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

by Thater, Glenn

“The Sundarians?”

  “Yes. My order has served here for long years. We use these passages to travel unseen. The citadel that the Thothians defile and call their temple was once our stronghold. Now we hide behind spice sacks, but the landscape will change again with the passing years. It always does. We will outlast them.”

  After a time, they came upon a side passage, barred off and posted with a sign that read, “No entry—beware the beast.”

  “What is that about, du Maris?” said Ob, after tipping his flask.

  “There is a creature somewhere down that way. A demon. Something left over from the old world. No man goes that way and lives.”

  “Old friend of yours, Theta?” said Ob.

  Theta ignored him.

  “Guess we’ll have to come back, eventually,” said Dolan.

  They traveled a goodly distance, and then turned down a side passage that ended at a rusty metal ladder bolted to the stone wall. Du Maris proceeded up and lifted a large flat stone banded with iron that covered the opening atop the tunnel. The group ascended and found themselves in a musty basement, unused and unkempt.

  “I can take you no farther,” said the Sundarian. “Above is an old warehouse, now abandoned. The western docks are about ten blocks due south.”

  XIII

  NOT LONG FOR VALHALLA

  “Don’t forget these words or

  the Duelist with be the death of you.”

  —Pipkorn

  “Lord Theta, Mr. Seran is coming,” said Dolan. “Up ahead.”

  “Dolan, you’ve got the eyes of a hawk,” said Artol squinting.

  Seran and two of his men approached, still several blocks away. They looked from side to side, searching, as they made their way down the avenue, which was only lightly crowded with pedestrians, carts, and the ever present street hawkers cajoling passersby into entering the shops that lined both sides of the street.

  “There must be trouble,” said Ob. “Everyone was supposed to stay with the ship.”

  Seran looked relieved when he caught sight of the group some moments later and dashed the rest of the way toward them, waving them toward the mouth of a narrow alley that put them out of sight of most prying eyes along the avenue.

  “Lord Eotrus, Glimador sent us to find you. The Grey Talon berthed not two piers away from The Falcon. Her marines are crawling the docks, bristling for a fight. Somehow they know you’re not aboard and they’ve sent patrols to scour the city for you.”

  “Is the ship secure?” said Theta.

  “For now,” said Seran. “But they aim to move on us, I’m sure. There are a lot of them and they have Kalathen Knights with them—more than a few.”

  “Dolan, see if anyone followed Seran,” said Theta. Dolan pulled down the cap that covered his ears a bit farther, nodded, and slipped away, silent as a panther.

  “Some followed,” said Seran. “We lost them in the crowd back in the dock ward. We thought it worth the risk to warn you.”

  “You did well,” said Claradon.

  “It’s the Alders behind this,” said Ob. “Let’s cut the buggers down. Darn it boy, you should’ve killed that old fart Barusa when you had the chance.”

  “His kinsmen would still be after us,” said Claradon.

  “Without stinking Barusa they would be lost. We’re in the deep stuff, now. They’ll be at least twice our number, perhaps more.”

  “Three or four times our number, I would say, from those I’ve seen,” said Seran.

  “And we can’t count on Slaayde’s crew to stand with us,” said Artol.

  “We’ve no time to linger here,” said Theta. “We push through to The Falcon, fighting our way if we have to and put straight to sail.”

  “Agreed,” said Claradon.

  “And if we run into the Kalathens?” said Ob.

  “We power through,” said Theta.

  The group marched down the avenue toward the docks. They had not gone two blocks before they were spotted by a Talon patrol that blew their whistles, calling to their brethren. The group sped toward the docks at a run, citizens scattering in a panic as the armored men barreled through.

  A dozen men clad in chain mail armor and black cloaks stepped out from the shadows and barred their path. A tall man in silvered armor stood at the fore.

  “A Myrdonian,” said Ob. “The Chancellor’s men.”

  Claradon turned to Kayla as he drew his sword. “Stay back from the fighting and keep your head covered.”

  “Fine,” said she sharply from beneath her cowl, though she drew a short sword that du Maris had given her.

  The two groups moved together. Theta, Artol, Seran, and Claradon leaped out in front. Theta’s sword flashed by quicker than the eye could follow. Artol’s huge hammer smashed through the air, two, perhaps, three times. Six men were down, including the Myrdonian, as quick as that. The others scattered, running for their lives. Neither Claradon nor Seran even had time to strike a blow. What citizens were about screamed and scattered.

  The group continued at a run toward the docks.

  “They’re on the roofs,” said Ob. “Tracking us.”

  “I see them,” said Theta.

  “They’re signaling ahead, they will be waiting for us.”

  Two blocks later, in sight of the ship, they came upon another group of men that stood in a line across the street, blocking any path to The Falcon. Eight men in heavy armor; swords, axes, and shields in hand. The corpses of several Thothian monks lined the street. But for these dead and the men from The Talon, the street was deserted. The group pulled up, and readied their weapons.

  “Kalathens,” said Ob. “The big Myrdonian out in front is one of Barusa’s brothers. Bartol or Blain, I think.”

  “Looks like they had a dispute with the Thothians,” said Artol.

  “Four more knights behind us,” said Dolan, bow in hand, an arrow nocked.

  “Hold your ground for a parley,” said Bartol. At the sound of Bartol’s voice, a group of soldiers streamed out of the buildings on either side—two dozen at least, several Myrdonian Knights amongst them. The soldiers wore the livery of House Alder. A number of them held crossbows, which they leveled toward the group.

  “I am Bartol, Knight Captain of the Myrdonians, here on order of the Lomerian High Council. Make no foolish moves, men, as you can see, you’re far outnumbered. There is no need for a battle here.”

  Bartol held up a piece of parchment. “This is a warrant, signed by the crown, lawful and true, for the arrest of Claradon Eotrus and the foreign mercenary that accompanies him. They are accused of complicity in the death of Aradon Eotrus, lawful and true Lord of Dor Eotrus.”

  “Lies,” yelled Ob.

  “That is for the High Magisters to determine. I have been ordered to bring them back to face these charges and a trial, fair and equitable. If they’re innocent, they will go free. They will be well treated, you have my word. Those that wish may even return with us, provided you turn over your weapons. The rest of you are free to go.”

  “Eat dung,” yelled Ob.

  Bartol winced at the remark, no doubt bristling at having to take such insults from a gnome. “Listen to the imp, men, and you will all end up dead or in irons. We know your reputations and your skills, but you’re outnumbered four to one, that gives you no chance. This writ is legal and true. There is no honor in standing against it. If you do, you stand against your country and your king. Eotrus and his man will answer to these charges one way or another. There is no need for any of us to die today.”

  “Go home, Alder, and take your stinking paper with you,” said Artol.

  Frustration filled Bartol’s face. “Last chance, men. Turn over the upstart or die where you stand.”

  The crossbowmen each took a step forward, bows leveled.

  Claradon didn’t know what to do. His instincts told him to fight, but what if the warrant was valid? What if it was signed by the king? Even now, the army could be marching on Dor Eotrus, to confiscate his lands. What of
Ector and Malcolm? Would they be arrested? Would they be killed? He may never be able to return home without risking being arrested on sight. But it couldn’t be true. The Alders are schemers and liars; this was nothing more than a trick to get his men to turn against him.

  He had to fight. Four to one odds were poor in the best of times, and today they faced a dozen Knights of Kalathen, some of the best trained blademasters in all Midgaard. The very mention of their order was enough to put most men to flight. Not to forget the Alder crossbowmen. At this range, armor would be scant protection. What to do?

  Without a word, Theta strode forward, shield held high in his right hand, falchion in his left.

  “Stop him,” commanded Bartol.

  Crossbows fired at Theta from the front and from both sides. Theta never slowed nor made any attempt to dodge. He merely shifted his shield to intercept what bolts he could. The heavy steel tipped projectiles made a loud pinging sound as they bounced off Theta’s shield. Two bolts struck his plate armor but each ricocheted harmlessly away.

  The remainder of the crossbowmen fired; their bolts equally ineffective.

  “Charge!” yelled Ob.

  And they did.

  “Dead gods, this is the end,” said Tanch.

  Claradon ran forward yelling a war cry to Odin, his sword and shield at the ready. Kayla ran beside him. Men raced at him from all sides. Battle engaged all around. Before he reached the line of Kalathens, Alder men intercepted him from his right flank.

  A sword crashed into his shield, numbing his arm for an instant. He struck back blindly and felt his sword strike a man’s armor and bite into his flesh. He pulled his blade free, and blood splattered his face and tabard. He heard the man scream, but never did see his face.

  An older man with a scarred face came at him, a sergeant in House Alder’s guard by his uniform. Half Claradon’s size was he, but wiry and quick as a cobra with his sword. Claradon fought on instinct, his sword slashing and stabbing, employing all the maneuvers that Sir Gabriel and Ob had drilled into him hour after hour in Dor Eotrus’ battle square. Scar-face lunged in close with a thrust. Claradon dodged the blow and pummeled the man’s face with his shield. Scar-face staggered back, his face crushed, his ruin of a nose spouting blood. Claradon didn’t know where Kayla was, but he had to look out for her, to keep her safe.

  Claradon saw Ob fighting not far away, his mithril axe chopped and slashed and then shattered his opponent’s sword. Then he saw Kayla. She lunged in beside Ob and stabbed the man he was fighting through the gut. Apparently, she needed no protection.

  Claradon saw Tanch club a man with his staff. The man’s skull shattered with the impact; bits of blood and chunks of brain went flying.

  The battle had taken Claradon into the mouth of an alley, just off the main avenue. Two soldiers of House Alder appeared before him, swords blazing, the wild in their eyes. They pressed him hard, coordinating their strikes. If not for his large shield, Claradon would have had no chance to parry the hail of blows. A lucky slash nicked one man’s neck and he dropped back. Claradon took advantage of the momentary reprieve and hacked at the remaining man with all his strength. He beat the man back, raining overhand blows down at his head. When the man lifted his guard too high, Claradon’s sword bit deep into his chest. The man grabbed at the sword, his eyes wide with disbelief as his lifeblood spurted out. Claradon kicked him in the chest and wrenched his sword free just as the second man lunged in again.

  Ob crashed into number two, knocking him to the ground. As Ob moved to finish him, Claradon spun, sensing something behind him.

  There stood death, gaunt, wild, and merciless. Kaledon of the Gray Waste, spear in hand, the battle lust of the barbarian burning in his black eyes.

  Claradon had heard his name uttered in fear and fireside stories since he was small boy, though this man looked less than ten years his elder. The ponytail, the tattooed chest, bare and unarmored, there could be no doubt this was he. The Wild Pict they called him—a bounty hunter and professional killer. Here not to settle some score like the Alders or serve some political agenda, but simply for coin. Here to kill him for money.

  Claradon took no comfort in the thought that sometimes a man’s reputation is far greater than his prowess, for Pipkorn’s warning echoed in his mind. Beware Kaledon—a foul sword master of mystical power.

  There were no taunts or boasts, no bows or salutes. No nods of respect, no looks of regret at what now must be done. Nothing but death flared in Kaledon’s eyes as he sprang like a tiger, leaping high into the air, his spear bound for Claradon’s throat.

  Claradon caught the blow on his shield and punched with it, hoping to break the shaft or even to smash Kaledon himself, but he hit only air. The Pict’s thrust barely glanced the shield—a feint with no power behind it. Claradon felt something crash into the side of his helm. Then he was falling.

  Claradon opened his eyes. He was on the ground. The battle sounds were strangely muffled. He looked up and saw Kaledon stalking toward him, spear held in both hands. Two more steps and he would drive the tip through Claradon’s throat or a joint in his plate armor, and that would be the end.

  Claradon yelled, “Odin,” and Kaledon screamed some crazed, Pictish war cry as the barbarian raised his spear high for the deathblow. Claradon’s mouth moved to form words almost of its own accord. Ancient words, words lost to all but adepts of the Caradonian Knights, words forbidden to be spoken except in dire-most need. Claradon spoke them quick, a few short words, that was all. A bolt of numinous energy, sparkling blue, sprang out from Claradon’s hand and blasted into Kaledon. The Pict was flung through the air and slammed into the stout wall of a building many yards away.

  Claradon’s head was swimming. His helm was gone. Blood streamed down the side of his face. More blood came from his nose; he tasted it in his mouth, gagged and spit.

  The battle still raged throughout the avenue. At any moment, another enemy could enter the alley and he would be done for unless he got to his feet and cleared his head. He had to get up.

  Claradon grabbed his sword and pulled himself up. He felt dizzy for a moment, but then it passed, though his head pounded. He backed up against the wall of the alley.

  He saw Artol swinging his hammer and trading blows with a tall knight.

  Four soldiers pressed Seran; their swords clanged against his stout armor as he desperately tried to beat them back.

  Across the alley, a barrel and some crates fell over. Rising behind them was the Pict.

  His chest was charred black and smoking, but still he stood, the same madness in his eyes. His spear was gone, but he drew a sword from his belt. He vaulted effortlessly over a waist-high pile of debris and advanced, seemingly unhampered and unfazed by the ugly wound to his chest.

  Adrenaline pumped through Claradon; his heart pounded. I will finish this. I will not be defeated. The two warriors charged at each other, the young knight, full of honor and ideals, and the brute, savage and wild, cagey and relentless, unyielding as the sea.

  Their swords clashed together: a thunderous blow that would have shattered lesser blades and numbed the arms of lesser men.

  Then came the swordplay. Claradon’s measured strokes were conventional, skillful, powerful, yet full of finesse. An expert was he, working sword and shield together as two halves of the same weapon, artfully wielding his shield as much for attack as for defense.

  The Pict’s way was altogether different. For him, swordplay had no styles or maneuvers to master; the sword was an extension of his arm, a part of his very being. He wielded it fluidly yet wildly, without thought or plan, attacking and reacting, all with the preternatural instincts of the barbarian, the primitive. His thrusts were cobra strikes; his slashes, lightning; his cuts, the swipe of a bear’s claws. So fast was the Pict, that Claradon, for all his skill, could parry at best two of each three strokes. Ten seconds into their melee, Claradon would have been dead three times over, if not for his steel plate and shield. These and his art were his e
dge and he would use them unto the last.

  The Pict’s sword chopped off a third of Claradon’s shield, nearly taking part his hand with it. His stabs and thrusts had bit into Claradon’s armor at several joints, cutting his chainmail. Claradon felt blood flowing from several wounds, though none seemed bad. He couldn’t match the Pict in speed or strength or skill and his armor was failing him.

  Claradon roared and hacked and as the Pict dodged back, he gained just enough time to voice more words of power—his one chance to survive.

  His words spoken, a bolt of translucent blue flame launched from the tip of his sword and arced into the Pict’s chest. The Pict’s whole body vibrated; all his muscles seemed to lock up for a moment, and then he staggered backward; the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Claradon plowed forward and slashed the Pict across the chest, biting deep into his flesh.

  The Pict roared in pain and returned Claradon’s strike as he fell, horribly wounded. The warblade slashed across Claradon’s breastplate, cleaving through at the center. Claradon stumbled backward. Blood seeped through his armor soaking his tabard. How bad the wound was, Claradon could not yet tell. Dead gods, he thought, has he killed me?

  Claradon felt afire as his amulet brightened and seared his chest.

  “Eotrus!” boomed a powerful voice.

  Claradon turned, dazed, his shield down, his sword hanging loose from its wrist strap.

  But an arm’s length away stood Milton DeBoors, the duelist of Dyvers.

  Claradon saw the thrust, but had no time or strength to move. He watched the blade enter near the center of his chest, precisely where the Pict had shredded his breastplate.

  Everything now moved in slow motion.

  The sword sank halfway to the hilt, stopping only when it exited Claradon’s back and slammed into the inside face of the plate armor protecting his rear.

  Claradon stared down at the sword in disbelief, his mouth hanging open. Strangely, it didn’t hurt, not until DeBoors slid the blade out again—then, there was nothing but the pain.