by B. V. Larson
Therian stepped forward. Both sides watched the other warily. The last living mortals on the island approached one another. Therian held out his closed fist. He opened his black-gloved palm. Upon it rested eight stones. Seven were a milky-white, but one was a black, shiny lump of ebony.
“Each of you will draw a stone. The matter may thus be decided.”
“Must the chosen man die unarmed, trussed and gutted by your foul swords like a pig?” demanded Bolo.
Therian made a dismissive gesture. “Hold onto your arms. Stand with eyes closed—or fight for your life, if you wish. It makes no difference to me.”
The crewmen, with many suspicious glances, placed the stones in Bolo’s steel cap. They drew them, one at a time. Their Captain left his stone in the steel cap, unrevealed. Slowly, each man turned his palm upward and showed his stone.
The first three showed milky-white. One of these men, a coxswain who was a fleshy fellow with fat, red cheeks, dropped to his knees with relief, laughing and shaking his head.
The men who had not yet revealed their stones stood with watchful eyes and baleful expressions. The fourth and fifth men decided to get it over with quickly and showed their stones. They were both milk-white. Sighs of relief were puffed out.
In the distance, another odd, warbling howl rose up.
“A hunting cry,” said Therian, with the attitude of idle interest. “It comes this way. It has picked up our scent. I believe it has entered the waters now and will make much faster progress circling around the island in the sea.”
“Show the last stones,” ordered Bolo grimly.
The sixth and the seventh showed their stones. All were white. Slowly, everyone looked toward Bolo, their Captain. With his lips drawn into a firm line, Bolo drew out the ebony stone and revealed it to all.
“I have been chosen,” he said.
“Are you ready?” asked Therian, eyeing the group.
“Wait!” cried the fat-cheeked coxswain. “This is not right. Bolo held back the black stone in his hand. He’s sacrificed himself.”
“The choice has been made,” Bolo said.
“Should not one of us trade with him?” pleaded the coxswain. “Do any of us possess the honor?”
None met his gaze.
“What of yourself, coxswain?” asked Therian in sudden interest.
The coxswain eyed Therian’s blades, and then the black stone, which Bolo still held out in the palm of his hand. He licked his lips. His eyes narrowed to slits. They slid back again to the silvery blades in Therian’s hands. Finally, he shook his head and hung it low in shame.
“Very well,” said Therian. “The stones have been distributed.”
“I choose to defend myself,” Bolo said, drawing his notched cutlass slowly. He took a firm grip on the sharkskin-wrapped hilt. The rest of the men drew back and formed a circle around them.
Therian’s eyebrows rose, but he made no comment. He stepped forward, unconcernedly. There was a predatory grace to his walk. His twin blades twitched upward as he came near, as might the ears of a great, stalking cat.
Bolo lifted his cutlass and took a deep breath.
Therian spoke words that injured the mind of all there who heard them. Succor and Seeker ran with eldritch lights. White flames sparked and twisted unnaturally over both blades, but no heat issued from these manifestations.
Therian lunged suddenly, unexpectedly. His blade pierced the coxswain’s round belly. Seeker twisted and thrust upward. The man’s heart was instantly stilled by the tip of the sword.
The coxswain fell to his knees. His lips worked silently. His eyes popped wide, but it was clear to all present that those eyes did not see the same world the rest saw. White lights played in those dying eyes, and his expression was one of shock and infinite horror.
“Treachery!” shouted Bolo, stepping forward. His raised his cutlass.
Gruum stepped forward to meet him. “It is not treachery,” he said, speaking up for the first time. “Think man! One soul is not enough to face such a monster!”
“One is not enough? Why didn’t you tell us?” Bolo asked, dismayed.
Therian snorted. “I thought it was abundantly clear.”
From somewhere behind the trees there came a laborious splashing—a slopping sound, like that which great hogs might make heaving themselves out of a pool of thick mud.
“But I drew the black stone!” Bolo cried.
“Exactly,” said Therian, his voice cool. “And I worship the Black Dragon. Her color is the color of good fortune. Thus, you are to be spared.”
“Seven souls?” Bolo asked in despair. “You need seven to face the sea monster?”
Therian made another lunge. This time the act was even faster and more suddenly done. A sailor who had strayed a step nearer fell stricken. His eyes mirrored the surprise and horror of the coxswain who lay crumpled in death upon the sands.
“I’ll not allow it!” Bolo roared. He made as if to charge Therian, but Gruum interceded and engaged him with his blade. The two traded strokes, slashing and parrying.
“Let me go after him, man!” Bolo shouted. “He’s a devil. None of us shall live to see another sunrise. Let’s at least die with honor.”
“You have no honor. You roasted a boy and celebrated the event last night.”
Bolo’s eyes narrowed. “I had wondered which of my men weakened and finished him off. It was you, then.”
“Yes it was, and I’ll enjoy watching your soul leave your body with the rest of us this day.”
Bolo lay into Gruum then, orange sparks flew from their blades as he cut high and low, seeking a way past Gruum’s determined guard.
The other crewmen ran for their lives and their immortal souls. Therian sprinted after them with unnatural speed. Like a panther leaping upon wounded gazelles, he rode down each man in turn. He slashed their legs from them and drank their souls. With each life he took, he grew faster, stronger and more feral of aspect. Gruum, witnessing this nightmare, had to wonder if Bolo spoke truthfully.
Bolo and Gruum stepped back from their swordplay and circled one another.
“A man has to keep discipline or a ship of pirates can’t function, Gruum, you should understand that,” said Bolo. “We have our own form of honor, harsh though it may be. Join us, and leave the foul stink of sorcery behind. At least our evil is that of flesh and blood.”
“Your words appeal to me, Bolo. But our quest is greater. We seek to relight the sun. We seek to bring warmth back to the north.”
“Then you are as deluded as your master!” Bolo cried.
Before they could speak further, everything about their tiny portion of the world changed. The monster set the treetops to the west thrashing about. A great, gray head rose up atop a long neck of thick flesh. A thousand teeth were revealed, each was curved, serrated and the length of a man’s dagger. A rumbling cry rolled out over the beach. The last trees between them and the beast cracked and flew twirling away. White wood showed beneath the dark bark. So great was its size that the monster’s flippers were in the waves on one side, and in the forest on the other. It was as wide as the entire beach itself.
Therian, bloated with the simmering power of seven fresh souls, stepped forward to meet the monster. The huge head turned to regard him with one black eye the size of a guardsman’s pot helm. Could the creature be surprised at Therian’s approach? Gruum wondered if any tiny mortal had ever dared to step up to it in such a confident manner in all its uncountable years of life.
Therian lifted his boot and stepped over the fallen body of a crewman. He stopped and raised his twin blades, pointing with them around the beach.
“Seven foul souls did I take here today,” he said to the sea monster. “I will demand now that you give me your name. I would know who you are, great Lady of the deep.”
The monster shambled forward. Ten feet closer. Twenty. She halted, as Therian did not retreat. A massive noise rolled from its open maw then, a sound that formed into bass words of inhuma
n volume. At first, Gruum had to shake his head. Then he thought he heard and understood the words, strange and foul though they might be.
Gruum and the Captain disengaged and stepped back away from one another, sides heaving. Somehow, their struggles seemed petty and pointless in the face of such a monstrosity. In truth, neither could tear his eyes from the sight of the sea monster, her head brushing the palm fronds—nor Therian, who stood nonchalantly before it.
“You intrigue me,” said the cavernous voice, “although you are only a mortal insect that crawls upon these dry peaks of dirt. Too long have I stayed in the deeps. I see now I was mistaken in my disdain for the surface. It is unpleasant, but interesting. I thank you, morsel, for having awakened me to the tiny joys of your world.”
“Then as a reward, tell me of your lineage, O Lady of the Deeps.”
The creature paused. She turned her great head so that she might regard the black-garbed figure of Therian with her second eye. “You amuse me. I will thusly reward you. I am Humusi. My sire was a megalodon from an age gone by. My mother was a creature known as Anduin the Black.”
Therian smiled. “I thank you, lost Humusi! I had suspected as much, because you were able to meet me in our dreams.”
“Our dreams?” rumbled the monster. “Did we slumber together? I had thought you were a ghost of past sea captains. In centuries past, I consumed a thousand ships. Some few creatures aboard them spoke with me, as you do now.”
“No, it was no ghost. It was I who shared your dreams.”
A black tongue swept around, flicking itself over hundreds of dagger-point teeth. Ropy strings of saliva dripped from the creatures jaws. The falling strings formed puddles on the beach which quickly transformed into dark patches as the thick liquid soaked into the sands.
“Can you possibly become any more intriguing? My desire to taste your flesh grows by the moment. I see now, up close, that you are not a normal man. You are of a different complexion and demeanor. I would have you name yourself to me, morsel.”
“I am Therian, Sorcerer-King of Hyborea. Now I know you, Humusi, daughter of Anduin. I name you a lost Dragon-Child. You are among those I must seek.”
“For what purpose, doll-king?”
“To return you to your mother, lost one. It is she, Anduin the Black, who has charged me with your retrieval.”
“Charged you? For what purpose?”
“To become her champion upon this world.”
A strange, blasting sound erupted from the creature. Steamy vapor blew from its mouth and nostrils. Foul scents washed up the beach, encompassing the last three living men on the island. Could the creature be laughing? Gruum wondered, uncertain.
“You amuse me greatly!” said the Dragon-Child. “How might you perform this impossible task? Perhaps you will stuff me into your leather pockets? Or shall I loop a rope around my neck and harness myself to your crippled ship?”
Therian gave his own huff of laughter. “Nothing so mundane, Great Lady.”
Another blasting eruption of foulness occurred. Gruum’s hair fluttered back, while Therian’s black locks flew about him as if he rode out a gale. Gruum was certain now, the creature was laughing at them.
“I will watch with great interest as you make your first move, absurd being.”
Therian used both his blades to circle himself, running them twice around, then once more. He had drawn a circle in the sands that completely encompassed him.
“And what’s this? A barrier that I cannot pass? I feel no presence holding me back, mortal. Perhaps your spell has failed you.”
“Just wait a moment more, Humusi. The circle is to protect me—but not from thee.”
“All right, but do hurry, sorcerer. I feel that I must eat you soon, lest this all be a ruse. I can’t let you escape me now. I’m mad to taste your flesh. You smell of rare spices and dried meat.”
Gruum and Bolo had, by mutual silent agreement, retreated another dozen paces up the beach from the sea monster. They continued their vigil, however. There was nowhere else to run. Should Therian fail, neither man imagined he would survive.
“What will your master do?” asked Bolo.
“Something unexpected—and frightening.”
Bolo looked at Gruum with a frank expression. “I can’t think why you follow him. Are you as mad as he is?”
Gruum nodded. “Often, I ask myself that same question.”
Therian bent over his patch of sand. It seemed, at this distance, that he piled up the sand and bits of flotsam at his feet. Gruum watched as the sea monster twisted its head this way and that, the long neck craning to see what the sorcerer was up to. Was this the moment Therian had been waiting for? Gruum expected to see his master spring up, mount the sea monster’s tree-trunk neck and perhaps ride it, slashing.
“Enough,” said Humusi, puffing at Therian. “I’m tired of this game now. You plan to exhaust me on this uncomfortable beach until I’m lulled into a compliant slumber.”
Therian stood. At his feet were a half-dozen figures built of sticks and sand. Black wax held them together at the joints and held the stick-swords to their tiny hands.
“What is that you have built there? You are not a sorcerer, but an artisan. And a poor one at that.”
“Look into the forest you have broken with your body,” said Therian, pointing behind the monster.
Humusi turned her great head, and Therian began to chant in Dragon Speech. His words were so powerful they bit into the minds of all present. Gruum grasped his head with both hands. Bolo did the same. But though they squinched their eyes and gritted their teeth, nothing could keep those terrible words out of their heads.
“That speech!” said the monster, twisting its snake-like head around to look down upon Therian again. “I have not heard such sweet words for an eon! I barely recall their meaning.”
Something moved then, in the forest where Therian had bade the monster to look. There was a large, shapeless mass that struggled to rise. The summoning lifted itself, dripping earth, as if it had been buried in the sands. With a man-shaped body of wet, dark sand, it had limbs made of driftwood logs. It was large, but not so large as the sea monster.
“Ah! Now I see your tricks, tiny sorcerer. But you made this one much too small.” So saying, the Dragon-Child darted forward her snake-like neck and snapped her jaws. She bit into the sandy golem. The golem in turn reached up and grappled with the mouth that latched onto its shoulder.
The struggle generated a deep grinding noise that terrified Gruum and Bolo. It was as if the walls of a castle had reared up and formed fingers of stone to grip a watchtower—which had itself formed a mouth from its door and now snapped back at the walls. The two men stepped back further, to the very edge of the beach. They would have fled, but where upon this cursed island might they find safety? They knew not, and so they stayed and they watched with growing dismay.
More sand golems arose. Gruum counted seven of them, in all. One for each of the souls Therian had consigned to Anduin. Eldritch sparks ran over their bodies, which were held together by forces unseen. Some had limps, shambling upon peg-legs built of buried logs. Others bore swords in the jagged-shape of sharp coral. One had a mace with a huge, gray boulder of granite at its head. None of them had eyes to see with—nor mouths with which to scream.
Gruum saw one of them then, in detail. It had fat cheeks, if nothing else. And a nose. It was the coxswain’s face, without his eyes or mouth. He felt certain of it. Gruum loosed his own cry of fear then, but in the din of titanic battle, none could hear it.
Humusi thrashed. Her great tail swept the sands behind her, knocking down trees and taking the feet of golems out from under them. But always, they rose again, reassembling themselves from the dripping wet grains. They beat her with their staves, their coral swords and the boulder-headed mace. They grappled with her, clinging to her thrashing limbs.
Therian stood calmly inside his circle. None of the struggling forms entered the space he had formed there.
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br /> Eyes black and wide with rage, Humusi snapped at him, but could not reach over the shoulders of the golems that grappled with her. She used her mouth to rip loose the mace with the boulder head from the golem that resembled, so closely, the coxswain. With a whipping, heaving motion, she threw it at Therian.
Gruum winced as the mace, a dozen feet long, twirled toward his master. But Therian stood motionless. The mace came down and struck some kind of barrier, something unseen. The head of it rolled off, a boulder once again. The shaft splintered and blasted the beach with shattered bits of driftwood.
“He stands in the circle to keep the golems out, not the monster,” said Bolo.
“It would appear so,” agreed Gruum.
The struggle went on for several minutes more, but in time, even the fantastic vitality of one so huge and powerful as Humusi gave out. She was winded and heaving about in spurts. Finally, she had had enough.
“Very well, sorcerer,” she huffed. “You have defeated me. I must retreat to the sea.”
So saying, she gave a great lurch and crawled toward the waves. She made it to the first lapping breakers. They furled over her flesh, wetting her claws and splashing up to her squat flippers.
Therian had been watching with idle interest. Rose and called out to his creations. “The tail! All grasp the tail!”
The sand giants tottered to do his bidding. More than a dozen hands, each two feet wide, grasped the great tail and hauled upon it. Unable to lash or gain purchase, exhausted, the sea monster was hauled up completely onto the beach again.
“One on each limb, two on the neck, one at the tail,” ordered Therian. He was cool, no more ruffled than might be a deck commander who called the arrangement of the sails to catch an even-tempered breeze.
Breathing hard, the monster quieted and lay still upon the dry beach. Her big, black eyes studied the sea, no more than a dozen feet from her face. So near, but unreachable.
“I wish to go home,” rumbled the monster.
“We will be glad to oblige,” said Therian. He used his blades to break open the circle he stood within. He stepped forward and walked up to the beast’s neck. He gestured over his shoulder for the two men who watched in safety to come forward.