Harbinger of Doom ( Epic Fantasy Three Book Bundle), page 38
Here it comes, the part he’s got down word for word. Let’s see what he’s added since the last.
“The whole of the Dead Fens stretched out before us. A vast landscape of wanton degradation. A morass so putrid, so miasmic as to cloud the mind and rend the soul. It has been avoided for countless generations by all who know its reputation. In that time, it has taken only those lost wanderers who knew not whence they strayed, and a few would-be adventurers chasing fairy gold or glory. But the Dead Fens is no mere swamp or bog or marsh. There is a presence to that place. A palpable persona to it—an ancient evil from a bygone age.”
That last line is new. Can’t argue with it, though.
“Those that enter or even skirt its borders are besought with all manner of misfortunes, great and small. From accidents, to illness, from rotting food to rancid water, where hours before there was freshness. That place is decay, ancient and unforgiving. A slimy putrescence, a decrepit miasma likened to the grave. Such are the Dead Fens.”
Gets better with each telling. He should write it down, preserve it for posterity.
Gravemare stormed into the room. “My Lord, there’s trouble on our guests’ ship.”
***
The ship was in chaos; men ran to and fro. Captain Slaayde and his officers shouted orders to bring all pumps to the forward hold. Two burly sailors dragged a third man, limp, lifeless, and drenched in water from below deck. Seran Harringgold followed on their heels.
“What happened?” asked Claradon as he and Ob walked toward Seran.
“I caught this one drilling a hole in the hull,” said Seran as he pointed to the drenched man on the deck. Seran bent down and turned the man onto his back. A dagger was buried in his chest. “I cornered him and when he saw there was no escape, he stabbed himself. What kind of man would do that?”
“Is the stinking bugger one of Slaayde’s crew?” asked Ob.
“I’ve seen him aboard,” said Seran.
Ob bent down and examined the corpse.
“How bad is the damage to the ship?” asked Claradon.
“There’s lots of water down there. He must’ve drilled at least a couple of holes before I discovered him.”
“He’s a Leaguer,” said Ob after exposing a tattoo on the dead man’s shoulder. “He’s got the mark of Mortach.”
Hours later, long after they had planned to leave, Slaayde’s crew had finished patching the holes in the hull and pumping the water from the hold. Much of the ship’s supplies were ruined.
“You now face the same problem that you did yesterday,” said Malvegil. “You will not make it past the Fens before dark. Can I convince you to remain another night?”
“I appreciate your concern, Uncle, but we can remain here no longer,” said Claradon. “Too much depends on our speed.”
Glimador and a dozen Malvegil soldiers carrying bows marched up to the two Dor Lords as they stood on the pier.
“These are some of my most skilled bowman,” said Malvegil. “Please accept their service on your quest, nephew.”
“I’ll make good use of them, Uncle. Thank you.”
“May Odin’s favor shine on you, my boy. Come back safe and Jude with you.”
Lord Malvegil and his Lady watched The Black Falcon depart from the eastern terrace.
“I forbade Glim to go,” said Landolyn, tears welling in her eyes; eyes not accustomed to tears.
Malvegil spun toward her, jaw clenched. “What? You forbade him? You had no business doing that. We agreed that it was his decision to make.”
“You agreed, husband. I just gave up arguing.”
“You shouldn’t have interfered.”
“Interfered? He’s my only son—our only son. The only one we’ll ever have, and I will not lose him to some madman’s quest.”
“Glimador’s not a boy anymore; he’s a man—a fine strong man. More than that, he’s a knight, and pledged to serve the Eotrus. Where his Lord goes, he goes. Duty and honor, Landolyn; it’s what makes a man a man.”
“This mission and that man will be the death of him, I know it.”
“What? Don’t say that. Claradon loves Glimador like a brother.”
“Not Claradon. Theta!”
“The foreigner?”
“Torbin, you’re an old fool.”
Malvegil stood there for a time, looking at her, open-mouthed and disbelieving. Then he turned back toward the river and watched The Black Falcon sail away to meet its fate.
“Ten years ago—no—five, and I would’ve went with them. Claradon is too young to lead them in this.
Landolyn shook her head. “Dead gods, you’re blind.”
“What? What’s come over you?”
“Your nephew leads nothing. He follows.”
Malvegil’s shocked expression followed her as she stormed off.
VII
EINHERIAR
“To sate my hunger, I will burn thy
body and devour thy soul.”
—Einheriar
Theta stood alone at the rail of the sturdy vessel, gazing into the darkness from whence they came, while The Black Falcon sailed down the Grand Hudsar River. A storm was gathering and it grew dark early. Soon, a mist formed, cloaking the surface of the water.
Claradon stepped up to the rail beside Theta. “Dor Malvegil is the farthest south I’ve ever been before today.”
Theta made no reply; he didn’t even acknowledge the young lord’s presence.
“It’s a big world, I suppose it’s time that I see more of it. I just wish the reasons were better.” Claradon breathed deep the clean, crisp air of the river lands and listened to the flow of the water about the ship. “I would’ve marked you a man to stand at the prow looking at what lies ahead, rather than looking back.”
“We’re being followed and not by friendly sail.”
“What?” Claradon raised his brows. “A ship? The lookout reports nothing.”
“I see better than most.”
“He’s atop the mast; he has a far better view.”
“Perhaps he has his own agenda or perhaps the captain chooses to keep secrets. Or maybe he just doesn’t see very well.”
Claradon looked hard into the growing darkness. “I can’t see anything but the mist.”
“It comes into view every hour or so. It flies a black sail. A large ship.”
“The Raven out of Southeast flies a black sail and a red and black flag,” said Ob as he skulked out of the shadows. “So does The Grey Talon, and both their reputations are as black as their sails. It could be one of them two ships, or else it could be a ship from Dyvers—a bunch of them fly the black. There is also an order of Church Knights, don’t remember which one, what flies black sail too.”
“Should we advise the captain to speed up?” said Claradon. “Maybe we can lose her. We’ve enough trouble ahead of us; we don’t need more from behind.”
“If we were out to sea, I would try it,” said Ob, “but on the river, it’s futile. Close as she is, if she’s a fast ship and has a mind to, she’ll catch us. Besides, the way this fog is thickening, if we speed up, we’d risk running aground. We can’t chance that. If this ship gets disabled, we’ll never catch The Rose.”
“We must keep our guard up and meet those that trail us at a time of our choosing,” said Theta.
“The Fens, dead ahead,” called the lookout from the crow’s nest.
Ob turned toward the east. “I only see dark waters and mist. Stinking mist.”
In mere moments, the air grew chill and strangely pungent. A light rain began to fall. Flashes of lightning appeared in the sky followed by angry peals of thunder.
“What’s that smell?” said Claradon.
Ob wrinkled his prodigious nose, and rubbed his right forearm with his left hand, as if it were sore. “I’ve been down this river more than a few times and there is always a stink from the Fens, rotting plants and such, but this is different. It’s too strong and came on too sudden. Something is not right.”
Captain Slaayde stood at the forward end of the bridge deck beside his first mate. N’Paag’s hands gripped the ship’s wheel like vises; sweat dripped down his cheeks. “Captain, we should drop anchor before we run aground. I can barely see; the current may run us into the rocks.”
Slaayde peered into the mist for some moments. “No, stay on course as best you can. I have a bad feeling about this storm and this stench. You’ve heard the stories about the Fens. I will not have The Falcon be her next victim. We keep moving.”
Slaayde yelled up at the lookout, ordering him to help keep the ship well away from the banks and clear of any rocks.
Pain flared in Ob’s arm—centered around the scar from the wound he suffered in the Vermion Forest. He clutched at it and winced.
The river went silent, the air went still but for the rain that continued to fall.
Theta drew his sword, spun around, and scanned all about them.
“What is it?” said Claradon, moving his hand to his sword hilt.
“Your amulet,” said Ob, fumbling to pull his axe from his belt. “It’s glowing. There’s danger afoot.”
The air grew more chill. Steam rose from Ob’s breath.
Strange bubbling and plopping sounds came from the water. Ob leaned between the rail posts and looked straight down. “That’s not good.”
“What?” said Claradon.
“The river,” said Ob, wide-eyed. “It’s boiling, and it’s red. Red like blood.” Ob bounced up and turned back toward the deck. “Did you hear that?
Theta raised his hand for silence. No one moved or spoke for some moments. “Something is happening,” he said, his hand now gripping the ankh that hung about his neck.
A horrid scream erupted from somewhere down on the main deck, lost in the mist. It lasted but a moment before it abruptly cut off. Men yelled in the darkness, their words muffled. Then came another scream.
Claradon dashed toward the ladder that led down to the main deck, Ob at his heels.
“Claradon,” boomed Theta. He stopped in his tracks.
“Don’t move until we know what’s happening. Gnome—keep a lookout behind us and to the sky, we know not yet what we face.”
“To the sky? Look for what? Pigeons? There’s nothing to see but mist.”
“Just look and listen,” said Theta. Theta moved to the head of the ladder and peered below into the mist that clung to the deck.
A crewman ran toward the bridge deck, shouting. “Captain, some thing came out of the mist. We can’t stop it.”
“What thing?” yelled Slaayde as he moved up beside Theta. “What is it?”
The crewman scrambled up the ladder. Theta stepped aside and the sailor collapsed to the deck, panting. “I couldn’t see it clearly, Captain. Some kind of creature. A monster.”
“What?” said Slaayde. “Are you drunk?”
More crewmen and soldiers came into sight, racing across the main deck. A strange luminescent figure stalked their heels. Shaped much as a man, but it was shimmering, translucent, and indistinct. The creature moved at a slow walk, with knees deeply bent, plodding as if it bore a great weight. A scent of brimstone and burning wood polluted the air at its approach. Steam sputtered and rose from its feet with each step it took, as if the water on the wet deck boiled away at its very touch.
Men poured onto the main deck from the lower levels, weapons at the ready. They surrounded the creature but gave it wide berth, reluctant to attack the unnatural thing.
“Stand aside,” said Slaayde, pushing past Theta. Slaayde leaped from the top of the ladder and plunged to the main deck. He landed lightly on his feet despite his bulk. N’Paag remained at the wheel.
Slaayde pushed past the crewmen and soldiers, charged forward, and swung his sword—a two-handed overhand strike, aimed for the monster’s neck. The vicious blow passed clear through the creature, but met no resistance, no impact at all.
Overbalanced, Slaayde stumbled to his knees directly before the thing.
The creature’s claws raked down.
The captain ducked, evading the blow that would have killed him instantly. The creature’s claws no more than brushed across the blonde hair atop Slaayde’s head. Such was the thing’s unholy power, that merest touch did damage enough. Slaayde’s head rolled to the side; his limbs went limp, his eyes closed.
The creature stepped forward to finish him off. A massive figure appeared behind Slaayde, grabbed him about the collar, and flung him clear just as the creature’s claws raked down again. “Take it down,” shouted Tug.
A crewman swung down from the mast on a rope and crashed feet first into the creature from behind while Tug dragged Slaayde clear of the battle. Just as Slaayde’s sword, the man sailed clear through the thing, as if it were completely insubstantial, some mere apparition or shadow of what once was. The crewman howled when he passed through the thing and let go the rope. When he hit the deck, his body exploded into a cloud of dust and rotted clothing.
Men rushed in to strike the creature, but each blade passed through it, just as ineffective as the last. The creature lashed out and struck one man and then another. Both exploded into heaps of dust at the hellspawn’s touch, their screams echoing through the souls of all aboard.
“Devil’s work,” yelled one man.
“Demon,” cried another.
The creature moved ever forward, toward the bridge. Men scattered and fled before it, falling over one another to get out of its path. Glimador appeared with his bowmen. They sent a flight of arrows at the thing. Each hit its mark, but just as all the other weapons, they passed through, doing the creature no harm. An unlucky seaman across the deck fell with an arrow in his arm, another took one in his belly.
“Torches,” yelled Ob through the bridge deck’s rail. “Burn the stinking thing.”
Several men grabbed burning brands from sconces at the ship’s rails and moved toward the creature.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” said Claradon to Theta.
“Not until we know how to slay it. Let’s see how the torches fare.”
The glow of Claradon’s amulet brightened sharply. Claradon started, grabbed at the amulet’s chain and pulled it away from his chest. He winced in pain, for the amulet had grown fiery hot and electric to the touch, even as a blast of icy cold air washed over him, and the rain turned instantly to sleet and hail.
Beside him, Theta spun around and raised his sword just in time to block the blow of another creature that had appeared behind them. Like the one below, it was luminescent, translucent and blurry, more spectre than man. The creature’s clawed hand thundered into Theta’s falchion, but did not pass through. The impact slammed Theta into the rail. A loud popping sound rang out as the rail cracked and splintered and nearly gave way.
The creature held fast Theta’s falchion in a grip stronger than any mortal’s. The tips of the thing’s deadly claws were just inches from his flesh; only the ancient sword and Theta’s muscle held it at bay. But since Theta dared not touch the thing except with the sword, he had no leverage and could not push it back.
Nature turned to chaos. The rain became frost and ice in Theta’s hair, mustache, and on his cloak. Brimstone burned his nose and the air grew thin and frigid, and sapped his strength. Theta’s face contorted as he strained to push the creature back, but then, where the creature’s claws enveloped it, his sword’s blade began to warp and melt and threatened to collapse.
Claradon stepped behind the creature. Two-handed, he slammed the ancestral sword of House Eotrus into the creature’s back with all his might. The blade passed through it, meeting no resistance, and sliced into Theta’s chest. Sparks erupted as the sword’s tip cleaved through Theta’s cloak and into his breastplate.
“Zounds!” said Claradon. He stepped back, shock, confusion, and fear filled his face.
Unfazed by Claradon’s blow, Theta rolled against the rail and sidestepped, desperate to evade the thing’s deadly touch, even as his sword folded over in ruin and dropped from his grasp. The ship’s rail iced over, gave way, and slammed into several men when it collapsed to the deck below.
“What do we do, Theta?” shouted Ob.
Theta never took his eyes from the creature. “Stay clear, you fools.”
“I will have thy soul, traitor,” spat the creature in a deep gravelly voice. “Ye wilt not escape this time.”
Theta backpedaled. The creature pursued him and raked the air with its claws.
“You fight on the wrong side, Einheriar,” said Theta. “You’ve lost your way.”
The creature paused for a moment. “I be on god’s side, as always, deceiver. I be sworn to destroy all evil and destroy ye, I will.”
The creature bounded forward and was on Theta in an instant, but the knight had bought just enough time to slide the Asgardian daggers from his belt sheaths. A thin smile formed on Theta’s face, and his steely eyes remained locked on the creature’s torso.
The Einheriar launched a hail of murderous blows that belied its plodding footwork. Theta dodged or parried each thunderous strike with one of his long daggers; his iron-like arms shuddered with each impact; ice flew off the blades, shattered off Theta’s arms, and refroze just as quickly. Theta feinted to one side, then sidestepped to the other. Now partially behind the creature, he plunged Dargus Dal into its lower back. With a sound of rending metal, the Asgardian blade sank deep, deep into where a man’s kidney would be.
The Einheriar howled—a high-pitched, piercing wail that no mortal’s throat could emit. So loud was it, it brought Ob, Claradon, and N’Paag to their knees, though Theta seemed unaffected. The creature spun toward Theta, bile oozing from its lips. It convulsed, and a blast of flaming green ichor erupted from its mouth and sprayed across the deck. Theta dodged, and turned his face away, but some of the vile spray lashed across his torso, shoulder, and back, and set his cloak afire, despite the ice that clung to it. Where the ichor struck the deck, it hissed and sputtered, turned the water and ice to billowing, hissing steam, and seared the deck planks. Wisps of fire caught here and there on the deck, though the rain held them in check.
Theta barely pulled off the flaming cloak before the creature was at him again, ignoring its wound, from which flowed a thick green slime that was its lifeblood. It lashed its claws at Theta’s face. He ducked below the strike and dived into a roll that brought him up behind the creature. Theta thrust Wotan Dal to the hilt in the left side of the creature’s back, the blow so powerful it lifted the Einheriar from the deck. It wailed in agony as Theta held it suspended in the air.
“The whole of the Dead Fens stretched out before us. A vast landscape of wanton degradation. A morass so putrid, so miasmic as to cloud the mind and rend the soul. It has been avoided for countless generations by all who know its reputation. In that time, it has taken only those lost wanderers who knew not whence they strayed, and a few would-be adventurers chasing fairy gold or glory. But the Dead Fens is no mere swamp or bog or marsh. There is a presence to that place. A palpable persona to it—an ancient evil from a bygone age.”
That last line is new. Can’t argue with it, though.
“Those that enter or even skirt its borders are besought with all manner of misfortunes, great and small. From accidents, to illness, from rotting food to rancid water, where hours before there was freshness. That place is decay, ancient and unforgiving. A slimy putrescence, a decrepit miasma likened to the grave. Such are the Dead Fens.”
Gets better with each telling. He should write it down, preserve it for posterity.
Gravemare stormed into the room. “My Lord, there’s trouble on our guests’ ship.”
***
The ship was in chaos; men ran to and fro. Captain Slaayde and his officers shouted orders to bring all pumps to the forward hold. Two burly sailors dragged a third man, limp, lifeless, and drenched in water from below deck. Seran Harringgold followed on their heels.
“What happened?” asked Claradon as he and Ob walked toward Seran.
“I caught this one drilling a hole in the hull,” said Seran as he pointed to the drenched man on the deck. Seran bent down and turned the man onto his back. A dagger was buried in his chest. “I cornered him and when he saw there was no escape, he stabbed himself. What kind of man would do that?”
“Is the stinking bugger one of Slaayde’s crew?” asked Ob.
“I’ve seen him aboard,” said Seran.
Ob bent down and examined the corpse.
“How bad is the damage to the ship?” asked Claradon.
“There’s lots of water down there. He must’ve drilled at least a couple of holes before I discovered him.”
“He’s a Leaguer,” said Ob after exposing a tattoo on the dead man’s shoulder. “He’s got the mark of Mortach.”
Hours later, long after they had planned to leave, Slaayde’s crew had finished patching the holes in the hull and pumping the water from the hold. Much of the ship’s supplies were ruined.
“You now face the same problem that you did yesterday,” said Malvegil. “You will not make it past the Fens before dark. Can I convince you to remain another night?”
“I appreciate your concern, Uncle, but we can remain here no longer,” said Claradon. “Too much depends on our speed.”
Glimador and a dozen Malvegil soldiers carrying bows marched up to the two Dor Lords as they stood on the pier.
“These are some of my most skilled bowman,” said Malvegil. “Please accept their service on your quest, nephew.”
“I’ll make good use of them, Uncle. Thank you.”
“May Odin’s favor shine on you, my boy. Come back safe and Jude with you.”
Lord Malvegil and his Lady watched The Black Falcon depart from the eastern terrace.
“I forbade Glim to go,” said Landolyn, tears welling in her eyes; eyes not accustomed to tears.
Malvegil spun toward her, jaw clenched. “What? You forbade him? You had no business doing that. We agreed that it was his decision to make.”
“You agreed, husband. I just gave up arguing.”
“You shouldn’t have interfered.”
“Interfered? He’s my only son—our only son. The only one we’ll ever have, and I will not lose him to some madman’s quest.”
“Glimador’s not a boy anymore; he’s a man—a fine strong man. More than that, he’s a knight, and pledged to serve the Eotrus. Where his Lord goes, he goes. Duty and honor, Landolyn; it’s what makes a man a man.”
“This mission and that man will be the death of him, I know it.”
“What? Don’t say that. Claradon loves Glimador like a brother.”
“Not Claradon. Theta!”
“The foreigner?”
“Torbin, you’re an old fool.”
Malvegil stood there for a time, looking at her, open-mouthed and disbelieving. Then he turned back toward the river and watched The Black Falcon sail away to meet its fate.
“Ten years ago—no—five, and I would’ve went with them. Claradon is too young to lead them in this.
Landolyn shook her head. “Dead gods, you’re blind.”
“What? What’s come over you?”
“Your nephew leads nothing. He follows.”
Malvegil’s shocked expression followed her as she stormed off.
VII
EINHERIAR
“To sate my hunger, I will burn thy
body and devour thy soul.”
—Einheriar
Theta stood alone at the rail of the sturdy vessel, gazing into the darkness from whence they came, while The Black Falcon sailed down the Grand Hudsar River. A storm was gathering and it grew dark early. Soon, a mist formed, cloaking the surface of the water.
Claradon stepped up to the rail beside Theta. “Dor Malvegil is the farthest south I’ve ever been before today.”
Theta made no reply; he didn’t even acknowledge the young lord’s presence.
“It’s a big world, I suppose it’s time that I see more of it. I just wish the reasons were better.” Claradon breathed deep the clean, crisp air of the river lands and listened to the flow of the water about the ship. “I would’ve marked you a man to stand at the prow looking at what lies ahead, rather than looking back.”
“We’re being followed and not by friendly sail.”
“What?” Claradon raised his brows. “A ship? The lookout reports nothing.”
“I see better than most.”
“He’s atop the mast; he has a far better view.”
“Perhaps he has his own agenda or perhaps the captain chooses to keep secrets. Or maybe he just doesn’t see very well.”
Claradon looked hard into the growing darkness. “I can’t see anything but the mist.”
“It comes into view every hour or so. It flies a black sail. A large ship.”
“The Raven out of Southeast flies a black sail and a red and black flag,” said Ob as he skulked out of the shadows. “So does The Grey Talon, and both their reputations are as black as their sails. It could be one of them two ships, or else it could be a ship from Dyvers—a bunch of them fly the black. There is also an order of Church Knights, don’t remember which one, what flies black sail too.”
“Should we advise the captain to speed up?” said Claradon. “Maybe we can lose her. We’ve enough trouble ahead of us; we don’t need more from behind.”
“If we were out to sea, I would try it,” said Ob, “but on the river, it’s futile. Close as she is, if she’s a fast ship and has a mind to, she’ll catch us. Besides, the way this fog is thickening, if we speed up, we’d risk running aground. We can’t chance that. If this ship gets disabled, we’ll never catch The Rose.”
“We must keep our guard up and meet those that trail us at a time of our choosing,” said Theta.
“The Fens, dead ahead,” called the lookout from the crow’s nest.
Ob turned toward the east. “I only see dark waters and mist. Stinking mist.”
In mere moments, the air grew chill and strangely pungent. A light rain began to fall. Flashes of lightning appeared in the sky followed by angry peals of thunder.
“What’s that smell?” said Claradon.
Ob wrinkled his prodigious nose, and rubbed his right forearm with his left hand, as if it were sore. “I’ve been down this river more than a few times and there is always a stink from the Fens, rotting plants and such, but this is different. It’s too strong and came on too sudden. Something is not right.”
Captain Slaayde stood at the forward end of the bridge deck beside his first mate. N’Paag’s hands gripped the ship’s wheel like vises; sweat dripped down his cheeks. “Captain, we should drop anchor before we run aground. I can barely see; the current may run us into the rocks.”
Slaayde peered into the mist for some moments. “No, stay on course as best you can. I have a bad feeling about this storm and this stench. You’ve heard the stories about the Fens. I will not have The Falcon be her next victim. We keep moving.”
Slaayde yelled up at the lookout, ordering him to help keep the ship well away from the banks and clear of any rocks.
Pain flared in Ob’s arm—centered around the scar from the wound he suffered in the Vermion Forest. He clutched at it and winced.
The river went silent, the air went still but for the rain that continued to fall.
Theta drew his sword, spun around, and scanned all about them.
“What is it?” said Claradon, moving his hand to his sword hilt.
“Your amulet,” said Ob, fumbling to pull his axe from his belt. “It’s glowing. There’s danger afoot.”
The air grew more chill. Steam rose from Ob’s breath.
Strange bubbling and plopping sounds came from the water. Ob leaned between the rail posts and looked straight down. “That’s not good.”
“What?” said Claradon.
“The river,” said Ob, wide-eyed. “It’s boiling, and it’s red. Red like blood.” Ob bounced up and turned back toward the deck. “Did you hear that?
Theta raised his hand for silence. No one moved or spoke for some moments. “Something is happening,” he said, his hand now gripping the ankh that hung about his neck.
A horrid scream erupted from somewhere down on the main deck, lost in the mist. It lasted but a moment before it abruptly cut off. Men yelled in the darkness, their words muffled. Then came another scream.
Claradon dashed toward the ladder that led down to the main deck, Ob at his heels.
“Claradon,” boomed Theta. He stopped in his tracks.
“Don’t move until we know what’s happening. Gnome—keep a lookout behind us and to the sky, we know not yet what we face.”
“To the sky? Look for what? Pigeons? There’s nothing to see but mist.”
“Just look and listen,” said Theta. Theta moved to the head of the ladder and peered below into the mist that clung to the deck.
A crewman ran toward the bridge deck, shouting. “Captain, some thing came out of the mist. We can’t stop it.”
“What thing?” yelled Slaayde as he moved up beside Theta. “What is it?”
The crewman scrambled up the ladder. Theta stepped aside and the sailor collapsed to the deck, panting. “I couldn’t see it clearly, Captain. Some kind of creature. A monster.”
“What?” said Slaayde. “Are you drunk?”
More crewmen and soldiers came into sight, racing across the main deck. A strange luminescent figure stalked their heels. Shaped much as a man, but it was shimmering, translucent, and indistinct. The creature moved at a slow walk, with knees deeply bent, plodding as if it bore a great weight. A scent of brimstone and burning wood polluted the air at its approach. Steam sputtered and rose from its feet with each step it took, as if the water on the wet deck boiled away at its very touch.
Men poured onto the main deck from the lower levels, weapons at the ready. They surrounded the creature but gave it wide berth, reluctant to attack the unnatural thing.
“Stand aside,” said Slaayde, pushing past Theta. Slaayde leaped from the top of the ladder and plunged to the main deck. He landed lightly on his feet despite his bulk. N’Paag remained at the wheel.
Slaayde pushed past the crewmen and soldiers, charged forward, and swung his sword—a two-handed overhand strike, aimed for the monster’s neck. The vicious blow passed clear through the creature, but met no resistance, no impact at all.
Overbalanced, Slaayde stumbled to his knees directly before the thing.
The creature’s claws raked down.
The captain ducked, evading the blow that would have killed him instantly. The creature’s claws no more than brushed across the blonde hair atop Slaayde’s head. Such was the thing’s unholy power, that merest touch did damage enough. Slaayde’s head rolled to the side; his limbs went limp, his eyes closed.
The creature stepped forward to finish him off. A massive figure appeared behind Slaayde, grabbed him about the collar, and flung him clear just as the creature’s claws raked down again. “Take it down,” shouted Tug.
A crewman swung down from the mast on a rope and crashed feet first into the creature from behind while Tug dragged Slaayde clear of the battle. Just as Slaayde’s sword, the man sailed clear through the thing, as if it were completely insubstantial, some mere apparition or shadow of what once was. The crewman howled when he passed through the thing and let go the rope. When he hit the deck, his body exploded into a cloud of dust and rotted clothing.
Men rushed in to strike the creature, but each blade passed through it, just as ineffective as the last. The creature lashed out and struck one man and then another. Both exploded into heaps of dust at the hellspawn’s touch, their screams echoing through the souls of all aboard.
“Devil’s work,” yelled one man.
“Demon,” cried another.
The creature moved ever forward, toward the bridge. Men scattered and fled before it, falling over one another to get out of its path. Glimador appeared with his bowmen. They sent a flight of arrows at the thing. Each hit its mark, but just as all the other weapons, they passed through, doing the creature no harm. An unlucky seaman across the deck fell with an arrow in his arm, another took one in his belly.
“Torches,” yelled Ob through the bridge deck’s rail. “Burn the stinking thing.”
Several men grabbed burning brands from sconces at the ship’s rails and moved toward the creature.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” said Claradon to Theta.
“Not until we know how to slay it. Let’s see how the torches fare.”
The glow of Claradon’s amulet brightened sharply. Claradon started, grabbed at the amulet’s chain and pulled it away from his chest. He winced in pain, for the amulet had grown fiery hot and electric to the touch, even as a blast of icy cold air washed over him, and the rain turned instantly to sleet and hail.
Beside him, Theta spun around and raised his sword just in time to block the blow of another creature that had appeared behind them. Like the one below, it was luminescent, translucent and blurry, more spectre than man. The creature’s clawed hand thundered into Theta’s falchion, but did not pass through. The impact slammed Theta into the rail. A loud popping sound rang out as the rail cracked and splintered and nearly gave way.
The creature held fast Theta’s falchion in a grip stronger than any mortal’s. The tips of the thing’s deadly claws were just inches from his flesh; only the ancient sword and Theta’s muscle held it at bay. But since Theta dared not touch the thing except with the sword, he had no leverage and could not push it back.
Nature turned to chaos. The rain became frost and ice in Theta’s hair, mustache, and on his cloak. Brimstone burned his nose and the air grew thin and frigid, and sapped his strength. Theta’s face contorted as he strained to push the creature back, but then, where the creature’s claws enveloped it, his sword’s blade began to warp and melt and threatened to collapse.
Claradon stepped behind the creature. Two-handed, he slammed the ancestral sword of House Eotrus into the creature’s back with all his might. The blade passed through it, meeting no resistance, and sliced into Theta’s chest. Sparks erupted as the sword’s tip cleaved through Theta’s cloak and into his breastplate.
“Zounds!” said Claradon. He stepped back, shock, confusion, and fear filled his face.
Unfazed by Claradon’s blow, Theta rolled against the rail and sidestepped, desperate to evade the thing’s deadly touch, even as his sword folded over in ruin and dropped from his grasp. The ship’s rail iced over, gave way, and slammed into several men when it collapsed to the deck below.
“What do we do, Theta?” shouted Ob.
Theta never took his eyes from the creature. “Stay clear, you fools.”
“I will have thy soul, traitor,” spat the creature in a deep gravelly voice. “Ye wilt not escape this time.”
Theta backpedaled. The creature pursued him and raked the air with its claws.
“You fight on the wrong side, Einheriar,” said Theta. “You’ve lost your way.”
The creature paused for a moment. “I be on god’s side, as always, deceiver. I be sworn to destroy all evil and destroy ye, I will.”
The creature bounded forward and was on Theta in an instant, but the knight had bought just enough time to slide the Asgardian daggers from his belt sheaths. A thin smile formed on Theta’s face, and his steely eyes remained locked on the creature’s torso.
The Einheriar launched a hail of murderous blows that belied its plodding footwork. Theta dodged or parried each thunderous strike with one of his long daggers; his iron-like arms shuddered with each impact; ice flew off the blades, shattered off Theta’s arms, and refroze just as quickly. Theta feinted to one side, then sidestepped to the other. Now partially behind the creature, he plunged Dargus Dal into its lower back. With a sound of rending metal, the Asgardian blade sank deep, deep into where a man’s kidney would be.
The Einheriar howled—a high-pitched, piercing wail that no mortal’s throat could emit. So loud was it, it brought Ob, Claradon, and N’Paag to their knees, though Theta seemed unaffected. The creature spun toward Theta, bile oozing from its lips. It convulsed, and a blast of flaming green ichor erupted from its mouth and sprayed across the deck. Theta dodged, and turned his face away, but some of the vile spray lashed across his torso, shoulder, and back, and set his cloak afire, despite the ice that clung to it. Where the ichor struck the deck, it hissed and sputtered, turned the water and ice to billowing, hissing steam, and seared the deck planks. Wisps of fire caught here and there on the deck, though the rain held them in check.
Theta barely pulled off the flaming cloak before the creature was at him again, ignoring its wound, from which flowed a thick green slime that was its lifeblood. It lashed its claws at Theta’s face. He ducked below the strike and dived into a roll that brought him up behind the creature. Theta thrust Wotan Dal to the hilt in the left side of the creature’s back, the blow so powerful it lifted the Einheriar from the deck. It wailed in agony as Theta held it suspended in the air.
