“I’m declaring war on the Thothians.” He strode down the alley. Dolan, bow in hand, followed on his heels.
“I love this guy,” said Artol grinning. He pulled his massive warhammer from its shoulder sheath and followed Theta. “Whoo-ha!”
“A madman,” mumbled Tanch. “He will be the death of us all.”
Theta strode from the alley into Freedom Square—Dolan, Artol, and the others followed. The square was in chaos. People ran in all directions. Screams filled the air. A small group of men battled the Thothians at the foot of the slave platform. Scattered melees flared elsewhere about the square.
Theta and Artol marched directly toward the heart of the fighting and shoved aside any that got in their way. Several disheveled citizens with swords or daggers fled the battle, some bleeding and battered. Many of the Thothians had bows. They stood atop the slave platform and indiscriminately fired down into the crowd.
As Theta neared the slave deck, an arrow crashed into the center of his chest. It bounced off his breastplate leaving neither scratch nor dent; two more shafts deflected off his shield, the steel too strong, too thick for such weapons to pose a threat. Theta didn’t seem to notice the impacts; he didn’t pause for a moment. He didn’t even flinch. Artol held his shield high and ducked and dodged as the shafts flew by him, but his luck held, and not a one struck home.
Numerous citizens and more than a dozen Thothians were down or dead. A red-cloaked man hacked at the monks with a broadsword, several dead and dying at his feet. A handful of skilled swordsmen battled at his side, coordinated, a trained unit.
Theta and Artol bounded up onto the deck. Theta swung his falchion; Artol, his hammer. Two monks died from those swings, one cleaved in half, one’s head smashed to pulp. Then two more fell—one thunderous blow took each. The remaining monks scattered before them. Dolan’s arrows slammed into four monks in rapid succession, each pierced through the forehead, neck, or chest.
“Kill the workhooders,” yelled Del Koth. “Kill them all,” he boomed.
A volley of arrows streaked toward the two elven prisoners. The male interposed himself in front of his companion and collapsed with three arrows in his chest.
Tanch charged the Thothians at ground level, aiding the red-cloaked warrior and his men, while Claradon and Ob leaped up and scrambled onto the slave platform. Wild-eyed, Ob charged straight for Del Koth, axe bared and gleaming. Claradon ran toward the monks that menaced the fallen elves.
An arrow deflected off Ob’s axe-blade as he approached Del Koth. He ignored the arrow and raised his ancient weapon over his head, his face contorted in fury. Del Koth brought up his scimitar to block the blow that thundered down on him with all the gnome’s strength. The mithril axe sheared through the monk’s iron blade, and cleaved through his chest with a sickening crunch of bones. Ob landed atop him; a spray of blood lashed his face.
Del Koth’s big hands closed around Ob’s throat and squeezed. Despite his mortal wound, Del Koth’s grip was iron, as was his resolve to take his slayer with him to the other side. Ob tried to pry Del Koth’s hands from his throat, but the big monk was too strong, too desperate. Ob grabbed Del Koth about his neck and choked him back, but Del Koth’s neck was all corded muscle, more likely that Ob could choke a tree.
“My wife,” said Del Koth, coughing blood, now half delirious, his eyes glazing over. “My children. Dear lord, give me strength for my children. Save me.”
Ob’s face turned to blue; his head swam, but he could feel Del Koth’s grip loosen, blood loss sapping his great strength. Moments more and Del Koth’s hands grew limp, his breathing shallow, and then he moved no more. Ob didn’t loosen his grip for a while more, just to be sure. Then he rolled over, gasping and coughing, covered in Del Koth’s blood, and tried to catch his breath.
Two monks charged toward the fallen elves. “Pull him off,” yelled a fat monk.
His companion grabbed the male elf by the collar and dragged his corpse off the female. Still bound and gagged, she lay helpless, whimpering, eyes darting from side to side, searching, almost pleading for some route of escape.
One monk raised his sword, an evil leer on his face.
The elf’s leg sprang out with speed and power—a vicious kick to the monk’s knee that popped it out of its socket. The monk howled, collapsed, and toppled from the platform.
Claradon’s sword slammed into the second monk, tearing through his chest. The monk dropped to his knees, clutching at his wound, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood. He looked up pleadingly, his eyes begging for mercy. Claradon lowered his sword and the monk lunged, dagger in hand, pulled from parts unknown. Claradon caught the man’s wrist in his right hand and swung his sword. The blow took the monk’s arm off, just below the elbow. A moment later, Claradon’s sword slammed into the back of the monk’s neck, severing his head.
The slave deck was clear. The corpses of more than a dozen monks lay broken and bloody about the wood decking. Even more lay dead amongst the crowd, most piled about Red Cloak and his swordsmen. Those monks that still lived, and were able, fled the square.
Two of the gnome captives lay dead on the platform. Ob and Red Cloak’s swordsmen got the survivors to their feet and cut their bonds.
The female elf stood up, a dagger clutched between her bound hands, all fear gone from her oval face, which was exotic, stunning. Her eyes darted around, but there were no more monks to fight.
Frozen, Claradon stared at her. “Let me cut your bonds,” he said, after some moments. Her eyes met his and lingered. She held out her hands. Claradon cut her free using the dagger she had found. “Come with us.”
“Gladly,” she said with an accent that Claradon couldn’t place. Claradon held out his hand. She stared at it for a moment, surprised, even taken aback, then her expression softened and she put her hand in his.
“Let’s move,” shouted Red Cloak. “The Thothians will be here in force in minutes. We must fly.”
“Who are you people?” said Tanch.
“Who are you?’ said Red Cloak.
Neither answered.
Whistles sounded in the distance. The monks had roused the city guard.
The group fled the square at a run. The gnomes, elders amongst them, and weak as they were from their ordeal, had trouble keeping up. Ob stayed beside them, and soon shouted to Artol and Red Cloak’s men to carry some of the weakest, which they did.
They sped through deserted alleys and quiet streets for some minutes before reaching a populated street that opened into a square, similar but smaller than the one they had just fled. Here, there were no captives, just carts of fruits, vegetables, pies, and sundries.
“Hide your weapons, and act natural,” said Red Cloak. “Be calm.” They crossed the busy square in three groups to garner less attention. The shoppers and shopkeepers chattered and speculated about what calamity the whistles harbored, but no one paid the group any heed.
They turned down Brick Street, a busy lane of well-appointed storefronts and filled with the pungent scent of spices of all varieties. Red Cloak led them halfway down the street, just passed a spice store with a large yellow awning. There, they descended a few stone steps to a cellar door.
Red Cloak knocked.
A small wood panel swung in and a man peered out. Satisfied with what he saw, he opened the door, and the group filed in.
They found themselves in a storeroom piled with sacks, crates, and barrels of salt, spices, and foodstuffs. Several men dressed in nondescript workman clothing stood about, tensed, swords in their hands. More men with swords came from the rear.
Ignoring them, Red Cloak proceeded toward the back of the room. “Follow me,” he said over his shoulder. A door led to a huge warehouse filled with crates and barrels, far larger than the small storefront above. This basement extended under and well past the buildings to either side and behind. Red Cloak led them to a door on the far side of the warehouse, hidden behind a row of large crates.
The group filed into a
sparsely furnished room with two wood tables and benches, and more crates and barrels. About ten of Red Cloak’s men, all armed, and several armored in chain or plate, filed in behind them.
Red Cloak stood before them. He was tall, rangy, and broad shouldered but thin of face and waist. An old scar zigzagged down his right cheek, marring an otherwise handsome, if weathered face. A man of forty-five, perhaps older, with a bearing that commanded respect, and was accustomed to receiving it. “I am du Maris. Who are you?”
One of the gnomes stepped forward, still winded and sweating from the run, though Artol had carried him most of the way. Old and stooped, his glasses had but one lens, his shirt torn, his lip bloody. “I am Snor Slipnet of the Clan Rumbottle out of the Good Hills. Those with me are my kinsmen.” He bowed low before du Maris. “I thank you and your men for rescuing me and mine, except for Bindel and Brodle who were shot dead by those scum. Good lads were they. We are in your debt.”
“You’re welcome, Master Slipnet,” said du Maris.
“If I may ask, why did you risk yourselves to help us?”
Du Maris straightened and lifted his chin. “Because all people have the right to live free, and should be judged by their actions, not the shape of their ears or the shade of their skin. Simple concepts, but beyond the Thothians.”
“Tell me,” said du Maris, “Why did you come to Tragoss?”
“We sailed on a caravel out of Kern,” said Slipnet, “foolishly seeking adventure, though I’m afraid we found far more than we bargained for. At my age I should’ve known better,” said the gnome, staring at his feet. “I hesitate to ask, but—”
“We’ll get you passage on a ship up the Hudsar. It may take a few days, but we will see you safely on your way home.”
“I can’t thank you enough. My clan will remember your service to us, du Maris of Tragoss Mor.”
Du Maris ordered rooms prepared for the gnomes. Slipnet and Ob shook hands and wished each other well before one of the guardsmen escorted the Rumbottles out.
Looking to Theta, du Maris said, “And who are you?”
Ob firmly pushed Claradon on the back.
Claradon began to speak. “I am—”
“I am called Sinch,” said Tanch stepping forward. “A spice merchant out of Lomion, and these hulking brutes are my bodyguards.”
“A spice merchant?” said du Maris. “It’s not many a spice merchant that would risk his life to take on a couple score Thothian monks.” Du Maris eyed some crates piled nearby him. He opened one, rummaged about for a moment and then pulled out a small cloth bag. He tossed it to Tanch. “Open it.”
Tanch did so, and pulled forth a handful of something that looked like small dried berries.
“Name them,” said du Maris.
Tanch studied the berries. He knew them not.
“Any spice merchant out of Lomion City would know,” said du Maris,” a hand on his sword hilt.
“Show us your armor,” said Claradon, as he removed his traveling cloak, revealing his gleaming plate and chain armor beneath. “Come now, you don’t think us so deaf not to have heard your armor clanking as we ran through the streets.”
Du Maris stared at the crest etched on Claradon’s breastplate. “You’re from Dor Eotrus?”
“We are.”
Du Maris removed his cloak, revealing armor similar to Claradon’s. His men did the same.
“Church knights,” said Ob.
“Sundarians,” replied Claradon, the elf woman by his side, her face sad, but proud.
Du Maris nodded. “I am Sir Hithron du Maris, of the Sundarians, as you have surmised.”
Claradon put a hand to Tanch’s shoulder and moved past him. “I know your family. A du Maris sits on the Council of Lords of Lomion.”
“My uncle,” said du Maris.
“I am Brother Claradon Eotrus, Lord of Dor Eotrus, and Caradonian Knight. These others are with me, save for this young woman whom we rescued in the square.”
Du Maris studied Claradon. “A Dor Lord in Tragoss? That’s a rare thing. Show me your signet and your shield.”
Claradon held out his right hand. A golden ring with the Eotrus family crest dominated his ring finger.
Du Maris approached, studied the ring for a time, and nodded.
Claradon pulled up his right sleeve to reveal a silver bracer embossed with an image of a small shield within which was inscribed the insignia of the order of Caradonian Knights.
Du Maris studied it, and then pulled a golden chain from beneath his tunic. From it hung a golden medallion in the shape of a small shield inscribed with runes. He displayed it before Claradon.
“I’m honored to meet you, Lord Eotrus.”
“And I, you, Sir Hithron.”
They shook hands.
“I’m from Dor Caladrill originally, so I know well the Eotrus name. Your noble family has safeguarded Lomion’s northern border with honor and courage for many generations. Be at ease, you and yours are welcome here. Tell me please, what business brings you to Tragoss Mor?”
Claradon stared at du Maris for some moments before responding. “We’re following a ship called The White Rose. She is a day out of port at least. My brother is aboard, a prisoner.”
“Who holds him?”
“The Shadow League, we believe.”
Du Maris nodded. “Long have black rumors swirled about that name.”
“What is this place?” said Claradon, looking about the Spartan room. “A safehouse?”
“More than that. To outsiders, it’s but the warehouse of a middling merchant. In truth, it’s a Sundarian Chapterhouse, the southernmost chapterhouse in all Midgaard, and rather secret, of course. I am its preceptor.”
Du Maris’s voice took on a grave tone. “Were you not who you are, or someone else I could trust, you would not leave this place now that you know what and where it is.”
Claradon nodded. “I understand your caution; I’ve heard the Thothians arrest Churchmen on sight.”
“That they do. Your men can be trusted, of course?” said du Maris, with a hint of a smile.
“Have no fear there. I expect the Thothians would enjoy arresting us as much as you.”
“I doubt that,” said du Maris. “We’ve many enemies here, amongst the monks, if not the common folk.
Du Maris looked to the elf. “Young lady, what are you called?”
“I am Kayla. Kayla Kazeran.”
“And how did you come to be a prisoner of the monks?”
“They attacked our ship. My brother and I were sailing down the Hudsar from the Linden Forest to sell our silks at Dover. A longship commanded by some monks attacked us.” She looked down at the floor; tears welled in her eyes.
“The monks attack ships, now?” said Ob.
“They said we had no right on the river—that it’s for volsungs only. They demanded we pay them a toll—a hundred pieces of silver. The captain wouldn’t pay and they put an arrow through his chest. Before we could pull away, they swarmed aboard, killing everyone without cause or mercy. Now only I am left.”
“They’ve done much the same at least twice in the last month,” said du Maris. “They grow bolder now that they’ve fully taken over Tragoss. My condolences for your losses, Miss. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, but it’s over now. You’re safe here and we will see you safely home. The Linden isn’t far from the Good Hills. You can travel with Slipnet and his clansmen. I will send some of my men along to assure that have no more trouble.”
“Thanks, but no. There is nothing in Lindenwood for me to return to now.”
“You can’t remain in Tragoss Mor. As an elf, it’s just not safe.”
“I’m only one-sixth elf, or so the Lindonaire often remind me.”
“That matters little to the monks. If you’ve any elven looks, they mark you an elf and that’s that.”
“Believe me, I’ve no wish to be in this accursed city one moment more than I have to. These monks are the worst of men. Their kind is why my
people live apart from you volsungs.”
“Then what do you propose to do?” said Claradon.
She considered for a moment and turned to Claradon. “I know how to sail a bit, and to hunt with a bow, and I can wield a sword as good as most men. I will join your crew, if you’ll have me.”
Claradon’s eyebrows rose. “I—well—I don’t know—but—maybe—”
“That means, yes, in dumbass,” said Ob. “About time there was a woman on this adventure.”
“What about Bertha Smallbutt?” said Dolan.
“She doesn’t count,” said Ob.
“Why not?”
“Just because.”
“Getting you back to your ship won’t be so easy,” said du Maris. “At the first sounding of the whistles, the watchmen will have closed the gates between the Harbor District and the inner city. Passing the gates is no small task. Solid iron, fifteen feet high, with a dozen guards defending it, and more but a whistle away.”
“So if we hadn’t stopped in the square to help free the captives, our butts would’ve been trapped on this side anyhow?” said Ob.
“More than likely, yes,” said du Maris.
“So, how do we get through?”
Du Maris and his knights led the group through a narrow tunnel, dark and dank, deep beneath the streets of Tragoss Mor, torches held high to light their way. The tunnels went on and on.
“What are these tunnels?” said Claradon. “This is no basement or sewer.”
“Tragoss Mor is an ancient place,” said du Maris. “City upon city has been built on this ground, one atop the other. These tunnels are from olden days. They lead to most parts of the city. I can’t take you all the way to the docks, as that branch of the tunnel has collapsed, but I will get you close.”
“How did you find them?” said Claradon.
“We built them.”
Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) Page 18