Gateway to Nifleheim (17 page)

Claradon nodded in response as he looked over toward the edge of the circle. “I want to know everything; to hear all those stories.”

“It will take more than a few sittings to tell it all,” said Ob. “We can start just as soon as we find your father and get our behinds home.”

“You and father should have told me these things before,” said Claradon. “I’m no child and haven’t been for goodly years.”

Ob acknowledged Claradon’s words with a nod, and then his eyes drifted to the fire.

Dolan pulled out a piece of wax and placed it in a metal cup beside the fire.

“You didn’t use the wax back at the Dor,” said Ob. “Thought you was deaf.”

“The noise didn’t bother me so much back there,” said Dolan. “We're a lot closer now, we are. Lord Angle says it’s best to be prepared, so I’m preparing.”

“You always do what he says?” said Ob.

“If I didn’t, I would have been killed dead long ago,” said Dolan. “He’s not often wrong.”

“Huh, well, getting that wax ready is smart,” said Ob. “Smarter than some of our boys are being. A good half a dozen won’t use it, I’m certain, orders or not. Stubborn they are. Stinking blockheads.”

“Sir Miden was saying the wax made him dizzy and gave him a headache,” said Tanch.

“Better dizzy than deaf,” said Ob, “as any fool can tell.”

“Such a little thing—putting wax in our ears,” said Claradon. “Strange to think that it could turn the tide of a battle, or make the difference between life and death.”

“It's often the littlest things that make the most difference,” said Ob.

“Lord Angle says that survival is the art of being prepared,” said Dolan. “So I expect that he’s more prepared than anybody, he is.”

Claradon continued to stare off into the distance and said nothing for a time.

“What are you looking at?” Ob turned around to see. Gabriel and Theta stood the watch together at the circle’s rim.

“They’ve been standing there a long time,” said Claradon. “I was wondering what they're talking about. Lord Theta doesn't say much, but has much to say. Dolan—is he always like that?”

“Mostly,” said Dolan as he pulled some carefully packaged salted pork from his pack. “They also say he's an enigma. I don't rightly know what that means, but they don't say it to his face, so it must be something bad, it must.”

“There's worse things to be, I expect,” said Ob as he too fixed his gaze on Theta. “That's some suit of armor your boss has, sonny,” he said. “Why, it's as fancy as the ceremonial armor of old King Tenzivel himself.”

“It should be. I keep it polished and bang out all the dents, I do. There always seems to be more dents.”

“Hmm. It sure is mighty pretty, but I'm a wondering if it can stand up to cold hard steel, or beasties' claws. Myself, I wouldn't wear no fairy armor like that in any case. No offense.”

“None taken,” said Dolan as he finished off a piece of pork. “But I wouldn't say that to Lord Angle, if I were you. He has a high opinion of it, as he made it himself way back when, he did.”

“I’m doubting he forged his own armor,” said Ob. “To forge that fancy suit would take a skill maybe only three or four smiths in all of Lomion possess and we have the best smiths in Midgaard no matter what the dwarves say. There’s no way some dandy knight has that kind of skill. Besides, what lord makes his own armor?”

“Heimdall made his own and he’s a god,” said Dolan. “But if you think Lord Angle’s armor is fancy, you should see his castle—what with the weapon and trophy collections, the paintings, and all those old wines. It would take a hundred years to drink all them bottles. A sight to see, it is.”

“Has his own castle does he?” said Ob. “He must be some important fellow over there across the sea where you hail from.”

“That he is. He's a brave hero, he is,” said Dolan matter-of-factly.

“You don't say,” said Ob. “Now sonny, tell us—just what has that fellow done that makes him a hero? Does he help old ladies cross the street? Or does he just tell folks he’s a hero enough times until they start to believe it?”

Dolan narrowed his eyes. “He’s a real hero, Mr. Ob, he is. The kind that slays dragons, giants, monsters, and such. Saved the world—all of Midgaard—several times since I've been with him. They say he even fought the old gods back in olden days, but I wasn't around then.”

“Ho, ho. So you are a teller of tales, Dolan me boy,” said Ob, chuckling. “Killing dragons, fighting gods, ho ho. I bet them's some goodly yarns to pass a cold night on the trail.”

Dolan furrowed his brow and shook his head as he stared at another piece of pork.

“He seems a man of courage and strength,” said Claradon.

“He's stronger than any man I've ever seen,” said Dolan. “There was that time that—”

“Bah,” said Ob. “My boy Gabriel there,” gesturing toward him, “smashes beasties afore breakfast. He be a true hero, not some fancy-dressed dandy wearing a tin can and having a pole up his behind. He got his reputation on the battlefield, not in some children's tales.”

“That's true enough,” said Claradon, as he looked toward Dolan. “Sir Gabriel served as the Preceptor of the Order of the Knights of Tyr for several years before he took up service with my father.”

“Them’s one of the toughest outfits of knights in all Midgaard,” said Ob, “and Gabe was the best of them.”

“Many consider him the finest swordsman and weapons master in all Lomion,” said Claradon.

“And the only ones what don't think Gabe is the best is dumb or dead or both,” said Ob. “Tell him about the dragon. The short version, we’ll save the whole tale for when we’ve more time.”

“More than twenty years ago,” said Claradon, “Sir Gabriel slew the old fire wyrm that plagued the villages of the Kronar Mountains.”

“Plagued them?” said Ob, his voice growing sharper. “It took at least one of their folk each month and some of their livestock nearly every day for years—years. They couldn’t stop it, no matter what they tried. Even a battalion of Lomerian Regulars that ole King Tenzivel sent up there couldn’t take it down. Half of them ended up dead, the rest ran for it, the cowards.”

“But Gabe smote it good,” said Ob. “Can you imagine that—a man killing a fire wyrm—a full grown one, a hundred feet long or more, teeth the size of spears. A mouth what spits acid and breathes fire out 50 yards or more. A body wide around as a mammoth. And Gabe killed it—on his lonesome.”

“Hey—I was there,” said Artol. “And I still have a scar or two to remember it.”

“Me too, but we didn’t do much,” said Ob. “It takes an army to bring one of them things down. An army—and Gabe did it practically alone: sword and muscle against a monster. That's what a hero is boys. That’s what courage is and true mettle. And as for strong, just look at him,” he said, pointing toward Gabriel. “He could squash that Mister Foreign Fancy Pants like a bug.”

“I doubt that, I do,” said Dolan, scowling at the crusty gnome.

“Bah,” spouted Ob before taking a long swill from his wineskin. “I would fancy a taste of them wines you mentioned though. I suppose if he likes a good bottle, he can't be all bad.”

“I thank the gods that Sir Gabriel is with us in this,” said Claradon. “If he hadn't returned from hunting, if we had to do this without him . . . “Claradon shook his head, and tightly closed his eyes for a moment. Then he tried to down a spoonful of the soup.

Though Gabriel only served House Eotrus for the previous dozen years or so, he had made his mark on Claradon's upbringing and his life. Of all the great men that Claradon knew, Gabriel was the one he yearned most to be like, the one whom he endeavored to model himself after. Where Aradon was his beloved father, Ob his friend, mentor, and lore master, Sir Gabriel was his hero. Where his father's book learning and Ob's vast experience about the realms had brought them great knowledge and wisdom, Gabriel far surpassed them. There seemed to be nothing he didn't know, nowhere he hadn't been. Where his father was a great swordsman with few peers in all the land, even his skills paled in comparison with Gabriel's. Verily, Gabriel could best any five knights of the Dor at once in mock combat—such was his skill. When Sir Gabriel spoke to a group of men, even those that didn't know him, he had no need to shout above them to gather their attention. The moment he uttered a word, they all went silent; everyone wanted to hear his words. Perhaps it was the stories about him—his slaying of the fire wyrm, his defeat of the barrow-wight, his routing of the lugron horde, or any of the myriad tales that abounded of him, or perhaps it was merely his regal bearing and commanding presence. Why a man such as he, who had the strength, skills, and knowledge to carve out an empire for himself would be content to serve as Weapons Master of a border fortress, Claradon could never fathom. When he asked him one day, Gabriel said that he had his reasons, but would speak no more about it. He was secretive about some things, which was odd because he was so generous in gifting knowledge to others, whether it be in the form of martial training or most any subject you could name.”

Claradon looked at his friends and then at the knights who huddled around the other fires. How many of them will be alive in the morning, he wondered. How many will return to the joyful embraces of their family and friends? How many—and which ones—will never see home again?

Claradon dreaded the thought of seeing the faces of the grieving families: the wives, the children, the crying, the wailing, the pain that they would all feel—that same terrible pain he struggled with every day since his mother's passing. They would blame him, and rightly so. For the first time, he understood the weighty burden his father bore every day. Claradon wasn’t certain he was strong enough to bear it—and, at any rate, he knew he wasn’t ready to do so.

After a time, Ob grew curious, as gnomes are often wont to do. “Come on boy. Let's go and see what them two is up to.” Ob, Dolan, and Claradon rose and walked toward the two knights at the rim. Theta and Gabriel glanced at the three as they approached, hesitating only a moment before they continued their conversation.

“Do you sense it?” said Gabriel.

“I do,” said Theta, “I thought you might as well.”

“The weave of magic is strong here—stronger than it has been in ages, and it's more than just this magical circle,” said Gabriel. “There was great evil here of late; it comes with the mist, I suspect.”

“When the mist returns, creatures of Nifleheim will return with it,” said Theta.

“Gabe and me have fought such beasties a time or two over the years,” said Ob. “Once over in the Dead Fens, another time in Southeast. I expect you have also, you being such a big hero and all.”

“I have fought their kind, many times,” said Theta as he peered down at the bellicose gnome.

“But the others have not,” said Gabriel, gesturing toward the encampment. “They are fine soldiers, but they have no idea what terrors await them here this eve.”

“They will learn, or they will die,” said Theta. “Such is the way of things.”

“A regular ray of sunshine, aren't you, Theta?” said Ob.

“Put your teeth together, gnome, and open your ears,” said Theta. “This place, it is even more sinister than I think you realize. It is becoming a gateway, a portal, to a place more horrific than any mortal can imagine—a place of incomprehensible evil, of mind-shattering, idiotic chaos, of pure insanity. Those who dwell there, would make Midgaard like that. This is what we must prevent. This is why we are here. We must seal this gateway, forever. This is our true quest.”

Ob's mouth dropped open and he stared at Theta in disbelief. Gabriel merely stoically nodded his agreement. Theta's words so shocked Claradon he could say nothing.

“What are you about, Theta?” said Ob. “Portal to another world? What madness are you spewing? Listen, young fellow—I know you wouldn't guess it from looking at me pretty face, but I'm three hundred and sixteen years old and have been from one side of this continent to the other more times than you've had birthdays, and I have never seen, nor heard tell of such a thing. Sure, there be some crazy sorcerers what can conjure up a strange beastie or two from who knows where, but nothing more. Gateway to another world, bah.”

Theta responded in a smooth and level tone. “Nevertheless, what I have said is true.” Just a hint of anger showed in the set of his jaw and slight furl of his brow. “I will prevent the gateway from opening or close it once it does. You men can assist or not—it matters little to me. I will do what needs to be done.”

“Bah! Mister Know-it-All,” said Ob. “You are nothing but a boaster and a braggart with no true mettle. Theta, if some creature from another world be coming at you, I bet you would soil that fancy armor of yours in a heartbeat. Hell, you would be down on your knees begging for mercy, pleading for your life, or running away with your tail between your legs.”

“Enough!” said Gabriel. “Lord Theta is here to help us, not to be insulted by a loudmouthed gnome. I will hear no more of it.”

“I think what I think, and I'll say what I say, and if anybody don't like it, they can stuff it,” spat the gnome.

“Lord Theta,” said Claradon, “perhaps you could explain your reasoning regarding this gateway you mentioned? What is it that you think is going on out here?”

Theta paused and took a slow, deep breath before responding. “It's what we discussed afore. I believe followers of the Nifleheim lords are using the arcane properties of this eldritch place, the ancient temple and the other ruins that were here, and their own fell sorceries, to open a gateway to the realm of Nifleheim. When that happens, all hell will come through—literally. It will mean the end of civilization. The end of everything we all hold dear. They will pour through by the hundreds, then the thousands, and tens of thousands: an army of madness and monsters without end. There will be no mercy or quarter given: they will kill everyone.”

“But why do you think that? All we've seen here is an empty field, a few golden coins, and some tracks, nothing more. It doesn’t—”

“In part, because I have seen such things afore, in times past, but mostly because of the demon spoor and stink that pollutes this place.” He pointed to the smooth, stony soil. “The tracks in the circle.”