Gateway to Nifleheim (13 page)

“Aye, we best,” said Dolan.

A league into the forest, the trees grew unusually tall and dense, twisted, and intertwined, many covered in moss. The thick canopy overhead blocked out most of the light and all of the breeze. The place was silent and still, and colder owing to the dim light. Branches hung low, and the footing grew treacherous with slick leaves and moss, holes and loose rocks, and fallen trees and broken branches everywhere. In some places the undergrowth grew so tall, thick, and uneven as to be impassable by the horses. More than once, the men were forced to dismount and walk the horses through or around the various obstructions. All of that was normal for the Vermion, except for the silence. In the heart of the forest, not a sound was there—not of bird or beast. No insect chirped, or called, or buzzed. Not one bee, fly, or mosquito to be found. Save for the trees and plants, the forest was dead, a graveyard of old tree falls and decaying leaves.

“There are things what chase animals from a wood,” said Ob. “Fires, weather, huntsmen, and such. But what chases out the bugs?”

Nothing that I’ve ever seen,” said Dolan, “except the coldest days of winter, and even they’re not as silent as this. It’s not natural, it's not.”

Deep into the wood they caught a glimpse of a flattened, open area through the trees. They stopped their horses and went quiet.

“That is it,” whispered Dolan, pointing. “Just like they said: a big circle of nothing.” He paused and looked around for some moments and Ob did the same. “There is a strange feeling hereabouts, Mister Ob. My skin is beginning to crawl, it is.”

“I feel it too,” whispered Ob. “It’s like Wizard Boy said—it feels like something is watching us, something unseen, out there, somewhere in the trees. It’s giving me the creeps. The stinking hair is standing up on me arms.”

“Mine too,” said Dolan.

“Dolan me boy, ride back to the others, slow and quiet-like, but don’t waste no time about it. Tell them we found it, the circle. Tell Gabe that you and me are gonna reconnoiter a bit by our lonesomes to scope things out good and proper. We will rejoin the group when we’re done nosing about. Tell him to have his lot hold back a good ways and for Odin’s sake, keep good and quiet. I will wait for you here. Hurry back straightaway after you’ve delivered the message—and if I’m not here, in this very spot, you run for it. You got me?”

“Aye, Mister Ob, I got you, I do.”

When Dolan returned, Ob was waiting for him in the appointed place, no worse for wear but looking a bit pale.

“Anything?” said Dolan.

“Not a peep,” said Ob. “There is nothing moving out there that I can see or hear or smell. But that feeling of being watched—I can’t shake it. I’ll tell you sonny, that has got me worried. Whatever is going on out here is outside what I know, and I’ve been around a long while.”

“I expect Lord Angle will sort it out directly, he will,” said Dolan. “He’s good at that, he is.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Ob, “but I expect we will see what your boss is made of before this adventure is done.”

They tied their horses to trees, and slowly stalked forward, crouched over. Ob moved fluidly—he kicked up no rocks, rustled no bushes or leaves, and snapped no twigs. His passage made less noise than that of a squirrel or rabbit—his skills the envy of hunter, ranger, or sneak thief alike. Dolan, however, was utterly silent, passing between the trees like a ghost. Ob was shocked when he noticed Dolan’s stealth, but made no comment on it. They crawled the last twenty yards toward the circle on their bellies, pausing every few feet to look and listen.

“It is a circle alright, a big one,” whispered Ob, breathing heavy as he peeked out from a bush some twenty feet from the circle’s edge. Sweat dripped from his forehead and matted his hair despite the cool air. “Flat, almost smooth; the dirt looks packed down tight. Not a bush or even a leaf in sight. Never seen nothing like this. How big do you figure it is?”

“I’m not much for measuring,” said Dolan, wrinkling his nose. Unlike Ob, Dolan was not winded from the crawl, and his forehead was dry; his face, its usual pale.

“Four hundred yards across, give or take, I would mark it,” said Ob. “Took a bit of work to make this, I would say. Rain didn’t make it. Nor did wind, bird, bug, or bush.”

“Do you smell it?” said Dolan.

“For a while now,” said Ob. “Was wondering if you would notice it. It is faint, but it’s there. Smells like what was left of that six-leg Claradon killed in the tower.”

Dolan took a deep breath. “Yup. Burned and dead mixed together, it is. You think it was magic that made this circle? Black sorcery, was it?”

“Bah,” spat Ob. “I don’t put much stock in that bunk. Bunch of crazy cultists with shovels and sweat done made this. Most things can get built with a shovel or two and a barrel of sweat. I’ll bet a keg of Portland Vale's best that is what went on here. Why they built it and what it’s for is what I want to know.”

“Cultists with shovels,” said Dolan nodding. “Look at the edge, it’s sunk, it is,” he said, pointing to the circle’s rim.

“Aye,” said Ob. “The circle is a good few inches down from the surrounding soil. I wonder whether they hauled away the topsoil or just packed it down somehow. A bit of both, probably.”

“Hauled and packed it they did, them crazies,” said Dolan as he looked warily over one shoulder and then the next.

A short while later, Ob and Dolan made their way back to their horses as silently as they had come, walked them back to the main group, and made their report to Sir Gabriel.

“Take a full squadron and scour the woods around the circle in all directions,” said Gabriel to Ob, “but stay close together in case there are enemies about. Find me some sign of our patrol and of whatever enemy force waylaid them, but do not set foot within the circle until I give you leave. Not one step within.”

As Ob’s squadron went about their business, the others examined the perimeter of the circle itself, none daring to venture beyond the rim after Gabriel's orders. Gabriel and Claradon eyed the strange construction.

“We will find him,” said Gabriel. “Ob can track a mouse through a haystack.”

Claradon nodded.

“You think it’s safe?” said Claradon as his eyes drifted in Tanch’s direction.

“If it's not magical, yes,” said Gabriel. “If there is sorcery involved, who can say. To be safe, we need to check it out before we step within.”

“I can find out,” said Par Tanch. “I believe the Arcane Order would approve the use of the sorcerous arts in this circumstance. So with your permission, Sir Gabriel, I will call on my humble powers to divine if fell sorcery is at work here.”

“That is what I was counting on,” said Gabriel. “Have at it.”

Par Tanch began his divination by chanting in a strange, guttural tongue. He soon coupled his rather oppressive intonations with strange arm and hand movements, akin to a bizarre, primitive, and awkward dance. He tossed various sparkling powders about that gave off small bursts of light and puffs of smoke that smelled like rotten eggs. Such antics were mere mummery, and though wholly superfluous, the members of the Arcane Order seemed to think such things expected of them, so they carried on thus. The knights looked on, amazed, as true sorcery was so seldom seen.

As Par Tanch put on his performance, Theta quietly approached the circle’s rim several yards to the backs of the rest of the company. From a belt pouch he produced an amulet inset with an oblong, azure-hued gemstone that had the look of a sapphire, though it was actually something much rarer. With that ancient charm, Theta could detect the presence or residues of all manner of arcane magics and mark them as either beneficent or fell. As he held it aloft and moved it toward the rim, the gem emitted a soft, flickering glow. The color of the stone quickly changed to a fiery red. As he passed his hand beyond the rim, the glow faded but did not extinguish.

Theta quickly replaced the amulet whence it came, and pulled from beneath his breastplate a strangely twisted ankh that hung from a leather cord about his neck. The ankh was stained and battered, and whether it was made of wood, or stone, or metal was impossible to say, but it was clearly no mere accouterment. It was an ancient holy symbol preserved from some bygone age. One who grasped its deepest secrets could use it to detect the presence of certain maleficent creatures, beasts, or men. In its ear, Theta whispered words from ages past, forbidden words of power in a language long since lost to the world. He tightly gripped the relic and surveyed the barren landscape before him. His eyes scoured the circle for several seconds, devouring every inch of it. Finally, he released the ankh, allowing it to fall against his chest. He then tucked it back beneath his armor, safely out of sight.

He passed the tip of his lance across the rim of the circle and thrust it, gently at first, then more forcefully against the bleak soil within, testing it as one might use a pole to probe the firmness of the ground when traveling through swamp or bog.

“Oh my,” said Par Tanch as he completed his ritual. “There is dark sorcery at work here. Fearful, insidious magic of a kind quite alien to me. I would say that—”

“Chaos sorcery lingers along the rim,” said Theta, as he moved to stand beside Tanch. “The stuff of Nifleheim. It emanates from something buried below the surface, but its power is waning.”

Tanch raised an eyebrow at Theta's proclamations and looks of surprise and suspicion contested for control of his face. The knights looked to Tanch, apparently skeptical of the conclusions of the foreign soldier.

“I agree with Lord Theta's most astute assessment,” said Tanch in slow, measured tones as he studied Theta. “I had no idea that you were so well versed in the arcane arts, my Lord. May I ask your method?”

“No,” said Theta. There would be no further explanation.

Tanch raised his eyebrows and looked taken aback. “Very well then. To your assessment, I would add that we can safely pass the threshold and enter the circle.”

“I concur,” said Theta. He stepped across the rim and walked about to no ill effect.

“You men,” said Gabriel, pointing to several of the knights. “Break out the tools and uncover whatever is buried below the rim. Whatever you find, for Odin’s sake, don't touch it—call Tanch and me over to examine it.”

XI

CHAOS, COINS, AND CULTS

“How goes the work?” said Tanch.

“Mr. Artol has broken three shovels so far, he has,” said Dolan. “Mr. Paldor has only broken one. Not that he isn't trying as hard; it's just that he's a lot smaller.”

“This bloody ground is like frozen dirt in the dead of winter,” said Paldor.

“More like the packed dirt of an old road . . . in the frozen dead of winter,” said Artol as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“Not easy work,” said Dolan.

“That much is clear,” said Tanch. “I do wish I could assist you in your labors, but with my delicate back, I'm afraid such work is quite beyond me. Perhaps after I've rested a bit under yonder tree, I will feel strong enough to heft a shovel for a time.” He turned and walked away mumbling to himself.

“All work is beyond him, I hear,” said Artol.

“Hold on, look at what we got here,” said Dolan as he lifted a shiny, metallic object from the soil. “A coin, it is.”

“Wait,” said Paldor. “Sir Gabriel said not to touch whatever we found.”

Dolan brushed the dirt off the coin and polished it with his fingers. “It’s just a coin,” he said. “What's the harm?”

“Best put it down,” said Artol as he made a sign of protection across his chest and waved Tanch over. “It might be cursed or something.” The wizard quickly realized what was happening and trotted back, out of breath from the effort.

“Found something, have we?” said Tanch.

“It’s gold,” said Dolan. “And it’s got strange markings on it that I can’t read.” Dolan passed the coin to Tanch. “There could be more,” he said before he returned to his digging.

Theta, Gabriel, Claradon, and many of the other knights gathered around while Tanch studied the coin, turning it over and around multiple times as he scrutinized its every feature.

“There is no doubt,” said Tanch, “some strange arcane signature emanates from this coin.” He offered it to Theta. “Would you care to examine it?”

Theta waved Tanch's hand away. He wouldn't touch the thing. Tanch rolled his eyes and shook his head, for the superstitious nature of knights always vexed him. He was confident that Claradon and Gabriel would be above such things and held the coin out toward them. “Master Claradon? Sir Gabriel?”

“The symbols are most interesting in that—” said Tanch.

Claradon reached for the coin.

“No,” shouted Gabriel as he swatted at Claradon's hand. The coin went flying.

“Ow!” cried Claradon, when his finger brushed the coin even as Gabriel knocked it away. His face contorted in pain and revulsion. He gripped his injured hand with his other and doubled over, wincing in pain.

“It doesn't seem to like you, Eotrus,” said Theta chuckling.

“How bad is it?” said Gabriel, trying to see.

“It burned me. How could it do that?”

Gabriel grasped Claradon's arm. “Show me.”

“I'm alright,” he said, his hand shaking. “It's not too bad, I think, just the tip of one finger is a bit singed.”

“A burn?” said Tanch. “That coin has been sitting in the cold ground—how could it burn you?”

“Was it covered in acid?” said Artol.

“It is dry,” said Dolan, leaning over the coin where it had fallen. “And it didn’t burn me or Mister Tanch.”

“Oh my, oh dear,” said Tanch as he hopped from one leg to the next. He wrung his hands and checked them several times for damage, his face contorted in panic. “I beg your pardon, Brother Claradon,” he said, his voice wavering. “How could I know it would harm you? It didn't feel hot to me; not hot at all. I never would've offered it to you if I ever dreamed it would harm you. Please accept my deepest apologies. I didn't know. Truly, I had no idea that—”

“It felt—evil,” said Claradon.