Gateway to Nifleheim (22 page)

Claradon, Sir Conrad, and Sir Martin were the first to rush forward, yelling battle cries in honor of their patron gods: Odin, Tyr, and Heimdall. By the time they approached the gateway, an even more formidable being had pushed the ghastly fiends aside. It was nearly eight feet tall and covered from head to toe with sharpened, metallic spikes, though the spikes were no suit of armor: they grew from its thick leathery hide. It was brick-red in color throughout, except for its large eyes, which glowed a brilliant gold.

Claradon saw many more loathsome beasts behind the spiked giant, including many kin of the reskalan. They pushed forward and strove to gain entry to the world of man, though none dared touch their leader. Verily, a veritable horde of hell spewed forth from that malefic gateway to Abaddon. The spiked giant brandished a huge black sword and pointed it at the three knights.

“Bow down,” it roared in the common speech of man, in a deep voice with a harsh accent. Its words dropped in spurts from its tongue—as if it struggled to form them with parts not meant for mortal speech.

“Bow down, petty creatures, and pledge allegiance to Lord Gallis Korrgonn, Prince of Nifleheim and son of almighty Azathoth. Bow down and swear fealty to me, and I may yet spare your pathetic lives.”

Claradon's whole body shuddered and quaked at the sight and sound of that unspeakable nightmarish thing. He felt puny and naked. A paralysis washed over him and rooted him in place. He knew he was about to die. A Lord of Nifleheim was about to annihilate him.

He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to scream. If he just bowed down, perhaps he might yet live. Such a little thing it would be, just to bow down. He could do that, couldn't he, to save his life? What harm would it do?

He remembered his father. He remembered what those monsters did to him. He remembered his burning need for vengeance.

He did not bow down—he would never bow down before any creature of Nifleheim or any servant of evil. That would go against all he stood for and everything it meant to be an Eotrus. He would have his vengeance.

“I am Brother Claradon Eotrus, Lord of Dor Eotrus,” he shouted. “You killed my father: for this you die.”

Claradon charged forward. From the corners of his eyes, he saw that his two comrades were still with him. The smaller fiends sprang forward and interposed themselves between their dark lord and the knights.

“Very well, petty creatures,” shouted Korrgonn. “Tonight, we feast on your souls. This world is ours now.”

The knights engaged the fiends and fought with incredible ferocity—their swords and strength against the claws and fangs of the hellish spawn of Nifleheim. Outnumbered, the fiends pressed them back, away from the gateway and away from Korrgonn. The fiends' attacks were poorly coordinated—chaotic and wild—but these were no mere beasts, they were creatures of intelligence and self-awareness.

Through the whirl of battle, Claradon was cut off from his comrades and fought on alone. The mantle of holy light that enshrouded him, blinded the fiends and they shrank from it, wailing. It burned them—their very flesh smoking and charring as they drew near him. Many turned from him and sought easier prey. That gave him a singular advantage in the wild melee and perhaps was all that preserved his life. It also allowed him brief moments of respite during which he caught glimpses of the deadly struggles that unfolded around him.

Numerous devils attacked his still dazed or unconscious comrades and others fought duels to the death with the knights that still stood.

He saw Sir Bilson's throat ripped out by one fiend—dear gods, how would he tell his wife, his poor children?

Young Sir Paldor's chest was slashed by another. A terrible, metallic rending sound rang out as the creature’s claws raked across and shredded his breastplate, though the brave knight fought on.

Two fiends decapitated another knight and feasted on his corpse—ripping off large chunks of flesh with their bare teeth. Thank the gods, Claradon couldn’t tell who it was—he didn’t want to know; he couldn’t bear it.

Through the dim light, Claradon spied Sirs Conrad and Martin, awash with blood and gore, pulled down and torn limb from limb by a group of bloodthirsty, reskalan fiends.

Then he saw Ob, fighting alone, darting here and there, evading the claws of the beasts, and no doubt cursing all the while as several fiends stalked his heels. It pained Claradon that he could do nothing to aid his comrades. It was all he could do just to stay alive in the wild melee.

Tanch opened his eyes and, before he had time to think better of it, pulled himself to a sitting position. The battle raged on all around him. Blood dripped from his nose and his vision was blurred. The bloody corpse of a fiend lay across his legs—how it got there, he never knew. It was drenched in putrid ichor that soaked through his pants and stung his legs, burning like acid. The smell of it was so foul; it was all he could do not to retch.

Just to his left lay the body of one of Dor Eotrus's knights, his ribcage splayed open, heart torn from his chest. Tanch forced himself to look away. He dared not look at the dead man’s face. He knew these men, every one. Some more than others. Some few were close friends, or at least he considered them so, though they might not have said the same. If it were one of those—one of his friends—he knew he would break down; he would lose focus, and that would be his doom. But then he looked anyway. He couldn’t stop himself. He had to know who it was.

He cringed in horror at what he saw—the man’s nose and at least one of his eyes was gone. All the flesh was gone from his cheeks and chin. His teeth broken or missing. A red mess of bone and ruin. There was no hope to recognize him, to know who he was, but at that moment, Tanch thanked the gods for that. It was easier not knowing.

A few feet away, Ob desperately fought against two fiends; several others lay dead at his feet. Ob held a sword in one hand (long for him, but a short sword for a man of mundane stature), a glowing dagger in the other. How small he was compared to the fiends, yet it didn’t seem to matter—their lower quarters being that much easier for him to attack. He spun a wild dance of death. He whirled, weaved, and darted to and fro in a manner impossible to believe for one of his age and stature. Tanch was shocked to see that the gnome’s prowess was not exaggerated after all—as he had always presumed.

Tanch looked on as Ob thrust his sword through the breast of a fiend, but the blade held fast when he tried to pull it out. As he struggled to free it, he buried his short blade in the second fiend's breast. It screamed as the glowing dagger entered its body; its flesh smoked and sizzled as if set afire. From out of nowhere, a third fiend appeared and clamped its devilish jaws deep into Ob's forearm, and bit through chainmail, shirt, and flesh with dagger-like teeth.

Ob wailed in agony but managed to stab the thing in the throat with his dagger. The beast fell back, shrieking and spouted steaming black ichor from its neck. Ob slumped back against one of the pillars and struggled to wrap a cloth about his injured arm, to stem the flow of his lifeblood. While Tanch watched in horror, a six-legged fiend with a vaguely batrachian aspect pounced on the tiny man. Par Tanch had only a moment to act.

“By the Shards of Pythagoras,
gek paipcm ficcg
,” said Par Tanch in an accent that made his voice sound foreign, almost unrecognizable. Six fist-sized spheres of blue fire appeared in the wizard's hand, one after another, and shot at the vile demon in rapid succession—all too fast for the beast to react. The first bored into its left shoulder and exploded; the second detonated a few inches lower and blasted off the limb entirely. The third, fourth, and fifth spheres punctured the creature's side and chest; the last blew a large chunk out of its bulbous head. Its corpse collapsed at Ob's feet even as more fiends moved toward him.

Sirs Paldor, Glimador, and Indigo sprang to Ob's aid—each battered, bruised, and bleeding from their own wounds. The three stalwart soldiers interposed themselves between the devils and their wounded Castellan and held the fiends at bay.

XVII

THE HERO'S PATH

The monstrous fiend, Korrgonn, strode up the hall toward the temple's entrance. It stepped on as often as over the still unconscious knights strewn about the chamber, and tossed aside any of its minions that got in its way. A tall knight that brandished a bastard sword blocked its path. The demon threw back its head and laughed at the petty creature that opposed it. But its laugh was stifled when the cold steel of the warrior's holy blade sliced through its nigh impenetrable exoskeleton and punctured its innards—a blow that would have killed a mortal. The beast howled in shock; its golden eyes threatened to fly from their sockets; smoke and wisps of flame surged from its maw.

Sir Gabriel Garn withdrew his war blade and slashed it—once, and then again—across the demon's chest and shoulder. Each blow bit deep into the living armor and black blood surged from the jagged wounds as Korrgonn roared in anger and agony. Despite its grievous wounds, the creature raised its blade to parry Gabriel's next strike.

Gabriel swung his blade in a mighty, sweeping arc, employing a fencing maneuver used only by the Picts of the Gray Waste, but Korrgonn countered it. Gabriel tried the spinning thrust maneuver taught him by the Emerald Elves, but Korrgonn effortlessly deflected it, already seeming to regain its strength. The two squared off against each other and exchanged blow for blow. Gabriel expertly executed the infamous Dyvers thrusting maneuvers, the Dwarvish overhand strikes, the Cernian technique, the Sarnack maneuvers, and the Lengian cut and thrust style, but all were equally ineffective: Korrgonn countered them all. All the while, Gabriel dodged blow after titanic blow, and parried others with the flat of his blade. Although he countered every swing of Korrgonn's sword, the creature also made deft use of its spiked exoskeleton. With it, Korrgonn slashed Gabriel several times, shredded his thick plate armor, and sliced into his flesh. Though Gabriel had perhaps never faced an opponent with such strength and resilience, he would not allow the fiend to defeat him. He had fought too many wars and too many duels over the ages to allow even one such Korrgonn to best him.

A spray of black blood and foul smelling ichor washed over Gabriel, and a fiend's dismembered head struck his leg. A shout of “Doom” came from nearby. Lord Angle Theta was alive and had joined the fray.

Five fiends—long fanged, hairy, and apelike—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 volsungs knew of our coming,” cried another. “Spare us, lord, and we will serve you,” implored the fiend as it fell to its knees and whimpered.

Theta's sword slashed by twice—almost faster than the eye could follow—and both fiends' heads tumbled to the floor. The other three overcame whatever fear they harbored and sprang toward him.

Theta worked sword and shield to masterful perfection. He wasted no movement; every thrust and slash and shield bash was precisely timed. He dodged, and parried, and cut, and dealt out death and destruction as only he could. Moments later, he stood alone; his opponents' dismembered, twitching corpses littered the floor, and green ichor pooled about his boots.

As Theta moved to assist Gabriel, another thunderous roar emanated from the breach; this time, much louder and deeper than before. More than a score of fiends of myriad types scampered through the black hole, followed by a beast of incredible proportions. That creature 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 he turned to face that new threat. Theta charged toward the gateway and engaged the horde. He never looked back.

Claradon stood alone against a trio of multiarmed fiends of wicked fangs and barbed tails. Three others of their ilk lay in a heap about him, victims of his desperate swordplay. He bashed one attacker 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 would have only his magic to sustain him.

Through Odin’s grace, his protective magic still encircled him—that veil of diffuse light hovered about his shoulders like a broad cloak—and it moved with him. As he extended his arm to attack or parry, so went the magic, protecting the full length of his sword and the entirety of his shield. Each time a creature drew near, struck a blow that hit his sword, shield, or armor, or received the same from Claradon, the spell’s magic took effect—and its effects were devastating. The creatures’ flesh burned on contact with the mantle of light, sizzling and blackening as if it had been thrown on a fire. Even when only the creatures’ weapons touched the light, the magic somehow burned their hands—their weapons falling useless to the floor as often as not. So as they fought, the creatures let out a chorus of screams and howls, and smoke rose about them; the scent of burned flesh filled the air. But still they came on, slavering and bloodthirsty—relentless in their pursuit of Claradon's life.

Claradon managed a series of furious counterstrikes that drove the devils back long enough for him to again tap the sorcerous arts he had honed as a Caradonian Knight. His powers called down a roaring column of white flame from on-high that engulfed one of the fiends. The blast instantly incinerated it and its ashes crumbled to the stone floor from the bottom up.

The remaining fiends had had enough. They turned and fled, seeking easier prey. Though calling down such power had terribly drained him, to Sir Gabriel's side he sprang, to aid him as best he could, for he caught a glimpse of the desperate battle his hero fought.

Sir Gabriel never needed aid before—but now he did. Claradon could see that clear enough, even with only a moment's glance at their titanic struggle. Though Sir Gabriel was the greatest swordsman—no, the greatest hero in all Midgaard, he was but a mortal man, and what he fought was not. If even half the legends were true, that monster that battled him had lived for ages beyond count and wielded godlike powers. What could Claradon do against something like that? What if Gabriel fell and he had to face it alone? Dead gods, he would flee—he would have to.