***
“Ob and I talked to each man in the crew,” said Claradon as he leaned against the ship’s rail. Theta stood beside him. “You were right. It seems a lot of them don’t care for us. The amulet went warm around any number of them. I was starting to think that they’re all Leaguers.”
“They’re afraid of you—of us,” said Theta. “That’s what you were picking up. Or—maybe they are all Leaguers.”
Claradon perked up. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Let’s just watch our steps,” said Theta. “I suggest you go nowhere alone on this ship. Keep at least one of your own knights at your side at all times.”
VIII
DOVER
“A man makes his own fate.”
—Angle Theta
South of the Fens, the river returned to its normal aspect, its waters wide, deep, and greenish blue. A place of quiet and calm, jumping fish, buzzing dragonflies, healthy breezes, and clear cool water. For some time, The Black Falcon made its way south, untroubled, with as much speed as Slaayde’s crew could muster, oar, sail, and rudder.
They sailed past the Dalassian Hills, named for the dwarven clan that abided deep within its rolling, rocky expanse. Then came a land of green fields and light woodland dotted with sleepy villages of white roofs, sturdy walls, and stone palisades, scattered along the western riverbank. The eastern bank remained bleak and barren, as if the Fens’ fell influence extended even there. They passed the idyllic Linden Forest, and the gray fortress of Dor Linden, ruled by House Mirtise.
Along the way, the crew implemented repairs as best they could, on the move and with limited supplies. Sturdy pine deck-boards hauled up from the hold replaced those damaged by the Einheriar. The crew cobbled together a serviceable temporary rail up on the bridge deck for safety, and they reinforced the repairs below the waterline where the saboteur had drilled his holes.
After some days, Slaayde appeared on deck, looking weak and leaning on a cane. He grew stronger though each day; the color returned to his cheeks and the spark to his step, but his hair remained ghost white, root to end, until the end of his days.
During the journey south, The Falcon passed a number of ships headed upriver, and asked each of The White Rose. Always a day behind were they, sometimes two. They could gain nothing on their quarry.
Farther south, they passed the Tornwood, a vast, foreboding woodland that ruled both banks of the Hudsar for untold miles. Trees tall and old, the Tornwood long rumored to house a secret elven enclave—though no man in living memory had seen its sights.
***
The City of Dover lived at a fork in the river that marked the southeastern border of the Kingdom of Lomion. The Hudsar’s main course continued due south for many days to the City of Tragoss Mor on the shores of the Azure Sea. The smaller eastern fork became the Emerald River and flowed southeast to Minoc-by-the-Sea, also on the Azure, but many miles east of Tragoss Mor.
Dover, home to untold thousands, was the largest city in the kingdom south of Lomion City, and was located on the Hudsar’s western bank. Its place at the borderlands of Lomion and the wilds beyond created its militant aspect. Walls sixty feet tall surrounded the inner city and a second wall of forty feet in height encircled the outer. Guard towers dotted the wall.
Dover kept a standing army of size to defend the border. A fleet of vessels, merchant and military, filled its port. Most of the knightly orders kept Chapterhouses here, and some held great power and influence.
The fortress of Dor Valadon stood on a small island that separated the two great rivers. Massive walls of stone, forty feet tall, and many feet thick, joined stone towers of twice that height, and ruled the river’s fork. Men-at-arms and knights stalked the battlements.
Connecting Dor Valadon and Dover was one of the great wonders of the known world—a bridge, a stone arch, massive and strong, rose high above the river, and spanned clear across the Hudsar at its narrowest point. The masts of even the tallest ships could pass easily under the magnificent arch, even in high tide. Ages ago, the Dalassian dwarves, renowned masons and craftsman, were engaged by the King of Lomion to construct the bridge. Legend says seven hundred dwarves labored night and day for seven years to build the wondrous structure, which stood defiantly against wind and storm, time and troubles, down through the long years.
The Village of Yord on the river’s eastern bank, opposite Dover, surrounded by a tall stone palisade, stood at the headwaters of the Emerald River. Private homes and longhouses of carved logs, skillfully crafted, dominated Yord, a sleepy town separated from the bustle of Dover by the river which was its lifeblood. A ferry system carried passengers and goods between Yord, Dor Valadon, and Dover proper.
The Black Falcon put to port at Dover’s longest and tallest pier, for Slaayde needed to procure timber and repair materials for the ship, and Theta wanted to visit a smithy to affect repairs to his sword.
As soon as The Falcon’s gangway was down, Theta, Dolan, Artol, Tanch, and Ob disembarked. Uncharacteristically, Theta wore no armor save his cuirass, though his sword belt held his scimitar, and he carried his shield over his shoulder. Dolan, also unarmored, carried Theta’s ruined falchion. Artol, however, was armed and armored to the teeth. The harbormaster gave them directions to what he claimed was the best smithy in town.
A burly young man pounded at a sword while a youth worked the bellows. They stopped their work as the five approached and exchanged greetings.
“We’ve a sword that’s broke,” said Dolan.
An older man, lean, lined, and solid muscle emerged from within the smithy. He looked the group up and down.
“Come in on a ship?”
“Aye,” said Dolan. “The Black Falcon out of Lomion.”
“Not a ship known for carrying passengers.”
“We’re—”
“It’s a fast ship and we had no time to waste,” said Theta. “We need the use of your forge to repair a sword.”
“Nobody uses my forge but me and my sons. Let’s see this sword of yours.”
Dolan placed the blade on a table and unwrapped it.
“Dead gods, what a ruin.” He picked the blade up and studied it. “Thor’s hammer, this is like no steel I’ve ever seen.” His sons looked on, gawking. The smith slowly passed his calloused fingers over the symbols etched along the blade. “Not even the dwarves could make this. Where did you find her?”
“It’s been in my family for generations.”
“A shame. I’ve never seen damage like this before. Does this steel have a low melting point? Was it in a fire?”
Theta looked pointedly at Dolan, who removed a money purse from his belt and counted out ten silver stars. “We need your forge, Mr. Smith. We’ve no time for talk.”
“I’m as good as any smith south of Lomion City, save for the dwarves, but I couldn’t do this blade justice. In a few days maybe I could make it serviceable, but I would never be able to fully restore it.”
“We’ll fix it ourselves,” said Dolan. He handed the smith the coins, and then walked to the forge and put on a pair of heavy gloves.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Just watch.” Dolan took out the arrowheads that he had recovered from the remains of the Einheriar and placed them beside the forge.
“You’re gonna add their metal to your sword?” said Ob quietly to Theta. “Smart move.”
“They’re almost pure ranal. They will make the sword invulnerable to the touch of Nifleheim.” Theta unlatched his cuirass, laid it and his shield beside the forge, and prepared to assist Dolan in his labors.
“How long will this take?” said Ob. “Every minute we’re here, Korrgonn gets farther away. If we’re to save Jude—”
“There’s no use catching them if we don’t have the right tools to deal with them when we do. I need this sword. We’ll be swift. Dolan is a master at this.”
“I don’t know half what you do, boss,” said Dolan.
“Fine, forge away,�
�� said Ob. “Tanch and I are gonna poke around for a bit. No sense all of us watching you two sweat.”
The two watched for some minutes as men, women, even families with children, filed into a large stone building.
“The sign of Bhaal lies over the doorway,” said Tanch. “And there are other marks of Nifleheim there, and there,” he said, pointing. “It’s a temple. A temple to the Nifleheim lords, right here in the open.”
“In Dover?” said Ob. “That can’t be. This is a civilized city. A good place—always has been. We need to go in and see what’s what.”
“I just hope we can get out again,” said Tanch.
They crossed the street and entered along with several others. The entry chamber held racks of hooded robes of red and black to be donned by worshippers before entering. Tanch and Ob hastily garbed themselves, Ob drawing from the children’s section, and then proceeded in. Beyond was a large worship room lined with benches, all facing an expansive podium featuring an immense stone altar. Well behind the altar sat a group of robed men, mostly young, a few wizened and old.
The service about to start, guards noisily closed and barred the chamber’s mammoth double doors. Other guards positioned about the room made a show of slamming and barring every other exit as well, one after another in practiced pattern. No one was leaving this room until the service was over, that much was clear.
Ob turned to the wrinkled old woman of blue hair and huge hat that sat to his right. “What do I do,” he said, pleadingly, almost in desperation, “if I have to pee?”
The woman smiled and nodded, clearly having no idea what Ob had said.
An elderly priest stepped up behind the altar, and faced the congregation. He gripped a bejeweled staff of iron and wood, long and stately. The staff glowed when he thanked the faithful for their devotion and led them in prayers and blessings praising Bhaal and other Nifleheim lords, whom he called Holy Arkons and the blessed Lords of Light.
The formal ritual complete, the priest launched into a fiery sermon, railing against the rich, and denouncing the government. He spoke of the crown’s oppression of the common people, the corruption of the nobles, and their foul conspiracies to suppress the truth and keep good people down. He appealed to the congregation’s sense of worth and entitlement. They all deserved the same success, the same wealth, the same opportunity as others. Too long had they been denied their god-given rights and privileges by those who thought themselves their betters. He urged them to stand together not as one people, but as one family, united against the forces of evil and oppression. Only then would they achieve all that they deserved, only then would their worldly happiness be assured, and only then would their honored place be reserved in paradise. The people nodded and shouted their agreement, applauding briefly here and there.
Ob and Tanch tensed when the priest produced a large chalice from behind the altar and gazed out over the gathered faithful. Hands went up amongst the congregation and the priest pointed to one man, seated near the front. Balding and middle-aged, the man kissed his wife and child before he stood up and walked to the altar, a long, wicked dagger gripped in his hand.
“Oh, boy,” said Ob. “I had hoped not to see this again.”
Other priests crept up behind him and held him fast about the shoulders. The high priest blessed the man, declaring that his sacrifice proved his devotion to the lord and assured his passage to Vaeden, the blessed afterlife. The man passed the priest the dagger and willingly held out his hand, wrist up. Swift and sure, the priest sliced the man’s wrist, though he exhibited no pain and did not call out. One of the priests held the man’s arm still while the high priest poured a decanter of wine over the wound and into the awaiting chalice.
When the decanter was empty, the high priest selected a second man from the audience, and repeated the ritual, though this time, the dagger sliced across the man’s neck. It soon became clear that this was naught but ceremony, the men were not harmed at all, and no true blood was spilled. Only wine filled the chalices passed to the faithful, each devotee, young or old, man, woman, or child, all obliged to drink.
Both Ob and Tanch pretended to take a sip, though neither did. Soon the service ended, the great doors opened, and everyone left in peace.
Ob and Tanch wandered out in a daze. They didn’t speak until they were well away from the crowd.
“The prayers, the sermon, it was all so similar,” said Ob. “Except the sacrifices were just an act, the blood just wine.”
“Without the bloodshed,” said Tanch, “their ritual was not the vile thing I remembered. Not to say I agree with their lessons, but some of them at least made sense. I can see why people attend, why they’re drawn in.” Tanch hesitated before continuing. “You did see the blood, real blood in the ceremony in Southeast, right?”
“I saw it,” said Ob, though he seemed less certain than he should.
The crew hauled aboard bundles of wood planks, buckets of nails, cords of rope, casks of local spring water, baskets of fresh bread, and crates of salted meats and hard cheeses in workmanlike manner.
Slaayde completed his dealings with a rotund merchant of pointy beard, colorful garb, and pasty face, trading him a goodly number of boxes marked linens, tobacco, and gnome mead for a number of unmarked crates of dubious origin and unspoken contents. Soon after their transaction was complete, Theta and the others returned. Theta and Dolan were grimy and sweaty, and Theta’s falchion was back in its sheath at this waist. His breastplate looked shiny and renewed, as did his shield.
“We’ve asked after The Rose as best we could,” said Claradon, “but no one can say which way she headed. There’s just too much traffic here. No one pays attention to what ships pass, and the harbormaster has no record. We need to decide which way to go—continue down the Hudsar or take the Emerald?”
“Are there any other rivers or tributaries that The Rose could take, off either river?” asked Theta.
“None what could handle a ship near her size,” said Ob. “But they have dinghies aboard. There’s a score or more small rivers and streams that flow into the Hudsar and the Emerald that you could send a dinghy up, and there’s a thousand places you could make shore at.”
“So how do we decide?” said Claradon.
“We know they were well-stocked at Lomion City for a long voyage,” said Theta. “How long to Tragoss from here, and to Minoc?”
“Both are a week to ten days away, depending on the current and the wind,” said the gnome.
“What welcome would they receive in each port?” said Theta.
“Tragoss is ruled by monks who worship Thoth. They’re religious wackos, a lot like the Leaguers, but I don’t think they would abide them. Like as not, they and the League would be at each other.”
“And Minoc?”
“A large trading city, ruled by a merchant’s guild. One of the best of the independent cities. Korrgonn would get no welcome there.”
“But in a free city, he could hide,” said Claradon.
“Hiding is not his plan,” said Theta.
Claradon looked to Theta, shaking his head. “If he’s got no reason we know of to go to Tragoss or Minoc, he could be just passing through on his way to anywhere. We might as well flip a coin.”
“Leave it to fate, then,” said Ob, a pensive look on his face.
“What do you think, Lord Theta?” said Claradon.
“A man makes his own fate.”
Ob pulled a silver star from his pocket. “Kings for Tragoss, castles for Minoc. Choose.”
Claradon considered for a moment. “Kings,” he said.
Ob tossed the coin high into the air and let it fall to the deck. “Kings.”
***
South of Dover abided the Crags, a long expanse of enormous jutting rocks that comprised the river’s western bank. The river’s relentless flow had carved the Crags from the very stone of the earth, leaving naught but a tall stony palisade. Curiously, no similar formation existed on the opposite shore. Instead,
the Mistwood—a vast, dark forest, nigh impassable and exuding a palpable dread, ruled the eastern bank.
Several hours after sunset, as The Black Falcon sailed through the narrowest portion of the river in the Crags region, the men spotted a score or more figures, male and female, amidst the lowest of the stony palisades, not much higher than the mast of the ship. Each stood on some rocky promontory or narrow precipice; locations where none but eagles were wont to go. Illumed only by moonlight, silent, still, and tall they looked down on the ship, their faces cloaked in shadow and mystery.
Theta, Claradon, and Ob stood on the Bridge Deck, and watched the figures watch them. As the stern of the ship passed them, one raised his arm as if in greeting or salute and then bowed low toward the men on the deck.
“Some friend of yours, Theta?” said Ob. “Another pal from the old days?”
“I know them not,” said Theta.
“They’re no friends of ours,” said Claradon, pointing to his amulet, glowing brightly.
“Since they’ve no bows, unless they can fly, they’re of little matter,” said Ob.
The figure who bowed lofted some small object toward them; a powerful and accurate throw. It landed on the deck.
Ob dashed over to examine it. The others kept their attention on the figures on the cliff. “It’s got a rune on it, embedded in a circle and a square.”
“Bring it here,” said Theta. He studied it closely after they were well past the strange figures. “Azrael,” said Theta, turning back toward the figures, now lost in the night. Theta gripped his Ankh in his right hand. “We shall meet them again.”
IX
TRAGOSS MOR
“They have to spread our wealth around to the poor.
Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) Page 11