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

  KNIGHT ETERNAL

  GLENN G. THATER

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  KNIGHT ETERNAL

  Copyright © 2009 by Glenn G. Thater.

  All rights reserved.

  This book is also available in paperback

  Visit Glenn Thater’s website at http://www.glenngthater.com

  Smashwords Edition: January 2013

  BOOKS BY GLENN G. THATER

  THE HARBINGER OF DOOM SAGA

  GATEWAY TO NIFLEHEIM

  THE FALLEN ANGLE

  KNIGHT ETERNAL

  DWELLERS OF THE DEEP

  VOLUME 5+ forthcoming

  THE HERO AND THE FIEND

  (A novelette set in the Harbinger of Doom universe)

  THE GATEWAY

  (A novella length version of Gateway to Nifleheim)

  HARBINGER OF DOOM (3rd Edition)

  (Combines Gateway to Nifleheim and The Fallen Angle into a single volume)

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  Prologue

  The Messenger

  Mages and Monsters

  Ambush

  Born Killers

  Old Saint Pip

  Dor Malvegil

  Einheriar

  Dover

  Tragoss Mor

  The Orb of Wisdom

  Azura the Seer

  Freedom Square

  Not Long for Valhalla

  Glossary

  About Glenn G. Thater

  PREFACE

  The last few years were big for Thetian scholars. In 2006, Dr. Frank Smithwick of Brown University completed his long-awaited translation of the Fifth Scroll of Cumbria, long thought lost until donated to the Smithsonian in 2001 by a private collector. Professor Smithwick’s painstaking translation of the twelve hundred year old documents revealed for the first time the lost tale of Angle Theta’s relentless pursuit of Korrgonn following the Gateway incident. A portion of that translation, which I’ve updated into modern prose for readers of fantasy literature, forms the core of this book.

  In 2007, archeologists from the University of Chicago discovered a cache of inscribed stone tablets in a cave excavation in the mountains near Grenoble, France. Carbon dating of pigments used in the inscriptions indicates that the tablets were created sometime between 2,400 B.C. and 2,600 B.C., making them some of the oldest written records of Thetian lore thus far found in western Europe. A crackerjack team of researchers from the University of Maryland at College Park, the University of Chicago, and Brown University, collaborated to translate the Grenoble Tablets in record time, their work revealing many previously unknown stories centered on members of The Shadow League. Two of these brief tales form the basis of the chapters herein entitled, “Born Killers” and “The Orb of Wisdom”.

  These latest discoveries, coupled with other sources such as the Ningshao Jade Collection, the Olmec and Kish Tablets, the Derveni Papyri, the Scrolls of Corsi and Burdur, and others, conclusively demonstrate that despite these stories being relatively unknown today, the Thetian tales were widely read and reproduced for thousands of years throughout the ancient world. Thus, the influence of Thetian literature on mythology, folklore, and cultural traditions across the globe should not be underestimated and warrants significantly more scholarship.

  2008 saw the publication of my novelizations of The Gateway and The Fallen Angle, two tales that have long lived in the core of Thetian canon, but which had never before been adapted into modern prose for the general public.

  The hundreds of emails and messages I have received from readers of these tales have inspired me to continue to bring these fantastical stories to print. Some categorize these tales as mythology, others call them sword and sorcery or heroic fantasy, still others name them weird tales, but to me they are historical fiction, part of the rich but sadly little known literary legacy of the ancient world.

  I hope that you enjoy this next installment of the Harbinger of Doom saga, entitled, Knight Eternal. Happy reading.

  Glenn G. Thater

  New York, USA

  KNIGHT ETERNAL

  “Mine is a perilous road; those that walk

  it with me are seldom long for Valhalla”

  —Lord Angle Theta

  PROLOGUE

  Ob flung the door open. “You can never tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, boy, or you and me both will get killed dead.”

  Claradon, pale and drained, and generally unkempt, rolled his eyes and stepped into Ob’s chambers. The old gnome looked even worse than Claradon did, his arm heavily bandaged, his face battered and bruised.

  “What now, Ob?” said Claradon. “I can’t take any more.”

  “There is much I’ve a mind to tell you, but I’ve got to lie down, my back is killing me.” Ob closed the door and made his way through the large, cluttered sitting room toward his bedchamber. Claradon followed, though his thoughts drifted to the events that had just ravaged his life.

  A few days prior, fanatical cultists gathered in secret in the Vermion Forest near the fortress of Dor Eotrus in the Kingdom of Lomion. Wielding ancient, forbidden magics, they opened a dark portal to the outré realm of Nifleheim, the very hell of myth and legend, allowing demons and their masters, the Lords of Nifleheim, to enter Midgaard, the world of man.

  Ignorant of the cultists’ activities, Aradon Eotrus, Lord of the surrounding lands and vassal to King Selrach Tenzivel, led an elite force of knights, wizards, and woodsmen into the Vermion to investigate reports of strange goings on. Amongst Aradon’s veterans was the renowned Archwizard, Par Talbon of Montrose, the Master Ranger, Stern of Doriath, and Dor Eotrus’s High Cleric, Brother Donnelin. For all their skills and courage, not a one returned.

  In response, Brother Claradon Eotrus, eldest son of Aradon, gathered a troop of knights led by his mentor, Sir Gabriel Garn and his friend Ob the gnome. They were joined by an enigmatic foreign soldier called Lord Angle Theta. Together, they set out to learn Aradon’s fate.

  Hidden within a magical fog, deep within the Vermion, the group discovered the gruesome, mutilated, nigh unrecognizable remains of Aradon Eotrus’s party outside an ancient, otherworldly temple. Plagued by a frigid, choking mist and mind-rending din, Claradon and his comrades assaulted the Temple of Guymaog, but arrived too late to secure the portal between the worlds.

  With the gateway opened, three Lords of Nifleheim and a horde of lesser fiends trespassed upon the world of man for the first time since the very dawn of history. These monsters of Nifleheim had long filled man’s tales of terror and plagued his nightmares, but had been only myth and legend. Now all that had changed. Monsters were real. Men’s minds broke.

  Bhaal of Nifleheim slew many brave knights before Angle Theta drove him back through the gateway with a magical lance—a relic of times long past. Mortach of Nifleheim bounded through the temple and escaped, later to join with the cultists that had opened the gateway. Sir Gabriel, greate
st hero of the realm, died by the hand of the Nifleheim Lord, Gallis Korrgonn, while saving Claradon’s life. Worse still, Korrgonn’s life force passed into and took control of Gabriel’s body, and enabled his escape into the night.

  To close the doorway to hell, Claradon located and destroyed the shard of darkness that held open the gateway, sealing it forever.

  After the brutal battle, the few survivors returned to Dor Eotrus, and at the wizard Par Tanch’s urging, concocted a tale of rampaging mountain trolls to explain the night’s tragic losses. Tanch warned that no mention be made of magic or sorcery and the like, as the government harshly suppresses the truth of such things, while the common folk believe them little more than children’s tales and ancient legends.

  That very evening, while the knights of House Eotrus began preparations to return to the Vermion to take up the trail of the remaining two Nifleheim Lords, Ob called Claradon to his chambers where he was recuperating from his injuries.

  Ob’s chambers boasted a hardwood floor, stained to a rich, walnut hue, though much of it was covered by teetering piles of books of every size and description–the overflow from the brimming shelves that lined the walls.

  Well-tended fireplaces in both sitting room and bedchamber heated the apartment. Warm and cozy, the rooms, as always, smelled vaguely of pipe smoke. Empty wine bottles of exotic vintage were proudly displayed atop the mantles and the wardrobe. The more recent bottles overflowed the trash bucket, awaiting their ultimate fate.

  All the furniture in Ob’s bedchamber was sized appropriately for one of his stature, save for the bed, which was massive and high off the floor.

  Ob stepped stiffly up a little four-step ladder and hopped onto the bed with a groan. He settled down on the thick mattress, wincing with every movement.

  He reached out for his ale mug, but his hand met only empty air. “Darn.”

  The finely crafted night table beside the bed was gnome-sized and far below Ob’s reach high atop the bed. “Would you mind, boy? Give the crank beside the table a few turns?”

  “What?”

  “The crank, down there,” said Ob, pointing down to a handle sticking out below the night table.

  Claradon squatted down. Beneath the night table was a curious wood and metal contraption. Claradon turned the handle and the table rose smoothly up. Several more turns and the tabletop rose up to within Ob’s easy reach.

  “I had Donnelin make it for me. Cost me a bottle of ’64. Worth it though, or else I’d break my neck leaning down for the mug. That fellow was always handy.”

  Ob paused, thinking.

  “I will miss him. I will miss them all, dearly.” Ob looked over to the large color portrait that hung on one wall. Aradon Eotrus stood in the center in full battle regalia; Gabriel, at his right hand, similarly clad; Ob at his left; then Brother Donnelin, Par Talbon, and Stern to either side, all wearing their finest, their features captured almost perfectly.

  “The gaming table is still set,” said Ob. “Just the way we left it. Me and Gabe were winning, but the others were giving us shot for shot. Now we’ll never finish it. Not ever.”

  Ob grabbed a handkerchief from the night table and loudly blew his nose. Tears filled the old gnome’s eyes.

  “We were together a long time, that group. Every one of them was like a brother to me. Now I’m the only one left.” Tears streamed down Ob’s face. “They’re all dead, all of them.”

  Claradon tried not to look at the portrait, tried to keep his composure.

  “I should’ve been with them. Who knows, maybe I could’ve made some difference—or at least, I could’ve died with them. I should have.”

  “We were with Sir Gabriel, at least,” said Claradon.

  Ob nodded. “It’s good that you were beside him at the end; not good for a man to die alone.”

  They sat in silence for a time, grieving in their own way, until Claradon spoke again.

  “We both need to get some rest. Your arm is badly hurt and my head still throbs; one ear hears almost nothing, the other rings without end.”

  “Aye, mine ring as well. A day or two will heal them, if Thor’s luck is with us. As for my arm, thanks to whatever witch’s brew Mr. Fancy Pants slipped me, it seems I will heal unnatural quick-like. No doubt that tin can will be claiming he saved my life to all and everyone.”

  Ob lifted his ale mug and took several swallows. “There are some important things that you’ve a need to know. Things that maybe Aradon and Gabe should’ve told you long ago, but they did not, for reasons of their own. So now the telling falls to me.”

  Claradon grew paler, nodded, and leaned back into the cushioned armchair, jaw set, eyes staring straight ahead.

  “When I first came to the Dor, long before I became Castellan, I worked as a scout for your father’s grandfather who was the young lord of the House at that time. In those days there was a knight who was a good friend to your great grandfather. He would come to visit and go hunting with him in the mountains and such. This knight was a great weapons master, and during his visits he would often train the knights of the House in the ways of battle. His name was Gabriel.”

  “Quite a coincidence, but what importance does it have?”

  “It’s not a coincidence at all, boy, and that’s the point of it. That Gabriel and our Gabriel were the same fellow. Gabe wasn’t no normal man. He was old. I’m over three hundred, but to him, I was a child.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Men don’t live that long.”

  “Some men do, it seems; if men they truly be.”

  Claradon got up and paced. “I’ve heard stories of certain wizards, with their potions and such, that can extend life and maintain youth, but Gabriel was no wizard. He was a soldier—a knight, a hero.”

  “I can’t explain it, boy. I just know it to be the truth. Back in the day, after some years went by, Gabe stopped coming around. He had gone traveling about the world, doing hero stuff and such, I expect. I didn’t see him again until one day, many a year later, when he showed up at the Dor.

  “I was shocked when I laid eyes upon him. It had been decades but he looked as young as he did when I first came to the Dor.

  “I was the only one that knew; the only one around long enough to remember.

  “Gabe took me aside and told me that I had to swear never to tell nobody about his secret. So I swore. You’re the first and only person I’ve done talked to about this, save for your father, and he already knew. I’m only telling you now cause they’re both gone and you’ve a right to know.”

  “Father knew all this?”

  “Your grandfather told him. Seems all the lords of the House knew, far back into olden times. Family legend says Gabe was a good friend to the Eotrus for many generations, long afore I came here.”

  “Did you ask him how he lived so long? Could he have had elven blood?”

  “I asked him, but he wouldn’t speak of it, save to say he was no elf. He said that there were others like him and that they would kill me dead if they found out that I knew about them. Gabe was never one to make idle threats or warnings, so I done believed him. You mustn’t tell no one what I told you today, or they’ll kill you and me both. You must keep especial quiet around Mr. Fancy Pants. I would bet my life that old Lord Angle Theta is one of them.”

  “Ob, from anyone other than you, I don’t think I would believe a word of this, but after what we went through last night—”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Claradon—.”

  “I know that.”

  “I’ve never lied, but there have been some truths like what I just told you that I’ve had to hold back. There’s more to it, boy. It’ll be difficult for you to hear.”

  “More? Tell me. Tell me and let’s be done with this.”

  Ob took a swig from his mug and then placed it on the night table. Claradon sat down on the edge of the armchair.

  “One time, when Gabe returned to the Dor after a mission doing hero stuff, he brought with him a small child
—a mere babe.”

  “A baby?”

  “A cute little bugger, as far as you volsungs go anyways. He entrusted it to the care of your father. Then Gabe picked up and left again for a time. Aradon kept the child, and he and his Lady, who had no children yet of their own, raised him as their very own son, but for some darned reason, he never told the boy that he wasn’t his natural father.”

  Claradon’s face went white, his hands icy cold.

  “How many years ago?”

  “Twenty five.”

  Claradon’s eyes slowly closed. Ob tried to pass him the mug but Claradon brushed it away. They sat in silence for some minutes.

  “So I’m not a true Eotrus.”

  “Don’t ever be saying that, boy. You are as much an Eotrus as Aradon, Jude, or any of them. You are Aradon’s son in every way that is important. Nobody would dispute that, not even Gabe.”

  “In the Vermion you said that I’m the lord of the land now. But am I? Or is Jude?”

  “You are, Claradon. You are the Lord of the House now, answerable only to the King and the High Council, and don’t ever forget it. And if you’re smart, you will not tell Jude or anyone about this, ever. It can only bring trouble.”

  A vacant stare dominated Claradon’s face.

  “Was Gabriel my real father?”

  “No, boy, he wasn’t. All I can say about it is that your natural parents died when you was a babe.”

  Claradon reached for the mug.

  ***

  While in pursuit of Korrgonn and Mortach, Claradon received a summons from the High Council of Lomion, ordering him to travel to Lomion City to receive official appointment as the new Lord of Dor Eotrus. Claradon found the High Council fractured into rival groups, some members supporting the traditional government while others were loyal to The Shadow League, a mysterious group allied with the dark powers of Nifleheim.