by Glenn Thater
A spray of green blood and foul smelling ichor washed over Gabriel and a fiend’s dismembered head hit his leg. A shout of “Doom!” came from nearby. The Lord Angle Theta was alive and had joined the fray!
Five fiends stalked Theta, who stood beside the corpse of one of their fellows, his silver-hued falchion dripping with ichor. When they met his steely gaze, the devils froze in their tracks and looks of terror formed on their grotesque visages.
“No!” bellowed one fiend, “It’s the ancient enemy, the traitor!”
“We are betrayed, the humans knew of our coming,” cried another. “Spare us Lord and we shall serve thee!” implored the fiend as it fell to its knees whimpering.
Theta’s sword slashed by once, and then again, almost faster than the eye could follow, and both fiends’ heads tumbled to the floor. The other three sprang toward him, overcoming whatever fear they felt. Working sword and shield to masterful perfection, Theta dodged, and parried, and cut, dealing out death and destruction as only he could. Moments later, he stood alone as his opponents’ dismembered, twitching corpses littered the floor, green ichor pooling about his boots. As Theta moved to assist Gabriel, another thunderous roaring emanated from the breach, this time much louder and deeper than before. More than a score of fiends scampered through the black hole, followed by a beast of incredible proportions. It struggled to expand the breach, its bulk far too large to fit through the six-foot wide portal.
Theta didn’t even glance at his old friend Gabriel before turning to face this new threat. Theta charged toward the gateway and engaged the horde. He never looked back.
Claradon stood alone against a trio of multi-armed fiends of wicked fangs and barbed tails. Three others of their ilk lay in a heap about the knight, having fallen victim to his desperate swordplay. He bashed one of his attackers back with his battered shield as he deflected and blocked blow after draining blow with his long sword. His strength was quickly ebbing; soon he’d have only his magic to sustain him. He managed a series of furious counterstrikes that drove the devils back long enough for him to tap the sorcerous arts he’d honed as a Caradonian Knight. Through Odin’s grace, he summoned a roaring column of flame from on high that engulfed one of the fiends, instantly incinerating it, its ashes crumbling to the stone floor. The remaining fiends turned and fled. Though calling down such power had drained him terribly, to Sir Gabriel’s side he sprang, to aid him as best he could.
Claradon summoned all remaining mystical strength from deep within his very core and empowered one last sorcery. Unleashing his oldest and most forbidden words of arcane power, words he never dared utter before, he discharged a screeching blast of fiery death from the tip of his blade, a crackling azure bolt with the numinous energy to vaporize any man or beast. It struck Korrgonn unawares, enveloping its entire form in ravenous flame. But after only a moment, the flame’s power waned, then vanished, consumed by the demon’s stony soul. Claradon’s magic was spent, though it mattered little since he commanded no words that could fell this abomination; that much was clear. But he had other tools.
His Dyvers blade in hand, he charged the beast. Though he struck with all his strength, his finely wrought steel blade merely bounced off Korrgonn’s exoskeleton, sending sparks flying. Korrgonn ignored these ineffectual attacks and continued to parry Gabriel’s deadly blows.
At last, Claradon’s blade fractured against the thing’s armor. Drawing his Asgardian dagger, he lunged in, thrusting the point at the fiend’s back. To his surprise, the blade sliced through, puncturing its exoskeleton near where a man’s kidney would be. Korrgonn howled in pain, spun around, and slammed the back of its spiked fist and forearm down on Claradon’s head, crushing him to the floor where he lay bloodied and stunned.
Korrgonn maneuvered about and caught Gabriel’s next blow with the hilt of its blade. It kicked Gabriel in the gut, sending him reeling backward, causing him to trip over and fall beyond Claradon. The beast stepped forward and raised its red blade high to finish Claradon who still lay dazed.
“No!” cried Gabriel. Bounding upward and forward over Claradon’s prone form with blinding speed, Gabriel executed the reckless Valusian thrust maneuver taught him by Kull, king of that far-off land. Gabriel’s war blade arced upward as he came in. The ensorcelled blade pierced Korrgonn’s black heart, sending green ichor spurting everywhere. With all the knight’s power behind the blow, the wide blade sunk halfway to the hilt. Completing the vicious maneuver, Gabriel immediately pulled the sword back, nearly out the wound, before swiftly plunging it back in, sharply turning the blade as it entered. This merciless attack was designed to eviscerate the opponent, instantly sapping his strength, but it left much of the attacker’s head and torso exposed. The chaos blade fell from the beast’s grasp and its massive body dropped to its knees. It roared in pain and rage as its lifeblood showered the floor.
“I’ll have your soul yet Gabriel,” spat Korrgonn, as it threw an uppercut toward the knight’s chest. Gabriel, in the midst of wrenching his sword free, moved to catch the blow in his gauntleted hand. But from Korrgonn’s gnarled fist sprang a twelve-inch long barbed spike. It pierced clear through Gabriel’s hand, and on through his thick steel breastplate, and sank deep into his chest. He stiffened at the blow and tried to pull away, only to have Korrgonn return the favor by twisting the blade and jabbing it in ever deeper.
The blow shocked Gabriel, but at first, he felt little pain. Dropping his sword, he pulled his Asgardian dagger from his belt and slashed it across Korrgonn’s throat, once, twice, and a third time, slicing it from ear to ear. Blood and bile surged from both opponents’ mouths. Still the beast held him fast.
Now the excruciating indescribable pain washed over Gabriel, blasting him to his knees, Claradon’s legs pinned beneath him.
From where he lay, only semi-conscious, Claradon attempted to let fly another magical blast, to come to his hero’s aid, but his strength was spent. He couldn’t even pull himself out from under Gabriel. He could do no more than watch in dazed horror as the ghastly scene unfolded before him. For him the battle was over.
Strangely, Korrgonn’s arm began to glow a fiery red, first at the shoulder and soon extending down toward his fist. Gabriel continued to struggle to pull away, but the wicked spike would not release him. He felt it boring deep within his chest. It was moving, growing, twisting, probing. Probing for something. His heart? Gods, how did it come to this? How to get away?
The hellish glow permeating Korrgonn’s body reached Gabriel, causing his chest to begin to glow as well. Coughing up blood, he tried in vain again to free himself. “No! No!” he gasped as he realized the fiend’s mind. It was consuming his very body, devouring his immortal soul, assailing his mind, taking over his very being. He looked down and saw the blood draining from his chest. This can’t be happening, it can’t be real. I cannot be defeated.
Fleeting, ephemeral memories passed instantly before Gabriel’s eyes and assailed his senses. A momentary image of smiting the fire wyrm of the Kronar Mountains; a mere wisp of the fetid stench of the barrow-wight who had killed those poor children. His duel with Valas Tearn – the assassin who had slain a thousand men; his conquest of the city of Saridden and of freeing its slaves; the great battle of Minoc by the sea; his victories over the demon-queen Krisona, and the vampire-lord Jaros, and the evil masters of the Dead Fens. A glimpse of that far off fateful day at R’lyeh when he and Theta banished the last of the fiends back from whence they came, back unto the void, and extracted some small measure of vengeance for the abominable plague that the beasts had unleashed upon mankind. That victory had freed all Midgaard from the yoke of chaos and bore witness to the dawning of a new age of freedom and hope. Gabriel would survive this battle, just as he had that day at R’lyeh. There could be no other outcome.
In desperation, he plunged his Asgardian dagger into Korrgonn’s right eye, sinking it to the hilt. Still the spike held him fast.
His vision began to cloud, the sounds around him dimmed.
He thought of the thousands of lives he’d saved down through the years, of all those he’d protected, of the uncountable mighty deeds he’d done.
He withdrew his dagger and plunged it into the beast’s left eye. “Around me are my kinsmen, always,” he said, and then pounded down on the hilt again, and again, and again.
He could see little now, and the sounds of the battle went away. He could hear his heart beating, the rushing of blood at his temples, but nothing else. Can this be the end? Everything moved in slow motion, the merest moments extending to long minutes. He thought of all the things important to him, all the places and the people he had known, all the lands he had visited, all that he would never do again.
“To the south, my father, my father’s father, and all my line before them, back unto the beginning,” he said, though only Claradon could hear him.
The evil glow covered nearly all his body, but Gabriel fought on and pounded down on the dagger’s hilt again, and again, and again, and again.
“To the north is Odin…” Visions of fire, floods, and terror flashed before his eyes.
He pounded down on the hilt again, and again, and again, and again, and again.
The world went dark, he could see no more. The pain was less now.
“The hero’s path.”
Gabriel convulsed as the evil glow consumed him. He was alone. He would die alone.
Korrgonn’s body stopped glowing and went limp.
Gabriel thought of the woman he’d loved and lost and forever longed for. If only he had another chance, if only he could do things over, if only he could be with her again…
His eyes closed and his head rolled to the side.
“The homeward road…”
He thought of his mother’s face and her undying and unconditional love. If he could only see her one more time, if only he had more time…
“Valhalla”.
Then he thought no more. And Sir Gabriel Garn passed into legend.
At last, Claradon’s head began to clear and he dislodged himself from beneath Gabriel. Still dazed he flung himself into Korrgonn, ripping him away from Sir Gabriel. Claradon pounded his gauntleted fists into Korrgonn’s unmoving head, Gabriel’s dagger still protruding from its eye, over and over, mashing it to pieces. As he pummeled away, smoke rose from his hands and they began to burn. The acidic blood of the otherworldly beast actually ate through his gauntlets. He shed them before his flesh was sorely beset.
Claradon turned toward Gabriel, tears streaming down his face.
When Gabriel’s eyes opened moments later, they glowed a brilliant gold. Claradon gasped in horror at the abominable sight, surmising exactly what it meant. He cried out for aid, but the din of the general melee drowned him out. Those terrible orbs were not Sir Gabriel’s eyes at all; they were the eyes of the Son of Azathoth, the Prince of Demons. Claradon couldn’t believe his eyes – so stunned was he that he couldn’t move.
Gabriel’s mouth opened and it spewed out a gory glob of blood. The wound on his chest glowed for a moment and then rapidly closed and healed itself. It grinned an evil, unholy grin, picked up Korrgonn’s sword as it stood up, turned, and fled the building.
XIII
THY TIME HAS COME AND GONE
The enormous monstrosity at the breach broke its way through and entered Midgaard. As it did so, its form shrunk and transformed into the likeness of a huge, handsome armored knight wielding a mammoth crimson sword. No one could mistake its dark unholy visage. This beast was none other than Bhaal, the infamous lord of death and chaos. It paused at the hell-mouth for several moments surveying the carnage taking place in its ancient temple. It laughed. But this was not a laugh of mirth, not the laugh of a man. It was a maniacal, inhuman cackling, such as had not been inflicted on the ears of man for untold epochs. The beast was here now, on our world. It would make it his again. It had won.
As a multitude of smaller fiends leaped through the gateway and moved to engage Lord Theta, Dolan and Sirs Artol, Glimron, Talbot, and Dalken closed with the transformed fiend from its flanks. With blinding speed, Bhaal struck a brutal overhand blow at the largest of the warriors, Artol, who swiftly raised his battle-axe to parry the blow, but the massive strike sheared the axe haft cleanly in half. Bhaal’s red sword rotated with the impact and the flat of the blade struck Artol squarely atop his helm. His eyes rolled back in his head as he crumpled to the floor. Dolan lunged in and stabbed Bhaal in the sternum, burying his glowing dagger in the fiend’s chest. Bhaal roared, grabbed Dolan by the throat, and lifted him high. As Talbot moved in, Bhaal threw Dolan into him, sending them both cascading across the ebony slab. Glimron and Dalken simultaneously struck at Bhaal’s legs. Their steel blades clanged loudly and sparked when they struck the chaos-wrought armor, but had no damaging effect. Bhaal’s next cut entered Glimron’s right shoulder, cleaving clean through him, coming out his left side. Bhaal grabbed Dalken by the throat and lifted him up. The fiend opened its mouth, wide like a serpent, and a two-pronged, pincer-like object flew out and plunged into poor Dalken’s eyes. The pincers retracted, ripping the knight’s eyes from their sockets. Bhaal held Dalken up for several seconds as he screamed in agony before tightening its grip and crushing the knight’s throat. It flung the corpse away as if it weighed nary a pound.
Nearby, Lord Theta’s whirling blade sliced off fiendish arms and legs with abandon. No fiend could stand against him for more than moments. Even the press of numbers could not turn the tide against him. The corpses of the demons piled high about him in gruesome heaps. He was an unstoppable juggernaut. He was death incarnate. The last thing each of his foes heard was his booming mantra, “Doom! Doom!” He finished off the last of them and stepped over the pile of corpses to engage Bhaal.
“Ye hast slain my minions mortal,” said Bhaal, his voice now a rich baritone, to the bloody knight that stood before him. “Impressive. But ye cannot stand against a Lord of Chaos!”
Theta sheathed his blade and picked up his lance which still lay at the base of the altar and brandished it as a spear.
“Doth ye not know me, creature? Has it been so long?”
Lord Bhaal’s mouth dropped open. “Ye?! Ye! Ye wilt not thwart us again, harbinger of doom. Not again, damn ye! We will have this world back, traitor. We shall cleanse it by fire and sword and ye wilt not stop us. What once was ours will be ours again.”
“This be no place for thee Bhaal,” shouted Theta. “Ye do not belong here. Thy time hath come and gone, it be our time now.” Theta stalked cautiously toward the beast, looking for an opening to use his lance. “I shall put thee down as I have thy brethren. Thou shalt sleep with them in the void.”
As Bhaal began to advance, it was struck by a large glowing, floating mace that appeared from nowhere. The mace pummeled Bhaal about the head and chest forcing it backward. Bhaal swung its sword wildly, but there was no foe for it to smite. The sword passed through the spectral mace and could do it no harm. One wild swing caught the edge of the stone altar, shearing off a large chunk while barely slowing the mammoth blade.
Theta, mouthing ancient words of power, pointed the tip of his lance at Bhaal and a sparkling arc of electricity rocketed from it and crashed into the beast’s chest. Its breastplate blackened, charred, and fell off, exposing the reddish leather-like flesh beneath. The beast roared in pain but continued to swing its sword frantically, slicing nothing but air. Par Tanch sent his magical orbs of arcane power blasting into Bhaal. One struck its exposed chest, tearing into the beast and causing some damage; the others bounced harmlessly off Bhaal’s chaos-wrought armor. The enchanted mace, also controlled by Par Tanch’s arcane arts, continued to pummel Bhaal and caused him to stagger farther backward, toward the breach.
By this time, Dolan had skulked his way on hands and knees behind Bhaal who was oblivious to his presence. Dolan saw Theta moving in with his lance and carefully positioned himself just in front of the breach, and directly behind Bhaal. Distracted by the array of magical attacks assailing it, Bhaal c
ould not react in time to counter Theta’s lance. Theta lunged forward and buried its sharpened tip deep into the breast of the chaos lord. A look of shock and agony formed on Bhaal’s face as the lance sunk in and thrust him backward.
“Give my regards to Arioch,” shouted Theta. “Tell him I have not forgotten, and I will yet have my revenge.”
Bhaal roared in anger, as he struggled against Theta, who used the lance to push him inexorably backward.
“Damn you, traitor,” spat Bhaal. “Ye wilt pay for this threefold - three evils to thee I promise. So do I curse thee.”
As Theta pushed the beast back, it tripped over Dolan, just as Dolan had planned. It fell backward over him and tumbled right through the gateway, back whence it came. Bhaal fell out of sight, into the utter blackness beyond, roaring more curses at Theta as it fell; Theta’s magical lance still buried in its chest.
XIV
THE LORD OF THE LAND
Soon only the moans and wails of the wounded filled the air.
“We killed them all boss,” said Dolan. “All except the skull-faced one, what came out first. But we lost a lot of the shiny men.”
“Tis not over yet, Dolan. We must close the gateway or countless more fiends will soon come through. If that happens, all Midgaard will be lost.”
