XV
Dagon heard the call, the age-old chant of his worshippers, his dwellers of the deep. They begged for his favor and his blessing and prayed for his presence. Merely to look upon him, they would kill, they would die, they would give all they had and ever would have; such was their devotion.
But he was tired; he would not answer their call this time, just as he had ignored it the last, and the time before that, and so often over the last age. He had neither the energy nor the desire to endure the hardships of the surface world. Each time he ventured to that alien place, he felt vulnerable and blind. It was so hard to see in the bright light; his hearing and sense of smell sorely diminished. On the surface, he drifted in a fog, only half-aware of the world around him. Even moving was a labor, all his bulk supported only by his legs. He hated trudging through wide-open spaces, exposed on all sides to whatever unknown horrors lurked about while he struggled to breathe the rarefied gas that abided there.
Not a place for Dagon was the surface world. It didn’t suit him, mind or body. He was a creature of the depths and the dark. He preferred the comfort of his watery tunnels whose ways he knew so well — where nothing could venture without his notice or leave. In the depths he was king; he was god.
Better to slumber there, quiet and still, in the cold dark beneath his tiny island, his one refuge on this pathetic little sphere. Better to go unnoticed. That had kept him secret and safe down through the lonely years of his long exile. Too much time on the surface invited notice — and notice would eventually attract the ancient enemy, a dreaded man-thing that lived only to hunt and destroy his kind; a fiend whose armies shook the world and ravaged all not in their image. That creature was called the Harbinger of Doom — for in his wake came little but death and despair.
Dagon had hid for ages beyond imagining. He would not risk revealing his location now. He was too weak to fight, too tired, much too tired, devoid of energy and will.
Then something changed. He smelled the essence of life drift through his water. Blood — manling blood, the sweetest elixir in all the infinite spheres. His beloved children, always faithful, always true, poured it even now into the well of worship, foregoing their own enjoyment to gift it to him. Not just some token measure, buckets of it, fresh and strong and pungent; the living essence of multiple manlings. Not in years had his children made such an offering. His dwindling minions, still devoted, still loyal, and still strong, not like of old, but still strong.
When he absorbed the living essence of the blood, even diffused and afar, Dagon felt his old strength return. His heart beat faster, stronger. The water pumped through his gills again. The taste and scent of the sea brine mixed with savory blood ignited a fire in Dagon’s belly — a hunger for manling flesh. An irresistible longing for blood and souls.
With this, his fatigue ebbed. His energies simmered and grew and this stirred something in Dagon. Feelings; emotions he hadn't felt in long years. His minions' devotion, after all this time, made him feel alive again. He hadn't felt alive in so long. He had slumbered too long. For this awakening he was grateful. And such favor should not go unrewarded.
He would honor his followers with his presence. He would relish in their prostrations, and enjoy their melodic song. He would delight in partaking of their human offering, and relish devouring the human souls and absorbing their immortal energies.
Dagon reached out with outré senses and knew at once that his labyrinthine tunnels remained sacrosanct from the well of worship’s rim to the nethermost tunnel’s most stygian depth, to the long passage between his solitary lair and the open sea. Nothing had dared venture into his domain — not a single fish, not one lonely mollusk, not even the older, stronger things of the black and gelid depths. Dagon could as yet sense almost nothing of the sea and surface world beyond his demesne. It would take time to fully awaken; to be himself again.
Dagon's limbs moved slowly and stiffly at first, barely responding to his will as the tug of gravity challenged and strained his muscles. But after a few moments, they became again as they were of old, strong and supple and powerful. Dagon swam toward the ululating sounds, toward the song of his children.
The cold of the watery depths did not assail him, nor the pressure, how could they, for had he not traveled the interstellar ether and endured the nigh-endless void among the spheres, an abyss colder and emptier than anything? Had he not traversed the frozen wastes of Nifleheim, the fiery depths of Gehenna, and the ruins of fabled Archeron? In truth, these dark tunnels were a minor pleasure, a relief, a joy in their way, or so he told himself.
Soon, he glided effortlessly through the network of dark caverns and dismal tunnels that were his home beneath the isle, though in truth, the isle was ever more prison than home. He swam and swam and pulled himself through passages wide and passages narrow, through the icy depths, up, up toward the thin air and stinging light, toward the dreaded surface world.
Upward he swam. The light came into view, the blood scent grew stronger and the chanting louder. His followers gathered en masse for his glory. He heard their voices; he sensed their beating hearts pulsing blood, though they had no more soul, no more spark of divine essence than did the cold stones of the deep.
A pitiful gathering it was compared to the vast throngs of old when his children roamed Midgaard and built, warred, and thundered in his name. In days of yore, they gathered daily in the thousands, often by tens of thousands, and time and anon, by the millions, row after innumerable row as far as he could see, all for his glory, all shouting his name. Long gone those days of glory, long past. The hundreds gathered now would serve him well enough in these sad times, or so he told himself.
Dagon reached the bottom of the well of worship, the long vertical shaft that connected his chthonian depths to the audience hall that his children had constructed on the surface world to honor him. He raced upward faster and faster, eager for his children’s supplication and ravenous for the sweetmeats and sweeter souls that would soon be his.
He thrust up out of the well and into the blinding light, up and up and up through the air until his feet landed atop the altar of sacrifice that was the well’s rim. He squatted, perched over the well. His gnarled toes found the ruts his claws had scraped in the well’s rim over the ages and anchored securely to the stained stone. He tasted the air as he purged his gills of water. He felt the hated sun on his face and cringed.
Dagon could barely see as yet, blinded by the bright light that had not plagued his eyes since the last offering, his more esoteric senses overwhelmed by the abrupt change in atmosphere. Squinting, he barely made out his beloved children arrayed on stone seats. A great cheer rose up the moment he appeared, though so few were left, the vast stone temple nearly empty. His eyes would adjust soon and he would mark them well. He would search out his favorites, the young high priest that exhibited such devotion, and the one-eyed youth — foremost warrior of the clan, though he could not now recall their names. No matter. He coughed and coughed again, and spat up more water from his lungs. He hated that choking feeling — another reason to shun the surface.
Then it happened. The unthinkable. The world exploded in fire and lightning and death. Concussive blasts burst about him, buffeted him from side to side, and nearly threw him from his perch. Waves of heat assailed him and tongues of fire singed his legs and torso. His ears rang from the blasts and were bombarded by his children’s screams. His nostrils flooded with the acrid scent of their burning flesh; his vision still blurred; all his senses still dim and sluggish.
A lesser creature would have fled down the well to safety, but Dagon of the Deep feared no mortal creatures and held his ground. He heard the clash of weapons and the battle roar of men — puny monkey things that wielded metal swords, axes, and hammers. They rained down on his children, offering only death, as was ever their wont. They hid behind petty shells of steel, or shields of wood, the cowards. So tiny, so fragile, so ephemeral was man — yet so enduring, dangerous, and determined; their evil, boundless; their lusts, insatiable. On they rushed — how many, Dagon could not discern. Not many by the sound, but the timing of the attack told him all.
A cunningly laid and long-planned trap, launched only as it was at his rare appearance. To set events as this took guile, trickery, and treachery, the traits, the very signature of the ancient enemy. There could be no doubt, the Harbinger of Doom was here at last to seal his fate and send him screaming to the void. But his life would need be won; it would not be freely given, not to the Harbinger or any other. He would fight unto the last beating of his hearts.
Dagon's anger became rage, and with the rage his old strength returned, his confidence surged. He felt powerful again. He was powerful again — far beyond the ken of any mortal creature, any petty manling. He was Dagon of the Deep — he who uncounted millions worshipped of old. He who drank the blood and devoured the souls of millions more. He who slew the great wyrm Tyfus of the Hyades; who basked at Cthulhu's side and swam the murky tunnels beneath long-sunken R'lyeh; who devoured Dhak of the Lorthran, laid waste the Trigron, extinguished the Fordisnon Imperium, and exterminated to the last soul the ancient empire of Misel Tarm. He need fear little in all the innumerable spheres. Where his brethren, great and small had failed, he would not. He would crush the Harbinger and his manling armies. He would put the Harbinger down at last and send him wailing back to whatever hell spawned him.
Through the anguished screams of his children, he heard the grunts and roars of some warrior born. As his vision focused, and his other senses attuned to the alien environs, Dagon saw him. A hairless, red-skinned creature — puny, but larger than a manling, larger than many of his children. He bounded down the stone steps, cudgel in hand, and tossed aside the children that sought to bar his path. The arrogance of these mortals. The profound stupidity. Dagon would crush him.
Dagon could not name the red creature's race, but no matter, for he surely was one of the Harbinger's own, his champion perhaps. Dagon whipped his massive tail with terrific speed. The red-thing sought to duck or dodge but the tail was too large, too swift; he had no chance. He put out his puny arms as if to catch the blow; the fool. The thunderous impact swept the red-thing away, as a man would swat a bug, to crash broken and bloody against the distant stones. He would move no more. So fell all Dagon's enemies.
The sounds of battle rose around him and the terrible screams continued; his poor children burned — fools that they were for not stopping these brutes at the sea — for not preventing the trap from being sprung.
Dagon dreaded the waves of energy he knew he would shortly sense. They would herald the Harbinger's entry into his temple and begin the battle that would cost at least one of them their life. Then he felt it. A stinging sensation across his hide and a buzzing in his ears. He knew then that those sensations had plagued him, had lingered at the edges of his consciousness long before the children took up their call, but he had been too groggy to heed them and take proper course. This meant the Harbinger had walked his island for some time, plotting and planning this cowardly attack. If only he had been more alert; more attuned to the signals. He had lain dormant too long; time had dulled his senses. But now he was ready — and none too soon for he felt a searing pain in his leg. He looked down to see a manling swing a great sword.
This manling wielded something of the arcane; some weapon of the outré realms, for no common blade could pierce his thick hide. Could this be the Harbinger at last? These manlings all looked so alike and he knew not the Harbinger's face, only his vile reputation. Dagon's heart ran cold, for waves of mystical power nigh erupted from the swordsman. Energy, invisible to mortal eyes swirled about him. This was a creature of power; great power. It could be no other but the Harbinger. Somehow, he had expected him to be taller.
Dagon pivoted his torso; his muscled foreleg with claws as long as manling swords, scales as big as shields, arced down and crashed through where the swordsman stood. He hit nothing but air. The swordsman was quick, or perhaps Dagon had slowed for his long slumber.
Dagon pivoted again and brought his other arm to bear. This time he took careful aim and moved much faster than before; faster than any mortal could move — but not fast enough, for again the swordsman skipped aside. Dagon felt a prick at his wrist, and black blood, thick as honey flowed down his hand, courtesy of some unseen strike from the manling's sword. A minor wound; no more than a momentary annoyance, though it shouldn't have been possible for such a puny thing to cut open the stony hide of the lord of the depths. Before Dagon could react, the swordsman lunged forward and thrust his sword deep into his calf.
Dagon howled, for this wound stung — the sword was long for a manling weapon and it bit deep.
The swordsman danced back more quickly than he had ever seen a manling move, quick enough even to evade Dagon's tail once and then again when it whipped around to squash him.
Dagon's anger grew, his vision still blurred from the intense light; the wails of agony of his children still rang in his ears, and acrid smoke plagued his lungs. Dagon leaned forward, prepared to crush the swordsman between jaws stronger than any mortal beast's. He would devour him, body and soul. Dagon bent low, but the swordsman was already gone. He turned this way and that, searching, but through the haze and smoke of the battle, Dagon could find him not. At once, there was a prickling at Dagon's chest, then a sharp stabbing and tearing — a pain worse than he had felt in ages beyond count.
He looked down to see the swordsman rip from his chest his beloved heart stone — that ancient token that he had plucked from the bowels of Midgaard eons ago, retrieved by his own hand from the core of a smoldering volcano. The heart stone was flat, star-shaped, and held the aspect of obsidian, but was hard as steel and thrice again as heavy. All those long years Dagon had worn it about his neck on a silver chain that eventually corroded away and was lost, despite its thickness and rare quality, but the heart stone remained, adhered to his chest by means outside Dagon's ken. Time and anon, his thick hide grew about the heart stone's edges and it became a part of him, the oldest possession of his dismal exile. Dagon had ever sensed its powers and arcane nature, which is why he took the tiny thing at the first, but never learned its secrets, never probed its depths. He yearned to, but something always held him back.
Dagon leaned forward. He snapped massive jaws and clamped down with all his raw power on the swordsman, but his razored teeth crushed naught but air for the maddening thing dashed away at the last moment. A burning at Dagon's neck announced the swordsman's next slash. Then a deep thrust took him under his chin. Dagon roared with fury even as the swordsman's blade flashed before his eyes. Dagon's lightning-like reflexes saved his eye, but he took a long gash along his cheek.
Wizard's fire blasted Dagon from his left, then from his right. Not the petty magics of some dabbler or hedge wizard, these sorceries were thrown by archmages, learned masters of the mystic arts who commanded forbidden powers that could wound even a god of the gelid depths.
Dagon’s hide was afire. Excruciating pain encompassed his body. He knew the manling magic, olden or not, could not consume him, for he had withstood the nuclear fires of the heavens in his travels, but that knowledge did little to lessen the pain.
Dagon roared his loudest and the stone amphitheater shook and shuddered. As he reeled from the scorching heat, he saw the manlings flee, one and all, the swordsman clutching the heart stone in his grasp. Only then did Dagon know for certain that the swordsman was not the Harbinger, for the herald of doom was never wont to flee. That one would never stop, never give up — not until one of the two was dead. This swordsman was an imposter, some upstart; a brazen thief and red-handed slayer. It mattered not, whoever he was, Dagon would see him and his minions dead, one and all.
More wizards' fire blasted Dagon from one side and then another; this time, from a distance, as the cowardly wizards fled. He looked down and saw the robes of his high priest, but within them was not the young dweller he favored, but the broken body of an ancient creature, all wrinkled and gnarled, lying lifeless on the cold stone, stabbed and sliced by manling swords. His lifeblood pooled about him. Dagon leaned down, his face just feet from the corpse. He recognized his features, changed as they were by long years. His children lived long and aged slowly. They survived several spans of a manling’s life before the void took them. How long had he slumbered for the priest to age so? Could it be so long since his last awakening? Dagon shuddered and his anger grew.
He had had enough. He would not suffer such humiliation or loss. He bounded from atop the altar and up the amphitheater's steps, taking many at a time, though his legs were weak in the unaccustomed atmosphere. The tattered and smoldering bodies of his poor children lay strewn about the stone tiers. If only he had arrived but a few minutes earlier or the manlings’ attack come a few moments later, his sight and other senses would have been clear, the slumber would’ve been gone from his mind, the water fully purged from lung and gill, and his limbs would’ve been limber and strong again. Then he would have defended his children. The manlings would have met his full wrath and suffered it, wizards’ fire or naught. But the timing of their assault had been too perfectly planned. Now his children were gone, wiped from the face of Midgaard. He could do nothing for them now, for not even one stirred; no spark of life remained in any. What was he without them? A god with no worshippers? How far he had fallen. He hoped that some few had escaped so in years to come, things could be again as they had been long ago. No matter, he would go on without them if need be. He could do naught else; he was Dagon.
Dagon reached the crest of the small valley that housed his temple, and gazed at the barren, uneven stone jungle beyond. He saw the pack of manlings scurrying away, cowardly vermin that they were. He charged after them with massive strides and explosive speed, the smell of manling blood urged him on, but the lingering effects of his long slumber yet hampered him. His lungs were still awash with water and sent him into coughing fits that slowed his pace. He was dizzy and his vision was still not fully clear. He careened now and again into rocky outcroppings and carved menhirs, his legs unsteady. The old stones of the isle slowed him but could not hope to stop him, his momentum relentless. With each impact, stone shards and massive boulders flew in all directions. Dagon ignored these annoyances and barreled forward, determined to exact vengeance.
He had not gone far before he caught a straggler — a fragile, sorry thing that hid within a suit of flimsy red metal. It hobbled along, trailing blood, part of its armor torn away. At least the children made some account of themselves before their end. Dagon's great foot rose up. The manling must have seen the shadow pass over him. He must have known his doom seconds before that massive foot slammed down and crushed him to pulp.
Dagon was on the rest at once. Before long, he had squashed another red-clad and took solace in its death scream. The smell of the thing renewed the hunger in Dagon's belly and displaced his anger ever so slightly. Then he caught a third. It looked tasty enough, so he wrapped his tail about it, lifted it to his maw, and bit it in two. The metal made the meal distasteful, but not inedible. Dagon spit most of it out, not wanting to waste the effort to chew the crunchy thing, though he savored the warm and delectable juices. Vengeance was sweet.
He sprang after the manlings once more, and came upon a sorry group that struggled along, carrying the red creature from the battle’s start. For a fleeting moment, Dagon thought it strange that such primitive, heartless things carried away their dead. Then he realized that the red creature was their dinner. A savory prize to char over a fire, hung from a spit. Cold savages were they, cannibalism more proof of it. Only one amongst this group, the largest, wore metal armor — dull silver it was, not red and shiny like the others that still stuck in his teeth. This morsel would prove just as hard on his jaws, and not nearly as tender as his soft-shelled companions, but Dagon decided to sample him nonetheless. He swooped down and opened his jaws wide, but at the very last moment, without thought or intent, Dagon veered to the right, as if some unseen force nudged him, and his jaws instead found the head of a different manling. How this happened, Dagon did not know. No matter, for this one wore no annoying metal shell. Less tough, but just as sweet.
Dagon halted and lingered over this morsel far longer than he should. He forgot for a time his purpose, though he would have preferred to linger even longer and take a goodly rest. He grew tired of the chase. His pace slowed, but he remained determined to run the manlings from his isle, or catch and kill them all if he could. He trudged on until he reached the great lagoon. He stepped onto the black sand beach at the water’s edge, marveled at the sights he saw. His roar so loud the heavens shook.
Dagon’s hunger lingered, as did his anger, and his need for vengeance, but with his first step into the water, he sensed a presence he had not sensed in eons. An olden fear welled up from deep in his belly. An ancient entity of great power lurked on that ship of puny manlings. Dagon suspected what it was, but not why it was there. And then he realized that it was the heart stone the manlings were after from the first, no doubt at the behest of what abided on that ship. But for what purpose? To what end? Such questions vexed him, for he had no patience for intrigues. It was wiser to forego his hunger, put aside vengeance, and let the manlings slip away. But allowing them to escape came with its own consequences. They might spread word of his presence on the island. Eventually, the Harbinger would hear. Eventually, he would come.
Dagon watched the ship for some time before deciding what he would do.
***
The survivors of The White Rose’s shore party fled for their lives across the desolate stonescape. Dagon of the Deep, a massive and monstrous being that had haunted the nether regions of Midgaard since the Dawn Age thundered at their heels. Dagon's every step shook the very stones beneath their feet and his bellowing near deafened them. The battered and exhausted men limped toward the beach as swiftly as they could, desperate to reach their longboats, trailing sweat and blood all the way.
Near the middle of the troop, Sergeant Putnam carried Little Storrl’s limp form in his arms. By the lord’s grace, the young lugron still lived and mercifully remained unconscious. Par Sevare staggered along beside them, supported by two of the Pointmen. His arms were at once numb but yet afire with pain from the magics he had lately thrown. His eyes were glazed over and he looked about to pass out.
Not far behind them, Frem and five burly lugron carried Mort Zag. Their every step was agony for the red giant weighed more than several large men. One titanic blow from Dagon’s tail had sent Mort Zag flying through the air. For him, that one blow ended the battle, and perhaps his life. For all Frem’s great strength and skill, he would fare little better against such a monster. He couldn’t hope to even fight it, little less defeat it. Might as well fight a mountain. And so he fled. Not often in his life had he run from anyone or anything. He was always the biggest and the strongest and the toughest. Not today.
Stranger still for Frem to see archmages and Azathoth’s high priest with fear-filled faces. They fled with the rest, terror in their hearts. Strangest of all, to see the son of Azathoth, despite all his divine powers, running for his life. Disheartening in a way. Disappointing, though Korrgonn’s face harbored no fear that Frem could discern.
A scream some distance behind Frem was quickly silenced, as was Dagon's pursuit. Frem thought to look back, but before he did, the booming footfalls began anew, signaling Dagon had renewed his chase.
Every step across the unforgiving stone jarred Frem’s knees and the heavy burden he bore left his legs rubbery and weak. His arms ached as he struggled to maintain his grip on Mort Zag's arm and shoulder. Stinging blood dripped into his right eye, though he knew not if it was his or some other’s. Every now and again one of the lugron with him would lose their hold or their footing and go down. The others kept moving; the falterer expected to catch up and resume his position. True to his duty, each man did.
More than once, the entire group stumbled and crashed to the punishing stone. This brought Frem to the brink of panic, for each time they fell, more men passed them and put him closer to the rear of the group, closer to the roaring, bellowing, nightmarish death that hounded them. The overtakers could have relieved Frem's exhausted squad, but they didn’t, they ran on and gave them barely a glance, if even that. Who could blame them, they weren’t racing to outrun Dagon, for its great strides were too long, its powerful legs too swift. They ran to outpace their fellows so when Dagon caught and killed the group’s stragglers, it would not be them. Every man amongst them knew this and every man fought to not be the straggler.
Frem could have carried Little Storrl instead of this red behemoth. With Storrl laid over one shoulder, he would have been halfway back to the beach by now and in no danger of becoming lizard food. But his honor wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t let his men struggle with a burden that he feared to take on, so he had only himself to blame for his current predicament. Frem felt ashamed to do it, but each time they stumbled, he looked for the rise and fall of Mort Zag's chest. Contrary to all he valued, and only born of fear and desperation, he hoped to find Mort Zag's breathing halted, so he could be done with him and free of this burden without guilt or dishonor. He would gladly risk his life to save a comrade, even one that he never called a friend, but he would not die to carry a corpse.
Another scream assailed Frem’s ears. He turned to see Dagon’s tail wrapped about a sithian not ten yards back. It lifted the struggling man high in the air, and tore him in two with a single bite.
To Frem, this was madness. The whole ordeal surreal. He had fought more than a hundred campaigns and traveled farther and wider than most any man he knew. He had known death in its myriad forms. He had seen countless die at other men’s hands. He had seen them fall to beasts, poison, disease, accident, and weather. But until Ezerhauten had hired the Sithian Company on with the League of Shadows, he had never seen a man die by myth or legend, monster or magic. How could he, for such things didn’t exist — not in his sane, civilized world. But there was a secret world that lurked behind the shadows, well past reason, and just beyond sanity. He knew that now. Here resided the likes of Dagon, and the seaweed creature, the fish-men, the gargoyles of The Keeper’s caverns, the skeletal messenger that Thorn had conjured, and who knows what many monsters more. Now, of a sudden, such creatures seemed everywhere, as common as dirt.
And magic — what he thought was the realm of card-tricksters, palm readers, herbalists, and assorted charlatans, was so much more. Real wizards lurked about — people like Par Sevare, Par Brackta, Father Ginalli, and Glus Thorn. At will, they launched blasts of fire and lightning and incinerated armies. They conjured creatures from other worlds to do their bidding. How could this be? Despite all his travels, he knew naught of such things. He had never seen their like before, save for some small trickeries Sevare had displayed in past missions. He had only heard tell of them in children’s tales and ghost stories whispered by the campfire. Frem no longer knew what was real. Was he lost in a nightmare? Did a fever grip his mind? Had death somewhere caught him and tossed him in some personal hell?
Frem and his group were the stragglers now. Dagon’s pounding steps grew closer and closer. Its bellowing louder and louder, nearly on them.
They kept hold of Mort Zag and sprinted over the ancient stones. Adrenaline carried them forward at a superhuman pace. Frem urged the men on and pushed them to beyond their limits. Of a sudden, Frem felt a blast of air at his back and a sour, fishy scent washed over him. Something brushed his shoulder. This is the end. He looked over, and Dirnel, the tall lugron that ran beside him, was gone. He glanced back, and saw Dirnel enveloped in Dagon’s giant, clawed hand. The beast effortlessly lifted him to its mouth, which stood agape and slavering, large enough to swallow him whole. Frem wanted to turn and fight, but the very thought was foolish and futile, for Dirnel was surely already dead, crushed in that unforgiving embrace. Another Pointman dead. Another of his men dead.
It could've been me. What whim of chance or twist of fate made the beast choose Dirnel, Frem could not fathom, but such thoughts plagued his nightmares forevermore.
The group staggered forward, their burden the heavier for the loss of Dirnel. Frem didn’t even know whether they ran in the right direction. He trusted the men in front to steer their course. For the first time he noticed the strange echoes their boots made as they ran across the isle’s old granite. Their steps induced a rhythmic pounding that reverberated off the surrounding stones. It amplified their footfalls and made them sound like a charging army. After a goodly time, the echoes were interrupted by Dagon's booming footfalls, now far in the distance. He'd finished his latest meal and hungered for more.