Malvegil topped off his glass and offered the bottle to Ob, who took it eagerly. “A defect in the brain. Perhaps some worm picked up from undercooked pork drills its way in and eats them between the ears. I don’t know, men. But the mages and the heralds are with them, and they’re against us. That’s the way it is.”
“When they finally understand what the League is really about, they will want to stop them,” said Claradon. “These people are Lomerians—patriots— whatever our disagreements with them.”
“You’re right, those of good intent will come around, but by then it will be too late. Some will continue to side with the League, even then, to save themselves.”
“It’ll be a bloody mess,” said Ob.
“And if it’s bad enough, it will leave us vulnerable to attacks from without. Our foreign enemies will gather at the gates.” Malvegil paused, letting that sink in for a moment. “We need Dor Eotrus to stand with us, and we need House Eotrus to be strong.”
“Uncle,” said Claradon. “You must know that you have my full support, but I’m not sure how much we can do.”
“Our forces are broken,” said Ob. “Most of our best fell with Aradon and Gabriel and Jude. We don’t have enough men to deploy to the field—not for any major battle; maybe not enough even to even hold the Dor, if we’re hard pressed.”
“Grim news, worse than I thought. Dor Eotrus must stand. The trade route between Lomion and Kern must remain secure.”
“You said we need Dor Eotrus to stand with us?” said Claradon. “Which ‘us’ are you talking about? Who are our allies? House Harringgold, of course. Who else can we count on?”
“A fair question for any Dor Lord to ask,” said Malvegil, “but I’ll not tell you, not when you’re about to go off after some of the League’s leaders. If you’re captured, under duress you might give us away. I can’t chance that. All things considered, it’s better that you don’t know, not now, anyway. Must you go on this mission, Claradon?”
Claradon hesitated some moments before responding. “Maybe that’s why they took Jude; to torture him for information.”
Malvegil and Ob exchanged worried glances.
“Hold on, boy,” said Ob. “There could be many reasons they want him. Maybe they will ransom him back after all, and that’ll be the end of it. In any case, best not to dwell on it.”
“Could be they’re torturing him even now, to find out what he knows. But he doesn’t know anything, does he?”
Ob shook his head.
“So then they’ll kill him,” said Claradon. “Theta was right, we can’t linger here. We need to sail at the crack of dawn, before then, even.”
“I know that you want to save Jude yourself,” said Malvegil, “but sometimes a leader needs to make difficult choices, to serve the greater good. You and Ob should go back and take command of your Dor. I can spare a squadron of men to help you. Let Theta and the others go after Korrgonn and Jude. It doesn’t need to be you, Claradon.”
“Torbin,” said Ob, “we can’t lose sight that what’s happening is bigger than us, bigger than Lomion even. These Leaguers called up some kind of beasties from another world and they will do it again. It don’t matter what those things really were, or where they really came from—all that matters is that they mean to kill us dead, and they’re more than capable of it. Had we been a day later, who knows how many of them would’ve come through. Then we’d be swimming in blood. Korrgonn and the men with him are the ones what know how to open these gateways. They need to be stopped. They need to be dead. That’s why we have to go. That’s why we can’t leave it to anybody else. Stinking Harringgold only half believed us.”
“If I didn’t know you for so long, I’d not believe you at all,” said Malvegil. “But I agree, these men need stopping. Let’s put them down.”
***
Gravemare assigned Ob to a fancy room—large with big furniture, four-poster bed, a couch, and coffee table, all in dark wood, tapestries and paintings on the walls, even a private water closet and bath with running water, clean and tiled.
Ob was glad that Theta didn’t make an issue of staying the night when Claradon announced the decision at dinner. That would’ve made Claradon look weak and would’ve ruined a good meal too. Maybe Mr. Know-it-All is finally learning who’s the boss.
Ob washed his face in a marble basin. He’d have a bath later, if he didn’t get too drunk, since this might be his last chance in a goodly while. At the moment, though, he felt stuffed to bursting with roast meats and boiled vegetables, honeyed beer and hot wassail. Malvegil’s chef had served up a meal worthy of the best eateries in Lomion City. Despite his indulgence, Ob managed two thick slices of wastelbread and made off with a plate of cookies.
After dessert, Torbin invited the group to join him later in his den for some drinking, cigars, and storytelling.
“I hope Slaayde doesn’t show up,” muttered Ob as he looked himself over in the mirror before leaving his room. “I don’t trust that bugger. At least Torbin has a couple of guards shadowing him.”
Theta’s room was just down the hall and Ob decided to pick him up on the way. Ob figured that Theta would enjoy the tale of the Dead Fens. Torbin was sure to tell that one, what with Ob and Artol both there, Gabe’s passing, and the group heading past the Fens on the morrow. He wasn’t certain that Claradon was ready to hear that tale. How many shocks could the boy take?
As Ob exited his room, he saw Lady Landolyn step through the doorway into Theta’s room. The door closed behind her.
“What’s this?” Ob whispered. Ob padded silently down the hallway as quickly as he could and pressed his ear to the door.
“You are the Thetan of old?” said Lady Landolyn sharply.
That name again, Thetan, just as Mortach had called him. If Theta made any reply, Ob didn’t hear it.
“I am of the House of Adonael,” said the Lady.
After a short pause she continued. “Your fell deeds are not forgotten by my House, or by many others.” With each word, her voice grew louder and more shrill. “You led us astray and for this we have suffered much. Your crimes are beyond compare and beyond forgiveness.”
Slap!
“Zounds!” muttered Ob, though he couldn’t tell if she shapped him or if he caught her hand in his.
“You know not of what you speak,” said Theta in a slow, measured, and cold voice. “The anger you harbor is misplaced.”
“I think not, traitor. It’s well placed as will be the dagger that pierces your black heart if you dare to remain here past this night or ever return again. Do not soil this good house with your lies and your schemes. I warn you, should any harm befall my Glimador on this quest of yours, I will hunt you to the ends of Midgaard and slay you myself.”
She moved for the door and Ob dashed for cover. He skulked behind a tapestry until she left the hall and was well down the stair before he dared move.
After that, Ob thought, I need to get stinking drunk. Theta has enemies everywhere and they all name him traitor and liar. What are we doing with this man amongst us?
***
A light haze of smoke wafted about the Lord’s Den, illumed by lanterns of stained glass and polished mica that cast a pleasant amber hue. Cherrywood beams and planks supported and coffered the ceiling some twelve feet above the granite-tiled floor. Exquisitely detailed maps of various sizes and styles adorned the spaces between and above the ornate mahogany bookshelves of wood and glass doors that lined the walls.
The gathered men reclined near the fireplace on leather chairs and couches, rich and dark in color and almost silky soft to the touch. The whole group was there. They smoked cigars from Dyvers and Portland Vale and sipped a fine Kernian brandy called Amber as Torbin Malvegil boomed his tales of past glories. Servants stood as statues in this corner and that, ever ready to fill any tumbler gone dry or to light the next cigar.
“First there were reports of strange sounds and stranger sights on the river,” said Malvegil. “But then, men b
egan disappearing from ships, mostly the small ones, some the larger. Whole ships started going missing too—a couple of small fishing vessels, and then a merchant ship, a caravel called The Barking Beagle, out of Minoc, I believe—
It was The Bellowing Banshee out of Kern, recalled Ob, though he kept his thoughts to himself.
“…went missing with all hands save the first mate.”
The cook
“…who floated downriver clinging for his life to a broken board.”
In a dinghy.
“He was found two days later, about twenty leagues downriver, slashed and torn as if by ragged blades or claws. But that wasn’t the worst of it. His mind was shattered. He was utterly mad and couldn’t even tell his tale. His wounds had festered and he died the next day. So afraid of disease were they, they doused him with oil while he still lived and set him aflame the moment he breathed his last.
“The Beagle was carrying more than just trinkets and tea—three members of a noble house were aboard: a Lady fair of Lomion, her young Lord, and their infant son. Their fate, unknown.
“Of course, I couldn’t abide such crimes just beyond my borders, so I called upon and gathered my most intrepid comrades. A wrecking crew we were, the bravest, the strongest, and the best darn fighters in all of Lomion. The best of the best we were. In those days, far and wide they called us, The Sons of Lomion.”
Only you call us that in your stories, my friend.
“So we set out to the Fens to see what there was to see,” said Ob, no longer able to hold back. “Not to be doing any crazy hero stuff, but just to size up the issue, so we could set a plan to make things right.”
“Exactly,” said Malvegil. “Sir Gabriel Garn was me, so was Ob, and The Hammer of Lomion—you know him as Artol. This all happened over twenty years ago, I should say. Artol here,” pointing to the big warrior, “was just as tall in those days, but a far sight thinner, and so young he could barely grow a wisp of a beard. Ob was Ob and Gabe was Gabe, those two never did seem to change. Of course with Ob—he’s a gnome and they’re known to be long-lived. With Gabe it was a bit of a mystery. Came from some old bloodline, I expect, and looked half his years, if that. Anyways, our ship put to anchor off the Dead Fens, near the west bank of the Hudsar—a mere ten leagues south of where we sit. We launched in a longboat and rowed across to the east bank and up a tributary into the Fens. By turns, we rowed and levered our way with long poles deeper into that accursed swamp.”
Malvegil stood and looked at each man in turn, his expression serious.
Here it comes, the part he’s got down word for word. Let’s see what he’s added since the last.
“The whole of the Dead Fens stretched out before us. A vast landscape of wanton degradation. A morass so putrid, so miasmic as to cloud the mind and rend the soul. It has been avoided for countless generations by all who know its reputation. In that time, it has taken only those lost wanderers who knew not whence they strayed, and a few would-be adventurers chasing fairy gold or glory. But the Dead Fens is no mere swamp or bog or marsh. There is a presence to that place. A palpable persona to it—an ancient evil from a bygone age.”
That last line is new. Can’t argue with it, though.
“Those that enter or even skirt its borders are besought with all manner of misfortunes, great and small. From accidents, to illness, from rotting food to rancid water, where hours before there was freshness. That place is decay, ancient and unforgiving. A slimy putrescence, a decrepit miasma likened to the grave. Such are the Dead Fens.”
Gets better with each telling. He should write it down, preserve it for posterity.
Gravemare stormed into the room. “My Lord, there’s trouble on our guests’ ship.”
***
The ship was in chaos; men ran to and fro. Captain Slaayde and his officers shouted orders to bring all pumps to the forward hold. Two burly sailors dragged a third man, limp, lifeless, and drenched in water from below deck. Seran Harringgold followed on their heels.
“What happened?” asked Claradon as he and Ob walked toward Seran.
“I caught this one drilling a hole in the hull,” said Seran as he pointed to the drenched man on the deck. Seran bent down and turned the man onto his back. A dagger was buried in his chest. “I cornered him and when he saw there was no escape, he stabbed himself. What kind of man would do that?”
“Is the stinking bugger one of Slaayde’s crew?” asked Ob.
“I’ve seen him aboard,” said Seran.
Ob bent down and examined the corpse.
“How bad is the damage to the ship?” asked Claradon.
“There’s lots of water down there. He must’ve drilled at least a couple of holes before I discovered him.”
“He’s a Leaguer,” said Ob after exposing a tattoo on the dead man’s shoulder. “He’s got the mark of Mortach.”
Hours later, long after they had planned to leave, Slaayde’s crew had finished patching the holes in the hull and pumping the water from the hold. Much of the ship’s supplies were ruined.
“You now face the same problem that you did yesterday,” said Malvegil. “You will not make it past the Fens before dark. Can I convince you to remain another night?”
“I appreciate your concern, Uncle, but we can remain here no longer,” said Claradon. “Too much depends on our speed.”
Glimador and a dozen Malvegil soldiers carrying bows marched up to the two Dor Lords as they stood on the pier.
“These are some of my most skilled bowman,” said Malvegil. “Please accept their service on your quest, nephew.”
“I’ll make good use of them, Uncle. Thank you.”
“May Odin’s favor shine on you, my boy. Come back safe and Jude with you.”
Lord Malvegil and his Lady watched The Black Falcon depart from the eastern terrace.
“I forbade Glim to go,” said Landolyn, tears welling in her eyes; eyes not accustomed to tears.
Malvegil spun toward her, jaw clenched. “What? You forbade him? You had no business doing that. We agreed that it was his decision to make.”
“You agreed, husband. I just gave up arguing.”
“You shouldn’t have interfered.”
“Interfered? He’s my only son—our only son. The only one we’ll ever have, and I will not lose him to some madman’s quest.”
“Glimador’s not a boy anymore; he’s a man—a fine strong man. More than that, he’s a knight, and pledged to serve the Eotrus. Where his Lord goes, he goes. Duty and honor, Landolyn; it’s what makes a man a man.”
“This mission and that man will be the death of him, I know it.”
“What? Don’t say that. Claradon loves Glimador like a brother.”
“Not Claradon. Theta!”
“The foreigner?”
“Torbin, you’re an old fool.”
Malvegil stood there for a time, looking at her, open-mouthed and disbelieving. Then he turned back toward the river and watched The Black Falcon sail away to meet its fate.
“Ten years ago—no—five, and I would’ve went with them. Claradon is too young to lead them in this.
Landolyn shook her head. “Dead gods, you’re blind.”
“What? What’s come over you?”
“Your nephew leads nothing. He follows.”
Malvegil’s shocked expression followed her as she stormed off.
VII
EINHERIAR
“To sate my hunger, I will burn thy
body and devour thy soul.”
—Einheriar
Theta stood alone at the rail of the sturdy vessel, gazing into the darkness from whence they came, while The Black Falcon sailed down the grand Hudsar River. A storm was gathering and it grew dark early. Soon, a mist formed, cloaking the surface of the water.
Claradon stepped up to the rail beside Theta. “Dor Malvegil is the farthest south I’ve ever been before today.”
Theta made no reply; he didn’t even acknowledge his presence.
“I
t’s a big world, I suppose it’s time that I see more of it. I just wish the reasons were better.” Claradon breathed deep the clean, crisp air of the river lands and listened to the flow of the water about the ship. “I would’ve marked you a man to stand at the prow looking at what lies ahead, rather than looking back.”
“We’re being followed and not by friendly sail.”
“What?” Claradon raised his brows. “A ship? The lookout reports nothing.”
“I see better than most.”
“He’s atop the mast; he has a far better view.”
“Perhaps he has his own agenda or perhaps the captain chooses to keep secrets. Or maybe he just doesn’t see very well.”
Claradon looked hard into the growing darkness. “I can’t see anything but the mist.”
“It comes into view every hour or so. It flies a black sail. A large ship.”
“The Raven out of Southeast flies a black sail and a red and black flag,” said Ob as he skulked out of the shadows. “So does The Grey Talon, and both their reputations are as black as their sails. It could be one of them two ships, or else it could be a ship from Dyver’s—a bunch of them fly the black. There is also an order of Church Knights, don’t remember which one, what flies black sail too.”
“Should we advise the captain to speed up?” said Claradon. “Maybe we can lose her. We’ve enough trouble ahead of us; we don’t more from behind.”
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