Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3)

by Thater, Glenn

  “It does that and more, as you’ll come to know in time.”

  “Now, young Lord Eotrus, for you, I have something truly special.” He reached under his cloak and pulled out a gold chain hung round his neck. He lifted it off over his head. From the chain hung a bejeweled amulet of fiery red and gold stones, set in a seven-sided gold base. The center stone was red with streaks of yellow, having the appearance of a great cat’s eye, and giving off a soft glow. “Brother Claradon Eotrus, Lord of Dor Eotrus, son of Aradon, and first of your name, I present to you the fabled Amulet of Escandell. Its stones were forged in the heart of a falling star that fell to Midgaard in the second age of our world, the Age of Heroes. Lord Escandell, first wizard of the Tower of the Arcane found the fallen star, plucked these very stones from its maw, and weaved them into the golden base with eldritch spells and mighty words of power from bygone days. When worn around your neck, no enemy can take you unawares and no beast can surprise you. Wear it beneath your outer garments, close to your heart forevermore and fail you it will not. Even now it glows a bit—as there is danger here, but it’s not immediate, so the glow is soft and dim. As the glow and heat increases, so does your peril.”

  “There are no words, Master Pipkorn, for such generosity. I am in your debt, sir. I thank you,” he said, bowing before the archmage.

  Pipkorn turned toward Theta. “I have not forgotten you, my Lord. For the Great Dragon I have this.” Pipkorn reached into his robe and pulled out a leather sheath housing a bejeweled dagger. The handle was long, and black and silver, perhaps metal or even stone.

  “That looks like Gabe’s dagger, Dargus Dal, though even fancier,” said Ob. “One of those old Asgardian blades.”

  “A good eye, sir,” said Pipkorn. “An Asgardian blade it is, but no common one—if any of them could be called common.” Pipkorn pulled it from its worn leather sheath.

  “Lord Theta, I present to you—“

  “Wotan Dal,” said Theta as Pipkorn handed it to him handle first. Theta held the blade up before his eyes and studied it.

  “Yes,” said Pipkorn, smiling. “Wotan Dal, which means “god’s blade” in the old tongue. This my friends was the blade of Lord Odin himself, the all-father, ruler of the gods, king of the mighty Aesir. Forged before time itself in the first age of our world, in the days of myth and legend. Its blade cannot be dulled and no armor can turn it.”

  Theta beamed as he gazed at the blade and its ornate handle. “This is a wonder I never thought to see again.”

  “Bet that’s worth a pretty penny,” said Ob as he looked back and forth between it and his new axe.

  “It’s worth the good half of the king’s treasury,” said Tanch.

  “More,” said Theta. “A king’s cache of gold can be replaced, this cannot.” Theta placed Wotan Dal in a sheath at his belt, replacing the blade that was there. “Thank you, wizard. Truly. I will make good use of it.”

  “I know, my Lord. That’s why it is rightly yours, and no other’s.”

  “I have one more gift, this one made by my own hand.” He pulled a small wooden box from a deep pocket and held it out to Claradon. “I call this, the Ghost Ship box. Open its lid while on deck and a duplicate of your vessel, crew and all, will appear out of nowhere and sit the water some hundred yards from your vessel, in whichever direction you point the open lid. Angle the lid higher to the sky and the ship will appear farther out, angle it down closer to the water, and the ship will appear closer. Make no mistake, this is no parlor trick. This duplicate will not only look as your ship, but will make the same noises and have the same scent. If the ghost ship is hit with catapult, ballistae, or fire it will take damage, its men will go down, and if the damage is bad enough, the ship will sink, ending the illusion. Use it wisely. It carries within it enough mystical energy to hold its illusion no more than one hour–whether that be in one use only, two half hours, or ten uses of six minutes or any other combination. One hour only. Do not forget.”

  “Thank you, Master Pipkorn,” said Claradon. “We will use your gifts wisely.”

  Pipkorn nodded. “Men, I must also tell you that your enemies on this quest aren’t just those sailing with Korrgonn on The White Rose; there will be some just as deadly behind as well. Someone, though I know not who, has hired The Black Hand to slay you. I don’t know if their target is Lord Theta or Lord Eotrus or both, but the Hand will follow you, however far you go. And that’s not the worst of it. The Alders bear you a weighty grudge, Claradon, because you bested Barusa in that duel. They’ve hired mercenaries to see to you. There’s talk of Kaledon of the Gray Waste—a Pict and foul sword master of mystical power. Beware him, he is a deadly foe. Worse still, the winds say that the Duelist of Dyvers was given a warrant on your life as well. With him come the Knights of Kalathen, as formidable a group of tin cans as any.”

  “Just kill us now,” said Tanch. “The Duelist of Dyvers. The Knights of Kalathen. The Black Hand. The Shadow League. Cultists, and Nifleheim Lords too. How many of these madmen can we withstand? My back just can’t take this stress,” he said groaning and wincing as he slowly sunk down to his seat. “It’s all too much, too much,” he said, holding his brow. “It’s the end of the world. The end times are here.”

  “Whatever happens, Claradon, do not face the duelist in battle,” said Pipkorn. “Mark these words well. Heed them better than you have ever heeded any words before. The duelist is a foe you cannot match. If he stands in your path, forget your pride, forget your good name, forget your honor, forget your friends, and forget anything else that would give you pause and just flee. Just run, boy, and keep running until you’re well away and then run a good ways more and pray you’ve lost him. Flee and live to fight another day. Don’t forget these words or the duelist will be the death of you.” Pipkorn turned toward Theta. “I believe you knew the duelist, my lord, in days gone by. His name is Milton DeBoors.”

  Theta furrowed his brow. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in long years. The man I knew was a soldier, a leader of men, not a hired killer.”

  “Times change, and so do men. But you know that, my Lord, better than any. Let not these mercenaries stop you or distract you from your goal. You must succeed in your mission. You must kill Gallis Korrgonn, whatever the cost. You must not allow him to open another gateway.”

  “Another gateway?” said Claradon.

  “That can’t be his mind,” said Tanch.

  “Make no mistake, my friends,” said Pipkorn, “That is Korrgonn’s goal, I’m certain of it.” Pipkorn looked over at Theta. “You agree, my Lord?”

  “That is his plan, there can be little doubt,” said Theta.

  “So all Midgaard is still at risk?” said Ob.

  “That’s the danger,” said Pipkorn. “That’s why your mission is so important. That’s why you must not fail.”

  “Master Pipkorn,” said Claradon. “If this is true, then why are the Shadow Leaguers aiding Korrgonn? There are powerful wizards and learned men among their number. It can’t all just be religious zealotry. Do they truly want to destroy the world? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why do you think powerful wizards would help Korrgonn?” asked Pipkorn.

  “They’re nuts, plain and simple,” said Ob. “Crazed religious wackos.”

  “They must think they stand to gain somehow,” said Claradon.

  “And what gain do wizards seek?” said Pipkorn.

  “They want mystical power above all things. Somehow, they must believe that they will acquire it by opening another gateway. They must think that they’ll be spared in the madness that follows, or else they plan to close the gateway after something or someone comes through, before the world can be overrun.”

  Pipkorn smiled a thin smile. “Good theories, Lord Eotrus. No matter what their reasons though, they must be stopped. That task falls to you. The fate of us all depends on your success.”

  “Now, my friends, I must be gone before too many eyes fall upon me. More spies are watching this shi
p than an old man can count. I’ll be lucky to make it back to that hovel in Southeast unaccosted.”

  Pipkorn walked to the door and unlatched it, and then turned back. He looked at each man in the room. “There’s a storm coming to Lomion, my friends. If your journey is long, you may find that on your return, the Lomion you knew is no longer. Be swift, but most importantly, be successful.”

  Pipkorn put up his cowl, stooped over, and opened the door. “Farewell,” he said, closing the portal behind him.

  Furnished in dark wood, the Captain’s Den held a big cherrywood table and chairs, a mariner’s globe, fine leather couches, shelves of books, maps, and more. Theta’s floatable trunks were stacked in one corner. A spacious back room held all manner of foodstuffs, provisions, gear, and a water closet. A second room housed a dozen stacked bunks.

  “We’ll make our base here,” said Theta. “It’s defensible and more comfortable than we could ask for on a ship.”

  “The rooms below deck assigned to you and Claradon are spacious, Lord Theta,” said Tanch. “Wouldn’t they serve better?”

  “If it were our ship, perhaps they would, but it’s not. Better that we stay together in a secure location.”

  “Captain Slaayde will never agree,” said Claradon.

  The Den’s door swung open, Captain Slaayde in its breach. He looked about at each of them. Tall and barrel built, Slaayde’s hair, a straight golden blond, his age perhaps forty, eyes blue and shifty. Clad in a white doublet, loose fitting blue pantaloons, a black bandoleer, black belt, black gloves and boots, all patent leather and shiny, and girded with a cutlass and dagger of wide cage guards, he looked every bit the swashbuckler of his reputation. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Slaayde quietly, a nervous smile across his round face. Have you lost your way? This is a private chamber. Your cabins are below deck.”

  “And goodly cabins they be, Captain old boy,” said Ob. “The thing is, them’s just for sleeping. This here place is better suited to meeting and plotting and drinking and such, as you well know. Since we do a good deal of all that, we’ve pitched our tent here and here we’ll stay,” he said, puffing out his little chest.

  “Sir, this is my office and personal store. You—”

  “Now it’s ours, laddie” said Ob. “And that’s the end of that.”

  Slaayde’s smile widened on his mouth, but not his eyes. Still quietly he said, “Harringgold bought you passage; he didn’t buy my ship. I’ll not have this.”

  “Captain Slaayde, sir,” said Tanch. “We meant no offense, none at all, but Lord Eotrus required a room to meet with his staff and Lord Theta. We didn’t think you would object to a member of the Council of Lords and a visiting dignitary,” indicating Theta, “making use of your fine chamber during this voyage.”

  “Well sir, I do.”

  “And well you should, of course, of course. I’m sure some appropriate additional compensation can be arranged with Lord Harringgold for your trouble and inconvenience. We must make this right.”

  “Hmm, well—perhaps. We can discuss it.”

  “Of course, this whole business is entirely my fault,” said Tanch. “I bear full responsibility and stand properly and appropriately chastised.”

  “Harringgold’s men didn’t tell me where we’re headed?” Slaayde paused, waiting for some response. “He left that to you men. So? To where do we sail?”

  “Just set sail downriver, laddie,” said Ob. “Give her as much speed as you can muster, and shout if you see any ships ahead. We’ve business with The White Rose.”

  “A fast ship, and a dangerous one,” said Slaayde. “Cutthroats and scalawags crew her, and her Captain’s reputation is more foul than fair. Harringgold should’ve told me of this. There’s a different price.”

  “You will be paid—well paid, laddie,” said Ob.

  At this, Theta stood and walked toward Slaayde who took a cautious step back, now just outside the threshold. Staring the Captain direct in the eye, Theta, expressionless, closed the door in Slaayde’s face. A few moments later, Slaayde could be heard walking across the deck, cursing.

  “Well that’s that,” said Ob. “Theta, what do you make of the good captain? That fellow in the temple said he was Slaayde’s first mate and made no secret of it.”

  “I haven’t seen enough yet to take his measure. It may be he knew naught of his mate’s dealing with the League.”

  “We should’ve told the Duke about this,” said Claradon.

  “We needed a fast and sturdy ship with an experienced crew to catch The White Rose,” said Theta. “Harringgold and Fischer made clear that The Falcon suited those needs best and with The Falcon comes Slaayde. If Harringgold suspected Slaayde might be aligned with the League he wouldn’t have arranged our passage and we would be burdened with a lesser ship.”

  “And what if he is a Leaguer?” said Ob.

  “Then he will soon be dead,” said Theta.

  “And what if he knows that we suspect him because of that Fizdar character?” said Tanch. “He could be laying a trap for us right now or planning to slit our throats in our sleep. Oh my, this is all too much. Too much.”

  “No one knows Slaayde’s man spoke to us in the temple—and if he’s dead, as likely he is, no one need ever know, so don’t speak of it again. We’ll tread carefully around Slaayde.”

  “Too bad the bad guys don’t all wear black or red so that we could tell them apart,” said Dolan.

  ***

  With the ship ready to sail, Ob gathered all the men on the main deck, and Claradon, now clad in his priestly vestments, led them in a traditional prayer. Less than sixteen hours after meeting with Lord Harringgold in his chambers in Dor Lomion, The Black Falcon was off, sailing from its berth in Lomion Harbor into the heart of the Hudsar River. From the bridge deck, Claradon watched the grand skyline of Lomion, capital city of the Kingdom of Lomion recede into the distance. Atop the tall deck, he gazed on many of the great buildings of Lomion and wondered if he would ever see them again.

  Claradon admired the stalwart fortress of Dor Lomion, with its tall, gray, stone walls and high tower, home of House Harringgold. He wondered at the majestic, multi-spired, and multi-hued Tower of the Arcane, central seat of wizardom in all Midgaard and far and away the tallest edifice in the city. He could just glimpse the Royal Palace of the Tenzivels and its neighbor Tammanian Hall, bastion of government, home of the High Council and the Council of Lords. The massive Auditorium, center of spectacles, entertainment, and the arts stood in the western reaches of Lomion. The Odinhome, grandest of all the temples, churches, and cathedrals, and central house of worship of Lord Odin, the all-father, the king of the gods, was located amidst the High Quarter not far from the Auditorium. The peaks of these and many other buildings both common and high all slowly vanished from sight as the ship exited the harbor and plied its way down the river proper.

  VI

  DOR MALVEGIL

  “They’re really good, just misunderstood.”

  —Torbin Malvegil

  The Black Falcon glided into a berth in the deep cove that served as Dor Malvegil’s port. Scores of buildings, stone and shingle, wood and nail, clustered around the cove, nestled between the water’s edge and the base of a sheer cliff, a massive flat-topped crag that rose high above the river and the surrounding woodlands. Atop the rocky promontory, the grand old fortress of stone, ruled by House Malvegil for the previous three hundred years, boasted commanding views in all directions.

  Several merchant ships of various sizes lay in port loading and unloading cargos, both pedestrian and exotic, though of The White Rose there was no sign. As The Falcon tied off to a well-kept pier, the harbormaster approached.

  “Ahoy there, Black Falcon,” said the harbormaster, a burly graybeard.

  “Ahoy yourself,” said Slaayde as crewmen lowered the gangway.

  “I’ll brook no troubles from you and yours this time, Slaayde. I warned you the last, and I will not warn you again.”

  “De
ar Hogart, you wound me with your words,” said Slaayde sardonically. “I who love thee like a son.”

  “If you were my son, I would have sold you to the gnomes.” Hogart’s face reddened when he spied Ob scowling at him from the rail.

  “We shouldn’t linger here,” said Theta to Claradon. “Ask after The White Rose and let’s be on our way.”

  “I have to pay my respects to my uncle,” said Claradon. “He’s the lord of this fortress, and a good man, but he would take offense if I passed here without calling on him. Besides, Glimador should be here long since, and we could use his help on this voyage.”

  “We shouldn’t stay the night,” said Theta. “Every moment we delay, Korrgonn gets farther away.”

  Tanch stared up at the fortress, which loomed high above the harbor. “Oh my, it seems a frightful walk up to the castle. It must be two, perhaps three hundred feet up the rock face.”

  “Three hundred fifty I’d mark it,” said Ob.

  “The road must be terribly steep.”

  “There’s no road, laddie. Far too steep for one. That’s why the Malvegil’s built here—it’s almost impossible to assault. To get up, you have to take a hoist or climb the stairs,” said Ob, pointing to a wide stair built into the rock face.

  The stair was steep but looked solid and safe, equipped with a sturdy wood outer railing and toe boards. The stair switched back multiple times as it scaled the cliff’s face.

  “There’s a second stair around the other side.”

  “Oh my, look at that,” said Tanch. “What a climb. My back cannot abide that. No, no, I’m afraid that I would never make it. My apologies Brother Claradon, but I’ll have to await your return here on the ship.”

  “No need,” said Claradon. “We’ll take the hoist.”

  “Hoist? What are we, bales of hay?”