Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) Page 5

  “Don’t pee yourself, brother. For all your skill, I don’t expect you to duel the devil himself. For that we need born killers.”

  “Who could possibly—”

  “The Duelist of Dyvers and the Knights of Kalathen”

  Blain’s face brightened. “That’s an idea at that. DeBoors is supposed to be the best there is, and I hear he’s in the city.”

  “He is.”

  Blain paused for a moment. “You planned this? DeBoors isn’t in Lomion just by chance, is he?”

  “Of course I planned it. I plan everything. Have Kleig ready his ship to sail by morning while I pay DeBoors a visit.”

  Three cloaked men, faces concealed under hoods, made their way up the grand stair of the Roaring Lion Inn. DeBoors and his men had rooms on the second floor—some of the best accommodations in all of Lomion City, courtesy of the Chancellor, or rather, of House Alder’s treasury.

  “Why do we need this mercenary, uncle?” said Edwin quietly. “I can deal with Eotrus, and Uncle Bartol and my father can handle that foreign knight.”

  “I admire your confidence,” said Barusa, “but I would rather not see my brothers and nephew dead.”

  “It’s unseemly for us to be walking around in hiding, as if we’re criminals,” said Edwin.

  “It would be more unseemly for the chancellor of the realm to be seen consorting with hired killers.”

  Bartol put his hand on Edwin’s shoulder. “Keep your tongue in check while we’re in there. DeBoors isn’t a man to be fooled with.”

  “Neither am I,” Edwin said.

  Four armored men, Knights of Kalathen, stood on guard in the second floor hall. These were no ordinary soldiers. They were large and solid, with chiseled features, the finest armor and weapons that coin could buy, and the dead eyes of cold-blooded killers. Bartol pulled back his hood and showed them the Chancellor’s seal of office.

  The knights soon ushered them through a set of ornate double doors into a grand suite. A large living area with rich couches and chairs and a large fireplace dominated the room. Four doors led to bedrooms.

  Beside the fireplace stood a tall, rangy, shirtless Pict of golden brown skin and ponytail. Around his waist, a sword belt; in his right hand, a spear, the haft resting on the floor. A worn bedroll lay open and disheveled at his feet; clearly, he had been lying on it before the three arrived. A man accustomed to a hard life outdoors sometimes had no interest in a soft bed.

  The Chancellor and Edwin pulled back their hoods as the Pict studied them. The left side of Edwin’s face was swollen and red, an ugly scar, not long old, extended from the corner of his lip to his left ear.

  One of the bedroom doors opened. A chiseled hulk of gleam and gristle stood in the portal. He studied the room for some moments, then nodded to the Kalathens. Two left the room, the remaining stood guard by the door.

  “I am DeBoors,” he said.

  “I am Barusa,” said the Chancellor. He gestured toward each of his kinsmen, in turn. “My brother, Bartol, of the Myrdonians. My nephew, Edwin.”

  DeBoors approached and shook hands with each. Barusa and DeBoors exchanged polite smiles. Bartol tightly gripped DeBoors’ hand to take his measure. At six foot four and two hundred eighty pounds of mostly muscle, Bartol stood eye to eye with DeBoors, but still looked small beside him. DeBoors was solid, and massive of arm, chest, and shoulder. His golden cuirass, articulated and fitted, made him all the more imposing. Edwin barely contained his disdain for the whole affair.

  The men took seats on couch and chairs. A servant appeared, dispensing wine, brandy, and cigars from parts foreign. Barusa and DeBoors engaged in pleasant conversation about the weather, DeBoors’ journey from Dyvers, and other miscellany. All the while, Bartol said little and sat patiently. Edwin squirmed in his seat, having no interest in small talk and no use for mercenaries. The Pict stood silent, and near motionless, save for his eyes, which shifted from Barusa, to Bartol, to Edwin, and back again, no doubt imagining novel ways to kill and torture them each, such was his savage nature.

  After a time, DeBoors placed his tumbler on the table. “On to business?”

  The Chancellor nodded. “All that we say here tonight will remain here.”

  “Of course,” said DeBoors.

  “I will have your word on that.”

  “You just did.”

  The Chancellor nodded. “Within some hours, a ship called The Black Falcon will leave the harbor in pursuit of a vessel called The White Rose. Aboard The Rose are some that are friends of mine. Aboard The Falcon are some that are not. You will follow The Falcon aboard another ship called The Grey Talon. With you and your men will go Bartol, Edwin, my brother Blain, and a company of soldiers from my House. In addition, The Grey Talon is well stocked of marines and fighting seamen.”

  DeBoors nodded his understanding.

  “Aboard The Falcon are two men that I would see dead.”

  “News of your duel has reached me, Chancellor. The young Lord Eotrus is one of the two, I have no doubt. The mercenary that travels with him is the other.”

  Barusa smiled a thin smile. “Indeed. I am glad to see that you are well informed.”

  “It’s essential in my business.”

  Barusa nodded. “When you are well away from Lomion City, at a time of your choosing, you will do away with these two. I don’t want them returning to Lomion City under any circumstances.”

  “What support do they have on The Falcon?”

  “Eotrus has his House Wizard with him,” said Bartol.

  “Their true House Wizard fell in a skirmish alongside Aradon Eotrus in the Northlands,” said Barusa. “By all accounts, his replacement is no more than a hedge wizard and a coward at that. But Eotrus does have troops with him, perhaps one, or even two squadrons of knights and men-at-arms. The Falcon’s crew may stand with them as well, but I doubt it.”

  “I’ve heard tell of Dylan Slaayde and his reavers,” DeBoors said. “They can be dealt with, if need be.”

  “Your price?” Barusa said.

  “Your offer?” responded DeBoors.

  “Twenty thousand silver stars,” said Barusa.

  DeBoors’ face darkened. “A kingly price for the head of a merchant or a minor noble. A pittance for a Dor Lord well-guarded, and a river voyage to boot.”

  They stared each other down for some moments.

  “Fifty thousand, and no more,” said Barusa, as he stood, the negotiation over. The others followed him up.

  “Thirty thousand in advance, the rest on proof,” said DeBoors.

  “Done,” said Barusa.

  V

  OLD SAINT PIP

  “Trust no wizards, my Lord, not one.”

  —Pipkorn to Angle Theta

  The southern Lomerian docks stretched for over two miles. The western reaches nestled within the fringes of the High District and were filled with noblemen’s yachts and pleasure vessels, elements of the royal fleet, church vessels, and ambassadorial galleons. The heart of the docks, populated with merchant craft of all manner and type, burst with warehouses and fisheries and bustled with activity from pre-dawn to late eve. Those central docks served as home to the Lomerian Navy: cutters, longships, and cruisers, swift and strong.

  The eastern reaches of the docks touched a seedy section of the city called The Heights for a short stretch and ended in Southeast, which was by far the foulest district in the fair city of Lomion. The walls betwixt the city proper and Southeast continued to the water’s edge and well beyond. Long and tall stone jetties extended more than three hundred feet into the harbor on each side of Southeast. Guard posts lived at the watersides, manned continuously with sturdy watchmen. Watch stations and barracks stood against the wall near the water’s edge at the land sides of the jetties, and brimmed with watchmen—duty posts for the young and the out of favor.

  The Black Falcon berthed in The Heights, not far from Southeast, no doubt due to its dubious reputation and alleged dirty dealings. To supplement its crew an
d Claradon’s men, Lord Harringgold assigned a squadron of soldiers of his house. Young men mostly, fresh-faced but well trained and disciplined. They wore the livery of House Harringgold on their tabards—a silver, gauntleted fist upraised that looked to be a mighty stone tower when viewed from certain angles. These men-at-arms were girded with swords and shields; several bore crossbows, and a number brought aboard wicked-looking pikes. They wore chainmail coats, leggings, coif, and steel half-helms. Commanding them was Lord Harringgold’s nephew, Sir Seran Harringgold, a muscular, fair-haired youth of ready smile and gleaming plate armor. Seran was a member of the Odion Knights, an aristocratic order both powerful and secretive.

  Theta supervised the provisioning of the ship, which proceeded concurrently with the offloading of marble slabs from The Falcon’s hold. He had the Duke’s men acquire and bring aboard foodstuffs and drink, independent of those hauled aboard by Dylan Slaayde’s crew. At Theta’s direction, the Duke’s men acquired various additional armaments and several trunks of a type designed to float, even fully laden in rough seas. While the loading and unloading operations proceeded, Theta inspected every inch of the three-masted vessel—its extents, structure, and cargo.

  Claradon’s small retinue of soldiers stood watch on the pier during the loading process. They and Tanch made a game of counting how many people on the bustling dockyards skulked and loitered about, watching every move on and around The Falcon.

  “That man on the corner—perhaps, one of the Alders?” said Tanch.

  “A Black Hand,” said Artol. “He’s called Dirgo the Mark. A real killer.” Artol took a puff of the cigar that dangled from his mouth. “He’ll cut your eyes out and eat them raw, if you give him the chance.”

  Tanch shuddered.

  “I believe I see a Myrdonian knight in the high window across the way,” said Tanch. “See the insignia on his tabard? I’m quite sure I’m right, this time. And that stooped old woman by the barrels has a beard beneath her cowl. How disgusting.”

  “So does your grandmother, but good eyes anyway, wizard,” said Artol. “Did you notice that that lady of the evening down the corner has turned away three buyers in favor of watching us?”

  “Oh! There’s one of the Vizier’s apprentices,” said Tanch, “peaking from the doorway of the fishmonger’s.”

  “If we had sold tickets,” said Artol, “we could’ve bought this darn ship.”

  ***

  Slaayde’s crew was a company of seasoned sailors and hardened sell-swords from around the globe. They held no love for the Duke’s well-coifed and uniformed guardsmen or for the knights of Dor Eotrus, who looked down upon them as the scum of the earth, which in truth, rose more than a few above their station.

  N’Paag, the newly hired first mate, a dark-hued man of the free city of Piper’s Hold, stood on the forecastle and surveyed the loading and unloading work, but said little.

  Slaayde’s second mate and chief bullyboy was a near seven-foot-tall, black-bearded behemoth called Little Tug. Though expert at working the pulleys and small gantries used to haul the slabs of marble out of the hold, Tug could lift near as much with his bare hands. His half-lugron blood accounted for his muscle and his girth, but not his height, since lugron typically stood inches shorter than the average man.

  Affronts to nature and decency are the half-lugron, or so they say, since the coupling of human woman and lugron male almost always occurred without consent. Rarely was it that such a union bore fruit, and when it did, the pitiable result usually died in childhood, deformed and outcast. Despite his rather ill-favored looks, Tug was one the lucky ones, as he had his share of wits, if just.

  All the work and the ever-present bantering was performed under the watchful eye of the ship’s quartermaster, the ill-named Bertha Smallbutt, who was near as wide as she was tall and no doubt trained the banshee in its screaming techniques. At one point, Ob found himself upended bodily and tossed over the rail into the water when he ran afoul of her during a disagreement about whose provisions were to go where.

  In the final hour of loading, a stooped man of hooded brown robes and crooked cane made his way across the pier to The Falcon’s berth carrying a large, grimy sack over his shoulder.

  “A bite of bread?” pleaded the man as he approached Theta who stood at the foot of the gangway. “A crumb, a crumb of cheese for a poor old man?”

  “Greetings, Rascatlan,” said Theta. “Has your larder gone empty or your head?”

  The old man let out a small growl of frustration and looked up at Theta. It was the wizard Pipkorn, Sorcerer Supreme of all Midgaard, in disguise. He furtively looked around to see if anyone could overhear them. “I could never fool you, Lord Theta. I have come with council and what aid I can provide, if you will have it.”

  “Gladly.”

  Pipkorn stepped close and spoke quietly. “You know that Korrgonn is bent on opening another gateway. He won’t rest until it’s done. That is where he’s going, to find another place of power where the veil between Midgaard and Nifleheim is thin. Only there can the door be opened. Only there can his armies come through.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  “He must not succeed or all will be lost. Everything. The whole world.”

  “Don’t those fools helping him know?”

  “Most of them are wizards. Ginalli has gathered dark wizards from across Midgaard to his cause. Worse, he has corrupted many who were never dark. When that gateway opens, magic will come storming back in the world, magic of a kind and a power not seen in an age. That’s what they want, that is what they lust for. Their power will grow tenfold. They’re blinded by this, they can’t see past it. Dreams of such power can corrupt most anyone. Trust no wizards, my lord, not one.”

  “Even you?”

  “Even me,” said Pipkorn sadly.

  “I don’t trust anyone.”

  “That has its advantages, I suppose. If you will, my lord, gather young Eotrus, Par Tanch, your elf, your gnome, and young Harringgold, and let’s speak in private. I have some trifles for you.”

  Not until they were secure within the Captain’s Den, the door barred, did Pipkorn straighten and pull back his hood, his voice returning to its normal pitch.

  Sixtyish and balding gray, Pipkorn had a full gray moustache and a strange boil amidst his forehead. “I come with what aid I can offer for your quest,” said Pipkorn. “And to wish you well on your journey. I appreciate its true import, even if your good benefactor the Duke does not. There’s much to speak of, but not near enough time. You must be away as soon as you are supplied. I’ve brought you what tokens an old wizard has collected over his long years.” Pipkorn opened his sack and rummaged about. “One and all are precious to me, but if they’re not put to good use now, then when?”

  From within the sack he pulled a deerskin quiver filled with arrows of black stony heads and shafts of exotic wood fletched with green feathers. “For you,” he said, handing the quiver to Dolan. “Made by the Vanyar Elves of legend. You will find that they fly truer and farther than any others. The tips are made of ranal, a metal with the look of obsidian, but hard as steel and near half again as light. They’re imbued with some queer magic of the Vanyar; use them against the minions of Nifleheim when common arrows fail you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wizard, sir,” said Dolan, bowing low.

  Pipkorn reached back into the tall sack and pulled out a short sword, gleaming silver and inscribed with runes. “For you, Sir Seran. This is a Dyvers blade, but no common one. This beauty was forged four hundred years ago by Lord Dyvers himself, one of his last and greatest works. Use it well.”

  Pipkorn handed Seran the ancient blade. “Thank you, Master Pipkorn; I’m in your debt.”

  “Yes of course, as is everyone. And where is young Malvegil?”

  “Glimador left for Dor Malvegil some days ago,” said Claradon.

  “Of course,” said Pipkorn. Pipkorn pulled another stylish short sword from his sack. “Sir Seran, I trust that you’ll not
mind holding your blade’s twin until Glimador rejoins this merry band?”

  “I would be honored,” said Seran.

  “No doubt, no doubt,” said Pipkorn.

  Next, Pipkorn pulled a short-hafted battle-axe from the sack, and handed it to Ob. “For you, sir.” The axe had a dull silver color to its head, and a stout oaken haft carved with curious runes.

  “Mighty pretty axe there, Pip,” said Ob, as he grasped the handle. “It almost looks like it were made of—”

  “Mithril?” said Pipkorn. “Indeed it is. I know of no other like it.”

  “An axe of mithril? Even in legend I’ve only heard of one.”

  “Yes, only one,” said Pipkorn, a wry smile on his face. “And this is she. The axe of Bigby the Bold, late Prince of the great gnomish city of Shandelon, and last of his line.”

  Ob’s eyes near popped from his head. “It cannot be. How could you ever come across this?”

  “One of many tales for which we have no time, I fear. Suffice that it will serve you well, as it served the gnomish lords and kings of Shandelon for a thousand years and more.”

  Pipkorn patted himself down searching for something. “Ah, here it is.” From a pocket, he pulled a bronze ring. “For you, Tanch Trinagal of the Blue Tower, son of Sinch” said Pipkorn as he handed over the ring. “You hold in your hand the fabled Ring of the Magi, one of twenty born in the forge of the Wizard Talidousen, Sorcerer Supreme during the reign of King Zeltlin II, more than seven thousand years ago. The skills that ensorcelled it and its brothers are long lost to the world and likely as not, will not be found again. Keep it close, and keep it secret, for there is many a mage and hedge wizard that would gladly kill to possess one of these.”

  Tanch stared at it in wonder. “Legend tells that these rings can amplify a wizard’s power, increasing the strength and duration of his magics.”