“Curse you, Eotrus,” spat the beast. “And all thy line forevermore.”
Its eyes rolled back in its head. It fell backward, struck the marble floor, and exploded in a cloud of dust. The glowing dagger remained, embedded in a heap of foul black ash.
II
MAGES AND MONSTERS
“Don’t play by any rules, just survive,
That is all that matters.”
—Lord Angle Theta
Ornate figurines overran the tabletop. They were cast in the likenesses of soldiers, knights, elves, dwarves, wizards, lugron, and all manner of monsters, various and sundry—all beautifully painted and mounted on moveable hardwood bases inscribed with arcane symbols and numbers that represented their attributes. Two compact carrying cases of leather and hardwood, homes for the game tokens, sat open at the end of the table. Their outsides scarred and battered from long travels, the cases were heavily padded within to protect their precious cargo.
Two armed men sat on each side of the table, while a fifth—a shiny mountain of steel and grit called Angle Theta—observed from off to the side. Theta kept an eye on the game’s progress while he skimmed through a dog-eared leather rulesbook and studied several unused pieces.
A tiny old man not much more than three-feet tall, of bulbous nose and big ears, shook his head and grinned. “A bad move, Magic Boy,” he said to the fair-haired man that sat on the other side of the oaken table. “You should’ve moved your stinking Knight Champion while you had the chance. He’s in range of my Mage and his back is unprotected. He’s worm food.”
“Excuse me, Ob,” said Par Tanch, “but I saw your Mage and I have intentionally ignored him. If you had been paying as much attention to the game as to your ale you would know that your Mage is too wounded to throw a spell, so he’s no threat. I’m afraid you’ll have to find another move.”
Ob narrowed his eyes; an evil grin formed on his face. “You’ve forgotten, Magic Boy, my Mage has the Dagger of Shantii.”
Tanch studied the table and his face paled.
Ob measured off the distance and moved the Mage directly behind the Knight Champion—a smug look on his face.
“That’s a reckless move,” said Tanch’s teammate, Claradon, a large man, clad in a sharp gray shirt emblazoned with the crest of House Eotrus. “Magic dagger or not, the Mage doesn’t have much chance of hitting the Knight, and less of finishing him off, even from behind.”
“And next turn, I’ll turn the Knight around and hack the Mage to pieces,” said Tanch.
“If I kill your stinking knight, your game is over, as quick as that. You won’t have enough points left to be a threat.” Ob took a deep drink of ale from his mug “Start sweating.” He picked up a pair of dice from the table—one of bone, one of metal. He placed them in an ornately carved wooden cup, shook it, and tossed the dice on the tabletop.
A six came up on each die.
Ob smashed his hands together. “Yes.”
“Arrgh!” went Tanch and Claradon as they jumped to their feet.
“What happened?” said Ob’s teammate, Dolan, a pale, gaunt man of pointy ears.
“Double Doom,” said Claradon. “An automatic hit and double damage.”
Ob jotted some numbers on a piece of parchment with a feather quill. “By my count, your Champion is down, out, and dead as dead can be.” He handed the calculation over to Claradon. “Game over.”
Claradon looked over the numbers and shook his head in disgust.
Tanch leaned heavily on his wooden staff. “My back has been troubling me today; I’m just not at my best. Even so, it was a lucky shot.”
“Not luck, Magic Boy. It was guts. In Mages and Monsters, just as in real battle, them with guts win the day more often than not. If you want to play it safe, you’re hanging with the wrong bunch.” Ob looked over at Theta. “Ain’t that right, Mr. Fancy Pants?”
Theta continued to peruse the rulesbook and didn’t bother to look over. “Is your confidence in your courage, gnome, or in your dice?”
“Bah.” Ob stood atop his chair and stretched as best he could to reach the Knight Champion figurine near the table’s center. His fingers fell just short. Dolan jumped up and reeled the Knight in.
Claradon’s eyes narrowed and he looked from Theta to Ob to the Double Doom dice that still sat on the table.
“I thought it was a good move, Mr. Ob,” said Dolan.
“Thanks, boy.”
Claradon reached to pick up Ob’s dice, but the gnome’s hand darted out and snatched them away. “Those are my lucky dice, boy, get your own.”
Claradon narrowed his eyes. “Let me see those dice.”
“What? Why?”
“The dice, Ob. Now.”
Ob put them in his pant pocket, a defiant look plastered to his face.
Tanch studied the exchange between his friends. “You cheated,” said the wizard. “Those dice were loaded, weren’t they?”
Ob looked taken aback.
“I thought it was just dumb luck, but you actually cheated.”
“A wise man makes his own luck,” said Theta. He closed the rulesbook and turned toward the others. “You didn’t lose to Ob’s luck; you lost to his skill, and to your own foolishness. You lost because you counted on him playing by the rules, and didn’t check that he wasn’t. That kind of mistake will get you killed out there. Don’t make it again.”
“But he cheated,” said Claradon.
“His mage lives and your knight is dead with a knife in his back. How it happened really doesn’t matter.”
“You condone this treachery?” said Tanch.
Theta laughed. “Not so much in a game, but for real, when it counts, out there on some battlefield, yes. In battle, you must do whatever it takes to survive. You must use whatever edge you have. Don’t play fair, don’t give your opponent a chance, don’t play by any rules, just win, just survive, that’s all that matters.” Theta tossed the rulesbook to Claradon. “That’s your lesson for the day. Don’t forget it.”
“How did you know?” said Claradon. “How did you know Ob cheated?”
Theta smiled but didn’t respond.
“He knew because I’m an old warrior and old warriors play the odds or they don’t live to get old. I played way against the odds with that move, so he knew I must’ve had an edge: a big one.”
“This game is too complicated for me,” said Dolan. “I prefer Spottle.”
A soldier clad in the livery of House Harringgold marched stiffly into the room. “Excuse me, Lord Eotrus; gentlemen. Duke Harringgold requests your presence forthwith in his drawing room.”
“Is there some trouble?” asked Claradon.
“I fear so, sir. Your brother, Sir Ector, is in with the Duke.”
Claradon stood. His face paled. “He’s supposed to be at home.”
III
AMBUSH
“You want to be a hero, boy?
Live to write the history books.”
—Ob
Sir Jude Eotrus’s massive destrier thundered forward at full gallop, adorned in steel barding and colorful caparison. Jude wore the traditional armor of the Knights of Tyr—a suit of steel plates tied to an undercoat and leggings of chain links. Armored gauntlets, greaves, and boots completed his protection. His steel helm hung from a saddle loop, his black cape fluttered in the wind. To his left arm was affixed a heater shield emblazoned with the Eotrus coat-of-arms.
Fixated on exacting righteous vengeance on those that sent the messenger against his home and claimed to hold his father captive, Jude stared forward, jaw clenched, only mildly aware that Sergeant Balfin rode beside him. Four more armored knights and seven sturdy men-at-arms rode behind them, dirt and gravel flying from their horses’ hooves.
From the corner of his eye, Jude saw something large fall from a tree on the right side of the road.
“Pull up,” yelled Balfin.
What?
A heavy rope sprang up across their path.
Zounds
!
No time to stop. No time to turn or jump. The rope caught Jude’s steed high on its legs, shattering them, just as he wrenched his boots free of the stirrups. The horse crashed to a halt, flipped head over hooves, and slammed to the earth. Jude rocketed forward, spun over once in the air, and sailed some dozen feet before landing on his back. He slid several yards along the dusty road, and aided by his momentum, gained his feet in an instant; the crash and howls of men and horses filled the air behind him.
Ambush!
Battered and disoriented, Jude drew his sword and assumed a defensive stance.
Is this really happening? I should’ve been paying attention. Sir Gabriel would have my hide.
Foreboding, armored figures emerged from the woods. Two men clad in blood-red armor with helms that covered their faces strode toward Jude with swords drawn. Behind them stalked a very tall, broad man in black-enameled armor, a dragon crest of red adorned his breastplate. Grizzled and scarred, armor gouged and dented: a veteran killer. Jude heard the rattle of steel and war cries of battle behind him.
No time to look. Is this real? My head spins; get ready. Cut them down. Quick. Jude backpedaled several steps to buy time to clear his head. Behind me—something.
Jude half turned and beheld a huge figure shaped like a man, but of brick-red skin, long fangs, pointed ears, and bald pate. An unspeakable union of man and demon, its very life a blasphemy and an affront to all that’s holy. Far taller and broader than Jude, the creature stalked toward Jude, brandishing a massive, two-handed sword, chipped and stained with the dried blood of its last victims.
Dead gods, what’s that? Can’t fight that. Need help.
The red creature laughed at Jude’s look of alarm, and then spoke in a rich baritone voice. “You look surprised to see us, boy. Did you think to find us asleep beside the road, waiting for you to swoop in and kill us like you did our messenger?”
It speaks? What is it? “Messenger? That thing was a monster, a demon.”
“It was only sent to deliver our ransom note, nothing more,” said Mort Zag, the red creature. “If it came to blows, the first was yours. You started this.”
“You took my father!”
“We offered you a deal,” said Ezerhauten, the dragon knight, in a deep gravely voice.
“A fair deal,” said Mort Zag. “Square and honest.”
“But you came with your troops to cut us down,” said Ezerhauten. “You have no honor, boy, none at all. Lord Korrgonn foresaw it; he foresaw your treachery.”
“And now you’ll pay dearly,” said Mort Zag.
“Wait,” said Jude. “We can—”
“No,” said Ezerhauten. “The time for negotiation is past. We didn’t want it this way, but you’ve given us no choice. Take him.”
The two red-armored knights moved in.
“To victory and tomorrow,” said Jude through clenched teeth. He launched himself at the nearest of the two, barreled into him shoulder first before the man could bring up his sword, and sent him flying.
The other.
Jude spun in time to parry an overhand strike from the second knight, and launch a brutal kick to his groin. The man stumbled back a step and doubled over, stunned.
For father.
Jude spun his sword in a tight arc, a move taught him by Sir Gabriel, and separated the red knight’s head from his shoulders.
Killed him. Can this be real? Behind me.
Jude turned and parried a blow from the first knight, now back on his feet. They exchanged several more cuts and thrusts while screams and shouts of the nearby melee echoed in the background.
He’s good. Muscle him. Crush him down. Where’s the dragon knight, and the red monster?
Jude pummeled the knight, smashing down with his sword over and over, beating the man back, before executing a dwarven overhand strike. The red knight blocked the titanic blow, but the impact shattered his sword, leaving him nothing but the hilt.
Got him.
“For my father,” Jude spat. He spun around, chopped down with all his might, and cleaved the man from shoulder to waist.
Dead gods, I killed him. Two down. Where are my men? Jude wrenched his sword free.
“The pup has sharp teeth,” said Mort Zag. “Your Sithians can’t match him.”
Must be quick, can’t fight them both.
Jude feigned a move toward Ezerhauten, then spun toward Mort Zag, pulling a dagger from his belt. He launched it underhand, just as he had practiced with Ob a thousand times. The dagger caught Mort Zag in the throat, the monster’s eyes wild with shock. He staggered back and clutched his neck as the wound spouted green ichor.
In a flash, a second dagger spun toward Ezerhauten. The knight brought up his sword and effortlessly knocked the blade aside.
Zounds.
“Time for a lesson, whelp,” said Ezerhauten.
I can take him, I can beat them all.
The berserker’s fury consumed Jude, body and soul; every ounce of his strength poured into each blow. He would crush his enemy. He would utterly annihilate him. He would have his revenge.
Two great swords flashed and sparked. Jude’s sword thundered against Ezerhauten’s, but for each powerful blow he struck, Ezerhauten struck twice, slashing and slicing into Jude’s armor.
Jude roared in anger. I’m hurt. He’s too fast, too good. Gods, help me.
Ezerhauten moved with blazing speed, parrying or dodging blow after blow after blow.
Toying with me. No chance. Hold out until Balfin can help.
“To the north is Asgard,” shouted Jude. Blood dripped from his mouth.
“Asgard cannot save you, boy,” said Ezerhauten. “Nor can Thetan.”
As Jude raised his sword for another slash, Mort Zag struck him across the shoulders from behind. Jude dropped to his knees, his strength gone. He was stunned, numb. His sword fell from his hands.
Mort Zag grabbed Jude, lifted him above his head, and threw him as if he were but an apple and not an armored man of well over three hundred pounds. Jude smashed into a thick oak some twenty feet away. He dropped down unmoving at its base.
Jude opened his eyes. Everything hurt. He felt cold, so cold. Blood streamed down his cheek. He coughed and spat up blood, and coughed again. Then everything hurt more. His vision was blurred, his mind clouded; it was difficult to breathe. He felt as if he floated in a fog. Then he saw Sir Gabriel walking toward him—strangely, Ezerhauten and Mort Zag walked on either side.
“Help me,” Jude said. I’m saved; it’s Sir Gabriel.
Sir Gabriel squatted down before him. His eyes glowed a brilliant gold, an eerie grin on his face.
Jude’s eyes widened in alarm as he realized who fronted him now; his body shuddered in fear, though he had no strength to move, no command of his muscles. “Korrgonn,” he said. “Please—don’t kill me.” Can’t abandon my brothers.
Jude’s vision grew dark and he saw no more.
***
“I told him not go,” said Ector. Claradon, Duke Harringgold, Angle Theta, Ob, and several others gathered around the young knight in Harringgold’s study.
“I told him it was a trap. We argued and finally he gave in and said he wouldn’t go himself. He said he would send a squadron of knights and men-at-arms under Balfin. Next thing I knew, Indigo burst into my chambers saying that Jude just rode off leading a dozen men. One dozen. Not even a half squadron. The idiot.”
“More muscle than brains is Jude,” said Ob, nodding.
“Indigo and I rode after them with what men we could assemble in a few minutes.
We found them a couple miles north of Riker’s Crossroads. They were ambushed. Twelve men dead, including Balfin, Mordekain, Mithras, and Desmond.”
Claradon and Ob shuddered and winced as he spoke each name. Each one a friend and comrade of long years.
Ector took a deep breath before continuing. “Not just dead. They were mutilated. Unspeakable things were done to them. Some even looked—gnawed upon.”
“What of Jude?” said Ob quietly.
“He wasn’t there. They must’ve taken him.”
“Did you search the wood?” said Ob perking up. “Could he have run for it?”
“His horse was down, dead in the road. They’d pulled a rope up from the brush and tripped the lead horses. It looked like they fell at a gallop.”
“He would’ve been thrown,” said Ob.
“We found no trail leading into the woods. They took him.”
“How many of them did you find?” asked the Duke.
“Not a one. They either took their dead with them, or none were killed.”
“None killed?” spouted Ob. “Not likely. Twelve men of House Eotrus didn’t go lightly, I’ll tell you. Balfin is—was—an expert; Mordekain, a bruiser as strong as Jude, and Desmond was as tough as nails. Dropped twice their number at least, ambushed or not. They went down as heroes, and I will hear nothing different from nobody, understand?” Ob smacked his fist into his other hand and cursed under his breath.
Ector stared down at his feet for a respectful while before continuing. “We came on to Lomion as fast as we could, chasing at their heels all the way. We got close enough to see them, but no closer.”
“Who were they, and how many?” said Ob, still red-faced and bristling.
“Fifteen to twenty riders, plus a large coach that moves like the wind.”
Claradon, Ob, and Theta exchanged glances.
“We followed them to the city, but lost them at the north gate. The guards let the brigands pass swiftly through, but held us there for many minutes. We were so close. It was all I could do to not cut the gatemen down.”
Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) Page 3
