XIII

THE SCHOONER

The luck of the Vanyar was with Theta's group, for the run to the docks was uneventful. Theta led them several blocks east, well past the cordon the Evermerians set to contain the “Bulls.” That permitted them free passage south, toward the docks, through streets dark and deserted. The schooner lay on the eastern edge of the port, whereas The Falcon's longboat was berthed more toward the west.

The docks were a scene of carnage and mayhem. The group saw a clutch of men from the schooner get ambushed by a contingent of Evermerians that laughed and howled as they pounced on them. The seamen fought tooth and nail, but unarmed, they had no chance. The Evermerians tore them to pieces. Some seamen ran to the water, waded in, and swam for it, which was merely choosing a different death, for the waters were frigid and there was nowhere to swim to. Others breathed their last along the strand, fighting for all they were worth. Brave men they were, but far outmatched. Some few dived through windows of nearby buildings, seeking any refuge or escape.

One last wave of men ran down the main thoroughfare. There were several dozen of them, all dressed in rags. These were the original prey meant for the Bulls Run. What their origin was, who knows? The crew of the schooner and the Eotrus party just happened to arrive at the right time to get thrown into the mix. It was behind this third group of men that the main swarm of Evermerians came. Hundreds strong. They crashed into the ragmen, clawing them, and pulling them down. Most put up little or no fight. The screams and roars of the slaughter were deafening.

Theta's group made it to the schooner unseen, the Evermerians fully occupied with their other prey.

“There are no longboats or dinghies,” said Glimador. “What do we do?”

“We take the schooner,” said Theta. “Get Bertha below deck and get the sail up. Slaayde, we need you for that.””

“There's no time,” said Slaayde. “They'll be all over us.”

“I will hold them back,” said Theta.

“Are you serious?” said Slaayde.

“Get the darned sail up now,” said Theta in an icy tone.

“You're a madman,” said Slaayde as he and Glimador hefted Bertha into the schooner. “You’ll be the death of us all!”

Artol cut the mooring lines.

“She's low in the water,” said Slaayde. “Something's not right.” The boat did not sway at all with their entry or movements. It didn't respond to the surf. It was bottomed out. Stuck in the sand. They weren't going anywhere in that ship.

Glimador opened the door to below decks. There stood the Duchess's henchman, Slint, grinning. Behind him, more of his fellows. Many more.

Glimador tried to slam the door shut, but the Evermerian was too strong and pushed him back. They swarmed like ants onto the deck — a score or more of them, and still more below. Glimador backed off, sword out. Slaayde tried to drag Bertha clear.

“Thought to escape, did you, bull?” said Slint. “That's not going to happen. This isn't our first festival, you know. We've been doing this a long time. A very, very long time. We know all the tricks, bull. There's no escape from Evermere. Not for you, or any bull or cow. Not even for us. Not for anyone.”

“Now pray give us a bit of a chase and a good fight, will you? We missed the main run all holed up here. Somehow, I don't think you lot will disappoint us,” he said with an evil grin.

Glimador backed away.

“There are some big ones here, boys,” said Slint. “We're going to eat good tonight.”

Tanch stood in shock some feet away, his hands opening and closing. He backed up against the gunwale; he could go no farther.

The Evermerians, leering and drooling, began to move forward, slowly, savoring the moment.

Artol and Theta simultaneously vaulted into their midst, weapons humming. Theta's hammer was in his right hand, his falchion in his left. For Artol, it was sword and dagger. Slint’s face was full of shock. He brought both hands up to catch Theta's hammer blow. Those hands, though more powerful than the combined strength of two, perhaps three, normal men, were no hindrance to the hammer at all. The hammer crashed through his guard and blasted down through his head and neck with incredible force, reducing them to nothing but pulp before lodging in his chest. The other Evermerians gasped in shock. No force that they had ever seen could do that to a man. In that brief moment of hesitation, which lasted no more than two, perhaps three seconds, Theta killed three more, and Artol felled two.

Then began a dance of death unlike any that Evermere had ever seen. Theta moved like lightning, twisting and spinning, hacking and slashing; brute force backed by preternatural skill only hinted at in the wildest legends from the Age of Heroes. With him, there was no wasted motion. Every blow crushed or cut off a head or limb. Every step put him in position to do the same again. His armor unerringly turned aside every claw, punch, or blade that struck him.

Artol grunted and spun, constantly moving in attempt to keep the bloodthirsty horde at bay. He alternately swung his sword in great arcs and then in tight downward strokes to slice off arms or heads, as they came at him.

Steps away, Glimador's sword whirled, hummed, and spun with speed and finesse, the envy of most that were called sword masters. He fought at the perimeter of the main melee, taking care to let no Evermerian have his back.

Slaayde, for all his skill and grit, could do nothing in such a fight. His saber was too light a weapon to sever heads, and he'd already learned that anything short of that would not stop an Evermerian. Had Bertha not been with him, perhaps he would have fled. But while she yet lived, he would not abandon her. Not even if it meant his very life. He couldn't carry her alone from the ship, so while the Evermerians were occupied with the others, he dragged her to the far corner of the deck. He put the gunwale to his back, his saber poised in one hand, his dirk in the other — ready for his last stand.

Tanch didn't know what to do. For all he'd been through of late, he wasn't a soldier; he wasn't some kind of battle mage, some warrior wizard. He wasn't one of the great sorcerers like Talbon of Montrose or Grandmaster Pipkorn. He was just Par Tanch — little more than a trumped up hedge wizard that carried a few useful spells and a magic ring that he didn't even understand. He couldn't believe what was happening around him; it had to be a nightmare. The melee was too wild. Too frantic. Though he suspected, he didn't fully grasp what his opponents were, but he knew that they were nothing natural. They were inhuman. Creatures of the dark. Stalkers of the night. Monsters. Monsters that preyed on humankind.

Everything, everyone was moving too fast. Only at the battle of the gateway in the Vermion had he seen combat that remotely resembled what he saw on that ship. For all his fears and uncertainty, he wanted to help, to do his part. He wanted to throw a spell that could turn the tide and send those creatures screaming to Nifleheim or whatever hell claimed them. More so, he wanted to save himself and his companions. He thought of throwing his Spheres of Power spell, as he called it, but it only targeted one or two opponents and everyone was moving so fast, he couldn't be sure that he wouldn't hit Theta or Artol or Glimador. He considered the Scorched Earth spell, the one that he used on the docks of Tragoss Mor; the one that had killed all those men; that had burned them. He never wanted to use that magic again. It made him feel like a murderer, like a monster. He swore that he wouldn't. Even if he dared, that sorcery did not distinguish friend from foe. Any within its range would burn. So long as the others fought on, he could not throw that magic. But there was more magic that he knew, and even more that the Ring of Talidousen hinted at and whispered of to him, but he couldn't focus, he couldn't think, not with all that went on around him.

Then an Evermerian leaped at him. Tanch instinctively swung his quarterstaff and struck the man in the side of the head before his claws could tear into him. The Evermerian staggered. Tanch brought the staff up again and slammed it down on his head. The man fell to his knees. Then he hit him again. Then again. And he kept hitting him. After a while, Tanch realized that the man was dead. But the battle still raged about him.

Slaayde braced himself as an Evermerian stalked toward him, leering, saliva dripping from his mouth in anticipation of his meal. He rushed forward. Slaayde thrust with his sword. The blade sank deep into the middle of the Evermerian's chest. Slaayde sidestepped as his opponent barreled forward, unfazed by the blow, and tried to tackle him. Slaayde spun clear, but a single claw caught the side of his face and tore his cheek open to the bone. Slaayde punched the Evermerian with one hand and buried his dirk into his ear with the other — the blow so hard it pierced his skull and sank into his brain. The Evermerian dropped straight down. Slaayde sensed movement behind him and spun. A large clawed hand grabbed him about the throat and lifted him off his feet. The Evermerian thrust its other clawed hand at his belly to eviscerate him, but Slaayde deflected the blow with his knee. Ignoring the terrible pressure on his throat, he gouged his fingers into the Evermerian's eyes with every ounce of the strength and ferocity that he could muster. The Evermerian screamed and dropped him. It took a few seconds for Slaayde to get his bearings, for his head spun, dizzy from lack of blood flow to his brain, and his eyes teared, making it hard to see. When he could focus again, the Evermerian stood before him fuming and raging, one eye dangling out of its socket, its clawed hands opening and closing in rage. It stepped forward, Slaayde now completely unarmed. And then Tanch's quarterstaff blasted into the back of the Evermerian's head. He staggered and Tanch hit him again. That gave Slaayde enough time to retrieve his dirk. As the Evermerian turned and staggered toward Tanch, Slaayde buried his dirk into the base of his neck, killing him.

Artol swung his weapons wildly, desperately. He wanted nothing more than to run for it, to escape, but that was impossible. Each opponent he faced was his match or more so in speed, and perhaps even in strength. And there were lots of them. There were too many of them. Only the great length of his sword and the long reach of his arms had thus far kept them at bay. His vast skill at arms and his Dyvers steel armor had kept him alive.

The Evermerians were fast and powerful, far, far beyond normal men. They had a resistance to pain and injury that was beyond belief. That and their claws, fangs, and ruthlessness made them terrible opponents. Despite all that, in truth, they had little skill in battle. Their movements were wild and uncontrolled, their defenses poor to non-existent; their attacks, clumsy. Such weaknesses didn't matter when they faced normal folk. But they did against a man like Artol. His skills aside, it was only their weaknesses that allowed him to survive against their press of numbers. And Artol knew it.

For Artol, there was no winning that battle. It was only a matter of time before they slashed his throat or took him from his feet. And then he'd be finished. He knew it. There was no escape. All he could hope for was a quick death. A warrior's death in battle to secure his place in Valhalla beside his forefathers.

He tried to get to the poop deck, to limit how many could get at him at once, but they blocked him at every turn. His sword ran red with blood and gore, the deck boards slick with it beneath his feet. His energy was fading fast. His sword felt heavier with every stroke.

An Evermerian dived into his lower leg from behind and tried to bite him. He struggled to kick the man off even as two more dived at him from the front. He couldn't step back, overbalanced, and fell onto his back, the bloodsuckers atop him. He pushed one back with one hand, but couldn't get a hold on the other, its spittle dripping onto his face. Just as it surged toward his throat, fangs first, something blasted into it, and knocked it off him. Explosions rang out all around. Evermerians screamed. Another blast disintegrated the head of the second Evermerian atop him and pelted him with gore. Artol stayed down, laying as flat as he could, as more balls of fiery energy passed over him and exploded around him. There seemed no end to them, the explosions lasting a minute or more. It was Tanch's magic; the wizard had saved him. How that quirky character carried that much power in him, Artol didn't understand. But after what happened on the docks of Tragoss Mor, nothing the wizard did shocked him. As soon as it seemed safe, Artol scrambled to his feet. The area immediately around him was clear, save for the bodies of the dead.

Theta was still fighting a ways away. He was a juggernaut of death and destruction. None could stand against him for more than a moment. One Evermerian dived into his leg to try to take him down. Theta kicked him off, sending the man flying over the side into the water. He splattered the heads of two other Evermerians with a single swing of his hammer. His falchion took off the head of another and the leg of yet another. His movements never slowed, the strength of his blows never diminished.

And thus, Angle Theta taught the Evermerians fear. Their numbers thinned, and they withdrew from him.

Artol watched in amazement as the Evermerians fled. Theta's skill and Tanch's magic were too much for them. They dived off the boat into the water, or jumped onto the pier and ran for the boardwalk, a dozen of them, perhaps more. They fled for their lives.

Theta stood halfway across the deck. His armor was drenched in blood. His helmet was off. His shield was torn from his back. His cloak was ripped to shreds, his armor dented and gouged, but he still stood. He still held both his weapons. Blood ran ankle deep at his feet, the Evermerians piled in heaps about him, some still twitching and gurgling, but most forever still. No fewer than twenty lay dead or dying about him.

Artol couldn't believe his eyes. No man could fight like that. No mortal ever had. No mortal ever could. What Theta was, Artol dared not even contemplate. He fought like the gods themselves.

And then Artol noticed Theta's hammer as if for the first time. The enormous size of the thing; too weighty for even Artol to wield — a weapon for a giant, not a man; the esoteric runes inscribed on its side — ancient characters and symbology of the Aesir, the gods. And then the thought occurred to him. It was a mad thought, but could it be true? Could that hammer be storied Mjolnir itself? And Theta its master? Dead gods, the implications of that were too incredible to be true. On the face of it, the very idea was madness. But looking at him amid that killing field, seeing what he could do, what he had done, it all started to fit together. His profound knowledge, his superhuman strength, his stature, his charisma, the hints at his vast age and his mysterious origins. The fact that creatures of Nifleheim seemed to know him, to fear him, to seek his death. It all fit. It was impossible, but it was true. Theta was no knight-errant from some foreign land across the sea that no one had ever heard of. He was from much farther away than that. He was from Asgard itself, the home of the gods. He'd come down from the heavens to save all of Midgaard from Korrgonn and his ilk, to seal the pathways to Nifleheim forever. The more Artol thought about it, the more that he knew it to be true. Theta was the god of thunder, the son of Odin all-father himself: Thor, prince of Asgard.

The battle wasn’t over yet. The docks had gone quiet. There was no sound but the surf. Artol moved a few feet to where he had a view of the boardwalk. He saw Tanch in the back of the schooner, Slaayde by his side, battered but alive. The Evermerians were on the boardwalk. Lined up. Looking at them. Staring at the schooner. All of them. Thousands of them. All with fangs and claws, and superhuman strength and speed, and appetites only sated by the flesh and blood of the living. Their feasting on their other prey suspended, the entire throng stood silent and motionless as statues.

From somewhere far back in the crowd, one voice spoke out. “Kill them! Kill them all!” bellowed the Duchess. And en masse, the Evermerian horde surged forward, the fires of Helheim alight in their eyes.