by Unknown
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.
Claradon pushed his fears aside. Death didn’t matter; he had his duty to do and he would do it. He would never abandon a friend. He would never dishonor the Eotrus name. He would help Gabriel as best he could, even if it cost him his life.
Before he reached Gabriel, more fiends appeared between them, six or eight at least: horned and scaled and reptilian of face, hairy and brutish of body. Each one taller than Claradon and broader too.
They charged. With no time to lose, he spoke more words of the Militus Mysterious, that olden language of warrior magic, passed down to man by the Aesir in time immemorial. Owing to those few words, high in the air above them, a tiny vortex materialized and a grand column of coruscating blue and yellow flame came with it. It shot down and enveloped the cadre of fiends: it burnt them all to cinders in but the blink of an eye. Claradon was shocked when he saw them crumble to ash, for he had no idea such power dwelled within him, never having used that spell in battle before. He was surprised he even remembered the words, for the spell was most effective against creatures of Nifleheim—and before that day, he wasn’t certain that such things even existed.
No sooner was the magic spent, then Claradon collapsed to the ground, all his muscles aquiver and unresponsive to his call. He could have lain there for hours, and would have, but for his duty and the heat of battle. He gritted his teeth and steeled his jaw against the burning in his hands that now extended up to his elbows. He used every ounce of his strength to regain control of his muscles and pull himself to his feet. He was not done yet, but he knew he had not the strength to throw that spell again, not even to save his own life.
As Korrgonn and Sir Gabriel dueled before him, Claradon summoned all remaining mystical strength from deep within his very core and empowered one last sorcery. He unleashed his oldest and most forbidden words of arcane power—words he never dared utter before. With a grunt, he discharged a screeching blast of fiery death from the tip of his blade—a crackling azure bolt with the numinous energy to vaporize any mortal man or beast. It struck Korrgonn unawares, and enveloped its entire form in ravenous flame.
Claradon harbored no illusion that his magics were powerful enough to kill a Lord of Nifleheim, but he was certain that it would sap the fiend’s strength and cause it to fall. That would provide Gabriel the opportunity he needed to finish it. But after only a moment, the spell's power waned, its flames sputtered, then vanished—consumed by the demon's stony soul. Claradon couldn’t believe it, but the creature barely noticed the attack, and it fought on: unharmed.
Claradon’s muscles burned from the tips of his fingers all the way up to his shoulders, but for some reason, perhaps the adrenaline rushing through his system, or some boon of the gods, his final sorcery did not further drain his physical strength. His magic, however, was entirely spent, though that mattered little since he commanded no words that could fell that abomination; that much was clear. But he had other tools.
His Dyvers blade was in his hand and he was swinging it at the creature. He didn’t know how he got there, but there he was, in the thick of the melee with Korrgonn and Gabriel. He swung his sword with all his strength, again and again, but its finely wrought steel merely bounced off Korrgonn's exoskeleton and sent sparks flying. The creature ignored his ineffectual attacks, putting up no defense to them at all, and continued to parry Gabriel's deadly blows.
Undeterred, Claradon pounded on Korrgonn over and again with his heavy blade. Sweat poured down his face and he breathed so hard he thought he would drop. His nose and throat burned from the brimstone that wafted from the gateway and the heady musk of the creature—akin to the stink of the great jungle beasts. His sword arm was at once numb and yet on fire; his legs, rubbery and unsteady; his head, clouded. He felt as if he moved within a dream.
At last, after one tremendous blow, Claradon's sword—t
he blade his father gifted him when he came of age—fractured against Korrgonn's armor. He looked down at the shards in disbelief as they tumbled to the ground, seeming to move in slow motion.
They took his father and now they took the sword his father gave him. He couldn’t even have that? Not even that? The anger welled anew within him, and it was all that kept him going. He drew forth Worfin Dal, lunged in, and thrust the dagger’s point at the fiend's back. To his surprise, the blade sliced through—barely meeting any resistance—and punctured its exoskeleton near where a man's kidney would be. As the blade sunk in, for Claradon, things again moved in slow motion. Claradon knew at once that it was the alien metal and mysterious properties of the dagger that made the difference. He was back in the fight.
Korrgonn reeled, howled in pain and rage, spun around, and slammed the back of its spiked fist and forearm down on Claradon's helm. That blow crushed him to the floor. He lay there bloodied and stunned.
As Korrgonn loomed above him, Gabriel’s blade pierced its back and the sword’s tip erupted out its belly. A spray of putrid, black ichor lashed Claradon’s tabard. Claradon heard a sizzling sound, felt his chest suddenly grow hot, and looked down through blurred eyes to see his tabard afire. The fabric of his shirt was already gone, and the creature's blood boiled atop his breastplate, as if it were some powerful acid.
He rolled to his side—Korrgonn and Gabriel battling above him—in hopes the vile stuff would spill off to the ground. Most of it did, but what remained continued to eat through the breastplate. He had no time to doff his gauntlets and undo the armor’s straps, so instead, he scrambled to cut them with Worfin Dal before the vile stuff burned through to his flesh. As he sliced the straps, the fumes from the dissolving metal oppressed his lungs and assaulted his eyes; stinging and tearing, he had to turn away and work by feel. He got the breastplate off just in time, and thanked the gods he had worn so much extra padding below it, or else his flesh would have been sorely burned from the heat alone.
Still dazed, barely able to see, and coughing from the fumes, he looked up to witness Korrgonn roar and land a terrible forearm blow to the side of Gabriel’s head. Somehow Gabriel kept his feet, still held his blade, and came in again. Korrgonn maneuvered to the side and caught Gabriel’s next thrust with its sword’s crossguard. It kicked Gabriel in the gut, which sent him reeling backward and caused him to trip over and fall beyond Claradon. The beast stepped forward, loomed large over Claradon once again, and raised its red blade high to finish him.
“No,” cried Gabriel, as he bounded up and forward over Claradon's prone form with blinding speed and executed the reckless Valusian thrust maneuver. Gabriel's war blade arced upward as he lunged. The ensorcelled blade pierced Korrgonn's black heart and black ichor spurted everywhere. With all the knight's strength behind the blow, the wide blade sank halfway to the hilt. Completing the vicious maneuver, Gabriel pulled the sword back, nearly out the wound, before he plunged it back in and sharply turned the blade as it entered. This merciless attack was designed to eviscerate an opponent and instantly sap his strength, but it left much of the attacker's head and torso exposed. The Nifleheim blade dropped from the beast's grasp and its massive body sank to its knees. It roared in anguish as its lifeblood—putrid and black with the look and consistency of tar—showered the floor.
“I will have your soul yet,” spat Korrgonn as it threw an uppercut toward the knight's chest. Gabriel, in the midst of wrenching his sword free, moved to catch the blow in his gauntleted hand. But from Korrgonn's gnarled fist sprang a twelve-inch long, barbed spike that glistened with black blood, though the spike itself was gray. The spike was limp and slithered and wiggled as it emerged from Korrgonn's fist, but then snapped taut as it struck.
Powered by Korrgonn's punch, the spike pierced Gabriel’s steel gauntlet and sliced clear through his hand. It slammed his hand back against his chest and continued to punch on through Gabriel’s steel breastplate and into his sternum—deep into his chest, through flesh and bone. So powerful was the blow, it lifted him into the air and held him aloft for several seconds. Gabriel stiffened and tried to pull away, but Korrgonn twisted the blade and jabbed it in ever deeper.
“You’re finished,” it spat as ichor dribbled down its chin.
The blow shocked Gabriel, but at first he felt little pain. He dropped his sword, for he was too close to use it, pulled his Asgardian dagger from his belt, and slashed it across Korrgonn's throat—once, twice, and a third time, slicing it from ear to ear. Blood and bile surged from both opponents' mouths. Still the beast held him fast.
Then the excruciating, indescribable pain washed over Gabriel and blasted him to his knees; Claradon's legs pinned beneath him.
From where he laid dazed, Claradon attempted to let fly another magical blast—to come to his hero's aid—but his strength was spent. He couldn't even pull himself out from under Gabriel. He could do no more than watch in dazed horror as the ghastly scene unfolded before him. For him, the battle was over.
Strangely, Korrgonn's arm began to glow a fiery red, first at the shoulder, but soon the glow extended down toward his fist. Gabriel continued to struggle to pull away, but the wicked spike would not release him. He felt it boring deep within his chest. It was moving, growing larger and penetrating deeper, twisting, probing. Probing for something. His heart? Dead gods, how had it come to this? He knew not how to get away.
The hellish glow that permeated Korrgonn's body reached Gabriel, and caused his chest to begin to glow as well. He coughed up blood and tried in vain again to get free.
“No,” he gasped as he realized the fiend's plan. “No,” he said, again and again. It was consuming his very body, devouring his immortal soul, assailing his mind, taking over his very being. He looked down and saw the blood that poured from his chest. He couldn’t believe that it was happening, that it was real: that he was defeated.
Fleeting, ephemeral memories passed instantly before Gabriel's eyes and assailed his senses. A momentary image of smiting the fire wyrm of the Kronar Mountains; a mere wisp of the fetid stench of the barrow-wight who had killed those poor children. His duel with Valas Tearn, the assassin who had slain a thousand men; his conquest of the city of Saridden and of freeing its slaves; the great battle of Minoc-by-the-Sea; his victories over the demon-queen Krisona, and the blood-lord Jaros—and that unbelievable folly with the crazed master of the Dead Fens. A glimpse of that far-off, fateful day at R'lyeh when he and Theta banished the last of the great fiends whence they came, back unto the void, and extracted a small measure of vengeance for the abominable plague that the beasts had unleashed upon mankind. That victory had freed all Midgaard from the yoke of Nifleheim and bore witness to the dawning of a new age of freedom and hope. Gabriel would survive this battle, just as he had that day at R'lyeh. There could be no other outcome.
In desperation, he plunged Dargus Dal into Korrgonn's right eye and sunk it to the hilt. Still the spike held him fast.
His vision began to cloud; the sounds around him dimmed. He thought of the thousands of lives he had saved down through the years, of all those he had protected, of the uncountable mighty deeds he had done.
He withdrew his dagger and plunged it into the beast's left eye. “Around me are my kinsmen, always,” he said, and then pounded down on the hilt again, and again, and again as faces from long ago flooded his mind's eye: Mikel, Arioch, Azrael, Thetan, Mithron, and more.
He could see little by then, and the sounds of the battle drifted away. He heard his heart beating and the rushing of blood at his temples, but nothing else. He wondered if it could be the end. Everything moved in slow motion, the merest moments extended to long minutes. He thought of all the things important to him, all the places and the people he had known, all the lands he had visited, all that he would never do again.
“To the south, my father, my father's father, and all my line before them, back unto the beginning,” he said, though only Claradon was close enough to hear him.
Th
e otherworldly glow covered nearly all his body, but Gabriel fought on and pounded down on the dagger's hilt again, and again, and again, and again.
“To the north, is Odin . . .”
Visions of fire, floods, and terror flashed before his eyes; visions of Azrael dying in his arms and a guilt beyond all guilt weighing on him like nothing else.
He pounded down on the hilt again, and again, and again, and again, and again.
The world went dark. The pain was less. He saw no more.
“The hero's path,” he said, his commanding voice now barely a whisper.
Gabriel convulsed as the evil glow consumed him. He was alone. He would die alone.
Korrgonn's body stopped glowing and went limp.
Gabriel thought of the woman he had loved and lost and forever longed for. If only he had another chance, if only he could do things over, if only he could be with her again . . .
His eyes closed and his head rolled to the side.
“The homeward road . . .”
He thought of his mother's face and her undying and unconditional love. If he could only see her one more time. If only he had more time . . .