“Don’t worry, boy,” said Ob. “You did just fine; nobody could have asked more of you.”
Claradon nodded. “Is Lord Theta still on the roof?”
“Aye,” said Ob. “And his servant too. Them two don’t seem to mind the noise. They must be even deafer than the rest of you.”
“And where’s Tanch?” said Claradon as he glanced around the room.
“Last I saw, he was lying on the map closet's floor, moaning and whimpering, hands over his ears,” said Ob. “You can barely hear the noise back there, and he’s still out of commission. Useless, that one. Always has been. Don’t know why you keep him underfoot,” he said to Claradon, who ignored him.
“What do we do now?” said Claradon, wringing his hands, his nerves now catching up to him.
“We set a plan,” said Ob, “and pray to Odin that they don’t attack before we get the walls manned.”
“The sounds are loud, but they’re still far off,” said Claradon. “Whatever they are, I think they’re still deep in the Vermion somewhere.”
“I agree,” said Ob. “The Dor is safe for tonight, I think, but maybe not tomorrow. Either way, we’ve got to be ready for whatever comes.”
“I can’t believe this,” said Claradon. “Father is missing and now we may find ourselves under siege. And by whom or what? What in Odin’s name is out there?”
“I don’t know, boy,” said Ob as he gripped Claradon’s arm. “We will deal with them, whatever they are. Don’t lose heart.”
Claradon began to pace back and forth, from one side of the war room to the other. A vacant expression filled his face and sweat beaded on his brow.
When the sound muffling operations were completed, the servants quickly cleaned up whatever detritus had fallen to the floor and prepared the room for its intended purpose. The hickory and applewood they fed the stone hearths at each end of the hall lent the war room its characteristic, pleasant, if smoky, scent and brought it up to a more comfortable temperature. Two servants dropped wax into an old cast-iron pot and placed it on an iron cooking rack in one of the hearths to soften.
The ponderous old oaken table that dominated the room was scarred, gouged, and infilled here and there with wood filler, yet it was waxed and polished to a shine, and clean enough to eat from. No one knew how long it resided in the Dor’s war room, though its tenure was certainly measured in centuries, not decades. The heavy oaken chairs that surrounded it were equally worn and meticulously cared for. Their thick, leather covered seat cushions were no contemporaries of the wood, having been replaced time and again over the years as the need arose. The Eotrus assembled around the table, each taking their customary seats, though most of the chairs stood vacant. Theta and Dolan joined them in council.
Ob climbed the short ladder affixed to the chair that Brother Donnelin had made for him and plopped down into the seat, his chainmail armor clanking against the hardwood. The finely crafted mahogany chair didn’t quite match the rest of the set and was so tall that when the old gnome sat in it, his head was nearly level with those of the others. A servant passed him a small bowl filled of the softened wax from which he plucked a finger full to stop up his ears. “Don’t much need it now that the windows are covered, but it can’t hurt.” He rolled the warm wax into a shape that would fit his ears and pushed it in place. “That's much better,” he said with a broad smile on his face. “Now I can think straight again. Claradon, me boy, it’s time that you tell me all that you know of your father, and of this foul wailing, and pray speak quickly; far too much time has been wasted already. Gob up your ears with a slab of this stuff so your head will be on straight, then start your telling.”
Claradon made use of the wax, but continued pacing behind his chair, ignoring Ob, who shook his head in frustration, but gave the lad some time, meanwhile, focusing on downing another flagon of wine. Claradon paused his pacing only to doff his heavy cloak, which was no longer needed for warmth or to muffle the sounds. He hung it over the back of his chair, to the right of the table’s head—the spot reserved for his father. Beneath his cloak, the white shirt that he wore was emblazoned with symbols of Odin, the father of the gods. The silver medallion that hung about his neck bore the same symbols etched into the base metal.
Dolan found a seat, promptly leaned back, and put his boots up on the table's edge, seemingly heedless of the skirling sounds that still found their way inside. He even waved the wax bowl away when a servant tried to pass it to him.
Ector and Tanch sat to Dolan's right, and made use of the wax in turn. Tanch alternated between laying his head on the table and moaning, and sitting up with his hands over his ears and his eyes tightly shut. Though Tanch was a wizard, he looked and acted little like those of song, story, and legend. He wore no pointy hat and carried no wand. He had no beard or rumpled robes like the charlatans of the bizarre. Instead, his clothes fit the style of a minor nobleman or merchant. He was well-groomed, but rather nondescript, save for his sandy blond hair, unusual for a northerner, and his height, which was a few inches more than average. Despite his complaints of this ailment or that, he was still well in his prime. The circlet he wore about his forehead was his one concession to his esoteric profession, and marked him as a wizard of the Tower of the Arcane to all but the most sheltered and naive.
Before taking the seat across from Dolan, Lord Theta propped his massive battle shield against the wall. The old shield was sorely battered from untold battles, yet so highly burnished was its surface, much to Dolan's credit, that one could clearly see their reflection within its depths.
A disheveled servant ran into the room. “Master Claradon, Sir Gabriel has returned. He's on his way up.”
V
FRIEND OF OLD TIMES
Claradon sighed in relief, as if a great weight lifted from his shoulders. He found a seat near the table's head, and took a sip of wine as he fidgeted, first slouching back into his seat and then sitting upright and stiff. His breathing was quick; he was sweating and pale.
“Thank the gods,” said Tanch, perking up. “Sir Gabriel will know what to do. He will clear up this troubling business. Then we can get things back to normal again. In a few days, we will be laughing about how silly we were to get so worried about this odd wailing—you mark my words.”
Soon they heard Gabriel’s strong, clear voice shouting from down the hallway.
“Can't I leave you people alone for even a few days without all hell breaking loose? My first darned hunting trip all season and now it’s ruined. For what, I ask you? Did someone stub their big toe? Or did a bird fly down the chimney and send you all scurrying to the cupboards? Where are Aradon and the boys? What the heck is going on? And what is this cursed din? Someone answer me, for Odin's sake.”
Guards and servants scattered before his wrath. One servant tripped and landed on his face as he passed the war room's door. The flustered retainer barely managed to scramble out of the way as Gabriel stormed up to the war room's entrance. The weapons master's unusual height and sinewy frame filled the doorway and captured the attention of all within.
Clean-shaven and handsome of face, his black hair was long and straight, and he wore it pulled back in a ponytail. His face was chiseled, lined, and careworn, but neither old nor gray. How many winters he had seen was hard to say, but often a topic of conjecture amongst the highborn ladies and the knights alike. As he entered, he rapidly scanned each face. He froze for a moment, and his blue eyes widened, when he spied Lord Theta, but his gaze lingered for only a moment before he turned his attention to the others.
“What is going on here?” he said. “What is this noise and who has gone missing?” He looked around, but no one was quick to answer. “Someone speak up,” he said, his withering gaze clearly focused on Claradon.
The room was silent for a few moments before Claradon was able to speak.
“Father is missing. So are Brother Donnelin, Par Talbon and his apprentices, and all the rangers. It's a long story. We had scouts out searching al
l day with no luck. And we have no idea what the wailing is.”
“Thor’s blood,” said Gabriel. “This is what I get for taking a holiday.”
“The garrison is gearing up in case of an attack,” said Claradon, “and we have tripled the guard in the Outer Dor. We sent softened wax around to the guardsmen so they can plug up their ears enough to tolerate the noise and still stand their watch.”
“Where was your father's patrol heading and how long overdue are they?” said Gabriel.
“They were only planning to go a few miles into the Vermion,” said Claradon. “They’re a full day past due. We are planning another patrol to leave at dawn.”
Gabriel's aspect softened as he moved to Claradon's side. “You have done well.” They clasped arms in a firm embrace. “You took sound measures and kept your wits. Your father would be proud, as am I. Take comfort that Aradon is in good hands—Par Talbon is most capable and Stern and his rangers are the best woodsmen north of Doriath.”
“Pardon my interruption, good sirs,” said Tanch, “but protocol requires that I introduce a visiting dignitary.”
Gabriel’s eyes flashed to Theta.
At this, Theta rose and confidently strode toward the new arrival. Theta’s face was clean shaven and as chiseled as Gabriel's; his hair, blond and cropped short. His blue eyes stood out amongst his rugged, weathered features. His highly ornate plate armor, which bore the dents and gouges of untold battles, was enameled deep blue and damasked with a proud and noble standard on its breastplate. His long, stylish cloak, although open at the front, partially obscured the two exotic curved swords sheathed at his waist—one slim, the other unusually broad at its tip. Dolan scrambled to his feet and followed his master.
“Sir Gabriel Garn, this is Lord Angle Theta, a renowned knight-errant from a far-off land across the sea. Attending him is his manservant, Dolan Buttermilk.”
“Silk,” said Dolan, though no one seemed to hear him.
“Lord Theta,” said Tanch. “Sir Gabriel is House Eotrus’s weapons master.”
“When I heard your name and reputation,” said Theta, “I wondered if you might be the Gabriel I knew of old. Now I see that I was correct, though I have feared you dead these many years.”
“Death hasn't caught me yet, my Lord, though it pursues me relentlessly. It's good to see you again, friend of old times,” said Gabriel as they firmly clasped hands.
Standing face to face, the affinity between the two could not be missed. They could easily be mistaken for cousins or even brothers, yet in many ways, they were wildly different. Theta was the taller and, by a good deal, the broader and more heavily muscled. Where Gabriel's garb and gear were modest, minimalist, and utilitarian, Theta’s were ornate to a point some would call garish, and he carried more gear stuffed in pouches, packs, and pockets than ten knights needed, yet he moved with such agility that he seemed unencumbered.
In addition to the belt from which hung his warrior wares, Theta wore a second belt inscribed with olden runes and studded with what looked like emeralds. This one was fastened about his waist but also featured straps that ran over his torso and shoulders like suspenders. To this belt was attached an impressive war hammer, though it was mostly hidden beneath his cloak. Several wicked-looking daggers were strapped in various places to his armor and boots. In all, the man was a walking arsenal—a veritable harbinger of doom.
“Friend of old times,” responded Theta. “It has been far too long.”
“Aye, it has,” said Gabriel. “What brings you to Dor Eotrus?”
Theta smiled. “I go where I am needed, just as I have always done. Now it seems I may be needed here.”
“How is it you know this here fellow, Gabe?” said Ob. “We just met up with him on the road the other day and he tells of how he never set foot in Lomion afore, though he has told us almost nothing else. Besides, in all the years I've known you, I have never heard tell of his name.”
“Gabriel was never a teller of tales,” said Theta.
Gabriel frowned, paused a moment, and locked his gaze on Ob before responding. “We served together many years ago, but those are stories for another time as we have more pressing matters at hand. Now, who can tell me the details of what has happened here? Aradon doesn’t often ride out on patrols himself. There must be more to it than what Claradon just explained.”
“There is, of course,” said Tanch. “Everything Brother Claradon said was quite true and precise, of course, but there are details that he left out for the sake of brevity. I shall be happy to expound.”
“In fact, the timing of your arrival is most fortuitous for Brother Claradon and I were about to relate the full tale to Lord Theta, Ob, and young Master Ector, who only recently arrived themselves. If you gentlemen would be so kind as to take your seats,” said Tanch in his most deferential tone, “perhaps Brother Claradon will begin the tale.”
“Start talking, boy,” said Ob. “Where are your father and the others?”
“Claradon,” said Gabriel as a servant passed him the wax bowl, “start at the beginning, take it slow and clear, and leave nothing out. Good thinking about the wax, by the way.”
“The wizard's idea,” said Ob. “Nobody better at avoiding pain or work.”
“Harrumph,” went Tanch.
Claradon somberly related the mysterious events of the prior few days. He told of how several nights previous, horrible, guttural sounds began to emanate from the Vermion Forest to the west of Dor Eotrus, the magnificent fortress in whose central tower they were now gathered. The patrician diction in which he spoke marked him as having studied under some of Lomion's finest scholars. Similarly schooled, his brother Ector's coloring and slightly ill-favored features branded him as one of Lord Aradon Eotrus's sons. Happily, Claradon was said to somewhat resemble his mother, a renowned beauty, gone these last years.
“The sounds began around midnight four nights ago, and continued unabated until dawn,” said Claradon. “That first night, it wasn’t loud like it is tonight—we barely heard it while outside, and not at all indoors, but it was eerie all the same, and caused quite a stir amongst the people. Rumors of everything from lugron invasion, to dragons, trolls, and more, ran wild through the citadel and the Outer Dor by breakfast.
That morning, father organized a patrol to investigate. Deep in the wood, they discovered a strange area that we have never seen before. It was completely desolate and devoid of life. The place was flat, circular in shape, and some fifty yards in diameter. The ground within consisted only of hardened gray soil and dust, featureless save for some scattered pebbles pressed into the dirt. They found no invading army, and no strange animal or troll spoor; no clues whatsoever as to the origins of the sounds or the circle. The patrol withdrew and returned without incident to the Dor. Later, we learned that residents of the outlying farms had heard similar sounds the night before we first heard them at the Dor.”
“The following night, the strange sounds resumed. As before, they commenced around midnight and continued until dawn.”
“That wretched wailing kept the whole Dor up all night,” said Tanch. “Without the wax it was unbearable. My poor ears were—”
“It really wasn’t that loud that night, or the next,” said Claradon. “Just an annoyance, nothing more, although, each night, it has grown progressively louder. On the second night, from atop the Dor's towers, the moonlight revealed a dense fogbank over the wood. We think it was centered on the desolate zone, or at least, very close to it. The next morning, father sent out another patrol to investigate.”
“We never get fog this time of year,” said Tanch. “It’s not natural; in fact, it’s quite unnatural, if you follow me.” Tanch looked furtively about, as if some unseen spirit were about to pounce on him.
“When the patrol got back, late in the day, they reported that the diameter of the desolate area was now over one hundred yards. Trees that were there the day before were inexplicably gone—no trace of their existence remained.”
“So the barren area got larger?” said Gabriel.
“Aye, and we have no idea how or why,” said Claradon “So father decided we should investigate the area at night. He felt whomever or whatever was causing these strange goings-on was hiding amidst the fog.”
“Quite sensible,” said Tanch. “I would have advised the same but, of course, I wasn’t consulted. Most folk hold the advice of wizards in high regard, but—”
“The next patrol left at dusk. Father led it himself.” Looking toward Theta, he continued. “With him was House Eotrus's high cleric, Brother Donnelin; Par Talbon, our House Wizard, and his apprentices—five or six of them, I think, though I’m not really certain, as they are a mysterious lot. With them was Captain Stern and our other three rangers, eight knights, a dozen men-at-arms, and a half squadron of archers. Before he left, father ordered that in the event . . .” Claradon paused and looked as if he were about to vomit or break down. He took a breath and then continued, his voice unsteady at first. “In the event that he didn't return, I was to await the return of Sir Gabriel or Ob before taking further action. Father had sent scouts to locate you,” he said gesturing toward Gabriel and Ob, “the same day that the circle was first discovered, and he sent more the next, so we hoped you would be back soon.”
“Get to the point, boy,” said Ob, “What became of the patrol?”
“I am getting there,” said Claradon, his voice strained. “Sir Gabriel said to leave nothing out, so I’m not.”
“Fine,” said Ob. “Just talk quicker.”
“Alright,” he said, and took a deep breath. “Very late in the evening of the third day, shortly before midnight, the guards atop the battlements spotted the fog. It had expanded further from its extent the previous evening. Shortly thereafter, the horrid sounds began anew and were louder than before. Then we saw several bright flashes of light and heard two thunderous explosions that shook the keep. Par Tanch and I were atop the central tower, watching.”
Harbinger of Doom (An Epic Fantasy Novel) (Harbinger of Doom Volumes 1 and 2) Page 4
