The Gateway (Harbinger of Doom Volume 1)

by Glenn Thater

  Claradon cringed as he thought of the hordes of fiends that struggled to burst through the flowing stone and enter the world of man from somewhere beyond the pale. The dim light and eerie shadows that filled the place only served to enhance the horror of the surreal scene and unnerve even the bravest of the company. Looking around at his comrades, Claradon could see stony resolve on the faces of some; stark terror marred the aspects of others. Steamy breath rose from all, as did the soft glow of the ensorcelled daggers.

  Gabriel and Ob offered words of encouragement to keep the troops moving forward. Through the din though, most surely couldn’t hear them. Lord Theta pressed on at the van, stalking cautiously forward, brandishing his silver lance like a spear while evading the writhing things protruding from the columns.

  One of the knights was not so careful, however, and strayed too close. A snakelike appendage darted out and wrapped itself about the knight’s waist, pinioning his arms. It effortlessly lifted and pulled him toward the column. Ob and Claradon dashed toward the struggling knight, but before they could reach him another tentacle appeared from above and grasped the knight about the neck. The evil limbs pulled in opposite directions and ripped the man’s head from his shoulders. Blood spurted in all directions, washing over Ob and Claradon, who gasped in horror at the monstrous sight. The vile tentacles quickly pulled back and disappeared to whence they came. Ob and Claradon moved toward the column with swords raised, to deal out whatever vengeance they could.

  “Stop,” shouted Par Tanch from nearby. “Don’t strike out at the things. You might break the seal and give them entry, then we’d surely be doomed.” Mindful of the wizard’s words, they wisely backpedaled from the column, moving beyond the range of the pseudopods.

  “This is it. We’re doomed. It’s the end of the world,” said Tanch. “I told you we should’ve sent for the army.”

  “Stow that talk you sniveling turd or I’ll bash your knees in,” said Ob. Ob raised his wineskin to his lips and took a long draught as he pressed forward.

  Claradon’s vision clouded and his stomach churned as the waves of nausea and lightheadedness flooded over him with renewed vigor. The abominable clangor increased to near deafening levels, threatening to implode his very skull. Time and space became increasingly distorted; everything moved slower and slower.

  Blood began to stream from the men’s noses and ears as the pressure and maddening cacophony intensified. Several of the knights doubled over and vomited great gobs of putrescent green ichor as the sinister forces of the place assailed their mortal bodies. Others simply collapsed unconscious to the ebony slab.

  Claradon watched in horror as a claw-like pseudopod pushed out from a column and grabbed the ankle of one of the fallen knights. The soldier screamed in terror as it dragged him to his doom. Claradon was simply too far away to come to the poor man’s aid. Those who were closer were either too dazed from the madness about them, or too shocked to spring to his rescue. The knight’s magical dagger sent sparks flying everywhere as he repeatedly and ineffectually stabbed it into the obsidian slab, trying to slow his inevitable slide. Within seconds of reaching the pillar, other demonic pseudopods and misshapen hands fell upon him and tore him limb from limb.

  “I can’t take this noise, it’s maddening,” shouted one knight. “If we can’t strike out at these things we must flee before we’re all torn to pieces.”

  Ob grabbed him and pulled him forward, “You’re a knight of Dor Eotrus, boy, and you’ll not flee while I yet live, that’s for certain. We face this together. Come on,” he shouted as he steadied the knight and pressed forward. “For House Eotrus! To victory and tomorrow.”

  Tanch pressed his hands to his ears, trying to stop the maddening noise from reaching him. He must have attempted to recall some bit of magic, some arcane spell or charm, that could protect him from the din, but how could he focus his thoughts through that insane cacophony? Blood streamed from his nose and his eyes were unfocused. His strength sapped, he collapsed to his knees. Even Ob staggered and fell; his gnomish ears being particularly susceptible to the horrific emanations.

  Claradon focused his concentration as best he could and through chattering teeth bespoke the mystical words that called forth the power of Odin. A brilliant white light appeared and encompassed him. This mantle of holy light served to diminish the deafening sounds and the spatial distortions occurring directly around him, and would safeguard him from the claws and fangs of any creature of chaos that might appear. Alas, his power was not nearly great enough to encompass and aid his comrades. Already weakened, however, he could do little more than hold his ground.

  At the far end of the hall, Claradon could now see the temple’s adytum - a black stone table, an unholy altar no doubt to the foulest fiends of chaos. Its surface was covered in deep reddish stains; the dried blood of untold innocents, spilled to sate the unquenchable thirsts of unspeakable outré beings.

  Behind the altar, the rear wall of the temple was embossed with a strange pattern of circles within circles. At the center of the pattern was a gaping black hole of nothingness, a void. To where it led, man was surely not meant to fathom. The radius of each of the circles was twice that of the circle within it. The lines forming the five innermost circles were blackened and charred as if they had burned away - only moldering gray ash remained. Within these circles, inscribed in a dark red pigment - which surely was human blood - were all manner of arcane runes and eldritch symbols from the bizarre lexicon of some otherworldly fiends or forgotten gods or mad arch-mages. The sixth or outermost circle was glowing and burning a fiery red; the very flames of hell itself danced and writhed on its unholy surface. The space between the fifth and sixth circles was filled with twins of those curious golden coins, evenly spaced about the circle’s circumference. Surely, when the sixth circle burned through, there would be no holding back the foul tide that was to come - the very armies of insanity and chaos, the maleficent denizens of the pit.

  Even now, the rear wall, etched with the unholy pattern, bulged and flexed and flowed, ready to burst from the pressure of some massive monstrosities straining against its far side. In moments they would burst through - the beasts from beyond would walk once again on the world of man and usher in mankind’s doom.

  Sir Gabriel pressed onward toward the black altar followed by his towering red-bearded sergeant, Sir Artol. Artol was unstopped by the maddening chaos, perhaps somewhat protected by his thickly padded steel helm if not his thick skull, but blood flowed freely from his nose, mouth, and even his eyes. Sir Miden staggered just behind them, valiantly trying to press forward though blood gushed from his nose and mouth. Overcome by the pain, he dropped his sword and shield, ripped off his helm, and clasped his hands to his ears to stave off the intolerable sounds and pressure. Just as he seemed to recover a bit and began to step forward, his entire head erupted in fountains of blood and gobs of gore that went spouting in all directions. His body swayed for a moment before collapsing in a heap.

  Claradon couldn’t believe his eyes. He threw more of his energy to the mystical mantle that shielded him.

  At the sight of poor Sir Miden’s fate, several knights turned and fled the temple in terror. Their loyalty to House Eotrus was without question, but this madness was too much. There was no enemy to smite here, no honor or glory to be gained, no vengeance to be had, only mindless suffering and senseless death. They’d had enough. They fled. A few even dropped their swords or shields in their haste to escape. Ob’s commands and curses at them went unheard and unheeded in the chaotic din.

  Claradon watched them flee. This can’t be real, he thought. It must be some vile nightmare. It can’t truly be happening.

  Lord Theta seemed less effected by the evil phenomenon than were the others. No blood flowed from him and his eyes remained focused. His face, however, turned bright red and his stride slowed nearly to a crawl. He trudged forward in slow motion, several yards ahead of Gabriel, laboring as if dragging a great weight. At last, he reached
the altar and the source of the evil. A small orb of utter blackness and purest evil sat atop the ebony slab of the altar. Theta must have known it was the foul emanations of this unholy artifact that fueled the chaos about him. It was its power that threatened to open the gateway to the unspeakable realms beyond the pale - the very Courts of Chaos themselves. Theta dropped his lance and pulled his war hammer from his belt. He raised it above his head with great speed, and then swung it down toward the orb with all his might. Just before or perhaps just after his hammer hit home, the rear wall of the building gave way, emitting a massive blast of air and heat into the unholy temple. The explosion blasted Theta backward, hurtling him some forty feet before slamming him to the unyielding stone slab. Momentum propelled him several yards farther before mercifully releasing him. Though Theta surely took the brunt of the force, the blast knocked all the men from their feet.

  Claradon looked over in horror at Theta’s still form. Another brave man dead, a mad nightmare this is. Then he saw the six-foot wide hole in the temple’s rear wall. Beyond the hole, was utter blackness - a portal to some other place, some other dimension, some foul bastion of chaos. The rim of the portal was aglow with wisps of yellow fire, their origin unknown. The arcane pattern’s outermost circle was gone - its crimson border now nothing more than blackened and charred ash. The eldritch coins had melted and their remnants were trickling down the shattered wall in golden rivulets.

  From out of that ominous hole, which proved indeed to be a gateway, raced a monster the like of which Claradon had never seen before, and until that very moment did not truly believe existed. It was an otherworldly creature of nightmare, of folklore; the very bogeyman of the children’s tales come to life. The thing was a horrid caricature of a man. No flesh covered any part of the seven-foot tall creature’s oversized skull. Its large red, glowing eyes and long forked tongue were alight with demonic flame. It wore strange black armor that clung tightly to its muscular torso. In its right hand it held a six-foot long white sword whose blade danced with red and yellow flame. Upon its massive breastplate was damasked the unmistakable symbol of the chaos lord Mortach. Could this hideous beast be the dread Lord Mortach itself? the mythical patron of death and destruction. Surely any mortal who stood against such a fiend would be tossed aside like so much chaff. Before Claradon or his men could gain their feet, the creature sped through the hall and bounded out the entry – out into the world of man.

  The unnatural pressure within the edifice was now gone and the earsplitting cacophony subsided. The pseudopods and tentacles retreated from the walls and columns and they returned to their normal stony aspects. Waves of heat and the noxious scent of brimstone now filled the air, emanating from the abyss beyond the breach. Behind these wafted a strong putrescence mixed with the bestial odor detected before.

  As those who were still conscious staggered coughing and gasping to their feet, Claradon gazed in disbelief as more unspeakable horrors appeared. They rose through the rarefied ether of the abyss beyond the gateway by some bizarre means of locomotion incomprehensible to man. Several nightmarish creatures more than six feet tall and only roughly human shaped vaulted through the breach and entered the unholy temple. Their appearance was too monstrous, too ghastly to describe or even contemplate. No mortal creature ever possessed an aspect of such indescribable horror, such loathsome abominable evil. Claradon shuddered as he looked upon the faces of pure chaos. As horrific as they were, they were beings of flesh and blood and sinew; Claradon and his comrades knew how to deal with such things.

  Claradon, Sir Conrad, and Sir Martin were the first to rush forward, yelling battle cries to their patron gods Odin, Tyr, and Anarian. By the time they approached the gateway an even more formidable being had pushed the ghastly fiends aside. It was nearly eight feet tall and covered from head to toe with sharpened metallic spikes. It was brick red in color, except for its large eyes, which glowed a brilliant gold.

  Claradon saw many more loathsome beasts pushing forward behind the spiked giant, striving to gain entry to the world of man. Verily, a veritable horde of hell was spewing forth from that malefic gateway to Abaddon. The spiked giant brandished a huge black sword and pointed it at the three knights.

  “Bow down,” it roared in the tongue of man, “Bow down petty creatures and pledge thy allegiance to Lord Gallis Korrgonn, Prince of Chaos, and son of almighty Azathoth. Bow down and swear thy fealty to me and I may spare thy pathetic lives.”

  Claradon’s whole body shuddered and quaked at the sight and sound of this unspeakable nightmarish thing. He felt puny and naked. A paralysis washed over him, rooting him in place. He knew he was about to die. A Lord of Chaos was about to annihilate him.

  He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to scream. If I just bow down, perhaps I might yet live. Such a little thing it would be, to just bow down. I could do this, couldn’t I? to save my life. What harm would it do?

  He remembered his father. He remembered his burning need for vengeance.

  He did not bow down. He would never bow down before any servant of chaos.

  He would have his vengeance.

  “I am Brother Claradon Eotrus, Lord of Dor Eotrus,” he shouted.

  “You killed my father; for this you die!”

  Claradon charged forward; from the corners of his eyes he saw that his two comrades were still with him. The smaller fiends sprang forward, interposing themselves between their dark Lord and the knights.

  “Very well, petty creatures,” said Korrgonn. “We shall feast on thy souls tonight. This world is ours now!”

  The knights fought with incredible ferocity, their swords and strength against the claws and fangs of the hellish spawn of chaos. Outnumbered, the fiends pressed them back, away from the gateway and away from Korrgonn. Through the whirl of battle, Claradon was cut off from his comrades and fought on alone. The mantle of holy light that enshrouded him blinded the fiends and they shrank from it. Many turned from him and sought other victims. This gave him a singular advantage in the wild melee and perhaps was all that preserved his life. It also allowed him brief moments of respite during which he caught glimpses of the deadly struggles unfolding around him. Numerous devils were attacking his still dazed or unconscious comrades and others engaged in duels to the death with the knights still standing. He saw Sir Bilson’s throat ripped out by one fiend, and young Sir Paldor’s chest slashed by another, but the brave knight fought on. Two fiends decapitated another knight and feasted on his corpse. Through the dim light, he spied Sirs Conrad and Martin, awash with blood and gore, pulled down and torn limb from limb by a group of bloodthirsty multi-armed fiends. Then he saw Ob, fighting alone, darting here and there, evading the claws of the beasts, no doubt cursing all the while, several fiends stalking at his heels. It pained him that he could do nothing to aid his comrades. It was all he could do just to stay alive in the wild melee.

  Tanch opened his eyes and pulled himself to a sitting position. Blood dripped from his nose and his eyes were unfocused. The bloody corpse of a fiend lay across his legs. Just to his left lay the corpse of one of Dor Eotrus’s knights, his heart torn out of his chest. A few feet away, Ob was fighting desperately with two fiends; several others already lay dead at his feet. Ob held a sword in one hand and a glowing dagger in the other and spun a wild dance of death about him. He thrust his sword through the breast of a fiend but it held fast as he tried to pull it out. As he struggled to withdraw it, he buried his short blade in the breast of the second fiend. From out of nowhere, another fiend appeared and clamped its devilish jaws upon Ob’s forearm. He wailed in agony but managed to stab the thing in the throat with his dagger. The beast fell back spouting ichor from its neck. Slumping back against one of the pillars, the wounded gnome struggled to wrap some cloth about his injured arm to stem the flow of his lifeblood. As Tanch watched in horror, a six-legged fiend with a vaguely batrachian aspect pounced on the tiny man. Par Tanch had only a moment to act.

  “By the Shards of Pythagorus, gek p
aipcm ficcg,” said Par Tanch. Six fist-sized spheres of blue fire appeared in the wizard’s hand, one after another, and shot at the vile demon. The first bored into its left shoulder and exploded, the second detonated a few inches lower, blasting off the limb entirely. The third, fourth and fifth spheres punctured the creature’s side and chest, the last blew a large chunk out of its bulbous head. Its corpse collapsed at Ob’s feet.

  Sirs Paldor, Glimador, and Indigo sprang to Ob’s aid. The three soldiers interposed themselves between the devils and their wounded Castellan and held the fiends at bay.

  XII

  THE HERO’S PATH

  The monstrous fiend, Korrgonn, strode up the hall toward the temple’s entrance, stepping on as often as over the still unconscious knights strewn about the chamber, and tossing aside any of its minions that got in its way. A tall knight brandishing a bastard sword blocked its path. The demon threw back its head and laughed at the petty creature that opposed it. But its laugh was stifled when the cold steel of the warrior’s holy blade sliced through its nigh impenetrable exoskeleton and punctured its innards. The beast howled in shock. Its golden eyes threatened to fly from their sockets, smoke and wisps of flame surged from its maw.

  Sir Gabriel Garn withdrew his war blade and slashed it back and forth across the demon’s chest and shoulder, each time biting deeply into the living armor. Green blood surged from the jagged wounds as Korrgonn roared in anger and agony. Despite its grievous wounds, the creature raised its blade to parry Gabriel’s next strike.

  Gabriel slashed his blade in a mighty, sweeping arc, employing a fencing maneuver used only by the Picts of the Gray Waste, but Korrgonn countered it. Gabriel tried the spinning thrust maneuver taught him by the Emerald Elves, but Korrgonn effortlessly deflected it, already seeming to regain its strength. The infamous Dyvers thrusting maneuvers, the Dwarvish overhand strikes, the Cernian technique, the Sarnack maneuvers, and the Lengian cut and thrust style were all equally ineffective. Korrgonn countered them all. All the while, Gabriel dodged blow after titanic blow, and parried others with the flat of his blade. Although he countered Korrgonn’s sword, the creature also made deft use of its spiked exoskeleton, slashing Gabriel several times, shredding his thick plate armor, and slicing into his flesh. Though Gabriel had perhaps never faced an opponent with such strength and resilience, he would not allow the fiend to defeat him. He had fought too many wars, too many duels over the ages to allow even one such as this to best him.