Gateway to Nifleheim

by Unknown

  “Dear gods,” whispered Tanch as his face contorted in revulsion. “What could do that to a man?”

  “I don't rightly know,” whispered Ob, cringing as he surveyed the remains.

  “They’re torn to bits,” said Tanch. “Odin protect us—they look chewed: eaten. How will we ever tell who they are? Is it even them?”

  “It’s them,” said Ob. “Some of them anyway. There’s a bit of a tabard over there,” he said, pointing. “I can see our sigil on it, and over there is part of a shield. I think it has got Worten's coat-of-arms on it.”

  “What is that smeared all over the remains?” said Tanch. “Mud? The ground is dry.”

  “Droppings,” said Ob.

  “What?”

  “Their corpses have been desecrated,” said Ob, “in unspeakable ways, more than just what you've noticed. There will be hell to pay for this.”

  “Dear gods, dear gods,” said Tanch. “I can't believe this; I can't look any longer. Is Lord Aradon amongst them? By Odin, please tell me he’s not.”

  Ob held up the battered hilt of a sword that he had pulled from the debris. Only a fragment of the steel blade remained. The hilt's leather was torn and the wood slashed, but the design was unmistakable.

  “That’s his?” said Tanch. “For certain?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where are the rest of them?” said Tanch. “There aren’t enough remains here for all those men, are there?”

  “Killed elsewhere, or eaten,” said Ob.

  “Dear gods.”

  Ob walked over to the others. His jaw was set and his eyes were watery.

  “Is it them?” said Claradon. “Is he there?”

  Ob held up the sword hilt for Claradon and Gabriel to see. “We’re going to find them, what did this,” he said, “and we’re going to kill them all. We’re going to stick their stinking heads on pikes for Odin and all to see. We’re going to kill them all.”

  Claradon slipped off his horse before Gabriel could restrain him and loped towards the fallen.

  “Get back boy” shouted Ob, as he interposed himself between the young knight and the grisly remains. “You don't want to see this.” Ob grabbed Claradon’s arm to hold him back.

  “Stand aside. I have to see. I have to know. If he’s dead, I have to know.”

  “No, you don't,” said Ob. “You don't want to remember him this way.”

  Claradon shoved Ob aside, knocking him to the ground, and moved forward. “Dead gods,” he said when he drew close. That was all he could utter. His eyes welled with tears, try as he could to prevent it. His face twisted in horror and revulsion. He fell to his knees and put his hands over his eyes. Gabriel was at his side in but a moment.

  “Stay strong, Claradon,” said Gabriel. “No matter how hard it is, now is not the time for grieving. You must—”

  Gabriel's words caught in his throat when his eyes fell on the remains. His jaw dropped open; he froze, staring for several seconds before he turned away. “You must stand up,” he said to Claradon. “You must be an example for the men.” He grabbed Claradon by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

  “We can’t even bury him,” said Claradon as tears streamed down his face, which was filled at once with rage, anguish, and disbelief. “There’s nothing left. He won’t be able to rest beside mother.”

  Gabriel’s mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came.

  “We need to say a prayer over them,” said Claradon.

  “We cannot linger here,” said Gabriel. “Or we may share their fate.”

  “I’ll be quick. Gather the men.”

  In a few moments, Gabriel had the men assembled around Claradon. More than one vomited when they saw what was left of their comrades. The others stared at their feet or off into the darkness, not daring to more than glance at the bodies. They bowed their heads respectfully when Claradon spoke in shaky voice.

  “Odin—we beseech you to welcome our brave fallen into Valhalla, so that they may serve at your side in the great battle of Ragnarok whence comes the end of days. So say the knights of House Eotrus.”

  “Aye,” said the men.

  “Each of you is to look at what they did to your lord and his guard,” said Claradon. “Look close. Let this horror burn into your heart and steel you for what is to come. This will be a night of blood and vengeance. To victory and tomorrow.”

  “To victory and tomorrow,” shouted the men.

  “Mount up and let’s move,” said Claradon.

  Claradon's jaw was set; his eyes wild. He started off and then his head shook with rage. “Vengeance,” he yelled. “Retribution.”

  “Vengeance,” shouted the men, raising their weapons aloft.

  “We will find whoever did this,” said Claradon. “For them, there will be no escape.”

  Claradon picked up his shield, adjusted his helm, and wondered whether they would all end up dead or worse before the night was done. But Sir Gabriel was with him, thank the gods. He would stay at Gabriel’s side and he would make it through.

  “The boy is taking charge,” said Ob to Gabriel.

  “That he is. The hardest times have a way of bringing out the best leaders.”

  “Let’s just make sure he doesn't send us headlong into anything stupid,” said Ob.

  “I’ll stay close to him,” said Gabriel.

  Gabriel joined Claradon at the group’s vanguard. Theta, Ob, Tanch, and Dolan rode behind them, with the balance of expedition closely following. Claradon was fuming. His eyes raged with hatred and his breathing was heavy.

  As they rode along, Tanch studied an object that he held in his hand.

  “What is that you carry, wizard?” said Theta.

  “A piece of Par Talbon's staff,” said Tanch. “I couldn’t look at the bodies any longer and so I ended up walking off a ways and there it was, just lying on the ground. I practically tripped over it. There’s not much left, and what there is, is charred, but it is his staff—I would know it anywhere. He’s dead. Talbon of Montrose, dead. I can’t believe it. I have said it before, and I’ll say it again. We don’t have enough men for this. Not for whatever brought down these heroes. I want vengeance as much as any man here, but we’ll not achieve it with two squadrons of knights. All we’ll get is dead.”

  “If you think you can get the boy to turn around, then ride up and ask him,” said Ob. “I’ll bet a silver star he knocks you off your horse.”

  Tanch shook his head in frustration. “There are things out here best left hidden. I can sense it. If left alone, they may let leave us in peace, and depart as suddenly as they’ve appeared.”

  “Many fools and many cowards throughout history have uttered such words,” said Theta. “Take a lesson from them and don’t repeat their mistakes.”

  “What do you think is out there, really?” said Ob.

  “Pure evil,” said Theta.

  “If so, then maybe the wizard is right,” said Ob. “Maybe we don’t have enough men.”

  XV

  THE TEMPLE OF GUYMAOG

  “Do you see it?” said Claradon through clenched teeth. “Straight ahead, in the mist.”

  “The ruins have reappeared,” said Gabriel. “And they’re ruins no longer,” he said as they drew closer.

  The mammoth building that fronted them was located directly in the center of the fogbank, where nothing had been only minutes before. Its stone walls were blacker than the night and its upper reaches and extents were lost in the mist. They rode slowly around the building, and found no door or window or sign of life—nothing but solid walls—until they reached the northern side. There, at what was the front of the structure, two sets of tall steps, one to each side, led up to a raised landing. Atop it stood six massive stone columns shrouded in mist.

  “Do you see any movement?” said Gabriel.

  “I would be charging them down if I did,” said Claradon as he stared at the temple, breathing heavily, his face red, his jaw set.

  Gabriel looked to him, concern o
n his face. “We will have our revenge, but we need to keep our heads clear, our minds calm. Sound tactical decisions may be the difference tonight between victory and death. The men will look to you for guidance, for leadership.”

  “What are you saying?” said Claradon. “You’re in command of this mission—that is what we agreed. They’ll look to you and to Ob. Not to me. I’ve never been in command, nor do I want to be.”

  “Despite what we agreed,” said Gabriel, “you are our leader. Every man back there knows that, whether you realize it or not. You're an Eotrus, not I, not Ob. You are the acting Lord and Master of the House until we find your father—so the men will look to you. You must keep a cool head no matter what happens, no matter what we find. The men will remember the actions you take here tonight. They will remember your words and the deeds you do long after they’ve forgotten most else that goes on here. You must set the example that your father would if he were here. You must not fail in this.”

  “I’ll—I’ll do my best,” said Claradon, his voice wavering but harboring a bit less tension. “There must be a door somewhere on that landing.”

  “Aye,” said Gabriel. “And to enter it, we’ll need to walk south.”

  Claradon looked puzzled. “What does that matter?”

  “Away from the north,” said Gabriel.

  Claradon nodded. “Away from the north—farther from Asgard and Odin. Makes sense, for a Nifleite Temple.”

  “What's the game plan?” said Ob as he marched up beside them. “Creep in first and see what's what, all stealthy like, or bash their heads in with a frontal assault?”

  “It will be the hammer and the axe,” said Gabriel loudly so that the others could hear.

  Ob smiled and there were nods of approval all around.

  “The men-at-arms will stay with the horses,” said Gabriel. “Back in the wood, beyond the fog. They’ll bolt if we try to hold them here.”

  Ob turned toward the wood; there was no sign of it through the fog. “It’ll be a long run if we have to flee.”

  “I will not flee tonight,” said Gabriel. “I will see this done. The gateway will be closed. Choose a few knights that will remain on the landing to cover our rear while the rest of us go in.”

  “I’ll make it so,” said Ob.

  The men marched forward in rows of four: Gabriel, Claradon, Ob, and Theta at the van. Six wide steps of black stone, polished smooth, led up to the landing. The stone was so dark and so flat it felt as if each tread was a hole above a bottomless pit rather than a solid slab of granite.

  Just as the men mounted the steps, they shuddered as they heard a deep moaning on the wind—a sound akin to a voice—though no human throat could emit sounds of such anguish, such pain.

  “Oh, dead gods, what be that now?” said Tanch as he turned toward their left flank.

  “It came from the front,” said Claradon. “Not from over there.”

  “No, it came from behind,” said Ob.

  “I heard from our right,” said Gabriel.

  “That makes no sense,” said Ob. “More stinking sorcery to confound us.”

  “That voice was no creature of Nifleheim, nor any mortal man or beast,” said Theta.

  “Then what?” said Ob.

  “Midgaard weeps at this affront,” said Theta. “What goes on here this night, this place, is not natural. It is abhorrent to nature.”

  Blacker than anything natural, the structure around them absorbed nearly all light, even that of Gabriel's mystical daggers. That and the dense fog prevented the men from discerning the true shape and full extent of the sinister edifice even as they mounted its steps. The tops of the columns, lost in the fog, presumably supported some canopy far above.

  Climbing the steps, the feelings of lightheadedness and nausea that began when the mist appeared, returned, more powerfully this time. Claradon forced himself onward despite his swimming head and churning stomach. With each step, the air grew colder and thicker.

  When he reached the top of the landing, he turned and faced the men. Through the fog, he gazed upon a sea of shining helmets lined up four abreast, awash in Eotrus colors of silver and blue, gray and gold, and coats-of-arms of ornate and noble design. The scene was surreal, for as the fog billowed about the company and steam rose from their breath, it appeared as if they floated amongst dark clouds or bobbed on the waves of an icy black sea. The biting cold of the place assaulted Claradon, though it failed to dampen the steely resolve on his face or that of his men. Despite his confident facade, Claradon was at war inside himself—fighting to banish the fear and uncertainty that welled within him and threatened to send him fleeing for his life. He remembered Gabriel's words about leadership, gathered his courage, still emboldened by his anger, and through chattering teeth, he shouted to the troops. “Tyr’s guiding light will preserve us, and we will have our rightful vengeance.”

  “For House Eotrus,” shouted the men.

  Claradon realized his mistake after catching Theta's withering glare and hearing the growls from Ob and Gabriel behind him.

  “Let's pipe down and keep moving men,” said Ob. “There may still be some beasties way in the back what haven't heard us coming yet—maybe we should take up a tune, so we won't startle them.”

  They proceeded across the wide landing, the mist thickening and swirling about them as they made their way. Their steps loudly echoed on the night air as they passed first one and then a second great column.

  Claradon tried with little success to fan the mist from his face. “It’s like the stuff is alive, and wants to blind us, and stop us from going on.”

  “Ignore it,” said Ob. “It's just stinking fog.”

  “Draw the daggers I gave you,” said Gabriel, “and we shall see.”

  Claradon pulled Worfin Dal from its scabbard and the fog immediately fled from him. Gabriel's dagger had the same affect. The lesser blades of the other men didn’t work as well, but acting together, they quickly cleared the fog from the landing, though it gathered all the thicker just beyond. As the moments went by, the glow from the daggers began to fade (assailed no doubt on some magical plane by the strange sorcery that permeated the place), and as it did, the fog crept ever closer.

  “Stinking sorcery,” said Ob. “And what’s the point of it anyways?”

  “How’s your stomach?” said Gabriel. “Still churning or has it settled?”

  “Mine is a bit better,” said Tanch, “now that you ask.”

  Ob paused a moment and then nodded his head. “Better since we pulled the daggers and the fog fled. That’s it then, the stinking stuff was put hereabouts to weaken us. They are using the mist as a weapon, the cowards. It’s softening us up for something. But what?”

  “Something they don’t want us to face until we’re softened up,” said Gabriel. “That means they fear us, and that means they know they can be defeated.”

  “That logic has a trail that I can't argue with,” said Ob, “but it may just be wishful thinking all the same—there’s our way in,” he said, pointing at two enormous black stone doors that became visible at the rear of the landing when the fog dispersed, each one with a large circular bronze handle. Beside the doors, affixed to the wall, was a great bronze plaque inscribed with strange runes.

  “Where’s the wizard?” said Ob. “Someone wake him up and drag him over here.”

  “I’m right behind you,” said Tanch, “and have been all the while, since you didn't notice.”

  “Well, you tall folk all look alike,” said Ob.

  “Move aside so I can get a look,” said Tanch as he brushed past Ob and Gabriel and planted himself directly in front of the plaque, which was set high in the wall, its bottom no less than six feet above the landing’s pavement. “It’s an ancient form of runic script similar to that used by the Throng-Baz back in—”

  “Can you read it?” said Ob.

  “I was just trying to explain that—”

  “We’ve no time for history lessons by babbling bumpkins
,” said Ob. “Tell us what it says and be quick about it.”

  Tanch shook his head in frustration and stepped closer to get a better look at the writing.

  “Don’t touch it,” said Theta as Tanch raised his hand toward the plaque.

  Tanch froze for a moment, no doubt remembering what happened with the golden coins. He lowered his hand, inched back from the wall, and squinted from where he stood, eyeing the runes. “Temple of Guymaog is what it says, whatever that means.”

  “Who or what is Guymaog?” said Claradon. “Does anyone know?”

  “I bet Dolan will tell us he’s some pagan god from the old world what Theta killed off once upon a time,” said Ob, chuckling, as he turned to look at Dolan.

  “It is an ancient evil from the Dawn Age,” said Theta.

  “Of course it is,” said Ob sardonically. “What else could it be?”

  “Is it some obscure Lord of Nifleheim?” said Claradon.

  “No,” said Theta.

  Claradon didn’t dare inquire further.

  “No matter,” said Gabriel. “Whatever it is, if it’s in there, we’ll deal with it.”

  “But how do we get in?” said Ob. “I doubt they left the doors unlocked.”

  Theta stepped forward, gripped the bronze handles, and pulled. Though there was no visible lock or bar, the doors didn't budge.

  “We’ll need a battering ram to get through those,” said Ob. “They’re probably a foot thick, maybe more.”

  Theta braced himself and prepared to pull again. Gabriel and Claradon moved to assist him.

  “No,” said Theta, waving them off. “Best stay back; all of you stand clear.” He stared them down until everyone moved well away. Ob paid him no heed; he stood his ground.

  Theta pulled on the handles again; this time, straining with the effort: veins on his forehead and neck sticking out.

  “Give it up, Mister Fancy Pants,” said Ob. “Muscle won’t get us through them doors. It’ll take brains to—”

  As Theta continued to pull, thundering crunching and cracking sounds erupted from the doors and the entire landing vibrated and threatened to collapse around them. When stone shards fell from above, the men scattered. Ob tripped, went down on his face, and was stepped on. Some of the men jumped from the landing for fear that the canopy above might come down on them.