Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) (25 page)

“
Elves,” shouted the
crowd.

“
Yes, citizens,” shouted
Del Koth. “Elves, wicked, wicked elves.” He smiled in triumph. “The
very servants of evil.”

“
Wood elves,” said Ob
quietly. “Half-blood at best; probably three-fourth’s
volsung.”

The monks pulled the hoods
from the children, though children they were not. Each had a beard,
a bulbous nose, and large ears. Adults all. Some were middle aged,
some older—far from children despite their diminutive
heights.

Ob’s mouth dropped open in shock, then his
expression turned into a snarl and his hand went to his axe.

“
Imps,” yelled the
crowd.

“
Yes, citizens, imps.
Greedy, evil, imps.” He surveyed the crowd; his smile
grew.

Theta grabbed Ob’s arm. “Stay your hand.
There are too many of them.”

Tanch looked in alarm at Ob and Dolan, their
features all too resembled the prisoners. “We must be off.”

“
Far too long have we
suffered these sub-human creatures amongst us,” boomed Del Koth.
“Imps hoard their wealth and share with none. Too long have they
cheated us, and plotted and schemed against us. Too long have they
held what should belong to us, what is rightfully ours. Too long
have they acted as if they are our betters. They’re not. They’re
little more than animals. They are creatures of evil and darkness
and dirt. Enemies of our dear lord, Thoth, source of all good and
light. We will suffer them in our midst no longer. No longer. No
longer,” he boomed, his fist upraised.

“
No longer,” came a shout
from the crowd. Then another and another and still more. “They’re
all no good,” shouted one woman.

“
Kill the scum,” shouted
one man.

“
And these,” boomed the
monk, pointing to the elves. “These fell creatures of legend still
skulk in the dark woodlands and the sinister places where no goodly
man would ever tread. You have all heard the stories of their fell
deeds. They steal our children in the night or leave them dead in
their cribs. They murder innocent travelers who have lost their
way. We will suffer these atrocities no longer. No longer, I say.
Now they will serve us. Now they will do our bidding.”

Scattered cheers went up through the crowd
from many parts of the square. Others booed and shouted, “No,” but
the monk’s supporters outnumbered and out-shouted his critics and
he smiled his yellow smile.

“
Who will bid ten silver
stars for this imp?” said Del Koth, pointing to the smallest in the
line.

“
I will,” shouted
someone.”

“
No,” yelled several
others.

“
Stop this madness,”
shouted a tall, red-cloaked man near the slave platform. “Workhood
is outlawed. Do not do this.”

Theta and the group waded through the crowd
toward the nearest side street leading in the general direction of
the harbor. Dolan pulled his collar up to hide his ears as best he
could. Ob, jaw clenched in anger, tried to stay hidden between his
comrades.

“
Imp,” shouted a man that
they passed. He grabbed at Ob. “Imp!”

“
He’s my servant, you
fool,” said Tanch. “Unhand him or my men will cut you
down.”

Artol shoved the man aside. He went down
cursing.

The scene in the square rapidly turned into
a riot as those that supported the monks and those against yelled
and cursed each other. Soon after the group turned down an alley,
they heard a clash of blades from the square. A melee had broken
out. Many had joined in.

Theta stopped in his tracks at the fore of
the group. Ob drew his axe and turned about. Artol grabbed Ob, to
hold him back.

“
We can’t leave them to be
sold like cattle,” said Ob, “or slaughtered where they
stand.”

“
We’ve
no time for this,” said Tanch. “It’s not our fight. We have a
mission. We’ve got to get back to the ship or we’ll never
catch
The Rose
,
and Sir Jude will be lost.”

The sound of steel clashing in the square
and the twang and whoosh of arrows filled the air.

“
There are men fighting to
free them,” said Ob, his face reddened. “Can we do any less? Can
we?”

Claradon looked to Theta. “What do we
do?”

Theta’s eyes were closed,
his expression grim.

“
Lord Theta,” said
Claradon. “What should we do?”

Theta spoke slowly, seemingly to himself.
“Can I do any less?” He spun back toward the others. He drew his
falchion and pulled his shield from his shoulder.

“
Theta, there are too many
monks, you said so yourself, and more will surely come,” said
Tanch. “Only a fool would interfere in this. What’re you going to
do?”

“
I’m declaring war on the
Thothians.” He strode down the alley. Dolan, bow in hand, followed
on his heels.

“
I love this guy,” said
Artol grinning. He pulled his massive warhammer from its shoulder
sheath and followed Theta. “Whoo-ha!”

“
A madman,” mumbled Tanch.
“He will be the death of us all.”

Theta strode from the
alley into Freedom Square—Dolan, Artol, and the others followed.
The square was in chaos. People ran in all directions. Screams
filled the air. A small group of men battled the Thothians at the
foot of the slave platform. Scattered melees flared elsewhere about
the square.

Theta and Artol marched
directly toward the heart of the fighting and shoved aside any that
got in their way. Several disheveled citizens with swords or
daggers fled the battle, some bleeding and battered. Many of the
Thothians had bows. They stood atop the slave platform and
indiscriminately fired down into the crowd.

As Theta neared the slave deck, an arrow
crashed into the center of his chest. It bounced off his
breastplate leaving neither scratch nor dent; two more shafts
deflected off his shield, the steel too strong, too thick for such
weapons to pose a threat. Theta didn’t seem to notice the impacts;
he didn’t pause for a moment. He didn’t even flinch. Artol held his
shield high and ducked and dodged as the shafts flew by him, but
his luck held, and not a one struck home.

Numerous citizens and more than a dozen
Thothians were down or dead. A red-cloaked man hacked at the monks
with a broadsword, several dead and dying at his feet. A handful of
skilled swordsmen battled at his side, coordinated, a trained
unit.

Theta and Artol bounded up
onto the deck. Theta swung his falchion; Artol, his hammer. Two
monks died from those swings, one cleaved in half, one’s head
smashed to pulp. Then two more fell—one thunderous blow took each.
The remaining monks scattered before them. Dolan’s arrows slammed
into four monks in rapid succession, each pierced through the
forehead, neck, or chest.

“
Kill the workhooders,”
yelled Del Koth. “Kill them all,” he boomed.

A volley of arrows streaked toward the two
elven prisoners. The male interposed himself in front of his
companion and collapsed with three arrows in his chest.

Tanch charged the
Thothians at ground level, aiding the red-cloaked warrior and his
men, while Claradon and Ob leaped up and scrambled onto the slave
platform. Wild-eyed, Ob charged straight for Del Koth, axe bared
and gleaming. Claradon ran toward the monks that menaced the fallen
elves.

An arrow deflected off
Ob’s axe-blade as he approached Del Koth. He ignored the arrow and
raised his ancient weapon over his head, his face contorted in
fury. Del Koth brought up his scimitar to block the blow that
thundered down on him with all the gnome’s strength. The mithril
axe sheared through the monk’s iron blade, and cleaved through his
chest with a sickening crunch of bones. Ob landed atop him; a spray
of blood lashed his face.

Del Koth’s big hands closed around Ob’s
throat and squeezed. Despite his mortal wound, Del Koth’s grip was
iron, as was his resolve to take his slayer with him to the other
side. Ob tried to pry Del Koth’s hands from his throat, but the big
monk was too strong, too desperate. Ob grabbed Del Koth about his
neck and choked him back, but Del Koth’s neck was all corded
muscle, more likely that Ob could choke a tree.

“
My wife,” said Del Koth,
coughing blood, now half delirious, his eyes glazing over. “My
children. Dear lord, give me strength for my children. Save
me.”

Ob’s face turned to blue; his head swam, but
he could feel Del Koth’s grip loosen, blood loss sapping his great
strength. Moments more and Del Koth’s hands grew limp, his
breathing shallow, and then he moved no more. Ob didn’t loosen his
grip for a while more, just to be sure. Then he rolled over,
gasping and coughing, covered in Del Koth’s blood, and tried to
catch his breath.

Two monks charged toward the fallen elves.
“Pull him off,” yelled a fat monk.

His companion grabbed the male elf by the
collar and dragged his corpse off the female. Still bound and
gagged, she lay helpless, whimpering, eyes darting from side to
side, searching, almost pleading for some route of escape.

One monk raised his sword, an evil leer on
his face.

The elf’s leg sprang out
with speed and power—a vicious kick to the monk’s knee that popped
it out of its socket. The monk howled, collapsed, and toppled from
the platform.

Claradon’s sword slammed into the second
monk, tearing through his chest. The monk dropped to his knees,
clutching at his wound, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood.
He looked up pleadingly, his eyes begging for mercy. Claradon
lowered his sword and the monk lunged, dagger in hand, pulled from
parts unknown. Claradon caught the man’s wrist in his right hand
and swung his sword. The blow took the monk’s arm off, just below
the elbow. A moment later, Claradon’s sword slammed into the back
of the monk’s neck, severing his head.

The slave deck was clear.
The corpses of more than a dozen monks lay broken and bloody about
the wood decking. Even more lay dead amongst the crowd, most piled
about Red Cloak and his swordsmen. Those monks that still lived,
and were able, fled the square.

Two of the gnome captives lay dead on the
platform. Ob and Red Cloak’s swordsmen got the survivors to their
feet and cut their bonds.

The female elf stood up, a
dagger clutched between her bound hands, all fear gone from her
oval face, which was exotic, stunning. Her eyes darted around, but
there were no more monks to fight.

Frozen, Claradon stared at her. “Let me cut
your bonds,” he said, after some moments. Her eyes met his and
lingered. She held out her hands. Claradon cut her free using the
dagger she had found. “Come with us.”

“
Gladly,” she said with an
accent that Claradon couldn’t place. Claradon held out his hand.
She stared at it for a moment, surprised, even taken aback, then
her expression softened and she put her hand in his.

“
Let’s move,” shouted Red
Cloak. “The Thothians will be here in force in minutes. We must
fly.”

“
Who are you people?” said
Tanch.

“
Who are you?’ said Red
Cloak.

Neither answered.

Whistles sounded in the distance. The monks
had roused the city guard.

The group fled the square at a run. The
gnomes, elders amongst them, and weak as they were from their
ordeal, had trouble keeping up. Ob stayed beside them, and soon
shouted to Artol and Red Cloak’s men to carry some of the weakest,
which they did.

They sped through deserted alleys and quiet
streets for some minutes before reaching a populated street that
opened into a square, similar but smaller than the one they had
just fled. Here, there were no captives, just carts of fruits,
vegetables, pies, and sundries.

“
Hide your weapons, and
act natural,” said Red Cloak. “Be calm.” They crossed the busy
square in three groups to garner less attention. The shoppers and
shopkeepers chattered and speculated about what calamity the
whistles harbored, but no one paid the group any heed.

They turned down Brick Street, a busy lane
of well-appointed storefronts and filled with the pungent scent of
spices of all varieties. Red Cloak led them halfway down the
street, just passed a spice store with a large yellow awning.
There, they descended a few stone steps to a cellar door.

Red Cloak knocked.

A small wood panel swung in and a man peered
out. Satisfied with what he saw, he opened the door, and the group
filed in.

They found themselves in a storeroom piled
with sacks, crates, and barrels of salt, spices, and foodstuffs.
Several men dressed in nondescript workman clothing stood about,
tensed, swords in their hands. More men with swords came from the
rear.

Ignoring them, Red Cloak proceeded toward
the back of the room. “Follow me,” he said over his shoulder. A
door led to a huge warehouse filled with crates and barrels, far
larger than the small storefront above. This basement extended
under and well past the buildings to either side and behind. Red
Cloak led them to a door on the far side of the warehouse, hidden
behind a row of large crates.

The group filed into a sparsely furnished
room with two wood tables and benches, and more crates and barrels.
About ten of Red Cloak’s men, all armed, and several armored in
chain or plate, filed in behind them.

Red Cloak stood before
them. He was tall, rangy, and broad shouldered but thin of face and
waist. An old scar zigzagged down his right cheek, marring an
otherwise handsome, if weathered face. A man of forty-five, perhaps
older, with a bearing that commanded respect, and was accustomed to
receiving it. “I am du Maris. Who are you?”