“Make for the ship,” said Theta. “Run!”
“There are too many,” said Seran pointing to the soldiers ahead who even now reached The Falcon. “We'll never break through.”
“And with them others behind us, we'll not get out,” said Ob.
“The Falcon’s our only way out, so keep moving,” said Theta as he sped up and took the lead from the others.
The group barreled down The Falcon’s pier. The briny breeze that struck their faces carried the scent of blood. Other ships lined both sides of the long pier, gangways raised, sailors arrayed along rail and rigging, eyes fixed on The Falcon. Some shouted, some cheered, though what they yelled was lost in the general din. One ship pulled away from the pier in haste, its rigging not properly set; two others already sped away.
Near The Falcon's berth, the pier was in chaos. Freedom Guardsmen exchanged crossbow and bow fire with The Falcon’s defenders. The guardsmen shouted for boarding planks and ladders; The Falcon's retracted gangway leaving them no easy way to board. Most of their troops scrambled for cover behind rows of barrels and piles of crates that lined the pier, cargo to be loaded aboard the ship opposite The Falcon. The monks attempted to board that vessel, a large caravel out of Minoc, suspicious of collusion with The Falcon.
Dozens of monks and a squad or two of Freedom Guardsmen lay dead, scattered about the pier, pierced with arrows, or cut down by sword or axe. Here and there lay a seaman from The Falcon, slain by some monk's sickle.
“Wizard,” said Theta to Tanch. “If you've any magic that can clear our path, now would be the time.”
Tanch looked aghast. “There are far too many. My magic cannot avail us here.”
“Lord Angle,” said Dolan. “They're on us from behind.”
“What do we do?” shrieked Kayla. “We're trapped!”
“We fight,” said Ob, axe in hand.
“Dolan — hold them,” was all Theta said.
“Aye.” Dolan's hand and bow moved in a blur. Hand to quiver to bow, pull and release and back to quiver, smooth and so fast the eye could barely follow. Arrow after arrow skewered charging guardsmen. Six men went down in as many seconds; each pierced through head, neck, or chest. A score more came on in their wake, shields upraised.
The guardsmen in front noticed Claradon's group and decided at a glance that they were in league with The Falcon or at least that they would be the ones to pay for the dead monks on the pier. A full squadron broke off and charged the group, yelling battle cries, their weapons poised to strike. There would be no parley or surrender. They were out for blood and would settle for nothing less.
Theta's voice was stern and strong. “Pipkorn's ring,” he said. “Use it.”
Tanch looked confused.
“Use it,” shouted Theta. “Quickly!”
Tanch’s arms glided in a fluid, circular motion, then pressed together, palm to palm, fingers extended and spread. He pointed his fingertips at the squadron of monks that charged from the front. “Dead gods, let this work.” He spoke his magical words, and with them, the ensorcelled Ring of the Magi, preserved through the long ages, glowed a sparkling green, brighter and brighter as the arcane words of power echoed on the wind, gathering strength, drawing energy not only from the weave of magic that filled the ether, but from Tanch's innermost core, from his immortal soul.
The spell completed, a stream of emerald fire erupted from Tanch's fingertips. It roared, sped outward and expanded in a conical pattern; a vortex of whirling flame from the beyond. Tanch fought to hold his arms and his gaze steady as the power of the incantation threatened to overwhelm him, mind and body. A dry heat scorched his hair and cheeks, and squinted his eyes; the roar of the fire oppressed his ears. A metallic odor filled the air and Tanch tasted iron on his tongue; some strange byproduct of the ancient sorceries.
The cone of sorcery engulfed the pier in an emerald inferno of death. It blasted through the ranks of the approaching guardsmen, incinerating them, and roared on — enveloping not just the squadron that charged toward them, but the whole of the troop. Most died instantly, burned to cinders. Barrels of fresh water stacked along the pier boiled, burst, and caught fire. Barrels of oil exploded and blasted decking to ash and kindling, fiery oil spread and splattered in all directions.
Those guardsmen farther away were not fortunate enough to enjoy a quick death. They shrieked as the ravenous flames devoured them, their cries so loud, so pitiful, as to shake the pier itself and soften the hardest heart. Men rolled on the decking in agony and wailed for deliverance that would not come, for mercy not to be found. Others dived burning into the water, their only escape from the merciless fire. Some ran about in a frenzy, burning and shrieking before they collapsed to the deck. A few just stood there, unmoving, as the flames consumed them, body and soul.
Tanch gazed in horror at the destruction he had wrought. His strength was sapped, and his hands, upraised before him, shook uncontrollably and stung as if afire. The finger that bore the ring throbbed and swelled. He dropped to his knees, face locked in agony and shock as he looked back and forth from his hands to the gruesome death scene before him.
“Odin’s beard!” spouted Ob, his eyes wide.
Artol and Seran wore looks of shock. Kayla stared at Tanch in awe and fear.
“When the flames clear, we make for the ship,” said Theta.
The magic’s wake left multiple fires spreading about the pier, threatening to consume the whole structure; the air now thick with smoke smelled of burning oil and seared flesh. Small blazes burned on The Falcon, the caravel, and a nearby schooner. Men yelled from the surrounding ships. The crews of what ships remained at the nearby piers scrambled to set off, terrified by what they saw.
“Behind us,” said Dolan. “They're still coming.”
Theta turned. A score of Freedom Guardsmen warily dashed from barrel to crate. Behind them, obscured by smoke, more figures approached.
Theta grabbed Seran’s arm. “I need you to carry Claradon to the ship.”
“Ob,” said Theta. “Get the wizard up. Get him to the ship.” Theta, gently, but quickly lifted Claradon from his shoulder and placed him over Seran's. Seran winced at the weight, his arm injured during the battle with the Kalathens.
Kayla turned to leave with Seran but Theta stopped her. “Help Ob,” he said. “Get the wizard back to the ship. All of you — move! Dolan and I will hold them here.” Theta drew his falchion. “And tell Slaayde to get the ship moving.”
Seran staggered forward, barely able to support Claradon’s weight. Ob and Kayla pulled Tanch to his feet and the three plodded toward The Falcon.
“I'll stand with you,” said Artol.
Theta looked over the battered warrior for a moment. “I need you to help young Harringgold. Get them back to the ship quickly. We'll be right behind.” Theta turned away and Artol complied.
Dolan moved close on Theta's right, under cover of his shield. Theta glanced at the quivers strapped to Dolan's back. One was empty. The second held but a few standard arrows, the rest were the Vanyar arrows gifted him by Pipkorn.
Dolan caught Theta's glance. “Six left, then it'll be sword and dagger unless I regift Pipkorn’s arrows.”
“Hold the ensorcelled arrows in reserve,” said Theta. “We need only hold them for a moment; just until the others reach the ship.”
“We may get cut off,” said Dolan. “We can't fight the whole city.”
“I have a plan.”
“I thought as much.”
A group of guardsmen charged, all war cries, wild eyes, and waving swords.
“How do they know we can’t just burn them up like the others?” said Dolan.
“They don’t.”
“You think they’re brave or stupid?”
“Stupid, I’d say. But in the end, there’s not much difference.”
Dolan plucked arrows from his quiver, aimed, and fired almost faster than the eye could follow. One man went down, an arrow through his forehead, another fell
with an arrow through his neck, then one through the chest, and then another. Two men reached them, swords swinging wildly. Theta seemed barely to move. His left arm whizzed from side to side, his falchion a blur, and as quick as that, two men lay dead at his feet, their bodies quivered as their blood showered the boards. The other guardsmen had seen enough. They turned heel and fled.
Theta smashed the lid from a nearby barrel, overturned it, and rolled it from one side of the pier to the other, dousing the decking with oil while Dolan stood watch, an arrow nocked. The smoke and the debris strewn about the pier made the clear oil all but invisible.
“I see now your plan,” said Dolan. “A couple more squadrons are coming up.” He looked over his shoulder. “They’re almost back to the ship. I'll get a brand. We’ll light the oil and be off and clear.”
“No,” said Theta. “Light an arrow, but hold it secret until my mark.”
Out of the smoke, still some yards away, marched a group of men, Milton DeBoors at their van. On his left were Blain and Edwin Alder and a squadron of Myrdonian Knights. On his right, a score or more Kalathen Knights.
“Now come their best,” said Dolan.
Theta stood his ground, his piercing gaze locked on Milton DeBoors. Ten yards from Theta, DeBoors halted. The others followed suit.
“Put down your weapons or die, you scum,” shouted Edwin.
DeBoors' hand shot out and locked on Edwin's throat. “Shut your mouth, fool. You know not to whom you speak.” DeBoors shoved Edwin back and he would have fallen, but Blain caught him and held him still as he struggled, bristling at the mercenary’s insolence.
“How dare you—” Edwin began, his hand going for his sword, but Blain clamped one hand over Edwin's mouth and the other locked an iron grip on Edwin's sword arm.
“Be still your hand and your tongue, my son,” he whispered, “or that one will take both and more.”
“Parley,” shouted Theta.
DeBoors turned to those beside him. “Stay here,” he said quietly. “I’ll speak with him alone.” Blain grimaced. He clearly wanted to join in the parley, but was fully occupied in holding Edwin in check.
Theta stepped forward, halting just before the nigh invisible line of oil. DeBoors moved to within six feet of him.
“There's still time to divert from this path, DeBoors,” said Theta, his voice quiet, so only DeBoors could hear. “No good can come of it for we or for Midgaard.”
“For Midgaard?” DeBoors shook his head. “Do you still think yourself so important? So grand? The Age of Heroes is over and long forgotten, Thetan. The people don’t even remember what we did in those days, not the truth of it, anyways. Civilization is reborn. Brave heroes aren’t needed any longer. To think anything else is delusion. We must make a life for ourselves in this world. We cannot wallow in dreams of past glories. After all this time, haven't you learned even that simple truth?”
Anger flashed across Theta's face and his voice grew louder and sharp. “Do not presume to lecture me. What life is that of hired killer? Can you do no better? What became of the man that I knew? The man that served with me at R'lyeh? What of your code? What became of your honor?”
DeBoors shifted his feet and tensed — subtle movements, but plain enough for any trained to see such things. He was poised to explode into motion as a cobra preparing its strike. “It is for honor that I stand against you now. I will not have my honor questioned — not even by you. I have a contract, sworn and paid. My word is my life. I must keep it sacred; my honor demands it.”
Theta's voice grew calm, its cadence slower. “There is much of which you know naught. Much you must consider before you pursue this course. The veil betwixt Midgaard and Nifleheim has grown thin of late. Worse, it has been breached. Creatures of Nifleheim have crossed over. I’ve seen it. I’ve fought them. Gabriel Garn fell in battle against them, as did many brave souls. This news is new; it may not have reached you; not the true tale, anyway.”
“They say Gabriel fell to trolls in the mountains north of Lomion City. I found that tale unlikely, but I find yours the more so.”
“I speak the truth as I always have. Our old duties have returned, like it as not. The veil between the worlds must remain sealed now and forever. Otherwise, Midgaard will crumble and mankind will be wiped from the world never to rise again. I’ve taken up my sword against this darkness. You must take up yours as well. Stand with me, DeBoors. Midgaard needs you.”
DeBoors paled at these words. “Your truth, Thetan, I pray is not mine. Yours is a truth too horrible to contemplate. Better that your mind be muddled and mad. Better that your tongue weaves lies for your own ends. Any truth is better than what you’re peddling.”
“Denying reality doesn’t change it.”
DeBoors paused, thinking. “What proof do you offer?”
“The proof is on the ship that I follow — The White Rose. Follow it with me. See the truth for yourself, then stand with me.”
DeBoors paused again, his eyes locked on Theta. “I cannot breach my contract,” he said shaking his head, though his voice lacked some of its previous conviction. “No matter what perils await. I cannot deny my honor, for without it, I am nothing.”
“Your contract is of little import compared to the fate of the world. You've a higher calling now as in times past.”
“A moment ago you asked after my honor and now you advise me to shove it aside. Your contrariety reveals you. Perhaps the fell stories that still linger about you hold more truth than I once thought. I fear you walk in darkness, Thetan, a weave of lies and deceptions spinning about you. I always suspected as much, but now it becomes clearer. I’ll not walk that path with you.”
Theta paused, and took a deep breath. “Think on what I've told you, long and hard, and keep your eyes open for the truth. There is time yet for you to decide. Another day . . .”
DeBoors hand moved purposely toward his sword’s hilt. He glanced down and noticed the wet decking between him and Theta. He saw its straight line and pattern and knew at once what Theta planned. The coiled energy almost visibly drained from him. His expression, one of relief. “Another time then,” said DeBoors.
Theta's eyes were hard and cold and bored into DeBoors' very soul. “Make the right choice, old friend, or when we next meet, it will be for the last time.” Theta signaled to Dolan, and his flaming arrow struck the oil-doused boards and set them ablaze, engulfing the pier in flame.
V
MOTHER ALDER
The din in House Alder’s dining hall was as loud and chaotic as ever, the immense table filled to capacity with immediate family. Voices chattered, men, women, and children, glasses clinked, silverware clanked. Food was served, then eaten, rejected, or spilled in near equal proportions. Servants bustled about striving to keep flagons filled and the mess in check. How many conversations both friendly and heated competed for attention was anyone’s guess. Yet this was no holiday celebration, seasonal feast, or family reunion. It was just dinner, same as any other in House Alder.
It was Thorsday, so as usual Chef served roast boar. Large and meaty enough to satiate the entire clan, Chef broiled it whole on a spit in the Alder kitchens. Expertly seasoned, the meat moist and tender, its skin blackened and crisp but not burnt. With it came assorted vegetables, breads, and cheeses, homemade and imported. Potatoes from Kern — not the common white variety, but the large brown and yellow ones from the Northlands that tasted pre-buttered and fluffy. Choice local greens from Sanderson’s farms, corn and apples brought upriver from Dover. Biscuits baked in the kitchens, sourdough and whole-wheat, both made that morning and drowned in fresh butter. The tasty gravy poured over most everything was spiced with red peppers and tomato and sweetened only Chef knows with what.
The feast was served on heavy earthenware plates, square and colorful, a specialty of the Lomerian kiln-masters. The diners ate with silver forks, knives, and spoons, one set to each, polished so thoroughly they cast a reflection. Some of the men forewent the family cutlery and
carved their meat with personal knives, some exotic, others utilitarian, almost all made of some variety of steel. Each diner had a water cup and a glass flagon for wine or mead. Pitchers filled with clear water from one of the Alder wells and chilled with shaved ice brought down from the mountains lined both sides of the table. A long sideboard held an array of desserts, homemade, local, and imported, ranging from delectable pastries and choice, fresh fruits, to whipped cream and assorted pies.
The matriarch of the House, Mother Alder, as everyone called her, perched at the table’s head, bejeweled at neck, wrist, ears, and fingers with baubles, pretentious and gaudy. A shapeless black silk gown engulfed her slim form, which always seemed to smell of mothballs, though none were present in the house. Her coloring and features, subtlely different from most Lomerians, marked her of far eastern origin to those of sharp eye and worldly ways, and her sultry twang confirmed her foreignness to all but the most dense. Where most Lomerian nobles would labor to lose such an accent, she took pride in it and dared anyone to look down on her for it. Marriages to foreigners were as common as dirt in the cosmopolitan city of Lomion, but scandalous amongst the great Houses, excepting for arranged nuptials with properly placed nobles of other realms. Whether hers was arranged or not was not commonly known, perhaps due to the passage of years, though unlikely tales abounded, one more scandalous than the next. Thankfully, her brood inherited few of her foreign traits, so they appeared properly Lomerian as noble folk should.
She glared at once with pride and disapproval at her progeny as she sat her throne, a ponderous oaken thing that nearly swallowed her. The massive armchair was an ornate affair, adorned with hand-carved engravings and cushioned with soft, tufted leather pillows stuffed with goose feathers imported from Ferd. The dining hall’s other chairs, though smaller and less ornate, matched it in style and color, and complemented the room’s decor, accoutered as it was with its thick-top, oaken trestle table, antique sideboards, glass curio cabinets, gleaming wood planked floor, tray ceiling, and fresh painted walls abounding with ornate mouldings and exquisite tapestries.
Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4) Page 6