just below his right shoulder blade.

  Old Mock grunted in pain and stumbled against the corridor's wall, which dislodged the sword. He staggered on after Bertha, glancing over his shoulder in terror and disbelief as he ran.

  At the end of the hallway, Bertha pulled the heavy rope that sounded the ship’s alarm bells. That chord rang a chain of bells that could be heard all the way to the bridge deck. Its tone identified from which deck the alarm was pulled.

  “Get up the ladder,” said Old Mock as he pulled his cutlass and main gauche from his belt. He coughed and spit blood, bright-red and thick. He stared at the wad of blood in disbelief. He knew the wound had punctured his lung and that he was likely done for.

  “Don’t fight him,” implored Bertha. “Follow me up,” she said as she scampered up the ladder with speed and agility that belied her bulk. Her last backward glance marked the Brigandir’s glowing, golden eyes, his hood now pushed back from his face.

  Old Mock had no intention of fleeing any further. He’d only run to make sure that Bertha got clear. He felt the blood filling his lung and was having trouble breathing. The bastard had done him in, for certain. He would stand and fight now, and take whatever measure of vengeance he could before he breathed his last. If he had to die, he would die on his feet, fighting, not coughing up blood in some sickbed.

  The Brigandir advanced, retrieved sword in hand. Deft as Old Mock was with his blades, two score deadly battles beneath his belt, not five heartbeats passed before he crumbled under a hail of blows, though he parried and riposted until his last breath.

  The ship’s ladder carried Bertha up to the captain’s deck. “A demon,” she bellowed as she ran down
the long hallway and approached Claradon’s stateroom. Artol and Glimador stood in the doorway conferring with Sergeant Vid and an Eotrus trooper regarding the twanging claxon. “It’s right behind me with golden eyes,” said Bertha. “It killed Old Mock and Eolge. It’s got golden eyes! So help me, Odin! Golden eyes!”

  Artol put his hand out to stop her, but she brushed it aside. “I gotta warn the captain.” She dashed down the hall to Slaayde’s stateroom, entered, and ushered the captain’s door guards in with her.

  At the end of the hallway, the Brigandir stepped off the ship’s ladder onto the deck, a bloody sword in his right hand.

  “I don’t think he’s one of the crew,” whispered Glimador.

  Artol turned to Sergeant Vid. “You men get inside and barricade the door. Don’t open it for nothing.” Artol moved to pull his sword from its scabbard, but found it empty. He grabbed his battle hammer instead. As he raised it to his shoulder, it scraped the ceiling.

  “No room to swing that in here,” said Glimador. Glimador drew his dagger, leaving his longsword in its sheath.

  “Who are you?” shouted Artol.

  “Justice, vengeance, and wrath,” shouted the Brigandir as he stood beside the ladder and surveyed the passageway.

  “Must be crowded in there for the three of you,” said Glimador.

  The Brigandir started towards them, his gait purposeful, but slow. No doubt, he was wary that men might emerge and assault him from the closed doors that lined both sides of the hallway.

  “What’s your business on this ship?” said Artol. “And how did you get aboard?”

  “Point me to Thetan, stand aside, and you may yet live,” he said.

  “Pithy and well-spoken,” said Glimador. “Refreshing.”

  “She was right about the eyes,” whispered Artol. The Brigandir’s eyes now appeared uniformly golden. They masked which way he gazed, and marred his face with an eerie, otherworldly appearance.

  “Another of Nifleheim’s finest,” said Glimador. “Best not let him touch you, big guy.”

  “Unless you can conjure me a polearm, I’ve little chance of keeping him back.”

  “I’m fresh out of spears, but I’ve got something better — some old elvish magic.” Glimador spoke a single word in ancient elvish and a ball of blue fire formed in his outstretched palm. It shot at the Brigandir, sparking and sputtering as it flew. He dodged to the side, but the fiery sphere followed him and exploded on impact with his chest. For a brief moment, the Brigandir took on his demonic appearance, all reddish-brown hide, horned, winged, and long-toothed, then returned to his human aspect. The explosion did him no visible harm.

  “Crap,” mumbled Artol.

  Unperturbed, Glimador sent a second and then a third fiery ball of crackling energy fast on the heels of the first, and each blasted unerringly into the Brigandir's torso. With each impact, its demon form returned for but an instant, and with it came waves of heat and scents of sulphur that flooded the hall. The eldritch attacks left the Brigandir’s shirt blackened and smoking, but seemingly did him no harm.

  “Still coming,” said Artol as he readied his hammer and braced against the Brigandir’s charge. “Got anything else?”

  Glimador spoke more mystical words as the Brigandir quickened its pace, now nearly on them. The ancient elvish words that dropped from his lips were soft and melodic, yet rich and tonal. In their wake, shimmering, translucent energy that resembled waves of heat on a hot day flared out from Glimador's hand, expanded across the breadth and height of the passageway, and coalesced just in front of Artol. The arcane forces formed a transparent and nearly invisible barrier of preternatural energy that stood solid as stone and as indestructible as steel.

  The Brigandir’s sword crashed into it with a loud thump and a shower of sparks that sent the blade spinning from his grasp. The Brigandir rammed his shoulder into the mystical barrier and sparks erupted around its perimeter and at the point of impact. The magic wall held, but it slid toward Artol and Glimador. Surprise on his face, the Brigandir bounced back from the barrier, wincing and momentarily stunned.

  “Good work — he can't get through,” said Artol. “How long will it stand?” he whispered.

  “I can hold it one minute, maybe two,” said Glimador through clenched teeth, his hand outstretched toward the barrier, his attention focused on fueling the mystical energy that comprised it.

  The Brigandir recovered his sword and studied the mystical wall, focusing on its edges, which fit tightly to the contours of the corridor’s floor, walls, and ceiling. He kicked it, once and then again — powerful strikes, far harder than a normal man could mount. The barrier sparked and shuddered and shifted ever so slightly with each impact. The Brigandir looked up and smiled. He sheathed his sword, leaned into the barrier, and strained with both arms and shoulder. At his touch, sparks and tendrils of crackling energy erupted from the magical wall and enveloped him — shocking and burning him, head to torso to toe, though he maintained his grip, growling in pain and anger all the while. The entirety of the invisible wall began to slowly slide, sparking along its edges as it went.

  “Thor's Blood!” said Artol. “He’s moving it.”

  “Hold it back,” said Glimador.

  “I’m not touching that — it’ll fry me,” said Artol.

  “It’s safe on this side. Trust me,” said Glimador, his face now red from the strain of maintaining the wall against the Brigandir’s assault.

  “Can you anchor it down?” said Artol.

  “No. You’ve got to hold it back.”

  Artol tentatively pressed hands and shoulder against the mystic barrier, though as promised no energy assailed him. Strangely, because the barrier had hardly any thickness, he and the Brigandir appeared to push against each other — at best, a wisp of clear glass between them. In his human form, the Brigandir was nearly as broad as Artol, more heavily muscled, but several inches shorter despite his significant height. Both strained and grunted. Sweat beaded on Artol’s face. None formed on the Brigandir’s, though his was a mask of pain.

  Although Artol possessed such strength to best or match any man of Midgaard, the Brigandir slowly, inexorably, drove him back. Other men rushed down the ship’s stair from the main deck in answer to the alarm.

  “What the?” said one Lomerian soldier on seeing the strange struggle.

  “Witchcraft!” said another.

  “Help me, you fools,” said Artol.

  The first soldier lunged with his sword, aimed for the Brigandir’s side. The sword’s tip bounced off the barrier, sent sparks flying, and raked Artol's cuirass, though it did him no harm.

  “Weapons won’t work,” spat Glimador. “There’s a wall there, though you can see through it. Help Artol hold it back.” The soldiers’ suspicious stares bored into Glimador when they realized that he controlled the magic that powered the unseen barrier. Despite their aversion to all things arcane, the soldiers kept true to their duty, moved forward, and tentatively pressed their hands against the barrier wherever there was room. More soldiers appeared. Two pushed on Artol's back. All their exertions were for naught, for the barrier continued to slide, foot after foot. The Brigandir’s growls assaulted their ears all the while.

  “Get Claradon out,” said Artol, not realizing that he and the barrier had already been pushed well past Claradon’s stateroom door. Claradon, and those within his cabin, were trapped on the Brigandir’s side of the barrier. Well enough that was, as long as he didn’t turn his attention towards them.

  “Bertha,” yelled Glimador, “Get Slaayde out! Now!”

  The captain's door sprang open and Bertha popped her head out, dagger in hand.

  “Move him! Fast,” she screeched at the guards inside the cabin, for the barrier now slid quicker down the corridor despite the soldiers’ best efforts, and would soon reach the door.

  Two guards, directed by Ravel, the ship’s trader, rushed Captain Slaayde through the door. They carried him between them. One held his shoulders,
the other his feet. Slaayde’s eyes were open, but he looked more dead than alive. His hair was snow white; his face, drawn and pale; his skin, a sickly pallor; his leg, heavily wrapped in red-stained bandages.

  “I can’t hold it,” said Glimador. Sweat poured down his face as he inched backward down the hall.

  By the time Slaayde’s crew heaved the captain up the stairs and through the door to the main deck, only ten feet of corridor remained at Glimador's back.

  “Have we time to get clear?” said Artol.

  “No,” said Glimador. “When I turn, it’ll fall,” he said.

  “Then don’t turn!” said Artol. “Glim, stay where you are. The rest of you, break away now and get your butts upstairs.” They did.

  Artol spun from the barrier, ducked to avoid Glimador's outstretched hand or block his line of sight to the magical wall, scooped Glimador up about the waist with one meaty arm, and bounded for the stair. With Glimador draped over his shoulder, Artol dashed up the stair, skipping three steps at a time. Glimador groaned from the magic’s strain, but he held it solid until the moment they crested the stair, then the barrier collapsed with an odd, popping sound. Artol dived through the door and he and Glimador crashed to the main deck. The door slammed behind him.

  XVIII

  LEVIATHAN

  Frem’s squad dropped Mort Zag’s limp form and collapsed in exhaustion when they reached the edge of the black sand beach. Frem fell to one knee and struggled to catch his breath. “Keep watch for the muck monster,” he sputtered to whoever was close enough to hear. He looked for the thing, but he could barely see — salty sweat marred his vision. Men yelled from all around. He raised his arm to wipe his eyes and found his limbs barely responsive. Both arms were half-numb, both legs were rubber. His muscles vibrated and shuddered — his strength utterly spent. His squad fared no better.