Gateway to Nifleheim (18 page)

“You are daft, man,” said Ob. “I told you, there be no tracks there. The only tracks we've seen are outside the circle, and they're just tracks of men and horses. You're just spouting more of your fairy stories and they don’t impress us. We’re not country bumpkins out here, mister. We’re soldiers, we’re Northerens, born and bred. Bumps in the night don't scare us.” He took a swig from his wineskin.

“Look again, gnome,” said Theta in an even tone as he pointed at the ground within the circle. “Perhaps you were blinded by the forest and failed to see the trees.”

“What?” said Ob, turning toward Claradon with a bewildered expression. “I don't understand this fellow. He talks all funny.”

“Maybe you should have another look,” said Claradon. “Maybe there is something there, something that you missed.”

“I was Master Scout of the Dor since before you were born,” said Ob sternly. “Nobody can read tracks better than me—not rangers, not stinking elves, and certainly not no tin cans. But I'll have another gander, just to settle this business once and for all.” Ob got down on his hands and knees at the rim of the circle, torch in hand, peered down and carefully studied the ground.

Theta squatted next to him. “There, and there,” he said, as he gestured toward some small features on the surface of the hardened soil. “And there and there.” Ob studied the ground, moved about over a small area, and poked at the soil. This went on for some time. When he finally stood up and turned towards the others, his face was ashen and contorted in a look of shock and bewilderment.

“I cannot hardly believe what I've seen. I missed it afore; I missed it entirely,” he said as he shook his head in disgust.

“What did you miss?” said Claradon. “Are there tracks there or not?”

“Theta spoke the truth, about the tracks at least. There be tracks all right. There be nothing but tracks, which is why I missed them. That ground—it has been stamped down and compressed by a thousand, thousand feet that walked over and over it. The tracks are so overlapped that they obscure each other almost completely, making them appear not to be tracks at all. But they are—I'm sure of it now. And they're not people tracks or the tracks of some animal neither. They're from some type of beasties—monsters the like of which I've never seen afore.”

“How do you know that?” said Claradon.

Ob held out his palm and displayed an object that he pulled from the soil. It was a claw—pitch-black, more than nine inches long and nearly three inches wide, and strangely twisted.

Blood dripped from Ob's hand. “It's razor sharp,” he said. “It was embedded deep in the soil—only the back edge stuck out just a hair. And look at the size of it. No natural beast has such a claw.”

“Dead gods,” said Claradon. “It must've broken off some creature; some thing from the hell Lord Theta spoke of.”

“It looks scorched,” said Gabriel. “Almost charred, as if it has been through a fire.”

“It's more than charred,” said Claradon. “It is melted.”

“All right, Theta,” said Ob. “So how do we seal this gateway?”

“When the mist returns, we will find a way,” said Theta. “There is always a way.”

“Find a way? What the heck kind of plan is that?” said Ob. “And what—and what of Aradon and the others?”

Theta looked toward Claradon before responding.

“Besides the one man that was taken away in the wagon, they are dead. Of this, I have little doubt.”

Claradon's throat tightened up and his hands grew icy cold when he realized the truth of Theta's words. Time seemed to slow down and the world closed in around him. Gabriel put an arm around his shoulders. “We'll get through this,” he said softly.

“How do you know all these things?” said Ob. “You’re not just some knight on holiday. Who are you, Theta? Who are you really?”

Theta turned and began to walk away. “Perhaps tonight you will find out.”

Ob's weathered visage blanched at Theta's ominous words. Gabriel, Ob, Dolan, and Claradon watched the mysterious knight walk back to the makeshift encampment.

“Should we tell the men?” said Claradon.

“What would you have me tell them?” said Gabriel. “That the world is ending?”

Claradon shrugged.

“That we have a madman amongst us?” said Ob. “Mark my words, he will be the doom of us all. Stinking foreigners.”

“You're the stinky one,” said Dolan wrinkling his nose before he set off after Theta.

XIV

THE FOG

“There,” said Claradon, pointing. “The mist forms at the circle’s center.” He turned to Ob. “What is the hour?”

Ob looked up at the night sky. “Less than one bell to midnight. Right on time.”

“It’s forming too fast to be natural,” said Claradon.

“So now you’re an expert on mist formation?” said Ob.

“It’s sorcery,” said Tanch. “I warned you,” he said glancing about furtively. “We don’t have enough men.”

“Black magic, it is,” whispered Dolan.

“Mount up and form around me,” shouted Sir Gabriel.

The knights scrambled to their feet.

“Stop up your ears with the wax, bare your weapons, and stand ready,” boomed Ob.

The men rushed to their horses and aligned them shoulder to shoulder in expert fashion, four rows deep. In moments, they were ready; a bastion of solid steel and grim resolve. The knights in the front row held gleaming pole arms honed to a fine edge. Those of the second and third rows held shorter weapons. The fourth row was mostly crossbows.

An unnatural wind sprang up and the fog rapidly expanded radially outward from the circle’s center and rolled toward them like a giant wave, gathering speed as it went.

“This is it,” said Dolan, a smile on his face.

The men struggled to keep the horses calm and in formation as the mist wave came on; they braced themselves against it.

In moments, the eerie cloud engulfed the entire circle and blasted into an unseen barrier at the circle’s rim with a dull, echoing thud. The fog crashed against the invisible barrier, but could not pass. The air about the men grew cold, and their steamy breath rose from their faces.

Standing just beyond the rim, the expedition was untouched by the foul vapors. No one dared move; they barely breathed. Moments passed that seemed like hours while they looked and listened for some sign of their enemies. But there was nothing. Nothing but silence. Nothing but the roiling mist before them. It billowed against the unseen barrier as if to topple it with a fierce pressure, as if it had a will of its own. It was like a wave that crested but could not fall.

“What’s holding it back?” said Ob. “Wizard—is it you? You up to your tricks?”

“Not I,” said Tanch. “This is quite beyond me. Perhaps the buried coins somehow hold it back.”

“Or attract it,” said Dolan.

They heard a rumbling sound, though from where it came they could not tell, and then a second gust of wind sprang up. Claradon saw Theta lower his visor and signal something to Dolan, who ducked and covered his eyes. Theta bent low in the saddle and leaned forward.

“Turn your horses,” shouted Gabriel. “Put your backs to the fog. Now!”

The unseen barrier abruptly dropped. The fogbank blasted outward and swallowed the whole of the expedition within its maw. With the fog came a thunderous wind and a fierce cold that blasted through the expedition’s ranks and momentarily blinded them all. The temperature instantly plunged to well below freezing. Horses panicked and screamed, snorted, reared, stumbled and went down. Helmets blew off. Shields went flying. Weapons were dropped. Men yelled and cursed and fell and were stepped on.

As his horse reared, Claradon was able to slip off its back and land lightly on his feet, but he was knocked over when another horse careened into him. Claradon looked up and saw Theta’s horse rearing, but Theta was secure in the saddle, his lance pointed to the sky. Claradon watched as Theta looked toward the men and saw that most were down, along with their horses, the rest, scattered. He turned back toward the circle’s center and boldly advanced alone into the preternatural mist. Dolan scrambled to pull his horse up, then vaulted into the saddle and followed his master.

“The fog stings my skin and my head spins,” said one knight, before being overcome by a fit of coughing as he tried to rise.

“I can’t see,” said another man. “It’s burning my eyes.”

“And my throat,” said another, coughing. “This mist is poison; we’ve got to get clear.”

“It is troll's breath,” said another knight. “They’ll be on us in a moment. Stand fast.”

“It’s dark sorcery,” said another man, who promptly bent over and vomited his dinner.

“Troll's breath,” repeated several others.

“Devil’s work,” said another. “It’s devil's work.”

There was coughing and wheezing and vomiting all around as the diabolical fog settled around them and the last of the wind died away. The fog clung to their flesh and threatened to rend it from their very bones. The frigid temperatures it brought with it chilled the men to the core and sapped their strength. A strange bestial odor filled the air and grew stronger by the moment.

“Steady men,” shouted Ob. “It's not stinking troll’s breath, you idiots. Hold your ground and remember your training.”

“Get back in formation,” boomed Sir Gabriel. “Get on your horses and reform the line, now.”

“My horse ran off,” said one man. Several others said the same.

“Forget them,” said Gabriel. “Now you’re footmen. Get back on the line.”

The men scrambled to comply.

“What of the mist?” said Ob to Gabriel. “It could be some kind of poison gas; maybe deadly.”

“We’ve already breathed it deep,” said Gabriel. “If it is deadly, we’re done for; we might as well hurry on and take some of them with us.”

“Aye,” said Ob. “Assuming that there’s anyone in there,” which was impossible to tell for the thick, clinging mist darkened the area and limited their vision to little more than ten feet.

Soon, they were ready, though down more than a dozen horses, and several of the men were battered, bruised, and bleeding. Serious injury amongst the knights was staved off only by the quality of their armor and their training. The effects of the mist diminished with time, but the nausea and lightheadedness remained, as did the frigid cold.

“Where is Mr. Fancy Pants?” said Ob as he looked around. “Hiding in the back somewhere or has he run off?”

“He went on ahead,” said Claradon. “And Dolan with him.”

“Went on ahead?” said Ob. “Are you serious? What does the fool think he’s doing? We’ve no idea what lurks in there.”

“Dear gods,” said Tanch. “We can’t just go blundering into that fog. It’s chaos sorcery; I can sense it. It is powerful and it could harbor anything. It would have taken a cadre of archmages to conjure this up. For Odin’s sake, Sir Gabriel, I implore you not to lead us in there. It will be the death of us all.”

“Pipe down, Magic Boy,” said Ob. “Or I’ll take a switch to you.”

“We’re heading in,” shouted Sir Gabriel, his eyes boring into Tanch. “Keep the daggers I gave you near at hand.”

“Steady boys and forward,” shouted Ob. “Eyes open and mouths shut, and for Tyr’s sake, stay together. I will not search the fog for any slackers.”

The warriors caught up to Theta and Dolan about a hundred yards into the fogbank. They stood amidst a killing field, but remounted their horses as the others rode up. The mutilated corpses of more than a dozen men and horses littered the ground where minutes before there was nothing. Gabriel ordered the knights to form a perimeter around the area. Ob and Tanch dismounted to get a closer look at the bodies. Gabriel grabbed the reigns of Claradon's horse and they rode to Theta's side.

“Ob will check things out,” said Gabriel to Claradon. “You just stay with me. The men are watching, so we must keep our wits, no matter what Ob finds.”

“There was nothing here minutes ago, just empty dirt,” said Gabriel to Theta. “What did you see when you got here?”

“The same as what you see now.”

“Is it our patrol?” said Claradon.

“Probably, but I can’t say for certain,” said Theta.

Claradon didn't know why, but he looked to Theta's sword, to see if blood dripped from it, but his swords were in their sheaths and his lance looked clean and unbloodied.

“Dear gods,” whispered Tanch as his face contorted in revulsion. “What could do that to a man?”

“I don't rightly know,” whispered Ob, cringing as he surveyed the remains.

“They’re torn to bits,” said Tanch. “Odin protect us—they look chewed: eaten. How will we ever tell who they are? Is it even them?”

“It’s them,” said Ob. “Some of them anyway. There’s a bit of a tabard over there,” he said, pointing. “I can see our sigil on it, and over there is part of a shield. I think it has got Worten's coat-of-arms on it.”

“What is that smeared all over the remains?” said Tanch. “Mud? The ground is dry.”

“Droppings,” said Ob.

“What?”

“Their corpses have been desecrated,” said Ob, “in unspeakable ways, more than just what you've noticed. There will be hell to pay for this.”

“Dear gods, dear gods,” said Tanch. “I can't believe this; I can't look any longer. Is Lord Aradon amongst them? By Odin, please tell me he’s not.”

Ob held up the battered hilt of a sword that he had pulled from the debris. Only a fragment of the steel blade remained. The hilt's leather was torn and the wood slashed, but the design was unmistakable.

“That’s his?” said Tanch. “For certain?”

“Aye.”

“Where are the rest of them?” said Tanch. “There aren’t enough remains here for all those men, are there?”

“Killed elsewhere, or eaten,” said Ob.

“Dear gods.”

Ob walked over to the others. His jaw was set and his eyes were watery.

“Is it them?” said Claradon. “Is he there?”

Ob held up the sword hilt for Claradon and Gabriel to see. “We’re going to find them, what did this,” he said, “and we’re going to kill them all. We’re going to stick their stinking heads on pikes for Odin and all to see. We’re going to kill them all.”