Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) (7 page)

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 and 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?”