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

by Thater, Glenn

  Despite the crowds, nearly half the storefronts they passed were closed—abandoned and boarded up. Many lots were piled high with debris, stone and brick, wood and tile, the remnants of demolished buildings, long past their time.

  “Last I was here,” said Ob, “Tragoss had more brothels than bricks and more pubs than peddlers. Next to trading or slaving, those have always been their biggest businesses. All these abandoned storefronts were pubs. There on the corner was a place called The Great Mug. They’d been in business a couple centuries at least and sold more than a hundred kinds of beer from across Midgaard. Best tavern south of Lomion City. I will miss it. Stinking Thothians.”

  “What of the buildings torn down?” said Claradon.

  “Gambling halls and brothels mostly. Guess even the buildings offended the monks. Reminds me of one time when me, McDuff, and Red Tybor were down here and—”

  “Not now, gnome,” said Theta over his shoulder.

  Ob replied only to Theta’s back with a crude gesture.

  Despite the changes, the streets still burst with inns and eateries, tackle and bait shops, food stands and fruit carts, and souvenir shops beyond count.

  Sprawling warehouses of stone and brick and wood also thrived here, some of good repute, others ramshackle and abandoned—husks of past glories and finer days. Nearly all the buildings, save for the warehouses, were two stories, mostly built of tan-colored brick and mortar. They had flat roofs and wood-railed parapets. The citizenry were far more varied. There were tall Lomerians, dusky sailors from Minoc, short, yellow-skinned men from Tragoss Gar, colorful traders from Piper’s Hold, and many more.

  The women all wore long gloves extending from fingertip to elbow on both hands. The gloves, some in cloth, others in leather, varied in color, style, and pattern, and were universally worn by all women, even young girls. “In the inner city, the local women only wear white or black gloves,” said Ob. “Last I was here, foreigners didn’t need to wear the gloves at all. Guess that has changed.”

  “Need to?” said Claradon.

  “The Thothians consider it improper for women to go out without gloves. “If you do, they will stone you.”

  “To death? For not wearing gloves?”

  “Yup. And they call us northerners barbarians. They say ungloved women are unclean whores, or some such nonsense.”

  Everywhere were the Thothian monks, in groups of two or four and sometimes more. Stationed here and there and everywhere, watching every move, marking every word and glance. Besides the monks, and some of the merchants, few Tragoss Morians moved about the harbor district. It was a land of sightseers and seamen, tourists, traders, and foreign laborers.

  It took almost an hour for the group to make their way on foot to the thirty-foot-tall wall that separated the Harbor District from the Western District. Iron portcullises barred passage from the wide gravel-filled avenues of the Harbor to the narrow cobblestoned lanes of the West. A guard post stood behind the iron, manned by a group of city watchmen.

  “The Harbor District is all most visitors see,” said Ob. “Once we pass this checkpoint, you will see the real Tragoss Mor. She’s a beauty, except for the sewers. I expect we will have to pay to get through.”

  Ob stepped up to the gate and banged on it with his axe handle. “Open up.”

  Two uniformed guards stepped out of their shelter and approached the gate. One was middle-aged and tall, with bright eyes. The second was average height, lanky, and vacant.

  “Who seeks to enter the Western District?” said the first guard.

  “We do, bucko. Open up.”

  The guard looked down at Ob and wrinkled his nose. He looked up at the others. “Is this imp yours?”

  “My servant,” said Tanch. “Kindly pass us through.”

  “Your names and business?”

  “I’m—Par Sinch of Kern,” said Tanch. “I am on a pilgrimage to visit the great shrines of the Thothians. These others are but my servants and bodyguards.”

  The captain looked surprised, even taken aback. He looked around, as if to see if anyone was listening before he spoke. “Did you say, Par Sinch?”

  Now Tanch looked surprised. “Yes,” he said, uncertainly.

  The captain studied the group for several moments. “If I didn’t know better, I might mistake you for a wizard of the Tower of the Arcane and these bodyguards for church knights. But since any fool knows that months ago the Thothians issued an edict ordering the arrest of wizards and church knights on sight, you must, of course, be joking.”

  The second guard nodded knowingly, but gripped the hilt of his sword.

  “Well said, sir,” said Tanch without missing a beat. “A joke, it was. A bad one at that. I trust you will forgive me my foolishness. I am but a simple spice merchant seeking new markets for my wares. I hoped that if people thought me a wizard, I would garner more respect and more customers. I had no idea that magic users had come to disfavor in this fine land. What a fool you must think me.”

  The captain looked relieved. “Don’t let it trouble you. A man must feed his family after all. Note well that the guardsmen of the 4th Gate,” he said, looking at his comrade, “could not be fooled by your charade. We knew at once that you were a fraud.”

  The lanky guardsman nodded. “That’s right, you can’t fool us. We’re no dummies,” he said, and then hacked up a wad of phlegm and spit most of it on the ground by the gate, the balance dribbled down his beard.

  “The toll for foreigners to pass this gate is one silver piece or ten bronze rings,” said the guard captain. “I trust you will be heading straight to the spice market on Brick Street.”

  “Where else?” Tanch turned to Dolan. “Pay the good Captain.”

  Dolan pulled out a Lomerian silver star from his pocket and handed it to the guard through the bars.

  Theta stepped forward. “Where on Brick Street might we find the best spice dealer?”

  The captain smiled and nodded ever so slightly. “There are many spice dealers there and I know little of them.” He glanced at his comrade who was busy stomping an ant. “I heard once though of a good one on the ground floor of the building just past the red awning about midblock. But I could be mistaken.”

  The captain turned to his comrade. “Open the gate. Let them pass.” As the guard pulled out the keys for the gate, the captain stepped closer to Tanch and lowered his voice. “Keep your staff quiet in Tragoss, Par. The Thothians do arrest wizards on sight. Go carefully.”

  Tanch nodded. “Thanks.”

  The group filed through and proceeded down the narrow alley. At its end, it seemed as if they had entered a different city entirely. Here, the sprawling warehouses and wide lanes gave way to narrow alleys winding betwixt one and two-story brick or stone residential buildings, some more hovel than home.

  Beggars lined the streets. They extended cups or bowls as the men passed, entreating them for spare coin or scraps of food, though they kept themselves at arm’s length from the armed men. Each side of the street held gutters that served as open sewers that flowed with filth and foulness. Rats, some small, some as large as cats scurried fearless along the gutters and swarmed over the occasional corpse, fallen and forgotten amongst the muck. Along each street, some men and women lay unmoving. They seemed dead, save for when a passing rodent took a nip at them—then they would curse and stir and sometimes strike out. The people ignored these sorry creatures. Only that they stepped around them, told they even saw them at all.

  “Dead gods, what has become of this place?” said Ob through the cloth he held to his face to keep down the stench. “When I’ve been here before, much of the inner city was poor, but nothing like this. I heard that the Thothians promised that if the people followed their god and obeyed their edicts there would be an end to poverty. They said they would restore dignity to the downtrodden and fairness for all.” Ob stumbled over a body fallen in the street, and barely kept his feet. “They seem to have mucked that up a bit.”

  “They’v
e destroyed these people, and their culture,” said Claradon.

  “The price of stupidity,” said Theta.

  Tanch looked down in horror at the bodies and the beggars they passed. “Is it a plague? What ails these people?”

  “Hopelessness and despair,” said Ob. “And with that came smoking of strange plants and eating foul powders of foreign make. That much had started when I was last here.”

  “No one seems to care,” said Claradon. “They just walk past the fallen.”

  “Can the authorities do nothing?” said Tanch.

  “They are doing something,” said Ob. “They’re letting them die. Some say the Thothians are the source of these poisons. That they brought them in to keep the people docile.”

  “Will we pass Brick Street on the way to the tower?” said Theta.

  “I don’t know,” said Ob. “You think there is more than spice merchants there?”

  Theta nodded. “Dolan, buy some fruit, and ask that merchant.”

  Dolan was back in a few moments with small bag of apples. “Six blocks north, and two or three east.”

  “Not on our way,” said Ob.

  “The tower first, and then Brick Street,” said Theta.

  ***

  People crowded along the low stone wall that surrounded a well-appointed house of brick and stone, watching a group of monks drag an elderly man from the house. Other monks and guardsmen threw his paintings, books, and other belongings from the windows.

  “You’ve no right, no right,” shouted the man. “I’ve done nothing.”

  “Nothing?” said a monk. He grabbed the man and pushed him to his knees. “Yes, fool, you have done nothing. There are people starving in the streets and yet you live in a rich house. Do you care nothing for your fellow citizens?”

  The man stared up at him, confused.

  “You’re a greedy, evil, pathetic blasphemer,” said the monk, slapping the man across the face after each accusation. He grabbed the man by the hair and pulled back his head, forcing the old man to look at him. “What portion of your income do you give to the church, to the poor? Speak quick and true, or I will cut your evil head off.”

  Tears streamed down the man’s face. “I pay my taxes, and I pay the tithe of Thoth. You can check, I always pay.”

  “A pittance,” said the monk.

  “What more do you want from me?”

  “It’s not what I want, fool. It’s what justice demands. You give no more than the minimum and begrudge even that. By what right do you live in this decadent place when others sleep in the gutter? You think you’re better than everyone, don’t you, you bastard?”

  “I’ve earned everything I own. I’ve worked fifty years, selling silks and linens, an honest living. I’ve hurt no one my whole life. You’ve no right to do this.”

  The monk grabbed the man by the chin and punched him in the face, breaking his nose. Blood poured down the deeply lined face, eyes filled with tears.

  “You’ve earned nothing, blasphemer. You’ve hoarded wealth, stealing from those more deserving. No longer. Now we will take back all that you’ve stolen. You will pay your fair share at last, merchant.

  The monk kicked the man in the ribs, a sickening crunching sound. Other monks joined in, kicking and stomping. “Kill the evil bastard,” they spat. “Praise Thoth,” they yelled. “Praise Thoth.”

  “Look,” shouted the monk at the gathered crowd. “Behold Thoth’s justice, citizens. All those like this evildoer will pay. All the enemies of god will be brought to justice and they will pay with their blood.”

  Some in the crowd looked shocked and disgusted. Others cheered each blow, each kick, each whimper.

  The monks gathered the old man’s books and artwork into large piles on the lawn and set them ablaze.

  Other monks dragged several people out of the merchant’s house. By their dress, servants all. They lined them up against the manor’s wall.

  The lead monk plucked a pretty young girl from the line. “What does that old bastard do to you?”

  The girl looked confused; tears ran down her face. She cringed away, terror in her eyes.

  “Are you his whore? Tell us, what does he do with you?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. He’s a good man. I’m just a maid. I clean, I just clean.”

  The monk slapped her hard in the face. “A good man? Good men don’t hoard wealth and insult the one true god. There is nothing good about him. That you defend him proves your guilt too. You are a whore and a witch and will suffer Thoth’s justice.”

  “No, please, I’ve done nothing.” The girl sank to the ground, overcome with fear, pulling at the monk’s leg like a pleading child. He kicked her away.

  Soldiers with bows assembled in front of the servants. The monks moved aside.

  “Do Thoth’s bidding,” commanded the lead monk.

  The soldiers raised their bows. The servants pleaded for their lives. The soldiers fired. All but two of the servants fell, pierced, dying. Two ran, one shot in the arm, the other unscathed. Before they reached the stone wall, a second volley of arrows cut them down. The monks cheered and roared, jumping up and down, praising Thoth and celebrating. Many of the townsfolk joined in the cheering, even the children.

  Claradon, Theta, and the group turned onto the street that passed before the manor.

  “Trouble,” said Ob, gesturing toward the crowd and the fire beyond. “A different street?” he said, turning toward Theta.

  “Let’s see what this is about.”

  They entered the crowd, now numbering some two hundred citizens.

  “What happened here?” said Ob to a young man, bald of head, dressed as a tinker.

  The man turned and looked carefully over Ob and Claradon beside him before responding. “The monks killed old Portman and all his people, the entire household.”

  “What was his crime?”

  The man turned back toward the fiery scene. “He was rich.”

  “They kill you for being rich now?” said Ob.

  “Course he wasn’t richer than any other smart merchant what worked his whole life. Suppose they will get us all eventually, they have to. Without our coin, they wouldn’t have enough to give away to the poor and still keep their own palaces and temples and such. Suppose, I’ll be next, they’ll be coming for me and mine. They need to. They have to spread our wealth around to the poor. That gives them power. That’s what this here is about. They don’t much care for gnomes either, so you better get while you can.”

  X

  THE ORB OF WISDOM

  “From dust they came, and to dust they returned.”

  —The Keeper

  Par Sevare grabbed Frem Sorlons’s massive shoulder. “Hold up, they’ve stopped.”

  “Not again.” Frem spun around sending embers from his torch flying; frustration filled his face. Frem paid the embers no heed as they washed over his steel plate armor, but Par Sevare dodged to the side and pressed tight against the tunnel’s stony wall to avoid being burned.

  “Watch it with the torch,” Sevare said, his cheek puffed out from his ever-present wad of chewing tobacco. “I’m no tin-can. That stuff will burn through my clothes.”

  “Sorry,” said Frem as he gazed over the heads of the mage and the two Sithian Knights behind to see what Lord Korrgonn was up to.

  Some yards back, the son of Azathoth stood at a three-way intersection. Father Ginalli, High Priest of Azathoth, stood beside him, lantern in hand, though the dark of the tunnel hardly fled before it.

  Korrgonn held Sir Gabriel’s wooden ankh, studying it, a look of deep concentration on his face. The ancient token was charred along its lower half, gouged in several spots across its face, and chipped at one corner. A ragged crack ran through the loop at its top, threatening to break the relic asunder.

  “The boss is playing with that weird thingy again,” said Frem. “If he keeps stopping, we’ll never get anywhere.”

  “That thingy is an ancient holy symbol,” said
Sevare. “That’s what is guiding him, helping him choose the right path for us to take, so that we can find what we’re looking for.”

  “The main path is straight ahead and we’re on it. He’s gonna make us go down one of those small holes, isn’t he? I don’t like small places, and this tunnel is already too small for me. What does he need guidance for, anyway? Ain’t he supposed to be the lord’s son? Doesn’t he have powers? Isn’t he supposed to know stuff?”

  “That’s the most you’ve said in one stretch since I’ve known you,” said Sevare.

  “I’ve been saving up.”

  Sevare stroked his goatee and spit some tobacco juice onto the tunnel floor. “I guess he needs a little help.”

  “How can it do that, it don’t talk?” said Frem. “It’s just a piece of carved wood—just an old piece of junk.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. That ankh has got a magic to it, an old magic.”

  “I didn’t even believe in magic until I threw in with you lot. Older than what?”

  Sevare considered for a moment. “Older than anything that I can think of.”

  “Older than Azathoth?”

  “Can’t be that old, since he created most everything. But it’s older than Lomion, and probably even older than these darn tunnels.” Sevare looked about the tunnel, which varied in height and width, from here to there. Six feet wide at its narrowest, it widened out to ten feet in most places, as much as fifteen in some. The ceiling above was no less than seven feet high, most places ten or more, and in some spots it was lost in the darkness far above. The tunnel’s walls, floor and ceiling were of stone and earth, damp and dreary, dark as pitch, the air heavy and stagnant, silent and cold. Side passages led off, now and again, some narrow and short, others as large as the main tunnel, and each had a feeling of age, of antiquity. If not for their lanterns and torches, they would be hopelessly lost.

  “Maybe if he got a new one, it would work better.”

  “Maybe so,” said Sevare, grinning, his teeth stained from tobacco juice.