Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4)

by Thater, Glenn

  Meanwhile, the other squadrons strained to push the longboats back into the water while Ginalli shouted for everyone to pile in and shove off. The priest was in the lead boat, already away. He stood at the prow and waved everyone on. Korrgonn was beside him, shouting orders too, but Frem couldn't make his words out over the general din.

  Then Sevare plopped down beside Frem, looking pale and queasy. He held his hands away from his body, fingers spread, as if the slightest touch caused him pain — aftereffects of his magic, no doubt. Putnam was there too, carrying Little Storrl, still unconscious. He gently passed the boy to Borrel and Ward who carried him to one of the boats. Lex and Sir Carroll supported Sergeant Maldin who was badly wounded, a dweller’s spear lodged in his chest. The rest of the Pointmen were there too, those still alive.

  “Frem, get up,” yelled Putnam. “We've got to get back to the ship.” Panic dominated his voice and he looked every bit as exhausted as Frem felt. He grabbed Frem's arm and tried to pull him to his feet. As strong as he was, if Frem didn’t want to get up, he couldn’t lift him, and Frem wasn’t moving just yet.

  Frem looked over his shoulder and expected to see Dagon barreling down on them. He wondered if he would even bother to try to flee. “I don't see it. Is it still after us?”

  “Maybe it gave up,” said Putnam. “I can't hear it anymore, but we’ve still got to move, now. The ship is under attack. Get your behind up.”

  “What!?” Frem's head snapped toward the ship. The White Rose was anchored beyond the muck-filled harbor -- just where they'd left it, except now, smoke billowed from several points along its decks. Bright flashes that could be naught but sorcery pulsed here and there across the main deck, though the ship was too far away to make out what went on.

  Frem's legs betrayed him, shuddering under his weight, but with Putnam's help, he made his feet. Around him, the lugron pulled themselves up. Frem grabbed Putnam, his eyes wide. “Bryton and Jorna! And the other wounded, we left them!”

  “We ran back a different way,” said Putnam. “We didn’t pass them. But Frem, those boys are almost surely dead by now, the wounds they had. There's nothing we can do for them even if we could go back and get them, and we can’t. Not with that thing out there.”

  Frustration and anguish filled Frem's face as he grabbed Mort Zag's arm. “Heave him up, men, we're almost there.”

  “Leave him,” said Sevare as he struggled to rise while avoiding putting pressure on his hands or arms. “He's done for. We've got to fly. Someone help me up for Odin’s sake.”

  The lugron dropped their charge and poised to run for the longboats, but Frem’s glare stopped them cold. “No,” boomed Frem. “We just hauled him halfway across the stinking island. I’m not going to leave him on the beach now. Not him, or anyone else still breathing, darn it. Heave him up, men; let's move.”

  Frem and his Pointmen were amongst the last off the beach. They and several lugron stragglers from another squadron pushed the last two longboats clear of the sand and hopped in. Frem took his usual place near the stern, Sevare at the rudder, just behind him.

  “If we lose the ship . . .” said Sevare.

  “—We’re done for,” said Frem. “There’s no other land the longboats can reach and we’ve no supplies to speak of. We’ve got to secure the ship.”

  The Pointmen pulled the oars for all they were worth, eager to get well clear of the beach, hoping that would put them beyond Dagon's reach, though all the while wary for any sign of the seaweed monster of their recent acquaintance. The strand was still clear, and of both monsters, there was no sign.

  Frem looked down. His hands pulled the oars like mad, though he had no memory of taking hold of them. His arms ached. His legs were weak. His mind was clouded and dazed. It was difficult to concentrate and focus. It felt like a dream, a nightmare, but Frem knew it was real. As a soldier, he knew the symptoms of exhaustion, thirst, and shock. He had battled such things before, and he would endure them now.

  He stared at the men’s backs as they heaved at the oars, one man to each, though Frem pulled two with his meaty hands. When his rowing settled into a rhythm, his mind calmed, his heartbeat steadied. He smelled blood. Blood of the wounded, the dying, and the dead. With it came that foul odor you get when a man's insides kiss the air. That miasma hung over the wounded and drifted from the splattered blood and gore that afflicted every man in the boat. Frem realized that reek had been with them since the battle with the Dwellers, but only now did he notice it. Strange that.

  Death loomed behind them on the island. It skulked about them, somewhere in the water, and lurked before them in whatever trouble plagued the ship. There would be more blood that day. What strength had they left?

  Frem would've preferred to keep the remnants of his squadron together, but his boat was full, so Torak and Wikkle, along with a squad of lugron from Ezerhauten’s command, pulled hard at the oars of the nearby longboat that held Mort Zag’s limp form. Even supine, the giant’s great bulk rose above the gunwales. His eyes were closed, but his head turned from side to side as if in a restless sleep. How he still lived after the blow he had suffered, Frem could not fathom. He had done all he could for the giant, though he wasn’t sure why. Mort Zag had never respected him — tossing insults at Frem freely. Frem didn't abide that kind of treatment. He treated others with respect and expected the same in return, though many folks disappointed him, Mort Zag being no exception. Yet he had risked everything to save the giant. Aiding a comrade in dire need was the right thing to do, so he did it, no matter the consequences. He had too. Frem always did what he knew was right. Such notions had landed him in hot water more times than he could remember, but he couldn’t change. He wouldn’t, if he could. That was Frem.

  In Frem's longboat, Putnam manned the bow. He looked sound enough — that man was a rock. Nothing ever seemed to harm him or even slow him down, though he was Frem’s senior by a goodly number of years. Borrel, Royce, Ward, and Lex dragged at the oars, tired and battered but still with him and in one piece. Carrol’s hand was clumsily bandaged, as was Moag’s head, but they soldiered on and pulled with the rest. Given a bit of time to heal up, they would be fine. Little Storrl lay on the bench just in front of Frem, his face pale but peaceful, his arm's bleeding stopped, his form still. If his wound didn’t fester, Frem thought the boy would live — he had to.

  Sergeant Maldin sprawled between two benches and looked more than half dead; a Dweller’s broken spear lodged in the right side of his chest. He was conscious and looking around. “How are you holding up, Sergeant?” said Frem.

  “Fine, Captain, except for a splinter I picked up somewhere,” said Maldin in a stronger voice than Frem expected. “Once we pry it out, I’ll be right as rain.”

  A tough man, that one, but a bad wound it was. The kind that killed most men. Blood flowed freely from it. “Royce,” shouted Frem. “Stay your oar and see to Maldin’s splinter. Bind it tight and secure to get that bleeding stopped, but don’t touch the spear — we’ll get it out when we’re back aboard.” Royce complied without a word, and Maldin tolerated his ministerings just the same.

  Frem didn't know Maldin as well as he did some of the others, but he seemed a goodly man and solid squad leader. It pained Frem to see him in such condition, but if luck were with him, he would recover quickly, or die quickly. It’s the lingering death that soldiers fear. Frem wouldn’t let a good soldier suffer through that; that’s not how such men are meant to go. If Maldin didn't recover, Frem would need to promote another to take charge of his squad. He would worry about that if the time came.

  All things considered, it was difficult to tell that they were the winners of the recent battle. When they set out from Lomion City, Frem had more than a full squadron under his command — two squads of twenty men each. His Pointmen were nearly all veterans and named men — an elite troop. Now only thirteen still lived. He had no interest in losing any more.

  The longboat’s progress was slow, uneven, and challenging, for ever
y few strokes an oar fouled in the thick seaweed and slid useless over the water’s surface. The journey in was a joy in comparison. The putrid smell of the stuff was twice as bad now, the muck and weeds all the thicker and thrice as heavy as before, but whether that was truth or merely Frem's fatigue, he couldn't tell. Even the wet cloths they wrapped around their noses and mouths now did little to dull the fetid odor of the muck. Frem pulled the oars without thought, all muscle memory and instinct. His thoughts focused on reaching the ship as quickly as possible. He did his best to block out all else, with limited success.

  Now and again Frem glanced at the beach, which slowly grew farther away. He expected to see Dagon stalk to the water's edge and make after them. It could surely swim, that thing, having come up from a well. It could wade out a ways, then slip under the weeds, glide through the water and be on them in no time. In a longboat, they would have little chance against that monster. A mere flick of its tail or swipe of its claws could capsize them with ease. Then it could pluck the men from the water at will and leisure. With his heavy armor, Frem would sink like a rock — not a way he wanted to go, if he had to go at all, but better than being eaten by a giant lizard, all things considered. Frem pictured his daughter’s smiling face and rowed harder. He had to live to get back to her. Coriana needed him. She depended on him. It was bad enough that he was away so often and so long. He would not abandon her.

  Behind him, Sevare struggled with the rudder as he wrapped wet cloths about his hands.

  “You hurt?” said Frem. “Or is it just the burning from the magic?”

  “It’s just the magic,” said Sevare. “But that was the most I've ever thrown . . . by a wide stretch. It feels like I've got a million ants crawling all crazy on my hands and halfway up my arms. I’ve never felt anything like it afore.”

  Frem looked over his shoulder at Sevare. “There are no bugs on you. Could be invisible, I guess.” Frem shook his head. “That’s just crazy talk. I’m losing it. I’m starting to think everything is magic. Can you see what's happening on the ship?”

  “There's fighting on deck,” said Sevare. “Magic is being thrown.”

  “I can hear it. How close are we?”

  “We're still far. Korrgonn's boat is halfway there, but it looks like they're hung up on the muck.”

  “Can you tell who we're fighting or which way it's going?”

  “Too far to see.”

  “I left my darned spotting scope on the ship,” said Putnam. “You never have what you need, when you need it.”

  Yells erupted from Mort Zag's boat. The lugron were in a panic; they had dropped their oars, pulled weapons, and pointed toward the weed.

  “The stinking muck monster must be back,” said Frem as he looked warily into the water this way and that.”

  “One of the men is gone,” said Sevare.

  “What?”

  “There were twelve men in that longboat,” said Sevare. “Now there are eleven.”

  “Is he in the water?”

  Even as they watched, thick vines, a mottled green and brown in color, all gnarled and sinewy, rose like a serpent from the muck and whipped around one of the men in Mort Zag's longboat. The tendril lifted him high into the air, the man's arms pinioned to his sides. Helpless, he screamed.

  “Dead gods!” said Frem. “Turn the boat! Get us over there! We have to—”

  Frem's words cut off when something slammed into him and sent him hurtling over the side.

  The world spun with a deafening metallic clang. Frem sailed through the air; hit hard, his ears rang. On instinct, he tucked chin to chest and held his breath. He crashed through the surface muck and plunged into the depths; the impact, jarring. Most of his air, gone, though he remained conscious and kept the water from his lungs.

  The thing that hit him, another tentacle or whatever it was, had no hold on him, thank the gods. His momentum shot him deeper — the bubbles and darkness blinding. His left arm, dead.

  A glimmer of light that evaded the muck pointed the way up. Frem kicked and pulled, desperate one-armed strokes — his heavy steel armor fought him every inch. Air bubbled from his mouth; his lungs burned and threatened to burst, and still the surface eluded him. He fought against the darkness, against the terrible urge to give up, to rest, to sleep, to let oblivion take him. He wasn't ready for that. He had things left to do and Coriana to look after. He swam upward with all his strength, Coriana’s little face etched in his mind’s eye, and when he had held out longer than he thought he could, his outstretched fingers fell on a driftwood log. Frem's iron grip enveloped it, and pulled with renewed strength. The log, buoyed by the muck, offered resistance enough to aid his ascent. Frem breached the surface and took a breath. He couldn’t move his left arm. He coughed, spewed water, and gasped for air, but he was alive.

  Men yelled all around. The water was rough and waves slapped against his face. Before Frem got his bearings, an oar dangled in front of him. Sevare held it; his face grave and bleeding.

  Still dazed, with the wizard's help, Frem scrambled into the longboat, his left arm hung limp at his side and putrid seaweed clung to his body. A chaotic din assailed him from all sides. Men yelled and screamed, water roiled, and thunderous impacts erupted everywhere. He looked up and saw several men held aloft and thrashed about by monstrous, sinewy tentacles, similar to but larger than those that attacked them earlier on the beach. One of those had hit him.

  The putrid smell of the muck monster was overwhelming. Frem's stomach churned and twisted. More tentacles rocketed from the muck and showered water down on the boats. Others stealthily crept from the surface, trailing clinging, putrid algae. They swooped down on the men and plucked them from this longboat and that, wreaking havoc across the small fleet. They blasted men into the water, scooped others up, and slammed them to the surface of the muck, over and again, bludgeoning the life from them. Others, they squeezed within a pythonic embrace until ribs and spine shattered in their deadly grips. Some poor souls they pulled screaming beneath the surface, never to be seen again.

  The gnarly, corded tentacles looked more like vines of some hellish, carnivorous sea plants than appendages of a giant squid or monstrous octopus of legend. But whether each was a separate creature, or a part of some vast monster of the deep still hidden beneath the waves, one could not say, save to note each tentacle didn’t act in concert with its fellows. Like Dagon and the Dwellers, these beasts were beyond Frem's knowledge; beyond all reason and sanity; true monsters — heartless, soulless, living only to kill and to feed.

  Men fought from each boat, sword, oar, arrow, and axe. None cowered or hid. These were fighting men all; not a one would go quietly to his end.

  Par Brackta and Ginalli fired bolts of numinous energy at the thrashing tentacles, most as thick as a man’s arm or leg — some as wide around as a large man’s waist. Their magic left several burning and ruined. Ezerhauten and his men swung sword and axe, and cleaved and chopped any tentacle that ventured within reach, even as they kept their balance in longboats buffeted by the churning waters. Archers launched shafts at swooping tentacles. More than a few hit their marks, though most to little effect. Four tentacles lay severed in the water about the lead longboat, though they still writhed in their death throes.

  The battle continued for some time, until at last, the water began to roil wildly not far from Korrgonn's boat, and a monstrous form slowly rose up from the muck. With it came a piercing, high-pitched roar and a rush of heady, putrid air. Higher and higher did it rise — its body globular and amorphous, colossal and vast, far larger even than Dagon. Its hide rough, mottled, and pitted; the very muck come alive. Its gaping, toothy maw was wide enough to swallow upright the tallest man, and housed myriad rows of wicked teeth born to both crush and tear its prey.

  Three great eyes did it have. One lurked above the center of its maw, the others off to each side, where eyes are wont to be. Each, large, black, and yellow, though the central was near twice the size of its fellows. In its pie
rcing gaze abided some spark of intelligence, some hint of purpose. These were not the dead eyes of a beast that marauded on instinct alone. They were alien eyes raised on truths unfathomed, unknown, and inconceivable to man. Every vast, destructive tentacle was but one of its innumerable digits, erupting from its sides and underbelly, vaguely as that of a squid, though this beast was far larger than the largest squid of truth, myth, or legend. It reeked of rot and decay, and offered only death, swift and painful, that day and every other.

  For a moment, time stopped — each man frozen in shock and horror, their heads craned back, their eyes affixed on the leviathan of the deep. The odor of the thing was rancid and burned the nose and tongue and set the men to coughing.

  Korrgonn stood in the boat closest to it. To it, he was puny, an insect to be crushed, a tiny morsel to be devoured, barely even worthy of notice. He held his sword before him in both hands, seemingly immune to the stench that afflicted those around him. “Now would be the time,” he said to Ginalli, urgency in his voice. “Throw all that you have at it. Swords will not avail us here.”

  Blood still dripped into Ginalli's eyes from some Dweller's blow. His face was smeared with it. His hair was all wild and disheveled, except at the front, where it was plastered to his head with blood and sweat. He was pale; his eyes unsteady, but he spoke his mystical words with strength and clarity. His incantation completed, red fire erupted from his hands. It coalesced out of nothingness, and grew into a blood-red sphere of churning, spinning fire. At Ginalli’s command, it shot at the beast. The scent of ozone trailed in its wake.

  Par Brackta rose at the far end of the boat. She held her arms outstretched, chin high, eyes closed. She stood statuesque, her face as beautiful and terrible as the goddesses of song and story. In a sultry voice, she emoted esoteric words from some nameless language unknown to the others, words that beckoned forth primal magics from beyond the pale. Her right hand began to glow, and quickly grew brighter and brighter until a bolt of sparkling white flame shot from it and rocketed at Leviathan.