Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) (27 page)

“
His kinsmen would still
be after us,” said Claradon.

“
Without stinking Barusa
they would be lost. We’re in the deep stuff, now. They’ll be at
least twice our number, perhaps more.”

“
Three or four times our
number, I would say, from those I’ve seen,” said Seran.

“
And we can’t count on
Slaayde’s crew to stand with us,” said Artol.

“
We’ve
no time to linger here,” said Theta. “We push through to
The Falcon
, fighting our
way if we have to and put straight to sail.”

“
Agreed,” said
Claradon.

“
And if we run into the
Kalathens?” said Ob.

“
We power through,” said
Theta.

The group marched down the
avenue toward the docks. They had not gone two blocks before they
were spotted by a
Talon
patrol that blew their whistles, calling to their
brethren. The group sped toward the docks at a run, citizens
scattering in a panic as the armored men barreled
through.

A dozen men clad in chain mail armor and
black cloaks stepped out from the shadows and barred their path. A
tall man in silvered armor stood at the fore.

“
A Myrdonian,” said Ob.
“The Chancellor’s men.”

Claradon turned to Kayla as he drew his
sword. “Stay back from the fighting and keep your head
covered.”

“Fine,” said she sharply from beneath her
cowl, though she drew a short sword that du Maris had given
her.

The two groups moved together. Theta, Artol,
Seran, and Claradon leaped out in front. Theta’s sword flashed by
quicker than the eye could follow. Artol’s huge hammer smashed
through the air, two, perhaps, three times. Six men were down,
including the Myrdonian, as quick as that. The others scattered,
running for their lives. Neither Claradon nor Seran even had time
to strike a blow. What citizens were about screamed and
scattered.

The group continued at a run toward the
docks.

“
They’re on the roofs,”
said Ob. “Tracking us.”

“
I see them,” said
Theta.

“
They’re signaling ahead,
they will be waiting for us.”

Two blocks later, in sight
of the ship, they came upon another group of men that stood in a
line across the street, blocking any path to
The Falcon
. Eight men in heavy
armor; swords, axes, and shields in hand. The corpses of several
Thothian monks lined the street. But for these dead and the men
from
The Talon
,
the street was deserted. The group pulled up, and readied their
weapons.

“
Kalathens,” said Ob. “The
big Myrdonian out in front is one of Barusa’s brothers. Bartol or
Blain, I think.”

“
Looks like they had a
dispute with the Thothians,” said Artol.

“
Four more knights behind
us,” said Dolan, bow in hand, an arrow nocked.

“
Hold your ground for a
parley,” said Bartol. At the sound of Bartol’s voice, a group of
soldiers streamed out of the buildings on either side—two dozen at
least, several Myrdonian Knights amongst them. The soldiers wore
the livery of House Alder. A number of them held crossbows, which
they leveled toward the group.

“
I am Bartol, Knight
Captain of the Myrdonians, here on order of the Lomerian High
Council. Make no foolish moves, men, as you can see, you’re far
outnumbered. There is no need for a battle here.”

Bartol held up a piece of
parchment. “This is a warrant, signed by the crown, lawful and
true, for the arrest of Claradon Eotrus and the foreign mercenary
that accompanies him. They are accused of complicity in the death
of Aradon Eotrus, lawful and true Lord of Dor Eotrus.”

“
Lies,” yelled
Ob.

“
That is for the High
Magisters to determine. I have been ordered to bring them back to
face these charges and a trial, fair and equitable. If they’re
innocent, they will go free. They will be well treated, you have my
word. Those that wish may even return with us, provided you turn
over your weapons. The rest of you are free to go.”

“
Eat dung,” yelled
Ob.

Bartol winced at the
remark, no doubt bristling at having to take such insults from a
gnome. “Listen to the imp, men, and you will all end up dead or in
irons. We know your reputations and your skills, but you’re
outnumbered four to one, that gives you no chance. This writ is
legal and true. There is no honor in standing against it. If you
do, you stand against your country and your king. Eotrus and his
man will answer to these charges one way or another. There is no
need for any of us to die today.”

“
Go home, Alder, and take
your stinking paper with you,” said Artol.

Frustration filled Bartol’s face. “Last
chance, men. Turn over the upstart or die where you stand.”

The crossbowmen each took a step forward,
bows leveled.

Claradon didn’t know what to do. His
instincts told him to fight, but what if the warrant was valid?
What if it was signed by the king? Even now, the army could be
marching on Dor Eotrus, to confiscate his lands. What of Ector and
Malcolm? Would they be arrested? Would they be killed? He may never
be able to return home without risking being arrested on sight. But
it couldn’t be true. The Alders are schemers and liars; this was
nothing more than a trick to get his men to turn against him.

He had to fight. Four to one odds were poor
in the best of times, and today they faced a dozen Knights of
Kalathen, some of the best trained blademasters in all Midgaard.
The very mention of their order was enough to put most men to
flight. Not to forget the Alder crossbowmen. At this range, armor
would be scant protection. What to do?

Without a word, Theta strode forward, shield
held high in his right hand, falchion in his left.

“
Stop him,” commanded
Bartol.

Crossbows fired at Theta from the front and
from both sides. Theta never slowed nor made any attempt to dodge.
He merely shifted his shield to intercept what bolts he could. The
heavy steel tipped projectiles made a loud pinging sound as they
bounced off Theta’s shield. Two bolts struck his plate armor but
each ricocheted harmlessly away.

The remainder of the crossbowmen fired;
their bolts equally ineffective.

“
Charge!” yelled
Ob.

And they did.

“
Dead gods, this is the
end,” said Tanch.

Claradon ran forward yelling a war cry to
Odin, his sword and shield at the ready. Kayla ran beside him. Men
raced at him from all sides. Battle engaged all around. Before he
reached the line of Kalathens, Alder men intercepted him from his
right flank.

A sword crashed into his shield, numbing his
arm for an instant. He struck back blindly and felt his sword
strike a man’s armor and bite into his flesh. He pulled his blade
free, and blood splattered his face and tabard. He heard the man
scream, but never did see his face.

An older man with a
scarred face came at him, a sergeant in House Alder’s guard by his
uniform. Half Claradon’s size was he, but wiry and quick as a cobra
with his sword. Claradon fought on instinct, his sword slashing and
stabbing, employing all the maneuvers that Sir Gabriel and Ob had
drilled into him hour after hour in Dor Eotrus’ battle square.
Scar-face lunged in close with a thrust. Claradon dodged the blow
and pummeled the man’s face with his shield. Scar-face staggered
back, his face crushed, his ruin of a nose spouting blood. Claradon
didn’t know where Kayla was, but he had to look out for her, to
keep her safe.

Claradon saw Ob fighting
not far away, his mithril axe chopped and slashed and then
shattered his opponent’s sword. Then he saw Kayla. She lunged in
beside Ob and stabbed the man he was fighting through the gut.
Apparently, she needed no protection.

Claradon saw Tanch club a
man with his staff. The man’s skull shattered with the impact; bits
of blood and chunks of brain went flying.

The battle had taken Claradon into the mouth
of an alley, just off the main avenue. Two soldiers of House Alder
appeared before him, swords blazing, the wild in their eyes. They
pressed him hard, coordinating their strikes. If not for his large
shield, Claradon would have had no chance to parry the hail of
blows. A lucky slash nicked one man’s neck and he dropped back.
Claradon took advantage of the momentary reprieve and hacked at the
remaining man with all his strength. He beat the man back, raining
overhand blows down at his head. When the man lifted his guard too
high, Claradon’s sword bit deep into his chest. The man grabbed at
the sword, his eyes wide with disbelief as his lifeblood spurted
out. Claradon kicked him in the chest and wrenched his sword free
just as the second man lunged in again.

Ob crashed into number two, knocking him to
the ground. As Ob moved to finish him, Claradon spun, sensing
something behind him.

There stood death, gaunt, wild, and
merciless. Kaledon of the Gray Waste, spear in hand, the battle
lust of the barbarian burning in his black eyes.

Claradon had heard his
name uttered in fear and fireside stories since he was small boy,
though this man looked less than ten years his elder. The ponytail,
the tattooed chest, bare and unarmored, there could be no doubt
this was he. The Wild Pict they called him—a bounty hunter and
professional killer. Here not to settle some score like the Alders
or serve some political agenda, but simply for coin. Here to kill
him for money.

Claradon took no comfort
in the thought that sometimes a man’s reputation is far greater
than his prowess, for Pipkorn’s warning echoed in his mind. Beware
Kaledon—a foul sword master of mystical power.

There were no taunts or boasts, no bows or
salutes. No nods of respect, no looks of regret at what now must be
done. Nothing but death flared in Kaledon’s eyes as he sprang like
a tiger, leaping high into the air, his spear bound for Claradon’s
throat.

Claradon caught the blow
on his shield and punched with it, hoping to break the shaft or
even to smash Kaledon himself, but he hit only air. The Pict’s
thrust barely glanced the shield—a feint with no power behind it.
Claradon felt something crash into the side of his helm. Then he
was falling.

Claradon opened his eyes.
He was on the ground. The battle sounds were strangely muffled. He
looked up and saw Kaledon stalking toward him, spear held in both
hands. Two more steps and he would drive the tip through Claradon’s
throat or a joint in his plate armor, and that would be the
end.

Claradon yelled, “Odin,” and Kaledon
screamed some crazed, Pictish war cry as the barbarian raised his
spear high for the deathblow. Claradon’s mouth moved to form words
almost of its own accord. Ancient words, words lost to all but
adepts of the Caradonian Knights, words forbidden to be spoken
except in dire-most need. Claradon spoke them quick, a few short
words, that was all. A bolt of numinous energy, sparkling blue,
sprang out from Claradon’s hand and blasted into Kaledon. The Pict
was flung through the air and slammed into the stout wall of a
building many yards away.

Claradon’s head was swimming. His helm was
gone. Blood streamed down the side of his face. More blood came
from his nose; he tasted it in his mouth, gagged and spit.

The battle still raged
throughout the avenue. At any moment, another enemy could enter the
alley and he would be done for unless he got to his feet and
cleared his head. He had to get up.

Claradon grabbed his sword and pulled
himself up. He felt dizzy for a moment, but then it passed, though
his head pounded. He backed up against the wall of the alley.

He saw Artol swinging his hammer and trading
blows with a tall knight.

Four soldiers pressed
Seran; their swords clanged against his stout armor as he
desperately tried to beat them back.

Across the alley, a barrel and some crates
fell over. Rising behind them was the Pict.

His chest was charred black and smoking, but
still he stood, the same madness in his eyes. His spear was gone,
but he drew a sword from his belt. He vaulted effortlessly over a
waist-high pile of debris and advanced, seemingly unhampered and
unfazed by the ugly wound to his chest.

Adrenaline pumped through Claradon; his
heart pounded. I will finish this. I will not be defeated. The two
warriors charged at each other, the young knight, full of honor and
ideals, and the brute, savage and wild, cagey and relentless,
unyielding as the sea.

Their swords clashed
together: a thunderous blow that would have shattered lesser blades
and numbed the arms of lesser men.

Then came the swordplay. Claradon’s measured
strokes were conventional, skillful, powerful, yet full of finesse.
An expert was he, working sword and shield together as two halves
of the same weapon, artfully wielding his shield as much for attack
as for defense.

The Pict’s way was
altogether different. For him, swordplay had no styles or maneuvers
to master; the sword was an extension of his arm, a part of his
very being. He wielded it fluidly yet wildly, without thought or
plan, attacking and reacting, all with the preternatural instincts
of the barbarian, the primitive. His thrusts were cobra strikes;
his slashes, lightning; his cuts, the swipe of a bear’s claws. So
fast was the Pict, that Claradon, for all his skill, could parry at
best two of each three strokes. Ten seconds into their melee,
Claradon would have been dead three times over, if not for his
steel plate and shield. These and his art were his edge and he
would use them unto the last.