Gateway to Nifleheim (25 page)

“The place is collapsing,” said Dolan.

“Get the wounded out of here,” shouted Theta.

“Get them out,” echoed Dolan.

They did so, but in no good order. A stumbling, bloody panic would better describe it. The men's former poise, gone. They fled as the otherworldly structure collapsed around them. Two minutes after the ground began to shake, the Temple of Guymaog was no more—only a high mound of stony rubble and a cloud of dust remained. Those men that made it out lay strewn about the circle of desolation. Some staggered around, dazed; others collapsed from blood loss or other injury. Strangely, the sun was beginning to rise. It was dawn. Somehow, the bizarre atmosphere within the temple's depths had distorted the flow of time itself, and turned what seemed like no more than minutes into more than six hours.

As soon as the dust from the temple’s collapse began to disperse, all the men that were able, poured over the ruins, searching for survivors trapped in the rubble: none were found.

Young Sir Paldor was sent ahead to Dor Eotrus to summon aid, pausing for only a few minutes to examine and bandage his chest wound, which mercifully was not deep, thanks to his stout armor. Tanch and Claradon set about to aid the wounded in the party. Theta and Dolan searched for sign of the skull-faced fiend that had fled the temple. They found no trail, no spoor of the beast. It had vanished, but they found the corpses of nine men near the edge of the circle. Apparently, several knights had fled the temple and they and the soldiers that were guarding the horses were killed by the skull-faced fiend or some other horror that had also escaped. Two of the bodies lay just beyond the circle’s rim. Strangely, they were cold and rigid, as if they had laid there for hours. The other bodies were within the circle and appeared as if they had been killed only minutes before. Even though those knights had fled the temple, they had stood their ground against the fiends outside and fought to the end. They could have run. Some would surely have escaped. But they didn’t run. They were northmen, Eotrus men, and when an enemy stood before them they would not yield, even unto death. Heroes, even them.

After a short while, the survivors gathered about and Sir Glimador reported the casualty list. Some three dozen knights were confirmed dead and another two dozen were missing and presumed buried in the collapsed temple.

The only men of Dor Eotrus that still lived were Ob, Glimador, Artol, Indigo, Paldor, Par Tanch, and Claradon.

To everyone's astonishment, Sir Gabriel was amongst the missing. Nearly all the survivors were wounded to varying degrees, although most not seriously.

Theta was a bloody mess, covered in gore and ichor from head to toe, though little, if any, of the blood seemed to be his.

Once the men had caught their breaths, and seen to the worst of their wounds, Claradon recounted the battle between Korrgonn and Sir Gabriel—even Theta listened intently and asked more questions than anyone else. All were shocked by Gabriel's gruesome fate.

“The skalds will tell of that battle for ages to come,” said Artol as tears streamed down his face.

“For ages, they will,” said Dolan.

“Perhaps Sir Gabriel still lives,” Claradon said as he rechecked Ob's wounded arm, though he only half believed there was any hope. “Perhaps we can free him of the influence of the monster.”

“Aradon is gone,” said Ob weakly, his eyes only half open. “I just can't believe it. Donnelin, Talbon, Stern, and now Gabriel. Gabriel for Odin’s sake. How could this happen? Nobody could beat Gabriel. Nobody. Dead gods, let me wake from this nightmare.” His hand reached for his wineskin, but it was lost.

“A nightmare,” said Dolan.

“It's the end of the world,” said Tanch. “I told you it was coming; no one wanted to listen, but I foretold it. These are the end times.”

“The end times,” said Dolan.

“Perhaps, no longer,” said Claradon. “We may have just staved off the end of the world.”

“The cultists will try again,” said Theta. “To open another gateway. This is not over yet.”

Overcome by all that had happened, Claradon dropped to both knees and wept. His father and his mentor both dead at the hands of creatures of Nifleheim, and so many other friends and comrades as well. It was all too much; his head swam. He gripped Ob's shoulder, closed his eyes, and recited a prayer to Odin.

“Steady boy,” said Ob, his voice unsteady. He pulled Claradon close. “You're the patriarch of House Eotrus now. That makes you the lord of the land and vassal to ole King Tenzivel. Show no weakness to the troops.” Due to his wounds, Ob didn't realize that nearly all the troops were dead.

“Perhaps, we can cast out the monster from Sir Gabriel,” said Tanch. “Perhaps he can be as he was. There may still be time. We must find him.”

“I'm doubting it, pal,” said Ob. “Gabe's the toughest warrior this side of Odin. Ain't nothing, not even some stinking Lord of Nifleheim as can take him over if he's alive. He's dead and it took his corpse, I say. And that's the end of him. It stinks, but that's the way it is.”

“It’s the end of him, it is,” said Dolan.

“Oh my, don't say such things. I can’t accept that. We have to try the save him.”

“The gnome speaks the truth,” said Theta. “Gabriel is lost to us and to Midgaard—and the world will suffer for that loss. There is nothing we can do for him, save to avenge him and vanquish the creature that defiles his body.”

Theta pulled a metallic flask from his belt, uncorked the top and carefully poured a single drop into a small cup. He filled the cup with water and put it to Ob's lips. “You fought bravely, gnome,” said Theta. “Drink this; it will strengthen you.”

“Is it wine or mead?” said Ob.

“Neither,” said Theta.

“Then I don’t want it.”

“Drink it. It will help.”

“It will help?” said Ob. Tanch moved close to them to get a good view.

“It will,” said Theta. “Drink it.”

His mouth tightly shut, Ob stared into the cup for some moments, considering before he drank it. As he swallowed, his face scrunched up in disgust. “That’s a foul brew, Theta,” he said. “Not even fit for a stinking goblin.”

“The dregs from some witch’s cauldron, by the look of it,” said Tanch.

“Dregs,” said Dolan, mimicking Ob’s expression.

Almost at once, the flow of blood from Ob's wound stopped and color returned to his face.

“Yet it has a potency, I see,” said Tanch. “A wondrous thing, that. What is it?”

“Wondrous, it is,” said Dolan.

“A healing draught,” said Theta.

“Yes, but of what is it made?” said Tanch.

Theta offered no answer.

“It’s a draught, it is,” said Dolan, as if that was all the answer needed.

“You are full of surprises, sir,” said Tanch.

“Many folks are more than they seem,” said Theta as he looked pointedly at Tanch.

“No doubt, no doubt,” said the wizard.

“The fallen,” said Ob, as he clutched Claradon’s arm.

Claradon looked around at the bodies of his men. “We’ve got to take them home.”

Artol stepped forward. “We should burn them,” he said.

“What?” said Claradon. “They’re our men—our friends. We don’t burn our dead. What are you saying?”

“They’re tainted,” said Artol. “Killed by a demon, come back as one. We’ve all heard that saying. We’ve got to burn them.

“I agree,” said Glimador. “Best not to take any chances.”

Claradon looked at the bodies, indecision on his face. He looked to Ob for support, but the gnome was barely conscious—Theta’s potion had eased him into a sleep. “These are our men,” said Claradon. “We’re going to bring them home to their families for a proper burial. I’ll not dishonor their memories for fear of superstitious bunk. Wrap them in their blankets, and put them on their horses.”

“Aye, my lord,” said the men. Carrying out that order though was no easy task, considering the number of casualties, the fatigue and injuries of the few survivors, and that the horses were scattered about the wood. In the end, they were unable to collect the remains of Lord Eotrus’s patrol, for their bodies were dismembered and scattered, and the horror of that scene was too much for the men to bear after what they had been through. Of Lord Eotrus, all else that was found was his shield, bent nearly in half, and his helm, which was bloodied and crushed. These bits they reverently placed on the back of Sir Gabriel’s horse. Patrols would return to recover the bodies of those missing in the rubble.

They were an eerie sight as they rode slowly through the wood, gloomy and foreboding even in the light of day. A mist hung about them, but this time, it was a normal mist that came with the sun. Where but hours before they were a vibrant troop of knights more than 70 strong, polished and ready, full of life and fight, now they were a troop of the dead. Nine weary men, bloodied, beaten, and bruised rode amongst scores of riderless horses that bore dozens of the dead.

On the way, Par Tanch approached Claradon. He spoke in a stronger, deeper, and steadier voice than was his custom. “Claradon,” he said, taking care that no one else overheard. “Though I know this timing is poor, I must advise you that the Order of the Arcane, the High Council, and likely the Crown, for reasons of their own, will never allow the events of last night to be commonly known. They will cover them up. Some story will be fabricated to account for the battle, the howling in the woods, the fog. They will force you and your officers to swear to never reveal the truth.”

Claradon's eyes narrowed as he was taken aback by Tanch’s words. “And what if I don't go along with such lies? What if I insist that everyone know the truth of how father and Sir Gabriel died?”

“Then, they will deny the truth and call you a liar in public and even in private. When they’re done, they will destroy you. You will lose the Dor and your good name, perhaps even your very life.”

Claradon’s eyes were wide with shock or disbelief. “Would they really go so far? Could they?”

“They would, they could, and they have done such things before. I have seen it.”

“King Tenzivel has always been a friend to us. He would never allow this.”

“The king is old, Claradon. Dark voices whisper in his ear these days. Things are changing in Lomion, my friend, and not for the better—we can't count on the king's support, though even if we had it, it may do us little good. The real power these days lies with the High Council, and in particular, with the Chancellor.”

“Barusa of Alder?” said Claradon.

“Aye. As you well know, he’s no friend to the Eotrus and never has been. Let us be the ones to create the tale that the Council hears. That way, we can be assured that Lord Eotrus, Sir Gabriel, and the others are honored as the heroes that they are.”

“I don’t like the sound of what you suggest, but I’ll hear you out.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but it must be done. We can say that a pack of trolls came down from the mountains and caused all the trouble. There was a time when trolls rampaged through these lands, and caused much havoc and death. Though rarely seen these days, they are still widely feared and considered extremely deadly. Any knight that fell in battle to a pack of such beasts whilst protecting his lands would be rightly named a hero.”

“And how would we explain the wailing in the night?”

“We will say it was the trolls. Few alive in these parts have ever heard the call of a troll. If we say that that is what they heard, most would believe us.”

“And the fog, and the explosions the night father was lost?”

“A freakish storm, nothing more. Claradon, I know this is difficult, but we must do this. We must protect the Eotrus name or your enemies will use this opportunity to destroy your House.”

“I didn’t know we had those kinds of enemies. The Alders never liked us—that feud goes back so long I don’t think anyone even remembers how it started. And we’ve never got on well with the Dantrels or the Tarns, but I never thought of any of them as enemies—not the kind that would want us dead. I just thought of them as rivals, nothing more.”

“I don’t want to sound harsh, especially considering what has just happened, but you have been naive. The Eotrus have true enemies—every noble House does. The vultures will begin to circle all too soon and we have to be ready for them. Our wisest course of action is to not show weakness and to give our enemies no excuse to speak out or move against us.”

“So we must speak of trolls.”

“Aye, my friend. We have little choice in this. Besides, we will always know the truth. The people will know that our comrades died as heroes defending Eotrus lands. What does it matter that people think they fell to trolls rather than demons of Nifleheim? A hero is a hero.”

Claradon paused for some moments gathering his thoughts. “For the sake of my brothers, I will go along with this. But know well, if it were only my position and my life at stake, I would tell the Order and the Council to go to hell, and the Crown too, if need be.”

“I don't doubt it, Master Claradon.”

“What of Paldor? He is likely telling the tale even now. The whole Dor will hear of it by the time we get back.”

“His head was hard hit in the battle. He became delusional and wandered off. He didn't know what he was saying.”

“You think of everything, don't you?”

“It's a wizard’s job, sir. I try to make myself useful. We will not be able to keep the truth from the senior knights at the Dor. You will have to swear them to secrecy and all of us here as well, of course.”

“It will be done. As for useful—you’re a lot more than just useful. I saw what you did in there. I saw the hammer you conjured and used against that thing when we needed you. You came through—and with powers that I never dreamed you had. Thank you. I mean that.”

Tanch's eyes grew watery. He nodded, though no words escaped his mouth. He had finally made himself useful.

Claradon awoke in his bed to Ob shaking him. “Get off your duff you lazy bugger. The men are gathering in the Odinhome already. We need to get you down there right quick. Mister Know-it-All, fancy pants, is giving a speech. The boys need to know you're the boss now, not that foreigner, nor anybody else.”