The Two That Came To Ilarnek

Chapter 6

Grimm and Freyja were silent and still, with the learned patience of hunters, in the shadows of a narrow alleyway. The alley was near to the Temple of Bokrug, and lay between two of the many storehouses in this quarter of the city. Windrows of refuse, broken barrels, and crates lined the grimy walls of the narrow walkway, and the glittering eyes of rodents occasionally spied at them from the tangled trash piles. Luckily, at this time of the Festival there was no work in the city, and the streets and storehouses lay abandoned.
    Bokrug’s temple was the only such temple in this section of the city, an area mostly dedicated to maritime trade and the work that attends a port. Still, Grimm, cautiously kept below the few windows that pierced the  walls of the tortuous alleys. Freyja, not without caution, examined them interestedly. They were formed of well crafted interlocked wooden frames and beautifully stained glass of many colours. She had never seen the like, and marvelled in their beauty, so out of place on storehouses, they spoke of long forgotten days of prosperity.
    The sky above was growing darker, fading from cerulean into deeper shades. Grimm and Freyja crept forward approaching the mouth of the alley, until they could see the narrow street that crossed its entrance, and brooding across the way, like an ambush predator, they spied the Temple itself.
    The Temple seemed like a massive cyclopean structure, somehow out of place in the presence of storehouses and shipping yards. The Temple was constructed of stone blocks, its entire facing coloured in a deep indigo, so dark it seemed almost black. Only the frieze, with its depictions of strange creatures and celestial bodies, that ran the length of the building, under the roofline, lent any variation of colour. Despite its size and sprawling bulk the dark colour made it appear squat, lending it the aspect of an obese toad. A clammy disquieting aura seemed to exude from the very stones of the Temple, like an invisible emanation of eldritch evil.
    The two barbarians could hear the murmur of the Festival-goers down below, as they padded silently in the shadows along the Temple’s side, its peristyle looming above them malevolently. They approached the broad front stairway and ascended like the shadow of a passing hawk over the ground, stealing quickly into the concealing darkness of the pediment and colonnaded pronaos.
    Grimm and Freyja locked eyes briefly, that uncanny wordless communication, to which they had become inured, passed between them. With a fatalistic mutual shrug of their whipcord shoulders they simultaneously drew their swords and stalked across the threshold into the Temple’s cella.
    The cella was dimly lit by cressets along both sides. A smoky cloying haze of olibanum pervaded the air, but beneath the scent of olibanum was something else, a subtle sulphurous and ferrous odor, that Grimm disliked, and which made Freyja’s stomach clench. The inner walls and floor were the same nighted hue as the exterior, but the low arched ceiling depicted strange stars and constellations, a cosmic scene unknown to the native inhabitants of Earth.
    As their eyes adjusted to the flickering cressets they took in the floorplan, ever alert to danger. There was a table-like plinth upon which sat offerings to Bokrug, amphoras of wine, fruits, and viands long since grown cold. A brazier from which the sickly sweet smell of incense slowly rose in serpentine tendrils. But worst of all was the great statue at the far end of the cella.
    The statue was of a bloated menacing reptilian thing, ten feet in height and nearly as many in breadth, carved entirely from glossy black obsidian, the only colour was the scintillating gems representing its eyes, that flashed crimson and green in the firelight.
    “I hope we aren’t supposed to carry that thing away.” said Grimm with a whispered chortle. In response Freyja indicated a pair of what appeared to be doorways concealed behind heavy arras, upon either side of the monstrous statue.
    “One or both of those must lead to an adytum. The idol must be within.” she whispered.

    Just then the arra to the left of the statue parted and two men, armed with spears, entered the cella.
    “Who enters the temple of Bokrug?” challenged the first man.
    “They are armed, they must be thieves. Out with it, you foul heretics. Tell us before you die, were you sent by the Brethren of Lobon, the false god, to rob the Temple?” said the second man.
    Both of the men were large, strong-looking warriors, in green sleeveless tunics, possibly mercenaries hired as temple-guards, or clerics of Bokrug trained for battle. Grimm spat.
    “We’ve come to send your shades to the foul lizard-god, Illarnekite dog!” blurted Freyja, and she kicked the brazier viciously sending it, and its contents in a burning spray over the nearest of the two foemen. His face was instantly engulfed in burning coals, and his tunic blazed. An agonized scream was torn from his throat as he clawed at the charred remains of his eyes. The guardsman’s suffering was shortened, as Freyja drove her blade straight into his tortured face.
    Grimm did not hesitate to act, and sprang upon the second man, battering his spear aside. But the second guard was not so easily surprised and he swept out a scimitar from the scabbard at his hip, parrying Grimm’s next blow. Grimm’s sword passed harmless by the man’s shoulder, over extending the barbarian. Grimm checked his momentum against the stone wall, and spun as an embattled tiger upon an angered bull. He blocked a ferocious swipe from the guard’s curved blade, and counterattacked. This time his sword struck true, smashing through his foe’s ribcage. The guard fell into a gurgling heap, dead before he could draw another breath.
    Grimm and Freyja approached the heavy tapestry to the right of the grotesque statue and passed within, swords at the ready. What they failed to notice was the furtive, robed, figure that hurriedly pushed his way from behind the left tapestry and hurried silently from the Temple.
    The barbarians entered a short stone corridor lit by a single cresset. The passageway terminated at a heavy wooden door on black iron hinges. Grimm pushed upon the heavy door and it swung open easily with a raspy creak. They entered the adytum cautiously, and took in their surroundings.
    the inner sanctum of the Temple was unoccupied, and like the larger outer cella, it was lit by cressets along the walls. There were two altars, the smaller one to the fore, the taller one at the back wall of the room. Then they saw it, upon the further altar, squatted the idol, strangely malevolent despite its modest size.
    The Thulean warriors swept the room with their eyes, as a wild thing seeks for hidden danger lurking in the jungle shadows. Before the nearer altar was a four foot wide well in the floor of the chamber itself, languid waters lapping the sides a few inches below its low stone rim, with iron loops driven into the very stone, to either side. A great disc of iron with sliding bolts leaned against one wall, which obvious to them both, served to cover the well.
    “The well must lead to Lake Thune, to be lapping as it does.” remarked Grimm. “The heavy door and stone walls insure that the grisly rites of Bokrug go unmarked by the citizens of the city.” he continued, his eyes noting the dark morbid stains that defiled the nearer altar, and ran down grooves in its side to runnels hewn into the stone, to disappear underneath the second altar. It spoke of countless deaths meted out to sate an evil god.
    As Grimm spoke Freyja’s sea-grey eyes looked with rapt curiosity upon the frescoes that adorned the chamber walls. She shivered as she appraised their scenes, so artfully done, depicting robed acolytes around the altar plunging a dagger into a woman’s breast as she lay bound. Other frescoes showed scenes of the worshipers drinking blood, while a third seemed to show scenes of obeisance to Bokrug himself as he crouched upon a great dais. The third image seemed to be set, not in the Temple, but in an underwater city of some sort. What disturbed her most, was that only some of the acolytes in the varied frescoes seemed human, others reminded her of the creatures they saw in the mosaics of ruined Sarnath.
    “I’ll just grab the idol and we can quit this hellish place,” said Grimm tensely, and he began to cross the room. At Grimm’s words, Freyja started, and wrenched her eyes from the gruesome artwork. She approached the well and peered into its murky depths.
    Grimm reached out for the green stone idol, and just as his fingers were about to grasp his prize, he heard Freyja swear with a sharp exhalation. Grimm whirled cat-like, and saw a dark shape burst from the well’s greenish black depths. He looked upon horror.
    It was man-high, with slick mottled skin of foetid green that faded to a sickly white on its distended belly. It was roughly humanoid, like some ancient travesty of evolution, long gangly arms and legs sprouted from its bloated torso, but worst of all was the batrachian head crowned with bulging amphibian eyes, a head that seemed to rise directly from its narrow, sloping shoulders, with no appreciable neck intervening. He noted with disgust, that it wore a belt from which hung a sword, denoting that this was no mere beast, but something sentient enough to wield arms.
    As the thing sprang from the well, Freyja leapt back, staring at the creature, sword held between them. Grimm inched forward. Time slowed to a what seemed a crawl, dragging the moment on insidiously.
Then Freyja saw the frog-thing’s wide flabby lips working, a terrible gurgling sound emanated from deep in its throat, as lips and mouth never meant to form human speech began to utter words.
    “Who dares defile the Temple of Bokrug?” came the monstrosity’s words in an ugly mockery of the Osirian tongue.
    “Go back to your pit, fiend!” shrieked Freyja, in response, and swung her sword towards the creature’s left shoulder in a vicious arc. But swift as she was, the batrachian-thing was swifter, and its long arm swept her aside forcefully, throwing her into the wall with a jarring thud, leaving her momentarily senseless.  
    Grimm’s vision blazed with the redness of Thulean rage, and leapt at the creature, crossing the chamber like a bounding tiger. The creature wheeled upon the man, and it drew a curved blade of strange make from its belt. Sparks flew as human steel met blade of inhuman workmanship. Man and eldritch horror of Elder Earth charged in and leapt back repeatedly, neither gaining the advantage. Their blades met again, but this time the amphibian’s grip on its sword hilt gave and the blade flew into the well, sinking into its nighted depths. But as Grimm recoiled from the impact his hip glanced the edge of the central altar and he lost his footing. Grimm’s blade clattered and slid clear across the chamber.
    The human warrior rolled, finding his footing, with the supreme coordination of the bred fighting-man, and lunged toward the creature of a palaeogene age, with his bare hands. He darted in and out, pummeling the creature with clenched fists. The frog-man, struck out with sweeps of its long warty arms, buffeting Grimm with punishing blows, but its body was not configured for boxing, and Grimm was slowly gaining the edge.
    The batrachian’s breathing was a sick wet gurgling now, but it was not ready to surrender to its human foe, and lunged forward grabbing Grimm like a grappler. Its long webbed fingers wrapped about Grimm’s bull neck with a tenacious strength. The barbarian continued to rain blows onto the sides of the frog-like head, but they seemed to have little effect on its pulpy, almost pliant, skull. Grimm’s vision swam as he was forced down and back, with the green horror lurching over him as he lay upon the cold stone. He ceased to punch the creature, and tried to find purchase on its mucous slick arms to pry them from his throat with his swiftly flagging strength.
    The edges of Grimm’s vision grew black and his strength waned as he fought, futilely, for breath. Then there was a wet sound, like the bursting of a decayed gourd, and the snapping of a rotten branch. The webbed fingers at his throat went limp, and he gasped greedily for air. His vision cleared, and he looked up to see Freyja looking down at him, her sword dripping with foetid ichor. She had sheared through the batrachian’s spine.
    “What took you so long?” the imperturbable Grimm croaked, and smiled weakly.