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

by Thater, Glenn

  The survivors greeted each other: some smiled and shook hands with their comrades; others stood alone in silence.

  “We passed several passages along the way,” said Ezerhauten. “Which way do we go? Through this door or back to some side passage?”

  Korrgonn studied his ankh for a time. “Through the door,” he said.

  The group made their way down the wide hall, slowly, carefully, expecting something else unpleasant to happen. A thin layer of gray dust coated the floor there, only noticeable for its contrast with the sheen of the marble floor just passed. As they proceeded, the layer of gray grew thicker and thicker, their steps kicking it into the air, forming a irritating haze about them.

  Upon another door they came, this one of marble cladding and gold rungs. A dead end; no farther could they go until the door was opened.

  Before the group could examine the door, a voice called out from the darkness. “Who are you?” The deep sound reverberated through the hall, its direction and source unclear and unseen.

  “Who are you?” said the voice again, louder.

  All eyes looked to Korrgonn. “Find him.”

  The men spread out and thrust torches into every niche and corner of the darkened hall, high and low, but found no one.

  “Who are you?” said the voice again, louder still, much louder. It seemed to come from everywhere and from nowhere. The whole hall shook; chips of stone fell from the ceiling; gray dust rose about them.

  “We must respond,” said Ginalli to Korrgonn. “Or they’ll bring the whole cavern down on us.”

  Korrgonn nodded.

  “I am Ginalli, high priest of Azathoth,” he shouted. “Who are you?”

  “I am the Keeper,” said the voice. “Why are you here, Ginalli of Azathoth?”

  “We seek the great Orb of Wisdom.”

  “Of course you do,” said the Keeper, this time softly, wearily, as if he had heard the same answer untold times. “And why do you seek the Orb?”

  “So that the glory of his almighty majesty might be restored to the world.”

  There was a pause of some moments before the Keeper spoke again. “The Orb alone will not accomplish this, however strong your faith. Have you another token?”

  “We do.”

  “What token is that?”

  Ginalli looked again to Korrgonn who nodded his permission. “We have the blood of kings.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Most that came here sought treasures. All were disappointed. Some few sought the great Orb. Fewer still spoke of the blood of kings. From dust they came, to dust they returned. You may enter, disciples of Azathoth, but be warned, if your words be not true and you be not blessed of the one true god, if you be not his holy minions, the fires of Archeron will take you and deliver your immortal souls into everlasting torment. Go not forward unless this peril you can face.”

  Korrgonn signaled to open the door. It took the combined strength of Frem and two Sithians to pull the massive door open. Beyond, the passageway was lit, wall sconces afire, oil burning, its scent and smoke in the air. The passage continued for a goodly ways, and then curved out of sight.

  “Form up, men,” said Ginalli.

  “Wait,” said Sevare. “We don’t know what this Keeper has in store. We can’t risk you and Lord Korrgonn in this—you’re too important. Someone needs to scout ahead.”

  “Wise words,” said Korrgonn.

  “Who will go?” said Ginalli. He looked about to the group. Some looked away, others took great interest in their feet or their fingernails. Mort Zag stood there grinning.

  “I will go,” said Par Hablock.

  “That Keeper fellow sounds dangerous, Hablock,” said Frem. “Maybe you shouldn’t go in there alone.”

  “I’m an arch-mage of the 6th Circle, fool, not an overstuffed half-wit.” Hablock turned back toward Korrgonn and Ginalli. “I will go cloaked in every protective spell known to wizardom. Whatever traps the Keeper has laid will do me no harm.”

  “Cast your charms, but take two lugron and two knights,” said Korrgonn.

  Ezerhauten rolled his eyes at the mention of the Sithians, no doubt concerned that two more of the crack troops that he personally trained would be lost.

  Hablock stepped away from the others, and spoke some strange wizard words and tossed a handful of sparkling powder over his head. The powder ignited, and cloaked Hablock in an eerie, translucent, blue light. He waved his hands about and spoke more words, ancient words, forbidden words of power, and a golden helm appeared about his head. More gestures and strange incantations turned his skin and eyes silver.

  “The Shield of Fenrir,” said Sevare. “The Helm of Hogar, and Steelskin. Rare magics all, and good choices.”

  “I’m surprised that you recognize spells of my Tower so easily,” said Hablock.

  “My studies of the art are more varied than most. I can place the Baneshield on you, if you wish.”

  “And I can give you the Cloak of Azathoth and the Lord’s Blessing,” said Ginalli.

  “I will place The Cloak of Life on you,” said Par Brackta.

  “I will take them all and gladly.

  Sevare approached Hablock and put his hands on Hablock’s chest. Sevare’s sorcery was altogether different than Hablock’s. He spoke his magic in a bizarre guttural tongue that sounded more reptilian than human. In moments, it was done, though Hablock appeared no different for it.

  Brackta stepped up and murmured before Hablock; her words too soft to be heard. “Done,” she said after only a moment.

  “You men,” Ginalli said, pointing to two of the lugron and two Sithians, “Stand beside Par Hablock.” They did. Ginalli spoke his own words of power, sharp and crisp, followed by a short prayer to Azathoth, holy symbol in hand. “Done.”

  Hablock stepped up to the portal. The lugron with him shuffled their feet and breathed heavily, nervous from the course of events. Hablock stepped through the doorway, the knights and lugron following. They crept slowly, cautiously, down the passage, weapons bared and battle ready. Just as they moved out of sight, around the bend in the passage, the massive door began to close behind them of its own accord. Frem tried to halt it, but could not. Mort Zag appeared and grabbed the door, but even his might and Frem’s combined could neither halt, nor even slow its inexorable progress. They let go at last and the door ground to a close, its grating sound echoing through the chamber, a sound of finality, a sound that said, this door will not open again.

  “Last we’ve seen of them,” said Frem.

  Some minutes passed before they heard a faint crackling sound from beyond the doors. Then movement, as the door slowly opened with nary a sound. A strong burning odor washed through the chamber and wisps of smoke trailed in.

  “Not good,” said Ginalli.

  “Hablock,” yelled Sevare. No response. “Hablock!”

  They waited, but no sign appeared of Hablock or his men.

  “Keeper,” shouted Ginalli. “What has happened? Keeper!”

  No response.

  “Do we go in or go back?” said Ezerhauten.

  “There is no going back,” said Korrgonn. “We must retrieve the Orb or die in the attempt.”

  Everyone froze and stared at Korrgonn.

  Korrgonn studied his followers’ faces. They were fearful and uncertain. His expression softened.

  “Men, without the Orb, we can’t open the gateway. The Lord is counting on us. We’re the only ones that can do this. So I must go on, whatever the danger. I will understand if you can’t stand with me in this. I will meet you back at the ship, and nothing more will be said of this.”

  “I’m with you,” said Ginalli.

  “And I,” said Mort Zag.

  “And I,” said Brackta.

  One by one, the others affirmed their resolve. Ezerhauten spoke last, but stood with the rest.

  “Look for something to wedge the door open,” said Ezerhauten. “We may need to make a quick retreat; we’ve no wish to find it
closed fast behind us.”

  “There is nothing to wedge it with,” said Sevare. “Bare marble and dust.”

  “Knock the marble from the walls?” said Ezerhauten.

  “Marble tile won’t hold that portal if it wants to close,” said Sevare. “It will crush them to powder. Any weapon wedged in will snap.”

  “Forget it,” said Ginalli. “Onward, together, without fear. The mantle of Azathoth is upon us; no harm can come to us.”

  “Tell that to Hablock,” said Frem.

  Ginalli’s assertion notwithstanding, the wizards cast their wards on themselves and the others. The whole group passed through the door and proceeded down the hall, the lugron and Sithians at the fore. Just as they anticipated, as soon as the last of them were through, the portal began to close. Mort Zag tried to hold it for a moment, but it pushed him back, sliding his bare feet across the dusty stone.

  “I knew we should’ve taken more men,” said Ezerhauten. “Can never have too many men.”

  “Too many makes the food run out faster,” said Frem.

  “No problems there,” said Mort Zag. “Just eat the extra men.”

  Frem looked at the red giant in disgust and disbelief. Mort Zag roared with laughter.

  After a ways, the hallway opened into a large chamber, circular, but with walls of strange slopes and angles, its ceiling lost in the darkness above. The floor was mounded with gray dust, two feet deep or more along the walls. An odd vibration filled the air and it was bitter cold, a cold to chill a goodly man to the bone.

  At the center of the chamber, six stone steps led up to a circular dais. Atop the dais sat a sphere, six inches in diameter and black as midnight—the Orb of Wisdom itself, fabled vessel of power from times ancient and long forgotten. On the floor beside the dais, a blackened, smoking heap. Bits of cloth, blackened flesh and bones, and legs all but turned to ash. This was all that remained of Hablock.

  “Zounds! Hablock!” spat Sevare. “What did this? Where is that stinking Keeper?” He spun around, gazing at the bizarre chamber, searching for sign or spoor of the Keeper. The chamber’s walls crept up and out and in at weird unnatural angles. You couldn’t even look at the walls for long without growing dizzy and lightheaded. Not a place meant for men, not even men such as these.

  “Where are my knights?” said Ezerhauten through clenched teeth.

  “Not good,” said Ginalli, gazing down at the remains. “Not good at all.”

  “We should go back,” said Frem as he began backing up the way they had come. “This place is death.”

  “The door is closed,” said Ezerhauten. “There is no going back.”

  The Keeper’s voice filled the chamber once again. “Your wizard was not beloved of Azathoth. He burns now in the everlasting flames.”

  “Skunk you, you rat turd,” spat Sevare. “Show yourself.” He spat out a spray of tobacco juice onto the steps of the dais.

  “What of the others?” yelled Frem. “What did you do to them?”

  “From dust they came, and to dust they returned,” said the Keeper.

  Sevare looked down at the thick gray dust that covered the floor. He squatted and sifted his hand through it, brushed something solid and plucked it from the dust. Charred and battered, but clearly a finger bone. The wizard threw it down in disgust. “Dear lord.”

  Ginalli grasped Korrgonn’s arm. “The dust—”

  “Is men,” said Korrgonn. “Burned to ash.”

  “Hundreds must have died here.”

  Korrgonn squatted down and sifted through a handful of dust. “Thousands.”

  The group looked about and found fragments of a piece of armor here, a melted or charred weapon there.

  “He burned them,” said Sevare. “Burned them all to ash.”

  “What do we do?” said Ginalli.

  “We stop wasting time,” said Korrgonn. “I will get the Orb; woe to the Keeper if he tries to stop me.”

  “Wait, my Lord,” said Ginalli. “The Orb we used in the Temple of Guymaog in the Vermion—it was enclosed in a sphere of Asgardian glass, suspended at its center by ancient sorceries, the glass itself protected by untold charms and incantations. We ever touched naught but the glass. This Orb is bare.” Ginalli pointed to the Orb atop the dais. “Without the glass, its touch is death.”

  Korrgonn considered for a moment. “Anyone have any ancient Asgardian glass spheres on them? If you do, just pass them forward.” He paused, to give the men ample time to respond. “None at all?” He looked around at the others who stood there blank-faced. “Very well then. Anyone have anything else that protects from magical death orbs? No?” He turned back to Ginalli, smiling. “If you’ve no more advice, priest, I suggest you step back.”

  Ginalli backed quickly away. As he neared the cold wall of the foreboding chamber, he tripped on a mound of ash and went down. The fine ash gave way beneath him, sprayed over his face, and more than a bit found his open mouth. He spit and hacked it out and brushed the foul stuff from his face and hair.

  As Korrgonn strode boldly up the steps, two of the lugron yowled and started to flee the hall. The others all took cautious steps backward, save for Mort Zag, who stood rooted, his customary grin plastered to his face. Atop the dais, Korrgonn reached out and grasped the Orb in his bare hand.

  As Korrgonn’s hand touched the Orb, sparks erupted from its depths. A monstrous bolt of lightning came down from on-high and struck the Orb, enveloping Korrgonn in burning electricity. Bolts of crackling lightning flew around Korrgonn in all directions. Bathed in the mystical light, Korrgonn’s aspect shimmered and morphed. He wore the form of Sir Gabriel no longer. Now before the Arkons of the Shadow League stood the son of Azathoth in his true form, his inmost self revealed before his god and his followers. There stood a man of wondrous golden hue, form and face beautiful and perfect and noble, a being of the heavens, of paradise, divine. He glowed with strength, wisdom, and mercy, yet was terrible and awesome to behold.

  At once, each man dropped to his knees, awe-struck by Korrgonn’s true aspect. “Kneel before the son of Azathoth,” sputtered Ginalli, still coughing from the dust that clogged his throat, though each of his companions was already prostrated. Even Mort Zag dropped to one knee and respectfully bowed his head.

  The sparks about Korrgonn grew and suddenly arced outward; golden-hued bolts slammed into each man in the chamber and reached out even to those few that had fled. The men were flung backward; some were even lifted into the air, suspended by the fiery bolts. Scorching tongues of lightning crashed around them. One man’s pants caught fire, another’s sleeve ignited, several men’s hair smoked.

  As quick as it came, the lightning fled, the smoke dissipated. Korrgonn inhabited the body of Gabriel Garn once again, and stood atop the dais, Orb in hand, wisps of smoke rising from his hand and from his clothes. The others picked themselves from the floor, some battered and bruised, and stood gaping, or patting themselves down or pulling off various garments that smoked and hissed. All of them were covered in the fine gray ash.

  “Rise, my friends,” said Korrgonn. “Rise.”

  They did.

  Some moments later, a burning outline of a door appeared in the chamber’s wall, where moments before there had been naught but smooth stone. The glow faded, but an ornate wood door remained.

  The door opened and out stepped a wizened old man. He was an elf, ancient, wrinkled, frail, and stooped. He wore an ancient suit of chain mail, stained and tarnished, and far too large for his shriveled frame. A broadsword hung from a sheath at his waist. Trailing behind him was a young elf, similarly clad, hand on his sword hilt. The venerable elf struggled under the weight of his gear, and shuffled forward in tiny flat-footed, old-man steps. His hair was long, and stringy, sparse and whited; his nose, long; ears even longer and pointed as elven ears are wont to be.

  Ezerhauten drew his blade and started to move forward, but Ginalli waved him off.

  The old elf spoke in a strong clear voice that belied his ancient
aspect. “My lord,” he said, bowing low before Korrgonn, and dropping to one knee with great effort. The young elf did the same, though he kept his eyes up, cautiously surveying Korrgonn and company. “I am the Keeper,” said the old elf, “and this is my apprentice. I have awaited your coming these ten thousand years, all that time holding safe this Orb of divine wisdom and holy power, my own long years extended by every magic known and unknown, embraced and forbidden, just as were the line of Keepers before me, back unto the very dawn of the second age of Midgaard.”

  His eyes bright, and blue, the elf smiled with pride. “Apprentice and I have kept out the Thothian upstarts. Before them, we kept out the slavers and the pirate lords. I fought back the Thaulusians, the Marikites, and the Scurds before them, and the Hejirs and the Kalumeers and Throng-Baz who came earlier. Mercenaries, soldiers of fortune, knight errants, mages and arch-mages beyond count, and monks of this order and that have tried to enter here. Sometimes, one lone man would come, most times a handful or a dozen or a score there would be. Sometimes a hundred screaming barbarians would burst down my doors. And more than once they came in the thousands, howling, murderous, gibbering hordes of primitives. All were felled by my art and my hand or by the Lord’s holy fire, when all else failed.”

  “Not one thief that entered here ever left. Not one, though many tried. Many tried. All so that this day, upon your arrival, the Orb would be here still, and safe, and could pass rightfully to you—you who can hold it in hand and withstand the holy fire. Unfortunately, like all the others, your wizard could not withstand it. The holy fire consumed him and those with him. Had I known who you were, I would have warned him off. I beg your forgiveness.”

  “You have it,” said Korrgonn.

  The Keeper looked over at the remains of Hablock. “Usually, almost nothing is left. Never so much as this. He was a powerful wizard. But unlike you he was not meant to hold the Orb. Please, my lord, give me your name.”

  “Korrgonn.”

  The old elf beamed. “A goodly name; a name of power from the old tongue.”

  “Give me your name, Keeper,” said Korrgonn, “so that I can have it and your long service duly honored in the scrolls of the faithful.”