by Jeffery Scott Sims
in Issue 119, December 2021
Lord Nantrech of Dyrezan, mighty mage and sage renowned throughout the empire, marched breezily despite his accumulated years, though a grandee clad only in a soiled gray robe. With each hearty stride his magic staff bit into the dust stirred by his sandaled feet. Close by trudged Lord Harmon, friend and fellow wizard of years more elder, bald and sour of countenance. Behind them filed Phillipan, a youthful commander of the Royal Guard, and the courtesy escort troop of mailed soldiers, an even dozen who served also as bearers, lent to Nantrech during his travels through the noblesse of King Skyrax. Lord Nantrech, though a studious and envied scholar in matters of lore esoteric, bowed at whiles to the remorseless whip of wanderlust and journeyed far abroad, touring exotic locales within the sprawling domain of Dyrezan or, as on this occasion, when whiffs of mystery wafted to his keen brain, venturing into wilder climes.
The little band presently crested the bald knob of hill, one of the few rises on the long, dreary plain. Not far ahead stretched a seemingly boundless sea of leafy green, which they gazed down upon from a height somewhat above the loftiest treetops. Nantrech gestured with his staff. “The forest of Casova, I do declare. Harmon, you were right. Somewhere back on our trek we crossed the official border.”
Groused Lord Harmon, “As I only informed the most noble Nantrech a dozen times, if not more. It takes not arcane mastery to discern the steppes empty of humanity, and that fine road curving away to the west, and this track degrading to less than a footpath. Surely we have small enough excuse for this wilderness detour.”
Nantrech shrugged without breaking stride, replying, “I promised the King to uncover the cause of the tribute from Casova not finding its way into the royal coffers. A mere pittance, yet his Highness is a stickler for pecuniary details. Fear not: we shall arrive, chasten, and depart, all on the hour, then off again to destinations of better interest.”
“Aye, my Lords,” laughed Phillipan, ostentatiously swaggering and patting the hilt of his short sword, “and if these peasants prove impervious to gentle reason, you may call on me and my men to convince them.”
They entered the gloomy forest, on a trail sufficiently wide that it could have occasionally borne the wheels of carts. In due course they reached a squalid village of shacks ringed by scant fields carved out of the surrounding woods. These poor folk scarce knew of their prince or chieftain (Nantrech and Harmon sparred over the terms), who dwelt many leagues away, and had not shown himself in their hamlet for months. Perhaps the inhabitants in the next, larger town to the northwest, not distant as the eagle soars, could tell more. What these people did press upon their visitors was the extreme danger of travel within this forest. Lately it had not been safe.
The men of Dyrezan noted the claim, without paying it much heed. Robbers and highwaymen tended to sidestep those persons armed with blades, spears, and shields. So with this warning the band proceeded into the dark, dank vastness of Casova.
They desired to reach that town, Hirett, by dusk, there to seek shelter. Into the sunless depths under the massed trees they advanced, the leagues crawling by. Lord Harmon it was who first commented, “Something not of hair tingles on my scalp. Nor am I prone to over-imagination. An unfamiliar agency approaches us, or we approach it.”
Lord Nantrech nodded. He halted. “I feel it too; a presence, or presences, and I say they close upon us, from the front, as well as the sides. A curious sensation, not one fostered by the tread of men, I reckon. It augurs uncommon menace.”
Phillipan, right behind, briskly queried, “My Lords, you speak of danger? If so, I will deploy my warriors.”
“Do that,” commanded Nantrech.
At Phillipan’s curt words the soldiers commenced to form a beweaponed ring about their leaders. Even as they took station shapes appeared evanescently among the trees. Hard to make out as to precise form, they readily caught the eye due to a faint luminescence that cloaked them. Difficult to judge their numbers due to the arboreal obstacles, but with each passing second more came into view.
Then they attacked.
The assailants swarmed the troops, the lunging of an oddly cloudy mass, seen as through a fog. In fractions of a second details leapt out, snatched sights of inhuman things, flailing talons, black spidery eyes. And the defenders lashed back: swords jabbed, spears thrust, shields rammed. The attackers never spoke intelligible word, though emanating from the throng rose a bizarre humming akin to angered bees. It pitched high and low, warbling and trilling as strange, inhuman music. Other sounds upwelled from the fight, these being the hoarse shouts of men, then the screams of men.
In the midst of the embattled circle Lords Nantrech and Harmon thundered incantations, hurling fireballs and vaporous essences of death. Noxious fumes polluted the air, accompanied by a mounting stench. There came a point of maddened intensity, of mindless ferocity . . . and abruptly the mayhem subsided, the aggressors receding into the woods, shortly vanishing entirely. They of Dyrezan were left to regard their circumstances.
Nantrech and Harmon, skilled practitioners of their arts, immediately set to reorganizing the contents of the bags which held their magical materials, lest they should be hurriedly needed again. Phillipan, gagging and near to retching, tended to his men, counting heads and inspecting wounds. Blood seeped from his gashed cheek, his rent helmet clutched in one hand, sword ready in the other. Without pausing his business he said, “My Lords, what manner of creatures be those? They are not immune to hard strokes, but it is like combating jellyfish. Observe the forest mold underfoot. They bleed a slime that stinks to heaven, and where I expected a corpse I see nought but rancid ooze.” He kicked disdainfully at the stuff, then cursed in disgust at his besmeared boot.
“We know too little,” replied Nantrech. “We will learn more in Hirett, perhaps.”
“Should we get so far,” added Harmon. He snorted. “Not safe to travel, indeed! Phillipan, how stands it with your men?”
“An ugly accounting,” came the quick response. “All may proudly boast of their battle scars. Three slain, foully so. How done I know not, but their bodies are drained of blood to the last drop.”
Nantrech pondered. “‘Tis late. Bury the fallen heroes. We camp away from this reek and nastiness, to move at first light.”
This they did, spending the night unmolested further yet watchful under the trees by the path, and come the morn a brief march took them into Hirett. This was quite the pleasant habitation, big enough to serve as a hub of commerce, with thatch-roofed stone houses, an impressive two-tiered inn, bountiful fields and fruit orchards, even flower gardens. A better class resided here, with numerous tradesmen, masons, and other artisans. Query revealed that the inn doubled as a meeting hall for the town fathers. Lord Nantrech employed imperious persuasiveness to petition for a conference on the instant.
The fathers assembled in a comfortable upper story chamber, also accompanied by a slight, slender woman in superior attire and veils. Nantrech and Harmon faced them from a dais, with the guardsmen at their back standing impassive as statues. Lord Nantrech drew himself up in all his innate authority and spoke quietly, a statement rather than a question. “What goes here.”
It wanted time to adduce the essential facts out of the hubbub of declamations and expostulations. The Hirett fathers, eager, timid, or doleful, made the most of their opportunity. “It began on the night when the skies bellowed and rained fire.” “Night turned to day in the north.” “A shock flung us from our beds.” Of most pertinence: “Before we could recover, the weird slayers came to torment us. Vampires they are, that feast on the blood of the unwary.”
“We know somewhat of them,” Harmon retorted wryly. “How long this situation?”
Another jumble of responses followed. Having sifted the discordant elements, Nantrech muttered to his colleague, “That corresponds to the period of the red moon, that Lord Morca called to my attention in Dyrezan. Unusual natural phenomena always appeal to him. He detected evidence of a ground quake in this direction, then doubted himself because of a lack of subsequent reverberations. I see a kind of sense in this tale. Now, my good men,” he addressed the gathering, “How stands it with you?”
In sum, travel had become well-nigh impossible. Frightful monsters lurked in the forest, lying in ambush, with even the verges of Hirett growing hazardous. Trade had ceased, communication with the outside world severed. They had lost contact with their own ruler, Duke Traso, whose castle lay directly north from Hirett, at a day’s march.
“That is the man we need to contact,” suggested Phillipan.
“So say I,” declared a soft voice. It was the veiled woman who rose. The town fathers bowed their heads deferentially and hushed. She pulled aside the veil, revealing a winsome face of saddened countenance. “I am Liese, wife of Traso, in Hirett on a mission of good will when trapped here by the coming of the blood-drinking slayers. Neither my husband Duke nor his liegemen have reached us through all these terrible days, nor have we heard the merest word of him. I would go to him, if I could.” With a certain hint of disdain toward those about her she added, “That would entail attendants of courage.”
At this Phillipan brayed, “We have that by the bushel!” Harmon cast him an unsympathetic eye, gestured for silence.
Nantrech, however, nodded. “We must go to Traso. Our King would wish it.”
“Not so hasty,” advised Lord Harmon. Edging closer to his fellow mage, he whispered, “Their unfortunate condition is none of our concern. We have no legitimate stake in this morbid affair. Let us leave them for our own safety, that we may report to Skyrax on our return to Dyrezan.”
Said Lord Nantrech, “We shall report to him, when we possess all of the facts.” Harmon grimaced, spitting out an oath favored by sorcerers, an oath which, had he meant it ardently, might have crashed the inn down on top of them.
“So be it,” he acidly stated. “We march for the castle of Traso, and may the blessings of Great Xenophor preserve us. Men of Hirett!” he barked, “This we will not do alone. We insist”—Harmon shot Nantrech a stony glance—“we insist a score of your stout lads march with us, armed as you may for battle. Commander Phillipan will take charge of the combined force.”
Almost comic was the disconsolate reaction to this declaration, yet the town fathers could not by right gainsay, so in a fullness plans were laid. Rounding up twenty volunteers to augment Phillipan’s little legion took longer, involving a modicum of shame orchestrated by Duchess Liese; their willingness suspect, their equipage piteous, but the recruitment got done, and ere noon the tiny army set out.
And back into the dark forest of Casova continued the trek, with grim warriors fore and aft of the column, moody townsmen in the center. Phillipan patrolled the line, the wizards setting the pace from the front. Never did honest beasts of the wood cross their path, nor did a single bird flit overhead among the branches. Despite the verdant greenery an atmosphere of desolation obtained, a still oppression in the air. Lord Harmon did caustically remark on the improved road running from Hirett toward the castle, which he said almost rose to a civilized standard.
Not long it was before feelings of desolation gave way to evidence of devastation. Broken limbs of trees, then toppled trunks, more, broad swathes of forest crushed as by the heavy hand of a giant, finally charred remnants of trees standing sorrowful sentinel over the blighted landscape. Some terrible catastrophe had laid waste to Casova in these parts, the wreckage becoming ever more pronounced as they advanced to the north.
“This bodes ill for Duke Traso,” observed Nantrech.
“And us,” rejoined Harmon.
They made camp that evening under the blackened wooden spires. Tall torches were emplaced about the encampment, fabricated from poles of less charred branches. Phillipan, forcing a sense of ease, loudly pointed out so all could hear the fact that nothing had molested them thus far. The two wizards tacitly approved this with nods and smiles, growing serious once they went into a private conclave.
At a remove from the others, Lord Nantrech asked, “Friend, feel you it too?”
“Aye, all this past hour,” replied Lord Harmon. “Like unto that buzzing of the monsters, only deep in the brain. Waves of inner sound, intelligently modulated, best styled as music. I could swear that no one else receives it.”
“They do not.” Nantrech scrutinized their comrades in the flickering torch light. “The signal tunes to a perceptivity that only minds heightened by arcane arts can detect. It is meant for you and I.”
Harmon nodded. “Of course these unschooled oafs cannot distinguish it. Communication, then? Friend, let us open our minds and listen.”
The eerie semblance of music clarified, grew by gradations into discrete patterns desecrating the concept of song, ultimately transmuting into such speech as might be mouthed in the jaws of insects. Thus it spoke:
“I am Gorgrevius, former denizen of the seventh cosmos. Submit to my will, or perish.
“I lay claim to this realm. Henceforth accept it as my domain, with boundaries determined at my whim. I arrived with my servants on your planet from celestial spheres beyond the worlds you recognize, in search of fresh provender. I discovered nourishment in the warm red liquor flowing from these bipedal beasts. Having found this, I partake as I require and desire from these my herds. You two, the beings similar to those others yet with minds that shine through the higher dimensions, may depart alive, so you may serve me at a future appointed time as my needs expand. For tribute, leave to me these other creatures, that my servants may gather from them the sustenance that I crave and relish.”
Phillipan stood flabbergasted when the wizards approached and Nantrech informed him, “We have discoursed with Gorgrevius, the potentate of the slayers that plague Casova. It insulted us with an offer which we rejected in unison, in the most vehement terms. The ire of our foe burns white hot. Phillipan, a long night lies before us. Expect the worst of retaliation.”
The Guards commander mastered his amazement to reply, “All that man can do, do I.”
The onslaught was not long in coming. Every soldier of Dyrezan made ready, each in charge of two or three Casovan auxiliaries. Eyes strained through the quiescent night. There, passing over that far hill, a glimpse of undulating luminosity. Closer, the image now discernible as many separate shapes, shapes unhuman, loathsome. They radiated faintly in the darkness, foul parodies of moonlight. A torturous humming and droning sounded, revolting to the ear.
They lapped around the circle of armed men and rushed from all sides. More of them this time, many more, pressing close though freakishly hard to see, unfocused, as if they existed only half within the mundane plane. A hazy mass would viciously hurl itself against a shield or unprotected body, or a thrusting blade, affording a brief impression of repellent visage, bulbous black eyes, protuberant mandibles, grasping claws.
Trained fighters, comprehending the stakes of life and death, behave accordingly. This did the guardsmen of Dyrezan. So too did most of the men of Hirett, realizing they could expect no pity or mercy from such enemies, that their choices lay between winning or dying. There were those few—four, it proved—who panicked and attempted flight. Unremarked in the thick of frantic action, none heeded their foolhardy dash, nor their soul-wrenching shrieks. Battle cries and hellish musical buzzing drowned out their death throes.
Once Phillipan broke from the embattled line to accost his Lords, who squatted within the ring mumbling a chant of wardence old when Dyrezan was young. Dripping splashes of blood and nauseous, evil smelling slime, he exclaimed, “The outcome teeters on a knifepoint! I beseech you, lend us succor with your magic.”
Growled Harmon, with uncommon irritation even for him, “What think you we do? Gorgrevius communicates to his minions through the aether, guiding and inspiring, garnering strength directly from the blood they drink. We strain to block this connection. Do not pester us, man. Be gone, return to your sword games.”
Phillipan plunged back into the fight, a whirlwind melee of stabbing, slicing, hacking, of lusty shouts and howls of pain, of bravery borne of pride or despair. None present kept track of how long the battle raged, but there came yet another rare pause for gasping and panting, and this time, by the light of the single remaining standing torch, the men saw no foes before them. All the unearthly slayers were slain or dispersed.
This clash claimed but one warrior of Dyrezan, a testament to their fortitude and better knowledge of their opponents. The men of Hirett suffered grievously, losing half their number, surely a mournful tragedy, though their exhausted survivors seemed decidedly pleased with themselves. Such bragging rights they had earned! Their women would fete them, should they return to tell of their exploits.
“At first light we push on,” announced Lord Nantrech. “It is past time to end this.” He and Lord Harmon, despite having raised no hand in the struggle, appeared themselves weighed down by grinding fatigue. Their sustained conjurations during the entirety of the gory bout granted the men a subtle respite which, though the beneficiaries knew it not, had indeed tipped the scales in their favor.
After the march resumed the depleted band were puzzled to enter an ever more disturbed region, where in addition to demolished forest they found the terrain upheaved, scoured and heaped, the road on which they trod submerged beneath loose, sandy dirt. Now they navigated judging cardinal points by the sun.
Bewilderment festered among the men of Hirett, those who knew the byways of Casova. Explained one in quavering tones, “We near the castle of Duke Traso, which stands upon a high hill. Yet there rises no hill, nor stands any castle.”
“It is as I deduced,” said Lord Nantrech. “The evidence falls into place. A horrid revelation comes quickly. Triumph or not, we must brace for sad tidings.”
They reached a point where footing grew challenging, so rent and tumbled was the earth. They toiled up an irregular slope, and having crested this beheld a sight that stunned, a vista that defied belief. The ground dropped away from their feet into an enormous pit, a vast crater of churned soil and shattered, far flung stone ripped from the bedrock. In the remote depths of that immense cavity something obscurely seethed.
“Prediction confirmed,” muttered Harmon.
“Aye,” said Nantrech. “Gorgrevius and the slayers came out of the skyey voids, and they came hard, crashing here with the force of a volcano erupting. Bad luck for Traso; his castle stood squarely at the point of impact. An easy death I cannot deny. He and his liegemen never knew what hit them.”
“Small comfort to the Duchess,” Phillipan opined.
“An ill-starred and tedious circumstance,” said Harmon, “to necessitate both a new man and a new house. I dare say she will recover; that is, if we finish this rather more weighty business. What I see down there offends my eyes.”
A few shimmery slayers were slowly scaling the broken slope toward them. Beyond and below, at the bottom of the crater, a hideous, amorphous entity bubbled and steamed. Curiously difficult to define, as they gazed it altered in color as well as shape, spouting pustules of shifting hues that dully glowed while throwing out gelatinous appendages.
Lord Nantrech laid down his staff and said, “Friend Harmon, I pack in my pouch of magical secrets a vial of syrup wrung from the liver of an olden mummy, the wrapped remains of an exalted Rhexellite necromancer. I deem that an adequate foundation for a potent potion.”
Lord Harmon countered, “A neat item, useful as it is rare, but you lack a simple binding agent, such as, for instance, the wormy clay stolen from the unmarked grave of a nobleman of a decadent line executed for treason, clay copiously infused with his traitorous sap. A fell day it would be if I did not carry an ample supply. Here, worthy conjurer, mix well, paying strict attention to the proportions, while I initiate the weaving of the spell.”
When the wizards had completed these chores Nantrech told Phillipan, “Guard us from interference as we descend.”
Phillipan coolly replied, “Sure, my Lord. My men have taken the measure of those cattle.” And they went down, the guardsmen and Casovan militia to the front, the wizards close behind, both now reciting a complex formula. Nantrech held in outstretched hands a lumpy silken bag that steamed through his fingers. Sporadic rushes by slayers the soldiers readily fended. Ere they reached their target Gorgrevius waited alone. It writhed and squirmed, larger than it had appeared from above, a repugnant sight indeed. It sprouted snaking feelers as it internally spoke to the Lords of Dyrezan.
“Gorgrevius commands! Join me in subduing this world, and I shall throw open to you doors into other universes ripe for conquest. Each of you shall reign as kings over kings, kneeling only to me. I offer you—”
“Keep that pseudopod off me,” Nantrech ordered to no one in particular, and with alacrity two spearmen prodded the greasy swaying thing away with their long weapons as the wizard deposited his burden at the base of the horror. “There, that is done, and fleet of foot we go, out of the pit, everyone, for death bays at our heels!”
The men scrambled madly for the rim, most knowing not what would come, taking Nantrech at his word; and it was the wizards who were obliged for aid in this instance, for the psychic screeches of Gorgrevius escalated unendurably and staggered them. Phillipan and his best mate hauled their elders to the top.
A titanic blast! The shock wave smashed the men into the earth. Black billowing smoke and vivid red fire boiled from the pit, a flaming column of intense blue-white jetting straight upward and vanishing beyond the clouds. The little group hugged the ground until the air began to clear and they could peer into the chasm. They beheld only rubble, nothing alive.
Phillipan pushed himself up, crowing, “That’s done for it! Didn’t leave a trace. My Lords, your magic killed it for certain.”
Lord Harmon, disheveled and dusty, sat on his haunches examining the scene. Presently he remarked, “I know not if we vaporized Gorgrevius or sent it back where it belongs, whatever Hell that may be. Which be the case, good riddance.”
Lord Nantrech, having asked that his staff be retrieved, hauled himself to a weary stoop and said, “Aye, though many moons shall pass before our lamentations cease. There are dead to mourn, and terrors to forget. Duchess Liese will be in the market for a replacement Duke, dutifully shedding bitter tears until she gets one. And until she finds her new man and plants herself a new castle, I very much fear our sovereign King Skyrax must forgo the tribute of Casova.”
©December 2021, Jeffery Scott Sims
Jeffery Scott Sims has recently published a book of weird tales, Science and Sorcery III, as well as many short stories in various publications. His work has appeared previously in Swords & Sorcery.