Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) (11 page)

“
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.”

Malvegil topped off his glass and offered
the bottle to Ob, who took it eagerly. “A defect in the brain.
Perhaps some worm picked up from undercooked pork drills its way in
and eats them between the ears. I don’t know, men. But the mages
and the heralds are with them, and they’re against us. That’s the
way it is.”

“
When they finally
understand what the League is really about, they will want to stop
them,” said Claradon. “These people are Lomerians—patriots—
whatever our disagreements with them.”

“
You’re right, those of
good intent will come around, but by then it will be too late. Some
will continue to side with the League, even then, to save
themselves.”

“
It’ll be a bloody mess,”
said Ob.

“
And if it’s bad enough,
it will leave us vulnerable to attacks from without. Our foreign
enemies will gather at the gates.” Malvegil paused, letting that
sink in for a moment. “We need Dor Eotrus to stand with us, and we
need House Eotrus to be strong.”

“
Uncle,” said Claradon.
“You must know that you have my full support, but I’m not sure how
much we can do.”

“
Our forces are broken,”
said Ob. “Most of our best fell with Aradon and Gabriel and Jude.
We don’t have enough men to deploy to the field—not for any major
battle; maybe not enough even to even hold the Dor, if we’re hard
pressed.”

“
Grim news, worse than I
thought. Dor Eotrus must stand. The trade route between Lomion and
Kern must remain secure.”

“
You said we need Dor
Eotrus to stand with us?” said Claradon. “Which ‘us’ are you
talking about? Who are our allies? House Harringgold, of course.
Who else can we count on?”

“
A fair question for any
Dor Lord to ask,” said Malvegil, “but I’ll not tell you, not when
you’re about to go off after some of the League’s leaders. If
you’re captured, under duress you might give us away. I can’t
chance that. All things considered, it’s better that you don’t
know, not now, anyway. Must you go on this mission,
Claradon?”

Claradon hesitated some
moments before responding. “Maybe that’s why they took Jude; to
torture him for information.”

Malvegil and Ob exchanged
worried glances.

“
Hold on, boy,” said Ob.
“There could be many reasons they want him. Maybe they will ransom
him back after all, and that’ll be the end of it. In any case, best
not to dwell on it.”

“
Could be they’re
torturing him even now, to find out what he knows. But he doesn’t
know anything, does he?”

Ob shook his head.

“
So then they’ll kill
him,” said Claradon. “Theta was right, we can’t linger here. We
need to sail at the crack of dawn, before then, even.”

“
I know that you want to
save Jude yourself,” said Malvegil, “but sometimes a leader needs
to make difficult choices, to serve the greater good. You and Ob
should go back and take command of your Dor. I can spare a squadron
of men to help you. Let Theta and the others go after Korrgonn and
Jude. It doesn’t need to be you, Claradon.”

“
Torbin,” said Ob, “we
can’t lose sight that what’s happening is bigger than us, bigger
than Lomion even. These Leaguers called up some kind of beasties
from another world and they will do it again. It don’t matter what
those things really were, or where they really came from—all that
matters is that they mean to kill us dead, and they’re more than
capable of it. Had we been a day later, who knows how many of them
would’ve come through. Then we’d be swimming in blood. Korrgonn and
the men with him are the ones what know how to open these gateways.
They need to be stopped. They need to be dead. That’s why we have
to go. That’s why we can’t leave it to anybody else. Stinking
Harringgold only half believed us.”

“
If I didn’t know you for
so long, I’d not believe you at all,” said Malvegil. “But I agree,
these men need stopping. Let’s put them down.”

***

Gravemare assigned Ob to a
fancy room—large with big furniture, four-poster bed, a couch, and
coffee table, all in dark wood, tapestries and paintings on the
walls, even a private water closet and bath with running water,
clean and tiled.

Ob was glad that Theta didn’t make an issue
of staying the night when Claradon announced the decision at
dinner. That would’ve made Claradon look weak and would’ve ruined a
good meal too. Maybe Mr. Know-it-All is finally learning who’s the
boss.

Ob washed his face in a marble basin. He’d
have a bath later, if he didn’t get too drunk, since this might be
his last chance in a goodly while. At the moment, though, he felt
stuffed to bursting with roast meats and boiled vegetables, honeyed
beer and hot wassail. Malvegil’s chef had served up a meal worthy
of the best eateries in Lomion City. Despite his indulgence, Ob
managed two thick slices of wastelbread and made off with a plate
of cookies.

After dessert, Torbin
invited the group to join him later in his den for some drinking,
cigars, and storytelling.

“
I hope Slaayde doesn’t
show up,” muttered Ob as he looked himself over in the mirror
before leaving his room. “I don’t trust that bugger. At least
Torbin has a couple of guards shadowing him.”

Theta’s room was just down
the hall and Ob decided to pick him up on the way. Ob figured that
Theta would enjoy the tale of the Dead Fens. Torbin was sure to
tell that one, what with Ob and Artol both there, Gabe’s passing,
and the group heading past the Fens on the morrow. He wasn’t
certain that Claradon was ready to hear that tale. How many shocks
could the boy take?

As Ob exited his room, he
saw Lady Landolyn step through the doorway into Theta’s room. The
door closed behind her.

“
What’s this?” Ob
whispered. Ob padded silently down the hallway as quickly as he
could and pressed his ear to the door.

“
You are the Thetan of
old?” said Lady Landolyn sharply.

That name again, Thetan,
just as Mortach had called him. If Theta made any reply, Ob didn’t
hear it.

“
I am of the House of
Adonael,” said the Lady.

After a short pause she
continued. “Your fell deeds are not forgotten by my House, or by
many others.” With each word, her voice grew louder and more
shrill. “You led us astray and for this we have suffered much. Your
crimes are beyond compare and beyond forgiveness.”

Slap!

“
Zounds!” muttered Ob,
though he couldn’t tell if she shapped him or if he caught her hand
in his.

“
You know not of what you
speak,” said Theta in a slow, measured, and cold voice. “The anger
you harbor is misplaced.”

“
I think not, traitor.
It’s well placed as will be the dagger that pierces your black
heart if you dare to remain here past this night or ever return
again. Do not soil this good house with your lies and your schemes.
I warn you, should any harm befall my Glimador on this quest of
yours, I will hunt you to the ends of Midgaard and slay you
myself.”

She moved for the door and Ob dashed for
cover. He skulked behind a tapestry until she left the hall and was
well down the stair before he dared move.

After
that
, Ob thought,
I need to get stinking drunk. Theta has enemies everywhere
and they all name him traitor and liar. What are we doing with this
man amongst us?

***

A light haze of smoke wafted about the
Lord’s Den, illumed by lanterns of stained glass and polished mica
that cast a pleasant amber hue. Cherrywood beams and planks
supported and coffered the ceiling some twelve feet above the
granite-tiled floor. Exquisitely detailed maps of various sizes and
styles adorned the spaces between and above the ornate mahogany
bookshelves of wood and glass doors that lined the walls.

The gathered men reclined near the fireplace
on leather chairs and couches, rich and dark in color and almost
silky soft to the touch. The whole group was there. They smoked
cigars from Dyvers and Portland Vale and sipped a fine Kernian
brandy called Amber as Torbin Malvegil boomed his tales of past
glories. Servants stood as statues in this corner and that, ever
ready to fill any tumbler gone dry or to light the next cigar.

“
First
there were reports of strange sounds and stranger sights on the
river,” said Malvegil. “But then, men began disappearing from
ships, mostly the small ones, some the larger. Whole ships started
going missing too—a couple of small fishing vessels, and then a
merchant ship, a caravel called
The
Barking Beagle
, out of Minoc, I
believe—

It was The Bellowing
Banshee out of Kern
, recalled Ob, though
he kept his thoughts to himself.

“…
went missing with all
hands save the first mate.”

The cook

“…
who floated downriver
clinging for his life to a broken board.”

In a dinghy.

“
He was found two days
later, about twenty leagues downriver, slashed and torn as if by
ragged blades or claws. But that wasn’t the worst of it. His mind
was shattered. He was utterly mad and couldn’t even tell his tale.
His wounds had festered and he died the next day. So afraid of
disease were they, they doused him with oil while he still lived
and set him aflame the moment he breathed his last.

“
The
Beagle
was carrying more than just
trinkets and tea—three members of a noble house were aboard: a Lady
fair of Lomion, her young Lord, and their infant son. Their fate,
unknown.

“
Of course, I couldn’t
abide such crimes just beyond my borders, so I called upon and
gathered my most intrepid comrades. A wrecking crew we were, the
bravest, the strongest, and the best darn fighters in all of
Lomion. The best of the best we were. In those days, far and wide
they called us, The Sons of Lomion.”

Only you call us that in
your stories, my friend
.

“
So we set out to the Fens
to see what there was to see,” said Ob, no longer able to hold
back. “Not to be doing any crazy hero stuff, but just to size up
the issue, so we could set a plan to make things right.”

“
Exactly,” said Malvegil.
“Sir Gabriel Garn was me, so was Ob, and The Hammer of Lomion—you
know him as Artol. This all happened over twenty years ago, I
should say. Artol here,” pointing to the big warrior, “was just as
tall in those days, but a far sight thinner, and so young he could
barely grow a wisp of a beard. Ob was Ob and Gabe was Gabe, those
two never did seem to change. Of course with Ob—he’s a gnome and
they’re known to be long-lived. With Gabe it was a bit of a
mystery. Came from some old bloodline, I expect, and looked half
his years, if that. Anyways, our ship put to anchor off the Dead
Fens, near the west bank of the Hudsar—a mere ten leagues south of
where we sit. We launched in a longboat and rowed across to the
east bank and up a tributary into the Fens. By turns, we rowed and
levered our way with long poles deeper into that accursed
swamp.”

Malvegil stood and looked at each man in
turn, his expression serious.

Here it comes, the part he’s got down word
for word. Let’s see what he’s added since the last.

“
The whole of the Dead
Fens stretched out before us. A vast landscape of wanton
degradation. A morass so putrid, so miasmic as to cloud the mind
and rend the soul. It has been avoided for countless generations by
all who know its reputation. In that time, it has taken only those
lost wanderers who knew not whence they strayed, and a few would-be
adventurers chasing fairy gold or glory. But the Dead Fens is no
mere swamp or bog or marsh. There is a presence to that place. A
palpable persona to it—an ancient evil from a bygone
age.”