“So shall it be,” said Ginalli, upraising his hands.
“So shall it be,” chanted the faithful.
“It is not our blood, it is the blood of the unrepentant infidels that Azathoth commands be spilled.”
From offstage, six of the faithful carried a large, richly dressed man who was bound and gagged.
“This man is a hoarder of wealth,” said Ginalli. “He would not give the scraps from his table to a starving beggar child. He forbade one of our finest brethren to marry his fair daughter. He refused to pay the faithful's collectors the just tithe asked of him so that his ill-gotten wealth could be equitably divided amongst the worthy. Worst of all, he struck one of our brothers when he called on him to collect what is rightfully ours by Azathoth's laws. In this life, his soul is beyond saving; his evil runs deep. We must send him to the Lord for cleansing. It is the merciful thing to do.”
“Send him to Azathoth,” yelled several in the crowd.
Others took up the cheer. “Send him to Azathoth! Send him to the Lord!”
“The Lord will cleanse him and his black soul,” said Ginalli. “Azathoth will wash the evil from his stony heart and scour the blight from his black soul. And through Azathoth's grace, he will be reborn anew, pure, and unblemished. The Lord's infinite mercy will provide him another opportunity for a pious and faithful life.”
The guards tore the merchant's clothes, exposing his bare flesh.
Mortach rose and strode up to the altar, the merchant tied down and helpless before it. The Nifleheim Lord's massive form, its head naught but whited bones and glowing golden eyes, loomed over the merchant. Mortach pulled a long curved dagger from its belt.
“The dagger of salvation,” called out Ginalli.
“The dagger of salvation,” boomed the cultists in retort.
Mortach held the dagger high in both hands, and moved it slowly from side to side, displaying it to the faithful. Mortach mouthed words that none could hear save perhaps the doomed merchant, though few failed to see the long forked tongue alight with hellfire that wagged in its mouth as it spoke. A drop of spittle fell from Mortach's maw and landed on the merchant's shoulder, sending him into convulsions when it seared his mortal flesh.
Mortach grasped the blade in his right hand and placed the tip against the merchant's throat. The merchant squirmed, desperately trying to free himself, but his bonds held fast, his face a mask of fear and horror. Through his gag issued the stifled moans and gasps of a man begging for mercy, pleading for his life; his entreats, unheard and unacknowledged.
Mortach plunged the blade into the base of the merchant's throat and drew it, slowly and deliberately, from neck to groin; a vicious wound more than an inch deep. The man struggled and tried to scream, but his gag stifled his cries.
“See how he suffers,” shouted Ginalli. “Even now he fights the will of our lord and master. Even now he rejects god.”
Blood streamed over the altar and drained into the gutter system along its edges, funneling down into a large goblet. Mortach sliced the man's wrists, increasing the flow of his lifeblood.
Ginalli spoke again when the goblet was full. “Is there any forgiveness, any mercy, for so vile a creature as this who does not repent even at the end?” said Ginalli.
“Mercy,” shouted much of the crowd.
“Yes, my brothers and sisters,” said Ginalli. “Mercy we shall show him, despite his despicable ways.”
Mortach plunged its knife into the center of the merchant's chest, piercing his heart and ending his misery.
“Mortach the Merciful,” shouted Ginalli.
“Mortach the Merciful,” shouted the cultists.
Three guards cut the merchant's bonds and carried his corpse away while others dragged a second man to the altar and bound him upon it. Several other citizens stood bound and well guarded in the wings, awaiting their turn upon the altar.
“We can't just sit here and watch this,” whispered Claradon, squatting so he could speak in Ob's ear.
“Quiet, lad,” said Ob. “There is nothing we can do but watch, or else die with them. Far too many of these lunatics.”
“We should try. If we work our way to the front, we may be able to save one or two of them.”
“Don't be an idiot, boy. Even Mr. Fancy Pants couldn't fight his way clear of this place. There are thousands of them, for Odin's sake—we've no chance, no chance at all. Just put your teeth together and watch.”
“I can't look,” said Claradon from beneath his cowl.
Ob grabbed Claradon's forearm and squeezed it so tightly that Claradon thought his arm would break. “Keep your eyes open, boy,” growled Ob. “Never forget one moment of this, and bring it to mind any time you think to give up this fight or come to peace with these scum.”
Claradon heeded Ob's direction. He watched it all. The spectacles at the altar went on for some time. Bound and gagged citizens were dragged out and tied to the altar, one after another. Various and sundry charges were leveled against them, though no evidence or defenses were ever presented. The results were always the same; each of the accused was cut, bled, and ultimately murdered by Mortach. Their spilled blood filled goblet after goblet.
Mortach took a sip of the blood that filled each goblet, and then passed them in turn to Korrgonn who similarly imbibed. The sacrifices completed, one final goblet was brought forth and placed on the altar.
Korrgonn stepped up to the altar holding a blade in his right hand. He held up his left hand, fingers spread for all to see, and placed the dagger against one of them. And then he cut it, and the cultists gasped in horror, their reactions, far more profound and emotional than any they offered the sacrificed citizens. Three strokes and the finger was severed. Korrgonn dumped it into the goblet. He let the blood drain freely from the stump, filling the goblet to the brim.
“Through Lord Korrgonn's divine body and holy blood, the very life essence provided him by his father, Lord Azathoth, shall we be blessed,” said Ginalli.
The cup of Korrgonn's flesh and blood was passed to Ginalli and to each of the menacing figures seated on the stage, the Arkons of The Shadow League, their faces hidden behind dark red cowls. Those who were partly visible wore features frightening to behold: lugron and demon blood surely polluted their veins.
A drop of Korrgonn's blood was poured into each sacrificial goblet, which was then topped off with water. The unholy brew was stirred with snake-headed daggers and then passed out to the faithful—each cultist obliged to drink. Some in the crowd fought for the goblets, and gulped down their gory contents, greedy and frenzied. Others seemed reluctant, but drank nonetheless. A chalice reached Ob, who raised it to his lips and pretended to drink, and then passed it to Theta. Theta grasped the goblet strangely betwixt both gloved palms, and then passed it to Claradon, making no pretense at drinking it.
“Your gloves,” whispered Theta. Claradon saw that Theta touched the cup only with his fencing gloves, which covered his palms and the backs of his hands, the same as Claradon's. Claradon did the same, keeping the exposed flesh of his fingers clear. He pretended to drink, but he did not let the liquid or the cup touch his lips, and then passed it to Fizdar. As the cup changed hands, the tip of Claradon's pinky touched the befouled metal. A wave of searing pain crashed through Claradon, threatening to send him to his knees. Theta grabbed him under the arm and steadied him. Those around paid little heed, as many swooned and more than a few vomited after imbibing the foul draught. No one save Claradon was burned. He bore a blackened fingertip for the rest of his days.
X
HE WHO CANNOT BE NAMED
Ginalli resumed his place at the lectern. “With the aid of the heavenly servants of our divine lord, nothing can stop us. Nothing can prevent us from cleansing Midgaard of its evil.”
“There is one who is a threat,” said Korrgonn in his booming, raspy voice. “Tell them priest; speak the story of the traitor.”
Ginalli looked startled, but quickly regained his bearing. “Yes, m
y lord,” he said. “In the before time, when the world was young, the Arkons served Azathoth in the blessed land of Vaeden. The holy Arkons served the Lord in all his good and just works and shepherded the race of man from primitive barbarism toward civilization. You all know the story of he who was the most beloved of all Azathoth's servants—he whose name has been struck from our memories and our sacred scrolls. That one betrayed our lord and master. Azathoth merely commanded him to punish some vile evildoers—to hold them justly accountable for their wickedness, for their crimes; but he refused—he refused to obey the lord. Instead, he sided with the dark powers, with all that is vile and evil, and soon became the antithesis of all that is good. And his corruption spread.”
“He gathered unto him all the depraved, the shunned, the pariahs, and launched an unholy rebellion against our dear lord. For this, he and his minions were cast out of Vaeden and thrown down to Midgaard in disgrace. His rebellion was crushed, but his exile brought him not to repentance and only served to expand the depths of his evil.
“He sought out the gates of Abaddon, and using unholy, forbidden magics opened them, setting loose demon spawn and all manner of vile creatures on our dear Midgaard. Untold thousands died at the hands of those wretched monsters, and at those of the traitor and his dark minions. Our lord wept for a hundred years over the evil done to his children. So hurt was he by these happenings, he withdrew from our sphere, withdrew from our lives.
“It is said that the Lord resides now at the very core of the universe; waiting for the glories of his creation to be restored and for all life to worship him again with all their very being. Before he left us, he rewarded his faithful Arkons, those beloved of him that fought against the traitor. They ascended to the paradise of Nifleheim where their powers were enhanced in wondrous ways beyond measure—the better to serve our lord. And through their power and our faith, these Arkons can on occasion travel back to our world to aid us in the struggle against evil.
“This story has been told in various forms for ages beyond record. Legend holds that the traitor walks Midgaard still. We call him the Bogeyman, the Prince of Lies, the Traitor, the Harbinger of Doom, and myriad other blasphemous names. What you didn't know, my dear brothers and sisters, is that the Harbinger of Doom is no mere fable, no will-o'-the-wisp. He is a real being—the embodiment, the very personification of evil. And he is near. He is amongst us. He is in Lomion.”
A gasp and shudder permeated the audience.
As Ginalli scanned the crowd, Claradon looked over at Theta who stood tensed; he adjusted his hood, his left hand on his sword hilt.
“Who is he?” shouted one cultist. “Where is he?”
“What name does he go by?” yelled another.
“He must be destroyed,” shouted another.
“Where is he?” shouted the audience. “Where is the traitor? We must bring him down. He must pay!”
Korrgonn stepped to the front of the stage, raised his arm, and pointed directly at Theta.
“He is there,” boomed Korrgonn.
“Oh, shit!” said Ob.
“Oh, shit!” said Tanch.
“Oh, shit!” said Claradon.
“Who's he pointing at?” said Dolan.
The crowd gasped, and yelled, and parted about Theta.
“Run,” said Theta as he grabbed Fizdar about the shoulder; a confused look filled the seaman's face. “Kill the traitor,” boomed Theta. Then he flung Fizdar toward the crowd—Fizdar's face in a panic.
“Not me,” yelled Fizdar. “It's not me!” he said, but few could hear him and no one cared.
Dozens dived in, fighting to tear Fizdar to pieces.
Korrgonn turned toward Mortach. “Go after him. Kill him.”
Mortach leaped from the stage and thundered after Theta, tossing aside any that blocked its path.
The crowd panicked, screaming and shouting; people fled in all directions, running for the exits. The guards blocked the doors, but the crowd barreled through them. Theta and Ob rushed from the auditorium and through the cloakroom; around them, the crowd spilled over the trunks, crates, and coats. More than several cultists went down and were trampled. Theta barreled through anyone in his way and bounded up the stair to the entry hall above, Ob close on his heels.
Mortach tore through the crowd, knocking his own followers aside like chaff. “I see you traitor,” he bellowed.
As Theta and Ob reached the foyer, a shriek of cracking wood sang out. The panicked cultists ahead screamed when the rotted floor beneath their pounding feet dropped away and sent them toppling into darkness. With too much momentum and untold cultists on his heels, Theta couldn't stop, but managed to veer to the side, and skirted the edge of the jagged opening, Ob following. Like lemmings, the cultists behind poured over the edge, and screamed and flailed away as they fell. Those who tried desperately to halt were shoved over the edge by the panicked crowd behind.
Theta and Ob dashed down a side corridor, which promptly collapsed behind them, swallowing those few cultists who had been able to follow in their path. Groaning beams ever threatening to give way beneath their feet, Theta and Ob made their way quickly but warily through a maze of darkened, cobwebbed corridors filled of rodents, refuse, and rotted wood. After a time they came upon a dead end, blocked by a thick steel door.
“A draft,” said Ob as he neared the door.
“It's an outside door,” said Theta as he tried to open it. “Held fast.”
Ob studied the door. “It is melted against the frame. Wizard’s work. Should we go back? Try another way?”
“They've probably blocked all the exits, save the one at the front,” said Theta. “We must force our way through the door.” Theta pulled off his robe, produced a war hammer from his belt, and jammed its pointed end between door and frame, attempting to pry the door open.
“Hurry, Theta,” said Ob, looking over his shoulder back down the darkened hallway. “Hurry.”
Sounds of heavy boots on rotted wood filled the air.
XI
RECKONING
“Someone approaches,” said Ob.
“It is Mortach,” said Theta, as he strained against the door. Moments later, he had wrenched a section of the half-inch thick steel plate at the bottom of the door away from the frame. Too small a breach for Theta, but wide enough for Ob to squeeze through.
“Go through,” said Theta, holding the bent plate in place, his muscles straining.
“I can help,” said Ob.
“Not this time. Get clear. Go!”
Ob slipped through. Theta released the plate and it sprang partially back into place. He stood and drew his falchion. Mortach of Nifleheim emerged from the darkened hall.
“Greetings, Mikel,” said Theta.
“I be Mortach,” it said. Steaming saliva dripped from its skeletal maw.
“Not always. Once you were a man. Once you were my friend.”
“No longer,” said Mortach. “Not since you betrayed our lord.”
Theta shook his head. “‘Twas he that betrayed us; after all this time, can you not see that? Can you not see the path of ruin on which you dwell?”
“You are mad, traitor. I have ever followed the way of the lord; I have ever been faithful. 'Tis you who have strayed. 'Tis you who are evil.”
“I am evil? You are the ones that murder; you are the ones that drink the blood of innocents. How many died beneath your knife today? And you call me evil?” Theta's voice grew loud and bitter. “You broke down those doors all those years ago, and murdered those children before their parents' eyes. If that is not evil, what is? I have not forgotten that black deed. It endures as a stain upon the world, and upon your very soul; if a soul you still do have. Being good is doing good and being evil is doing evil—a simple axiom. Is it truly beyond you?”
“We tread old ground, Thetan, ground long since trampled and best forgotten. I will say once more as I have said afore: just because your puny mind cannot grasp the greater good of Azathoth's holy plan doesn
't make that plan evil, but it does make you a blind fool unworthy of the honors once afforded you. If only you could see clearly you would know that Azathoth is love and goodness and justice and that following his commands, his laws, is doing good—it cannot be anything but.”
“Why did you lose your faith, Thetan—you who were most beloved and greatest of us all? Why did you betray us?”
Mortach's question brought Theta back, for the merest of moments, to a time ages past.
“There is good in nearly all these people,” said Thetan as thunderous rains pounded down about him, Azathoth to his left. Below, a roaring torrent of water flooded through the streets of a large town, sweeping people, livestock, and less sturdy structures away. Only the tops of the tallest spires could be seen in the nearby valley, already fully engulfed.
“They have turned their backs on me,” said Azathoth. “They worship false idols, fake gods, and their own riches. Their black deeds make me regret creating them. Even now, few repent for their sins. They have brought this fate upon themselves. Only the one family deserves saving.”
“You have shown them your terrible power these last days, my lord; surely you are moved by their entreats for forgiveness, for mercy. Let them live, Lord, I beg you.”
“Thetan, most loyal and greatest of all my Arkons, you have ever been a voice of restraint and compassion. This I value and love, but know this: my plan, my vision, is long and bold and deep and know that though you cannot see the good of it, I can. Know that in the end, this path is the righteous one. You must have faith.”
“Why not then at least take them into Vaeden; why make them suffer in the depths?”
“One will come whose sacrifice will free them. It is all part of my plan, so fear not. One boon I will grant them. No matter their future transgressions, never again will I destroy the whole of Midgaard by flood.”
The floodwaters rose farther and the buildings washed away, great and small. Screams of the drowning carried on the winds. Tears welled in Thetan's eyes, and trickled down his cheeks, mixing with the pounding rain.
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