“Did it seem as if the guards delayed you on purpose?” said Harringgold. “To let the brigands get clear?”
“Maybe, but it’s hard to say. A Myrdonian Captain gave us a difficult time, asking why we were riding so hard and what we were about. He just wouldn’t listen to me or didn’t care, and made no move to stop the coach despite my pleading.”
“Did you get the Captain’s name?” said the Duke.
Ector paused, thinking. “They called him Bartol.”
Harringgold nodded. “I thought as much. Captain Bartol is the third son of House Alder, younger brother to Chancellor Barusa.”
“Those stinking Alders are everywhere,” said Ob. “Everywhere there’s dirty dealings and backstabbings, that is. They’ve never been any good, not one of them.”
The Duke stood up. “My men will find this coach.” He strode off to dispatch his agents, leaving Claradon and his comrades alone in the study.
“That stinking carriage again,” said Ob.
“It’s the Shadow League for certain,” said Claradon. “Why couldn’t it just be brigands—pay some ransom and get Jude back? Instead, we’ve got the same crazies that killed father, Sir Gabriel, and the others. And now they have Jude too.”
“We should’ve rooted them stinking cultists out years ago and been done with them,” said Ob.
“Why do they want Jude?” said Claradon. “To what end? Haven’t they done enough to our House?”
“We won’t know why until we catch them, boy,” said Ob. “And catch them we will.”
***
“The carriage went through Southeast,” said Grim Fischer—a gnome, and one of the Duke’s agents. “Straight to the docks. They rolled it right up a gangway and onto a ship. Their outriders boarded too, along with their horses. They set sail as soon as they secured the carriage and horses below deck.”
“Which ship was it?” asked Harringgold.
“The White Rose,” said Grim. “It’s the fastest ship in Lomion.”
“Of course it is,” said Claradon sardonically.
“A smuggler, reaver, and all-around ship of ill repute,” said Ob.
“True enough,” said Grim, “and captained by one Rastinfan Rascelon.”
“A no-good raper and murderer, I hear tell,” said Ob.
“That and more, but no one’s given evidence against him,” said Grim.
“And apparently in the employ of the Shadow League,” said Claradon.
“More than that,” said Harringgold. “We’ve suspected for some time that Rascelon is one of the League’s Arkons—that’s what they call their highest leaders.”
“Did your men see Korrgonn?” asked Theta.
“He was there,” said Grim. “He got out of the carriage just after they drove it onto The White Rose. He sailed with the ship.”
“Are you certain?”
“Saw him myself.”
Theta turned toward the Duke. “I need a ship.”
Harringgold didn’t immediately answer.
“Will you give us a ship? We must track down Korrgonn. He must be stopped.”
“I know your feelings on this, Lord Theta. Arranging for a ship that has any hope of catching The White Rose may not be an easy task.”
“My Lords,” said Tanch. “Let’s not be hasty here. We’ve agreed that Korrgonn is a threat—we all want him gone. Well—now he’s gone, of his own volition. Let him go, I say. Master Fischer has said The White Rose was heavily provisioned. That means a long journey, perhaps months or more, to who knows where. Just let him go, and keep watch for The White Rose’s return. When it arrives—if it arrives—we can marshal our forces and be waiting for it with strength, on solid ground of our choosing. We will have the advantage. But on the river or at sea, any ship that we could send is vulnerable.”
“They have Jude, you idiot,” said Ob. “We’re not to abandon him.”
Tanch looked confused. “No—no—of course not,” said Tanch, wiping his brow with his sleeve and looking for a chair. “I’m sorry. The stress of recent days has gotten to me. I didn’t think—didn’t know what I was saying. Of course, we must rescue Jude, of course, we must.”
“Even if Jude wasn’t with him,” said Ob, “who’s to say what evils Korrgonn will do downriver.”
“Or what forces of his own he’ll marshal,” added Claradon.
“Remember, Lomion isn’t just this city and our lands to the north,” said Ob. “There are plenty of lands to the south too: Dor Malvegil, Roosa, Beringford, Dravilt, Dor Linden, Dover, and more. Stinking Korrgonn could do no end of mischief at any of those places. We can’t sit back and let that happen.”
“We will send ravens to the Lords Malvegil and Mirtise warning them of the threat,” said the Duke.
“The Rose was provisioned for a long journey,” said Grim. “Three days ago it appeared in the harbor, though no one saw it approach. Rascelon loaded it with all manner of provisions until the moment it sailed. They hauled aboard enough water and foodstuffs to sail all the way to Tragoss Mor, probably farther, without resupplying.
“So where could they be headed?” asked Claradon.
“Maybe they’re going to Theta’s lands, way out wherever it is,” said Ob. “Perhaps old Korrgonn heard about your fancy wine cellar and wants to sample a vintage or two.”
“Enough,” said Theta. “I intend to follow that ship until I catch it, whether that be in ten leagues or at the very ends of the world. There will be no turning around, no letting him go. I will catch Korrgonn and kill him, and if it’s possible, rescue Claradon’s brother. Anyone that objects can stay here and hide under their beds. The rest of us will see this done.” He turned toward the Duke. “You say that The White Rose is the fastest ship in Lomion; which one is the next fastest?”
Harringgold considered for a moment. “Any one of several Lomerian Cruisers—military ships. But I can’t get you one of those—each is commanded by a Myrdonian Knight Captain and they all report to Marshal Balfor and through him to the Chancellor. The next best choice would be The Black Dragon. She’s a smaller ship but she might be The Rose’s match in speed.”
“My Lord, The Black Dragon is no more, at least in name,” said Grim. “Slaayde renamed her The Black Falcon not long ago. Third or fourth time he has changed the ship’s name and standard in the last few years, if I remember straight.”
“Ah, yes, he is known for that.” Harringgold turned back toward Theta. “The Black Falcon is a merchant ship captained by one Dylan Slaayde.”
“The problem is, Slaayde is set to sail to Minoc with a load of marble, or so I hear,” said Grim. “To make any good speed you would have to unload it before you set sail. That will take a day, maybe two, and we would probably have to buy the cargo off him to boot.”
“Are there other options?” asked Theta.
“None that I know of that’s near as fast and what could be ready much sooner,” said Grim.
“Then The Black Falcon it is,” said Theta, staring down the Duke.
The Duke stared back for a goodly time before responding. “Very well, I will arrange this with Captain Slaayde. I’ll also assign some of my guardsmen to your command—as I fear you will need them before your journey is done.”
“Can Slaayde be trusted, my lord?” said Claradon.
“To a point,” said Harringgold. “He’s a scoundrel and a menace to free trade; but he’s no friend to the League.”
***
“What am I supposed to do?” said Ector. He, Claradon and Ob huddled together in the corner of Harringgold’s den. “Father is gone. Sir Gabriel is dead. Brother Donnelin, Par Talbon, Stern, Marzdan, Balfin, Mithras, all dead, every one. Malcolm is badly hurt, now Jude is taken, and you, Artol, and Tanch are all going who knows where. What am I supposed to do?”
Claradon looked stricken. He reached out and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“What would your father tell you to do, boy?” said Ob.
Ector shook his head slightly a
nd sunk back into the leather chair. “He would tell me to do my duty.”
“Which is what?”
“To uphold the family name and the family honor. To hold the Dor and protect it and our people against all enemies. To obey the crown.”
“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.”
Baru
sa 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.”
Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) Page 4
