Wings out of Hell
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.