Balrog
The Memoire of R.E. Hastings
VillaLobos archive entry 762.51 Level III, Eyes Only
From the memoire of Knight Robert Edward “Two-gun” Hastings, F.K.A.-[redacted]. The following is his account of the liberation of the Ahnenerbe camp designated “Balrog” in Oct. of 1944, by a force of The Brotherhood of the Hound, Hastings, and several members of a Scythian clan. This document, and the events described therein, as well as references to the Children of Grace, should be considered highly sensitive, and not made available to anyone below Level III clearance, even in redacted form.
This is the only known account of this event. Hastings consistently refused to submit reports to the Office of the Matron. Hastings was given latitude in these matters, due to his close connection to our Lord Anun [link removed] and his family. It should also be noted, however, that while Hastings was our only field operative at the time, he remains only an honorary member of the order of VillaLobos. (Revised. Hastings was buried with full honors in [-----redacted-----] upon his death, and a memorial was held near his home town of [-------redacted---------].)
*Note/cross-references: entry indicates the probable presence of the entity designated Pravus, as well as a high probability of the presence of designation Amarillus. It remains the only 20th century report of both entities in the same location. Hastings also recounts the presence of several lesser Drohg, including a number of Incubi, and one Class II Behemot.
Oct ? 1944, somewhere west of the Black Sea
A gentle rain wet the October leaves as the forest turned an ivory pale, much to our relief. I had been dreading the approach to the dreary camp that loomed just beyond the thick shade of the forest. I was never much for sneaking about, nor were any of my companions, least of all the man we all followed into that hell behind the German lines. Bel or Mad McCarty would have slipped in like shadows, but neither of them were with us, our number spread too thin by the horrors of the war.
“I may have a better plan, Biggun.” I told Bear, as I patted his massive shoulder, trying in my own way to quell the worry in his ancient soul, a worry that was obvious to me even beneath his armored helm and thick rain-soaked beard. I knew full well who he was, but despite the years I had known him, and the oceans of mead we had shared, I still couldn’t call him by his true name.
“How about me and the gypsies charge the front gate, and you and your boys take the back?” I asked.
“Thought you said there wasn’t a back gate?” Bear replied, in his voice deep as distant thunder.
It had been tough to recon the Ahnenerbe death camp in the dense, almost primordial forest of Eastern Europe. Sneaking about in the dry leaves of fall had dragged minutes into hours, and with the rain, the time to act was fast approaching.
The big man’s worried face almost slipped into a smile, as he realized what I was getting at. He likely would have thought of it himself, had he not been so concerned for Minerva. We had no way of knowing what she may be enduring in that place of madness, but we all knew it must be bad, or Bear wouldn’t have sensed her so strongly. He had once saved her in the same way, and it tore at him that she was in such jeopardy once again.
“I figured you could just make them a back gate,” I said, “you know, redecorate the place a bit.”
I passed him Minerva’s favorite weapon, her hand made seven shot revolver. The gypsies that led us there had recovered it from an SS squad the day before. I knew too well the courage of the legendary warrior, having read his tale many times when I was young (before I learned the truth, that it was all an exaggerated farce, a glorified bar fight that led to a dislocated shoulder and a razed mead-hall). Brave as he was, I knew that the sight of that weapon would give him hope, the hope that she may be there just waiting to take that big revolver in hand again. If not, well… The Hound of Cullan may have reduced all of Europe to ash to avenge her, and I would have helped.
The big man nodded, and leaned down to speak to me. I have never considered myself a short fella, and had found myself towering over many a man in the ring when I was young, but Bear stood at least nine inches higher than me, and must have been at least 350lbs at that time. Even when I was a kid, I always thought that legendary heroes like Cuchulain or Beowulf weren’t the pretty boys described in the myths, but were more likely battle-hardened beasts like the one that stood before me. I was still surprised nonetheless, when I learned that I was right.
“Be careful of your companions, Texas,” he said. I nodded.
It had been unspoken thus far, but we all knew that the “gypsies” who had joined our cause were of the Scythians. Their leader, Radu, had practically told me so, as if I couldn’t have guessed by their red and gold clothing, by the fine horses they rode. I knew better than to trust them, even though they seemed to treat me like some kind of royalty. Perhaps they knew about me and Gigi. Perhaps they mistook me for someone else. Either way, screwy as Scythians can be, I welcomed their aid anyhow, and the horses, bows, and swords they brought.
I wondered how they would act if they knew I called their revered Queen “Gigi”. They likely would have thought it blasphemy, as they worshipped her like a goddess, even if they didn’t serve her. Gigi. I couldn’t call her by her true name, at least not the name everyone knew. As I said, I had read that story too many times. There was no reality, not even in the vast stygian darkness of my imagination, where that incredible creature was anything near to the wretched troll that came to my mind when that name was spoken.
Even now, many years after meeting her, I’m enamored with the tall freckled amazon. A part of me always will be. She saved me, literally took the gun from my hand as I was about to end it all, and gave me a new life. Even as I write this, it’s hard to grasp, that she, like so many of the things I saw in my head, is real, that writing my odd tales had been enough to get their attention, and the Mother had brought them to me, or me to them.
I was lying in her arms just a few days after we met when we fabricated my alias, as she told me what really happened at the Battle of Hastings. I never felt that kind of warmth from a woman, and certainly would never have expected it from someone like her. I even reminded myself that she was already 2000 years old at that battle. It didn’t matter. I loved her. I always will.
I never even thought to try and posses her, as if that were even possible. It flatters me to my core that such an unfathomable creature shared her soul with me, a mere mortal. I have seen the beautiful sadness that lies behind that bawdy exterior, and love her more for it. But I digress. You’ll have to forgive me, I am easily distracted by six feet of freckles and lust, as any man would be, unless that man be made of wood.
I gathered my gypsy friends, as Bear’s men carefully began to slip around toward the back of the camp. We watched them patiently, until even their green sashes disappeared beyond the trees. Radu looked at me, as if he were sizing me up for a fight. Perhaps, I thought, he did know about Gigi. Perhaps he was jealous. I’ve always thought that every Scythian secretly wants her for themselves, and would slay all the others just to have her. I can’t say I blame them.
It is also quite possible that Radu was just admiring my artillery. At that time, I still carried my two 1917 Colt revolvers, and a pair of 1911’s, a broomhandle Mauser, and of course my Comanche tomahawk. I don’t know if he realized I was carrying the Draken in the scabbard behind me, but he would get to see that soon enough. I honestly was a little smug that they would get to see me fight from horseback, considering that I had been trained by possibly the best horseback warrior that ever lived.
I whistled lowly, and summoned Fleck, the big wolf-hound I adopted somewhere in the west of Austria a few months earlier. He scrambled quickly to my side, which was a relief, as he had taken to few of the Hound’s boys, and they had elevated Fleck to mascot status among them. He was a good boy, and no stranger to combat, making him both friend and asset. He resembled some primordial beast, with his wet gray coat caked with mud and leaves from running wild in the dense forest. I tossed him a chunk of jerky, and took a piece for myself, chasing my dry breakfast with a swig of whatever was in the jug the gypsies were passing around.
We unceremoniously mounted up, and quietly slipped through the trees toward our target. My mare was a good mount, with a thick rump and coat red as the autumn leaves. She moved quiet and careful as a ghost through the woods. I just hoped she was gun trained. I was fully intent on this being a good old-fashioned dragoon horseback charge. We arrived at the front of the camp quickly, as its stone walls seemed to rise up from the ground like some evil serpent. This wasn’t like the empty camps we had encountered weeks before, it was something else, its fortifications of wire and metal laid atop the ancient stone of some medieval castle’s ruined husk.
I spotted the first sentry, but before I could even draw a bead on him, a muffled “thunk” noise erupted next to me, and the sentry fell from the wall, a Scythian arrow protruding from his left eye socket. I scanned the walls for another, as Fleck ran up to inspect the fallen sentry. Before I could try to call him back, the hound turned and darted back toward our band. Fleck feared nothing that I knew of, but something about the dead German spooked him.
To my surprise, there seemed to be no other sentries. Perhaps, I thought, the camp was abandoned. A commotion rose up from the far side of the camp, but nothing inside stirred. Bear was beginning his attack. We wasted no time, as Radu lit up a stick of dynamite, and hurled it at the unattended gate. The blast flung it from its rusty iron hinges, and we charged into the cloud of debris with guns drawn, as the rain became heavier.
What happened next was a surprise, to say the least. Soldiers rushed us, and I wheeled my mount and drew on them, as fast as I could. I shot three of them and trampled one before I realized, they weren’t rushing us, they were rushing the gate. They were trying to escape. I have no patience or mercy for Ahnenerbe, so I spun my mare about and pursued, joined by three of my companions.
I emptied one of the automatics, and fired the other til it jammed, at which point I hurled it and cracked one of the bastards square in the back of the head. There is no shame in exterminating such insects, and even if it’s dishonorable to shoot one in the back, then I’ll accept the blemish to my honor if it means the end of them. I saw the things they did. I will hunt them to the ends of the earth, if need be.
We put them down quickly, and returned to our party inside the gates, just in time to see the stone wall at the rear of the camp come crashing down. Bear’s men were used to seeing such things, but the gypsies stood slack-jawed when they saw that mystical weapon of Cuchulain, that great iron chain the Celts called Gae Bolg, as it tore through ten-foot thick stone fortifications like brittle plaster. It whirled and coiled in the air, splitting into multiple barbed lengths, like some angry iron basilisk with many heads.
The giant and his men entered, as we had done, ready for a fight. Unfortunately for them, we had already cleared the place, it seemed. I stared across the courtyard of the camp at the big man. Even through the rain, I could see the look of worry and disappointment in his eyes. This place was dead. If Minerva was there, she likely was as well. My blood began to boil at the thought. I was just about to stomp the nearest Ahnenerbe corpse to mush when Fleck called out. Good ol’ Fleck.
In the east corner of the camp, there was a short wall, blocking off an area of about 100 feet squared. Fleck was up on the wall, barking furiously at something on the other side. I ran toward it as fast as I could, still seeming like a snail compared to the unnatural speed of the timeless giant. On the other side of the short wall, the ground fell away, and a deep stygian abyss yawned and belched the foul stench of death. I stared deep, until my eyes adjusted, and I could see some of what lay at the bottom, as the rain made the grim vision wet enough to reflect the pale light.
It was a pit, or possibly what had once been a well. It was impossible to know how deep it once was, but it had been filled for some depth with the mangled remains of the victims of this place. Fleck continued to bark, as something moved, ever so slightly, among the tattered remnants of what once were people.
It took every ounce of strength in my body to hold back my big friend, though I’m sure that even in his state, he was not halted by my strength, but simply to keep from hurting me.
“Please, Biggun,” I said, “let me go down there. I can’t let you… if she’s…” I couldn’t speak the words. I didn’t even want to think it. I had just mercilessly murdered men who were fleeing, without even a second thought, but the idea that Minerva may be among the remains down there, torn to pieces by, Hell only knows what… I almost threw up my meager breakfast.
“Lower me down, and I’ll… I’ll see…” I said, as the giant’s eyes changed from anger to a grim gratitude. He understood what I was trying to do, what I was trying to spare him.
He reluctantly lowered me with the iron chain, as it sang with energy, illuminating the deep well as I descended. I will never forget that sound. In another situation, I would have been in awe of the thing, most likely the most fantastical weapon ever forged, made by likely the most powerful Alchemist who ever lived. In that moment, it was an insignificant thing, merely a device to carry out a somber task.
The light of it grew brighter as I reached the bottom, as the chain held me aloft. There was no place to actually stand among the piles of flesh and bones. A rustle caught my eye, and I wrestled loose from the grip of the thing to dig through the piles of slaughtered humanity. It should haunt me more, and likely would had I not seen such things in my dreams since I was young. It may have haunted me anyway, if not for what happened next.
My hands tore through the wet sickly gore, cold as a grave, until I reached something warm. I don’t recall the details of that gory excavation, only the result. Minerva was there, warm, alive, and whole (in body at least). I grabbed her up quickly in my arms, and before I could even tug at the chain, we were lifted up from that pit of hell.
I placed her in Bear’s massive arms, as the heavy rain washed the blood and filth from her naked skin. By Grace, she was a sight, even in her state. Her long black hair fell all around her alabaster frame as her deep blue eyes opened and she stared up at Bear. I remembered well, those many times I had seen her in my head years before, and had, in a way, fallen in love with her. I even once wrote her into one of my stories.
I stripped off my long wool-lined drover’s coat and draped it over her to shelter her from the rain. The big man looked at me, forcing himself to tear his eyes from the woman he loved more than life. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. We simply nodded to each other, understanding that no thanks were needed. Rescuing my Lady, the love of my good friend and Lord, and granddaughter of the Wolf of Sumeria whose memory I am sworn to, that was the job I signed up to do.
I stripped a not-too-bullet riddled wool poncho from one of the freshly dead Ahnenerbe that lay in the courtyard, and scanned around for my mare. Having gotten what we came for, it was time to beat a hasty retreat. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way. I found my mare, lying near the fence, her throat torn out by a gore-covered soldier, his milky dead eyes staring at me as blood dripped from his dislocated jaw. The soldiers we slew turned out to be the lucky ones.
I knew about the “Haints” as McCarty called them, but had never actually seen one. I was about to see a lot of them, as the inner doors of the castle keep burst open, and out poured a small army of the rotting undead. We wasted no time, and opened up on them with everything we had. Two of the Scythians fell, trying to fight them with swords and spears, and we lost a number of Bear’s men as well in the initial rush. Radu was quickly over-run, but fought hard, whirling and slashing so fast that even his long mustache bent with his movements. I called out to him, in words I had learned from Gigi, words that meant simply, “Ride, shoot straight, speak true”, the battle cry of the Scythians. I tossed him the Draken, as his escape path was quickly closing.
“Draken”, the old Finnish man called it, the chopped-down Mosin-Nagant rifle. The haints quickly found out the reason for the name, as Radu fired on the closest one, and the angry flame that issued forth from the short barrel set the foul thing alight. It crashed and clawed into its companions, and the fire spread, the hollow, desiccated flesh igniting even in the pouring rain.
After only a minute or so, which felt like an hour, we had subdued the attacking horde, and the remainder turned and fled inside the castle keep. I knew that it wasn’t that simple, but was still surprised a bit when the corpses began to break open, and the true evil inside them clawed its way toward us. Yellow/green/brown slimy things with random eyes and mouths and limbs, howling wretched noises as the rain burned their putrid flesh, rolled and skittered across the wet ground.
We fired on them, but even I knew it was a waste of time. They were Drohg. Mortal weapons don’t kill Drohg. Haints are the weakest of them, and usually only dangerous when they posses a body, but even they can only be killed by three things. Those things are: sunlight, consecrated weapons, or luckily, in our case, pure water. The beasts were quickly dissolving in the rain, as if the Mother herself had sent it to aid us.
Bear sent out his chain to assist, even as he held Minerva tightly in his arms. The iron links and barbs ran out like an angry serpent, shattering the few haints that remained writhing in the rain. He withdrew the chain, and it shortened and coiled around his massive arm like a pet snake. We all breathed a sigh of relief, even though we knew that the few beasts that had escaped us would have to be dealt with.
“Look after her,” Bear said to me, as he set Minerva down on the only piece of dry ground, under a slight canopy near the pit, “I’ll not be long.”
Bear and his remaining men carefully approached the keep, as Radu and his men formed a perimeter around Minerva and me. They weren’t so convinced that it would be so easy. They were right, as Bear and his men ran quickly out of the keep, not stopping until they had almost reached our position.
“There’s something else in there!” one of the Houndsmen yelled toward us. The Scythians closed their ranks around us, like a wall.
“To Hell with this,” Bear’s deep voice boomed. He whipped the iron chain into the air.
I have known many an intelligent man in my time, but none so much as Beowulf. What he did next was shear genius. The iron chain split once again, but this time, it struck not with abandon, but with precision. It carefully tore away stones and thatch roofing, like a surgeon with a scalpel. Channeled rainwater quickly began to flood down into the main chamber of the keep, sending plumes of steam rising from within.
Then, I saw it, if only for a moment, between the bodies of the men who stood guard before us, and the dead who stood within the keep. In the center of the chamber, just beyond the doors, something smoldered in the dark, like the egg of a dragon, as the torrent of rain poured directly on it, the pure water poisoning the foul thing from beyond our reality.
This was the reason for all of this death and madness. This was the thing that the foolish Ahnenerbe thought they could raise, thought they could control. Fools thought the camps were built to relocate “undesirables”, the SS thought they were built to exterminate those undesirables, the Ahnenerbe knew what the true purpose of the camps were, to cause enough suffering and madness to open a tear in our reality, and to let in the foul abominations of the chaos beyond.
Even they were fooled, however, seduced and turned to puppets by things they could never understand, becoming servants, thralls to the goal of raising Hell itself. They would only be consumed in their own bonfire, and many of them longed for it.
The remaining undead poured forth toward us once again, a futile charge, as a now agitated Bear simply unleashed his iron on them, shredding them to pieces in mere seconds. One of his men, a stout tree stump of a man, almost as bulky as the giant himself, rushed toward him, and pulled a great double axe from its case. The Dragon Axe, a weapon as strong and magnificent as the hero who wielded it. Bear affixed the axe to the iron chain, through the loop at its pommel.
I breathed a slight sigh of relief. The axe and chain combined meant that the big man intended to keep this short. I knew it would be a minor disappointment to Beowulf, as he loved battle more than life. But, there was something he loved even more, and his priority, like mine, was to see Minerva safe, away from this hell created by the foolish Ahnenerbe.
My relief was quickly broken, however, when the keep burst open, and stones and metal flew out in all directions. A couple of the Scythians who still stood guard around us were claimed by the flying death, and fell right in front of me. As the debris settled, I quickly realized that the thing we had all seen within the keep was no egg, but more of a cocoon, spun from a sickly fabric, woven from suffering. It was made of human skin, which was clear from the remnants of it that littered the wet ground. What horror had they raised with such unfathomable cruelty?, I asked myself.
My question was answered quickly, as something like a tentacle of fire flung forth from the smoldering mass that crawled from the rubble. I wrapped myself around my charge, doing my best to cover Minerva from the tongue of fire that licked toward us. If I were to die this way, then so be it. A mortal’s short life was a small price to pay. I felt a few hairs singe on the back of my neck, but was luckily spared most of the fury by my soaking wet wool poncho and trousers.
There was a loud and horrible scream, and in a flash, the chain and axe flew past us, shattering the wall nearby. I, nor any of the others wasted any time, and were already escaping through the gap when the big man called out “GO!”. The camp was no longer a place for mortals. Beowulf would see to the destruction of whatever that thing was. I caught only a brief view of the thing as we fled, a thing made of flickering failing fire and horror, black and smoking as the rain burned its unclean flesh.
I scooped up Minerva in my arms, and we made our way quickly for our camp, scarcely a mile away through the dense forest, as Fleck led the way. Minerva still did not speak, but the almost painful grip she kept on me as we went, spoke volumes. It all felt somehow familiar, like some story that whirled in my head, but never found the page. I still cannot imagine what horrors she could have seen in that place, but they must have been unspeakable, for her to cast herself into that pit of death to escape them.
We reached the safety of our camp quickly, and all stood quiet and still as we listened to the sounds of battle that issued forth from the ruined castle. I don’t know if that thing could have grown bigger, if not for the rain and our intervention, but I’m glad that we didn’t have to find out. An earsplitting cry shook the forest, the death rattle of that abomination made of fire and hate, and shortly after, the clanging of metal and stone ceased.
I turned to look at Radu, who was standing close by. His face was white as a sheet, his eyes going blank as he fell to the wet ground, a dagger protruding from his back. His killer glared at us, but said nothing. Somehow, a ragged Ahnenerbe officer had managed to escape, and must have hidden himself there, awaiting our return.
“Give her to me,” he said, in a whisper that seemed to echo through my skull. He pointed the sawed-off Nagant rifle at my head.
“I’m going to slaughter your pet, do you hear me brother?” he said, turning his head as if talking to someone else entirely, in that voice of that seemed made of frost and smoke.
I turned, instinctively, putting myself between the Draken and my Lady, thinking only that I hoped the underpowered Russian bullet wouldn’t make it through me to her. Immortal or not, she could still be killed, and one like her is infinitely more important to humanity than some pulp writer from Texas. The sanity and strength of my good friend Bear was more important. They had saved me once, and gave me everything, I saw no issue with repaying them in kind. It would be a fair trade. A shot rang out, then another, and another, and another. Seven shots, to be exact.
Minerva’s big revolver smoked as the receding rain sizzled on its barrel. She still held tightly to me, as she continued to click the revolver over and over, finally giving up when the officer fell dead to the ground. I turned to look at him, as his twitching hand jerked the trigger of the Draken, and its firing pin fell with a click. I don’t know if it was empty, or if the rain had soaked the old Russian ammo it held. It was something I never investigated, considering what happened next.
The shots brought our companions rapidly to our side, and we all saw the thing that emerged from that dead German. It wasn’t a haint, or something any of us had seen before, and not a thing I have seen since. Something like a shadow, a figure the size of a man, rose from the corpse like smoke, and quickly dissipated. Minerva clicked the empty revolver at it maniacally, but it was gone.
Enough surprises. The remainder of our troop formed up around myself and our Lady, scanning the trees for any more threats. The forest felt haunted and unwelcome, the first time it had seemed that way since we arrived. A slight rustle in the brush alerted Fleck, and he took off like a shot in pursuit, his beastly mop of hair disappearing into the forest. Having lost or emptied my guns in the chaos, I knelt and raided the foul corpse that still lay at our feet, retrieving a pair of Lugers, and multiple magazines.
I pulled the Ahnenerbe dagger from loyal Radu’s back, and stretched out his body in the leaves, covering his face with the scarf he wore. I spoke the words, the creed of the Scythians, and promised him that I would praise his name to his Queen when I saw her again. It was all the funeral I could offer him, as I knew there would be no time to bury our dead.
We were joined, shortly thereafter, by our leader, as he bounded through the forest toward us, with unnatural speed and sound that shook the trees like a cattle stampede. We gathered up what we would, and set to leave our meager camp at once. We tried unsuccessfully to put Minerva on a horse, but she wouldn’t have it, instead climbing once again into the giant’s arms. She would remain there until we reached the Black Sea. What little resistance we encountered on the way was quickly dispatched, and never once halted our escape.
Fleck caught up with us after a mile or so, proudly bearing evidence of his successful hunt: a blood stained yellow ascot, emblazoned with the SS crest. Good ol’ Fleck. I would reward him with a nice shank of mutton once all this business was concluded.
Reaching the coast, we stole a ourselves a fine boat, and made our way to a safe contact. Bear and Minerva eventually caught a seaplane back west. I headed east with the remaining gypsies, forming ourselves a little horseback guerilla band, hunting and eliminating thralls where we found them, eventually laying waste to the Soviet counterpart of the Ahnenerbe. That, however, is another story for another time.
Minerva returned to the island Forge up in the Pacific Northwest, to recover in the arms of my favorite immortal. They said that it was months before she spoke again, but I know that she must have said at least a little bit to Bear, as he took my arm and spoke close to me before they departed from our company, words that will forever echo in my head:
“For Evigt, my brother,” he said to me. “Forever. You be born mortal, but you have the heart of the timeless, a heart that rivals even the Wolf of Sumeria. By the Mother, I am honored to know you. From this day, and as long as men sing songs and tell tales of brave deeds, you are immortal. Your name will not be forgotten. Grace be with you always, my friend.”
I have never received such an honor as the gratitude of the giant himself, this great guardian of all that is good and right in our world, this warrior-poet-scholar known by many names:
Sigurg. Bjorn Jarnsada. Beowulf. Cuchulain, the Hound of Cullan. Bear.
Grace be with you, Biggun.
R.E.H.
“Her story is not a happy one. She lived a nightmare, and it took its toll on her. She’s wickedly intelligent, but doesn’t recognize her own strength. She feels weak, compared to the rest of us, but, all of us old ones know one day she could be just as strong. She just needs some help,” Gren said.
The Loser, the Legend, and the Girl who tastes Like Sunshine -
From the chapter titled: Minerva
Thanks for reading! If you liked this story, and would like to know more about the characters therein, check out my other stories under the “Song of Grace” banner, and subscribe for updates on my upcoming adult modern pulp fantasy novel, “The Loser, the Legend, and the Girl who tastes Like Sunshine”, set in the same fictional universe.