The Eye of History - Chapter 1: Guardian of the Abyss

THE BLACK SEA - 1923

The water’s surface was broken by a sudden iron plunge.  A massive metal diving bell descended through the briny depths, leaving ribbons of bubbles in its wake.  Its sole occupant was adorned in a heavy suit of canvas and brass and enveloped by an ever-increasing darkness.  With a few adjustments to his weighted belt, iron shoes, and electric light, the diver was ready for his mission.

His real name was a mystery to all, even to his companions assisting him aboard the deck of the Varangian Vow.  Instead, he called himself “Fisher-King”.  In fact, the names of his colleagues were also a mystery to him.  Each had their own pseudonym, for they were united by a common cause and bound to secrecy.  This was not a simple diving expedition; it was a noble crusade for the fate of the world.

Somewhere, hidden beneath countless tons of sea water, was a ship lost to history.  It rested upon the ageless sands of the Black Sea, deep within the anoxic layer; a domain frozen in time.  No man had ever ventured to this strange realm before - a place toxic to life and light.  The mission was fraught with risks and uncertainties.  As the diving bell shuddered and groaned against the growing pressure, Fisher-King prayed silently to himself.  He asked the Almighty for guidance, clarity of mind, but most of all - courage.

Soon enough, the last traces of daylight were swallowed by the sea.  All that remained was the sickly glow of an electric bulb within the iron bell.  The rhythmic hiss of Fisher-King’s oxygen tube was the only sound in the suffocating silence.  He was quickly descending into a strange and alien world; one devoid of the warmth and sound of living things.

A hundred and fifty meters above his head were the crew of the Varangian Vow, monitoring his every breath and every slight change in pressure.  They were tethered to him via the lifeline; a connection to the bright and vibrant world above.  Their skill and expertise would keep him alive on this arduous mission.  Leading up to this day, they had conducted extensive research into the risks of such an endeavor.

Twenty minutes.  That timeframe was reinforced to Fisher-King countless times during preparation.  Twenty minutes to explore the sunken wreckage and claim his prize.  Just as often as this, he was warned not to damage any of his diving equipment.  Hydrogen-sulfide could seep in, spelling doom for himself.  Visibility without an electric torch would be non-existent.  If anything were to malfunction, Fisher-King would be trapped in a blackened void.

But, there were other things that the diver dreaded more than darkness, or poisonous gas, or lack of oxygen - things that no man could prepare for.  This fear was at the forefront of his thoughts.  He hoped to high heaven that everything he read concerning this particular shipwreck was not true; something about a “guardian of the abyss”.

The diving bell slowed its descent.  The ocean floor was just below the man’s boots.  He rose, prayed once more, made final adjustments to his diving equipment, took hold of his hefty iron crowbar, and then threw himself into the circular moon pool before him.  The countdown had begun.

Nineteen minutes remained.

The weight of his belt pulled him down to the soft sands below.  After gathering his bearings, the diver ignited his electric torch.  His light carved a narrow path through the water, illuminating nothing and disappearing into the endless void.  There were no fish, no crustaceans, no vegetation.  Nothing.  Fisher-King was alone.  Then, a feverish panic overtook him.

Trapped.  Fisher-King was trapped, not just by the eternal darkness or by the constant squeezing of intense pressure upon his body, but by his own mind.  Within the confining space of his brass helmet, his thoughts seemed to bounce back and forth endlessly.  “You don’t belong here,” he thought to himself, “You don’t belong here.  This isn’t right.  You shouldn’t be here.  Get out.  Get out.  Get out.  GET OUT!”

“What was that?”  He quickly spun in place.  Did something touch him?  No.  Surely not.  Nothing was alive down here.  “There!  In the darkness!  Was that movement?”  Fisher-King's eyes were buzzing with dread as he swung his light around.  Nothing.  There was nothing…and that terrified him.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.

“Domine Deus,” he prayed aloud, the holy incantation driving back the choking emptiness, “Illuminare viam meam et custodi pedes meos.”  He closed his eyes and slowly inhaled.  The air filling his lungs was a soothing gift from those above.  His companions were toiling away for this mission.  Already, they had spent months surveying the ocean floor with grappling hooks to find the wreck.  He mustn’t let all of their efforts go to waste.  He mustn’t fail.  He opened his eyes, unafraid of the darkness before him.

Eighteen minutes remained.

Suddenly, Fisher-King’s dissipating light spotted a hazy shape emerging from the ocean floor.  A monstrous face greeted him from the darkness.  It had curling horns and a forked tongue.  This time, his eyes were not deceiving him.  It was the wooden image of a ship’s figurehead.  A dragon.  Its rapid appearance startled the man, but he recollected himself and pressed forward.  He had found the ship.

Seventeen minutes remained.

Each step was an arduous task.  The iron boots plowed through the soft sands, sending up ghostly tendrils of dust.  These particles floated past him as he neared his target, whispers of lost souls trapped in a timeless realm.  Fisher-King could almost hear their voices from the deep.  “You will not return,” they muttered, “Join us.  Join us forever.”  Nevermind!  Fisher-King shook his head.  Merely illusions.

Sixteen minutes remained.

The wreckage faded into view.  The splintered hull of the Byzantine dromon lay eerily preserved upon the Black Sea floor.  Its skeletal form remained untouched by decay.  At its bow was a bronze ram, green from corrosion, yet refined as if it were cast a day ago.  The mast, snapped and half-buried, pointed skyward like a beacon in the deep, beckoning the diver to come hither.  Even the ropes remained, their knots still twisted and taut.

Fisher-King beheld the wreckage with a chilling sense of fascination.  The ship did not appear real; more like a specter.  He reached out for the dromon, his fingers gently grazing the wooden hull.  It was no specter.  The rough contours of the planking could be felt beneath his gloves.  How long had it been since human hands touched the grain of this wood?

There was a jagged opening between the planks.  The diver gripped onto the ribbing of the ship and pulled himself forward, his lifeline trailing after him into a shadowy labyrinth.  Upon entering the ship, he had seemingly stepped back in time.

Fourteen minutes remained.

The ship was a treasure trove of artifacts.  All around him were icons of the past; painted visages of saints and heroes forever frozen in a state between tranquility and agony.  Seeing the likeness of human faces in such a place was jarring to Fisher-King.  They watched him from all sides as he navigated the littered floor of the ship’s interior.

At his feet were countless amphorae.  Some were intact, but most were shattered, their contents long since claimed by the Black Sea.  In most circumstances, these ancient jars would be valuable prizes, but to Fisher-King, they meant nothing.  There was only one artifact he sought, and so far, it remained a prisoner of the darkness.

More faces were watching him.  This time, they were not painted icons.  They were the smiling skulls of the ship’s crew.  The bleached-white bones were strewn amongst the amphorae, still adorned in preserved clothing and armor.  Many were piled together while others were far removed.  The diver navigated around these human remains, trying his best to exercise respect for these lost sailors.

However, something about their bones caught Fisher-King’s attention.  As he stepped over a skull, he noticed a large depression in it.  Surely, this man was the victim of blunt force trauma.  In fact, the entire rib cage was smashed in as if struck by an intense blow.  The other skeletons displayed similar wounds.  Some were crushed.  Others were broken into pieces, their arms splintered violently.  Weapons were clenched in their boney hands.  One crew member held up a crucifix pendant as if warding off an evil spirit.

This grisly scene was not the result of the shipwreck itself.  If it were, then evidence of fallen debris would be alongside these skeletal remains.  Nor was it the result of an attack by pirates.  If it were, the bones would display lacerations from swords or daggers.  No.  Something else caused this damage.  Something killed these men; something unimaginably strong.  This was precisely what Fisher-King had dreaded the most.

The electric light revealed only a small fraction of the ship’s interior at a time.  Most of it remained cloaked in blackness.  Before the diver was a twisting maze of broken beams, bleached bones, and scattered pottery, all within the engulfing ribcage of the sunken dromon.  The lifeline became snagged on some debris.  Fisher-King freed it and moved on, praying that no damage had been done to his equipment.  If something unfortunate were to occur, he would not have time to address it.  Must keep going.

Twelve minutes remained.

The narrow beam of light fell upon a startling sight.  At the end of the cargo hold was a large bronze statue.  It was a humanoid figure, yet its face was unsettlingly featureless.  A helmet covered its head, hiding any depiction of emotion.  The statue’s body was an uncanny recreation of a human male physique.  Muscle strands, folding skin, wrinkled joints: all perfectly forged in metal.  Even its posture was a triumph of craftsmanship.  It was kneeling, with one knee up and one to the floor.  The statue was hunched over, its arms encircling a strange chest in a mighty embrace.

The chest was Fisher-King’s prize.  Yet, the box was not an extension of the statue.  It was a separate item, placed within the folded arms of the bronze guardian as if the statue was forged around the chest.  How was that possible?  The diver took notice of another odd feature.  Strands of chains were coiled around the statue’s wrists, ankles, and neck.  From the looks of it, they had been ripped asunder.

The pale lamp illuminated a phrase etched into the surface of the statue.  Fisher-King strained to make out the words.  It read, “Φύλαξ τῶν μυστικῶν τοῦ Ἑρμοῦ τοῦ Τρισμεγίστου.”

“Guardian of the Secrets of Hermes Trismegistus” whispered Fisher-King to himself.  That did not bode well for him.  The secrets of Hermes Trismegistus was what he came to claim.  Within that cryptic chest was an artifact of ancient knowledge; knowledge that could determine the course of humanity’s future.  If it were to fall into the hands of wicken men, the world would burn in an unholy fire.  But, the most pressing matter for Fisher-King was not the fate of the world per se, but how to retrieve the chest from the statue’s embrace.

Fisher-King wedged his crowbar against the bronze skin of the statue.  He applied as much pressure as he could.  After a minute of fruitless exertion, the diver began to worry if his remaining time would be enough.  So far, he had made no progress in freeing the chest.

Nine minutes remained.

Then, he felt something; a disturbance in the water.  The statue seemed to twitch.  Fisher-King paused and peered into the patina-covered eye sockets of the statue’s helmeted face.  It stared back at him lifelessly.  Good.  Another illusion, no doubt.  He resumed his work.

Then, without warning, a searing pain overtook Fisher-King’s right arm.  His limb was caught in an iron vice, crushing his bones and sinews.  It was the statue.  Its bronze body had flexed, shedding flakes of corrosion like molding skin.  The statue had lunged forward and grabbed him with its left arm, its metal shifting unnaturally.  It was alive!

The legends about this shipwreck were true.  There was a guardian of the abyss protecting the ancient treasure.  This automaton was responsible for the deaths of the ship’s crew and the sinking of the dromon.  And now, this living statue was about to claim its next victim…unless Fisher-King acted quickly.

Panicked, the diver jabbed at the creature’s fingers with his crowbar.  He managed to free himself from the automaton’s grasp for a brief moment.  The pressure of its crushing grip damaged the canvass sleeve of his suit.  A hissing sound flooded his helmet.  It was a disorienting din that scrambled his thoughts.  A foul smell filled his nostrils.  Rotten eggs.  It inflamed his throat and lungs and even stung at his eyes.  Fisher-King knew what this meant.  Hydrogen-sulfide was seeping into his suit.  In a matter of minutes, he would succumb to its paralyzing effects and close his eyes for the last time…unless he made it back to the diving bell in one piece.

Six minutes remained.

After wrenching himself from the titan, the diver fell backwards, landing in a pile of broken pottery and fractured bones.  His vision blurred, he looked up at his attacker.  The guardian rose from its kneeling position and filled the adventurer with a terrible awe.  Standing nearly nine feet tall, its head scraping the roof of the ship’s cargo hold, the statue pivoted its bronze body around, searching for the one who disturbed its slumber.  Its movements were stilted.  Its arms were flailing about aimlessly.  Fisher-King realized that the statue could not see.  Its eyes were blocked by centuries of corrosion.

Resting at the giant’s feet was the chest.  Fisher-King knew that this was his only opportunity to claim his prize.  Scrambling over the cluttered floor, the diver hurled himself at the chest.  At last, it was his.  He threw it under his arm and swung toward the exit.  Before leaving, he turned his light upon the living statue one last time.  The creature was gauging at its own eyes, peeling away flakes of green patina.  Soon the beast would see again.  There wasn’t any time to waste.

Escaping the interior of the dromon was not an easy feat.  Fisher-King struggled to move a single step.  His heavy boots clumsily shuffled through the piles of amphorae and bones.  All the while, the hissing of his damaged hose filled his ears.  The Hydrogen-sulfide scorched his throat, eyes, and nose.  Dizziness overtook him, making his flight from the shipwreck even more perilous.  

Five minutes remained.

Then, he heard something.  It was a deep and rumbling sound accompanied by breaking pottery and crushing bones.  The diver glanced over his shoulder and shined his light once more.  The bronze guardian was pursuing him.  It dragged itself forward, plowing through the amphorae and human remains without care or concern.  Skulls were pulverized under the weight of its footsteps.  Collapsed beams were easily pushed aside.  The beast was coming for him.  Fisher-King could see its eyes now, like pale pinpoints of ghostly blue light in the void.  The sight of it was like something from a nightmare.  The adventurer’s blood was frozen in fright as he quickened his escape.

Four minutes remained.

With one hand gripping the ancient chest and the other holding the flashlight, Fisher-King pushed himself forward one heavy step at a time.  The spotlight of his electric torch danced about the interior of the ship as he moved.  Flashing glimpses of the painted icons leered at him from all directions, their faces twisting into sneering devils.  The effect of the toxic gas was taking its toll on the poor diver.  Everything was becoming a blur.  But, just ahead, was the jagged opening in the ship’s hull.  He exited the wreckage and was embraced by the eternal darkness once again.  

Three minutes remained.

And then…his light went out.  Cold emptiness surrounded Fisher-King.  The diving bell was hidden from sight; swallowed by the Black Sea.  Now, the diver was truly trapped.

“You’re going to die.  You’re going to die.  You’re going to die.  You’re going to die.”  The ominous voices of the deep returned to torment the wayward diver.  He could not brush them off this time.  Instead, he would have to soldier through with however many seconds of life remaining in his lungs.

“You will not return,” the voices muttered, “Join us.  Join us.  Join us forever.”

Abandoning the electric torch, he took hold of his lifeline and pulled himself forward.  The thin tube would guide him back to the diving bell…hopefully.  It was his only chance.  The man prayed aloud, eyes closed.  “Lord, guide me.  Lord, guide me.  Lord, guide me.”  Faith directed his steps.  Each tug of the lifeline was another inch closer to safety; closer to home.  Soon, he would feel the warmth of the sun upon his face and hear the sounds of gulls squawking.  That world of life and light was waiting for him above.  All he had to do was keep moving.

Two minutes remained.

The soft sands beneath his feet were pulsing.  Faint tremors rippled through the water.  Fisher-King could feel it in his bones.  The titan was stalking after him.  It trudged through the blackness eager to reclaim its possession.  The vibrations of its steps were growing more and more intense.  It was gaining on him.  Any second, Fisher-King would feel a bronze hand upon his shoulder and it would all be over.

One minute remained.

The lifeline grew taut.  The adventurer was nearing the diving bell.  It swayed gently in the black water just above his head.  Reaching blindly for the ascension ladder, Fisher-King pulled himself upwards with one hand, making sure not to lose his new cargo.  He entered through the moon pool and was greeted by the light of an electric bulb.  Its sickly glow was like a heavenly beacon for the light-starved explorer.  But, he was not out of danger yet.

He sealed the hatch with shaking hands.  His fist slammed against the signal lever, notifying his comrades to bring him up immediately.  In that moment of extreme panic, even the speed of an electric signal did not seem quick enough for Fisher-King.  The guardian of the abyss was still approaching.

THUD!  A bronze fist struck the side of the diving bell.  THUD!  The blow rattled the interior of the bell, causing the lightbulb to flicker.  Desperate, Fisher-King pounded on the lever over and over again.  THUD!  The light flickered again.  Then, the bell groaned.  The crew of the Varangian Vow had received his signal.  The winch was activated and the diving bell was slowly, but surely, raised upwards.

The pounding ceased.  Trembling, Fisher-King peered out of the small glass window.  Was the guardian truly gone?  Down below, staring up at him from the ocean floor, was a pair of ghostly blue eyes, slowly fading into the dark abyss.

The diver slumped against the cold walls of the bell.  He quickly unfastened his breathing tube and removed his helmet.  Untainted air filled his lungs like a soothing salve.  Yet, his mind was still swimming from the Hydrogen-sulfide.  Death was mere seconds away from claiming him.  It would take some time for the gas’ effects to dissipate.  Fortunately, Fisher-King had a long ascent ahead of him to recover.

The crushing grip of the Black Sea loosened.  The waters outside were beginning to brighten.  A calming blue hue filled the interior of the bell.  Very soon he would reach the surface.  His associates would be pleased by his successful endeavor.  This thought brought a smile to Fisher-King’s lips.  He did not fail them.

While inspecting his gear, the diver noticed a strange gash on his lifeline.  He must’ve gotten it when he became snagged on some debris within the cargo hold.  If that were the case, was Hydrogen-sulfide unknowingly seeping into his suit for nearly twelve minutes?  What effects would this have on his mind?  How much of what he just experienced was an illusion of the Black Sea?  The living statue, the terror, the ghostly blue eyes: was any of it real?

The man’s blurry gaze drifted to the ancient chest beside him.  It sat in eerie silence, droplets of seawater glistening on its surface.  Fisher-King placed his hand upon it.  The lid of the chest was chilled from the depths.  This was not an illusion, and that’s all that mattered.

------------------------

After an interminable ascent, and a copious amount of caffeine, methylene blue, and other stimulants he packed with him, Fisher-King’s breathing was beginning to return to normal.  Then, the diving bell abruptly stopped.  It rattled Fisher-King from his half-conscious stupor.  What happened?  Did he reach the surface already?  Surely not.  The window outside showed nothing but dark ocean water.

The diver pressed the signal lever once more.  There was no response from the surface.  He waited a few minutes and pressed it again.  Still no reply.  Perhaps there was a kink in the chain.  Hopefully, his compatriots could sort it out soon.  Any extra moment away from the surface was like a prison sentence.

Then, the diving bell continued upwards.  At last, the warmth of the surface would soon wash over Fisher-King, bathing him in a rejuvenating light.  With one last heave, the bell was plucked from the Black Sea.  The view outside the window was less than welcoming.  A sickly yellow fog had unfurled over the Varangian Vow.  Still, it would be nice to hear the voices of his friends again.

Unfortunately for Fisher-King, his friends were not on the other side of the hatch waiting for him.  Once the door was unsealed, many hands reached in and violently dragged the haggard diver from his seat, tearing him away from his rudimentary breathing apparatus, and tossing him onto the slippery wooden deck.

“What in the blazes?” said Fisher-King before being interrupted by a firm kick to his stomach, rolling him onto his back.  Was this an illusion as well?  No.  The searing pain in his abdomen and the taste of blood in his mouth were no illusions.  Someone had hijacked the Varangian Vow.  

Alas, the  hydrogen sulfide was still crawling through his veins, making his mind sluggish and disoriented.  Dozens of smeary faces surrounded the diver.  A multitude of muffled cries and gunshots filled his ears.  It was too much.  He continued to clench the ancient treasure chest with his icy fingers.  He knew it was in vain, but it was all that he could do to resist these thieves, whoever they were.

The assailants had boarded the ship from their vessel, an old Ottoman gunboat from the Great War.  By feigning a distress signal, they had crept up to the Varangian vow, using the ghostly miasma as cover.  The screams of the crewmembers were swallowed by the mist as masked men clad in oilskins attacked with the precision of trained killers.  They moved like shadows, slipping from one position to the next with fluid, practiced maneuvers.  It wasn’t just gunfire—they were systematically destroying the ship, using grenades to tear apart key rooms. The radio room, the engine room—each explosion disabling the ship’s communications and steering.

The crew tried to fight back, but their efforts were short-lived.  One by one, they were dispatched with brutal efficiency.  Some lives were claimed by guns, others by grenades, and many with cruel knives.  During the fight, the first mate had drawn his pistol.  His shot rang out – aimed at a moving figure – but it missed, only to be met with the sharp bark of a shotgun in return.  The first mate fell, the deck slick with his spilled blood.  That blood now stained the tangled gray and black locks of Fisher-King as the strangers drew in around him to retrieve their prize from his grasp.

Before a second could pass, there was a brief glint of metal, and a spurt of blood from an attacker’s ankle.  Fisher-King, with a diving knife in hand, had risen to his feet.  He held the chest to his bosom, swinging his blade wildly in all directions to keep the enemies at bay.

“Back!  Back you devils!” he growled.  Fisher-King fought to stay on his feet, his head spinning.  He staggered and fell to one knee.  Much to his surprise, the enemies did not take this opportunity to kill him.  Instead, a figure emerged from the fog, moving with the calm assurance of a man in complete control.  He marched through the pools of blood without a second thought.  It was evident that death was a common occurrence for him, and mercy a rare act of generosity.

As he drew closer, Fisher-King could make out hazy details of his form.  There were scars across his arms and neck that told stories of battles fought long ago.  A strange tattoo was inked into his right forearm – a black crow pierced through the heart by a spear.  This emblem revealed the mercenary’s identity.  The Crow.  That is what many called him; a cunning soldier-for-hire feared around the world.  He was difficult to find and even more difficult to employ.  Those that did wished to commit atrocities under the nose of the League of Nations…and the Crow was more than happy to do it for a hefty fee.

“Did you have a nice swim?” said the Crow.  Fisher-King tried to lock eyes with the villain, but his vision was fading in and out of focus.  “That box belongs to me,” said the Crow.  In response, Fisher-King raised his knife.  Rather than feel angered by his act of defiance, the Crow was intrigued; delighted, even.  Perhaps, he had finally met someone that could give him a challenge.

He motioned for his men to stand down.  They lowered their guns as the Crow drew forth his own knife with a ravenous grin across his lips.  He waltzed across the bloody deck to Fisher-King, ready for the duel.  Desperation fueled Fisher-King as he lunged forward, his dive knife raised high. The Crow sidestepped with fluid grace, swatting the knife away with ease. Fisher-King swung again, but the man parried effortlessly.

The world tilted, the fog thickening around them. Fisher-King felt dizzy, his limbs heavy from the poison.  The blood-soaked deck caused his feet to slide about beneath him.  None of these things affected the Crow.  He closed the distance between them, moving like a phantom, his trench knife gleaming in the dim light. Fisher-King tried to counter, but the man’s blade was too fast. A slash opened his side, and blood poured onto the deck.

It was hopeless, thought Fisher-King, pain rippling through him.  This man would soon claim his life and the prize he had recovered from the sea.  Perhaps, it would be best to return the chest to whence it came; return it to the Guardian of the Abyss.  It would be better than to have these goons steal it.  With one final surge of will, Fisher-King hurled his knife at the Crow, giving him enough time to toss the ancient chest towards the railing.  The box was heavy.  It quickly fell upon the deck, but slid closer and closer to the edge.  And then…

THOOM!  A heavy boot came down upon the chest.  The Crow was quick.  Fisher-King had failed.  Crumpling to the ground, his blood ran cold as he watched the ruthless killer calmly pry open the chest with his blade.  The lid was carefully raised.  An iridescent emerald sheen glistened in the man’s eyes.  After all his efforts, and the work of his organization, Fisher-King had only allowed this powerful artifact to fall into the hands of the enemy.  The Crow slammed the lid shut.

Nursing his wound, Fisher-King remained coiled on the damp deck, muttering a stilted prayer to himself.  “O Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.  Grant me strength to fight with justice, courage to face death without fear, and faith to walk through the valley of shadows unshaken.”

At first, the Crow was amused by the man’s recitation, then he snagged him by his collar and dragged him towards the railing.  For a brief moment, Fisher-King could see the extent of the attack on the Varangian Vow.  The bodies of his comrades were strewn about.  Plumes of smoke were rising up from the windows of the ship.  Bullet holes pocked the walls.  The floors glistened with fresh blood.  Then, his attention was brought back to the wicked eyes of the Crow, leering at him.

“Sorry, church boy,” he said breathing in his face, “Seems your God isn’t listening.  But don’t worry.  You’ll soon be meeting Him.”

There was another intense wave of pain as the mercenary plunged his knife into the diver’s ribs.  In one smooth motion, The Crow planted his heel upon Fisher-King’s chest and kicked him into the sea.  The black waters swallowed him, draping him in a penetrating cold.  As he slowly drifted downwards, succumbing to the ever-growing darkness overtaking his senses, Fisher-King thought he could see a pair of pale blue eyes watching him from the depths.