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

  “Around the bend a ways there’s a series of big hoists that are used to haul up supplies and people,” said Ob. “A good deal easier and a fair bit quicker than the stairs.”

  The largest of the hoists comfortably held nearly a score of armored men. Theta, Claradon, Ob, Tanch, Dolan, Artol, Slaayde, Seran, and the other knights of Dor Eotrus: Sirs Paldor, Kelbor, Ganton ‘the Bull’, and Trelman loaded onto the large cabin, all dressed in their finest. Duke Harringgold’s soldiers, save Seran, remained with the ship, as did the balance of Claradon’s men and Slaayde’s crew.

  The hoist’s rectangular cabin was almost eight feet tall and built of heavy planks and timbers. A dozen thick ropes with looped ends hung one to two feet down from the ceiling beams. The hoist operator stepped in last. He swung closed the cabin door, or rather, the half-door, since it was but three feet tall. “Grab the ropes and hold on,” he said.

  Claradon gripped one of the looped ropes; several of the others followed suit. Ob looked up at the rope above him, far beyond his reach, and grabbed Claradon’s sword belt instead.

  The operator tugged on a chain, which rang a loud bell mounted atop the hoist cabin. Seconds later, the cabin lurched, sending the men reeling to one side.

  “Ha! I told you to hold on.”

  After it moved a ways, the cabin steadied, swinging just a bit to the side as it ascended. Some of the men stared at their feet, some closed their eyes, and the rest stared bug-eyed out the door. The operator ignored the view outside, choosing instead to stare at his passengers, an amused expression on his face.

  When the hoist reached the top, the group unloaded onto a wide stone terrace outside the massive outer walls of the fortress. An elaborate array of ropes and pulleys, levers and great geared wheels powered by teams of oxen pulled some hoists up and lowered others down, all supervised by more than a dozen men clad in the livery of House Malvegil.

  A large staging area, currently brimming with sparring troops, dominated most of the terrace. Squadrons of soldiers dueled with wooden swords and blunted spears, weapons masters barking orders and taunts all the while. A massive barn for the oxen and horses was situated off in one corner.

  The walls of the fortress hugged the edge of the cliff around its whole perimeter, save for the hoist terrace, the Dor’s loading dock. Here, the walls rose up some sixty feet. Crenellated battlements loomed over the terrace, its defenders ready to lay waste to any enemy that somehow reached the crag’s summit.

  Majestic towers and turrets climbed to lofty heights here and there about the fortress. The flags of Lomion and House Malvegil flew atop the walls and towers, fluttering proudly in the wind.

  The group was greeted by the Dor’s Castellan, one Hubert Gravemare, an elderly man of lanky build and crackly voice, supported by a group of frazzled servants. Claradon explained that they couldn’t stay long, and Gravemare countered that Lord Malvegil would insist they remain for a meal at the least. He escorted them to the great hall to await his lord.

  Dor Malvegil’s great hall was arrayed with rows of oaken trestle tables and benches, polished and spotless, together large enough to feast several hundred at a time. The floor was constructed of large stone tiles, well-cleaned and in good repair. Huge carved wood trusses supported the roof some forty feet above, spanning from one side of the hall to the other, creating a wide space free of columns or piers.

  The Lord’s Table sat at the head on a raised platform two steps higher than the rest of the hall. On Gravemare’s orders servants scurried about it, setting plates and silverware and goblets. There would be no more debating about dinner.

  Glimador Malvegil marched into the hall dressed in a blue silken shirt and black breaches, a sword belt strapped around his waist. He warmly greeted his comrades but went speechless when Seran presented him with the shining Dyvers sword from Pipkorn. Moments later, Lord Malvegil and his Lady, Landolyn, arrived.

  Torbin Malvegil was a tall, burly man of bushy black beard, booming voice, and pearl white teeth. He entered the hall wearing his ancestral armor, all-polished to a blazing sheen, though at that moment he was all but invisible, for every man’s eyes locked on his lady. Her rare curves marked her of half-elven blood at least. Like most of her ancestry, she was narrow of waist, extra wide of hip and much more than very large of chest. Few human women ever had such proportions, but unlike a pureblood elf, her allure was natural, not enhanced by whatever strange magic surrounded the elves. Her face was at once beautiful and haunting, with sharp, almost ageless features, black eyes, and silver hair, straight and silky that fell to below her waist.

  “Claradon! Welcome, my dear nephew,” said Lord Malvegil as he approached the group. “Too long have these halls not seen your face.” At his arm, Landolyn smiled politely.

  Ob gave Claradon a bit of a push on the back, and he stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Greetings, Uncle Torbin. Good to see you, it’s been far too long.”

  They clasped forearms. Malvegil leaned in and spoke quietly now, squeezing Claradon’s forearm and shoulder. “I’m so sorry, dear boy. Your father was a fine man, and my good friend of long years. I can’t believe that he and Gabriel are gone.”

  “Nor can I.”

  “There’s much that we must discuss,” said Malvegil.

  “Ob,” boomed Malvegil as he looked past Claradon. “You stinking gnome bastard. Come here,” he said, arms outstretched.

  “Lord Ob to you, you stinking scum,” Ob said. Ob hopped up on a chair and they embraced like brothers, smacking each other warmly on the back. Lady Landolyn looked mortified at the whole exchange.

  “Do my eyes deceive me?” said Malvegil as he looked to Artol who stood nearby smiling. “Artol the Destroyer, The Hammer of Lomion, the Scourge of the North!”

  “Those names are old and worn, Torbin, I’m due for a new one.”

  “You will have to earn it, just as the others.” The two men firmly embraced; the requisite three manly pats on the back each.

  “But I’ve forgotten my manners,” said Malvegil. “This vision of loveliness,” grasping his lady by the arm, “for those who haven’t had the pleasure, is my consort, the Lady Landolyn.”

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” she said, bowing her head politely, though her voice was less than welcoming.

  When the greetings and introductions were completed, Gravemere offered to lead the group on a tour of Dor Malvegil’s sights while dinner was being prepared. He boasted of Dor Malvegil’s extensive library, well-appointed gallery, and the impressive views from the eastern terrace.

  Theta gave Claradon a withering stare that commanded him to speak up. Instead, he suddenly took great interest in Lord Malvegil’s shoes.

  “Lord Malvegil,” said Theta. “We’re on a mission of great urgency. No doubt, we would all enjoy the hospitality of your fine house, but we must be off this night. Much is at stake.”

  Malvegil studied Theta, looking him up and down. “I will speak of this with Lord Eotrus, in private. In the meantime, you men may enjoy the hospitality of House Malvegil.” Malvegil grasped Claradon by the arm and led him from the hall, the public discussion over. Ob followed on their heels.

  “Who is he?” said Malvegil, as he, Ob, and Claradon climbed the castle stairs.

  Claradon hesitated. “Well—

  “He is trouble, is what he is,” said Ob. “He’s a foreigner what calls himself Angle Theta—Lord Angle Theta, actually. Some folks call him by other names.”

  “Never heard of him. Some upstart, no doubt, who doesn’t yet know his place. I can’t place his accent. Where is he from?”

  “Some place far to the west, or so he says,” said Ob. “All very mysterious, if you ask me.”

  “Uncle, Lord Harringgold sent a raven—”

  “I’ve had no ravens from Dor Lomion in weeks,” said Malvegil. “If he sent one, that proves the system is compromised, as I’ve long suspected. What was the message?”

  “Jude was kidnapped.”

  Malvegil stopped dead on t
he stairs. “What?”

  “Ambushed on the north road,” said Ob. “A dozen men with him found dead, including some of our best.”

  “Jude was taken captive,” said Claradon.

  “Captive! On Eotrus lands? Who did this?”

  “The stinking Leaguers,” said Ob. “Heard of them, I trust?”

  Malvegil growled, his jaw set, but said nothing more until they reached the third floor. “Ransom?”

  “They haven’t asked for any, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to,” said Claradon. “That’s why we’re here. Those who took Jude are aboard a ship called The White Rose. They would’ve passed here within the last day or so. As far as we know, Jude is alive and on board.”

  “Darn raven,” said Malvegil. “If it had arrived, I could’ve stopped them. Jude would be free now and them that took him, in irons.”

  Malvegil led them toward his private den. “To attack a squad of soldiers like that—the League is moving faster than I anticipated.” Malvegil grabbed a passing servant and commanded him to fetch the Harbormaster and his aides at once, though when they arrived, they reported only that The Rose had been seen the previous day, but did not put to port.

  Malvegil settled into a wide leather chair in the Lord’s Den, a grave look on his face. Claradon and Ob sat across from him. Servants poured the men wine, but fled the room at a gesture from Malvegil.

  “We can do no more for Jude than what you’ve planned. Track that ship, bring it to heel, and get Jude back one way or another. I will aid you in any way I can. I would give you another ship or two, but nothing I have is fast enough to keep up with you. Anything else I have that you need is yours.”

  “Thank you,” said Claradon.

  “No need to thank me, boy—we’re family; I can do no less. Your father was more than my sister’s husband, he was my best friend for all my life. From when Aradon and I were small children our families visited each other, for a week or more, several times each year. Those were some of the best times in my life, which is why we continued the tradition after you kids were born. I will always regret that we didn’t keep up those trips over the last few years, but with Eleanor gone, and you boys always off in training—it just wasn’t the same. I can’t believe that it has been two years since I’ve seen your father, and now, never again. There just never seems enough time.”

  “Aye,” said Ob. “Never enough.”

  “Our family visits were some of the best times of my life as well,” said Claradon. “I know Glimador feels the same, and so do my brothers.”

  “I’m glad of that,” said Malvegil. “We did that much right, at least. We could talk for hours of the happy times, and we should, but tonight, we’ve graver matters to discuss. I’ve heard Glimador’s tale about your father. Mountain trolls, my ass. You swore him to secrecy, I’m sure, though he won’t even admit that much. Tell me what really happened to Aradon and the others.”

  “The stinking Shadow League happened,” said Ob.

  Malvegil winced at the remark, and then took a gulp of wine. “Are you telling me that the League killed them?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Claradon.

  Malvegil closed his eyes. “There’s no stopping it then. This puts Lomion on the road to ruin. It can only end one way.” Malvegil downed the rest of his wine. “Now tell me everything. Leave nothing out.”

  Claradon and Ob related the events of the Vermion, a dark tale of death, demon lords, and mad cultists. Malvegil listened intently and asked many questions.

  “A hard story to swallow whole or in pieces,” said Malvegil. “You did well not to tell this tale to the Council. It could only have made things worse, and they would certainly never accept the truth of it.”

  “If I wasn’t there, I wouldn’t believe it,” said Ob, “but I was.”

  “I’ve seen many strange things in my days,” said Malvegil, “and more often than not, Gabriel was around when I saw them. He seemed to attract the weird or mayhaps it attracted him. I’ve never seen a demon though, and never even believed in them. Fairy tales and ghost stories for the fireside, nothing more, I’d say.”

  Malvegil stared at the fireplace for a moment, considering his words before continuing. “I wasn’t with you that night, but I accept your story as honest told however wild it sounds.” Malvegil refilled his goblet from a glass decanter. “They died heroes, Aradon, Gabriel, Talbon, Stern, Donnelin, and the rest, defending our kingdom. Few better ways for old soldiers to pass, I suppose.”

  “I’d prefer old age,” said Ob.

  “You passed old age a hundred years ago.”

  “Of course, he moves slow. I’ve left him behind, and he can’t catch me,” Ob said chuckling.

  “Did Korrgonn sail with The White Rose?” said Malvegil.

  “He did,” said Claradon.

  Malvegil nodded. “You’ll want to leave at once. I would feel the same if I were you, but still, I strongly advise you to remain here the night. The Dead Fens, as Ob knows too well, lie just to the south of Malvegil lands. It’s an evil place and always has been. A fog that never lifts makes passage perilous even in full daylight. But of late, things have grown fouler—fouler than they’ve been in twenty-five years,” he said, with a glance to Ob. “Dark shapes are seen by passing ships. Strange sounds are heard even in the day.”

  “Over the last year, several small boats have gone missing never to be found. In recent months, guardsmen and sailors have disappeared without sound or trace from the decks of even the largest vessels. If you leave tonight, you will find yourselves in the heart of the fens before dawn. That is somewhere you don’t want to be. Get a good night’s rest here, in comfortable beds and safe surroundings, leave in the morning, and with any luck at all you’ll be past the fens hours before dark.”

  Claradon stared into his goblet.

  “Aye, it might be best,” said Ob, “all things considered.”

  “Sound advice,” said Claradon.

  “It’s settled then,” said Malvegil, “and that’s good, for we’ve much more to discuss. Glimador tells me you gave Barusa quite a thrashing.”

  “You should’ve seen it,” said Ob. “He had Mr. High-and-Mighty on his knees.”

  Malvegil broke into a wide smile. “Well, you are your father’s son, I’ll give you that.”

  Claradon’s face reddened and he looked down.

  “I’m sorry,” said Malvegil. “The pain is still fresh, I know. It will lessen in time, but it will always be with you.” Malvegil took a drink from his goblet. “Find strength and what comfort you can in the good memories of your father, of which I know you have many.”

  “After that duel, you’re lucky to have gotten out of Lomion City alive. The Shadow League has a warrant out on your life, I’m certain.”

  “Religious nuts, every one,” said Ob. “They’ve bought off half the High Council, maybe more.”

  “Religion isn’t their aim or their purpose, old friend; it’s merely their tool. This is about revolution—a revolution from within.”

  “The League wants to take over—to seize power over Lomion City and the whole of the kingdom, and rule it as they will. Their religious trappings are nothing more than that, a way to delude the commoners and the fools and mask their true goals. Our way of life is being destroyed before our eyes. The monarchy has already fallen, the republic, which has wielded the real power for the last thousand years, is near collapse. Once the Vizier or the Chancellor or some other gains enough power to take control of all the League’s forces, they will kill the Tenzivels and the Harringgolds, they’ll dissolve the High Council and the Council of Lords, and Lomion City will be lost. From there, they’ll move on Kern, Dover, Sarnack, Dyvers, and all the Dors. Nowhere will be safe for us. Not here, not anywhere.”

  Malvegil stood and began to pace as he spoke. “They have agents everywhere; they’ve been infiltrating for years, right under our noses. They’ve been recruiting our own citizens into the cults and brainwashing them in the t
emples, making them hate their own land, their own government, their own way of life. They even have spies in my own House, so mind your words when we’re not in private. While we’ve been focused on threats from without, they’ve been slowly eating away at us from within.”

  “Can’t we raise the Council of Lords into action?” said Claradon. “The combined might of the Lords must still far outstrip whatever forces are loyal to the League.”

  “I tried to do just that when I was in Lomion three months ago. All I got was a dagger in my back.”

  “What?” said Ob.

  “They tried to kill you?” said Claradon.

  “They did, but luckily, I had on a vest of chain beneath my shirt for just such an occasion. When I had him, the assassin cut his own throat rather than be taken. That one was in it for religion, as are many of the League’s agents and soldiers. It makes it easier for the League’s leaders to control their troops, for religious zealotry can take hold of a man and make him do things beyond his imagining.”

  “Glenfinnen went into hiding after the attempt on my life. Baron Morfin wasn’t so lucky. They killed him and his son. A murder-suicide declared the good Chancellor. Hogwash and horsefeathers. They think us fools enough to believe that?”

  “So what do we do? How do we stand against them?” said Claradon.

  Malvegil halted, narrowed his eyes, and stared directly at Claradon. “We go to war. Either that, or they will destroy us.”

  “You’re not talking war,” said Ob. “You’re talking civil war. Not all the scum are foreigners; many are our own, like the Alders, Marshal Balfor, and Guildmaster Slyman.”

  “Many of the noble houses have allied with them, more than perhaps we know,” said Malvegil. “Many in the Tower of the Arcane have gone over, and they’ve infiltrated the Heralds Guild too. The heralds praise the cults and curse the King. Only the Chancellor can save us, sing the Heralds, only the Vizier, shout the mages.”

  “Why would the wizards and the heralds support them?” said Claradon.

  “Who knows what madness has beguiled those fools. But history teaches us that when a society grows old enough, and secure enough, some of its citezins get bored and learn to hate their country. It’s some sickness of the mind that all too many seem susceptible to. They see evil only in their own, though not in themselves, and grow blind to all evil from without. They go so far as to blame their own people or their own government for the evils of foreign tyrants and the crimes of common brigands, and even for bad weather. ‘We made them that way’, they say. ‘They’re really good, just misunderstood’. It’s an old pattern, my friends. It has happened before and it will happen again.”