Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) (19 page)

The man stared up at him, confused.

“
You’re a greedy, evil,
pathetic blasphemer,” said the monk, slapping the man across the
face after each accusation. He grabbed the man by the hair and
pulled back his head, forcing the old man to look at him. “What
portion of your income do you give to the church, to the poor?
Speak quick and true, or I will cut your evil head off.”

Tears streamed down the man’s face. “I pay
my taxes, and I pay the tithe of Thoth. You can check, I always
pay.”

“
A pittance,” said the
monk.

“
What more do you want
from me?”

“
It’s not what I want,
fool. It’s what justice demands. You give no more than the minimum
and begrudge even that. By what right do you live in this decadent
place when others sleep in the gutter? You think you’re better than
everyone, don’t you, you bastard?”

“
I’ve earned everything I
own. I’ve worked fifty years, selling silks and linens, an honest
living. I’ve hurt no one my whole life. You’ve no right to do
this.”

The monk grabbed the man
by the chin and punched him in the face, breaking his nose. Blood
poured down the deeply lined face, eyes filled with
tears.

“
You’ve earned nothing,
blasphemer. You’ve hoarded wealth, stealing from those more
deserving. No longer. Now we will take back all that you’ve stolen.
You will pay your fair share at last, merchant.

The monk kicked the man in the ribs, a
sickening crunching sound. Other monks joined in, kicking and
stomping. “Kill the evil bastard,” they spat. “Praise Thoth,” they
yelled. “Praise Thoth.”

“
Look,” shouted the monk
at the gathered crowd. “Behold Thoth’s justice, citizens. All those
like this evildoer will pay. All the enemies of god will be brought
to justice and they will pay with their blood.”

Some in the crowd looked shocked and
disgusted. Others cheered each blow, each kick, each whimper.

The monks gathered the old man’s books and
artwork into large piles on the lawn and set them ablaze.

Other monks dragged several people out of
the merchant’s house. By their dress, servants all. They lined them
up against the manor’s wall.

The lead monk plucked a pretty young girl
from the line. “What does that old bastard do to you?”

The girl looked confused; tears ran down her
face. She cringed away, terror in her eyes.

“
Are you his whore? Tell
us, what does he do with you?”

“
Nothing,” she said.
“Nothing. He’s a good man. I’m just a maid. I clean, I just
clean.”

The monk slapped her hard
in the face. “A good man? Good men don’t hoard wealth and insult
the one true god. There is nothing good about him. That you defend
him proves your guilt too. You are a whore and a witch and will
suffer Thoth’s justice.”

“
No, please, I’ve done
nothing.” The girl sank to the ground, overcome with fear, pulling
at the monk’s leg like a pleading child. He kicked her
away.

Soldiers with bows assembled in front of the
servants. The monks moved aside.

“
Do Thoth’s bidding,”
commanded the lead monk.

The soldiers raised their
bows. The servants pleaded for their lives. The soldiers fired. All
but two of the servants fell, pierced, dying. Two ran, one shot in
the arm, the other unscathed. Before they reached the stone wall, a
second volley of arrows cut them down. The monks cheered and
roared, jumping up and down, praising Thoth and celebrating. Many
of the townsfolk joined in the cheering, even the
children.

Claradon, Theta, and the group turned onto
the street that passed before the manor.

“
Trouble,” said Ob,
gesturing toward the crowd and the fire beyond. “A different
street?” he said, turning toward Theta.

“
Let’s see what this is
about.”

They entered the crowd, now numbering some
two hundred citizens.

“
What happened here?” said
Ob to a young man, bald of head, dressed as a tinker.

The man turned and looked carefully over Ob
and Claradon beside him before responding. “The monks killed old
Portman and all his people, the entire household.”

“
What was his
crime?”

The man turned back toward the fiery scene.
“He was rich.”

“
They kill you for being
rich now?” said Ob.

“
Course he wasn’t richer
than any other smart merchant what worked his whole life. Suppose
they will get us all eventually, they have to. Without our coin,
they wouldn’t have enough to give away to the poor and still keep
their own palaces and temples and such. Suppose, I’ll be next,
they’ll be coming for me and mine. They need to. They have to
spread our wealth around to the poor. That gives them power. That’s
what this here is about. They don’t much care for gnomes either, so
you better get while you can.”

X

THE ORB OF WISDOM

“
From dust they came, and
to dust they returned.”

—
The Keeper

Par Sevare grabbed Frem
Sorlons’s massive shoulder. “Hold up, they’ve stopped.”

“
Not again.” Frem spun
around sending embers from his torch flying; frustration filled his
face. Frem paid the embers no heed as they washed over his steel
plate armor, but Par Sevare dodged to the side and pressed tight
against the tunnel’s stony wall to avoid being burned.

“
Watch it with the torch,”
Sevare said, his cheek puffed out from his ever-present wad of
chewing tobacco. “I’m no tin-can. That stuff will burn through my
clothes.”

“
Sorry,” said Frem as he
gazed over the heads of the mage and the two Sithian Knights behind
to see what Lord Korrgonn was up to.

Some yards back, the son of Azathoth stood
at a three-way intersection. Father Ginalli, High Priest of
Azathoth, stood beside him, lantern in hand, though the dark of the
tunnel hardly fled before it.

Korrgonn held Sir Gabriel’s wooden ankh,
studying it, a look of deep concentration on his face. The ancient
token was charred along its lower half, gouged in several spots
across its face, and chipped at one corner. A ragged crack ran
through the loop at its top, threatening to break the relic
asunder.

“
The boss is playing with
that weird thingy again,” said Frem. “If he keeps stopping, we’ll
never get anywhere.”

“
That thingy is an ancient
holy symbol,” said Sevare. “That’s what is guiding him, helping him
choose the right path for us to take, so that we can find what
we’re looking for.”

“
The main path is straight
ahead and we’re on it. He’s gonna make us go down one of those
small holes, isn’t he? I don’t like small places, and this tunnel
is already too small for me. What does he need guidance for,
anyway? Ain’t he supposed to be the lord’s son? Doesn’t he have
powers? Isn’t he supposed to know stuff?”

“
That’s the most you’ve
said in one stretch since I’ve known you,” said Sevare.

“
I’ve been saving
up.”

Sevare stroked his goatee and spit some
tobacco juice onto the tunnel floor. “I guess he needs a little
help.”

“
How can it do that, it
don’t talk?” said Frem. “It’s just a piece of carved wood—just an
old piece of junk.”

“
Looks can be deceiving.
That ankh has got a magic to it, an old magic.”

“
I didn’t even believe in
magic until I threw in with you lot. Older than what?”

Sevare considered for a
moment. “Older than anything that I can think of.”

“
Older than
Azathoth?”

“
Can’t be that old, since
he created most everything. But it’s older than Lomion, and
probably even older than these darn tunnels.” Sevare looked about
the tunnel, which varied in height and width, from here to there.
Six feet wide at its narrowest, it widened out to ten feet in most
places, as much as fifteen in some. The ceiling above was no less
than seven feet high, most places ten or more, and in some spots it
was lost in the darkness far above. The tunnel’s walls, floor and
ceiling were of stone and earth, damp and dreary, dark as pitch,
the air heavy and stagnant, silent and cold. Side passages led off,
now and again, some narrow and short, others as large as the main
tunnel, and each had a feeling of age, of antiquity. If not for
their lanterns and torches, they would be hopelessly
lost.

“
Maybe if he got a new
one, it would work better.”

“
Maybe so,” said Sevare,
grinning, his teeth stained from tobacco juice.

“
How much farther do you
think? We’ve walked for an hour at least.”

“
Can’t be too far now,
we’re very deep. I didn’t think anything went this
deep.”

Korrgonn looked up and
lifted the ankh’s cord over his head. He held it in his hand and
passed it over a nondescript section of the tunnel’s stony wall.
That section of the wall began to glow with an eerie light. Just as
quickly, it faded away—not just the glow, but the wall as well. A
rectangular opening loomed before Korrgonn, where a moment before
there was a solid wall. Behind the opening, a hidden passage. “That
way,” said Korrgonn, pointing down the narrow tunnel.

“
Guess it works after
all,” said Frem. “He’s sending us down a stinking rabbit
hole.”

“
Quiet,” said
Sevare.

Frem, Par Sevare, and
their knights walked back to the others. A fake smile filled Frem’s
face as he approached Korrgonn, but the Nifleheim Lord didn’t
bother to look at the huge warrior as he passed.

They proceeded into the small tunnel, Frem
again at the van, a rock of mass and muscle to blaze their trail.
This tunnel was narrower and lower than the main course. The
ceiling dipped below seven feet, and the top of Frem’s helmet
scraped it here and there, sending sparks flying. He had to hold
his torch in front and low, grumbling under his breath all the
while, since his shoulders, widened by his thick plate armor, were
near as wide as the tunnel and jostled against the walls again and
again as the tunnel curved and meandered in the dark.

Behind Frem’s pointmen
went four burly lugron, then Korrgonn and Ginalli. Behind them were
four of the Shadow League’s arch-mages, Par Hablock, Par Brackta,
Par Morsmun, and Par Ot. After them went the better part of a
squadron of Sithian Knights, then Lord Ezerhauten and Mort Zag.
Another group of lugron guarded the rear.

While the main tunnel was an uneven natural
passage with a gradual slope, this one was hewn through the living
rock in bygone days. What arms wielded the picks and shovels that
birthed her, no man could say.

The tunnel, slick with
water and slime, descended steeply—a difficult passage even for the
sure of foot. Mort Zag had the most trouble navigating the narrow
tunnel. Where Frem could at least walk upright, Mort Zag had to
proceed stooped over nearly the whole way. Every now and then, he
cursed and spat when his head bumped the ceiling, or when he had to
twist and turn to squeeze through some narrow portion of the
tunnel. At one point, he took a hammer to a stony outcropping and
smashed it away in order to squeeze past.

Deep, deep beneath the
bowels of Midgaard were they now. Three cities of man stood there.
The current city, Tragoss Mor, ancient itself, built atop the
remnants of an older city whose name was seldom remembered. That
city was constructed atop the ruins of an ancient metropolis, long
lost to the passing eons. The stony tunnel took them far below even
the deepest pit of that antediluvian city.

At last, upon a door of stone they came.
Carved from the living rock, its seams smooth and crisp, its handle
metal, but free of rust, scale, or stain. The passage widened near
the door and the ceiling rose to a stately height.

The pointmen turned to Korrgonn for
direction. “Open it,” he commanded.

The two Sithians, large men both, pulled and
pushed, and strained against the portal, but it would not yield.
Frem shouldered one knight aside and took a turn. His massive hand
clamped down on the handle and he pulled with all his power. His
arms bulged and strained, veins pulsed at his corded neck, his face
reddened and dripped with sweat. But the door would not yield, not
at all, not even the slightest movement.

“
I’d have better luck
pushing on a mountain,” said Frem as he turned back to the
others.

Par Sevare examined the
cold stone of the door. “No magic binds it,” he said. “Barred from
the far side, I would say.”

“
Break it down,” Korrgonn
said.

“
Pass me up a hammer,
biggest one we got,” said Frem. “Swords are no good on
stone.”

“
Kick it down,” yelled
Mort Zag from the rear.

Frem looked from the door
to his boot and back again, and then moved carefully into a good
kicking position. He blasted the door with his armored boot, a blow
what could snap a man’s spine in half, but the door did not yield.
It shuddered ever so slightly, but barely a scuff marred its
surface to mark the blow. Frem kicked again, and again, a half
dozen strikes, all to no effect. “Dead gods, it’s too thick. I need
a sledge.”

Mort Zag pushed forward
from the rear, grunting; a mockery of a smile on his demonic face.
“Step aside,” he said as he barreled through. The others parted to
let him pass. Had not the passage widened near the door, he could
never have squeezed his bulk past them.