AT JUTENHEIM
Frem Sorlons stood at the prow of The White Rose, gazing through the thick fog at the featureless ocean; the day, cold, a wintry breeze blowing in from the south. They had sailed farther south than Frem ever dreamed he would go; past where he thought the world ended, and then some, and still the ocean went on and on. There seemed no end to the Azure Sea.
He always thought of the south as being warmer — the farther south he went, the warmer it got. That’s how it always was. But now he knew better. If you went south for long enough, it started to grow cold again. And they’’d sailed far, for it was cold; as cold as the far north.
Frem's squadmates, Par Sevare, and Sergeant Putnam stood beside him holding the ship’s rail, Sevare looking paler than usual (and foregoing his beloved chewing tobacco), as the modest swells pushed the ship up and down and occasionally sprayed them with a fine, icy mist. Behind them, weary sailors washed the deck with mops and buckets of seawater.
“Seven days of scrubbing, but they finally got the bloodstains of them sea devils what attacked us off the deck,” said Putnam. “That’’s persistence.”
“Father Ginalli’s orders,” said Sevare. “He wanted the stains gone; so they’re gone. The seamen were too afraid to disappoint him. Unfortunately, they didn’t get rid of the stench. It isn't much better than it was. It could make a man puke.”
“Aye,” said Putnam. “Scrubbing with water didn’t work. Lye soap did no better. Nothing is gonna get rid of that foulness, short of replacing the deck boards. They’re tainted with the stink of them things.” Putnam spit over the rail to emphasize his disgust.
“At least Dagon’s island is well behind us,” said Frem.
“Praise Odin for that,” said Putnam.
Frem started. Sevare turned and frowned at Putnam. “Watch your words, sergeant,” said Frem. “This be Azathoth country.””
“Sorry, Captain. A slip of the tongue is all.”
“Keep it sure-footed or else you may end up with your head smashed like old Captain Rascelon,” said Frem. “Them wizards are touchy about their religion.””
Sevare shook his head but held his tongue.
Putnam went pale. “Aye, I’ll be careful. This has been an unlucky voyage, start to end — no need to bring trouble on myself.””
“Unlucky would have been if that big lizard thing,” Dagon, “had gone for a swim and chased us down,”” said Frem. “He didn’t. I figure that makes us darned lucky.”
“Always the optimist, eh Captain?” said Putnam. “That’s a good attitude to have, I expect. I’ve always fretted too much.”
“I’ve noticed,” said Frem.
“We’ve all noticed,” said Sevare. “Smooth sailing the rest of the way to Jutenheim would serve us well.”
“That’s not asking for much, for it won't be long now,” said Frem. “We should make landfall later today; tomorrow at the latest.”
“What? That soon?” said Sevare. “Why do you think that?”
“I snuck a look at the charts.”
“Since when do you read navigational charts, Captain?” said Putnam.
Frem shrugged. “Just something I picked up somewhere.”
“How many more secret skills you got up your sleeve?” said Putnam.
Sevare eyed Frem suspiciously.
“And there it is,” said Frem. “Even closer than I thought.”
“Land ho,” shouted the lookout from the crow's nest.
The fog surrounding the ship cleared and a large land mass came into view. It was close — less than two miles away. A rocky coastline with treacherous cliffs that rose straight up hundreds of feet above the water that crashed into its base. The cliffs were made of huge columns of black basalt — old stone, from Midgaard's youth. Atop the cliffs were trees, tall and stately, their tops lost in the mist. Every once in a while the mist parted just enough for the men on The Rose to catch a glimpse of white-tipped mountains that loomed in the background, far inland. Those were no common hills, but high peaks, as great as any in Midgaard.
“Reefs ahead,” shouted the lookout.
The first mate turned the rudder hard to port even as he shouted to the crew to adjust the sails. Quick reactions notwithstanding, the hull scraped against a submerged reef, and for a moment, threatened to run aground. What small leaks sprung from the collision were quickly dealt with. On Captain du Mace's orders they turned south and followed the coast, though they could approach no closer than a mile out, and in most places two to three miles out, due to continuous reefs that would have torn the ship apart had they attempted to breach them.
At last they sighted Jutenheim's only port. A wide channel, formed in some forgotten epoch when immense sections of cliff sheared off and fell outward into the sea, led to it. That rock fall and a lava flow from deep within the ground created a peninsula upon which sat the island’s only large settlement. Shallowest where it met the water, the rock sloped up as it went inland. Some of Jutenheim's buildings resided only a few feet above sea level at the seaward end of the peninsula; others, on the landward side, existed high on the cliff face, accessible only via uneven stone steps that wound their way up. Some of those were built right into the cliff face and on terraces of stone.
“Now that's a sight,” said Lord Ezerhauten as he approached the others. “Stone buildings every one —— walls, walks, and roofs. Nary a bit thatch or planking in view.”
“I thought this place more fable than truth,” said Frem. “Yet there it be. Finally, we come to the end of this journey.””
“At least the town is right there, so we've no trek to make this time,” said Putnam. “Maybe we'll wrap this mission up quick and get gone home. I miss civilization.”
“I miss sleeping in a bed what doesn’t move,” said Frem.
“The town is not where we're going,” said Sevare.
The others turned toward the wizard, surprise on their faces.
“What do you mean?” said Frem. “We're headed to an old temple in Jutenheim, and that is Jutenheim, isn't it?””
“It's not as simple as that,” said Sevare. “The town is called Jutenheim, but the whole island is also called Jutenheim. We're to find an old temple deep in the interior, far from the town. It is only there that Lord Korrgonn can open his portal to Nifleheim.”
“The interior?” said Putnam. “What do you mean? Atop the cliffs?”
“Legend says there is a huge valley on the other side of the cliffs,” said Sevare. “It extends for dozens of leagues, maybe more. Somewhere in that expanse is the temple that we seek.”
“Somewhere in that expanse?” said Putnam. “Oh, that's just wonderful.”
“Do the wizards have a map showing where it is?” said Frem.
“Not that I'm aware of,” said Sevare. “Hopefully, the locals will be able to point us in the right direction. If not, we'll have to search until we find it.”
“And you didn't think to tell us this before now?” said Ezerhauten.
“Ginalli's orders,” said Sevare. “He said no one else was to know.”
“Ginalli's orders?” said Ezerhauten. “You work for me, mister — not the priest. Did you forget that?”
“What difference does it make whether you found out we're headed to the interior now or a ten day ago?” said Sevare.
Ezerhauten moved very close to Sevare, menace on his face. “From now on, you tell me everything you know as soon as you know it, mister. You got it?”
Sevare stared at him for a few moments before responding. “Aye, commander,” he said. Then he stared at the deck for a moment, as if contemplating whether to say more, then turned, and walked away.
“Wizard,” said Ezerhauten. Sevare stopped and looked his way. “Don't cross me. Don't even think about crossing me.”” Sevare made no response and continued on his way.
“Your wizard friend may cause us some trouble,” said Ezerhauten. “I'm counting on you men keeping him in line. He needs to remember where his loyalties lie.”
“It’s the religion what’s making him all weird,” said Putnam. “A bit of it can do a man some good and see him through troubled times, but too much can clog up the brain and turn it to mush. He’ll be back to his old self once we get done with this mission and get him clear of the Leaguers.””
“I don't care about his beliefs,” said Ezerhauten. “I only care that he follows my orders, and that he’’s loyal to the company. Right now, it seems, his loyalties are with Ginalli. I can’t have that. We can’t have that. Frem — can you keep him in line or not?”
“Yes, and it won't be as big a problem as getting over those cliffs. How are we supposed to do that?”
“There’s got to be a way,” said Ezerhauten. “They must have a stair or hoist or some steep path.”
“And if they don’t, we climb?” said Putnam.
“I don't climb mountains,” said Frem.
“I don’t either,” said Ezerhauten. “But we may just have to learn.”
The port was larger than it appeared at first, with several protected coves that housed berths for many ships of varying sizes. The docks bustled with activity, ships coming and going, loading and unloading. More than a few were of exotic design, from lands that even Ezerhauten and his well-traveled band had never visited, and a few that they had never even heard of. It was nothing in size compared to the ports of Lomion City or Tragoss Mor, but it was a substantial port nonetheless.
The locals seemed unconcerned about security. It soon became apparent why. Everyone in Jutenheim — men, women, and all but the smallest children, openly carried weapons. Swords, shields, spears, daggers, axes, and bows. Most of them wore armor as well, leathers more often than not, even just going about their daily toils. Heavy coats of fur protected them from the cold. And the people were large. The average male was at least six feet tall, the women, only a couple of inches shorter. On average, that made them taller, and a good deal broader, than Lomerians, who were amongst the largest folk in the known world. They were even a match or perhaps more so, in physique to northerners, such as the Eotrus and their kin, and in fact, resembled them in many ways, save for the Jutens' lighter hair.
Unlike most places, Jutenheim was a free port. No harbormaster accosted The Rose asking after their business and demanding fees or tariffs for this or that. Nonetheless, a strange contingent greeted them as they tied off their ship to its berth: an ancient crone, a boy, and a wolf. They were waiting for them in the very spot that the captain chose to park the ship, as if they knew The Rose was coming. The crone, all wrinkles and stringy gray hair that reached near to her knees. Tall she was, even for a Juten — maybe six feet or more in height, if she had stood straight, but she was withered and stooped, her back, humped. She carried a long wooden staff in one hand, similar to what wizards sometimes bore, though it had no jewels or other riches adorning its surface, only runes, carved all around it, with a polished and faceted shard of obsidian mounted atop its end. The boy was but ten or eleven, though his height and breadth were more than most grown men. His wolf was similarly large. The crone called for The Rose’s headman.
Ginalli stepped down to speak with her, perhaps out of respect, but more likely out of curiosity, though he only did so after securing Ezerhauten by his side. Frem, Putnam, and Sevare followed on their heels.
“The Angel of Death would have words with you,” said the boy, his childish voice belying his size.
“What words?” said Ginalli as his eyes darted this way and that, a nervous sound on his voice. He would not look the woman in the eyes and seemed at once to regret stepping down to speak with her.
“Words of warning,” said the boy. “And words of wisdom, as is her wont. If you would hear them.””
“Speak your name, headman,” said the crone, her voice grating to the ears, her accent, heavy.
“Speak yours,” said Ginalli.
“Any name I once had is long forgotten, though sadly so,” said the crone. “The Angel of Death, they call me, for the future I often see —— the signs, the portents, the omens.”
“A seer,” whispered Ezerhauten in Ginalli’s ear. “She reads the bones, like the witch-women of the northlands,” he said pointing to the leather bag that hung from her rope belt.
“I am Father Ginalli of Azathoth.”
“A priest of Azathoth, you say?” she cackled. She coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it to the ground. “Ho, ho, a rare visitor indeed, though little more welcome than the plague, methinks. Bring us no olden demons here, Ginalli. Bring us no evils from the Dawn Age, for we’ve plenty of our own, we have. Wotan be our god, and Donar his son. We put our stock in them, and them only, we do. We suffer no false gods here. So if you’ve come to proselytize our people, disappointed you will be. Come you to grow your flock, priest? Be that your purpose?”
“Not at all,” said Ginalli. “Though our purpose is our own.”
“Speak your purpose, Ginalli, and tell me true. Why come you to Jutenheim with these men, with this ship and what it carries?”
“It is a private matter and of no concern to you, old woman.”
She sneered. “All that happens on Jutenheim be of concern to me. Gave you a chance, I did. But no matter. Hold your tongue until you choke of it, priest. For I know your purpose. I know what you seek; I know why you seek it. I have long known that you would come. I have been waiting for you.”
“You know nothing, old woman,” said Ginalli shaking his head. “We are Lomerians, not backwards inbreds to be frightened by an old woman of the bones. Put on no performance for me, for it will profit you nothing. If you—”
“She foretold your coming,” said the boy. “She foretold it when my grandfather was a boy younger than I am now. The Rose,’ she said, will bring an ancient evil to Jutenheim. The priest, the company of steel, the red demon of Fozramgar, wizards great and small, and the lord of chaos to rule them all. They will come and Jutenheim will weep for it, for death and doom will follow them.”
Ginalli and the others wore surprised looks.
“Do you know what you carry on your ship, priest?” said the crone. “Do you know?”
Ginalli made no answer.
“A creature,” she said. “A thing not of Midgaard. An alien thing of power — great and terrible power, as old as the sea, as secret as the dark, as slippery as the serpent. A puppet master, it be, ho, ho. Pull he your strings, Ginalli? Pull he your strings?”
“Korrgonn, the son of Azathoth travels with us,” said Ginalli. “Speak no blasphemies of him, or you will regret it.””
“Ha, ha!” said the crone, hopping from one foot to the other. “You know not! You know not. Foolish priest. A comeuppance will there be. Oh yes, a reckoning. A reckoning the like of which Midgaard has not seen in an age!”
“Your babbling makes no sense to me,” said Ginalli. “Speak plainly or begone.”
She paused her cavorting and stared Ginalli in the eye. “As plain as I can, I’ll speak it, for I see that you’re dim as well as daft. When comes the Harbinger of Doom — then you will know fear, priest. Your blood will run cold. Your feet will root to the earth when his sword and his hammer seek your life. You will regret your path, then, priest, your petty part in this game of gods and demons. But then, it will be too late. Hold on to your soul, priest. Hold on tight, ha, ha!”
Ginalli stepped closer to the woman, as if to intimidate her by his bearing and presence. He failed.
“What do you know of the Harbinger of Doom?”
“I know that he is the one man in all Midgaard that can hope to stand against the creature that you’ve brought to Jutenheim.”
“How can we defeat him?”
She smiled an evil looking smile, her teeth yellow and stained. “Of that I would tell you nothing, if even I had something to tell, and I do not. But one thing more I will say. One boon will I grant you, though you do not deserve it and are too dim to heed it. To survive what is coming, you must run, and never stop running. You must abandon your path. You must throw down your mission. Cast out your demons, Ginalli, and be a man again. Throw down your false idol and run, priest. Then only may you live out your span in peace.”
“You’re a mad old witch,” said Ginalli. “Your words are as feeble as your body. I’ve borne your insults too long already. Get you gone now, or suffer Azathoth’s wrath.”
“Azathoth,” she said. “Ha, ha. I fear not the dead, priest. Not yet, anyway. There be yet time. Ha, ha!””
She, the boy, and the wolf turned and walked toward the boardwalk at the pier’s inland end. Ginalli and his companions crossed back over the gangway onto the ship. Ginalli stopped and whispered in Ezerhauten’s ear. ““The witch is a minion of the Harbinger. Kill her. And waste no time about it.”
Ezerhauten put his hand to his sword hilt and looked down the pier. After but a moment, he grabbed Ginalli by the elbow. “Look,” he said.
Ginalli turned. They had a clear view of the pier. Two hundred feet to shore, only a few empty dinghies docked in the shallower water between The Rose and the strand. There was no sign of the crone, or the boy, or the wolf.
“They could not have reached the boardwalk so fast, could they?” said Ginalli.
“At a run, not even the wolf, methinks,” said Ezerhauten.
“Then where?” said Ginalli.
Ezerhauten shook his head.
“This be an evil portent, indeed,” said Ginalli. “We must waste no time in this place, for now we know that the Harbinger has a foothold here. Send a man into town and find us a guide to bring us inland. The best there is. Of sound reputation — reliable. I will meet with him myself. We must leave for the cliffs at dawn. Make it so.”
“I will,” said Ezerhauten.