by Glenn Thater
Theta responded in a smooth and level tone, “Nevertheless, what I have said is true.” Just a hint of anger could be detected in the set of his jaw and slight furl in his brow. “I shall prevent the gateway from opening or close it once it does. Ye men can assist or not – it matters little to me. I will do what needs to be done.”
“Bah! Mister know it all,” said Ob. “You’re nothing but a boaster and a braggart with no true mettle. Theta, if some creature from another world be coming at you, I’d bet you’d soil that fancy armor of yours in a heartbeat. Hell, you’d be down on your knees begging for mercy, pleading for your life, or running away with your tail between your legs!”
“Enough! Ob.” said Gabriel. “Lord Theta is here to help us, not to be insulted by a loudmouthed gnome. I’ll hear no more of it.”
“I think what I think, and I’ll say what I say, and if anybody don’t like it, they can stuff it,” spat the gnome.
“Lord Theta,” said Claradon, “perhaps you could explain your reasoning regarding this – gateway, you mentioned? What is it that you think is really going on out here?”
He paused and took a slow deep breath before responding. “It is what we were discussing afore. I believe followers of the chaos lords are using the arcane properties of this eldritch place, the ancient temple and the other ruins that were here, and their own fell sorceries, to open a gateway to the very Courts of Chaos. Verily, when that happens, all hell will come through - literally. It would mean the end of civilization. The end of everything we all hold dear.”
“But why do you think this? All we’ve seen here is an empty circle, a few golden coins, and some tracks, nothing more.”
“Because I hath seen such things afore, in times past, and because of the demon spoor polluting this place.” He pointed toward the smooth stony soil. “The tracks in the circle.”
“You’re daft, man,” said Ob. “I told you, there be no tracks there. The only tracks we’ve seen are outside the circle, and they’re just tracks of men and horses. You’re just spouting some more of your fairy stories.” He took a swig from his wineskin.
“Look again, gnome,” said Theta with an even tone, as he pointed toward the ground within the circle. “Perhaps you were blinded by the forest and failed to see the trees.”
“What?” said Ob, turning toward Claradon with a bewildered expression. “I don’t understand this fella. He talks all funny.”
“Maybe you should have another look,” said Claradon.
“Last I checked I was Master Scout of the Dor, bucko,” said Ob sternly. “Nobody can read tracks better than me – not rangers, not stinking elves, and certainly not no tin cans. But I’ll have another gander, just to settle this business once and for all.” Ob got down on his hands and knees at the rim of the circle and peered down, carefully studying the ground.
Theta squatted down next to him. “There, and there,” he said, gesturing toward some small features on the surface of the hardened soil. “And there and there,” he pointed. Ob studied the ground, moving about over a small area, and poking some at the soil. This went on for some time. When he finally stood up and turned towards the others, his face was ashen and contorted in a look of shock and bewilderment.
“I cannot hardly believe what I’ve seen. I missed it afore, I missed it entirely,” he said shaking his head in disgust.
“What did you see Ob?” said Claradon. “Are there tracks there or not?”
“Theta’s been speaking the truth, about the tracks at least. There be tracks all right. There be nothing but tracks, which is why I missed them afore. That ground, it’s been stamped down and compressed by a thousand thousand feet walking over and over it. The tracks are so overlapped; they obscure each other almost completely, making them appear not to be tracks at all. But they are -I’m sure of it now. And they’re not people tracks or the tracks of some animal neither. They’re the tracks of some type of beastie, some type of monster like I’ve never seen afore.”
“How do you know that?” said Claradon.
Ob held out his palm and displayed an object that he had pulled from the soil. It was a claw - pitch black, more than nine inches long and nearly three inches wide.
Blood dripped from Ob’s hand. “It’s razor sharp,” he said. “And look at the size of it. No natural beast has such a claw.”
“Gods,” said Claradon. “It must’ve broken off some creature, some monstrosity, some thing from the hell Lord Theta spoke of.”
“All right, Theta,” said Ob. “So how do we seal this gateway?”
“When the fog comes, we shall find a way,” said Theta. “There is always a way.”
“Find a way?! What the hell kind of plan is that?” said Ob. “And what-- and what of Aradon?”
Theta looked toward Claradon before responding. “He and his men are dead. Of this, I have no doubt.”
Claradon’s throat tightened up and his hands grew icy cold as he realized the truth of Theta’s words. Gabriel put a hand around his shoulders. “We’ll get through this,” he said quietly.
“How do you know all these things?” said Ob. “Who are you, Theta? Who are you really?”
Lord Theta turned and began to walk away. “Perhaps tonight ye wilt find out.”
Ob’s weathered visage blanched at Theta’s ominous words. Gabriel, Ob, Dolan, and Claradon watched the mysterious knight walk back toward the makeshift encampment.
“Should we tell the men?” said Claradon.
“What would you have me tell them?” said Gabriel. “That the world is ending?”
Claradon shrugged.
“That we’ve a madman amongst us,” said Ob. “He’ll be the doom of us all. Stinking foreigners.”
“You’re the stinky one,” said Dolan wrinkling his nose, and then following after Theta.
X
THE FOG
Not long before midnight, the moonlight revealed a small area of fog forming at the center of the zone of desolation. There was no fog anywhere else about, only there at the circle’s center, and it was forming fast, too fast for something natural.
“Make ready!” shouted Ob. The men scrambled to their feet.
An unnatural wind sprang up and the fog rapidly expanded radially outward, rolling toward them like a giant wave.
“Form up, men!” shouted Sir Gabriel. “Tight formation! Shield wall! Shield wall!”
“Draw your weapons men, and make ready,” boomed Ob.
The men rushed together, and aligned shoulder to shoulder, four rows deep, in expert fashion. In moments, they were ready. The front row held tower shields tightly together. The second row held pikes.
“This is it,” said Dolan, a smile on his face. “Mr. Claradon, get ready to spew.”
Claradon felt near ready to comply.
In moments, the eerie cloud filled the entire circle, but expanded nary an inch beyond its rim. Standing just there, the expedition was untouched by the foul vapors. No one dared move; they barely breathed. Moments passed that seemed like hours whilst they looked and listened for some sign of their enemies. But there was nothing.
A second gust of wind and the fogbank expanded again, swallowing the whole of the expedition within its maw. The men suddenly felt lightheaded and nauseous as the diabolical fog settled around them, clinging to their flesh, threatening to rend it from their very bones. The foul mist even stung their eyes, blinding them. The temperature plunged instantly to well below freezing, chilling them to the bone and sapping their strength. A strange bestial odor filled the air.
“What is this, what’s going on?” shouted one knight.
“Tis some evil magic” said a second knight.
“I feel ill,” said another. “My head swims.”
“And mine,” said several others.
“Black Sorcery it is,” called out one man.
“Devil’s work,” said another.
“Steady men,” shouted Ob, “remember your training.”
“Hold your formation!” boom
ed Sir Gabriel.
Soon their vision cleared, but the thickness of the vaporous stuff was such that one could scarcely see ten feet ahead.
Theta moved from his position in the line and boldly advanced into the preternatural fog, lance in hand, with nary a word or glance to any. Dolan scrambled to follow his liege.
“Draw the daggers I gave you and follow Theta,” commanded Sir Gabriel.
“Steady boys and forward,” shouted Ob. “And for Tyr’s sake stay together. I’ll not be searching the fog for you.”
The warriors caught up to Theta about a hundred yards into the fogbank. He was standing amidst a killing field. The mutilated corpses of more than a dozen men littered the ground where minutes before there was nothing. It was the missing patrol. How the bodies appeared there, they could not fathom. Each corpse was horribly desecrated in unspeakable ways; ways which should not be described save to say that the remains could only be identified by fragments of their armor, shields, and clothing.
Claradon made to approach. “Get back boy,” said Ob, as he interposed himself between the young knight and the grisly remains. “You don’t want to see this.” Ob grabbed him tightly by the arm to hold him back.
“Stand aside. I have to see.”
“No you don’t,” said Ob. “You don’t want to remember him this way.” Claradon shoved him aside and moved forward.
“Dear gods,” said Claradon, as he drew close. “Dear gods,” was all he could utter. Claradon’s eyes welled with tears; try as he could to prevent it.
“What could do this to a man?” said Ob to Gabriel.
Gabriel shook his head, and then looked away.
Despite the terrible chill, some of the knights reverently placed their cloaks over the fallen. The men gathered around, and bowed their heads as Ob spoke a short prayer to Odin.
“We cannot linger here,” said Ob. “We’ll be giving them a proper burial when the night’s work is done. Then there’ll be time to grieve. Now there’s not. Now we’ve enemies to find and to kill.”
“Now is the time for vengeance!” shouted Claradon. “For retribution!”
“Vengeance!” shouted the men.
Claradon picked up his shield and adjusted his helm, wondering whether they’d all end up like that before the night’s done. But Sir Gabriel was with him, thank the gods. He’s never been beaten. He can’t be defeated. I’ll stay at his side he thought, and make it through this. My path is to victory and tomorrow. “To victory and tomorrow!” he shouted.
“To victory and tomorrow!” shouted the men as they resumed their progress, deeper into the fog.
“We will find whoever did this,” said Claradon. “For them, there will be no escape.”
Gabriel and Claradon joined Theta at the vanguard of the group. The three advanced as one, Theta in the center. Soon they came upon a mammoth black stone building. It was directly in the center of the fogbank, where nothing had been only minutes before. Blacker than anything natural, it absorbed all light, even that of Gabriel’s mystical daggers. This and the dense fog prevented the men from discerning the true shape and full extent of the sinister edifice. At the front of the structure were six black steps that led up to a raised landing. Atop the landing were six cylindrical columns of the same black stone. The tops of the columns, lost in the fog, presumably supported some type of canopy far above. Climbing the strange black steps, the feelings of lightheadedness and nausea returned, more powerfully this time. Claradon forced himself onward despite his swimming head and churning stomach.
As he reached the top step, he turned and faced the men. Through the fog, he gazed upon a sea of shining helmets lined up three abreast. The biting cold of the place assaulted him. Through chattering teeth, he shouted, “The guiding light of just Tyr shall preserve us, men. And we shall 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 Gabriel.
“Yeah, there may still be some beasties way in the back that haven’t heard us coming yet,” said Ob. “Maybe we should take up a tune, so we won’t startle them.”
XI
THE TEMPLE OF CHAOS
They proceeded across the front landing and came upon a large pair of black stone doors. Theta gripped the huge bronze handles and pulled. Though there was no visible lock or bar, the doors didn’t budge. Before Gabriel and Claradon could move to assist him, he pulled again, this time seeming to strain somewhat with the effort. Thundering crunching and cracking sounds emanated from the doors and the whole landing vibrated, threatening to collapse around them. The men scattered. Suddenly, the doors shattered and began to crumble to pieces, Theta’s mighty grip having literally ripped them asunder. The stony remains fell in heaps about the entranceway, the two bronze handles remaining in Theta’s iron grip.
“Damned showoff,” said Ob. “They was probably about to fall apart on their own, anyways. Bad workmanship, probably elvish.”
Theta peered inside for a few moments, then stepped over the rubble and stalked cautiously into the malevolent stone edifice. The rest followed, weapons bare. Strangely, it was even colder inside than without, though the mist was thinner. The air, oddly thick and heavy, had a curious, acrid taste. The same bestial odor resided here, as outside, only stronger.
Theta removed one small object and then another from his belt pouch. He tossed one to each side of the darkened hall. The objects shattered, and then somehow illuminated much of the place. The men gasped at this bizarre phenomenon and gazed warily at the foreign knight. The mysterious lights were bright and strong for a few moments, then they grew softer and dimmer as the foul blackness of the place devoured them, turning all to shadow. The light didn’t wane entirely; enough remained for the men to see.
The structure’s interior was a most singular hall, some sixty feet in width, stretching into the darkness beyond the limits of the men’s vision. The size and scale of the place were all wrong. It was too massive, too ponderous, and too meticulous to have been man-made in the days of yore. It featured two rows of massive ornate obsidian columns set thirty feet apart, forming a wide corridor extending from the entranceway toward the rear of the foreboding structure. The ceiling, lost in the darkness, surely resided more than fifty feet above. The flagstones were ground perfectly smooth; the joints between them so flawlessly cut and fitted as to require no mortar. Expert craftsman, possessing skills far beyond those of the most renowned of modern masons or artisans had built this place. Surely, the Old Ones or their minions - those ancient fiends that walked Midgaard before the dawn of man, had constructed it. Somehow, the fell sorcery at work here had restored the antediluvian temple, which had only lately been no more than a crumbling ruin, to all its former majesty and fearful glory.
The men stalked into the sinister structure, their way illuminated by Theta’s magic, and by the soft white light emitted by their mystical daggers. From the moment they entered that foul place, it seemed to Claradon that everything moved in slow motion. Perhaps it was the dizziness and nausea afflicting him, perhaps something more. Even his boots made ominous echoing sounds as he crossed the strange black stones. Unnaturally loud they were - the mystical nature of the edifice serving to amplify the sound tenfold.
At Gabriel’s direction, they fanned out and began to move deeper into the black hall. As they did so, a bizarre inhuman wailing sprang up all around them, emanating from the very walls themselves. The men halted, weapons held at the ready.
“What madness is this?” said one knight.
“Where is the sound coming from? I can’t see them,” shouted another.
“Steady boys,” said Ob, “keep moving forward, the sounds can’t hurt you.”
As they moved inward, the shrill wailing increased. Growling, malefic intonations began: roaring and barking, howling, chattering and gibbering.
No throat of man or beast could produce the bizarre cacophony that filled that evil place. It surely sprang from the demonic tongues of a thousand wretched fiends reveling in the very pits of hell itself.
The faces of the brave knights blanched as the skirling sounds oppressed them and the bitter cold within the place took hold. They were soldiers, schooled in battle and tactics. They knew how to fight as a unit, or duel in single combat. But this was altogether different. An unseen enemy, whose caterwauling could deafen and disorientate - this was beyond their experience, beyond their training. All they could do was flee or follow their officers’ orders and move forward against the din. They followed orders.
As they approached the first line of obsidian columns, the grotesque, debased painted bas-reliefs adorning their surfaces came into view. Every manner of horrific, depraved, obscene, and unspeakable activity was prominently, even proudly, depicted on the gruesome faces of those sinister pillars. Such was the horror of those odious images that the men surely would have lost their sanity, if not their very souls, had they gazed upon them for more than mere moments.
The hellish din continued to intensify and soon the walls of the vile edifice and the surfaces of the black pillars began to move and wriggle as if alive. Hideous pseudopods shaped like malformed hands, claws and demonic arms began to push against and protrude from within the black stone. The obsidian surfaces seemingly transformed to nothing more than thin opaque, elastic veils. The horrid appendages writhed and flailed about, seeking to ensnare the men as they moved past. This was madness, a fevered nightmare.