Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) (9 page)

“
And goodly cabins they
be, Captain old boy,” said Ob. “The thing is, them’s just for
sleeping. This here place is better suited to meeting and plotting
and drinking and such, as you well know. Since we do a good deal of
all that, we’ve pitched our tent here and here we’ll stay,” he
said, puffing out his little chest.

“
Sir, this is my office
and personal store. You—”

“
Now it’s ours, laddie”
said Ob. “And that’s the end of that.”

Slaayde’s smile widened on
his mouth, but not his eyes. Still quietly he said, “Harringgold
bought you passage; he didn’t buy my ship. I’ll not have
this.”

“
Captain Slaayde, sir,”
said Tanch. “We meant no offense, none at all, but Lord Eotrus
required a room to meet with his staff and Lord Theta. We didn’t
think you would object to a member of the Council of Lords and a
visiting dignitary,” indicating Theta, “making use of your fine
chamber during this voyage.”

“
Well sir, I
do.”

“
And well you should, of
course, of course. I’m sure some appropriate additional
compensation can be arranged with Lord Harringgold for your trouble
and inconvenience. We must make this right.”

“
Hmm, well—perhaps. We can
discuss it.”

“
Of course, this whole
business is entirely my fault,” said Tanch. “I bear full
responsibility and stand properly and appropriately
chastised.”

“
Harringgold’s men didn’t
tell me where we’re headed?” Slaayde paused, waiting for some
response. “He left that to you men. So? To where do we
sail?”

“
Just
set sail downriver, laddie,” said Ob. “Give her as much speed as
you can muster, and shout if you see any ships ahead. We’ve
business with
The White
Rose
.”

“
A fast ship, and a
dangerous one,” said Slaayde. “Cutthroats and scalawags crew her,
and her Captain’s reputation is more foul than fair. Harringgold
should’ve told me of this. There’s a different price.”

“
You will be paid—well
paid, laddie,” said Ob.

At this, Theta stood and walked toward
Slaayde who took a cautious step back, now just outside the
threshold. Staring the Captain direct in the eye, Theta,
expressionless, closed the door in Slaayde’s face. A few moments
later, Slaayde could be heard walking across the deck, cursing.

“
Well that’s that,” said
Ob. “Theta, what do you make of the good captain? That fellow in
the temple said he was Slaayde’s first mate and made no secret of
it.”

“
I haven’t seen enough yet
to take his measure. It may be he knew naught of his mate’s dealing
with the League.”

“
We should’ve told the
Duke about this,” said Claradon.

“
We
needed a fast and sturdy ship with an experienced crew to
catch
The White Rose
,” said Theta. “Harringgold and Fischer made clear
that
The Falcon
suited those needs best and with
The
Falcon
comes Slaayde. If Harringgold
suspected Slaayde might be aligned with the League he wouldn’t have
arranged our passage and we would be burdened with a lesser
ship.”

“
And what if he is a
Leaguer?” said Ob.

“
Then he will soon be
dead,” said Theta.

“
And what if he knows that
we suspect him because of that Fizdar character?” said Tanch. “He
could be laying a trap for us right now or planning to slit our
throats in our sleep. Oh my, this is all too much. Too
much.”

“
No one knows Slaayde’s
man spoke to us in the temple—and if he’s dead, as likely he is, no
one need ever know, so don’t speak of it again. We’ll tread
carefully around Slaayde.”

“
Too bad the bad guys
don’t all wear black or red so that we could tell them apart,” said
Dolan.

***

With the ship ready to
sail, Ob gathered all the men on the main deck, and Claradon, now
clad in his priestly vestments, led them in a traditional prayer.
Less than sixteen hours after meeting with Lord Harringgold in his
chambers in Dor Lomion,
The Black
Falcon
was off, sailing from its berth in
Lomion Harbor into the heart of the Hudsar River. From the bridge
deck, Claradon watched the grand skyline of Lomion, capital city of
the Kingdom of Lomion recede into the distance. Atop the tall deck,
he gazed on many of the great buildings of Lomion and wondered if
he would ever see them again.

Claradon admired the stalwart fortress of
Dor Lomion, with its tall, gray, stone walls and high tower, home
of House Harringgold. He wondered at the majestic, multi-spired,
and multi-hued Tower of the Arcane, central seat of wizardom in all
Midgaard and far and away the tallest edifice in the city. He could
just glimpse the Royal Palace of the Tenzivels and its neighbor
Tammanian Hall, bastion of government, home of the High Council and
the Council of Lords. The massive Auditorium, center of spectacles,
entertainment, and the arts stood in the western reaches of Lomion.
The Odinhome, grandest of all the temples, churches, and
cathedrals, and central house of worship of Lord Odin, the
all-father, the king of the gods, was located amidst the High
Quarter not far from the Auditorium. The peaks of these and many
other buildings both common and high all slowly vanished from sight
as the ship exited the harbor and plied its way down the river
proper.

VI

DOR MALVEGIL

“
They’re really good, just
misunderstood.”

—
Torbin
Malvegil

The Black Falcon
glided into a berth in the deep cove that served
as Dor Malvegil’s port. Scores of buildings, stone and shingle,
wood and nail, clustered around the cove, nestled between the
water’s edge and the base of a sheer cliff, a massive flat-topped
crag that rose high above the river and the surrounding woodlands.
Atop the rocky promontory, the grand old fortress of stone, ruled
by House Malvegil for the previous three hundred years, boasted
commanding views in all directions.

Several merchant ships of
various sizes lay in port loading and unloading cargos, both
pedestrian and exotic, though of
The White
Rose
there was no sign. As
The Falcon
tied off to a
well-kept pier, the harbormaster approached.

“
Ahoy
there,
Black Falcon
,” said the harbormaster, a burly
graybeard.

“
Ahoy yourself,” said
Slaayde as crewmen lowered the gangway.

“
I’ll brook no troubles
from you and yours this time, Slaayde. I warned you the last, and I
will not warn you again.”

“
Dear Hogart, you wound me
with your words,” said Slaayde sardonically. “I who love thee like
a son.”

“
If you were my son, I
would have sold you to the gnomes.” Hogart’s face reddened when he
spied Ob scowling at him from the rail.

“
We
shouldn’t linger here,” said Theta to Claradon. “Ask after
The White Rose
and let’s
be on our way.”

“
I have to pay my respects
to my uncle,” said Claradon. “He’s the lord of this fortress, and a
good man, but he would take offense if I passed here without
calling on him. Besides, Glimador should be here long since, and we
could use his help on this voyage.”

“
We shouldn’t stay the
night,” said Theta. “Every moment we delay, Korrgonn gets farther
away.”

Tanch stared up at the
fortress, which loomed high above the harbor. “Oh my, it seems a
frightful walk up to the castle. It must be two, perhaps three
hundred feet up the rock face.”

“
Three hundred fifty I’d
mark it,” said Ob.

“
The road must be terribly
steep.”

“
There’s no road, laddie.
Far too steep for one. That’s why the Malvegil’s built here—it’s
almost impossible to assault. To get up, you have to take a hoist
or climb the stairs,” said Ob, pointing to a wide stair built into
the rock face.

The stair was steep but looked solid and
safe, equipped with a sturdy wood outer railing and toe boards. The
stair switched back multiple times as it scaled the cliff’s
face.

“
There’s a second stair
around the other side.”

“
Oh my, look at that,”
said Tanch. “What a climb. My back cannot abide that. No, no, I’m
afraid that I would never make it. My apologies Brother Claradon,
but I’ll have to await your return here on the ship.”

“
No need,” said Claradon.
“We’ll take the hoist.”

“
Hoist? What are we, bales
of hay?”

“
Around the bend a ways
there’s a series of big hoists that are used to haul up supplies
and people,” said Ob. “A good deal easier and a fair bit quicker
than the stairs.”

The largest of the hoists
comfortably held nearly a score of armored men. Theta, Claradon,
Ob, Tanch, Dolan, Artol, Slaayde, Seran, and the other knights of
Dor Eotrus: Sirs Paldor, Kelbor, Ganton ‘the Bull’, and Trelman
loaded onto the large cabin, all dressed in their finest. Duke
Harringgold’s soldiers, save Seran, remained with the ship, as did
the balance of Claradon’s men and Slaayde’s crew.

The hoist’s rectangular cabin was almost
eight feet tall and built of heavy planks and timbers. A dozen
thick ropes with looped ends hung one to two feet down from the
ceiling beams. The hoist operator stepped in last. He swung closed
the cabin door, or rather, the half-door, since it was but three
feet tall. “Grab the ropes and hold on,” he said.

Claradon gripped one of
the looped ropes; several of the others followed suit. Ob looked up
at the rope above him, far beyond his reach, and grabbed Claradon’s
sword belt instead.

The operator tugged on a chain, which rang a
loud bell mounted atop the hoist cabin. Seconds later, the cabin
lurched, sending the men reeling to one side.

“
Ha! I told you to hold
on.”

After it moved a ways, the cabin steadied,
swinging just a bit to the side as it ascended. Some of the men
stared at their feet, some closed their eyes, and the rest stared
bug-eyed out the door. The operator ignored the view outside,
choosing instead to stare at his passengers, an amused expression
on his face.

When the hoist reached the top, the group
unloaded onto a wide stone terrace outside the massive outer walls
of the fortress. An elaborate array of ropes and pulleys, levers
and great geared wheels powered by teams of oxen pulled some hoists
up and lowered others down, all supervised by more than a dozen men
clad in the livery of House Malvegil.

A large staging area, currently brimming
with sparring troops, dominated most of the terrace. Squadrons of
soldiers dueled with wooden swords and blunted spears, weapons
masters barking orders and taunts all the while. A massive barn for
the oxen and horses was situated off in one corner.

The walls of the fortress hugged the edge of
the cliff around its whole perimeter, save for the hoist terrace,
the Dor’s loading dock. Here, the walls rose up some sixty feet.
Crenellated battlements loomed over the terrace, its defenders
ready to lay waste to any enemy that somehow reached the crag’s
summit.

Majestic towers and turrets climbed to lofty
heights here and there about the fortress. The flags of Lomion and
House Malvegil flew atop the walls and towers, fluttering proudly
in the wind.

The group was greeted by the Dor’s
Castellan, one Hubert Gravemare, an elderly man of lanky build and
crackly voice, supported by a group of frazzled servants. Claradon
explained that they couldn’t stay long, and Gravemare countered
that Lord Malvegil would insist they remain for a meal at the
least. He escorted them to the great hall to await his lord.

Dor Malvegil’s great hall
was arrayed with rows of oaken trestle tables and benches, polished
and spotless, together large enough to feast several hundred at a
time. The floor was constructed of large stone tiles, well-cleaned
and in good repair. Huge carved wood trusses supported the roof
some forty feet above, spanning from one side of the hall to the
other, creating a wide space free of columns or piers.

The Lord’s Table sat at
the head on a raised platform two steps higher than the rest of the
hall. On Gravemare’s orders servants scurried about it, setting
plates and silverware and goblets. There would be no more debating
about dinner.

Glimador Malvegil marched
into the hall dressed in a blue silken shirt and black breaches, a
sword belt strapped around his waist. He warmly greeted his
comrades but went speechless when Seran presented him with the
shining Dyvers sword from Pipkorn. Moments later, Lord Malvegil and
his Lady, Landolyn, arrived.

Torbin Malvegil was a tall, burly man of
bushy black beard, booming voice, and pearl white teeth. He entered
the hall wearing his ancestral armor, all-polished to a blazing
sheen, though at that moment he was all but invisible, for every
man’s eyes locked on his lady. Her rare curves marked her of
half-elven blood at least. Like most of her ancestry, she was
narrow of waist, extra wide of hip and much more than very large of
chest. Few human women ever had such proportions, but unlike a
pureblood elf, her allure was natural, not enhanced by whatever
strange magic surrounded the elves. Her face was at once beautiful
and haunting, with sharp, almost ageless features, black eyes, and
silver hair, straight and silky that fell to below her waist.