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

“Right,” said Ob, with a nervous laugh. He took a swig from his flask before speaking again. “I wanted to help with the creature, you know, but I didn’t expect me axe could touch it.”

  “You could’ve helped by watching our backs like I told you, gnome. If you had, it wouldn’t have gotten behind me.”

  Ob paled. “You’re right. I never even saw where it came from. A rookie mistake and I’m no rookie.”

  “Next time, do as I say.”

  Ob bristled and puffed out his chest. “Alright, Mr. Fancy Pants, I admitted I screwed up. But you’re not the one in command here. Claradon is in charge of this mission, not you, and don’t be forgetting it. It’s his orders I follow, not yours, you stinking tin can.” The gnome didn’t wait for any response. He stormed down the ladder to the main deck, cursing under his breath.

  Theta sat down on the deck, his feet over the edge, still holding Worfin Dal in his left hand. He took several deep breaths, and pulled ice from his mustache with his right hand. The ice in his hair was melting. Water dripped down his face, which was pale.

  “Ob’s a good man,” said Claradon. “I appreciate your tolerating his words. I need him with us in this.”

  Theta nodded, looking down at the main deck. “Even an old dog barks to defend its master,” said Theta. “That’s its nature. To kick it, and expect it to stop, does as much good as kicking the wind.”

  Claradon chuckled and sat down beside Theta.

  “Impressive work against that creature,” said Claradon. “I wouldn’t have believed a man your size, in full plate, could move that fast. It never even touched you.”

  “That was the point. One touch from those things turns a man to dust, as we’ve just seen. I’ve no interest in that. It reminds me of stone trolls—they can dissolve a man’s bones. Terrible way to die.”

  “Stone trolls? Are such things real?”

  “Most of the creatures of myth and legend are real, or at least, were real. Not many left. Magic is leaving the world, it wanes more every year, and that’s a good thing.”

  “Are you saying that as magic leaves the world, the creatures die out?”

  “The other way around,” said Theta. “If I were to ask an average man in Lomion City about magic, about wizards, what would he tell me?”

  “He would say that it’s not real, just trickery, sleight of hand and such for entertainment’s sake. Just old superstitions, kept alive to keep children in line or just out of ignorance. Nothing more to it than that, he’d say.”

  “Yet every fortress and city in Lomion has at least one real wizard, isn’t that what you told me? Each one can cast spells and perform magics, though all in secret, except for extreme cases like with Tanch today.”

  “What you’re telling me is that just because I haven’t seen monsters, trolls, dragons, and such in my life, doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  Theta nodded. “There is more to the world than you know. On this trip, I expect you will see more of the weird than you ever dreamed existed.”

  “I already have. By the way, I’m sorry about that blow; I should never have struck it. I’m just glad your armor held. I don’t know what I was thinking. I saw the other weapons pass through; I should’ve known mine would do the same. I guess I did know, but just didn’t think.”

  “You went on instinct, not thought. That sometimes serves a man well when fighting other men, but not against magic or creatures such as these. With them, you must use your brain, more than your sword, or you’ll not last long.”

  “As for the armor, don’t worry about it.” Theta pulled his tabard open where it was slashed through, and showed Claradon the shining steel breastplate beneath. “Not a scratch from your sword. The flaming splatter from whatever it coughed up did some damage, though,” he said, pointing to some burns and gouges scattered along the breastplate and shoulder piece. “You owe me a new tabard.”

  “I will gladly buy you one of the best in Lomion.”

  “Your sword didn’t fare as well as my armor.”

  Claradon looked to the tip of his blade. The edge was chipped and bent, as if he had slammed it into a stone wall.

  Theta took a closer look. “Don’t worry, it’s still serviceable, and not beyond repair.”

  Claradon stared at the sword in surprise and then looked again at Theta’s breastplate. “How can this be?”

  “Some steels are stronger than others, simple as that.”

  They sat quietly for a time, watching the men on the deck below.

  “That’s your edge isn’t it?” said Claradon. “Back during the miniatures game in Dor Lomion, you told us to use every edge that we had in battle. Your weapons and your armor, they are your edge, aren’t they?”

  “You’re learning, boy,” said Theta. “Better arms do give a warrior an edge, and it’s often enough to keep him alive, if his courage holds. Training, knowledge, magic, loyalty, and especially luck—all these can give you an edge too. And you can never have too many edges, this battle proved that. We owe a debt to Pipkorn, for his arrows, and for Wotan Dal. The battle would have gone harder without them.”

  “But you would have found a way to bring those creatures down, even without them, wouldn’t you?”

  “There’s always a way, Eotrus, if a man has the will, and the courage, and never gives up.”

  “Another lesson, Lord Theta?” said Claradon.

  “Another lesson, Lord Eotrus.”

  ***

  Theta pulled Wotan Dal and Dargus Dal from a bucket of water, inspected them each in turn, dried and buffed them with a cloth before replacing them in their sheaths.

  Ob and Dolan descended from the bridge deck and approached Theta. Dolan held Theta’s gauntlets and Ob carried his ruined falchion.

  “I cleaned them up as best I could,” said Dolan. He handed the gauntlets to Theta who inspected them. The metal was slightly warped and gouged where the Einheriar’s ichor had touched them, but both were intact and serviceable.

  Ob offered Theta the falchion. “This one is done for.”

  Theta reached out and took hold of the blade. He held it up and studied the surface, melted, twisted, and bent almost completely in half. The fine engravings that covered both sides of the blade from hilt to tip, geometric symbols and a strange script, were ruined over much of the sword’s length.

  “A shame,” said Ob. “A fine blade it was. How do you figure your sword and daggers stopped the creature’s blows where every other blade did not? Are they magiced up or something?”

  “They’re made of a special alloy, similar to the arrows that Pipkorn gave to Dolan. The sword didn’t have enough of the right materials, so it was damaged where the daggers were not.”

  “You had that sword a long time, didn’t you?” said Ob.

  “A very long time.”

  “Are you gonna keep it, for remembrance?”

  “Dolan and I will repair it. We need only find a forge with the right tools and material and we can restore it.”

  Ob looked skeptical. “You’d need as much skill with a hammer as you have with the blade to fix that ruin.”

  “We can do it,” said Dolan.

  “What of the engravings?”

  “If we had enough time,” said Dolan. “Fix them, we could.”

  “What did it say?” said Ob. “The writings on the sword.”

  “That’s a story for another time.” Theta looked over at the remains of the Einheriar some feet away.

  Dolan squatted down and fished through the ashy remains. His arrowheads survived, but the creature’s ichor had dissolved the shafts.

  “What were these things?” said Dolan.

  “Your boss named them,” said Ob. “Something familiar. What did you call them?”

  “They were Einheriar.”

  “I know that name from the old legends,” said Ob. “Aren’t they Odin’s chosen warriors? Those ones what will stand with him at the end of days.”

  “That battle has long come and gone,” said Theta.<
br />
  “What? Anyway, they’re supposed to be the good guys,” said Ob. “Heroes, every one.”

  “Once they were. Then Azathoth corrupted them.”

  “Where did they come from? The Fens? You think there’s an army of them in there?”

  “If there were an army of them, Lomion would be in dire trouble. No, those two were brought from Nifleheim, of that I’m certain. Conjured up by some fool wizard, probably the same ones that opened the gateway in your forest.”

  “If that’s right,” said Ob, “that means they know we’re following, and they left those creatures to slow us down or stop us dead. Which they would only bother doing if—”

  “They were afraid of us,” said Dolan.

  “Not us, boy,” said Ob. “They’re afraid of Theta.”

  Done examining the remains, Theta stood and surveyed the deck. Guards stood all about the rail. Others patrolled up and down the deck. The scent of brimstone nearly gone, the ice melted. If not for the warped and scarred floorboards, the deck looked almost normal.

  “How many dead?” said Theta.

  “Five of Slaayde’s crew got turned to dust and one of the Seran’s men too,” said Ob. “Two others of Slaayde’s are missing.”

  “How many injured?” said Theta.

  “By the creatures, only Slaayde himself. Every man what was touched was dusted, except Slaayde. He’s a sight—his hair all turned white, root to tip, and his strength is sapped. His mates stand vigil, though they say he will live. Besides him, one of the crewmen was gutshot with an arrow; he will not live a day. A few others were hurt when the railing came down on them, but not serious.”

  “Luck was with us then,” said Theta. “It could’ve been much worse.”

  Artol climbed down the ladder from the bridge deck and joined the others. “No trace of dust up there.”

  Theta nodded. “That means Slaayde’s missing men are not missing. They turned into the Einheriar.”

  “What? How could that be?” said Ob.

  “Perhaps they wore the guise of men only, and last night revealed their true nature. Or perhaps they were taken over somehow. The one that called the alarm and ran up the ladder past us. His was the dust Artol searched for. As I suspected, there was none. He became that Einheriar. That’s how it got behind us.”

  “That makes four of Slaayde’s crew that was Leaguers or worse,” said Ob.

  “How many more?” said Theta. “We can’t have traitors waiting to strike us down at every turn.”

  “Maybe they’re all Leaguers,” said Dolan.

  “They’re not,” said Artol. “At least three of the crew died fighting the monsters. These were brave men. Had their weapons worked against them, the whole crew would’ve been at them. Not many seamen would do that, especially not with soldiers and knights aboard. Most would hide behind us, but not these, they’re made of sturdy stuff.”

  “I agree,” said Ob. “They might be scum, but they’ve got heart and they’re not Leaguers—at least not most of them.”

  “But some were,” said Theta. “And some more may be. We need to root them out. I want no daggers in my back.”

  ***

  Par Tanch Trinagal turned fitfully in his sleep. His hands stung from the sorcery he had called upon in the recent battle; recurrent nightmares burned his brain. Nightmares of one hellish night deep in the Vermion Forest when he and his comrades faced outré horrors from beyond the world of man.

  Through a deep, bone-chilling fog, Tanch saw a demon of nightmare come alive, a thing more reptilian than animal. A thing that had no place or right to exist on Midgaard. A creature that should be naught but myth and legend. The thing pounced on Ob, already wounded and bleeding.

  Tanch called up words of power known only to true wizards, “By the Shards of Pythagorus, gek paipcm ficcg.” Spheres of blue fire erupted from Tanch’s fingers and sped toward the demon. On impact they detonated, blasted huge chunks from it, and killed it where it stood. Several knights moved protectively around Ob.

  Tanch turned and saw the big foreign knight, Lord Angle Theta, surrounded by many fiends akin to but different from the one he had just felled. The fiends stopped for a moment and looks of fear etched their inhuman faces. One even fell to its knees.

  Tanch had been plagued by this dream on many a night. Each time, one and then another of the fiends opened their mouths as if to speak, but through the din of battle, Tanch could not hope to hear their words, if words they were at all.

  But this night, unlike all the others, the dream was different. This time, the sounds of the battle grew dim and his vision narrowed upon the scene before him. This time, he heard the demons’ words.

  “No,” cried one fiend. “It be the ancient enemy, the traitor. The Harbinger of Doom.”

  A second demon dropped to its knees. “Spare us Lord and we shall serve thee, forevermore.”

  Theta’s sword slashed by faster than Tanch’s eyes could follow, and cut the fiends to shreds.

  Tanch awoke with a start, nightshirt soaked, head pounding. The demon’s words, “Harbinger of Doom. Harbinger of Doom,” echoed in his head. The morning sun shone in through the porthole and anchored the wizard back to reality.

  They knew him. They knew him. They feared him. They named him Lord and traitor. What could that mean? Dead gods, was that naught but a nightmare, or something more?

  ***

  Theta, Claradon, and Ob stood in Slaayde’s private chambers, at the foot of his sickbed. Tug and two burly seamen stood guard by the door. Slaayde was sitting up, though he looked half dead. His cheeks were sunken and of ghostly pallor, his hair white, his eyes dim and unfocused.

  Claradon had spent several minutes explaining that the missing crewmen turned into the Nifleheim warriors and that other crewmen could be suspect. Slaayde remained unconvinced. Raised voices caused a number of crewmen to gather in the hallway outside, to listen.

  “Slaayde,” said Theta, speaking for the first time since entering the room, “I need you to order your men to assemble for questioning.”

  Slaayde pulled himself up straighter. “My men,” said Slaayde in an even tone, but loud enough for his men in the hallway to hear, “fought bravely.” He paused to catch his breath before continuing. “Not a man amongst the crew of The Falcon was ever in league with those Fen creatures. The Black Falcon has the bravest and best crew that sails these ways, and let no man say any different. If any do, I will cut their damn heads off myself. I will not have my crew’s loyalties questioned by my passengers or any other.”

  Nods and grunts of agreement came from the lurking crewmen.

  “Laddie, one of your men was right behind me and Theta, and then he turned into that thing what Theta fought and killed on the bridge.”

  “Did you see this transformation? Did you see it happen with your own eyes?”

  Ob narrowed his eyes.

  “Did you see it, Eotrus? Or you?” he said, looking to Theta.

  “No,” said Claradon.

  Theta didn’t respond or react in any way save to stare at Slaayde.

  “I say that those two Fen creatures swam to The Falcon from the bog and climbed up the side onto my deck. One skulked up behind my man while he was distracted by the battle below and killed him, turning him to dust, and then came for you.”

  “There’s no dust up there,” said Ob.

  “So? It scattered in the breeze or in the battle or was knocked overboard, or washed away by the rain. That’s what happened and I will hear no more of it. My men—one and all—are loyal and true to me and to Lomion. We will speak no more of this. And we will see no more of those creatures—they’re things of the Fens and travel not beyond its borders. We’ve left them well behind.”

  Claradon made to protest further, but Ob grabbed his arm. “Let’s drop it, boy,” he said quietly.

  ***

  “I don’t understand what went on in there,” said Claradon as he sat on the couch in the Captain’s Den. “Is Slaayde an idiot? Even if
he doesn’t believe his missing men transformed into the Einheriar, he must see the value in questioning the crew. If there are other spies or traitors aboard, next time we may not get off so easy. We need to route them out.”

  Ob lounged back in a big leather chair, ale mug in hand. “Old White Hair knows all that as good as we do. Slaayde is hurt bad and that makes him afraid. Afraid his men will turn on him, and that he’ll lose his pretty little ship. That’s why he won’t back us, least not until he’s up and about and can stand up for himself.”

  “So to not take a chance on jeopardizing his command, he’s willing to risk his ship and all our lives?”

  “Yep, that’s about the size of it. Most men would do the same. I suppose he figures the odds of another turncoat or doppelganger is small, so he’ll take his chances.”

  “So what do we do?” said Claradon, looking toward Theta. The big knight sat silently in another leather chair, an inscrutable expression on his face.

  “What do you think we should do, boy?” said Ob.

  Claradon looked uncertain, and paused, thinking. “I think we should take a friendly and unannounced tour of the ship. Inspect for damage, shake some hands, see how everyone i’s holding up after that battle, and all the while I’ll keep the Amulet of Escandell close, looking for any sign that it reacts when I pass any crewman. If I get a hit, we will know who to watch.”

  “A good plan, Lord Eotrus,” said Ob.

  Claradon smiled. “Thank you, Castellan.”

  “Careful to whom you extend your hand, Eotrus,” said Theta, “or it might not come back.”

  “What do you mean?” said Claradon.

  “Have you forgotten that last night, half the crew, led by the First Mate, wanted to throw Dolan and the wizard in the river? If they had, things wouldn’t have ended there, and they knew it. Leaguers or not, we’ve enemies amongst us and we need to be wary.”

  “The big guy has got a point,” said Ob. “That First Mate, Na-poo-poo, or whatever his name is, needs close watching.”