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

by Thater, Glenn

  Despite the nondescript cloaks worn by the group, the wary denizens of The Heights marked their passing. Some folk made way for the sturdy group, and others stood glaring from doorways, windows, and darkened alleys. Not a place for an outsider to pass safely alone this was.

  “Just where are you taking us, Mister Tanch?” said Dolan.

  “To Master Pipkorn, I hope,” said the wizard. “Assuming that this thing actually works.”

  “Where is Old Pointy Hat hiding?” said Ob.

  “I can't say, I'm afraid, though it seems we're heading for Southeast.”

  “Southeast! Oh, that just beats it,” said Ob. “All we need.”

  “It can't be much worse than this place,” said Dolan.

  “The Heights are a palace compared to Southeast,” said Ob. “Good thing I brought my axe.”

  “You bring your axe everywhere,” said Tanch.

  “Gnomes are always prepared. That's why we're so long lived.”

  “How much farther, Mister Tanch?” asked Dolan.

  “We're there, laddie,” said Ob gesturing ahead.

  Before the group was a high stone wall, many feet thick, with a massive wood and steel gate and iron portcullis, both open. Several armed Lomion City guardsmen stood about and approached when the group made to pass through.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said one of the guards, apparently the officer in charge.

  “Afternoon,” said Ob loudly, standing on his toes to catch the officer's eye.

  “This is Mideon Gate; beyond lies Southeast,” said the guard. He addressed Theta and took no notice of Ob. He stared as if expecting to see surprise at his announcement and for the group to turn away.

  “We know where we are, man,” said Ob. “We're not daft you know. Now stand aside so we might pass.”

  The guards did not make way.

  The officer narrowed his eyes and scanned the group with suspicion. “What is your business in Southeast?” he said, still addressing Theta.

  “Our business is our own, laddie,” said Ob. “If you move yourself aside, quick-like, I may not have to step on you.”

  “No one passes this gate,” said the officer in a stern voice, only now taking notice of Ob, “unless they state their business and sign their names in the logbook, by order of the Crown.”

  “And then may we pass all friendly-like, laddie?” said Ob.

  “Aye,” said the officer.

  “Then give me the logbook, bucko, and sign I will.”

  The officer motioned to one of his men, who passed Ob the logbook and a quill.

  “Here's the spot for our names, I see,” said Ob as he studied the book. “Too Tall is what they call me, and my friends are Scaredy Cat, Pointy Ears, and Mr. Fancy Pants,” he said, writing each name in turn. He passed the book back to the officer who stared at it dumbfounded.

  “As for our business—my friends and I are headed to the Brown Boar Inn to get famously drunk and beat people up.

  The officer’s mouth was open, but no words found their way out.

  “Let's go,” said Ob as he pushed forward passed the guards. They stared after the group as they made their way.

  “The gates close at dusk,” called out the officer, “and don't open again until dawn. Believe me, you don't want to get stuck in there after dark.”

  VI

  EDWIN OF ALDER

  Populated with a mix of residential buildings of rotting wood, decaying brick, and crumbling mortar, houses of ill repute, riotous gambling dens, seedy taverns, flea infested boarding houses, and fetid beggars' hovels, Southeast was the foulest district in the otherwise fair city of Lomion, capital city of the Kingdom of Lomion.

  A clinging mist continually hung over the district, sometimes even permeating indoors. The whole place radiated a sense of vast age and decay. An inexplicable malaise afflicted those goodly folk that braved its narrow streets and dismal alleyways. Those who lingered would oft grow morbid, grim, and even violent. Some said a strange vapor within the mist caused that madness; others attributed it to wizards' spells gone awry in ages past.

  “Not a fit place for proper folk,” said Ob as he eyed the ill-kept buildings that precariously leaned over both sides of the lane that they walked down, blocking out much of the day's light. “Dark, dismal, and dirty—always been that way, Southeast has. Mostly folks up to no good are seen hereabouts—cutthroats and scoundrels, the lot of them.”

  “And gnomes,” said Tanch, the Duke's talisman in his hand.

  Ob narrowed his eyes and glared at the wizard. “It's true: a gnome or two has lived around here over the years. Mind you, they are southern gnomes, from Grommel or Portland Vale, not Northerners like myself. My kin have more sense.”

  “Things have gotten worse in Southeast in recent years,” said Tanch. “I have heard that most common folk, including the beggars, have fled or gone missing. Even the thieves' guild moved out, as did most everyone else of sound mind. Only the crazies are left, and there are plenty of them, or so I hear.”

  Theta grabbed Tanch by the arm. “This is not a place to be cornered in. Why did you have us leave our horses?”

  Tanch winced from the pressure on his arm. “Forgive me—Lord Theta—but there—is something about the place—makes animals wild.” Theta released him and Tanch rubbed his shoulder. “It has always been that way, and grown worse of late, I'm told. If we had taken horses in here, they would've tried to throw us and run off.”

  “He's right,” said Ob. “Animals not accustomed to this place lose their heads and panic. I've seen it happen. The place isn't quite natural; some wizards mucked it up ages back. Stinking wizards.”

  Par Tanch looked stricken but offered no retort.

  “Them fellows following us have horses,” said Dolan, “and they're getting on good enough.”

  “What?” said Ob. “Following us?” Ob cupped a hand behind his right ear. “Be silent,” he said, pausing to listen. “Oh boy, you're right, I hear them coming. I thought I heard something a minute ago, but the darned wizard distracted me, as usual. Stinking wizards.” Ob glared at Tanch and took a swig from his wineskin.

  “Let's get out of this alley before they're on us,” said Theta.

  “Who are they?” said Ob. “That is what I want to know.”

  “Somebody's soldiers,” said Dolan. “They've been following us since before we entered Southeast, hanging well back, trying to stay out of sight. I caught a glimpse of them a couple of times.”

  The group picked up their pace, but so did their shadows. The talisman led them from narrow alley to narrow alley, with no wide way to turn off in to. Shutters slammed closed on upper floors as they passed. Theta halted and turned about. “They're coming up.”

  “What do we do?” said Tanch. “Run? Hide? Perhaps we should surrender?”

  “Keep quiet,” said Theta.

  Horses walked up the way behind the group, hooves echoing on the cobblestones, two by two, taking up nearly the full width of the narrow alley, their numbers unclear in the mist and gloom. The riders wore the chain mail vests and leather hauberks common to the soldiery of the wealthier classes, beneath dark-brown cloaks, save for their perfumed leader, swathed in a red silken cloak and pantaloons and black leathern armor.

  “Look what we have here,” said the leader, a handsome, dark-haired man in his thirties, as he struggled to keep his skittish mount under control. “Scared little rats scurrying down the alley. Stand aside rats and let your betters pass or we will run you down.” He and some of his men had hands to sword hilts, blades sheathed; others held steel crossbows, primed to fire.

  “Laddie, just who do you think you are to be speaking to honest folk like that?” said Ob.

  “I am Edwin of Alder,” said the rider. “You on the other hand are a half-grown mongrel rat by the look of it. Step aside, rat, so we may pass.”

  “Ob, we've no time for this,” Tanch hissed from a shadowy alcove that he had stepped into. “Just let them pass.”

&nb
sp; “They're not just passing,” said Dolan quietly. He edged into the shadows, unslung his bow from his shoulder, and reached for his arrows.

  “He's Barusa's nephew,” whispered Ob. “Seeking to settle the score with the Eotrus. He's here for blood.”

  “Perhaps you would care to step down, laddie, and see if you can push me aside?” said Ob.

  Edwin smiled. “That I would, dwarf.”

  “I ain't no stinking dwarf, Alder.”

  Edwin stepped down from his horse, eyes fixed on Ob, but wary of Theta who stood close by. Four of his men dismounted beside him. “You think the Eotrus can disgrace my uncle and my House and get away with it? You can't. Where is your brave new lord? Did he run at first sight of us? Or is he hiding in the shadows, all atremble?”

  “Lord Eotrus is not with us, laddie. If it's him you're after, you're out of luck. Best you get gone, afore there's any more unpleasantness.”

  “I'm afraid there will be a good deal of unpleasantness before I'm done with you, dwarf,” said Edwin as he drew his sword. His men did the same. “They say that despite his size and stench, the Castellan of Dor Eotrus is a sturdy warrior. Well, so am I, as you will soon see. Are you ready to die, dwarf?”

  “I'm ready to give you a lesson, pig, just as Claradon did to your stinking uncle.”

  Edwin sneered, stepped forward, and spun his blade in a whirling, looping pattern to this side and that, faster and faster, impressively so. Ob's axe was in his hand in an instant, his eyes darting back and forth following Edwin's blade.

  Edwin sprang forward and his blade crashed down, aimed for Ob's head. But then Theta was there, and blocked the blow up high with his massive falchion, though in truth, Ob's axe was well positioned to parry the strike without aid from anyone.

  Edwin grunted at the impact and recoiled as the big knight stepped around Ob and moved toward him. Edwin's upper arm felt afire; his sword dropped from his grasp; his fingers and forearm unresponsive, shaking, and numb.

  “Did I ask for help, Mr. Show-off?” said Ob to Theta.

  Edwin tripped as he backpedaled, landed on his rump, and rolled beneath the nearest horses, desperate to get clear of Theta. “Shoot him, you fools,” Edwin shrieked.

  Two crossbow bolts hurtled at Theta's chest from point blank range.

  Theta's sword arced purposely to the left and then to the right, each bolt twanging off the flat of the blade.

  The crossbowmen's eyes went wide with shock.

  “That was a mistake,” said Theta.

  A moment later, an arrow protruded from the forehead of one crossbowman, and then the other, courtesy of Dolan's bow.

  A rider bore down on Theta, yelling a battle cry. Theta blocked the rider's slash with his shield and lopped the man's arm off with an overhand strike of his war blade.

  Dolan put an arrow through the throat of another of Edwin's men, while Ob and Tanch engaged two more.

  In moments, Edwin found himself alone, a half dozen of his men down and dead, the rest fled with all their horses. Edwin spun around, disheveled, and in disbelief at what had so quickly happened. Abandoned and vulnerable, his sword on the cobblestones halfway between him and Theta.

  A horse trotted up from behind and when Edwin turned in relief, expecting one of his men to his rescue, a blade sliced deep into his cheek, rending him to the bone from temple to chin.

  Edwin screamed in agony, clutched at his face, and gazed in horror at his bloody hands.

  Claradon had struck the blow.

  “Aargh!” Edwin staggered against the alley wall and sought to stave the flow of blood from his ruined face. “You cowardly bastard,” yelled Edwin as blood streamed from between his fingers. “I will see you all dead for this. Every one of you.”

  Claradon fronted Edwin again, his sword tip inches from Edwin's throat. “Trouble us no more, Alder, or next time I will take your life, not just your looks.”

  “Let me cut the scum down, boy,” said Ob marching forward.

  “Dead gods,” called out Tanch. “Stop this madness for Odin's sake. Let him go.”

  Claradon motioned Ob back. “Get you gone, Alder, and trouble the Eotrus no more. Twice this week we’ve shown your House mercy; we will not do so again.”

  Edwin turned and staggered down the alley, cursing Claradon all the while.

  “We don't need an all-out war with the Alders,” said Claradon, “which is what we would have if we had killed him.”

  Ob clearly didn't agree but held his tongue.

  Dolan inspected each of Edwin's fallen—pockets, purse, and weapons.

  Tanch faced his comrades, flushed and exasperated, arms out to his sides, palms upraised. “Is this what we have come to?” he said, his voice wavering. “Cutting down noblemen in the streets? Picking the pockets of the dead,” he said pointing to Dolan. He stormed up to Theta. “These were men of Lomion, not monsters conjured from Nifleheim. They have families—parents, wives, children. Their lives have value.” He turned back to the others. “This is a civilized land,” he said, his voice growing ever shriller. “There are laws; there are laws. There will be consequences. You can't just kill retainers of a noble house and expect to get away with it. The repercussions will be grave and—”

  “You've killed men before,” said Theta.

  Tanch was taken aback; he took a step back, unsteady; his mouth continued to move but nothing more came out.

  “They started it,” said Ob to Tanch. “Don't poke the dragon and expect not to get dead, I say.” He looked toward Claradon. “What are you doing here, boy? You’re supposed to be off home with your brothers.”

  “Jude and Malcolm arrived early; we talked and I sent them back to the Dor. I couldn't go with them; I need to see this through. It was all I could do to keep them from coming with me.”

  “You've made your choice then, laddie,” said Ob. “Let's hope it was the right one.”

  “Eotrus.” Theta wiped clean his blade and sheathed it. “Next time you have an enemy at your mercy, show him none—you will live longer.”

  “More Nifleheim trinkets,” said Dolan as he rose from beside one of the corpses. He passed Theta several embossed gold coins, very similar to those they encountered in the Vermion Forest, and those recovered from the would-be assassins in Dor Lomion. “It seems these are quite popular around here.”

  “It's the callousness,” said Tanch shaking his head. He looked toward Dolan who held yet another gold coin lifted from one of the dead. “The casualness of it all. You disgust me. Have you no decency at all? No regard for life?”

  “Not sure,” said Dolan. “Should I?”

  “Did you notice, Mr. Genius, that the Alders started it?” said Ob. “They came to kill us, you fool, so close your trap, and fire that talisman thingy back up. We're not done for the day yet.”

  VII

  GRAND MASTER PIPKORN

  “Petitioners, Master Pipkorn,” announced the aged retainer. “Five in all; not one have I seen before. They refuse to doff their weaponry, and, most surprisingly, they carry a locator talisman. They say that Archduke Harringgold sent them.”

  Pipkorn looked surprised. “Do you recognize it? The talisman.”

  “It does resemble the one that you gave the Duke, Master, but I cannot be certain.”

  “What is their business?” asked Pipkorn, a hint of tension in his voice.”

  “They won't state their purpose to any but you, Master. I have rarely seen a stranger lot. Their spokesman is a foul-mouthed gnome called Too Tall. One of the others, an adept from the Tower—though I don't know his face. Another is a young knight, a nobleman by the look of him: sturdy and tall. The fourth is of part-elvish blood: ears pointed and pale skin of a sickly pallor—probably southern stock from the White Wood or perhaps farther afield.”

  “And the fifth?”

  “A garish behemoth of polished steel and chiseled stone with a strange accent that I can't place. Carries two swords, as if one isn't enough—both of some curvy, foreign design. I wo
uld have marked him an old knight-errant, but his suit of plate is more intricate than a tourney marshal's. Probably his great grandpop's ceremonial armor. As impressive as he looks, likely as not, neither the armor nor he has seen a real battle.”

  “And they won't yield their weapons?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Show them to the rotunda. I will be there directly.”

  The thick stone slabs that comprised the rotunda's door were banded in burnished steel and set on ingenious pivots that swung them inward with nary a touch—almost of their own accord. Beyond lurked a circular chamber of thirty-foot diameter and murky depth. A vast and cryptic design of bizarre geometry was etched in faded pigments across the chamber's stony floor. Torches hung from cast iron sconces about the perimeter, but no doors or windows did they brighten; the room, a barren expanse of cold hard stone, save when one looked up.

  A torch-illumed, domed ceiling capped the room. It bore designs geometric and pictorial—depicting scenes of fearful, non-Euclidean geometry, juxtaposed with fanciful renderings of mythological beasts battling heroes of yore. A masterwork in its day, now darkened and stained from untold years of smoke and decay. More than that, those who gazed at it too long grew faint or confused—a strange effect, not uncommon in Southeast, but stronger here than elsewhere in the district.

  A mezzanine encircled the chamber on high—twenty feet above its lonely slab, though well below the great dome. Adorned with a balustrade of grey stonework, the mezzanine empty, save for a stony throne of black upon which sat a cloaked figure.

  After the group stepped into the rotunda, the great doors swung closed behind them with a finality that declared that they would not open again that day or any other. Theta and Dolan stepped into the shadows, one to each side of the entry.

  Within that odd chamber, the group felt small, insignificant, intimidated. An unnatural atmosphere akin to the hellish temple of the Vermion chilled them to the bone.

  “Who seeks Grandmaster Pipkorn?” said the foreboding figure upon the throne, his voice resonating with the domed ceiling, his face concealed by his cloak and the chamber’s shadows. “Speak you your names and your business.”