All eyes turned to Theta.
Theta shook his head slowly. “Do you think an ointment can heal a heart hacked by a sword, gnome?”
The light dropped from Ob’s eyes. “I — no, of course not.”
“He'll live or not, as his strength allows,” said Theta.
Ob glared at Theta and looked around the room at each man. He stepped from Claradon’s bedside, motioned the others toward a corner, and lowered his voice. “There's nobody here what wants Claradon to live more than me. He’s like a son to me, and always has been. Maybe the more so now that Aradon is gone. He's as tough as they come, but we've got to face facts. I've seen men wounded like this before. The truth is he should be gone already — up Valhalla way with Aradon, Gabe, and Brother Donnelin, tipping mugs with old Odin himself. No healer can see to such a wound. It's only because he's as tough and stubborn as he is that he's lasted this long.”
“You’re quick to give up on him,” said Tanch.
“I’ve seen a lot of wounds, wizard. From a lot of battles. Many more than you’ve seen or ever will see, I’ll wager. I know what I’m talking about.”
“There must be something we can do?” said Kayla. “We can’t just let him die.”
“We can pray,” said Tanch.
“Aye, Magic Boy,” said Ob. “That we can. I've never been much for it myself, but it can't hurt, and Claradon would like it since he's prayed for us so many times.”
“Do you pray, Lord Theta?” said Tanch.
Theta stared at him for a moment before responding. “Who would I pray to?”
“An odd thing to say,” said Kayla, but whether she referred to Tanch’s question or Theta's answer was not clear.
“The all-father, Odin, of course,” said Glimador. “The king of the gods; the lord of strength and wisdom. Who better? Unless you’re one of those that favor Tyr or Thor or Heimdall.”
“Good old Odin may be surprised to hear from me, it's been such a time,” said Ob. “Glimador, you know the words as good as any. You take the lead.” And he did. The group bowed their heads respectfully and said their words with more conviction than most of them had in years.
Theta paid little attention to the ritual. Instead, his mind drifted back to that night in the Vermion Forest before the Gateway opened — to that time when he and Gabriel stood alone at the rim of the circle of desolation.
“All these years I've protected the line of kings,” said Gabriel. “The bloodline must not be broken. If I should fall this night, this burden too you must bear.”
“You've lived long, Gabriel, not likely this night will be your last,” said Theta. “Why bother to speak of such things?”
“Even we are not immune to death.”
Theta smiled. “Close enough.”
“Death can come at any time . . . from any source. Be on your guard tonight, my Lord. This will be a test unlike any we’ve faced since R'lyeh.”
Theta's smile fell at those words and at the strange look on Gabriel's face. “You've more to tell. Spit it out and make it clear.”
“Claradon must survive this, no matter the cost.”
“The boy? Look out for him, of course, but don't play the hero to your folly. You've greater worth to this world. He has three brothers. The line of kings hinges not on him alone.”
“I'm not speaking of the bloodline. I'm speaking of Azrael.”
“Azrael? What has he to do with the Eotrus? Speak quickly and plainly for the hour grows late and tales of Azrael are oft too long and convoluted for my patience.”
“Alright boys,” said Ob, drawing Theta from his thoughts. “We're doing nothing standing around here except dripping more blood on the Captain’s carpet. I want two of you five,” pointing to the knights, “in here watching over Claradon at all times. That's in addition to the guards at the door. The door guards are to be Eotrus men only. No seamen, no Harringgolds and no Malvegils — no offense, Glimador. First shift will be Bull and Trelman. Glimador — you’ll be coming with me to the Captain's Den. I want to hear everything what happened while we were ashore. The rest of you, clear out, get your wounds seen to right and proper, give a quick clean to your gear, and then get some rest.”
“I'm staying,” said Kayla.
“Of course you are,” said Ob. “Stay, but cause no mischief. You men watch her too. Watch her close. We only met her today for Odin's sake. It’s bad enough that she’s part elf. She could be a darned spy too for all we know.”
“Castellan,” said Glimador. “Did you learn which way The White Rose went?”
“Yep. We're headed to Jutenheim.”
Theta nodded to the two guardsmen stationed at the door to the Captain's Den before entering. Ob, Tanch, Glimador, Kelbor, and Paldor sat at the table in the center of the main room, an ornate ale stein set before each. All except Tanch looked over as Theta walked in. The wizard’s gaze remained downcast. He was pale and looked exhausted, as if he were about to pass out. His hand shook as he raised the stein to his lips.
“Everything in order?” said Ob.
“Still no sign of pursuit and we're on course for Jutenheim,” said Theta. He took a seat that faced the outer door and doffed his gear. “I doubled the guard on Claradon's door. I trust you’ve no objection.”
“None,” said Ob.
“I also stationed young Harringgold and a half-squad of his men on the bridge deck to ensure that we stay on course. I would have them stand a twelve-hour shift, with Paldor captaining another half-squad thereafter.”
Paldor looked surprised and turned to Ob.
“Six solid men on the top deck at all times,” said Ob. “That’s smart thinking,” he said as he leaned toward Theta, “but our men are not yours to command. I’ll remind you not to forget that.”
Theta nodded, albeit begrudgingly.
“I don't know how they do things where you hail from, but we Lomerians got a strict hierarchy. With the mix of men we have amongst us — that hierarchy gets a might complicated. As this quest is led by House Eotrus, Claradon, as Lord of the House commands. That makes me, as his Castellan, second-in-command. If we get Jude back and he’s in sound shape, he ranks third. I trust everyone is with me so far,” said Ob, looking to each of the knights in turn. “Now is where things get complicated. I should’ve gone through all this with you men at the start, but only today did it hit me how dangerous this stinking mission is, and how the hierarchy may come into play, like it as not. So I need to make sure everyone knows their place, so there’s no grumblings in the ranks. We can’t afford no stupidities or posturing. We all got to work together to get Jude back, to stop Korrgonn, and to get our stinking butts home. You men with me?”
“Aye,” they said.
“Kelbor is the senior Eotrus knight and would normally rank next in line. But we’re on wartime status here, boys, so things are a might different. In wartime, blueblood sometimes trumps rank, so fourth in line is Glimador, as he's first cousin to Claradon and the son of a Dor Lord. Next in line is Par Tanch, as House Wizard. Then comes, strange as it may seem, Seran Harringgold. Even though he’s not an Eotrus, his standing as a nephew to Duke Harringgold trumps everyone else. His fancy pedigree notwithstanding, if he acts against the interests of the Eotrus, his commands need not be followed.” Ob looked at each of the gathered knights. “You men understand that?”
They all nodded.
“Good. After Seran, comes Kelbor, then Bull, then Trelman, then Paldor, then Artol. After that is Sergeant Vid, then Sergeant Lant. After that, I really don’t care. As a foreigner, Theta has no rank amongst us, and despite his skills, won’t be leading while any one of us still lives. That said, if you find yourself in command, listen to Theta’s council, value it, then make up your own stinking mind. Captain Slaayde has no rank amongst us, no matter the circumstances, and best you watch him and his bullyboys and keep them all at arm’s length. Everyone understand what I've said? Any objections, voice them now — that includes you, Theta.”
None were rais
ed.
“Magic Boy thinks we ought to drop Claradon off at the first port we pass,” said Ob as he looked at Theta.
Staring into his mug, Tanch said, “Claradon needs rest and a healer. He doesn't have either here. If there's no objection, I'll stay with him and a small group of guardsmen. He'll be a lot safer than on this ship.”
“The Alders won't stop looking for him,” said Theta. “Are you prepared to face them with only a few men at your side when they find you at some island port?”
“I can handle myself well enough when need be.” Tanch looked over at Theta, his eyes bloodshot and heavy-lidded. “I trust I proved as much today.”
Theta nodded. “You showed your quality, wizard. Of that there can be no doubt.”
“Always thought you were nothing but a dandied-up hedge,” said Ob. “Not too proud to admit when I'm wrong. That's the gnome way, you know. You done good, old boy,” he said, patting Tanch on the shoulder as he rose to refill his mug from a tapped half-keg on the sideboard. He poured one for Theta too.
“Much as I hate to say it,” said Ob, “Theta, you done good, too — for a stinking foreigner. You boys should’ve seen it. When we got jumped in the street, Theta cut down a half-dozen Alder marines with that sword of his, but that wasn’t the half of it. Few men can stand up to a Kalathen Knight and live. To fight and kill two at once and live is the stuff of song and legend. With my own eyes, I saw Theta take on six of them. He dropped four at least what I saw and came out without a scrape; his hair still combed all right and proper. Never saw skills like that in all my days. Never heard of skills like that. Had he not been with us, not one of us would have gotten out of that spot alive. The Eotrus are in your debt, Theta, and we’ll not forget that.” Ob stood and raised his mug. “To Mister Fancy Pants.”
The others all stood and raised their steins. Tanch rose slowly to his feet, a pained expression on his face.
“Glad you’re on our side,” said Kelbor.
“Here, here,” said the others.
Theta nodded appreciatively and drank with the rest.
“I need to take my leave,” said Tanch. “The magic I threw today took more out of me than I can say. Never felt any aftereffects as bad as this before.” Tanch turned toward the back room, but Ob placed a hand on his forearm.
“Give us a minute, boys,” said Ob. “I need to speak with the wizard and Theta. The knights rose and stepped out, ale mugs in hand.
“No man can survive that wound,” said Ob. “We've lost them all. Aradon, Jude, Claradon; only the young ones are left, and even Malcolm's hurt bad by some stinking beastie. We've failed them all.”
“There's still hope for Jude,” said Tanch. “And Claradon isn't dead yet; I'm not ready to give up on him.” Tanch swayed where he stood and leaned on the sideboard to steady himself. “I need to lie down; we’ll talk later if I’m still alive — my back is killing me.” Tanch trudged off to his bunk, pale and unsteady.
Theta withdrew a metallic flask from a pouch at his belt and placed it on the table.
“Ain't that your witch's brew what healed me arm?” said Ob. “You said afore it wouldn’t work on Claradon’s wounds.”
“It's for Slaayde.” Theta produced a small metallic case and placed it beside the flask. “His leg is bad. His man Ravel plans to amputate and cauterize it. He might not live and if he does he'll be out of commission for too long.”
“You figure we need him to keep his crew of cutthroats in line. I agree.”
Theta carefully opened the metal case. Within the padded interior was a curious tube about two inches long and made of glass. One end of the tube narrowed to a tip, the other was capped with a very small bladder.
“An alchemist's tube. You're full of surprises, Theta. There seems no end to your bag of tricks.”
Theta carefully opened the flask, tipped it slightly, and used the alchemist's tube to draw up a drop or two of the liquid. Theta gently placed the tube on the table, retightened the lid on the flask, and replaced it securely on his belt.
Ob stared over at the tube. “That brew must be worth its weight in gold.”
“A thousand times that at least.”
Ob raised his eyebrows. “And it won’t work on Claradon's wound?”
“I answered that question already.”
“You figure Slaayde's worth it?”
Theta lifted the lid of his ale stein and drank most of it in one go. “There's no more important thing in the world right now than us catching and killing Korrgonn. Keeping Slaayde in the game may help us do that. So yes, he's worth it.” Theta emptied the contents of the tube into the stein, closed the top, and swirled the mixture around.
“So you'll have the good captain drink up,” said Ob, “and it'll cure him good enough to live and to keep his leg and nobody knows nothing from nothing.”
“Yes, except that Slaayde, Ravel, and Bertha will know, because I'll tell them. And they might tell other crewmen. That'll put them in my debt.”
Ob paused for some moments, thinking. “Until now, to them you were just a soldier. Now you'll be more. That's unexpected. And it’s dangerous — since anyone what can brew up healing potions can also whip up darker stuff, poisons and such, like as not. That'll get them to thinking. That'll put the fear in them.” Ob took a deep drought from his stein. “That's crafty, Theta. Right crafty. If you weren't as big as a small mountain, I might think you were part gnome.” Ob took out a cigar and lit it with a lantern. “There’s an old saying back home what goes, “Nothing is as it seems in Lomion.” You sure fit that well enough, Mr. Fancy Pants.”
VII
UNWELCOME GUESTS
“The Seer is not seeing clients today,” said Rimel, his voice strong and unyielding despite the formidable array of sweat and steel that fronted him and Dirkben. Rimel smelled trouble at the first sight of that crew. They didn’t just happen by for a spot of tea, a palm reading, or a toss of the bones, nor were they random rowdies or local yahoos out for fun or profit. Some were just guardsmen, but others were veteran soldiers, hard men, foreigners all, there for deadly purpose no doubt. That didn’t bother Rimel much. He’d dealt with their kind before. Skilled but predictable, overconfident in their numbers, and too trusting of their shiny gear. That would be their undoing, it always was. If they wanted blood, he would shed theirs without regret. He knew he could. He’d proved his mettle time and again on the battlefield, in back alleys, and barroom brawls these many years. There was no more feared Freesword in all of Tragoss Mor than Rimel Stark, and he knew it. Maybe they did too, but probably not. That would be an advantage. Dirkben on the other hand was just pretty. Azura should’ve canned him months before, but she always took to the pretty ones. No matter, Rimel could handle these guests, or so he hoped. “Try again tomorrow or the next,” he said.
“She’ll see us,” said Blain Alder, all broad-shouldered, plate-armored, and deadly serious. “We’re emissaries of the High Council of Lomion, here on official business.” Edwin Alder stood beside Blain, hand on his sword hilt, anger and impatience on his narrow face, so like his father’s save for the wicked scar that overshadowed his features. The Alder marines behind them stood tense and ready to spring. But the one Rimel marked the most loomed large at Blain's right and said nothing. DeBoors was as tall as Blain, but broader, harder, chiseled, his armor and gear of an archaic style, like something out of a museum’s collection. The pall of recent battle hung over him, but not the others, though each reeked of smoke. Bloodstains and spatter marred DeBoors’ tabard and his face. Curious that. Fire simmered behind his steel blue eyes. Visible at the merest glance, they bored into Rimel, and dared him to stare back. He didn’t; it wasn’t worth the effort. Rimel knew he could best the others, but maybe not DeBoors. There was something about him, more than just the eyes, something that shouted danger, that invoked fear, something that made his stomach twist to knots and told him to run for it — run for it, before it's too late. But that wasn’t Rimel’s way. Nerves are a Freesword's const
ant enemy. They’d plagued Rimel same as the rest, but he’d never felt like this, not even when he was young and green, and he was long past both. There wasn’t a man alive that Rimel feared. Not one.
“That right?” said Rimel, forcing his voice to stay strong and confident. “Lomion is a long, long way from here, and the Seer is a citizen of Tragoss, so your business can’t be all that official, but official or not, she can’t see you today. She’s ill. I hope I’ve made myself clear,” he said, a fake smile on his face. “Come back tomorrow. If the Seer is well enough, she’ll see you then. That’s all I can offer. Now be off with you and good day.”
“Were the Eotrus here earlier today?” said Blain. He described Claradon, Ob, and Theta.
“All information about the Seer’s clientele, including their comings and goings is private,” said Rimel.
“If they weren’t here,” said DeBoors, “then they’re not clients. In that case, you betray nothing by admitting you’ve not seen them.”
“I cannot say one way or the other,” said Rimel.
“That proves it as far as I’m concerned,” said Edwin. “Else he would say they weren’t here, if only to be rid of us.”
“Tell the Seer that we’re here,” said Blain, his voice slow but sharp.
“We’re not leaving until we see her,” said Edwin, menace in his voice, the wild in his eyes. He was itching for a fight.
Rimel felt the pulse of blood at this neck and temple; his heart raced. Enough sparring, there was only one way this could go now. He stared the group down, took a deep breath, and glanced to Dirkben who’d gone all pale and sweaty. The spineless wretch would be of no use at all and Gorb was nowhere to be found.
“You’re not listening,” said Rimel as he moved his hand to his sword hilt.
Azura heard shouts, crashes, and clash of arms. She didn’t know whether it was real or a nightmare, and she didn't much care, so long as it wasn’t that thing, Thetan, come back for her soul. She knew he wanted it, and her body too — he lusted for them. What she couldn’t understand was why he didn’t take both when he had the chance, and why he let her live after she learned his true nature. Maybe he thought her too insignificant, too common to bother. Maybe he wanted her to live in fear, to suffer. That’s why he’d taken what was most precious — her youth, her beauty. He’d ruined her beautiful hair, and dead gods, not just that. She’d aged, withered, the vitality sucked from her veins, devoured in mere moments by wicked magic unheard of. She’d lost years, ten at least, probably fifteen, maybe more, stolen, the last of her youth and then some. Her face was lined now, and drawn; she could feel it, her skin all creased and puffy to the touch. Maybe twenty, dead gods, maybe even more. A glance in the mirror reflected a stranger’s face, not her own. More like her mother now than herself. Please gods not more like grandmother. She was ruined, finished. A crone. She knew not how bad it truly was. She only dared to look for the barest moment — long enough to know her youth was gone, but not long enough to tell how far. She didn’t want to know. She couldn’t survive it, the knowing.
Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4) Page 8