Gateway to Nifleheim (21 page)

“Look at what they did,” said Claradon.

“We have to back away,” said Tanch.

And they did, though Tanch had to pull Claradon along, and Ob followed. Mindful of the wizard's words, Claradon took care to remain beyond the range of the writhing things that haunted the other columns. Adrenaline rushed through Claradon's system, but he still struggled with the thought that it must all be a nightmare. He had seen men die before, but never by magic or monster.

“This is it; it's the end of us and maybe of all Midgaard,” said Tanch. “You think you’re so smart,” he shouted at Ob and Claradon. “I told you we should've sent for the army. You people never listen to me. You think I’m a fool, but it's you who are the fools, and now we are doomed. We’ll all die here; mark my words. No doubt, they’ll blame me. The wizard should have known better, they’ll say. It’ll be all my fault.”

“Stow that talk, you sniveling turd, or I'll bash your knees in,” said Ob. The gnome raised his wineskin to his lips and took a long draught as he pressed forward.

Claradon's vision clouded and his stomach churned as the waves of nausea and lightheadedness flooded over him with renewed vigor. He couldn’t believe what he had just seen. How would he face Rachel, Erendin’s fiance? He couldn’t tell her the truth of what happened, of how he fell. Not ever. He would never plant that image in her head; he could never be that cruel. He’d have to make up a story—the truth, too painful to hear.

The abominable clangor around him increased more and more to near deafening levels and threatened to implode his very skull. Time and space became increasingly distorted; everything moved slower and slower.

Blood streamed from the men's noses and ears as the pressure and maddening cacophony intensified. Several knights doubled over and vomited great gobs of putrescent green ichor as the sinister forces of the place assailed their mortal bodies. Others heaved and spat, but little came out. Some simply collapsed unconscious to the ebony slab.

Claradon watched in horror as a claw-like pseudopod pushed out from a column and ensnared the ankle of one of the fallen knights, Sir Zaren. The man screamed in terror as it dragged him to his doom; Claradon, too far away to come to his aid. Those who were closer were too dazed from the madness about them, or too shocked to spring to his rescue. The knight's magical dagger sent sparks flying everywhere as he repeatedly but ineffectually struck it against the obsidian slab, trying to slow his slide. Within seconds of reaching the pillar, other demonic pseudopods and misshapen hands fell upon him and rent him limb from limb. He never had a chance. (Another friend dead). Claradon shuddered with the thought that that could just as easily have been him.

“I can't take this noise—it's maddening,” shouted one knight. “If we can't attack these things, we must flee before we're all torn to pieces.”

Ob grabbed the man and pulled him forward. “You're a knight of House Eotrus, boy, and you'll not flee while I yet live, that's for certain. We face this together. Come on,” he shouted as he steadied the knight and pressed forward. “For House Eotrus,” he shouted. “To victory and tomorrow.”

Tanch mashed his hands to his ears and desperately struggled to keep the maddening noise from reaching him. He must have tried to recall some bit of magic, some arcane spell or charm that would safeguard him from the din. But he failed—for how could any man focus his thoughts through that insane clamor? Blood streamed from his nose and his eyes were unfocused. His strength sapped, he collapsed to his knees.

The din grew worse, and soon even Ob staggered and fell, spitting curses all the while—his sensitive gnomish ears being particularly susceptible to the horrid sounds despite two earfuls of wax.

Claradon focused his concentration as best he could, and through chattering teeth bespoke mystical words—words taught him by the lore masters of the Caradonian Knights—words that called forth the power of Odin. A brilliant white light appeared and encompassed him. What generated the light could not be seen—it simply manifested all around him. It bathed him in its glow and made his clothing and armor appear pure white in hue, though strangely, it had no effect on the look of his skin. This mantle of holy light diminished the deafening sounds and the spatial distortions that occurred directly around him, and safeguarded him from the claws and fangs of any creature of Nifleheim that appeared. Alas, his power was not nearly great enough to encompass and aid his comrades. If he had only practiced more, he might have been able to cloak a few others as well—but only a few. Even the grandmaster of the Caradonians didn’t have the power to cloak the entire company. Already weakened, he could do little more than hold his ground. He flexed his fingers repeatedly, trying to shake off the sharp, stinging sensation that always came with the magic. It took a few minutes to wear off in the best of times, but flexing his fingers tended to help. Why it affected his hands he never understood, as the magic he had thrown was powered only by words and not by esoteric gestures. Regardless, his hands always stung after throwing magic—that was just the way of things.

At the far end of the hall, Claradon spied the temple's adytum—a black stone table, an unholy altar, no doubt, to the foulest fiends of Nifleheim. Its surface was covered in deep, reddish stains; the dried blood of untold innocents, spilled to sate the unquenchable thirsts of unspeakable, outré beings.

Behind the altar, the rear wall of the temple was embossed with a strange pattern of circles within circles. At the pattern's center was a gaping black hole of nothingness: a void. To where it led, man was surely not meant to fathom. The radius of each circle was twice that of the circle within it. The lines that formed the five innermost circles were blackened and charred, as if they had burned away; only moldering gray ash remained. Within these circles, inscribed in a dark-red pigment—which surely was human blood—were all manner of arcane runes and eldritch symbols from the bizarre lexicon of otherworldly fiends, forgotten gods, or mad archmages.

The sixth or outermost circle glowed and burned a fiery red; the very flames of hell danced and writhed on its unholy surface. Evenly spaced between the fifth and sixth circles were golden coins that looked like those they found buried at the desolate zone’s rim. Surely, when the sixth circle burned away, there would be no holding back the infernal tide that was to come—the very armies of insanity and chaos, the maleficent denizens of the pit: the spawn of Nifleheim.

Even now, the rear wall, etched with the unholy pattern, bulged and flexed and flowed, ready to burst from the pressure of some massive monstrosities that strained against its far side. In moments, they would burst through, and the beasts from beyond would roam Midgaard once again and usher in mankind's doom.

Sir Gabriel pressed on toward the black altar. Artol soldiered through the maddening chaos, perhaps somewhat protected by his earplugs and thickly padded steel helm, if not his thick skull, but blood flowed freely from his nose, mouth, and even his eyes. Sir Miden staggered just behind them and valiantly tried to press forward, though blood gushed from his nose and mouth and ears. He hadn’t stuffed his ears with wax like most of the others, and now it was too late. Overcome by the pain, Miden dropped his sword and shield, ripped off his helm, and pressed his hands to his ears to stave off the intolerable sounds and pressure. Just as he seemed to recover and bent over to retrieve his sword, his entire head erupted in fountains of blood that spouted from his ears and nose. His body swayed for a moment and then collapsed in a lifeless heap.

Claradon forced himself to look away and tapped his reserves of strength—that well of mystical energy from which sprang his magics. He couldn’t imagine any way to survive that place, but he had to try, and so he threw more energy into the mystical mantle that shielded him. He felt all his power surging through it, shielding him better than wood or metal ever could. Yet it felt a puny defense. He felt vulnerable and weak, more so than he ever had in all his life.

Witnessing Sir Miden's fate, several knights turned and fled the temple in terror. Their loyalty to House Eotrus was without question, but that madness was too much. There were no enemies to smite there, no honor or glory to be gained, no vengeance to be had, only mindless suffering and senseless death. They'd had enough. They fled. A few even dropped their weapons or shields in their haste to escape. Ob's shouted commands and curses went unheard and unheeded in the chaotic din.

Claradon watched them flee. He wasn't angry with them. How could he be? He wanted to flee too, but he wouldn't. He looked at the others struggle forward, pushing on with all their strength. He hoped they would all turn and run so that he could too. No one could fault him for running if everyone else ran first. But Gabriel would never run. He didn't think Theta would either, though he wasn't certain why, since he barely knew the man. But if they didn't, he couldn't. He wouldn't. He could never live with the shame of it-with the dishonor that it would bring to his House and to his father's memory. He would stay and fight. He would seek his rightful vengeance, though he felt that Tanch was right-that place would be the death of him, the death of them all.

Theta seemed less affected by the evil phenomenon than were the others. No blood flowed from him and his eyes remained focused. How and why that was, Claradon couldn't imagine. Theta's face, however, turned bright red and his stride slowed nearly to a crawl. He trudged forward in slow motion, several yards ahead of Gabriel, laboring as if he dragged a great weight behind him or something powerful but unseen sought to hold him back. This went on for some time, until at last he reached the altar and the source of the temple's power.

A small orb of utter blackness and purest evil lurked atop the altar's ebony slab. You couldn't so much as see it, as see the absence of it-a sphere of nothingness. What that thing was and where it came from: unknown. Theta must have known it was the foul emanations of that unholy artifact that fueled the chaos about him. It was its power that threatened to open the gateway to the unspeakable outré realms-the very Halls of Nifleheim.

Theta pulled from his belt a war hammer that had been concealed behind his cloak-and no common hammer was it. It had a large head of gray steel and an ornate handle inscribed with archaic runes and studded with jewels. How a man even Theta's size could wield such a thing, Claradon couldn't grasp-it was a battle hammer fit for Thor himself. Theta gripped the haft with both hands and raised the hammer high. Strangely, the hammer's head seemed to grow to more than double its normal size and mass as he lifted it up. He swung it down at the orb with all his might, and as he did, several things happened, nearly at once, in what order, none could ever say.

The hammer struck with a booming sound akin to a thunderclap, which was immediately followed by an eerie, otherworldly groaning that heralded the orb's destruction.

Just before-or perhaps just after-the hammer hit home, the temple's rear wall exploded outward and a massive blast of air and heat roared into the place. Theta turned as if to run, but the blast crashed into him and hurtled him some forty feet before it slammed him to the unyielding stone slab. Momentum propelled him several yards farther before it mercifully released him. Though Theta surely took the brunt of the force, the blast knocked the entire expedition from its feet.

Atop the altar, the orb was no more: Theta's blow had pulverized it. The altar itself was cracked (broken by Theta's blow), and a large chunk of its top was gone-pulverized along with the orb.

Claradon looked over in shock at Theta's still form. Then he saw the six-foot wide rift in the temple's rear wall-a rift opened by the explosion that they had just weathered. Beyond the rift was utter blackness, a portal to some other place, some other dimension-some foul bastion of chaos. The portal's rim was aglow with wisps of yellow fire, their origin unknown. On the wall nearby, the arcane pattern's outermost circle was gone-its crimson border now nothing more than blackened and charred ash. The eldritch coins had melted and their remnants trickled down the shattered wall in golden rivulets.

XVI

THE BOGEYMEN

From out of that ominous hole in the temple’s back wall, which proved indeed to be a gateway, vaulted a monster the like of which Claradon had never seen before, and until that very moment did not truly believe existed. It was an otherworldly creature of nightmare, of folklore; the very bogeyman of the children's tales come to life. A horrid caricature of a man: no flesh covered any part of the seven-foot tall creature's oversized skull. Its large, gold, glowing eyes and long, forked tongue were alight with demonic flame. It wore strange black armor that clung tightly to its muscular torso. In its right hand it held a six-foot long, white sword whose blade danced with red and yellow hellfire. On its massive breastplate was damasked the unmistakable symbol of Mortach, Lord of Nifleheim and mythical patron of death and destruction. Surely, any mortal who stood against that fiend would be tossed aside like so much chaff. Before Claradon or his men gained their feet, the creature sped through the hall, fiendishly laughing, and bounded out the entry—out into the world of man.

The unnatural pressure was gone and the earsplitting cacophony subsided. The writhing pseudopods and tentacles retreated, and the walls and columns returned to their normal, stony aspects. Waves of heat and the noxious scent of brimstone filled the air. It came from the abyss beyond the breach and pulsed into the temple in waves—as if the portal breathed. With those waves wafted a strong putrescence mixed with the bestial odor detected before, only it was stronger now, but still unidentifiable.

While those knights who were conscious staggered to their feet, coughing and gasping, Claradon gazed in disbelief as more unspeakable horrors manifested at the gateway. They rose through the rarefied ether of the abyss beyond the portal by some bizarre means of locomotion incomprehensible to man. Several nightmarish creatures more than six feet tall and roughly human shaped vaulted through the breach and entered the unholy temple. Their appearance was too monstrous, too ghastly to describe or even contemplate. No mortal creature ever possessed an aspect of such indescribable horror, such loathsome, abominable evil. Claradon shuddered as he looked upon faces of pure chaos—the putrid spawn of cursed Nifleheim. As horrific as they were, they were beings of flesh and blood and sinew; Claradon and his comrades knew how to deal with such things.