The Gateway (Harbinger of Doom Volume 1) (9 page)

As those who were still conscious staggered
coughing and gasping to their feet, Claradon gazed in disbelief as
more unspeakable horrors appeared. They rose through the rarefied
ether of the abyss beyond the gateway by some bizarre means of
locomotion incomprehensible to man. Several nightmarish creatures
more than six feet tall and only roughly human shaped vaulted
through the breach and entered the unholy temple. Their appearance
was too monstrous, too ghastly to describe or even contemplate. No
mortal creature ever possessed an aspect of such indescribable
horror, such loathsome abominable evil. Claradon shuddered as he
looked upon the faces of pure chaos. As horrific as they were, they
were beings of flesh and blood and sinew; Claradon and his comrades
knew how to deal with such things.

Claradon, Sir Conrad, and Sir Martin were the
first to rush forward, yelling battle cries to their patron gods
Odin, Tyr, and Anarian. By the time they approached the gateway an
even more formidable being had pushed the ghastly fiends aside. It
was nearly eight feet tall and covered from head to toe with
sharpened metallic spikes. It was brick red in color, except for
its large eyes, which glowed a brilliant gold.

Claradon saw many more loathsome beasts
pushing forward behind the spiked giant, striving to gain entry to
the world of man. Verily, a veritable horde of hell was spewing
forth from that malefic gateway to Abaddon. The spiked giant
brandished a huge black sword and pointed it at the three
knights.

“
Bow down,” it roared in the
tongue of man, “Bow down petty creatures and pledge thy allegiance
to Lord Gallis Korrgonn, Prince of Chaos, and son of almighty
Azathoth. Bow down and swear thy fealty to me and I may spare thy
pathetic lives.”

Claradon’s whole body shuddered and quaked at
the sight and sound of this unspeakable nightmarish thing. He felt
puny and naked. A paralysis washed over him, rooting him in place.
He knew he was about to die. A Lord of Chaos was about to
annihilate him.

He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted
to scream. If I just bow down, perhaps I might yet live. Such a
little thing it would be, to just bow down. I could do this,
couldn’t I? to save my life. What harm would it do?

He remembered his father. He remembered his
burning need for vengeance.

He did not bow down. He would never bow down
before any servant of chaos.

He would have his vengeance.

“
I am Brother Claradon Eotrus,
Lord of Dor Eotrus,” he shouted.

“
You killed my father; for this
you die!”

Claradon charged forward; from the corners of
his eyes he saw that his two comrades were still with him. The
smaller fiends sprang forward, interposing themselves between their
dark Lord and the knights.

“
Very well, petty creatures,” said
Korrgonn. “We shall feast on thy souls tonight. This world is ours
now!”

The knights fought with incredible ferocity,
their swords and strength against the claws and fangs of the
hellish spawn of chaos. Outnumbered, the fiends pressed them back,
away from the gateway and away from Korrgonn. Through the whirl of
battle, Claradon was cut off from his comrades and fought on alone.
The mantle of holy light that enshrouded him blinded the fiends and
they shrank from it. Many turned from him and sought other victims.
This gave him a singular advantage in the wild melee and perhaps
was all that preserved his life. It also allowed him brief moments
of respite during which he caught glimpses of the deadly struggles
unfolding around him. Numerous devils were attacking his still
dazed or unconscious comrades and others engaged in duels to the
death with the knights still standing. He saw Sir Bilson’s throat
ripped out by one fiend, and young Sir Paldor’s chest slashed by
another, but the brave knight fought on. Two fiends decapitated
another knight and feasted on his corpse. Through the dim light, he
spied Sirs Conrad and Martin, awash with blood and gore, pulled
down and torn limb from limb by a group of bloodthirsty multi-armed
fiends. Then he saw Ob, fighting alone, darting here and there,
evading the claws of the beasts, no doubt cursing all the while,
several fiends stalking at his heels. It pained him that he could
do nothing to aid his comrades. It was all he could do just to stay
alive in the wild melee.

Tanch opened his eyes and pulled himself to a
sitting position. Blood dripped from his nose and his eyes were
unfocused. The bloody corpse of a fiend lay across his legs. Just
to his left lay the corpse of one of Dor Eotrus’s knights, his
heart torn out of his chest. A few feet away, Ob was fighting
desperately with two fiends; several others already lay dead at his
feet. Ob held a sword in one hand and a glowing dagger in the other
and spun a wild dance of death about him. He thrust his sword
through the breast of a fiend but it held fast as he tried to pull
it out. As he struggled to withdraw it, he buried his short blade
in the breast of the second fiend. From out of nowhere, another
fiend appeared and clamped its devilish jaws upon Ob’s forearm. He
wailed in agony but managed to stab the thing in the throat with
his dagger. The beast fell back spouting ichor from its neck.
Slumping back against one of the pillars, the wounded gnome
struggled to wrap some cloth about his injured arm to stem the flow
of his lifeblood. As Tanch watched in horror, a six-legged fiend
with a vaguely batrachian aspect pounced on the tiny man. Par Tanch
had only a moment to act.

“
By the Shards of Pythagorus, gek
paipcm ficcg,” said Par Tanch. Six fist-sized spheres of blue fire
appeared in the wizard’s hand, one after another, and shot at the
vile demon. The first bored into its left shoulder and exploded,
the second detonated a few inches lower, blasting off the limb
entirely. The third, fourth and fifth spheres punctured the
creature’s side and chest, the last blew a large chunk out of its
bulbous head. Its corpse collapsed at Ob’s feet.

Sirs Paldor, Glimador, and Indigo sprang to
Ob’s aid. The three soldiers interposed themselves between the
devils and their wounded Castellan and held the fiends at
bay.

XII

THE HERO’S PATH

The monstrous fiend, Korrgonn, strode up the
hall toward the temple’s entrance, stepping on as often as over the
still unconscious knights strewn about the chamber, and tossing
aside any of its minions that got in its way. A tall knight
brandishing a bastard sword blocked its path. The demon threw back
its head and laughed at the petty creature that opposed it. But its
laugh was stifled when the cold steel of the warrior’s holy blade
sliced through its nigh impenetrable exoskeleton and punctured its
innards. The beast howled in shock. Its golden eyes threatened to
fly from their sockets, smoke and wisps of flame surged from its
maw.

Sir Gabriel Garn withdrew his war blade and
slashed it back and forth across the demon’s chest and shoulder,
each time biting deeply into the living armor. Green blood surged
from the jagged wounds as Korrgonn roared in anger and agony.
Despite its grievous wounds, the creature raised its blade to parry
Gabriel’s next strike.

Gabriel slashed his blade in a mighty,
sweeping arc, employing a fencing maneuver used only by the Picts
of the Gray Waste, but Korrgonn countered it. Gabriel tried the
spinning thrust maneuver taught him by the Emerald Elves, but
Korrgonn effortlessly deflected it, already seeming to regain its
strength. The infamous Dyvers thrusting maneuvers, the Dwarvish
overhand strikes, the Cernian technique, the Sarnack maneuvers, and
the Lengian cut and thrust style were all equally ineffective.
Korrgonn countered them all. All the while, Gabriel dodged blow
after titanic blow, and parried others with the flat of his blade.
Although he countered Korrgonn’s sword, the creature also made deft
use of its spiked exoskeleton, slashing Gabriel several times,
shredding his thick plate armor, and slicing into his flesh. Though
Gabriel had perhaps never faced an opponent with such strength and
resilience, he would not allow the fiend to defeat him. He had
fought too many wars, too many duels over the ages to allow even
one such as this to best him.

A spray of green blood and foul smelling ichor
washed over Gabriel and a fiend’s dismembered head hit his leg. A
shout of “Doom!” came from nearby. The Lord Angle Theta was alive
and had joined the fray!

Five fiends stalked Theta, who stood beside
the corpse of one of their fellows, his silver-hued falchion
dripping with ichor. When they met his steely gaze, the devils
froze in their tracks and looks of terror formed on their grotesque
visages.

“
No!” bellowed one fiend, “It’s
the ancient enemy, the traitor!”

“
We are betrayed, the humans knew
of our coming,” cried another. “Spare us Lord and we shall serve
thee!” implored the fiend as it fell to its knees
whimpering.

Theta’s sword slashed by once, and then again,
almost faster than the eye could follow, and both fiends’ heads
tumbled to the floor. The other three sprang toward him, overcoming
whatever fear they felt. Working sword and shield to masterful
perfection, Theta dodged, and parried, and cut, dealing out death
and destruction as only he could. Moments later, he stood alone as
his opponents’ dismembered, twitching corpses littered the floor,
green ichor pooling about his boots. As Theta moved to assist
Gabriel, another thunderous roaring emanated from the breach, this
time much louder and deeper than before. More than a score of
fiends scampered through the black hole, followed by a beast of
incredible proportions. It struggled to expand the breach, its bulk
far too large to fit through the six-foot wide portal.

Theta didn’t even glance at his old friend
Gabriel before turning to face this new threat. Theta charged
toward the gateway and engaged the horde. He never looked
back.

Claradon stood alone against a trio of
multi-armed fiends of wicked fangs and barbed tails. Three others
of their ilk lay in a heap about the knight, having fallen victim
to his desperate swordplay. He bashed one of his attackers back
with his battered shield as he deflected and blocked blow after
draining blow with his long sword. His strength was quickly ebbing;
soon he’d have only his magic to sustain him. He managed a series
of furious counterstrikes that drove the devils back long enough
for him to tap the sorcerous arts he’d honed as a Caradonian
Knight. Through Odin’s grace, he summoned a roaring column of flame
from on high that engulfed one of the fiends, instantly
incinerating it, its ashes crumbling to the stone floor. The
remaining fiends turned and fled. Though calling down such power
had drained him terribly, to Sir Gabriel’s side he sprang, to aid
him as best he could.

Claradon summoned all remaining mystical
strength from deep within his very core and empowered one last
sorcery. Unleashing his oldest and most forbidden words of arcane
power, words he never dared utter before, he discharged a
screeching blast of fiery death from the tip of his blade, a
crackling azure bolt with the numinous energy to vaporize any man
or beast. It struck Korrgonn unawares, enveloping its entire form
in ravenous flame. But after only a moment, the flame’s power
waned, then vanished, consumed by the demon’s stony soul.
Claradon’s magic was spent, though it mattered little since he
commanded no words that could fell this abomination; that much was
clear. But he had other tools.

His Dyvers blade in hand, he charged the
beast. Though he struck with all his strength, his finely wrought
steel blade merely bounced off Korrgonn’s exoskeleton, sending
sparks flying. Korrgonn ignored these ineffectual attacks and
continued to parry Gabriel’s deadly blows.

At last, Claradon’s blade fractured against
the thing’s armor. Drawing his Asgardian dagger, he lunged in,
thrusting the point at the fiend’s back. To his surprise, the blade
sliced through, puncturing its exoskeleton near where a man’s
kidney would be. Korrgonn howled in pain, spun around, and slammed
the back of its spiked fist and forearm down on Claradon’s head,
crushing him to the floor where he lay bloodied and
stunned.

Korrgonn maneuvered about and caught Gabriel’s
next blow with the hilt of its blade. It kicked Gabriel in the gut,
sending him reeling backward, causing him to trip over and fall
beyond Claradon. The beast stepped forward and raised its red blade
high to finish Claradon who still lay dazed.

“
No!” cried Gabriel. Bounding
upward and forward over Claradon’s prone form with blinding speed,
Gabriel executed the reckless Valusian thrust maneuver taught him
by Kull, king of that far-off land. Gabriel’s war blade arced
upward as he came in. The ensorcelled blade pierced Korrgonn’s
black heart, sending green ichor spurting everywhere. With all the
knight’s power behind the blow, the wide blade sunk halfway to the
hilt. Completing the vicious maneuver, Gabriel immediately pulled
the sword back, nearly out the wound, before swiftly plunging it
back in, sharply turning the blade as it entered. This merciless
attack was designed to eviscerate the opponent, instantly sapping
his strength, but it left much of the attacker’s head and torso
exposed. The chaos blade fell from the beast’s grasp and its
massive body dropped to its knees. It roared in pain and rage as
its lifeblood showered the floor.

“
I’ll have your soul yet Gabriel,”
spat Korrgonn, as it threw an uppercut toward the knight’s chest.
Gabriel, in the midst of wrenching his sword free, moved to catch
the blow in his gauntleted hand. But from Korrgonn’s gnarled fist
sprang a twelve-inch long barbed spike. It pierced clear through
Gabriel’s hand, and on through his thick steel breastplate, and
sank deep into his chest. He stiffened at the blow and tried to
pull away, only to have Korrgonn return the favor by twisting the
blade and jabbing it in ever deeper.