The Gateway (Harbinger of Doom Volume 1) (8 page)

“
Steady boys,” said Ob, “keep
moving forward, the sounds can’t hurt you.”

As they moved inward, the shrill wailing
increased. Growling, malefic intonations began: roaring and
barking, howling, chattering and gibbering. No throat of man or
beast could produce the bizarre cacophony that filled that evil
place. It surely sprang from the demonic tongues of a thousand
wretched fiends reveling in the very pits of hell
itself.

The faces of the brave knights blanched as the
skirling sounds oppressed them and the bitter cold within the place
took hold. They were soldiers, schooled in battle and tactics. They
knew how to fight as a unit, or duel in single combat. But this was
altogether different. An unseen enemy, whose caterwauling could
deafen and disorientate - this was beyond their experience, beyond
their training. All they could do was flee or follow their
officers’ orders and move forward against the din. They followed
orders.

As they approached the first line of obsidian
columns, the grotesque, debased painted bas-reliefs adorning their
surfaces came into view. Every manner of horrific, depraved,
obscene, and unspeakable activity was prominently, even proudly,
depicted on the gruesome faces of those sinister pillars. Such was
the horror of those odious images that the men surely would have
lost their sanity, if not their very souls, had they gazed upon
them for more than mere moments.

The hellish din continued to intensify and
soon the walls of the vile edifice and the surfaces of the black
pillars began to move and wriggle as if alive. Hideous pseudopods
shaped like malformed hands, claws and demonic arms began to push
against and protrude from within the black stone. The obsidian
surfaces seemingly transformed to nothing more than thin opaque,
elastic veils. The horrid appendages writhed and flailed about,
seeking to ensnare the men as they moved past. This was madness, a
fevered nightmare.

Claradon cringed as he thought of the hordes
of fiends that struggled to burst through the flowing stone and
enter the world of man from somewhere beyond the pale. The dim
light and eerie shadows that filled the place only served to
enhance the horror of the surreal scene and unnerve even the
bravest of the company. Looking around at his comrades, Claradon
could see stony resolve on the faces of some; stark terror marred
the aspects of others. Steamy breath rose from all, as did the soft
glow of the ensorcelled daggers.

Gabriel and Ob offered words of encouragement
to keep the troops moving forward. Through the din though, most
surely couldn’t hear them. Lord Theta pressed on at the van,
stalking cautiously forward, brandishing his silver lance like a
spear while evading the writhing things protruding from the
columns.

One of the knights was not so careful,
however, and strayed too close. A snakelike appendage darted out
and wrapped itself about the knight’s waist, pinioning his arms. It
effortlessly lifted and pulled him toward the column. Ob and
Claradon dashed toward the struggling knight, but before they could
reach him another tentacle appeared from above and grasped the
knight about the neck. The evil limbs pulled in opposite directions
and ripped the man’s head from his shoulders. Blood spurted in all
directions, washing over Ob and Claradon, who gasped in horror at
the monstrous sight. The vile tentacles quickly pulled back and
disappeared to whence they came. Ob and Claradon moved toward the
column with swords raised, to deal out whatever vengeance they
could.

“
Stop,” shouted Par Tanch from
nearby. “Don’t strike out at the things. You might break the seal
and give them entry, then we’d surely be doomed.” Mindful of the
wizard’s words, they wisely backpedaled from the column, moving
beyond the range of the pseudopods.

“
This is it. We’re doomed. It’s
the end of the world,” said Tanch. “I told you we should’ve sent
for the army.”

“
Stow that talk you sniveling turd
or I’ll bash your knees in,” said Ob. Ob raised his wineskin to his
lips and took a long draught as he pressed forward.

Claradon’s vision clouded and his stomach
churned as the waves of nausea and lightheadedness flooded over him
with renewed vigor. The abominable clangor increased to near
deafening levels, threatening to implode his very skull. Time and
space became increasingly distorted; everything moved slower and
slower.

Blood began to stream from the men’s noses and
ears as the pressure and maddening cacophony intensified. Several
of the knights doubled over and vomited great gobs of putrescent
green ichor as the sinister forces of the place assailed their
mortal bodies. Others simply collapsed unconscious to the ebony
slab.

Claradon watched in horror as a claw-like
pseudopod pushed out from a column and grabbed the ankle of one of
the fallen knights. The soldier screamed in terror as it dragged
him to his doom. Claradon was simply too far away to come to the
poor man’s aid. Those who were closer were either too dazed from
the madness about them, or too shocked to spring to his rescue. The
knight’s magical dagger sent sparks flying everywhere as he
repeatedly and ineffectually stabbed it into the obsidian slab,
trying to slow his inevitable slide. Within seconds of reaching the
pillar, other demonic pseudopods and misshapen hands fell upon him
and tore him limb from limb.

“
I can’t take this noise, it’s
maddening,” shouted one knight. “If we can’t strike out at these
things we must flee before we’re all torn to pieces.”

Ob grabbed him and pulled him forward, “You’re
a knight of Dor Eotrus, boy, and you’ll not flee while I yet live,
that’s for certain. We face this together. Come on,” he shouted as
he steadied the knight and pressed forward. “For House Eotrus! To
victory and tomorrow.”

Tanch pressed his hands to his ears, trying to
stop the maddening noise from reaching him. He must have attempted
to recall some bit of magic, some arcane spell or charm, that could
protect him from the din, but how could he focus his thoughts
through that insane cacophony? Blood streamed from his nose and his
eyes were unfocused. His strength sapped, he collapsed to his
knees. Even Ob staggered and fell; his gnomish ears being
particularly susceptible to the horrific emanations.

Claradon focused his concentration as best he
could and through chattering teeth bespoke the mystical words that
called forth the power of Odin. A brilliant white light appeared
and encompassed him. This mantle of holy light served to diminish
the deafening sounds and the spatial distortions occurring directly
around him, and would safeguard him from the claws and fangs of any
creature of chaos that might appear. Alas, his power was not nearly
great enough to encompass and aid his comrades. Already weakened,
however, he could do little more than hold his ground.

At the far end of the hall, Claradon could now
see the temple’s adytum - a black stone table, an unholy altar no
doubt to the foulest fiends of chaos. Its surface was covered in
deep reddish stains; the dried blood of untold innocents, spilled
to sate the unquenchable thirsts of unspeakable outré
beings.

Behind the altar, the rear wall of the temple
was embossed with a strange pattern of circles within circles. At
the center of the pattern was a gaping black hole of nothingness, a
void. To where it led, man was surely not meant to fathom. The
radius of each of the circles was twice that of the circle within
it. The lines forming the five innermost circles were blackened and
charred as if they had burned away - only moldering gray ash
remained. Within these circles, inscribed in a dark red pigment -
which surely was human blood - were all manner of arcane runes and
eldritch symbols from the bizarre lexicon of some otherworldly
fiends or forgotten gods or mad arch-mages. The sixth or outermost
circle was glowing and burning a fiery red; the very flames of hell
itself danced and writhed on its unholy surface. The space between
the fifth and sixth circles was filled with twins of those curious
golden coins, evenly spaced about the circle’s circumference.
Surely, when the sixth circle burned through, there would be no
holding back the foul tide that was to come - the very armies of
insanity and chaos, the maleficent denizens of the pit.

Even now, the rear wall, etched with the
unholy pattern, bulged and flexed and flowed, ready to burst from
the pressure of some massive monstrosities straining against its
far side. In moments they would burst through - the beasts from
beyond would walk once again on the world of man and usher in
mankind’s doom.

Sir Gabriel pressed onward toward the black
altar followed by his towering red-bearded sergeant, Sir Artol.
Artol was unstopped by the maddening chaos, perhaps somewhat
protected by his thickly padded steel helm if not his thick skull,
but blood flowed freely from his nose, mouth, and even his eyes.
Sir Miden staggered just behind them, valiantly trying to press
forward though blood gushed from his nose and mouth. Overcome by
the pain, he dropped his sword and shield, ripped off his helm, and
clasped his hands to his ears to stave off the intolerable sounds
and pressure. Just as he seemed to recover a bit and began to step
forward, his entire head erupted in fountains of blood and gobs of
gore that went spouting in all directions. His body swayed for a
moment before collapsing in a heap.

Claradon couldn’t believe his eyes. He threw
more of his energy to the mystical mantle that shielded
him.

At the sight of poor Sir Miden’s fate, several
knights turned and fled the temple in terror. Their loyalty to
House Eotrus was without question, but this madness was too much.
There was no enemy to smite here, no honor or glory to be gained,
no vengeance to be had, only mindless suffering and senseless
death. They’d had enough. They fled. A few even dropped their
swords or shields in their haste to escape. Ob’s commands and
curses at them went unheard and unheeded in the chaotic
din.

Claradon watched them flee. This can’t be
real, he thought. It must be some vile nightmare. It can’t truly be
happening.

Lord Theta seemed less effected by the evil
phenomenon than were the others. No blood flowed from him and his
eyes remained focused. His face, however, turned bright red and his
stride slowed nearly to a crawl. He trudged forward in slow motion,
several yards ahead of Gabriel, laboring as if dragging a great
weight. At last, he reached the altar and the source of the evil. A
small orb of utter blackness and purest evil sat atop the ebony
slab of the altar. Theta must have known it was the foul emanations
of this unholy artifact that fueled the chaos about him. It was its
power that threatened to open the gateway to the unspeakable realms
beyond the pale - the very Courts of Chaos themselves. Theta
dropped his lance and pulled his war hammer from his belt. He
raised it above his head with great speed, and then swung it down
toward the orb with all his might. Just before or perhaps just
after his hammer hit home, the rear wall of the building gave way,
emitting a massive blast of air and heat into the unholy temple.
The explosion blasted Theta backward, hurtling him some forty feet
before slamming him to the unyielding stone slab. Momentum
propelled him several yards farther before mercifully releasing
him. Though Theta surely took the brunt of the force, the blast
knocked all the men from their feet.

Claradon looked over in horror at Theta’s
still form. Another brave man dead, a mad nightmare this is. Then
he saw the six-foot wide hole in the temple’s rear wall. Beyond the
hole, was utter blackness - a portal to some other place, some
other dimension, some foul bastion of chaos. The rim of the portal
was aglow with wisps of yellow fire, their origin unknown. The
arcane pattern’s outermost circle was gone - its crimson border now
nothing more than blackened and charred ash. The eldritch coins had
melted and their remnants were trickling down the shattered wall in
golden rivulets.

From out of that ominous hole, which proved
indeed to be a gateway, raced a monster the like of which Claradon
had never seen before, and until that very moment did not truly
believe existed. It was an otherworldly creature of nightmare, of
folklore; the very bogeyman of the children’s tales come to life.
The thing was a horrid caricature of a man. No flesh covered any
part of the seven-foot tall creature’s oversized skull. Its large
red, glowing eyes and long forked tongue were alight with demonic
flame. It wore strange black armor that clung tightly to its
muscular torso. In its right hand it held a six-foot long white
sword whose blade danced with red and yellow flame. Upon its
massive breastplate was damasked the unmistakable symbol of the
chaos lord Mortach. Could this hideous beast be the dread Lord
Mortach itself? the mythical patron of death and destruction.
Surely any mortal who stood against such a fiend would be tossed
aside like so much chaff. Before Claradon or his men could gain
their feet, the creature sped through the hall and bounded out the
entry – out into the world of man.

The unnatural pressure within the edifice was
now gone and the earsplitting cacophony subsided. The pseudopods
and tentacles retreated from the walls and columns and they
returned to their normal stony aspects. Waves of heat and the
noxious scent of brimstone now filled the air, emanating from the
abyss beyond the breach. Behind these wafted a strong putrescence
mixed with the bestial odor detected before.