“The buildings look solid and well kept—permanent construction,” said Theta. “This is no nomad camp or shantytown. The streets are straight and level. There's no garbage lying about. And no beggars. Most towns aren’t half as good.”
“Aye, that might be true enough,” said Ob. “But it’s not up to Eotrus standards all the same. We should’ve built another wall. My mistake it was. Aradon wanted to, but I talked him out of it. I figured that rather than waste good stone and sweat and a heap of silver on more masonry, we would tell the folks that anyone what wants to build outside is on their own come trouble. I figured that would put the fear in them, since folks don’t care to see to themselves, all lonesome like, when things go bad. But it didn’t work. I’m not ashamed to admit when I’m wrong. That’s the gnome way, you know.”
“Must not get much trouble around these parts,” said Dolan, who also spoke with an accent, though different from Theta’s, “or them folks would’ve heeded your warnings, they would have.”
Ob looked over his shoulder at Dolan, eyebrows raised. “Dor Eotrus guards Lomion’s northern border, sonny. We’re on the edge of the wild out here, so believe me, we get our share of trouble, time and again. It comes down from the mountains, more often than not,” he said, pointing at the white-capped peaks in the distance. “There’s no civilization out that way, my friend. None at all. All a man will find in the deep mountains is death. Sometimes quick, sometimes slow. Whatever trouble what comes this way, whether from the mountains or not, it’s we Eotrus that stop it cold, and protect the realm, as is our duty. Most of the time, it’s lugron, there’s a mess of them up in the hills, in caves and such; bandits every once in a while; a man-eater: wolf, lion, or bear, now and again. In years past, we had trolls down on us too, but they’ve not been seen in numbers in a gnome’s age. Every once in a long while, something worse comes down from the north, with the cold and the dark and the mist; things held over from the old world, maybe even back to the Dawn Age; stuff best not spoken of, not even here, not even amongst men like us. And if you go up in them mountains, and none of them things kill you, the cold will. You’ve never felt cold, real cold, until you spend a night high up one of them peaks. First, it will freeze your bones solid so that you can hardly move. Then it will freeze the blood in your veins; no man survives that, tough or not.”
“I guess we’ll stay clear of the mountains,” said Dolan. “With all those dangers that come down this way, why do folks build outside the walls?”
“Some folks’ memories aren’t long enough for their own good,” said Ob. “Or else they’re just stupid.”
“Common afflictions, both,” said Theta.
“Aye,” said Ob. “Your manservant speaks his mind,” he said, referring to Dolan.
“Every man should,” said Theta. “Not that he has much to say.”
“Not much at all,” said Dolan. “I’m practically mute, I am.”
“Sometimes them what says the least, says the most,” said Ob.”
Theta smiled. “Another truth.”
“If the folks out hereabouts aren’t afraid of much,” said Dolan, “why do they flee us?”
“What do you mean?” said Ob.
“People have been blowing out their candles, pulling their curtains, and closing their shutters all up and down the street since we rode into sight,” said Ector. “And those few folks still out, scampered inside at the first sight of us.”
Ob stopped his horse and looked around for some moments. “Good eyes, lad. You’re right. Something’s not right here. It’s too quiet. I should’ve been paying better heed. Let’s make haste to the gate and see what’s what.”
The group rode at a trot to the raised portcullis that stood at an opening in the outer wall.
“The guard has been doubled,” said Ector.
“Tripled,” said Ob. “And there be crossbowmen up on the allures. There’s been trouble for certain.”
Apparently recognizing Ob, the guards moved aside, bowed respectfully, and waved them through. Ob pulled up his horse, stopping a few feet from the nearest guard. “What trouble?” he said.
The young blond-haired man looked uncertain and turned to his fellows for support, but they were busy staring at their boots.
“Speak, you dolt,” said Ob. “What goes on here? Why have we got so many men on the wall?”
“A patrol has gone missing, Castellan,” said the guard.
Theta raised an eyebrow at that.
Ob paused for a moment and stared at the guard, but the man offered nothing more. Ob turned toward his companions. “Let’s get to the citadel. There is more to this than just some overdue patrol and I aim to get to the bottom of it, and quick.”
“You didn’t tell us that you were the governor of this keep,” said Theta.
“You didn’t ask,” said Ob. “But I’m no governor, anyhow. I’m the Castellan of Dor Eotrus, as that fool said—though I suppose, it is much the same thing.”
“You had me fooled, you did,” said Dolan. “I figured Mr. Ector was the captain of your patrol, and that you were his chief scout.”
“That’s what we wanted you to think,” said Ob. “The roads can be dangerous these days, even for the likes of us, so we don’t always reveal who is who when we come upon strangers on the road, especially if they’re stinking foreigners. No offense. But since you’ve now taken an interest and we’ve made it safe and sound to the Dor, I’ll tell you that Ector is Lord Eotrus’s son. The gatemen were bowing to him, not me. I don’t go in for that treatment and they know it. Now let’s move.”
III
THE WAILING
Angry wood screamed as the stairwell door burst open. Startled, Brother Claradon Eotrus's hand went to his sword hilt as several figures raced through the portal onto the tower's roof. Standing beside Claradon, Par Tanch spun toward the new arrivals in a panic. Death flared in his eyes and blue fire licked the apex of his staff, but the wizard’s aspect softened and he lowered his ensorcelled weapon at the sight of Sir Ector Eotrus's haggard face. At the young nobleman's heels were Ob, Theta, and Dolan.
Ector, clad in a heavy cloak over combat armor, silver and polished, approached his older brother and Tanch, Ob following, while Theta strode past them to the crenellated parapet, and Dolan disappeared into the shadows by the stairwell’s bulkhead. Enshrouded in a midnight blue cloak, Theta stood silent and transfixed, gazing westward through the starlight at the Vermion Forest, his hand curiously cupped behind his ear as if listening for something.
“Thank the gods you’ve returned,” said Par Tanch, though his gaze was affixed on the mammoth figure at the parapet—a man heretofore unknown to him. “We were afraid you hadn’t got our message.”
“We got no message,” said Ob. “What’s going on? Your delicate back acting up again? Or did you lose your slippers?”
“We heard a patrol disappeared,” said Ector.
“Tell me what has happened,” said Ob. “And don’t waste my time with any of your blubbering. I want the facts, plain and simple.”
Tanch ignored them and continued to stare at Theta. Claradon, who was taller and broader than his brother, and in truth, looked little like him, avoided his gaze and looked at Tanch, apparently determined that the wizard should answer and not he.
“I’m talking to you man,” shouted Ob. “Tanch!”
Tanch turned back toward them, an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Where is father?” said Ector. “Where are Sir Gabriel, Brother Donnelin, and the others?”
“Oh it's dreadful, Master Ector, just dreadful,” said Tanch. “Your father has gone missing.”
“They're all missing,” blurted Claradon. “Father, Brother Donnelin, Par Talbon, and all the rangers rode into the Vermion on patrol two days ago and haven’t returned. There’s been no word, no word at all.”
Ector's face blanched. His mouth agape—he was too stunned to speak.
“Stop shouting,” said Theta, his eyes never straying fr
om the distant wood as one hand gestured to quiet the others, the other remained cupped behind his ear.
“And Sir Gabriel is in the mountains somewhere,” said Claradon more quietly this time as he glanced back toward Theta.
“A hunting trip,” said Tanch. “Can you believe that? We’re in the midst of a major crisis and he went off hunting.”
“Master Ector, who in Odin's name is that?” said Tanch, pointing at Theta. “And where did the other one go?” he said, as he looked about for Dolan. “I’m sure that I saw someone else with you—some scrawny fellow.”
“We've got to find out what happened to father,” said Claradon. “Tanch and I have been debating all day about what to do and we’ve gotten nowhere.”
“I'll certainly not stand here whilst my father lies dead or dying or worse,” said Ector. “We must fly. We should scour the Vermion until we find him.”
“Zounds,” said Ob, “I'm with Ector on this. What are we waiting for? Let's move.” Ob turned back toward the stairwell, then froze. He cocked his head to the side and his prodigious ears twitched up and down in strange fashion, as the pointy ears of gnomes are sometimes wont to do. “What the heck is that racket? That don't sound right natural to me.”
“Everyone stay silent,” Ob said, as he gestured the same command, and moved toward the parapet. He planted himself at a spot a few feet from Theta, which happened to be the only place where he could see over the wall, for that spot, in what was otherwise a meticulously maintained structure, still bore the scars of a trebuchet shot that struck the tower some 400 years earlier.
Tanch turned toward the parapet and fixed his gaze on the distant wood. “Oh no, not again,” he said. “For Odin’s sake, please don't let it start again. I’ll not be able to stand another night of it.”
“Can you hear it?” said Ob to no one in particular.
“Hear what?” said Ector as he looked around, confused.
“The wailing,” said Claradon. “Please don’t tell me that it started again.”
“Can’t you hear it?” said Ob. “It is getting louder by the moment.”
“We don’t all have gnome ears, you know,” said Claradon.
“You volsungs are as deaf as doornails,” said Ob. “Even so, you will hear it soon enough if it keeps getting louder. It’s coming from the wood.”
“Gods preserve us,” said Tanch. “We’re doomed.”
IV
THE WAR ROOM
Frantic servants scrambled hither and fro, securing the war room’s storm shutters, while others rushed in carrying thick draperies, pillows, and great tapestries. Some of the new arrivals looked confused as to what to do, still half asleep, having been roused from their beds when the wailing began.
“Stuff the pillows against the glass, you dolts,” yelled Ob, “and get those draperies hung fast. Double them up—no, triple them. Cover every window, and seal them tight. We’ve got to block out that stinking noise.”
A nervous servant’s stray elbow dislodged one of the House pennants hung high on the wall. The old flag, stiffened with age, drifted slowly toward the floor. The offending servant, one Adolphus, newly appointed to House Eotrus’s service, dived from his stepstool to catch it, for he knew that if it hit the floor it would be regarded as a grave insult to the House.
Adolphus nearly grabbed it in time, but one corner of the fabric brushed the floor's stone tile before he scooped it up. As he rose, he looked fearfully around to see if anyone had noticed. Several servants had, but pretended they hadn’t. Ob, however, stared directly at him, a scowl on his face.
Adolphus froze and went white as a sheet. Of all people to see his misstep—the Dor’s own Castellan, second-in-command to the great Lord Aradon himself. Adolphus looked as if he might faint, or vomit, or both. The terror on his face was real and palpable for he knew that he would be whipped at the very least—15 lashes, no less, for that was the minimum penalty for such a slight. More likely, the Eotrus would throw him in a subterranean cell to rot—to waste away with little food or water and not a glimpse of sunlight for a year or more. They might even forget about him down there and he’d die of thirst. When you insult a noble house, that’s what they do to you, and everyone knows it. A servant’s life isn’t worth much—they might even kill him outright to save the trouble and expense of dungeoning him. He prayed that they weren’t the sort that would torture him first—but he had heard rumors about the Eotrus. Frightful rumors.
It wasn’t fair or just, but it was the way of things. He’d seen it happen before at other Houses, and now it was his turn. His time had come. He thought of running, but knew there was no point. They would be on him in moments, and even if he escaped the keep, they would chase him down with horses and hounds. The noblemen were relentless in their vengeance. It was a sport to them. He was finished and he knew it. One tiny mistake, one momentary slip, and now his life was over. He would never see his family again, and they may never know the truth of what became of him. He closed his eyes and steeled himself to his fate. Maybe it would be quick.
“Don’t just stand there,” yelled Ob. “Put it back up, you fool.”
Adolphus was numb with shock. For several moments, try as he might, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t even think. Was the Castellan going to let him live?
“We’re the Eotrus, you moron, not the Alders, the Tavermains, or the Grondeers—there will be no floggings or flayings here. We have no racks or spikes or thumbscrews. Just put the pennant back and hang the darned curtains already. We don’t have all stinking night. Now move it!”
Still in a daze, Adolphus scrambled up the stepstool, pennant in hand, and restored it to its rightful place.
The fact that only one of the walls’ adornments fell, was a testament to the servants’ care, despite the frantic speed at which they toiled, for the war room’s stone walls were covered throughout, floor molding to crown, with historic pennants, banners, and flags, and battle tested shields, daggers, and swords, all handed down through the Eotrus line, and hung in places of honor, each with its own plaque or inscription memorializing its history and pedigree.
Ob drained the last swallow from his wineskin and tossed it down in frustration. “My head will explode if we don’t keep that darned wailing out. Move it, you slackers. And somebody bring me wine, for Odin’s sake,” his voice growing louder with each remark. “Would you have me die of thirst? Then where would you fools be? In the deep stuff, I’ll tell you—that’s where. It’s the cool head of a gnome that you want in charge in times like these.”
Ector stepped beside him, heavy cloth tightly wrapped around his head, covering his ears. “Maybe we ought to hold our council in the lower levels. Loud as it is, I doubt this noise will reach below ground.”
“No,” said Ob.
“But we may be wasting time here; if we’re not able to block out enough of the sound, we’ll have to move below anyway—maybe it’s best we do so now.”
“Never,” said Ob through gritted teeth. “The Eotrus do our planning here—that's what the war room is for. That's why we built it. Your father and I plan whatever needs planning here, your grandfather before him, his father before that, and back for hundreds of years. We’ll not be chased from here by some stinking noise.” He turned toward two servants struggling with a heavy tapestry. “Get them up, you slackers. We’ll quiet it down, you’ll see—those old draperies will cut the sound by half at least. I knew we would find a use for them someday, that’s why I had them stored. Throw nothing out, I always say, for you never know when you will need it. That’s the gnome way, you know.”
“You’re a hoarder Ob, and we all know it. You’re not fooling anyone,” said Ector, though Ob provided no reaction, but for some reason turned toward the door.
“Your brother is finally back,” said Ob.
Moments later, Claradon dashed into the room and made his way over to Ob and Ector, his cloak’s hood up and pulled tight around his face to dampen the sounds. “Everyone is taking refuge in the
lower levels, as we agreed,” he said. “Why are you still up here?”
“Because I said so, boy,” said Ob. “And we’re staying.”
Claradon rolled his eyes.
“How fare our defenses?” said Ob.
“All the gates are secured, but only a handful of men are at their posts,” said Claradon. “Most are holed up in whatever nearby rooms have no windows. The wax is on its way to all the guard posts and towers. In the meantime, the walls are thick enough to keep out the worst of the noise—it’s the windows that are the real problem.”
“We noticed,” said Ector.
“So we’re near deaf and blind with enemies afoot,” said Ob. “Not good at all. We’ve got to get men back up on the walls.”
“Within a half hour at most, they will all get the wax,” said Claradon. “I sent it to the main gate first.”
“You didn’t leave it to servants, did you?” said Ob.
“I gave Artol, Marzdan, and Glimador the duty,” said Claradon.
“Good man,” said Ob, nodding. “Those three will get the walls manned as quick as can be. Knowing they’re on it, makes me feel a good deal better, it does.”
“What of the folks in the Outer Dor?” said Ector.
“Heading for their basements and root cellars, same as last night,” said Claradon. “They should be alright, so long as the wailing doesn’t get much louder.”
“Good, but those fools out beyond the outer wall have nowhere to hide,” said Ob. “Their wood buildings got no basements. I told them not to build out there. Nobody ever listens. Serves them right, whatever happens.”
“Hopefully, they will have sense enough to seek refuge within the walls,” said Ector.
“Many of them already have,” said Claradon. “Marzdan says they came in by droves as soon as the wailing started, some even before, as they expected the sounds to start up again tonight. We should have expected it too. We should have been better prepared. I’m sorry—I just didn't think things through.”
Harbinger of Doom (An Epic Fantasy Novel) (Harbinger of Doom Volumes 1 and 2) Page 3
