Prologue
Excerpts from the Karkana Fragments, a collection of fifteen partially complete clay tablets housed at the Tokyo National Museum.
It is claimed by some scholars they were translated to Greek from an earlier, proto-greek language from scrolls dating from 10,000 years B.C.E.:
… Thus did Nanossuss of Koth with fivescore and twenty spearmen drive headlong into the massed throngs of the Red Brotherhood upon the beach at Velathra.
Outnumbered twenty to one, and roughly treated by the archers loosing their arrows from the decks of some five hundred triremes thronging the bay, they smashed the pirate rabble and laid them low.
The retinue of Nanossuss slew until their spears were broken, then belabored the corsairs with sword and axe. The waves were stained deep crimson and the beach cluttered with all manner of human detritus.
The retinue of Nanossuss slew until their spears were broken, then belabored the corsairs with sword and axe. The waves were stained deep crimson and the beach cluttered with all manner of human detritus.
King Aranthur was pleased with the defeat of the Red Brotherhood, for once again resplendent Velathra was spared its independence, but as praise and accolades were heaped upon Nanossuss and his mercenaries, a festering jealousy surged in the tyrant’s heart. Thus was his mood as he proclaimed a grand feast be held in honor of Nanossuss and his retinue.
Bidding Nanossuss to join him at his palace beforehand, on the pretext of bestowing some additional honor upon him, King Aranthur had Nanossuss killed, his body butchered as one might butcher an aurochs, and his flesh prepared for the table. The head and hands of Nanossuss where set aside and placed on a covered dish…
… A great throng of courtiers filled the great hall of the palace of Velathra. Aranthur sat upon his ermine-swathed throne at the middle of the table, flanked by his personal guard. Opposite were arrayed the retinue of Nanossuss. Before the king and his courtiers was set the flesh of oxen and boar, while before the mercenaries was set the flesh of their general. Midway through this foul banquet, the tyrant Aranthur sardonically enquired of the mercenaries how they found the meat. When they indicated they found it good, he bade the lid be removed from the platter bearing the head and hands of Nanossuss, saying:
“Behold the singular beast whose flesh doth grace thy trenchers this eve!”
Upon this grisly revelation the assembled courtiers gasped and screamed, while the mercenaries lurched to their feet, drawing swords and daggers. One above all acted with alacrity; Nanossuss’ lieutenant, a yellow-haired giantess from the frigid north called Sigyn. As soon as the grisly evidence was revealed, she leapt across the table and set upon Aranthur with such swiftness and fury that his bodyguard was unable to intercept her. Nor could they interfere after, for they came to grips with the retinue of Nanossuss, who were maddened with horror and lust for revenge.
The courtiers who could flee the hall did so, those who could not cowered along the walls and bore witness to what transpired. Aranthur and Sigyn struggled upon the tiles. Mightily they struggled, for the northron she-fiend was strong as any man, and Aranthur, while grown stagnant and diseased from years of indulging his appetites, was still formidable. The tyrant’s dagger pierced Sigyn’s flesh again and again, but did not land a mortal blow. It was the barbarians blade that found Aranthurs heart, and sent his lifeblood pouring out in a torrent upon the tiles.
Aranthur cried out that he was slain, then lay still. A hush fell over the hall. All of Aranthur’s bodyguard lay dead. And the number of Nanossuss’ retinue was reduced by half.
Sigyn rose. During the struggle the bejeweled golden circlet that served as the crown of Velathra had fallen from the brow of Aranthur and become entangled in Sigyn’s long hair. She struggled to remove it as the assembled courtiers stared in stunned disbelief.
Now, Tarquin, chancellor and seer for Aranthur, a scheming manipulator of the first water, saw an opportunity to exalt himself through this turn of events. Aranthur had become unpredictable and mercurial in his madness, and intractable. Tarquin saw in this barbarian wench a more pliable monarch. Thus he raised his voice to the assembled throng:
“Behold! See thou the will of Mitra! See thou the will of Ishtar! They visited the scourge of the Red Brotherhood upon Velathra in their anger at Aranthur’s decadent perversions, and at the same instant brought unto us this noble maid, to bring strong new blood to the throne of Velathra. Who among you does not obey the gods? Give praise unto the gods for their wisdom and hail thy new queen! Hail Sigyn, Queen of Velathra! Hail! Hail!”
The assembled courtiers took up the chant, along with the mercenaries.
It was later related by some who stood near her that Sigyn said them nay, and strove to reject the crown. But her protests were drowned out by the cacophony raised by the multitude…
I
Hemmed in on three sides by mighty Argos, and on the fourth by the Western ocean, the resplendent city-state of Velathra shone like a pearl amongst the gelid viscera of an oyster.
This day Velathra was alive with furious activity. Gangs of workmen bustled hither and yon, repairing and reinforcing walls, bridges, and aqueducts. Roofing tiles were replaced and made secure, and flammable building materials were replaced with less combustible ones.
Triremes and galleys were arrayed in her harbor, while on the piers and beaches were many smaller craft, crews standing ready to ferry people out to the larger vessels. By order of the Queen, all citizens of Velathra gathered together bundles of necessities and made ready to flee to the nearby island of Taraash the moment the great bell atop the Temple of Ishtar was rung, for Mount Peclu, dormant for as long as any alive remembered, now smoked, rumbled and shuddered.
In the three winters since seizing to the ermine-swathed throne of Velathra from the hated tyrant Aranthur, the queen had named the last day of each week to be an audience day, when she would commune with her subjects. On these days, the council chamber at the royal palace filled with elegantly clad courtiers, officials, statesmen, ladies and clergymen, as well as common folk, who filed down the marble tiled walkway delineated by rows of flaming bronze braziers, up to the raised ebony dais upon which the ermine-swathed throne of Velathra rested. There they would ask favors, present plans, or air grievances.
But now, with Peclu threatening disaster, a great throng filled the council chamber; and the queen’s guard, two dozen stout Kothic spearmen that had served with the queen when she herself was a mercenary, struggled to keep them at a polite distance.
Sprawled upon the ermine throne, in a posture that was neither regal nor ladylike, was Queen Sigyn.
No slender, dark-eyed daughter of Velathra was this Sigyn; nay, she was a tawny-haired, green-eyed savage from the frigid wastes of the far north. Tall and broad she was, looming imperiously over most men of Velathra, through her great stature and powerful frame did little to obscure her femininity. Her hair was bound in thick braids that framed her face and draped over the swell of her splendid bosom. She wore a gown of purple silk, as befitting a high-ranking noblewoman of Velathra, but over this she wore a tunic of silvered mail, and a heavy cavalry saber of fine Hyrkanian steel rested across her knees. Her feet where shod not in the dainty silken slippers favored by ladies of the court, but the heavy hobnailed sandals of leather favored by fighting men. Upon her head rested a jewel-encrusted golden circlet, the crown of Velathra. At her right hand stood Orta, black-bearded captain of the spearmen. To her left, Chamberlain Pumpu, elderly advisor to kings of Velathra for many years.
Languidly she regarded Cutu, the portly high priest of Ishtar, who now held the floor, a bald pated eunuch who flushed redly as he shrilly orated.
“My queen, resources must be diverted to reinforce the aqueducts to the temple! The sacred fountains and pools must be fed, lest our daily rituals are performed incorrectly and cause Ishtar look upon Velathra with disfavor!”
Sigyn did well to conceal her frustration as she repeated for the fourth time the same response to Cutu.
“All efforts must be directed to protecting the citizens’ water supply as well as preparing to evacuate the city if it becomes necessary. There are simply not enough workers to allow for work on anything non-essential. Should Peclu’s rumblings cause the ducts to the temple to fail, we will all get by without the marble nymphs of your fountains spewing water so provocatively!”
Cutu fairly quivered with anger.
“Perhaps if her majesty had not been so quick to outlaw slavery in Velathra, we would have ample workers, and not risk the wrath of Ishtar!”
Sigyn’s patience came to an end.
“Have you looked outside? If Ishtar agrees to silence Mount Peclu I will order the ducts supplying the temple reinforced with marble and adorned with jade! Verily, I’ll cavort with your temple wenches in Ishtar’s pools myself if the goddess will put a stop to this madness. But barring that, we will concentrate on more practical matters, as you should be doing, priest! See to it you keep a stout monk at the temple bell! If it fails to ring when Peclu goes up I’ll carve out your liver ere we burn in the volcanoes fires!”
Cutu paled and made a quick bow, then scuttled back into the crowd, which now erupted with shouts and murmurs as they sought to draw Sigyn’s attention.
Chamberlain Pumpu slammed his staff into the ebon planks, demanding order.
“Enough! Her majesty is absorbed with preparing to safeguard us all from the volcano, there will be no further business addressed today!”
“But there will be further business, greybeard!”
The speaker forced his way to the front of the crowd to face the queen boldly. He was a lean, rangy man, with the narrow hips and broad shoulders that were the hallmark of a fighting man. His dark hair was squarely cut in a practical, military style. His gray tunic and sandals, while finely made, were austere and unadorned, just as the broadsword hanging at his hip was of a plain and serviceable variety. He was of indeterminate age, but the scars crisscrossing his hands and face told of much experience. Now he drew himself up and glared at Sigyn with stern, grey eyes.
Sigyn arched an eyebrow and straightened in the throne, leaning forward with interest, she looked the newcomer up and down with ill-concealed admiration, yet all the while resting her hand on the hilt of her saber. Orta and his spearmen made ready their weapons and took on an aggressive stance.
Pumpu again slammed down his staff and bellowed.
“Who are you sir, who dares stand before her majesty so boldly! Kneel and make obeisance, lout!”
“I, in whose veins run the blood of the Thesanthar, will never bend knee to this barbarian she-ape and her sellswords, especially here before the throne that should rightfully hold one of my kin! I am Velthur, son of Venel, son of Vultha!”
There was an uproar as the throng gasped an cried out in surprise. Pumpu sneered.
“A kinsman of the Tyrant Aranthur, eh? Velathra is well rid of that murderous dog! You will find none here who grieve for him, or would have his bloodline restored!”
“No doubt!” quoth Velthur. “Aranthur was a wicked man. But his throne should pass to one of royal blood, not this northron cow! Whatever great works she may have performed, or favors she has given to gain the people‘s affections, she is still a usurper!”
It was Orta who next spoke next, stepping forward and brandishing his spear.
“Son of a Whore! Draw that blade by your side! I will…”
Sigyn reached out and pushed Ortas spear down.
“Enough! I can fight my own battles should it come to that!”
Pumpu leaned down to address his queen.
“Your majesty let me clap this dog in irons, a few weeks in the dungeon will still his varlets tongue!”
“No Pumpu, I’ll not toss a man in a hole for speaking his mind. Let us hear what Velthur wants of us. Speak plainly now Velthur, but mind your sharp tongue, I may have slain your kinsman, but he was in sore need of slaying! You have no call to insult me thus! We barbarians are a sensitive lot, and easily aggrieved by harsh words.”
Velthur bristled, but spoke more calmly.
“I will speak plainly then. I ask, nay, I demand that you abdicate at once.”
“In your favor no doubt?”
Velthur shook his head and waved his hand vigorously.
“Nay, Nay! I would not have the crown for myself. I make the claim for Alfia, grand niece of Aranthur. Tis she who is next in line of succession.”
Sigyn shrugged.
“Very well, I agree. How soon can Alfia assume her duties as queen?”
Again the crowd of courtiers gasped and chattered. Velthur stood dumfounded as though he had been pole axed. Pumpu gave a choking cry, and then quickly composed himself.
“That’s enough for today, everyone leave at once! Guards, clear the council hall of this rabble!”
The Kothic spearmen stepped forth and began herding the courtiers out. Pumpu turned his attention to Sigyn.
“Your majesty, surely…”
“No, Pumpu. Velthur is in the right. I ask again, when can Alfia take over?”
Velthur fidgeted and hesitated, events had proceeded far differently than he expected and it put him off his game.
“Well, you see… Alfia is but five years old. A suitable regent will have to be installed until…”
With a sigh of exasperation, Sigyn sank back into the throne.
“Atali’s tits! That won’t do at all Velthur! Anxious as I am to be rid of this crown, I have done too much work here just to hand it off to a child and her handlers!”
His face a mask of confusion, Velthur mounted the first step of the dais, Orta and Pumpu lurched forward, but Sigyn waved them off.
“Let him approach. The day I need shielded from one man with a sword, build my pyre.”
Velthur ascended the dais and stood before Sigyn.
“You wish to abdicate? By Mitra, why take the crown in the first place?”
Sigyn threw her hands up in frustration.
“I tried not to! It was the machinations of Aranthurs astrologer, Tarquin, which put me on the throne. He saw the people where desperate to be free of the tyrant’s depredations and portrayed me as a tool of the gods when I slew the rabid jackal.”
Sigyn grinned wolfishly.
“He thought I’d be his puppet like Aranthur was! Ha! He learned the folly of that assumption, by Ymir! If I was to be queen, I’d do things my way! Tarquin didn’t care for that overmuch and conjured one of those writhing squiddish demons to kill me in my bath. I killed his demon and damn near killed him too, but he majicked himself away, back to his tower at the base of Mount Peclu no doubt. I am certain it is he who is causing the volcano to erupt now! So you see, Velthur, now is not a good time for the people of Velathra to have their barbarian cow run off in favor of a five year old.”
Velthur scowled and rubbed his chin.
“Aye, there is wisdom in your words, but I don’t…”
He was interrupted as the doors of the council chamber opened, admitting a dozen cloaked and hooded men, their robes bearing the sigils of the priesthood of Mitra, the other major faith in Velathra besides that of Ishtar.
With utmost speed and precision, the spearman placed themselves between the hooded men and the dais, and Pumpu strode forth angrily to the figure at the head of the procession.
“The time for council with her majesty is over priest! The proceeding has ended. Go! You may have your time tomorrow at midday.”
The hooded figures made no effort to leave.
“Did you not hear? Begone! We are in a heated discussion of the highest import! We…”
Pumpu was silenced when the hooded figure’s arm shot out and struck the old chamberlain a blow that sent him flying across the chamber like a rag doll. The twelve figure then lurched forward as one, and the spearmen surged forth to meet them.
Sigyn leapt from the throne with a fierce oath upon her lips, raising her saber. Orta by her side, spear at the ready. Velthur too, leapt headlong toward the hooded interlopers, drawing his broadsword. Whatever he felt regarding Sigyn and her Kothians, Pumpu was a long serving agent of Velathra, and those who would stain the council chamber with his blood were the enemy of Velthur.
Battle was joined. Though she had been well behind the spearmen when they attacked, it was Sigyn who struck the first blow against he who had struck old Pumpu. She brought down her saber in a vicious slash at the mans neck that should have cleaved him to the breastbone. But it was not so. With a dull hollow thud her blade bit only shallowly then deflected off of the body, succeeding only tearing away the hood and robe.
There stood revealed what at first glance appeared to be a dark-skinned man, naked save for a cloth cap and a rag twisted about his loins. His hands were empty and held out before him, making quick grasping motions. Sigyn slashed at him again, succeeding only in carving a shallow groove across his chest. Sigyn recoiled at a memory that came unbidden into her mind, that of a body her tribesman had pulled out of a peat bog one summer. It had had the same cured leathery look of the man she now contended with.
The Kothians were having no better luck, where they would thrust their mighty spears, they would draw no blood, and only moldy damage their foes. Velthur thrust his sword into the belly of one of the leathery men. His blade penetrated but little, before bending greatly with the force of the thrust. The finely made steel sprung back strait and sent Velthurs foe sprawling, but the fellow only sat up and clambered back to his feet, moving stiffly like some automaton.
“Sorcery, by Mitra!” cursed Velthur.
“Aye!” shouted Sigyn. “Another gift from Tarquin no doubt. Damn him to Arallu!”
Being unarmed, the leathery ones did little harm at first, but they were immensely strong and seemingly invulnerable. It was not long before a spearman was seized bodily by the grim, silent attackers and torn limb from limb as his comrades fought desperately to save him.
“Loins of Ishtar!” cursed Orta, sweat pouring from under his close helm. “How do we stop them? They will not die!”
Sigyn made no reply, other than to leap to a nearby brazier. Taking her saber in her teeth, she seized it and thrust the smoldering contents at one of the intruders. The mans robes caught fire and burned, and verily, his darkened leathery flesh seemed to catch fire and bubble, but he seemed little troubled by the flames and pressed his attack. Sigyn gave ground before her now blazing opponent, and hacked at his throat. This time her blade bit deeper, nearly severing the head of the leathery man. He slumped to the floor. Sigyn found it hard to pull her sword from the body.
“Ymir! It’s as though they are made of pitch!”
As she struggled to free her blade from the viscous carcass, another of the intruders stole up behind her, his leathery hands grasping. Velthur leapt to her aid. Dropping his sword he seized the leathery automaton by throat and crotch, lifting him bodily in the air and with great effort tossed him into the row of braziers.
Sigyn freed her blade, which now blazed like a torch, covered as it was in the bubbling, sticky fluid from the leathery man. With it she set fire to his brethren. Soon the council hall was choked with acrid smoke.
“Orta! Velthur! Rally the men and pick up Pumpu and flee! We’ll leave these pitchy bastards in here to burn! Go!”
Queen Sigyn was obeyed and an orderly retreat began. The leathery ones were slow and grew slower as the burned, nay, as they melted. All had nearly gained the massive front entrance to the council chamber when further sorcery was worked.
Above the ebony dais a darkness gathered, a black egg shape that grew until it filled the far end of the chamber. A deep, authoritative voice issued from it, impossibly loud;
“Sigyn of Asgard! Thou hath thwarted my will and made a mockery of me! Now you and all Velathra will know the full wrath of Tarquin! It will amuse me to have you as my guest at my tower, so I might properly entertain you as we watch Velathra burn, choke, and die!
Come to me!”
With that pronouncement, myriad ropy tendrils spilled forth from the black mass, questing, searching. Sigyn was their goal; they seized her and began to drag her toward the oily black oval. She hacked at them with her saber, but there was always another ready to replace the ones she severed. Her guards leapt to her aid, dropping their spears and hacking away at the tendrils with their short swords. Some of the spearmen, giving no heed to themselves, were set upon by the leathery ones and mangled.
“Flee!” Sigyn shrieked. “Get out and bar the doors! Flee damn your eyes!”
Velthur fumed with impotent rage. He had come back to the city of his birth to restore what in his mind was order, only to find the barbarian usurper had been a fine steward to the resplendent city-state. Now seeing Sigyn’s bravery in battle and the loyalty she inspired in the Kothians, Velthur felt burning shame in the back of his throat.
Grasping his broadsword in both hands, he sprinted toward the ebon orb from which the tendrils issued.
“For Velathra!” he roared as he leapt headlong into the roiling eldritch darkness.
II
Velthur first became aware of a damp chill, and a dull ache centered in his joints. His arms were raised far above his head and confined in some fashion. He found breathing to be awkward and difficult. Opening his eyes, he discovered he was in a grey stone room dimly lit by a single brazier near his feet. He struggled to rise, but found he was immobilized and any movement he attempted caused the pain in his joints to increase to intolerable levels. He looked about as best he could, and discovered he had been stripped naked and bound to a rack. Velthur attempted to free himself, straining and flexing, but the strength of his mighty thews availed him not. The rack punished him for his efforts and the pain in his joints waxed. He relaxed, gritting his teeth to stifle a groan. Gradually, the memory of how he came to be in this place returned.
After he had leapt into the oily black oval in the council chamber, he instantaneously emerged in another chamber, one of dark granite. There he was set upon by a horde of the automatons. He lay about with his broadsword, but the stoic, leathery men were untroubled by his furious attacks. They mobbed Velthur and pummeled him to oblivion.
Now the Velathran cursed himself for an impetuous fool. Stretched on the rack, he had not been caused injury, merely stretched enough to be rendered immobile and extremely uncomfortable. He had languished thus for some indeterminate amount of time when he heard the unlocking and opening of a heavy door behind him, and a hooded figure glided fluidly into his field of vision. The shadowy specter leaned forward and thrust its grinning saturnine visage in Velthur’s face.
“Ahh! You’ve awakened at last, son of Venel!”
Velthur recognized the man’s voice; it was the same masterful, fiendish tone that issued from the portal that brought him hence.
“Tarquin! By Mitra, the barbarian was right! Thou art the architect of this nightmare!”
Tarqin leered back morbidly; his facial contortions accentuated a livid scar that parted his black beard from the left corner of his mouth to his left ear.
“I am pleased you recognize me Velthur, after the many years you wandered far from bejeweled Velathra. I feared age and the mutilations inflicted upon me by the she-dog Sigyn would obscure my familiarity.”
“Release me at once, dog!” spat Velthur. “Torturing me will not avail you! I have known worse suffering than the likes of you can mete out.”
Tarquin chuckled. “Unlikely, sir. But speak not in haste! I know you have returned to Velathra to restore the royal bloodline to the throne. Little Alfia, correct? But you could reign as king until she comes of age, or after should you desire it! With my aid, the embarrassing circumstances of you ancestry could be… obscured. ”
Velthur strained at the rack and growled like a beast, but spoke not. Tarquin leaned in and whispered in his hear conspiratorially.
“King Velthur! It rolls of the tongue does it not? And you will have to put forth so little effort. I will guide you in all things.”
“You would have me for your puppet, as you had that rabid cur Aranthur, and who knows how many kings before him? Go to hell! You’ll break me on this rack forty times ere I'll submit to your will!”
Tarquin stepped back, smiling placidly.
“Ah well, I felt I should at least make the effort. Fret not! I have little time to waste teaching you the subtleties of human suffering. Even now that Aesir witch rides hence with the last of her Kothians, no doubt to rescue you out of some savage concept of gratitude. I must retire to the rooftop to prepare her welcome. I needed to stop her to retrieve an object I require, and thought I might offer you an opportunity. Let it never be said Tarquin is aught but generous to his foes."
Chuckling, the astrologer left Velthur’s field of vision. There was the sound of a chest or cabinet being opened, and Tarquin returned to stand before Velthur holding a glass phial filled with a glowing green liquid.
“This is the crowning achievements of my efforts in alchemy. In digging the foundations of this tower we now occupy, I found a vein of a mineral with singular qualities. It was one of these qualities that resulted in my operatives, whom you became acquainted with earlier. This infusion isolates another of the minerals qualities, which I will now demonstrate using myself as the subject.”
In a perfunctory manner, Tarquin unstoppered the phial and gulped the contents. He stood motionless for a few heartbeats, and then seemed to grow unsteady on his feet, grasping the rack for support. As Velthur watched, the green glow seemed to appear in Tarquin’s eyes, and emanate from other parts of his body. Then Velthur perceived that Tarquin’s satyr-like face was elongating, then the astrologer spoke, his voice oddly distorting.
“Ah! It seems the infusion is taking effect faster than expected. I must head to the roof now. Be advised by me, Velthur, should the barbarian wench free you, do not seek the roof yourself, you would be wise to get yourself hence. Farewell!”
Velthur listened as Tarquin hastily left, his gait sounding oddly irregular. Then he was alone once more in the damp, chill torture chamber.
III
Thus Velthur languished for what seemed an eternity. For all that he was a fighting man of iron will and strong fiber, he was still human, and despair began to assert itself in his mind. Was it to be his fate to rot here is this foul dungeon? A man of his vitality might linger for many days ere being granted the release of death. Velthur strained once more against the rack to no avail, giving voice to a guttural, savage cry.
After the echoes of his outburst ceased resounding in the torture chamber, he heard a muffled din from below. There were shouts and the sound of clashing arms. Then the stamp of feet as if up a flight of stairs. Velthur started when there came the sound of great blows being dealt upon the door behind him, then the sound of rending timbers and bending iron. Presently Sigyn peered above him beaming. Velthur squirmed as the ends of her braids tickled his flesh.
Rejoice, Velthur!” she shouted. “Your northron cow hath stirred herself to stampede to thine aid!”
Velthur’s eyes grew wide with surprise and he groaned. “The sorcerer spoke true; you did come to mine aid.”
“Why would I not? It was your leap into Tarquin’s magic portal that saved me from those tentacles. Why is it always tentacles, Velthur?”
“Tarquin. He is on the roof. But beware! He plans some deviltry!”
Sigyn made no reply; rather, she cast her gaze over Velthur’s naked, outstretched body. She lay a hand upon his belly and ran it upward over the fighting man’s deep chest, entwining her fingers in the thick hair upon it.
“Alas.” she muttered. “Had we only more time…”
“What ails you woman!” bellowed Velthur. “Stop pawing at me at get me off this rack! Your hands are icy!”
“Oh! Of course!”
The Aesir found the lever that controlled the rack and pulled it. Velthur howled in agony as his limbs were stretched further.
“Oh! Wrong way!” quoth Sigyn. “I am most sorry!”
Sigyn loosened the rack and Velthur groaned as his muscles and tendons strove to resume their original lengths. Sigyn aided him off the rack and he knelt on the floor to recover.
“Did you hear me woman? Tarquin awaits above.”
“I did. We will await my guardsmen here then proceed to the roof to confront the cretin in force. I’d like some numbers to offset whatever mummery he will unleash. My Kothians should make short work of those leathern men downstairs. Blades are near useless against them, and while fire consumes them fairly quickly, they are largely untroubled by the flames until they are burned down to the bone, by then they’ve had time to walk about and set everything else aflame. But I had a shrewd thought! Smash their bones at the knees or hips, then stove in their skulls! That puts them down faster.”
Sigyn brandished the great maul she carried for emphasis.
“After we finished off the ones in the council chamber, we gathered hammers and maces from the armory, and rode hell for leather to this tower. We’ll close the book on Tarquin’s villainy this night by Ymir!”
Then there was a rumbling, and a vibration could be felt in the stones of the tower. Velthur rose unsteadily to his feet and muttered.
“Mitra grant that Mount Peclu ceases its rumbling with Tarquin slain, if not, we are all doomed. At least we can avenge Pumpu. Ah! My limbs are all pins and needles!”
Grinning, Sigyn eagerly began rubbing Velthur’s arms and shoulders vigorously.
“I’ll rub some life back in those limbs! And fret not over Pumpu, that old bird is made of sterner stuff than we thought, he came away with a few scrapes and a knot on his head. He awaits us at the palace.”
“You seem confident we will return there.”
“No sense in borrowing trouble. If I do not return, I trust Pumpu will deal with things per the instructions I left. Now let’s see to those legs!”
Velthur grasped Sigyn by the shoulders and moved her to arm’s length.
“See here, Sigyn! I would speak plainly ere we face Tarquin. I made a great matter of restoring the royal bloodline to Velathra, and I would still have it thus. But you are a fine woman and a worthy steward to this, or any other kingdom. I would take back my words from the council chamber!”
Sigyn screwed up her face in an exaggerated pout.
“True, you’re words were most hurtful, especially ‘cow’ and ‘she-ape’. I was teased over my size as a lass, and such names bite deep. I may put you back on the rack when this is over.”
“There is more Sigyn. I must reveal a secret to you, lest it be used against me later.”
Velathra’s queen again glanced appraisingly at Velthur’s physique.
“I’d have thought all your secrets lay bare at this point, but speak.”
“I sought the throne for Alfia, rather than myself, because in truth I am not the son of Venel! My mother, in her youth, was the victim of a great misfortune. She was delivered from this misfortune by a red-handed barbarian adventurer, not unlike you. In gratitude she lay with this man and I was conceived. The barbarian abandoned my mother well before my birth. Later Venel met my mother and fell in love. Such was is love he cared not she bore a son to an outlander, and verily, he raised me as his own, recognizing me as his heir. I could not ask for a better sire and swell with pride to call myself the son of Venel. But in truth the blood of the Thesanthar runs not in my veins. I am no more worthy of the throne than you.”
Sigyn shrugged.
“It seems foolhardy to choose one’s leaders by who their sires were. Better to pick a leader who knows what he’s doing!”
“Or what she’s doing?”
“Aye.”
At that moment Orto and several guardsmen entered, brandishing hammers, maces, and clubs clotted with the sticky black offal of the Leathern Men.
“The lower floors are cleared Sigyn!” he said, reverting to the plain speech used among the mercenaries. “What next?”
We go to the roof, and deal with Tarquin. Look sharp, no doubt he is prepared for us. Give Velthur a weapon, and perhaps a shield. We will need his aid.
Velthur shuffled awkwardly.
“Perhaps I could trouble you for a cloak or something?”
Sigyn smiled devilishly.
“Nay! As queen I command you remain naked, I find it boosts my fighting spirit. This close to the volcano, you should stay warm enough!”
IV
A sword and shield were thrust into Velthur’s hands, and he followed Sigyn and the dozen remaining Kothians out of the torture chamber and up the spiraling stone staircase that corkscrewed along the inner wall of Tarquin’s tower. The exertion brought his muscles back to their usual suppleness, and whatever pain remained from his time on the rack was quieted by a desire for quick brutal action, and vengeance upon the sorcerer.
In short order they came upon a trap door that opened to the sky, and the war-band spilled out upon the tower roof. It was a large space, with room for twenty men to stand abreast. As Sigyn had promised the air was hot. Acrid smoke from Mount Peclu stained the air about them. And while not yet smothering, the taint of volcanic ash could be tasted in the air.
But these matters were pushed aside in Velthur’s mind, as he beheld a dark mass rising with infernal majesty in the middle of the space.
At first his mind translated what he saw as some sort of high, silk tent. A vault of billowing black. But then he perceived the poles of the tent were like enormous hands with impossibly elongated fingers. Membranes of thin, ebon flesh stretched between these members and stirred as the hot wind from volcano swept the roof of the tower. The “hands” were curled, with the knuckles resting on the granite tiles. Suspended between these hellborn pinions was an anthropomorphic mass. The chest was impossibly deep, the shoulders massive, coiled with immense muscles that powered the things flight. Its head, perched atop a thick column of a neck, was at once familiarly human and phantasmagorically bestial, as though the skull of a man was stretched into a hatchet-shaped parody of humanity. Great pointed ears sprouted from either side of the skull, the snout was a riot of crocodilian teeth, caressed incessantly by the glistening purple rope of a tongue. Bulging, milk white eyes glared maniacally from arched brows. Short, thick bandy legs dangled below the mass of its trunk ending in great taloned claws that twitched and snatched at the air. The winged demon issued a keening, high pitched wail.
Velthur fought the urge to wail in bestial terror as his mind found familiarity in the grotesque saturnine features of the things head, and the jagged livid stripe the traced along the left side of its face.
“Mitra preserve us.” he croaked.
“Slay!” Sigyn roared, and ran toward the winged terror, raising the maul she carried on high. Velthur and the Kothians close at her heels.
The monster let out a bizarre sound that was both a shriek and a laugh. And unfurled its wings. With only a partial stroke of those hellish, leathery pinions it rose into the air and sent forth such a gale that Velthur feared he would be swept from the roof. Sigyn reached the creature and swung her hammer, but it had already gained too much height. She hurled the clumsy weapon aside and drew her saber. The Kothians followed suit, casting aside hammer and mace and drawing their broad-bladed short swords. All cursing the fact they had left their spears back at the palace armory.
Now they began a nightmarish dance with the bat-like monstrosity. The creature would flit down and try to seize a warrior with its claws, while they in turn would hack at it with their blades. The monster had the advantage for its vitals where out of reach of the weapons. And it was not long before a stout mercenary was seized in the thing’s talons and hurled screaming from the tower.
Velthur cursed as the talons grasped for him and raked the flesh of his back, but he avoided their grip and thrust his blade into the center of the claw, bringing forth a spray of black ichor and a wail of pain from the thing. But alas, it was untroubled otherwise and continued to assault the warriors.
Then Velthur watched as the creature seized Orto in one of its great talons. The Kothian fought like a madman, using his short sword like a dagger to stab at the monster. As it struggled to fly away with Orto, Sigyn ran forward and strove to pull the man from the monsters grasp while slashing it with her saber. Abruptly the winged horror dropped Orto and clutched at the Queen of Velathra. She avoided its grip, but rather than retreat, she grasped the claw and clambered monkey-like up the monster’s leg. Hacking and slashing with her saber the whole way. The thing issued a wail pain and rage and rose into the sky, bearing Sigyn with it.
“No, by Ishtar! No!” wailed Orto. He ran and leapt high, his grasping fingers missing the creatures dangling claws by inches, and he crashed to the stones in a heap.
Velthur and the Kothians watched in numb horror as the thing flapped toward the fiery summit of Mount Peclu until it became a small black shadow in the distance. Then, as it appeared to hover above the smoldering crater, the shadow shuddered, folded in on itself and plummeted into the blazing inferno.
Tears pouring down his ash covered face, Orto let out an inhuman shriek and tore at his beard. His companions went to him and pinioned his arms lest he do himself harm.
Velthur’s sword and shield clattered upon the stones of the roof as they fell from his nerveless hands. A Kothian approached him.
“What are your orders my lord?”
“Eh? Orders? What do you mean?”
"The Queen’s last edict, milord. Ere we left the palace, she named you her heir.”
Velthur choked as he stifled a cry.
In the distance, Mount Peclu grew still.
V
There had been a period of chaos when the people had learned of the disappearance and probable death of their queen. Due to the strange circumstances surrounding her disappearance, as well as Velthur’s denunciations of her in the council chamber, many were convinced that he was somehow responsible for her doom. Most were placated by assurances issued by Pumpu and Orto, both highly respected men, and Velthur's own eloquent and heartfelt praise of the late queen. However, a small minority harboured ill-will toward Velthur, and an assassination was attempted. Caught alone by a band of conspirators, Velthur’s battle-prowess was sorely tested, but he prevailed, and The Battle of Rampha Bridge became a popular and oft repeated tale.
Parallel to these events, Cutu, high priest of Ishtar, reminded any who would listen of how the queen had angered the goddess, and pointed to the quieting of Mount Peclu after the queen was “sacrificed” to the volcano as indicating Ishtar's placation. He used this to launch a campaign against the worship of Mitra in the kingdom. This resulted in a brief but violent clash in which Velthur had to restore order with harsh action.
This day Velthur oversaw both the departure of Orto and the remaining Kothians, as well as the arrival of the child Alfia, whom Velthur had ordained succeed him as soon as she came of age. The departure of Orto had troubled him greatly. He had grown fond of the Kothian as they had closely worked together in building a corps of guardsmen to replace the Kothic spearmen. He had harangued Orto extensively to stay, but the Kothians had grown homesick after years of living abroad, and found Velathra had become a dismal place to them in the absence of the their beloved Sigyn.
Getting Alfia and her entourage settled had been trying as well. Velthur was insistent on not only accommodating her in the palace, but having in place a legion of carefully selected tutors, advisors, and mentors to ensure she would be prepared to assume the throne. He would not countenance another Aranthur on the throne, nor would he allow another Tarquin to wield influence in Velathra.
Bidding good night to the guards posted outside, Velthur stepped into his chamber and closed the heavy bronze door behind him. He turned his attention first to the covered dish and bottle resting upon the small table where he took his meals. He had not taken time to eat and was famished. Pulling up a chair he sat down and removed the cover.
“Mitra!” he hissed, leaping up from the table and drawing his sword.
The roast chicken on the platter had been devoured, and the the bottle of red wine had been drained to dregs. Velthur crouched, coiled to spring like a striking cobra. In the shadows beyond the orb of light cast by his lamp, he saw a shape that at first might have blended with the curtains hanging before his chamber window.
“Skulking dog!” he growled, teeth bared like a cornered wolf. “Come out in the open and cross blades!”
The shadow detached itself from the gloom and took the form of a hooded figure that strode confidently toward the king.
“How did you get past the guard?” snarled the king.
The figure spoke in a calm soft voice.
“These were my chambers for three winters Velthur, I know many ways to come and go from here at will. Calm yourself, I am no foe.”
Velthur recoiled as the figure pulled back it’s hood, revealing the face of Velathra’s former queen.
“Sigyn! Do you live or are you a spectre sent to haunt me?”
“I live Velthur.”
While Velthur easily recognized her, the Aesir had much changed since he last saw her. Her thawny hair was much shorter, standing out a hand’s breadth form her head in wild disarray. Under her cloak she was clad in a scant tunic fashioned from the pelt of some yellow and black striped animal. And the sword at her waist was of an exotic, foreign make. Further, she had grown leaner and more wolfish, and her skin was bronzed by the sun. Velthurs’ shock at Sigyn’s survival turned to anger.
“Why did you allow us all to believe you dead these four months. Orto was beside himself with grief!”
Sigyn turned from Velthur’s gave and looked toward the fire burning upon the hearth, nervously running her hand through her shaggy mane.
“I regret the pain I have caused. It was selfish of me to be sure.”
Velthur slammed his sword back in it’s scabbard. He took a deep breath. His months as king had taught him to master his temper more effectively. When he spoke again his tone was more even.
“What happened after the winged beast carried you away?”
“I held onto the beast and stabbed at it, hoping to reach its vitals ere it cleared the roof of the tower. But it flew so swiftly. It carried me so high, I was nearly driven mad with fear. It bucked like a wild horse and sought to rend me with claws and teeth, yet somehow I kept my grip on it and hacked and stabbed at it. At last by blade sunk deep into it’s breast, and it voiced it’s death cry. We fell. By Ymir, I saw the fire and boiling lava rushing up to claim me. But luckily we did not fall into the center of the crater, but it’s edge. We struck an outcropping of rock. The winged thing careened off of it and fell deeper into the crater, but I managed to hold on to the rock. Still, I felt I was doomed. It was so very hot. I began climbing out. The rocks burned. Over and over I would nearly lose my grip looking for a handholds that were cool enough to grip. Great gouts of lava would fly through the air. I was nearly struck by them many times.The gods smiled upon me, and I was only mildly blistered. My hair suffered the worst, It was singed so badly I had to cut it short and start over, It’s growing back in quickly though.”
She mussed her wild locks for emphasis.
“Eventually I gained the rim of the crater. I could see You and Orto on the roof of the tower. I hailed you, but the distance was too great and the volcano rumbled too loudly. I started to hail you again, when a thought occurred to me. I had left orders that you were to be crowned king if I did not return. I had but to walk away and resume my old life of wandering. This is what i did. Is there more wine?”
Velthur walked to a cabinet and brought forth another jug of wine and filled two flagons. Proffering one to the Aesir. She drained her flagon, smacking her lips with relish.
“Where did you go then?”
“I meandered south. I have to admit, those first few nights roughing it were hard after three years of pampered, courtly life. But I soon got back into fighting shape, by Ymir!”
Sigyn picked at the remains of Velthur’s dinner.
“You should send for another chicken.”
“One should be enough for you, besides, the cooks will be abed at this hour. Finish your tale.”
“Not really much of a tale. Very little of interest occurred. Well, I did find a hidden kingdom of pygmies in jungles near Zembabwei. Oh, and I had to fight off a colossal ape. By Ymir he was a big fellow, standing near as tall as Tarquin’s tower! I lured him to a waterfall and…”
Velthur interrupted. “Why did you come back here?”
Sigyn shuffled awkwardly, and poured herself more wine.
“Curiosity? Guilt? I know not, it seemed like the right thing to do. I entered the kingdom two days ago and wandered about, hidden under my cloak. You’ve done well Velthur! Velathra is in fine shape. I like the statue of me you had erected near the temple of Mitra, even though it makes me look fat.”
“I may have it pulled down. The people of Velathra wept for you and grieved deeply, thinking you died to save them. When really you were prancing about the Black Kingdoms. And what happened to the crown? You were wearing it when the monster flew off with you.”
Sigyn grinned sheepishly.
“Well, I needed coin to sustain myself on my travels, so… Damnation! I’m sorry Velthur, but I never wanted to be queen, and you wanted to restore the rightful heir! My running away was wrong and hurtful, but did we both not get what we wanted?”
Velthur waved his arms in exasperation.
“If it gets out that you’re alive and in Velathra it will cause no end of chaos.”
“I know. I didn’t think it through. I…. Ymir!”
She set down her empty flagon and stepped closer to Velthur until she was mere inches away, there she stopped and reached out as if to touch the king, Then abruptly threw her arms about his neck and kissed him with great vigor. Velthur stood stiffly for a moment, shocked by the turn of events. He grasped her by the shoulders and pushed her gently from him.
“Is it really so terrible that I returned?” she asked.
Vethur regarded her, staring into the Aesir’s fiery green eyes. An urge he’d supressed since first setting eyes on her suddenly overwhelmed him.
“Mitra.” he muttered, then crushed her to his chest, showering her lips and neck with fierce, hot kisses. He tore the voluminous cloak away from her and ran his hands over her body, relishing the feel of the iron thews hidden behind her feminine curves. She returned his ardor with equal passion, tearing open his silken tunic and gripping the hair on his chest as she had when he languished in Tarquin's torture chamber. The power he felt in her strong limbs as she caressed him aroused him far more than the weak embraces of some mincing courtesan ever could. Their weapons clattered on the floor as they disarmed one another. At last, he gripped her by the hair and pulled her head back.
“Stay.” he murmured breathily in her ear. “Stay and be queen of Velathra once more. Stay and be my queen!”
“No. I will not. Do not ask that of me Velthur, please…”
Velthur scooped Sigyn up in his arms, and carried her to the bed. He knew well the risks in handling such a woman in this manner, but he was ever a devotee of bold action. But she did not offer resistance, rather, she squealed with delight, and giggled playfully.
He lay her upon the bed and set to work removing her tunic.
“Stay.” he repeated, “Stay with me.”
Sigyn sighed and stretched, catlike.
“I promise nothing, but I will let you do your best to convince me.”
The End
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