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The day was dark as twilight; thunder pealed in the distance, but the rain eased. Frem Sorlons and Par Sevare stood in a dismal gorge of death — barbaric, brutal, and bloody, the air fouled of spilled entrails. To call the place a battlefield would have marked it too commonplace, too acceptable, too clean. It was none of those. Broken, mutilated bodies, the remains of The White Rose’s missing patrol, lay strewn about the bottom of the shallow gorge. Stone steps led down some dozen feet to the gorge’s rocky floor, which stretched no more than thirty feet across, though it was several times that long. Twenty steep steps carried one up and out on the other side. A trail through the stony landscape led The White Rose’s shore party here via steps carved into the living rock and rugged pathways cut through giant slabs of granite.
“Perfect spot for an ambush,” said Sevare as he surveyed the gorge’s rim where six lugron Pointmen stood on guard, ostensibly looking outward to keep watch, though each glanced down again and again at the horrid scene below them. “They had nowhere to run.”
From atop the stair, Sergeant Putnam signaled Korrgonn’s imminent arrival. Within moments, Ezerhauten appeared at the rim with a squadron of sithians — Ginalli and Korrgonn in tow. The mercenary commander studied the scene and then ordered his men to spread out and bolster the guard along the rim. Soon Ezerhauten, Putnam, Ginalli, and Korrgonn descended the steep steps, made all the more treacherous by cascading water and slick moss. Sevare and Frem met them at the base of the stair, though Ezerhauten ignored them and walked past to examine the grisly remains.
“The whole patrol?” said Ginalli, his face grave.
“Hard to say,” said Sevare. “The bodies are dismembered. Not sure how many there are.”
“There’s twelve heads,” said Frem. “Counted them myself. They were chopped up right good, but there are twelve for sure.”
Ginalli’s face flushed red; his eyes narrowed. He winced and looked past Sevare, but with the darkness and a bit of distance, there was little to see. Korrgonn stood by, stoic and silent.
“Are you saying that someone cut them to pieces?” asked Ginalli through gritted teeth. He looked over at Korrgonn. “A ritual slaying?”
Sevare shook his head. “No, nothing like that. The bodies are torn and punctured as if by claws and teeth. It was animals. A pack of big cats, or wild dogs, or wolves, I would wager.”
“Not eaten,” said Frem. “Just ripped up and left to rot. Best way to count them up was by the heads, what’s left of them anyways.”
Ginalli looked about, alarmed.
“Be at ease,” said Sevare. “They’re long gone, whatever they were. We’ve posted a strong guard. If they come back, they’ll not catch us unawares.”
“Could it have been men that did this?” said Ginalli. “Maybe a pack of scavengers came in later.”
“Checked for that,” said Frem. “We found no arrows or bolts and no sword or axe wounds as far as we can see. Some holes though — could be spears, could be teeth — big teeth, like the fangs of a snow cat.”
“Unless there’s a forest farther on,” said Sevare, “I don’t see how this island could support a pack of big cats or wolves. Nothing to eat anywhere that we’ve seen.”
“Nothing but rocks and some moss here and there,” said Frem. “That’s what has us stomped.”
“Stumped,” said Sevare.
“That’s what I said,” said Frem. “Stomped.”
Ezerhauten completed his study of the remains and rejoined the group. “They died in a circle, fighting back to back at the end. A last stand. Too bad there’s no one alive to recount the tale. It would be a good one for the annals. Putnam — you mark it down as best you can. Make sure that you record all their names, and spell them right. Those men should be remembered.”
“Aye, commander,” said Putnam. “I’ll mark it good. Should I leave out the part about the heads?”
“No. We’ll stand on the truth, just as we always do.”
“What did this, commander?” said Ginalli. “Your men think it was animals.”
“Unusual for animals to attack a large group of men,” said Ezerhauten. “And there are no carcasses. I don’t care if it were cave bears, lions, or whatnot; our boys would’ve taken some of them down.”
“So what are we dealing with?” said Ginalli.
Ezerhauten shook his head in frustration. “Can’t say for certain. Maybe it was some backward tribesmen what still use stone spears, bone knives, and such. Had to be a lot of them though to best our men. Several score or more. They must have carried away their dead.”
“Cannibals, probably,” said Putnam.
“Maybe it was a dragon,” said Frem.
Sevare rolled his eyes. “I expect we’ll find out soon enough. There were sixteen men in the patrol. We’ve no sign of the other four. They either ran for it or were dragged off. If we find any alive, Ezer, you may get your tale yet.”
“I assume the rain washed away any prints or blood trails,” said Ginalli.
“Aye,” said Frem.
“We’ll need to stay in a tight formation,” said Ezerhauten. “Sorlons — make sure you stay in sight of the main group at all times. We can’t afford to lose another squadron.”
“What of the bodies?” said Sevare.
“We can’t bury them in this stone,” said Frem. “And burning would get noticed.”
“Have a detachment carry them back to the ship for a proper service and burial,” said Ginalli to Ezerhauten.
“Hold on,” said Ezerhauten. “We can’t split our force. We may need every sword we have. We can pick up the bodies on the way back. It's not as if we’ll find them in any worse shape later.”
Ginalli glared at Ezerhauten. “Your compassion is overwhelming as usual,” said Ginalli.
“Hard words, mercenary, but wise,” said Korrgonn. “That’s what we’ll do.”
“If you wanted someone kind and gentle, priest, you wouldn’t have hired me,” said Ezerhauten. “You would have taken up with the Blue Steel Company or the Wood Rats. Of course, those buggers would’ve already surrendered to whatever killed the patrol.”
Ginalli looked insulted. “Assemble the men,” he said. “We’ll say a prayer for the souls of the fallen before we move on.”
“A quick one,” said Korrgonn. “We need to get to the center of the island. It’s there that we’ll find what we’re here for.”
“Which is what exactly?” said Ezerhauten.
“Don’t overstep your place,” said Ginalli coldly.
Korrgonn paused and took a breath, as if considering whether to respond. “An ancient talisman that will ease our getting past the guardian of the Jutenheim temple.”
“Easing that passage has cost us sixteen good men already. Ten of them, my men. Some had wives and children and will be sorely missed. Are you sure this talisman is worth it?”
“I’m sure,” said Korrgonn.
“Rest assured that the families of our fallen heroes will be well provided for,” said Ginalli. “We take care of our own. All in accordance with our contract, of course.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to that,” said Ezerhauten. He nodded, turned, and marched up the stone stair to assemble the troops. “This is going to get messy,” he said, but no one was close enough to hear.
Frem stalked cautiously at the van, making hardly any sound despite his metal armor and bulky physique. His eyes darted from side to side and took in all that appeared before him, though visibility was sorely limited. The rain had subsided, but the sky remained heavily overcast, the island dark as a moonlit night though it was still midafternoon; thunder and lightning came and went in waves. The brief flashes of lightning offered the only distant views of the stony vista. It smelled of rotting seaweed even here, far inland. Par Sevare and the Pointmen followed in silence closely behind Frem. The bulk of The White Rose’s expedition trudged across the wet stones some one hundred yards behind.
Ezerhauten and a squad of soldiers broke off from the main group and moved quickly to catch up to the Pointmen. “Here comes Lord Sunshine,” said Sevare.
The Pointmen halted and parted for Ezerhauten. “There’s to be no magic thrown from here on out,” said Ezerhauten to Sevare. “None at all. Korrgonn’s orders.”
“Except if we’re attacked, right?” said Sevare.
“Not even.”
“What? Why not?”
“He thinks it will give away our position to someone or something.”
“If something jumps us,” said Frem, “they already know our position, so what’s the risk?”
Neither Sevare nor Ezerhauten seemed to hear him.
“How am I supposed to fight beasts that can tear up our knights without magic?” said Sevare.
“Improvise,” said Ezerhauten.
“Save up a good wad and spit in their eyes,” said Frem.
“Worth a try,” said Ezerhauten. “At least it’ll give that swill you spit some purpose. Go argue with Korrgonn if you want. I’m just the messenger.” Ezerhauten looked to Frem. “I’ll walk the point with you for a while — I trust you’ve no objection.”
Frem nodded his agreement.
Sevare choked down his frustration. “We’ll want your sword close at hand soon enough, I expect.”
“So how much does the League pay the families of our dead?” said Frem as they walked along.
Ezerhauten looked surprised at the question. “Two hundred silver stars went to the wives of our men what the Eotrus killed up by Riker’s. Not so much, but it’ll see to them for a goodly time. Why?”
“My daughter,” said Frem. “I want to make sure she's taken care of, if it comes to it. What about the lugron what died?”
Sevare responded quickly, before Ezerhauten answered. “I’m sure their families got the same.”
“They got nothing,” said Ezerhauten.
“Ezer doesn’t know what they got,” said Sevare, throwing an evil glare at Ezerhauten. “He’s just pulling your chain. We’re all treated equally, I’m sure.”
Frem stopped and turned to face Ezerhauten. “What do you mean they got nothing?”
“I meant what I said,” said Ezerhauten. “They got nothing.”
“Why not?” said Frem, his voice sharp. “Their company got hired on by the League same as ours. Some of them are even believers. Why shouldn’t they get taken care of the same? We’re all equal, aren’t we? All deserving? That’s what the priests say at the services, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t the lugron families be treated the same?”
Sevare tried to step between the two warriors and pulled Frem by the arm. “We need to keep moving.”
“Don’t yell at me, Sorlons,” said Ezerhauten. “You do remember that you work for me, not the League, don’t you?”
“Aye.”
“Good, because I’ve nothing to do with it. I’m just hired help, same as you.” After they walked a while longer, Ezerhauten spoke again, quietly, so that only Frem and Sevare could hear him. “They got nothing because they're just lugron.”
Frem stared at Ezerhauten for a moment. “So they’re not good enough? Is that it?”
“The lugron are not in the club, boy, don’t you get it? As far as the League goes, there are two kinds of folk. The elites — which are the priests, wizards, and noblemen. Then there’s everybody else, the masses — the merchants, tradesmen, commoners, peasants, beggars and all. Everybody is treated the same, just not the same as the elites. You won't hear that in any of Ginalli’s sermons though. Heck, he wouldn’t admit it if you held a knife to his throat. But that is the way it is all the same.”
“Some folks having a lot when others have nothing is what the League is fighting against, isn’t it? Isn’t that what they’re trying to change? Isn’t that what the League is all about?”
“Of course it is,” said Sevare. “Ezer’s wrong on this one. Dead wrong.”
Ezerhauten’s smile was frightful. “Just be happy you’re in the club and don’t think too much about it.” He looked back toward the main group. They had halted and no doubt wondered why the Pointmen weren’t advancing. “Let’s get moving.”
Ezerhauten walked beside Frem. “You suspected the lugron got nothing, that’s why you asked about them.”
Frem shrugged.
“You’re not as stupid as you look,” said Ezerhauten.
“Oh yes, I am,” muttered Frem as he stalked across the stony landscape.
***
Sevare froze when Frem stopped short and raised his hand, a command to his squadron to halt and go quiet, which they did at once; each man still and silent but poised for action within a single breath. The rearmost Pointman relayed the signal to the main group.
With the men still, the island went eerily quiet despite the strange properties of the stark landscape that distorted and reverberated sounds, causing each word, step, or stumble to carry far and wide.
Frem turned his head slowly from side to side. Sevare knew he had sensed something. But what? And from which direction? Sevare heard nothing, and through the dark saw only stone. About them, nothing but an undulating expanse of bleak flat rock, curved stones, and tall, stark monoliths, upright sentinels that guarded hidden secrets unfathomed by man. Each block, boulder, and slab, weathered and curved, deeply pitted and eroded with age, not a sharp corner or knife-edge to be found. This was old rock, lifeless and barren, that harkened back to another age when the world was young.
Without thought, Sevare crouched, bent his knees, and tightened his grip on his staff for all the good that it would do. Some might take that old mahogany rod for a magical wand, a token of mystical power and esoteric energies that wizards of fable were wont to possess. Others would call it a weapon, for a staff held in skilled hands could oft match sword, spear, or axe. But to Sevare it was just a walking stick, a simple accoutrement, not an instrument of magic or a weapon for battle. He didn’t even know how to wield it, save to swing it as any man would a club. Yet he gripped it all the tighter and drew from it what comfort he could.
Frem’s hand went to his sword hilt and slowly pulled it from its scabbard. Sevare’s heart pounded. He knew they were close — the things that had killed their men. He felt blind and naked without his magic, blast it all. He gripped the staff tighter.
Alongside Sevare, Ezerhauten tensed. His steely gaze penetrated deep into the twilight, his face etched with the sinister grin he always wore before a battle. He unsheathed his sword and held it at the ready. The other Pointmen did the same. The lugron sniffed the air, their broad noses keener than most men’s. They caught a scent. They leveled spears; all their energy coiled, muscles and tendons poised to spring, ready to unleash the wanton bloodlust that ever consumed their ancient race.
A slight breeze passed from the north and now Sevare smelled it too. A putrid, fishy odor that fouled the cooling breeze that followed the rain ashore. A heady smell, a mixture of fresh and rotted fish; a scent of the sea; of life, but also of death and decay.
From off to the right came the creature’s call. A sharp, startling, croaking sound that came not from man or known beast. It was full of menace, consumed of hate, old, dark, and deep. Ezerhauten, Sevare saw, looked left, while the others stared to the right whence the sound derived, though nothing emerged from the gloom. Now from the left came low-pitched, booming croaks, akin to the first call but louder, closer, even more menacing.
Sevare felt the hairs on his head stiffen, and a chill trickled down his spine. His hands grew icy cold. He’d never heard the calls of those things before, whatever they were, yet their cries were all too familiar, and with that realization a memory crept up from the depths of his mind and a fear took him. Something old, some primordial terror long dormant deep in his psyche. A gnawing memory buried within his bones, etched on his soul, passed down through the long years in his very blood. For somewhere in the grim and ancient past his ancestors knew well those sounds, and feared them, and that primal fear carried down through the ages as some racial memory that abided at the core of his being and called out to him through the veil of time, warning him to flee, to run, to live.
And then on they came, from the front and from the right and from the left; the denizens of the dark places deep in the bowels of Midgaard. Creatures left over from the old world, bygone days long sullied, withered, and best forgotten.
Each had two arms and two legs, but they were most assuredly not men. The smallest stood seven, perhaps eight feet tall; the largest well more than ten, though their size was deceptive for they bounded forward, croaking and gibbering, as much on four limbs as two; their uneven gate more batrachian than human.
Green or brown in color for the most part, their fronts lighter, white or gray, all scaly and glistening. Each had a large, ridged protrusion, some vestigial fin that extended from the crest of their heads down the center of their backs; their hands and feet webbed. But what struck terror in the hearts of the Pointmen were their heads — far oversized and narrow, dominated by expansive, toothy maws, and large, glassy eyes that moved independently and were rooted more to the sides than the fronts of their narrow faces. Their appearance was bizarre and alien and marked them part of some forsaken family tree long since lost, calling to mind an unholy union among man, fish, and reptile. Male or female, one could not tell.
But these were no mere beasts, no lowly animals pack-hunting prey — a spark of sentience, a semblance of civilization was theirs, for some carried weighted nets and bolos into battle; some held daggers of shell or stone. Others advanced with but teeth and claw. Most wore armor fashioned of seashell and stone strapped about their otherwise naked bodies with fibers of unknown make.
Knowing the carnage these giant beasts were capable of, normal men, sane men, would have fled howling, but Frem’s Pointmen were no ordinary men. Rugged veterans of a hundred bloody battles with man, and beast, and darker things, their courage held, as it always held, and kept them to their duty. Only Frem’s order to hold stayed the lugron from charging forward with their iron-banded spears. Par Sevare shuddered where he stood, but he would not run; he would not abandon his comrades; he would not shame his order, though on that stony ground he might meet his end.
Frem, Ezerhauten, and the sithians met the creatures as they came, swords blazing, fire in their hearts. The lugron lunged with spears and howled the same war cries as when they hunted the cave bear and the great cats in the high country whence they came. And when that wave of sea devils crashed down, the very stones of Midgaard shook and quaked. The powerful stench of the sea things washed over the men, a weapon in itself, for despite the boiling blood of battle, it was all they could do not to stoop and retch.
Tips of lugron spears shattered against the sea beasts’ hides, but here and there, a weapon found its mark and impaled the things, sinking deep into their flesh, evoking high-pitched screams that were their death-cry, though these fiends met not their end with ease. They thrashed about, all flailing claws and gnashing teeth, they rolled, kicked, and clawed until they breathed their last and the spark of life finally fled. Their blood ran milky white and foamed up all bubbly when it tasted the air. Tempered steel clashed with primitive knife and claw, nets and bolos were thrown and men went down; claws raked, great teeth gnashed, and men died.
Sevare ducked and spun, dived this way and that and evaded the claws and teeth. He felt the coward to not stand and fight, but he knew these were foes he could not match, not without his magic, not without disobeying Lord Korrgonn’s orders. Sevare feared Korrgonn’s disapproval and his wrath, perhaps more even than death, though why, he did not know.
The battle lust full upon him, Frem roared and his sword crashed and thundered and pummeled the beasts with all the power of his mighty thews, but only the surest strokes pierced the scabrous hide of the fish-men, their very flesh as hard as the old stone of their isle. One great beast, the largest of the pack, a gnarled, thick-limbed one-eye, traded Frem blow for blow with a massive club of gray bone, until at last the creature blasted Frem’s sword from his grip. Frem tripped it, and took it from its feet, but its huge webbed hands found his throat and clamped down with strength Frem had never felt before. Only Frem's steel neck guard staved off a quick death. Frem’s iron grip found One Eye's throat and squeezed with all the strength that any mortal man did ever possess.
Lord Ezerhauten’s swordplay dazzled the eye and kept the beasts at bay, but profited him little, for though his strokes carried great power, his style relied on swift, sure cuts and thrusts, and not on crushing blows. He could not easily pierce their hides, at least not fighting three to one as was his lot, so he wove a dance of death about him, moved and spun, and twisted and leaped to keep from their deadly clutches until aid arrived or his strength failed him.
Then above the din came a mighty roar. Mort Zag’s great bulk bounded into the fray. Taller even than most of the fish-men and far broader than any, the red giant’s axe crashed down with indomitable power and chopped through ichthyic limb and torso alike.
And then Lord Korrgonn was there. His great sword swung and thrust with inhuman, celestial power, his eyes wild as his blade bit deep in the fish-man flesh.
And then a wave of spears and swords crashed into the fish-men, the whole of The White Rose’s shore party fell on them, the tide now inexorably changed. The fish-men croaked, hissed, and slavered as they fought, and killed, and died, but no words as we would call them ever passed their lips. They fought on until the last, without fear or hesitation, though their fellows died grisly about them. What ones escaped Mort Zag’s and Korrgonn’s weapons were pulled down by force of numbers, a dozen blades thrust into their eyes, necks, and groins, their hide elsewhere too hard to pierce.
The last of them was the great beast that wrestled with Frem, their digits still locked about each other’s throats, the life fast draining from both. Korrgonn stepped up and grabbed One Eye’s head, and swift and sure, twisted until a sickening crack was heard. The creature struggled no more and fell limp and lifeless atop Frem.
Ginalli picked his way across the bloody, corpse-riddled stone toward Korrgonn. “My lord,” he said, “are you hurt?”
“No,” said Korrgonn, his eyes and face still afire as he searched for more foes, his body quivering from the thrill of the battle.
Ezerhauten sank to one knee, breathing hard. “There could be more,” he said hoarsely. “Keep alert.”
Sevare and Putnam dragged One Eye’s corpse from atop Frem.
Frem’s eyes were open, and his chest heaved up and down with his breath, though he laid still, his face dripped with sweat. The upturned steel that served as neck protection at the top of Frem’s cuirass was badly bent; the indentations of the fish-man’s digits marred it, as a man’s hand would leave an impression in clay. Blood trickled from Frem’s neck where the armor’s edge abraded his skin. He lifted his hand to his neck and tugged at the armor. “Get this thing off me,” he said. “I can’t breathe.”
“Roll over and we’ll unstrap it,” said Sevare. He did and Sevare fumbled at the cuirass’s fastenings.
“Move aside, wizard,” said Putnam. He had the cuirass off in moments. Frem took a deep breath and clutched at his throat, now a mottled black and blue. Blood dripped onto his padded shirt, yellowed from sweat and age.
Sevare checked on the other Pointmen while Putnam went to work on the cuirass, bending the neck-piece back with a pliers. “I’ll have it serviceable in a minute. We’ll fix it right as rain when we’ve time.”
Frem sat up. “Never thought nothing could be that strong,” he said. “My armor’s solid Dyvers steel; the best there is and that thing bent it between its fingers. It would have crushed my throat in a second. In a second!”
“It’s alright, Captain,” said Putnam. “It’s dead and you’re not. Let’s get this back on you before any more of them things show up.”
Sevare returned, his face grave, Ezerhauten on his heels. The Commander looked them up and down. “Eight men dead,” he said, “Par Landru amongst them, and two more will soon join them.”
“Landru?” said Sevare. Shock filled his face for he knew Landru was as skilled a wizard as he, in some ways better.
“They took his head clean off,” said Ezerhauten. “Seems you archwizards can die the same as any man. Not so all-powerful after all, are you? Best remember that.” Ezerhauten kicked the corpse of one of the fish-men. “We gave better than we got. Twelve of them are dead. Not one escaped. How many Pointmen do you have left?”
Frem and Putnam looked around uncertain.
“There are thirteen of us in fighting shape,” said Sevare. “Two others are badly wounded.”
“That’s enough, I expect,” said Ezerhauten.
“Who’s dead?” said Frem, looking about. Concern filled his face. “Maldin, Moag, Royce, and Carroll look okay,” he said, pointing at four of his squadmates that stood nearby.
“I sent Borrel, Dirnel, Wikkle, and Ward up ahead,” said Sevare. “Lex and Torak are watching our left flank. Bryton and Jorna are sorely wounded. The rest are gone: Boatman, Held, and Storrl.”
Frem started. “Storrl?! Little Storrl is dead?”
Sevare nodded; his expression grim. “Over there,” he said, pointing. Some five yards away, atop a flat slab of stone, the young lugron’s small body lay limp, his right arm missing below the elbow.
Frem lumbered to his side and knelt on one knee. The others followed him over. “Storrl! Storrl!” he said. He gently shook the lad, but he did not stir. He took the boy's remaining hand in his and held it tightly. “He was just a child,” he said as tears welled in his eyes. “Stinking, fish-things! Evil beasts! He had no family left — there’s no one even to mourn him, save us, and we ain’t worth much.”
“A good lad,” said Putnam as he gently draped a blanket over the boy’s body, leaving only his head exposed. “Always did as he was told. Mostly, anyways. I’ll give him a good writeup in the annals.”
“Had the makings of a fine scout,” said Sevare. “Quick and brave, but not reckless. A good Pointman.”
“Last of his clan, he told me,” said Frem. “Some sickness took them all, winter before last. There’s no one to remember them now, or him. No one to tell their tales.”
“We’ll remember,” said Putnam. “Storrl and all the rest of our fallen.”
“And toast them,” said Sevare. “And not with any common ale or even Rebma Red. We’ll crack a bottle of Everquist and praise our fallen Pointmen, one and all.”
“Kernian brandy,” said Frem.
“Brandy?” said Putnam. “The only time I saw you drink that was—”
“—up in Cinder Falls,” said Frem. “After the battle, I gave the boy a sip from that bottle we liberated. He fancied it. Made him cough and turn a bit green, but he fancied it all the same. Made him feel grown, I expect, like he was really one of us, which he was after all. I told him I would buy him a bottle when he came of age. He liked that, he did. But now I never will.”
“We’ll drink to his memory,” said Sevare, “If we ever get off this stinking rock and back to the world.”
“What!" started Frem. “Storrl!” Frem bent close to the boy's face.
“What is it?” said Putnam.
“He squeezed my hand. He’s alive. He squeezed my hand.”
Sevare looked over at Putnam. “Get a tourniquet, you fool. Bind his arm before he bleeds full out.” Sevare knelt down alongside Frem and held a small mirror to Storrl's nose and mouth as Putnam wrapped a belt about the boy’s arm. “He breathes!” said Sevare, smiling. “Shallow and weak, but there’s some life left in him.”
Ezerhauten stepped up to the group.
“He’s alive,” said Frem. “We’ve got to get him and the other wounded back to the ship.”
Ezerhauten leaned over and examined Storrl. “Aside from the arm, I don’t see any serious wounds. He’s lost a lot of blood, but he may yet live. The others are worse off. Most will be dead within hours at best. Moving will kill them outright.”
“I need to get Storrl back to the ship,” said Frem. “I’ll carry him myself.”
“We need every sword for what’s coming, especially yours,” said Ezerhauten. “Leave him here or carry him with us — as he’s your squadman, you can make that call, but make it quickly, we’ve a mission to finish, and we’ll be moving out forthwith.”
“To Hades with the mission,” said Frem. “If we’re not headed back — we should track down and kill every one of these fish-things. They don't deserve to live. What in Odin's name are they, anyways?”
“The priest says they’re minions of the Harbinger,” said Ezerhauten. “Some fiends he created or called up with dark magic; stationed here to stop us from finding the talisman.”
“Then we’ve two reasons to see them things dead,” said Frem, balling his hands into fists. “And another score to settle with the Harbinger.”
“Now that’s a good lad,” said Ezerhauten smiling. “You couldn’t have said it better had Ginalli put the words in your mouth. What a good little sheep you are.”
Frem looked confused; anger flashed on his face. He looked to Sevare for support. “What’s that mean?” Frem stood and faced Ezerhauten. “You making fun of me?” he said, menace in his voice.
“It means Ginalli’s spewing more bunk,” said Ezerhauten, “and you’re all too ready to believe his humbug. That’s most of what spurts from his mouth if you haven’t noticed. Open your eyes and ears once in a while and it’ll be clear enough. It’s easier to blame your enemies for every misfortune. Makes it easier to hate them, doesn’t it? These things were just animals, nothing more, same as a bear or a lion or a pack of wolves. Not minions of anything.”
“You’re a man of little faith and less imagination,” said Sevare.
“Don’t talk to me of faith,” said Ezerhauten. “I—
“—Ginalli says what he says,” said Sevare. “That doesn’t change our quest. We’re to help the League open the portal for Azathoth. To bring him back to us. To save the world. So what if Ginalli spews some humbug along the way. He—”
“—He’s supposed to be the high priest,” said Ezerhauten. “If you can’t believe him, who will you believe?”
A tall figure appeared behind Ezerhauten and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re supposed to believe me, Commander,” said Korrgonn.
Ezerhauten turned and looked Korrgonn in the eye. Korrgonn kept his right hand firmly on Ezerhauten’s shoulder; his other hand grasped his ankh.
“For I am the way and the path and the truth,” said Korrgonn. “You and your brave company are my strong right arm on this quest. You are the sword to smite my enemies. You will stand beside me in a place of honor when the portal opens and our almighty father comes through to liberate the world.”
A hint of a smile formed on Ezerhauten’s face.
“For this, you will be rewarded beyond even your brightest ambitions,” said Korrgonn, his ankh glowing softly in his hand. “But I must have your loyalty, and your obedience. It must be unquestioning. Will you follow me, Lord Ezerhauten?”
“Aye, Lord Korrgonn,” said Ezerhauten mechanically, his eyes glazed over. “I will. To the end.”