Harbinger of Doom (An Epic Fantasy Novel) (Harbinger of Doom Volumes 1 and 2)

by Thater, Glenn

  The Outer Dor bustled with activity. Citizens scrambled to bar storm shutters, reinforce doors, and nail wood planks over the windows. The buildings were built of brick or stone, with walls at least double the thickness needed for stout defense against the northland’s punishing winters. Northerners had long memories. In the tradition of their ancestors who suffered through lugron raids, they built their buildings strong.

  “We're not properly provisioned for a siege,” said Ob. “Not when we’ve so many mouths to feed.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Claradon. “This may all blow over yet. It may be nothing.”

  “By Asgard, I hope you’re right,” said Ob.

  Just after they passed through the Outer Dor’s second gate, several riders in Eotrus livery approached at a canter from beyond the wall. Their leader, a grayed veteran, pulled up alongside Gabriel and Ob.

  “What news, Baret?” said Ob.

  Baret's face was grave. “We found no sign of his Lordship's patrol, Castellan. We rode as far as five leagues into the wood. We found the circle, but there was no sign or trace within it and not much without. It's hard to explain . . .” Baret looked warily about, leaned toward Ob, and lowered his voice. “Near the circle, the wood is dead. Lifeless. Unnatural like. The rest of the wood don’t feel right, neither. It stinks of sorcery to me.”

  “What do you mean, dead?” said Ob. “Speak plain, man.”

  “There weren't any animals about. That is as plain as I can put it. Not one squirrel or possum. Not a bird in sky, tree, or bush. Not even sight or sound of insects. Not a chirp, hoot, or howl. All life has fled the deep wood.”

  “I have never seen its like,” said Baret. He lowered his voice further. “It must be sorcery. Dark and evil and on our doorstep. I don't envy you heading out there with night coming.”

  “Was there any sign of an enemy force?” said Gabriel.

  “None,” said Baret. “Whatever is out there comes in the night, I expect. In the deep black, with the mist,” he said as he made a protective gesture across his chest.

  X

  THE CIRCLE OF DESOLATION

  The expedition passed through the last street beyond the Outer Dor’s walls, an unseasonable chill in the morning air, and headed down the main road, a wide cobblestone lane that led south toward Riker’s Crossroads, and then on to Lomion City, Kern, or Doriath Forest, depending on which way one went. Soon, both sides of the rode were lined with fields of vegetables and grains, and groves of fruit trees of many types, all well-ordered and closely fenced or walled. Farmhouses, some small and quaint, others akin to sprawling and impressive manors, some few, more castle than house, lay at the end of cobblestoned lanes that sprang from the main track. In the distance could be seen cattle and goat, sheep, pigs, and chickens. Here and there guardsmen from the various manors and keeps patrolled the ways on horseback and with dogs, wary and nervous owing to recent events.

  Two miles or so down the way, the expedition turned off the main road and headed west along a well-used dirt track, a hunter’s trail that passed through fields of short grass and low rolling hills before reaching the Vermion Forest. Gabriel rode at the vanguard of the main group, followed by his picked men, Artol, Paldor, Glimador, and Indigo. Behind them were Theta, Dolan, Par Tanch, Ob, and Claradon. The rest of the expedition closely followed, save for the outriders Gabriel deployed to cover their flanks.

  The fields were unusually thick with pestering mosquitos and other flying insects, which made what was normally a pleasant, scenic ride an annoying ordeal. All along the way they spotted deer and elk running through the fields—odd for that time of the morning. In the distance to the north they spied several bears, and to the south, a roaming pack of wolves.

  “Never seen game this thick hereabouts,” said Ob as he uncorked his wineskin.

  “They’ve been driven from the forest,” said Gabriel. “No doubt by whatever created the circle.”

  “Maybe there is a pack of those reskalan things rampaging about the wood, putting the animals to flight,” said Tanch. “I have no wish to come face to face with even one of them, little less a pack. Are we certain that we have enough men?”

  No one answered him.

  The edge of the Vermion Forest was only a few miles away—well within sight from atop Dor Eotrus’s walls. The forest’s border was abruptly defined, its trees cut back years before when many acres were harvested for firewood and building materials. Lately such was taken from far to the north to preserve the Vermion for hunting and as a buffer against the region’s punishing winter winds.

  The leaves were still on the forest’s trees; those at its border grew tall and majestic, but the rest, the ones deep in the heart of the old wood grew twisted and gnarled—like giants warped and frozen in time. It was an eerie place in the best of times, but one they were all well accustomed to.

  A flattened track took the expedition to the edge of the woods where they halted. “That is a racket,” said Ob as hooting sounds filled the air.

  “I’ve never seen so many owls,” said Claradon. “And in the daytime, no less.”

  “Hawks gather in the upper branches,” said Gabriel. “Ravens and eagles beside them. A strange thing.”

  The birds screeched and hooted louder and louder as the men resumed their approach.

  “Are they going to attack us?” said Tanch. “I’ve heard that large birds can be quite dangerous when provoked or frightened. Perhaps we should take cover,” though the only cover lay before them in the forest.

  “They’re warning us away,” said Theta.

  “You are joking,” said Ob. “The man is a jokester. Birds warning us, he says. Ha, ha.”

  “Then you explain it,” said Theta.

  “They’re only birds,” said Ob. “Maybe they got some fancy birds back in your lands what talk and sing and dance the jig. Maybe they’d ask us over to sit a spell and have a smoke and a game of spottle, but hereabouts, they’re just birds. They got no brains to speak of, so they couldn’t warn nobody about nothing.”

  Theta offered no response.

  “It’s a strange thing,” said Gabriel, “whatever it means.”

  As they moved into the wood, the trail narrowed and the forest slowly grew denser, the air closer, thicker, and stiller, and eventually, the sounds of the birds died away. Ob and Dolan struck out ahead of the others to scout.

  “Bear sign,” said Ob, as he studied the ground. “Boar, deer, elk, and rabbit too.”

  “And wolf,” said Dolan as he crouched down beside Ob.

  Ob raised an eyebrow and looked at Dolan. “Good eye, sonny,” he said. “You know your tracks. Maybe there is more to you than you let on.”

  “Not so much. Lord Angle has schooled me up on a few things, but I still don’t know much.”

  “All the signs are fresh,” said Ob as he turned his attention back to the tracks. “And they’re all heading east, out of the forest, which makes sense considering the game we saw on the way here. They’re running from something, but what?”

  “Something hungry, I expect,” said Dolan.

  “Aye,” said Ob. “Something hungry. Keep your eyes peeled, sonny. If Wizard Boy is right, and there are a pack on them six-legs hereabouts, we best spot them afore they spot us.”

  “Aye, we best,” said Dolan.

  A league into the forest, the trees grew unusually tall and dense, twisted, and intertwined, many covered in moss. The thick canopy overhead blocked out most of the light and all of the breeze. The place was silent and still, and colder owing to the dim light. Branches hung low, and the footing grew treacherous with slick leaves and moss, holes and loose rocks, and fallen trees and broken branches everywhere. In some places the undergrowth grew so tall, thick, and uneven as to be impassable by the horses. More than once, the men were forced to dismount and walk the horses through or around the various obstructions. All of that was normal for the Vermion, except for the silence. In the heart of the forest, not a sound was the
re—not of bird or beast. No insect chirped, or called, or buzzed. Not one bee, fly, or mosquito to be found. Save for the trees and plants, the forest was dead, a graveyard of old tree falls and decaying leaves.

  “There are things what chase animals from a wood,” said Ob. “Fires, weather, huntsmen, and such. But what chases out the bugs?”

  Nothing that I’ve ever seen,” said Dolan, “except the coldest days of winter, and even they’re not as silent as this. It’s not natural, it's not.”

  Deep into the wood they caught a glimpse of a flattened, open area through the trees. They stopped their horses and went quiet.

  “That is it,” whispered Dolan, pointing. “Just like they said: a big circle of nothing.” He paused and looked around for some moments and Ob did the same. “There is a strange feeling hereabouts, Mister Ob. My skin is beginning to crawl, it is.”

  “I feel it too,” whispered Ob. “It’s like Wizard Boy said—it feels like something is watching us, something unseen, out there, somewhere in the trees. It’s giving me the creeps. The stinking hair is standing up on me arms.”

  “Mine too,” said Dolan.

  “Dolan me boy, ride back to the others, slow and quiet-like, but don’t waste no time about it. Tell them we found it, the circle. Tell Gabe that you and me are gonna reconnoiter a bit by our lonesomes to scope things out good and proper. We will rejoin the group when we’re done nosing about. Tell him to have his lot hold back a good ways and for Odin’s sake, keep good and quiet. I will wait for you here. Hurry back straightaway after you’ve delivered the message—and if I’m not here, in this very spot, you run for it. You got me?”

  “Aye, Mister Ob, I got you, I do.”

  When Dolan returned, Ob was waiting for him in the appointed place, no worse for wear but looking a bit pale.

  “Anything?” said Dolan.

  “Not a peep,” said Ob. “There is nothing moving out there that I can see or hear or smell. But that feeling of being watched—I can’t shake it. I’ll tell you sonny, that has got me worried. Whatever is going on out here is outside what I know, and I’ve been around a long while.”

  “I expect Lord Angle will sort it out directly, he will,” said Dolan. “He’s good at that, he is.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Ob, “but I expect we will see what your boss is made of before this adventure is done.”

  They tied their horses to trees, and slowly stalked forward, crouched over. Ob moved fluidly—he kicked up no rocks, rustled no bushes or leaves, and snapped no twigs. His passage made less noise than that of a squirrel or rabbit—his skills the envy of hunter, ranger, or sneak thief alike. Dolan, however, was utterly silent, passing between the trees like a ghost. Ob was shocked when he noticed Dolan’s stealth, but made no comment on it. They crawled the last twenty yards toward the circle on their bellies, pausing every few feet to look and listen.

  “It is a circle alright, a big one,” whispered Ob, breathing heavy as he peeked out from a bush some twenty feet from the circle’s edge. Sweat dripped from his forehead and matted his hair despite the cool air. “Flat, almost smooth; the dirt looks packed down tight. Not a bush or even a leaf in sight. Never seen nothing like this. How big do you figure it is?”

  “I’m not much for measuring,” said Dolan, wrinkling his nose. Unlike Ob, Dolan was not winded from the crawl, and his forehead was dry; his face, its usual pale.

  “Four hundred yards across, give or take, I would mark it,” said Ob. “Took a bit of work to make this, I would say. Rain didn’t make it. Nor did wind, bird, bug, or bush.”

  “Do you smell it?” said Dolan.

  “For a while now,” said Ob. “Was wondering if you would notice it. It is faint, but it’s there. Smells like what was left of that six-leg Claradon killed in the tower.”

  Dolan took a deep breath. “Yup. Burned and dead mixed together, it is. You think it was magic that made this circle? Black sorcery, was it?”

  “Bah,” spat Ob. “I don’t put much stock in that bunk. Bunch of crazy cultists with shovels and sweat done made this. Most things can get built with a shovel or two and a barrel of sweat. I’ll bet a keg of Portland Vale's best that is what went on here. Why they built it and what it’s for is what I want to know.”

  “Cultists with shovels,” said Dolan nodding. “Look at the edge, it’s sunk, it is,” he said, pointing to the circle’s rim.

  “Aye,” said Ob. “The circle is a good few inches down from the surrounding soil. I wonder whether they hauled away the topsoil or just packed it down somehow. A bit of both, probably.”

  “Hauled and packed it they did, them crazies,” said Dolan as he looked warily over one shoulder and then the next.

  A short while later, Ob and Dolan made their way back to their horses as silently as they had come, walked them back to the main group, and made their report to Sir Gabriel.

  “Take a full squadron and scour the woods around the circle in all directions,” said Gabriel to Ob, “but stay close together in case there are enemies about. Find me some sign of our patrol and of whatever enemy force waylaid them, but do not set foot within the circle until I give you leave. Not one step within.”

  As Ob’s squadron went about their business, the others examined the perimeter of the circle itself, none daring to venture beyond the rim after Gabriel's orders. Gabriel and Claradon eyed the strange construction.

  “We will find him,” said Gabriel. “Ob can track a mouse through a haystack.”

  Claradon nodded.

  “You think it’s safe?” said Claradon as his eyes drifted in Tanch’s direction.

  “If it's not magical, yes,” said Gabriel. “If there is sorcery involved, who can say. To be safe, we need to check it out before we step within.”

  “I can find out,” said Par Tanch. “I believe the Arcane Order would approve the use of the sorcerous arts in this circumstance. So with your permission, Sir Gabriel, I will call on my humble powers to divine if fell sorcery is at work here.”

  “That is what I was counting on,” said Gabriel. “Have at it.”

  Par Tanch began his divination by chanting in a strange, guttural tongue. He soon coupled his rather oppressive intonations with strange arm and hand movements, akin to a bizarre, primitive, and awkward dance. He tossed various sparkling powders about that gave off small bursts of light and puffs of smoke that smelled like rotten eggs. Such antics were mere mummery, and though wholly superfluous, the members of the Arcane Order seemed to think such things expected of them, so they carried on thus. The knights looked on, amazed, as true sorcery was so seldom seen.

  As Par Tanch put on his performance, Theta quietly approached the circle’s rim several yards to the backs of the rest of the company. From a belt pouch he produced an amulet inset with an oblong, azure-hued gemstone that had the look of a sapphire, though it was actually something much rarer. With that ancient charm, Theta could detect the presence or residues of all manner of arcane magics and mark them as either beneficent or fell. As he held it aloft and moved it toward the rim, the gem emitted a soft, flickering glow. The color of the stone quickly changed to a fiery red. As he passed his hand beyond the rim, the glow faded but did not extinguish.

  Theta quickly replaced the amulet whence it came, and pulled from beneath his breastplate a strangely twisted ankh that hung from a leather cord about his neck. The ankh was stained and battered, and whether it was made of wood, or stone, or metal was impossible to say, but it was clearly no mere accouterment. It was an ancient holy symbol preserved from some bygone age. One who grasped its deepest secrets could use it to detect the presence of certain maleficent creatures, beasts, or men. In its ear, Theta whispered words from ages past, forbidden words of power in a language long since lost to the world. He tightly gripped the relic and surveyed the barren landscape before him. His eyes scoured the circle for several seconds, devouring every inch of it. Finally, he released the ankh, allowing it to fall against his chest. He then tucked it back beneath h
is armor, safely out of sight.

  He passed the tip of his lance across the rim of the circle and thrust it, gently at first, then more forcefully against the bleak soil within, testing it as one might use a pole to probe the firmness of the ground when traveling through swamp or bog.

  “Oh my,” said Par Tanch as he completed his ritual. “There is dark sorcery at work here. Fearful, insidious magic of a kind quite alien to me. I would say that—”

  “Chaos sorcery lingers along the rim,” said Theta, as he moved to stand beside Tanch. “The stuff of Nifleheim. It emanates from something buried below the surface, but its power is waning.”

  Tanch raised an eyebrow at Theta's proclamations and looks of surprise and suspicion contested for control of his face. The knights looked to Tanch, apparently skeptical of the conclusions of the foreign soldier.

  “I agree with Lord Theta's most astute assessment,” said Tanch in slow, measured tones as he studied Theta. “I had no idea that you were so well versed in the arcane arts, my Lord. May I ask your method?”

  “No,” said Theta. There would be no further explanation.

  Tanch raised his eyebrows and looked taken aback. “Very well then. To your assessment, I would add that we can safely pass the threshold and enter the circle.”

  “I concur,” said Theta. He stepped across the rim and walked about to no ill effect.

  “You men,” said Gabriel, pointing to several of the knights. “Break out the tools and uncover whatever is buried below the rim. Whatever you find, for Odin’s sake, don't touch it—call Tanch and me over to examine it.”