Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) (22 page)

Korrgonn considered for a moment. “Anyone
have any ancient Asgardian glass spheres on them? If you do, just
pass them forward.” He paused, to give the men ample time to
respond. “None at all?” He looked around at the others who stood
there blank-faced. “Very well then. Anyone have anything else that
protects from magical death orbs? No?” He turned back to Ginalli,
smiling. “If you’ve no more advice, priest, I suggest you step
back.”

Ginalli backed quickly
away. As he neared the cold wall of the foreboding chamber, he
tripped on a mound of ash and went down. The fine ash gave way
beneath him, sprayed over his face, and more than a bit found his
open mouth. He spit and hacked it out and brushed the foul stuff
from his face and hair.

As Korrgonn strode boldly
up the steps, two of the lugron yowled and started to flee the
hall. The others all took cautious steps backward, save for Mort
Zag, who stood rooted, his customary grin plastered to his face.
Atop the dais, Korrgonn reached out and grasped the Orb in his bare
hand.

As Korrgonn’s hand touched the Orb, sparks
erupted from its depths. A monstrous bolt of lightning came down
from on-high and struck the Orb, enveloping Korrgonn in burning
electricity. Bolts of crackling lightning flew around Korrgonn in
all directions. Bathed in the mystical light, Korrgonn’s aspect
shimmered and morphed. He wore the form of Sir Gabriel no longer.
Now before the Arkons of the Shadow League stood the son of
Azathoth in his true form, his inmost self revealed before his god
and his followers. There stood a man of wondrous golden hue, form
and face beautiful and perfect and noble, a being of the heavens,
of paradise, divine. He glowed with strength, wisdom, and mercy,
yet was terrible and awesome to behold.

At once, each man dropped
to his knees, awe-struck by Korrgonn’s true aspect. “Kneel before
the son of Azathoth,” sputtered Ginalli, still coughing from the
dust that clogged his throat, though each of his companions was
already prostrated. Even Mort Zag dropped to one knee and
respectfully bowed his head.

The sparks about Korrgonn grew and suddenly
arced outward; golden-hued bolts slammed into each man in the
chamber and reached out even to those few that had fled. The men
were flung backward; some were even lifted into the air, suspended
by the fiery bolts. Scorching tongues of lightning crashed around
them. One man’s pants caught fire, another’s sleeve ignited,
several men’s hair smoked.

As quick as it came, the
lightning fled, the smoke dissipated. Korrgonn inhabited the body
of Gabriel Garn once again, and stood atop the dais, Orb in hand,
wisps of smoke rising from his hand and from his clothes. The
others picked themselves from the floor, some battered and bruised,
and stood gaping, or patting themselves down or pulling off various
garments that smoked and hissed. All of them were covered in the
fine gray ash.

“
Rise, my friends,” said
Korrgonn. “Rise.”

They did.

Some moments later, a burning outline of a
door appeared in the chamber’s wall, where moments before there had
been naught but smooth stone. The glow faded, but an ornate wood
door remained.

The door opened and out
stepped a wizened old man. He was an elf, ancient, wrinkled, frail,
and stooped. He wore an ancient suit of chain mail, stained and
tarnished, and far too large for his shriveled frame. A broadsword
hung from a sheath at his waist. Trailing behind him was a young
elf, similarly clad, hand on his sword hilt. The venerable elf
struggled under the weight of his gear, and shuffled forward in
tiny flat-footed, old-man steps. His hair was long, and stringy,
sparse and whited; his nose, long; ears even longer and pointed as
elven ears are wont to be.

Ezerhauten drew his blade and started to
move forward, but Ginalli waved him off.

The old elf spoke in a strong clear voice
that belied his ancient aspect. “My lord,” he said, bowing low
before Korrgonn, and dropping to one knee with great effort. The
young elf did the same, though he kept his eyes up, cautiously
surveying Korrgonn and company. “I am the Keeper,” said the old
elf, “and this is my apprentice. I have awaited your coming these
ten thousand years, all that time holding safe this Orb of divine
wisdom and holy power, my own long years extended by every magic
known and unknown, embraced and forbidden, just as were the line of
Keepers before me, back unto the very dawn of the second age of
Midgaard.”

His eyes bright, and blue,
the elf smiled with pride. “Apprentice and I have kept out the
Thothian upstarts. Before them, we kept out the slavers and the
pirate lords. I fought back the Thaulusians, the Marikites, and the
Scurds before them, and the Hejirs and the Kalumeers and Throng-Baz
who came earlier. Mercenaries, soldiers of fortune, knight errants,
mages and arch-mages beyond count, and monks of this order and that
have tried to enter here. Sometimes, one lone man would come, most
times a handful or a dozen or a score there would be. Sometimes a
hundred screaming barbarians would burst down my doors. And more
than once they came in the thousands, howling, murderous, gibbering
hordes of primitives. All were felled by my art and my hand or by
the Lord’s holy fire, when all else failed.”

“
Not one thief that
entered here ever left. Not one, though many tried. Many tried. All
so that this day, upon your arrival, the Orb would be here still,
and safe, and could pass rightfully to you—you who can hold it in
hand and withstand the holy fire. Unfortunately, like all the
others, your wizard could not withstand it. The holy fire consumed
him and those with him. Had I known who you were, I would have
warned him off. I beg your forgiveness.”

“
You have it,” said
Korrgonn.

The Keeper looked over at the remains of
Hablock. “Usually, almost nothing is left. Never so much as this.
He was a powerful wizard. But unlike you he was not meant to hold
the Orb. Please, my lord, give me your name.”

“
Korrgonn.”

The old elf beamed. “A goodly name; a name
of power from the old tongue.”

“
Give me your name,
Keeper,” said Korrgonn, “so that I can have it and your long
service duly honored in the scrolls of the faithful.”

“
Whatever name I had, my
lord, I have long since forgotten. I am just the Keeper now, it is
who I am, and all that I will be until I pass back into the
dust.”

“
And your apprentice, what
name does he go by?”

“
Apprentice is the only
name for him that I can recall, but my memory is not what it once
was.”

“
I am Stev Keevis
Arkguardt, son of Stev Terzan of the Emerald Forest,” said the
young elf.

“
Stev is the elven title
for an arch-mage,” whispered Sevare in Frem’s ear.

“
You are young for a
Stev,” said Ginalli.

“
Those of the blood are
older than we look to you Volsungs.”

“
Of the blood?” whispered
Frem.

“
That’s how elves refer to
themselves,” said Sevare.

“
My lord, tell me truly
now whether or not you serve the great lord, the one true god,
Azathoth.”

“
I do.”

“
Only one of the flesh of
Azathoth could grasp the Orb in his bare hand and survive the
heavenly fire. How did you this?”

“
I am Azathoth’s
son.”

The elf’s grin widened still. “The son of
the lord, himself? I see in your eyes and in your heart that it be
true; indeed, it must be true. Your glorious coming was foretold in
the ancient scrolls of Cumbria. I know them well, I do. You are he
of golden eye and lordly bearing of which Cumbria speaks, though
she was rather vague on the timing of your arrival. Glory be to
Azathoth that I have lived to see this day.”

“
Pardon my directness, but
I must ask you now, will you use the Orb as it was meant to be
used? Will you use it to open the holy portal to the paradise of
Nifleheim? Will you beseech the lord to travel back to Midgaard
with all his divine hosts, so that we might worship before him as
in olden days?”

“
That is my
plan.”

“
You swear
this?”

“
I do.”

The old elf studied Korrgonn carefully,
staring deep into his golden eyes. Then he smiled and nodded his
head. “The Orb can only be used at one of the Lord’s ancient
temples, those consecrated in bygone days by the Lord’s holy
Arkons. Your journey will be long and grievous hard no matter to
which temple you head. The minions of evil will haunt your every
step, and seek to stop you with all their infernal power. Are you
prepared to face these trials?”

“
I am, and I
will.”

“
Then the Orb is
rightfully yours and yours alone. Use it well and wisely, my lord.
My labors are now complete. It’s strange, but I never thought to
speak those words; I never thought this day would truly come—for
Apprentice maybe, or one of those that follow him, but not for
me.”

“
You have done well,
Keeper,” said Korrgonn. “Your long and loyal service is at an end;
you may rest now and when your time comes, take your rightful place
in Nifleheim where you will be rewarded beyond imagining for your
faith and loyalty.”

“
Thank you,” he said,
tears welling in his ancient eyes. “I imagine you are anxious to be
off, my lord, but can I offer you and yours a meal and wine before
you depart? The tunnels are long and the stairs are steep; rest
here a brief while, if you will.”

“
We will,” said Korrgonn,
“but only for a short while.”

The Keeper led the group beyond the hidden
door and into a wondrous cavern. The high ceilings were covered
with glowing lichen that lit the place half as bright as day. The
Keeper proudly showed them his vast laboratory, filled with table
after table cluttered with glass jars of all shapes and sizes, each
filled with smoking and bubbling elixirs. There was row upon row of
crystal vials filled with powders and strange colored liquids. All
manner of wizard wares haunted the place, though all were labeled
in some ancient elven script unknown to any of Korrgonn’s
party.

The Keeper led them to his trophy room.
There were displayed the remnants of many of the ill-fated thieves
the Keeper spoke of. There were racks of weapons, spears and
swords, axe and hammer, some ancient and archaic, others far newer.
Displays of dented armor, shattered helms, and mangled shields were
scattered about the hall. Here and there, a full-bodied skeleton
hung from hooks, and there and there a great display of skulls, all
carefully arranged, displayed not in a gory manner, but more like a
macabre museum exhibit.

The cavern included a well-appointed library
where Korrgonn and the wizards lingered, leafing through musty old
tomes called the books of Dyzan, Eibon, Iod, and Thesselak, before
joining the others for a meal of fresh vegetables grown in the
cavern under the strange lichen light, and clean, pure water
extracted from a well.

After their repast, the Keeper showed them a
true wonder. At the far end of the cavern, the Keeper had a
magnificent little stone quarry and workshop. But the wonder was
not the beautiful marble and veined granite that was quarried there
and cut into stone tiles and stone doors for the cavern complex, it
was the stone mason himself. Besides the Keeper and his apprentice,
the mason was the only creature that lived within the cavern
complex, if lived could be applied to him at all.

“
This is Mason,” said the
Keeper. “A creation of mine in my younger days.” Mason looked to be
living stone, shaped like a very tall, very broad man, down to the
eyes, nose, and mouth, though he had no skin or hair—only hard,
cold, gray stone.

“
A golem of stone,” said
Korrgonn.

“
Indeed, my lord,” said
the Keeper. “I learned the craft to make him from some old book,
but I’ve forgotten which.”

“
Impressive,” said
Ginalli. “A lost art. I’ve only heard of such creatures in legend.
Until now, I thought them no more than fancy.”

“
As you see, he is real
enough. I made him several thousand years back, I think,” said the
Keeper. “Mason keeps up the place, repairing anything that needs
repairing, replacing the tiles and doors when they’re broken, and
cleaning up the messes that need cleaning.” Even now, Mason labored
over a stone slab, measuring and cutting it to the size of a door,
no doubt to replace the one the group had earlier broken down. “And
he’s handy in a fight too; his hammer is deadly, as have found more
than a few intruders.”

“
No need, no need, Mason,”
said the Keeper. “Your labors are done, as are mine.” Mason looked
up; his stony features took on a look of surprise. “No sense
replacing any doors now, as there is nothing left to guard. The
lord’s son has come for the holy Orb and has it now. We’re quite
through here, quite through.” Mason put down his tools and looked
confused, lost.

“
Through?” he said in a
deep gravelly voice.

“
It talks?” said
Sevare.

“
Of course,” said the
Keeper, “any amateur wizard can make a mute golem, but one that
talks, that is a rare thing that requires a bit of
skill.”

“
Now, Apprentice, gather
your things, including the choice books from the library, for you
will not be returning here. I have one last task for
you.”