VIII
Lord Gallis Korrgonn, the son of Azathoth, the one true god, stood beside the ship's wheel on the bridge deck of The White Rose. His right hand gripped his battered ankh, that ancient relic of mystical power that once belonged to Sir Gabriel Garn, late weapons master of House Eotrus. At Korrgonn’s side was Father Ginalli, high priest of Azathoth and Arkon of the League of Shadows. The hulking warrior Frem Sorlons and his lanky comrade Par Sevare observed the two from across the deck.
“The big boss is using that ankh thingy again, ain't he?” said Frem.
Par Sevare leaned over the ship's rail and spit a mouthful of tobacco juice into the sea, his cheek puffed out with a full wad of the stuff. “Probably to set our course. Somehow that talisman knows which way we’re to go.”
“It gives me the creeps. Stinking sorcery and such. No offense.”
Sevare nodded.
“Must not be working so well,” said Frem. “We're supposed to be headed due south to Jutenheim, but best I can tell we're sailing east and have been for two full days.”
“We're to make a stop at some island.”
“What for?”
Sevare hesitated before responding. “Lord Korrgonn doesn’t see fit to share his plans with me.”
Lord Ezerhauten, gaunt, pale, and menacing as always, stepped up beside the two, his black armor, adorned with magnificently etched dragons, glistened despite the overcast sky, and contrasted sharply with Frem's plain silver. “The island holds an ancient token what Korrgonn needs for his mystical gobbledygook,” he said.
“To what end?” said Sevare.
“To get us past the guardians of the temple in Jutenheim,” said Ezerhauten.
“The who of what?” said Frem.
Ezerhauten turned toward Frem. “Is there anything between your ears, Sorlons? Anything at all?”
Frem put his right hand to his ear and tugged, then put his little finger in each ear canal and felt around for a bit. “No,” he said, “nothing,” a blank expression on his face.
Ezerhauten shook his head and failed to suppress a grin despite himself.
“We're headed to another temple,” said Sevare. “A temple of power, like the one in the Vermion Forest. Only at such a place can another Gateway to Nifleheim be opened. That's why we’re going all the way the Jutenheim, remember?”
“I remember that the old elf in Tragoss Mor said something about that,” said Frem.
“Sorlons — did you think we were on holiday?” said Ezerhauten.
“I figured the elf’s Orb was probably all Ginalli really needed,” said Frem. “I guess I was confused. I get that way, sometimes. Isn’t opening a magical Gateway a dangerous thing? Wasn’t Ginalli lucky the last time that it didn’t open in the wrong place and that something nasty didn’t come through?”
“Last time,” said Ezerhauten, “Korrgonn made it through from Nifleheim to Midgaard and so did Mortach, or so they claim. The League's plan would've worked perfectly but for Theta, or Thetan, whatever he’s called. If they’d gotten us involved earlier, we could've stopped Theta, but, as it was, we weren't there and he mucked things up.”
“Korrgonn says that when he and his knights passed through the gateway, they expected to be welcomed as heroes. Instead, they were ambushed by Theta and his henchmen. The portal was shut down afore Azathoth came through, and Korrgonn got jumped so bad he had to use some mystical whobittydo to take over Gabriel Garn’s body just to survive.”
“That just never sat right with me,” said Frem. “Seems an evil thing to take a man's body. Taxes and tithes are bad enough, but that’s just too far. Especially a man like Gabriel. I've heard stories about him for years. A true hero they name him — what even fought dragons, trolls, and such. Admired by fighting men from one side of the kingdom to the other. There may be more to it than I know, so maybe I shouldn’t be talking.”
“That’s probably best,” said Sevare.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Ezerhauten. “Besides the praise you’ve heard, there are dark stories afloat about Gabriel Garn — always have been. Things that would make your skin crawl.”
“Like what?”
“One tale from way back marks him a baby snatcher, though I don't recall the particulars. Another says he had a habit of hanging about the dead — doing who knows what with them, if you get my meaning. If that don't make your skin crawl, I don’t know what would.”
“I heard that one too,” said Sevare. “If it's true, he had a sick mind.”
“Another story oft told goes that some years back he got stuck wintering up in the Kronar Range with a bunch of folks after the snows trapped them up there. When food got scarce, dark things that best not be spoken of went on. Come spring, Gabriel was the only one what walked out of those mountains alive.”
“I heard some story like that way back,” said Frem. “I didn’t know it was Gabriel though.”
“Well, I’m afraid that he wasn’t the great hero some folks made him out to be. A villain if you ask me, to do them things. Disappointing, I know, but that’s the truth of it.”
“Maybe so, but sometimes there's more than one truth, I figure,” said Frem. “Since Gabriel’s body is still walking about, where went his soul, his mind, his memories, and everything what made him, him?”
“Who knows,” said Sevare.
“So is he dead for real,” said Frem, “or stuck in there somewhere, all crowded up and cozy with Korrgonn?”
“Korrgonn says he’s dead,” said Ezerhauten. “So I guess he took over his corpse.”
“So he’s the walking dead?” said Frem.
“Undead, they call it,” said Sevare, “but I’m no necromancer.”
“Me great-grandmum told me stories about them undead fellows,” said Frem. “Kept me up all scared many a night, and kept me in line when I was up to the mischief, fearing they would come for me if I was bad. I’ve never forgotten them stories. Great-grandmum named them fellows duergar. She said they caused a pack of trouble way back when, and we would be in the deep stuff if ever they came calling again. Pure evil she marked them. Mindless evil, best stay well clear, and then some, she told me.”
“There's no such thing as duergar,” said Ezerhauten, “except in fairy tales and ghost stories. And even if there were, Korrgonn is not one of them. Possession might be a better word to describe it, if there’s a word for it at all. In any case, Korrgonn's adamant that Azathoth's reign on Midgaard must be reestablished. He says that opening a portal to Nifleheim is the only way, and only with Azathoth back in the game can Theta be stopped. That’s what he tells me anyway, and that’s a lot more than our clients usually tell. What the truth of it is, who knows.”
“Stopped from what?” said Frem.
“Good question,” said Ezerhauten. “Not really clear on the answer, other than they want him dead.”
Sevare shook his head in disbelief. “This is a dangerous game. The risk is—”
“—none of our concern,” said Ezerhauten. “The League is paying us better than anyone has in years, so we’ll see this through, like it as not. Besides, the priest got the gateway opened right and proper last time, and with Korrgonn's help I expect it'll be that much easier the next. But you're right; it's a risk, a grave one. But the decision's been made and that's the end of it. I’ve no interest in trying to talk Ginalli or Korrgonn out of it.”
“What guards the Jutenheim temple?” said Sevare.
“Korrgonn’s not saying, but it’s got him worried, so he must know. It must be tough as nails, whatever it is, to have the likes of him on edge. If he thinks we need some magical thingamajig to get past it, we best find it on this island.”
“What if the island has guardians too?” said Frem.
“If it does, we’ll deal with them,” said Ezerhauten. “That's what we get paid for.”
***
Breathing heavily, Frem pulled the longboat’s oars with all his vast strength, sweat pouring down his face. Two lines of Frem's Pointmen: a mixture of robust lugron warriors and armored men of Ezerhauten’s Sithian Mercenary Company, some rough-and-tumble veterans, others knights of aristocratic descent — third or fourth sons that would never inherit their family’s fortunes, worked the oars behind him and struggled to match his pace; all equipped with full battle gear. The glistening, polished, red armor of the knights and the dragon-crested maroon tabards of the soldiers contrasted with the bare-chested, hairy bulk of the lugron warriors. The lugron wisely doffed their thick hauberks of heavy leather when they stepped aboard the longboat, but the sithians' chain and plate armor took too long to put on and off, so they wore it and suffered the heat.
The sithians usually worked alone, but at Ginalli’s insistence, Ezerhauten agreed to integrate a troop of lugron into his mercenary squadrons. Frem was gifted almost half a squadron of scouts to bolster the Pointmen’s numbers and replace the losses suffered during the company’s last campaign. To Frem’s surprise, they integrated easily with his team and followed orders. Skilled, surprisingly disciplined, yet hampered by strange and varied superstitions, they so far gave a good account of themselves. That said, they were a bit too bold for Frem’s liking. You didn’t get to be an old soldier if you were too bold and Frem aspired to old age. If he didn’t get there, he would never see Coriana grown. Assuring that she was well-provided for, safe, and happy was more important to him than all else in the world. It motivated everything he did and seemed to affect every choice he made. Yet every day he suffered knowing that to provide for her properly, he had to remain a soldier and that kept him on the road, away from home. It was his only skill; his only way to earn a good living. It made him miss so much of her life. So much, it made him ashamed.
With each stroke, masses of noxious seaweed piled against the oars, weighed them down, and threatened to snap them from the strain. So thick was the heady muck, rarely did the men even catch glimpse of the water. The cove was eerily quiet; the water calm save for strange popping and bubbling sounds that came and went here and again, and the occasional slithering movement of one stringy clump of seaweed over another as the waves gently buoyed the whole mass.
The nauseating fumes that rose from the decaying weeds were too much for Frem; his labored breaths sucked the foulness deep into his lungs. Fifty yards from the black sand beach, he dropped his oars and coughed uncontrollably.
The Pointmen looked to the longboat’s stern where Sevare manned the rudder; their expressions pleaded for relief. Sevare stood up. “Alright men, oars down, let's take a break.”
Oars dropped stem to stern, the Pointmen sweaty and flushed from the sticky heat and the grueling effort to keep pace with Frem. Several men collapsed in exhaustion; the rest coughed, cleared their throats, and spit phlegm into the muck. One man leaned over the rail and vomited. All drank deep from their canteens.
Sevare cut strips of cloth from a large towel, wet them with clean water from a jug, and passed them to the men. “Tie one over your mouth and breathe through it. It’ll cut down the vapors.”
Frem spat into the muck. “We should've thought of that before we left the ship.” He upstoppered his canteen and swallowed a mouthful of water to clear his throat.
“It didn't seem like it would be so bad,” said Sevare. “Who would have thought a couple hundred yards would take so long and be such tough going?”
Frem scanned the cove. But for the modest black sand beach ahead, the cove's perimeter was barren and stony. Far to either side of the longboat rose huge, angular slabs of basalt and granite, black and dark-gray, ancient rock — stone born in the very core of Midgaard, thrown up from the depths in time immemorial. “Couldn't the captain have scared up a better spot to lay anchor? This stinking cove is clogged of seaweed from tip to tip and nothing but stone beyond.”
Captain “Rascelon sailed us around the entire island,” said Sevare. “There was nothing but jagged rocks, heavy surf, and fierce current that pushed the ship straight at the rocks. This place wasn't our best choice, it was our only choice.”
“Well, it was a lousy one anyway,” said Frem. “We would make better time walking this muck instead of rowing through it. I can't even see the water.”
“If Ginalli had his way,” said Sevare, “we would have rowed The Rose in here and anchored by the beach.”
“I’m no sailor,” said Frem, “but that don’t make no sense to me. We wouldn’t get a good depth reading through the muck — the ship would’ve gotten hung up or run aground. Then we would be fixed good.”
“That’s what the captain told Ginalli, but he wasn’t listening. Rascelon didn’t know how to deal with that — he’s a hothead, if you ask me. Things started getting ugly and Korrgonn had to break it up before they came to blows.”
“Then it was lucky for them both that Korrgonn was around," said Frem. “The captain is a tough man. He would have made short work of the priest in a straight-up fight, but I think he would have come to regret it. Ginalli’s the sort to hold a grudge — a bad one, I would wager.”
“You’re wrong on that, buddy,” said Sevare. “Ginalli’s a holy man — he’s not like that.”
Frem didn't seem convinced. “What do you figure happened to the patrol?” he said. “sixteen men. Good fighters every one, yet not a sign for hours.”
Sevare's gaze fixed on the two empty longboats that lay abandoned on the black beach before them. “I expect they're dead.”
“Probably torn to pieces,” said Little Storrl, a beardless youth that sat behind Frem. Storrl was by some years the youngest of all the Sithian Company, and the only one of lugron descent. “Maybe taken by lions or swallowed whole by some giant wyrm. I hear they have them out this way,” he said as he looked around fearfully.
Seated beside Little Storrl was Sergeant Putnam, a grizzled soldier that commanded the Pointmen’s first squad. “Clean the weed from your oars men,” shouted Putnam, “and push that log aside,” he said, pointing to a large piece of driftwood that floated amidst the seaweed heaped against the front of the longboat. He leaned forward and spoke quietly so the men behind couldn’t hear. “Cannibals is what I hear haunts hereabouts,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. “We’ll find their sorry skulls mounted on pikes by the beach, all the flesh stripped off, white bone kissing the breeze. You mark my words.”
“I was bent when Korrgonn picked that squadron over ours to scout the island,” said Frem. “How could he pass us over? Scouting the point is what we do.”
“Better than anyone,” said Putnam. “And Korrgonn knows it; he’s seen our work.”
“Ezerhauten’s head practically popped off when Korrgonn countermanded his orders and replaced us,” said Sevare.
“But if he hadn’t, we might all be dead now,” said Frem. “Boiling in some cannibal’s stew. I’m surprised Ezer let him do that.”
“The commander is too smart to lock horns with Korrgonn,” said Putnam, “even if he’s not what they claim him to be.”
“You think Korrgonn knew the danger?” said Frem.
“My guess is, he suspected,” said Sevare.
“And held us in reserve?” said Frem.
“Why not send his best?” said Little Storrl.
“In Mages and Monsters,” said Sevare, “when you’re probing your enemy to test his strength, do you move your best pieces into action first?”
“That would be stupid,” said Little Storrl. “You could lose your champions and then you would be done before the game even got started.”
“He sacrificed his pawns,” said Putnam.
Sevare nodded.
“So he’s got some meat to him, does he,” said Frem. “Some strategies and what not, all smart and tricksy. That's good, since the priest has got no sense at all, not for battle anyways, and nobody bothers to listen to us.”
“The top dog values us,” said Putnam. “That’s worth something, I expect.”
“Until he runs dry on pawns,” said Frem. “We're back in the deep stuff boys, and this time it really stinks,” he said, flicking his hand to knock off some clinging seaweed.
“That’s not the only thing what stinks,” said Little Storrl, wrinkling his nose at Frem.
Frem shook his head and messed the lad’s hair, which set him giggling.
“You keep sweating like that and you’ll swamp the boat,” said Little Storrl.
“You’re dripping near as much, boy,” said Frem.
“True enough, but easy to fix.” Little Storrl pushed aside the seaweed with his oar, dunked a bucket in the water, and upended it over his head to cool himself.
“Ugh,” went Frem, wrinkling his nose and leaning away. “That water stinks worse than the air.”
Little Storrl lifted his arm to his nose and sniffed. A look of disgust filled his face. “Well, since I stink already, I might as well be cool.” He leaned over to fill the bucket again. “Aargh!” he yelled and jumped back from the longboat's rail.
“What?!” said Frem.
“Sit down, boy,” said Putnam, “afore you end up in the drink.”
“Something is in the water,” said Storrl as he pulled a wicked dagger from his belt and pointed. “An eye looking up at me. It was huge.”
Frem tentatively leaned over the side, a long dagger in hand. “Nothing there now. Sure it wasn't just your reflection? Or some stinking fish?”
Storrl narrowed his eyes. “I saw something. I’m not sure what. Best we move on from here, I think.”
Sevare looked back toward where The White Rose lay anchored at the mouth of the cove. The squadron of longboats that carried much of the ship's compliment was slowly gaining ground on them. “Agreed. Let's get moving before Ezer has our hides.”
Sevare stood on the strand and scanned the expanse of stone ahead while Frem and the others secured the longboat, their efforts hampered by clumps of seaweed that enwrapped their legs as they pulled the boat ashore through the light surf. The seaweed clung to them and threatened to trip them, almost as if it were aware and of ill will. After a few moments of contact, it stung their skin and burned like the bite of a jellyfish, though not as severe. The men scrambled out of the water as fast as they could.
“Stinking weeds,” snarled Frem. “Get off me,” he bellowed as he tore a clump of weed from his leg. “Let's get off this darned beach. I don’t see no skulls on pikes, so we still got missing men to find.”
“A lifeless rock,” said Sevare to no one in particular. “Not a tree, bush, or bird in sight. Nothing but stone.” While Sevare watched, Frem's legs shot out from under him. He crashed face down to the wet sand and was pulled toward the water, his eyes wide with surprise and panic. Thick seaweed that looked like corded ropes were wrapped about his ankles and dragged him toward a watery doom. Frem drove a huge hand into the black, rocky sand to little effect. With his other hand he plunged his dagger into the sand to slow his slide. It sparked against the rocks and scarred the rocky sand, a deep rut left in its wake.
Sevare dived toward Frem, grabbed his wrist, and strained to stay his slide. But it was a powerful pull, beyond the strength of mortal men. Sevare’s feet dug deep into the sand but he could not hope to hold Frem back. “Cut him free,” yelled Sevare to whoever was near. “Now!”
The weeds dragged them both inexorably toward the water;
Swords and daggers came out all around. Putnam, Storrl, Moag, and Sir Roard hacked the weeds that coiled about Frem. With each blow landed, the weeds emitted sharp, rhythmic sounds, unholy crinoid cries of pain, and mayhaps, calls for help. Even in death, the weeds wreaked havoc. Each one that they severed shot a small cloud of noisome, acidic mist into the air that choked the men and stung their exposed flesh before it finally went silent and still.
With alarming speed, more corded weeds slithered from the water and advanced like snakes across the sand. How long they were, none could tell, for one end of each remained in the water. They wrapped en masse about Frem’s feet and legs, acting in concert, and ignoring all else. Frem rolled to his back, pulled a second dagger from his belt, and slashed the weeds that coiled about his torso.
Without warning, a volley of thicker weeds rocketed from the water. They screeched as they sailed through the air — a high-pitched, discordant wail, sharp and painful to hear. Their ends held toothy maws, small but wickedly sharp and ravenous. The barrage slammed into the Pointmen. Men dived, reeled, or were knocked from their feet.
One weed slammed into Sir Roard’s breastplate. Its fangs bit deep into the tempered steel as easily as a snake punctures a man's flesh. Another did the same to Storrl’s hauberk, embedding its fangs in the thick leather. It wouldn’t let go. Storrl grabbed the thing even as it pulled him toward the water. A desperate series of slashes with his blade severed it and he turned and bolted back to Frem's side. Dozens more hellweeds deflected off armor and shield or crashed into the sand. They coiled, hissed, bared their fangs, and struck like cobras, sending the men scurrying up the strand. The Pointmen tried to form a defensive line but the weeds were too quick, chaotic, and unconventional in their attacks. The men were assailed from all sides and were nearly overwhelmed, their only recourse was to move farther back from the water's edge and get beyond the weed’s range.
Only Little Storrl, Sir Roard, and Sevare remained at Frem's side, the surf now licking his calves. Little Storrl tore desperate at the weeds, hand and dagger, his weight on Frem’s chest to stay him. Sevare was half buried in the sand up by Frem’s head, his face red, and arms burning from the strain of holding Frem back.
Roard stood at Frem’s feet and held more weeds at bay with sword and shield. Over and over the snarling weeds slammed into his shield and breastplate, but Roard was sturdy and strong and stood his ground. He beat them back as best he could, his expression determined and confident despite the inhuman onslaught he faced.
An angry coil of weed rocketed from the surf and slipped past Roard’s guard. It whipped about his neck and knocked the big knight from his feet. Dazed, Roard’s hands went to his throat and sought to tear the weed free even as it clamped down and cut off his air. Before any man could come to his aid, it dragged him headfirst and face up into the water, his desperate struggles and great strength were to no avail. As quick as that he disappeared below the muck. He was not seen again.
“What hell shit these out?” spat Little Storrl as he stared at the spot where Roard disappeared into the surf.
“Save yourself, boy,” grunted Frem through clenched teeth. “You too, wizard. I’m done for.”
“No!” said Storrl as tears welled in his eyes. “I’m not leaving you, boss.”
“You got to,” shouted Frem. “You must tell Coriana that I love her — you tell her that! Now get gone.”
“No!” said Storrl.
“Help us,” yelled Sevare over his shoulder toward the rest of the Pointmen. The others couldn’t approach, though Putnam and more than a few others tried, beset as they were with the hellweeds.
“What do we do?” said Storrl to Sevare, desperation in his eyes.
“I’ve a spell that I can try,” said Sevare. “I just need a moment,”
“I’ve got him,” said the young lugron. “But hurry.”
Sevare stood, whirled his hands, and wove an eldritch incantation. Harsh guttural tones, sounds never meant to be uttered by the throat of man, escaped through Par Sevare's lips. Yellow fire, mystic brought, beamed from his hand, roaring like a thunderstorm, and impacted the evil weeds coiled about Frem's feet. The raw power of that arcane blast severed them one and all, incinerating the weeds at the point of impact, though it left Frem unscathed. An inhuman wailing filled the air and the masses of seaweed about the strand bucked, roiled, and roared, and then mercifully receded, sliding, slithering, or rocketing back into the water and out of sight. A thick covering of weed still capped the water's surface but what remained was common and quiet, the devilish things having fled. Par Sevare’s arms shook. Smoke rose from his hands and pain racked his body. He fell backward to the sand, unconscious. Frem scrambled up and away from the water and stumbled to the rocks at the back of the beach, his legs numb and barely responsive, owing to the effects of the constrictive coils. He tore at the dead remnants of weed that still clung to him, even as many of the slimy coils still squirmed in their death throes. Storrl dragged Sevare by the arm across the strand until others moved in to help.
“Pull the boats back,” said Frem. “All the way up the beach. Get everything away from the surf.” The men did so and then joined him at the back end of the beach. Someone threw a helmet full of water on Sevare to bring him around. His hands still steamed from the magic he’d thrown.
“Roard served with me for six years,” said Putnam. “A good man and a good knight. He has a fine wife and three young ones. What's to become of them now? He shouldn't have died like this. Drowned by a damned weed in the middle of nowhere. It's senseless. Not a way for a soldier to die.”
“He died trying to save me,” said Frem. “That makes him a hero in my book. What better way for a soldier to go?”
Putnam was quiet for some moments. “Aye, true enough,” he said, nodding. “Then a hero's death we'll mark it. We'll toast Roard at the next feast.”
Sevare joined them, wet cloths wrapped about both hands, though he looked a bit unsteady. “No need to worry about his family, the League will see that they are well provided for, I’m sure.”
“You’re always right quick to speak up for the Leaguers,” said Putnam. “You’re getting a bit too much religion, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” said Sevare.
“You think that devil weed got our patrol?” said Little Storrl as he gazed up at the darkening sky, a storm moving in. Thunder pealed in the distance.
“We would have seen the battle from the ship,” said Frem as he placed a hand on the young lugron's shoulder. “They would not have gone quietly.”
“Couldn’t have taken all of them, anyways,” said Putnam. “Just the same, I figure they’re dead, probably to a man, rest their souls.”
“Something else waylaid them,” said Sevare before he spit a wad of tobacco to the sand. “Something inland, back in those rocks. Something we haven’t seen yet.”
“Something we don't want to see,” said Frem.
“Whatever it is, let’s hope it got its fill already,” said Sevare as the first drops of rain fell on his head.
“More likely, they’ve just developed a taste for us,” said Putnam. “Stinking cannibals. We need to secure the area before the others land. “I’ll see that the boys get to it.”