Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) (6 page)

“
Right,” said Ob. “That is
what you’re supposed to do, and that’s what you will do, boy.
That’s what would make your father proud. Do you
understand?”

Ector nodded and stared at the floor. Tears
welled in his eyes, uncertain, and afraid.

“
You’re not alone in
this,” said Claradon. “Sarbek is acting Castellan. Next to Ob, he
has the most experience of our any of our men. He will deal with
the details.”

“
And Indigo is a fine
knight,” said Ob. “You keep him close, he will help you until we’re
back.”

“
And when will that be?”
said Ector, tears streaming down his face.

“
When we rescue Jude,”
said Claradon.

“
What if it’s too
late?”

“
It won’t be,” said
Claradon.

“
What if it
is?”

“
Then we will avenge him,
boy,” said Ob, “and then we’ll come home. Either way, we’ll be back
as soon as we can.”

“
I hope that’s soon
enough,” said Ector. “A couple of drunks and an angry sheepherder
could take the Dor now.”

“
Ector,
please.”

“
No, Claradon. A month ago
we had more than fifty named men amongst us. No other Dor could
match us man for man. And now it’s just me, Sarbek, Indigo, and a
few squadrons of nobodies. We’re finished, Claradon. The Dor is
finished. House Eotrus is finished.”

“
We’re not at war, Ector,”
said Claradon. “We’re not under siege.”

“
It seems to me that we
are.”

“
Well we’re not. We will
rebuild our forces in time. And I’ll ask Lord Harringgold if he can
spare any more men to escort you back and help man the
Dor.”

“
That won’t bring father
back. Or any of them.”

***

Tears streamed down
Marissa Harringgold’s face, her cheeks flushed red, her hands
trembled. She was as beautiful as Claradon remembered—maybe more
so. “If you hadn’t made Jude go back to Dor Eotrus, he would be
here now; but he’s dead, and it’s all your fault.”

“
He’s not dead,” said Lord
Harringgold. “Brother Claradon will bring him back to you,
daughter, never fear.”

Claradon’s face was pale.
He was in shock. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing—what he was
hearing. Jude and Marissa? Jude knew better than anyone how he felt
about her. How could Jude do that to him? How could he betray him?
Claradon clamped his eyes on the floor and did not move them, no
matter how much he wanted to. He couldn’t stand to look at her—he
couldn’t stomach it. He hoped that he would never have to look at
her again. So he kept his eyes down. Beside him, Ector did the
same.

Marissa marched up to Claradon.

“
First you go off and
become a monk, and now Jude is dead. Dead!” She turned and her eyes
bored into Ector. “And you’re too young.” She stamped her foot.
“I’ll be an old maid.”

She stormed from the room, wailing. “I hate
you all.”

IV

BORN KILLERS

“
I don’t expect you to
duel the devil himself.

For that we need born
killers
.”

—
Barusa of
Alder

The Chancellor’s office in
Tammanian Hall was hot, as it always was that time of year. No
windows permitted in any light, air, or prying eyes. Stuffy and
close, it smelled of sweat and moldy parchment.

Cartegian, son of King
Tenzivel and crown prince of the realm of Lomion, squatted on a
chair and rocked back and forth, wild-eyed, unshaven, and unkempt.
Chancellor Barusa of Alder passed him a document and an elderly
scribe handed the Prince a fresh quill.

“
And what is this one
for?” said Cartegian. “Something good or something bad?”

“
Something good, of
course,” said Barusa. “Now sign it.”

“
Let me read it first.”
Cartegian snatched up the writ in a grubby hand, drool sliding down
his whiskers and dripping onto the parchment. “Hmm. Another arrest
warrant, and this one for that traitorous Lord ‘Blank Space to be
filled in later’. Haven’t we arrested old Lord Blankety Blank over
a hundred times today?” he said, pointing to the pile of signed
documents atop the corner of the desk. “Can we give the old boy no
rest? We’ll need bigger dungeons soon, oh yes, that we
will.”

“
And just how many inbred
blueblood braggarts are we arresting tomorrow, oh great defender of
the realm, oh champion of justice? Just try to say that three times
fast. Every one, perchance? Off with all their heads, will it
be?”

“
You need not concern
yourself with the details of State, my Prince. Merely sign this
last writ and you are free for the remainder of the
day.”

“
Chancellor—dear, beloved
Chancellor, you’re such a poopyhead.”

The Chancellor rolled his
eyes and clenched his fists. He winced from the effort, his right
hand stiff, and his arm still in a sling from his duel with
Claradon Eotrus. Barusa took a deep breath and spoke in as calm a
voice as he was capable. “Sign it, or there will be no supper for
you.”

A fiendish smile engulfed
Cartegian’s face. “I’ll eat my cat; how would you like that?” The
Prince turned and studied the feathered quill. He rubbed it on his
arm, soiling his shirt. Drool spilled down his lip.

“
It’s the last one for the
day, Cartegian. Sign it and you can go play with your cat or your
troll or whatever.”

Cartegian stared at the Chancellor, his eyes
now focused, his voice now slow and steady. “If I sign it, Mr. Old
Fart, can I go to the dungeons and play with someone, someone
bad?”

“
Who?”

“
Whoever. Just so long as
they scream.”

“
Fine. Sign it and you can
go to the dungeons.”

“
Promise?”

“
Yes. Sign it.”

The prince signed the scroll with an
exaggerated flourish and then somersaulted forward on the table,
scattering papers and knocking over inkwells. He landed on his feet
before the table, and bowed to an imagined audience. The scribes
dived in to save the parchment from the spilled ink.

“
Enough,” said Barusa.
“Get the fool out of here.”

Cartegian turned to him and feigned shock at
Barusa’s words. “Yes, send me to the dungeons. To the dungeons with
the great hero of Lomion. Bring forth my lizard!”

Blain of Alder burst into the room and
nearly crashed into Cartegian.

“
What ho,” said the
Prince. “The dashing brother of Mr. Farty Pants. Little Poop,
himself.

Blain stepped around the Prince, ignoring
him. “I have news.”

“
You found me a flying
monkey at last?” said the Prince.

The Chancellor studied
Blain for a moment, then put down the scroll he held and dismissed
his aides who ushered Cartegian out with them. Only when the
chamber was empty and door secured did Blain continue.

“
Eotrus knows about his
brother’s ambush, and he knows it was the League.”

“
This was expected, but
not so soon.”

“
It’s
worse. They know about Lord Korrgonn’s passage on
The White Rose
.
Harringgold’s men are at Dylan Slaayde’s ship. They must plan on
following
The Rose
.”

“
Curse that Harringgold.
Does nothing pass him by?”

“
He’s got many
agents—Rangers, the Orphan’s Guild, and more.”

“
We have
agents too, brother, including on
The
Black Falcon
.”

“
But Fizdar is
dead.”

Barusa shot him an angry look.

“
But you know that, of
course. You’ve got another man aboard?”

Barusa returned no reaction.

“
Of course, you do. Do we
move against Eotrus now?”

“
Eotrus is nothing. He’s
but a boy handy with a sword. He can be killed at any time; I have
only to give the command. It’s the other that’s the
concern.”

“
He’s only one man, and he
can’t possibly be the fallen one. It’s ridiculous. The wizards are
mental.”

Barusa slammed his fist to the tabletop. “He
killed Lord Mortach! Mortach was more god than man and he killed
him. He’s the threat, a grave threat, and must be dealt with.”

“
We don’t know it was
him.”

“
Then who? You think
Eotrus cut off Mortach’s head? Or maybe his gnome lackey or his
hedge wizard?”

“
Who knows?”

“
It was the Harbinger, you
idiot. The priests say he only looks like a man, but he’s not. He’s
some ancient evil held over from the Dawn Age, some force of
nature. A monster, a real monster, like in the old legends. The
incarnation of all that’s evil in the world. He must be stopped. We
must stop him.”

“
You’re losing it,
brother,” Blain said, shaking his head in disgust. “None of that
can be true. It’s crazy. Superstitious, fairy stories, that’s all,
told by old men desperate to hang on to power. But even if,
somehow, you and the priests are right, then the farther he is from
Lomion, the better. Let him go and good riddance.”

“
No! He
needs killing and Eotrus along with him. Contact Captain Kleig at
once. If Eotrus follows
The
Rose
, we will follow
Eotrus.”

Blain looked surprised. “You’re going?”

“
Of course not. You are.
And Bartol and Edwin too.”

“
Edwin?
Barusa, I heard
The Rose
fit up for a long haul. I have a family. I can’t
just go off for who knows how long following these people. And my
son too?”

“
I need you to go. I need
men that I can rely on for this. As for Edwin, leave it up to him.
He owes Eotrus for that scar. Let’s offer your boy a chance at
revenge. If he’s man enough to take it, well, that will tell us
something, won’t it? In any case, you will be there to look after
him.”

“
And what do I tell
Esther?”

“
How about the truth?
You’re off on House business of great import. She will understand
or not, I really don’t care. But you will go, either
way.”

“
Fine, but if the
Harbinger is as dangerous as you think, how are we to stop him?
I’ll cross swords with most any man, but I’ve no interest in
fighting ancient man-monsters or whatever he is.”

“
Don’t pee yourself,
brother. For all your skill, I don’t expect you to duel the devil
himself. For that we need born killers.”

“
Who could
possibly—”

“
The Duelist of Dyvers and
the Knights of Kalathen”

Blain’s face brightened. “That’s an idea at
that. DeBoors is supposed to be the best there is, and I hear he’s
in the city.”

“
He is.”

Blain paused for a moment. “You planned
this? DeBoors isn’t in Lomion just by chance, is he?”

“
Of course I planned it. I
plan everything. Have Kleig ready his ship to sail by morning while
I pay DeBoors a visit.”

Three cloaked men, faces
concealed under hoods, made their way up the grand stair of the
Roaring Lion Inn. DeBoors and his men had rooms on the second
floor—some of the best accommodations in all of Lomion City,
courtesy of the Chancellor, or rather, of House Alder’s
treasury.

“
Why do we need this
mercenary, uncle?” said Edwin quietly. “I can deal with Eotrus, and
Uncle Bartol and my father can handle that foreign
knight.”

“
I admire your
confidence,” said Barusa, “but I would rather not see my brothers
and nephew dead.”

“
It’s unseemly for us to
be walking around in hiding, as if we’re criminals,” said
Edwin.

“
It would be more unseemly
for the chancellor of the realm to be seen consorting with hired
killers.”

Bartol put his hand on Edwin’s shoulder.
“Keep your tongue in check while we’re in there. DeBoors isn’t a
man to be fooled with.”

“
Neither am I,” Edwin
said.

Four armored men, Knights of Kalathen, stood
on guard in the second floor hall. These were no ordinary soldiers.
They were large and solid, with chiseled features, the finest armor
and weapons that coin could buy, and the dead eyes of cold-blooded
killers. Bartol pulled back his hood and showed them the
Chancellor’s seal of office.

The knights soon ushered
them through a set of ornate double doors into a grand suite. A
large living area with rich couches and chairs and a large
fireplace dominated the room. Four doors led to
bedrooms.

Beside the fireplace stood
a tall, rangy, shirtless Pict of golden brown skin and ponytail.
Around his waist, a sword belt; in his right hand, a spear, the
haft resting on the floor. A worn bedroll lay open and disheveled
at his feet; clearly, he had been lying on it before the three
arrived. A man accustomed to a hard life outdoors sometimes had no
interest in a soft bed.

The Chancellor and Edwin pulled back their
hoods as the Pict studied them. The left side of Edwin’s face was
swollen and red, an ugly scar, not long old, extended from the
corner of his lip to his left ear.