Harbinger of Doom (An Epic Fantasy Novel) (Harbinger of Doom Volumes 1 and 2)

by Thater, Glenn

  “I doubt that, I do,” said Dolan, scowling at the crusty gnome.

  “Bah,” spouted Ob before taking a long swill from his wineskin. “I would fancy a taste of them wines you mentioned though. I suppose if he likes a good bottle, he can't be all bad.”

  “I thank the gods that Sir Gabriel is with us in this,” said Claradon. “If he hadn't returned from hunting, if we had to do this without him . . . “Claradon shook his head, and tightly closed his eyes for a moment. Then he tried to down a spoonful of the soup.

  Though Gabriel only served House Eotrus for the previous dozen years or so, he had made his mark on Claradon's upbringing and his life. Of all the great men that Claradon knew, Gabriel was the one he yearned most to be like, the one whom he endeavored to model himself after. Where Aradon was his beloved father, Ob his friend, mentor, and lore master, Sir Gabriel was his hero. Where his father's book learning and Ob's vast experience about the realms had brought them great knowledge and wisdom, Gabriel far surpassed them. There seemed to be nothing he didn't know, nowhere he hadn't been. Where his father was a great swordsman with few peers in all the land, even his skills paled in comparison with Gabriel's. Verily, Gabriel could best any five knights of the Dor at once in mock combat—such was his skill. When Sir Gabriel spoke to a group of men, even those that didn't know him, he had no need to shout above them to gather their attention. The moment he uttered a word, they all went silent; everyone wanted to hear his words. Perhaps it was the stories about him—his slaying of the fire wyrm, his defeat of the barrow-wight, his routing of the lugron horde, or any of the myriad tales that abounded of him, or perhaps it was merely his regal bearing and commanding presence. Why a man such as he, who had the strength, skills, and knowledge to carve out an empire for himself would be content to serve as Weapons Master of a border fortress, Claradon could never fathom. When he asked him one day, Gabriel said that he had his reasons, but would speak no more about it. He was secretive about some things, which was odd because he was so generous in gifting knowledge to others, whether it be in the form of martial training or most any subject you could name.”

  Claradon looked at his friends and then at the knights who huddled around the other fires. How many of them will be alive in the morning, he wondered. How many will return to the joyful embraces of their family and friends? How many—and which ones—will never see home again?

  Claradon dreaded the thought of seeing the faces of the grieving families: the wives, the children, the crying, the wailing, the pain that they would all feel—that same terrible pain he struggled with every day since his mother's passing. They would blame him, and rightly so. For the first time, he understood the weighty burden his father bore every day. Claradon wasn’t certain he was strong enough to bear it—and, at any rate, he knew he wasn’t ready to do so.

  After a time, Ob grew curious, as gnomes are often wont to do. “Come on boy. Let's go and see what them two is up to.” Ob, Dolan, and Claradon rose and walked toward the two knights at the rim. Theta and Gabriel glanced at the three as they approached, hesitating only a moment before they continued their conversation.

  “Do you sense it?” said Gabriel.

  “I do,” said Theta, “I thought you might as well.”

  “The weave of magic is strong here—stronger than it has been in ages, and it's more than just this magical circle,” said Gabriel. “There was great evil here of late; it comes with the mist, I suspect.”

  “When the mist returns, creatures of Nifleheim will return with it,” said Theta.

  “Gabe and me have fought such beasties a time or two over the years,” said Ob. “Once over in the Dead Fens, another time in Southeast. I expect you have also, you being such a big hero and all.”

  “I have fought their kind, many times,” said Theta as he peered down at the bellicose gnome.

  “But the others have not,” said Gabriel, gesturing toward the encampment. “They are fine soldiers, but they have no idea what terrors await them here this eve.”

  “They will learn, or they will die,” said Theta. “Such is the way of things.”

  “A regular ray of sunshine, aren't you, Theta?” said Ob.

  “Put your teeth together, gnome, and open your ears,” said Theta. “This place, it is even more sinister than I think you realize. It is becoming a gateway, a portal, to a place more horrific than any mortal can imagine—a place of incomprehensible evil, of mind-shattering, idiotic chaos, of pure insanity. Those who dwell there, would make Midgaard like that. This is what we must prevent. This is why we are here. We must seal this gateway, forever. This is our true quest.”

  Ob's mouth dropped open and he stared at Theta in disbelief. Gabriel merely stoically nodded his agreement. Theta's words so shocked Claradon he could say nothing.

  “What are you about, Theta?” said Ob. “Portal to another world? What madness are you spewing? Listen, young fellow—I know you wouldn't guess it from looking at me pretty face, but I'm three hundred and sixteen years old and have been from one side of this continent to the other more times than you've had birthdays, and I have never seen, nor heard tell of such a thing. Sure, there be some crazy sorcerers what can conjure up a strange beastie or two from who knows where, but nothing more. Gateway to another world, bah.”

  Theta responded in a smooth and level tone. “Nevertheless, what I have said is true.” Just a hint of anger showed in the set of his jaw and slight furl of his brow. “I will prevent the gateway from opening or close it once it does. You men can assist or not—it matters little to me. I will do what needs to be done.”

  “Bah! Mister Know-it-All,” said Ob. “You are nothing but a boaster and a braggart with no true mettle. Theta, if some creature from another world be coming at you, I bet you would soil that fancy armor of yours in a heartbeat. Hell, you would be down on your knees begging for mercy, pleading for your life, or running away with your tail between your legs.”

  “Enough!” said Gabriel. “Lord Theta is here to help us, not to be insulted by a loudmouthed gnome. I will hear no more of it.”

  “I think what I think, and I'll say what I say, and if anybody don't like it, they can stuff it,” spat the gnome.

  “Lord Theta,” said Claradon, “perhaps you could explain your reasoning regarding this gateway you mentioned? What is it that you think is going on out here?”

  Theta paused and took a slow, deep breath before responding. “It's what we discussed afore. I believe followers of the Nifleheim lords are using the arcane properties of this eldritch place, the ancient temple and the other ruins that were here, and their own fell sorceries, to open a gateway to the realm of Nifleheim. When that happens, all hell will come through—literally. It will mean the end of civilization. The end of everything we all hold dear. They will pour through by the hundreds, then the thousands, and tens of thousands: an army of madness and monsters without end. There will be no mercy or quarter given: they will kill everyone.”

  “But why do you think that? All we've seen here is an empty field, a few golden coins, and some tracks, nothing more. It doesn’t—”

  “In part, because I have seen such things afore, in times past, but mostly because of the demon spoor and stink that pollutes this place.” He pointed to the smooth, stony soil. “The tracks in the circle.”

  “You are daft, man,” said Ob. “I told you, there be no tracks there. The only tracks we've seen are outside the circle, and they're just tracks of men and horses. You're just spouting more of your fairy stories and they don’t impress us. We’re not country bumpkins out here, mister. We’re soldiers, we’re Northerens, born and bred. Bumps in the night don't scare us.” He took a swig from his wineskin.

  “Look again, gnome,” said Theta in an even tone as he pointed at the ground within the circle. “Perhaps you were blinded by the forest and failed to see the trees.”

  “What?” said Ob, turning toward Claradon with a bewildered expression. “I don't understand this fellow. He talks all funny.”


  “Maybe you should have another look,” said Claradon. “Maybe there is something there, something that you missed.”

  “I was Master Scout of the Dor since before you were born,” said Ob sternly. “Nobody can read tracks better than me—not rangers, not stinking elves, and certainly not no tin cans. But I'll have another gander, just to settle this business once and for all.” Ob got down on his hands and knees at the rim of the circle, torch in hand, peered down and carefully studied the ground.

  Theta squatted next to him. “There, and there,” he said, as he gestured toward some small features on the surface of the hardened soil. “And there and there.” Ob studied the ground, moved about over a small area, and poked at the soil. This went on for some time. When he finally stood up and turned towards the others, his face was ashen and contorted in a look of shock and bewilderment.

  “I cannot hardly believe what I've seen. I missed it afore; I missed it entirely,” he said as he shook his head in disgust.

  “What did you miss?” said Claradon. “Are there tracks there or not?”

  “Theta spoke the truth, about the tracks at least. There be tracks all right. There be nothing but tracks, which is why I missed them. That ground—it has been stamped down and compressed by a thousand, thousand feet that walked over and over it. The tracks are so overlapped that they obscure each other almost completely, making them appear not to be tracks at all. But they are—I'm sure of it now. And they're not people tracks or the tracks of some animal neither. They're from some type of beasties—monsters the like of which I've never seen afore.”

  “How do you know that?” said Claradon.

  Ob held out his palm and displayed an object that he pulled from the soil. It was a claw—pitch-black, more than nine inches long and nearly three inches wide, and strangely twisted.

  Blood dripped from Ob's hand. “It's razor sharp,” he said. “It was embedded deep in the soil—only the back edge stuck out just a hair. And look at the size of it. No natural beast has such a claw.”

  “Dead gods,” said Claradon. “It must've broken off some creature; some thing from the hell Lord Theta spoke of.”

  “It looks scorched,” said Gabriel. “Almost charred, as if it has been through a fire.”

  “It's more than charred,” said Claradon. “It is melted.”

  “All right, Theta,” said Ob. “So how do we seal this gateway?”

  “When the mist returns, we will find a way,” said Theta. “There is always a way.”

  “Find a way? What the heck kind of plan is that?” said Ob. “And what—and what of Aradon and the others?”

  Theta looked toward Claradon before responding.

  “Besides the one man that was taken away in the wagon, they are dead. Of this, I have little doubt.”

  Claradon's throat tightened up and his hands grew icy cold when he realized the truth of Theta's words. Time seemed to slow down and the world closed in around him. Gabriel put an arm around his shoulders. “We'll get through this,” he said softly.

  “How do you know all these things?” said Ob. “You’re not just some knight on holiday. Who are you, Theta? Who are you really?”

  Theta turned and began to walk away. “Perhaps tonight you will find out.”

  Ob's weathered visage blanched at Theta's ominous words. Gabriel, Ob, Dolan, and Claradon watched the mysterious knight walk back to the makeshift encampment.

  “Should we tell the men?” said Claradon.

  “What would you have me tell them?” said Gabriel. “That the world is ending?”

  Claradon shrugged.

  “That we have a madman amongst us?” said Ob. “Mark my words, he will be the doom of us all. Stinking foreigners.”

  “You're the stinky one,” said Dolan wrinkling his nose before he set off after Theta.

  XIV

  THE FOG

  “There,” said Claradon, pointing. “The mist forms at the circle’s center.” He turned to Ob. “What is the hour?”

  Ob looked up at the night sky. “Less than one bell to midnight. Right on time.”

  “It’s forming too fast to be natural,” said Claradon.

  “So now you’re an expert on mist formation?” said Ob.

  “It’s sorcery,” said Tanch. “I warned you,” he said glancing about furtively. “We don’t have enough men.”

  “Black magic, it is,” whispered Dolan.

  “Mount up and form around me,” shouted Sir Gabriel.

  The knights scrambled to their feet.

  “Stop up your ears with the wax, bare your weapons, and stand ready,” boomed Ob.

  The men rushed to their horses and aligned them shoulder to shoulder in expert fashion, four rows deep. In moments, they were ready; a bastion of solid steel and grim resolve. The knights in the front row held gleaming pole arms honed to a fine edge. Those of the second and third rows held shorter weapons. The fourth row was mostly crossbows.

  An unnatural wind sprang up and the fog rapidly expanded radially outward from the circle’s center and rolled toward them like a giant wave, gathering speed as it went.

  “This is it,” said Dolan, a smile on his face.

  The men struggled to keep the horses calm and in formation as the mist wave came on; they braced themselves against it.

  In moments, the eerie cloud engulfed the entire circle and blasted into an unseen barrier at the circle’s rim with a dull, echoing thud. The fog crashed against the invisible barrier, but could not pass. The air about the men grew cold, and their steamy breath rose from their faces.

  Standing just beyond the rim, the expedition was untouched by the foul vapors. No one dared move; they barely breathed. Moments passed that seemed like hours while they looked and listened for some sign of their enemies. But there was nothing. Nothing but silence. Nothing but the roiling mist before them. It billowed against the unseen barrier as if to topple it with a fierce pressure, as if it had a will of its own. It was like a wave that crested but could not fall.

  “What’s holding it back?” said Ob. “Wizard—is it you? You up to your tricks?”

  “Not I,” said Tanch. “This is quite beyond me. Perhaps the buried coins somehow hold it back.”

  “Or attract it,” said Dolan.

  They heard a rumbling sound, though from where it came they could not tell, and then a second gust of wind sprang up. Claradon saw Theta lower his visor and signal something to Dolan, who ducked and covered his eyes. Theta bent low in the saddle and leaned forward.

  “Turn your horses,” shouted Gabriel. “Put your backs to the fog. Now!”

  The unseen barrier abruptly dropped. The fogbank blasted outward and swallowed the whole of the expedition within its maw. With the fog came a thunderous wind and a fierce cold that blasted through the expedition’s ranks and momentarily blinded them all. The temperature instantly plunged to well below freezing. Horses panicked and screamed, snorted, reared, stumbled and went down. Helmets blew off. Shields went flying. Weapons were dropped. Men yelled and cursed and fell and were stepped on.

  As his horse reared, Claradon was able to slip off its back and land lightly on his feet, but he was knocked over when another horse careened into him. Claradon looked up and saw Theta’s horse rearing, but Theta was secure in the saddle, his lance pointed to the sky. Claradon watched as Theta looked toward the men and saw that most were down, along with their horses, the rest, scattered. He turned back toward the circle’s center and boldly advanced alone into the preternatural mist. Dolan scrambled to pull his horse up, then vaulted into the saddle and followed his master.

  “The fog stings my skin and my head spins,” said one knight, before being overcome by a fit of coughing as he tried to rise.

  “I can’t see,” said another man. “It’s burning my eyes.”

  “And my throat,” said another, coughing. “This mist is poison; we’ve got to get clear.”

  “It is troll's breath,” said another knight. “They’ll be on us in a moment. St
and fast.”

  “It’s dark sorcery,” said another man, who promptly bent over and vomited his dinner.

  “Troll's breath,” repeated several others.

  “Devil’s work,” said another. “It’s devil's work.”

  There was coughing and wheezing and vomiting all around as the diabolical fog settled around them and the last of the wind died away. The fog clung to their flesh and threatened to rend it from their very bones. The frigid temperatures it brought with it chilled the men to the core and sapped their strength. A strange bestial odor filled the air and grew stronger by the moment.

  “Steady men,” shouted Ob. “It's not stinking troll’s breath, you idiots. Hold your ground and remember your training.”

  “Get back in formation,” boomed Sir Gabriel. “Get on your horses and reform the line, now.”

  “My horse ran off,” said one man. Several others said the same.

  “Forget them,” said Gabriel. “Now you’re footmen. Get back on the line.”

  The men scrambled to comply.

  “What of the mist?” said Ob to Gabriel. “It could be some kind of poison gas; maybe deadly.”

  “We’ve already breathed it deep,” said Gabriel. “If it is deadly, we’re done for; we might as well hurry on and take some of them with us.”

  “Aye,” said Ob. “Assuming that there’s anyone in there,” which was impossible to tell for the thick, clinging mist darkened the area and limited their vision to little more than ten feet.

  Soon, they were ready, though down more than a dozen horses, and several of the men were battered, bruised, and bleeding. Serious injury amongst the knights was staved off only by the quality of their armor and their training. The effects of the mist diminished with time, but the nausea and lightheadedness remained, as did the frigid cold.

  “Where is Mr. Fancy Pants?” said Ob as he looked around. “Hiding in the back somewhere or has he run off?”