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

by Thater, Glenn

  After a short while, the survivors gathered about and Sir Glimador reported the casualty list. Some three dozen knights were confirmed dead and another two dozen were missing and presumed buried in the collapsed temple.

  The only men of Dor Eotrus that still lived were Ob, Glimador, Artol, Indigo, Paldor, Par Tanch, and Claradon.

  To everyone's astonishment, Sir Gabriel was amongst the missing. Nearly all the survivors were wounded to varying degrees, although most not seriously.

  Theta was a bloody mess, covered in gore and ichor from head to toe, though little, if any, of the blood seemed to be his.

  Once the men had caught their breaths, and seen to the worst of their wounds, Claradon recounted the battle between Korrgonn and Sir Gabriel—even Theta listened intently and asked more questions than anyone else. All were shocked by Gabriel's gruesome fate.

  “The skalds will tell of that battle for ages to come,” said Artol as tears streamed down his face.

  “For ages, they will,” said Dolan.

  “Perhaps Sir Gabriel still lives,” Claradon said as he rechecked Ob's wounded arm, though he only half believed there was any hope. “Perhaps we can free him of the influence of the monster.”

  “Aradon is gone,” said Ob weakly, his eyes only half open. “I just can't believe it. Donnelin, Talbon, Stern, and now Gabriel. Gabriel for Odin’s sake. How could this happen? Nobody could beat Gabriel. Nobody. Dead gods, let me wake from this nightmare.” His hand reached for his wineskin, but it was lost.

  “A nightmare,” said Dolan.

  “It's the end of the world,” said Tanch. “I told you it was coming; no one wanted to listen, but I foretold it. These are the end times.”

  “The end times,” said Dolan.

  “Perhaps, no longer,” said Claradon. “We may have just staved off the end of the world.”

  “The cultists will try again,” said Theta. “To open another gateway. This is not over yet.”

  Overcome by all that had happened, Claradon dropped to both knees and wept. His father and his mentor both dead at the hands of creatures of Nifleheim, and so many other friends and comrades as well. It was all too much; his head swam. He gripped Ob's shoulder, closed his eyes, and recited a prayer to Odin.

  “Steady boy,” said Ob, his voice unsteady. He pulled Claradon close. “You're the patriarch of House Eotrus now. That makes you the lord of the land and vassal to ole King Tenzivel. Show no weakness to the troops.” Due to his wounds, Ob didn't realize that nearly all the troops were dead.

  “Perhaps, we can cast out the monster from Sir Gabriel,” said Tanch. “Perhaps he can be as he was. There may still be time. We must find him.”

  “I'm doubting it, pal,” said Ob. “Gabe's the toughest warrior this side of Odin. Ain't nothing, not even some stinking Lord of Nifleheim as can take him over if he's alive. He's dead and it took his corpse, I say. And that's the end of him. It stinks, but that's the way it is.”

  “It’s the end of him, it is,” said Dolan.

  “Oh my, don't say such things. I can’t accept that. We have to try the save him.”

  “The gnome speaks the truth,” said Theta. “Gabriel is lost to us and to Midgaard—and the world will suffer for that loss. There is nothing we can do for him, save to avenge him and vanquish the creature that defiles his body.”

  Theta pulled a metallic flask from his belt, uncorked the top and carefully poured a single drop into a small cup. He filled the cup with water and put it to Ob's lips. “You fought bravely, gnome,” said Theta. “Drink this; it will strengthen you.”

  “Is it wine or mead?” said Ob.

  “Neither,” said Theta.

  “Then I don’t want it.”

  “Drink it. It will help.”

  “It will help?” said Ob. Tanch moved close to them to get a good view.

  “It will,” said Theta. “Drink it.”

  His mouth tightly shut, Ob stared into the cup for some moments, considering before he drank it. As he swallowed, his face scrunched up in disgust. “That’s a foul brew, Theta,” he said. “Not even fit for a stinking goblin.”

  “The dregs from some witch’s cauldron, by the look of it,” said Tanch.

  “Dregs,” said Dolan, mimicking Ob’s expression.

  Almost at once, the flow of blood from Ob's wound stopped and color returned to his face.

  “Yet it has a potency, I see,” said Tanch. “A wondrous thing, that. What is it?”

  “Wondrous, it is,” said Dolan.

  “A healing draught,” said Theta.

  “Yes, but of what is it made?” said Tanch.

  Theta offered no answer.

  “It’s a draught, it is,” said Dolan, as if that was all the answer needed.

  “You are full of surprises, sir,” said Tanch.

  “Many folks are more than they seem,” said Theta as he looked pointedly at Tanch.

  “No doubt, no doubt,” said the wizard.

  “The fallen,” said Ob, as he clutched Claradon’s arm.

  Claradon looked around at the bodies of his men. “We’ve got to take them home.”

  Artol stepped forward. “We should burn them,” he said.

  “What?” said Claradon. “They’re our men—our friends. We don’t burn our dead. What are you saying?”

  “They’re tainted,” said Artol. “Killed by a demon, come back as one. We’ve all heard that saying. We’ve got to burn them.

  “I agree,” said Glimador. “Best not to take any chances.”

  Claradon looked at the bodies, indecision on his face. He looked to Ob for support, but the gnome was barely conscious—Theta’s potion had eased him into a sleep. “These are our men,” said Claradon. “We’re going to bring them home to their families for a proper burial. I’ll not dishonor their memories for fear of superstitious bunk. Wrap them in their blankets, and put them on their horses.”

  “Aye, my lord,” said the men. Carrying out that order though was no easy task, considering the number of casualties, the fatigue and injuries of the few survivors, and that the horses were scattered about the wood. In the end, they were unable to collect the remains of Lord Eotrus’s patrol, for their bodies were dismembered and scattered, and the horror of that scene was too much for the men to bear after what they had been through. Of Lord Eotrus, all else that was found was his shield, bent nearly in half, and his helm, which was bloodied and crushed. These bits they reverently placed on the back of Sir Gabriel’s horse. Patrols would return to recover the bodies of those missing in the rubble.

  They were an eerie sight as they rode slowly through the wood, gloomy and foreboding even in the light of day. A mist hung about them, but this time, it was a normal mist that came with the sun. Where but hours before they were a vibrant troop of knights more than 70 strong, polished and ready, full of life and fight, now they were a troop of the dead. Nine weary men, bloodied, beaten, and bruised rode amongst scores of riderless horses that bore dozens of the dead.

  On the way, Par Tanch approached Claradon. He spoke in a stronger, deeper, and steadier voice than was his custom. “Claradon,” he said, taking care that no one else overheard. “Though I know this timing is poor, I must advise you that the Order of the Arcane, the High Council, and likely the Crown, for reasons of their own, will never allow the events of last night to be commonly known. They will cover them up. Some story will be fabricated to account for the battle, the howling in the woods, the fog. They will force you and your officers to swear to never reveal the truth.”

  Claradon's eyes narrowed as he was taken aback by Tanch’s words. “And what if I don't go along with such lies? What if I insist that everyone know the truth of how father and Sir Gabriel died?”

  “Then, they will deny the truth and call you a liar in public and even in private. When they’re done, they will destroy you. You will lose the Dor and your good name, perhaps even your very life.”

  Claradon’s eyes were wide with shock or disbelief. “Would they really g
o so far? Could they?”

  “They would, they could, and they have done such things before. I have seen it.”

  “King Tenzivel has always been a friend to us. He would never allow this.”

  “The king is old, Claradon. Dark voices whisper in his ear these days. Things are changing in Lomion, my friend, and not for the better—we can't count on the king's support, though even if we had it, it may do us little good. The real power these days lies with the High Council, and in particular, with the Chancellor.”

  “Barusa of Alder?” said Claradon.

  “Aye. As you well know, he’s no friend to the Eotrus and never has been. Let us be the ones to create the tale that the Council hears. That way, we can be assured that Lord Eotrus, Sir Gabriel, and the others are honored as the heroes that they are.”

  “I don’t like the sound of what you suggest, but I’ll hear you out.”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do, but it must be done. We can say that a pack of trolls came down from the mountains and caused all the trouble. There was a time when trolls rampaged through these lands, and caused much havoc and death. Though rarely seen these days, they are still widely feared and considered extremely deadly. Any knight that fell in battle to a pack of such beasts whilst protecting his lands would be rightly named a hero.”

  “And how would we explain the wailing in the night?”

  “We will say it was the trolls. Few alive in these parts have ever heard the call of a troll. If we say that that is what they heard, most would believe us.”

  “And the fog, and the explosions the night father was lost?”

  “A freakish storm, nothing more. Claradon, I know this is difficult, but we must do this. We must protect the Eotrus name or your enemies will use this opportunity to destroy your House.”

  “I didn’t know we had those kinds of enemies. The Alders never liked us—that feud goes back so long I don’t think anyone even remembers how it started. And we’ve never got on well with the Dantrels or the Tarns, but I never thought of any of them as enemies—not the kind that would want us dead. I just thought of them as rivals, nothing more.”

  “I don’t want to sound harsh, especially considering what has just happened, but you have been naive. The Eotrus have true enemies—every noble House does. The vultures will begin to circle all too soon and we have to be ready for them. Our wisest course of action is to not show weakness and to give our enemies no excuse to speak out or move against us.”

  “So we must speak of trolls.”

  “Aye, my friend. We have little choice in this. Besides, we will always know the truth. The people will know that our comrades died as heroes defending Eotrus lands. What does it matter that people think they fell to trolls rather than demons of Nifleheim? A hero is a hero.”

  Claradon paused for some moments gathering his thoughts. “For the sake of my brothers, I will go along with this. But know well, if it were only my position and my life at stake, I would tell the Order and the Council to go to hell, and the Crown too, if need be.”

  “I don't doubt it, Master Claradon.”

  “What of Paldor? He is likely telling the tale even now. The whole Dor will hear of it by the time we get back.”

  “His head was hard hit in the battle. He became delusional and wandered off. He didn't know what he was saying.”

  “You think of everything, don't you?”

  “It's a wizard’s job, sir. I try to make myself useful. We will not be able to keep the truth from the senior knights at the Dor. You will have to swear them to secrecy and all of us here as well, of course.”

  “It will be done. As for useful—you’re a lot more than just useful. I saw what you did in there. I saw the hammer you conjured and used against that thing when we needed you. You came through—and with powers that I never dreamed you had. Thank you. I mean that.”

  Tanch's eyes grew watery. He nodded, though no words escaped his mouth. He had finally made himself useful.

  Claradon awoke in his bed to Ob shaking him. “Get off your duff you lazy bugger. The men are gathering in the Odinhome already. We need to get you down there right quick. Mister Know-it-All, fancy pants, is giving a speech. The boys need to know you're the boss now, not that foreigner, nor anybody else.”

  Claradon's head still spun from an almost unbelievable tale Ob told him the previous night while he stood by the wounded gnome's bedside. He had to push that story aside in his head, however hard that might be. The last days seemed a maddened dream. Claradon pulled himself together as best he could. He splashed water on his face, combed his hair, strapped on his sword belt.

  “How is your arm?” said Claradon, though he only glanced at Ob as he spoke—his attention focused on waking up and getting ready. “After how you looked last night, I thought you would be bedridden for days, but you seem as spry as ever this morning.”

  “Mister Fancy Pants’s witches’ brew did the trick,” said Ob. “It's not natural, that stuff. Must be some sorcery; some stinking potion made of who knows what foul gunk. Probably black sorcery whipped it up—with my luck, the kind what sucks a man’s soul out. I would rather have a bad arm, or no arm, than risk that.”

  “It was just a healing draught,” said Claradon. “Herbs and such, I’m certain.”

  “You think so?” said Ob. He pulled up his sleeve, exposing his forearm. “Take a look.” There was no wound; no scar, not a trace. “It feels a bit stiff is all.”

  Claradon's eyebrows rose. “Well, if it is sorcery, you should be grateful. It was an ugly wound. If it had gotten infected, it could have been the end of you.”

  “Take more than an infection to put me down,” said Ob. “All the same, I should be grateful, but I’m not. Such things always come with a price, but it's usually a price that you wouldn’t want to pay.”

  “Maybe it was just a powerful healing draught,” said Claradon.

  Ob’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe.”

  In the interests of secrecy, knights guarded the Odinhome’s doors and only admitted ranking knights who knew the truth of what happened in the wood. When Ob and Claradon arrived, Theta stood on the central dais addressing the men who were seated about the hall. The knights rallied around him, bristling for a fight, enraged as they were over the loss of their lord and their comrades. Each time Theta spoke the knights quieted down to listen.

  “We must destroy his body,” Theta boomed in his strong, steady voice. “When we do, we will be killing Korrgonn, not Gabriel, for Gabriel is already lost to this world; his body now nothing but a stolen shell, occupied by a monster—a true monster out of Nifleheim. Destroying it won't be easy. Korrgonn not only has all of his own knowledge and skills, but he may also have Gabriel's. That would make him far more dangerous than ever before. No one will be safe until we put him down. And do not forget the skull-faced demon—that creature was Mortach of Nifleheim. He must be put down as well.”

  “Two Lords of Nifleheim running about,” said Tanch. “It is the end of the world for certain. We’re all doomed.”

  Artol stood up. “We must find them and kill them for what they've done, however difficult the task.”

  “We will track our enemies to the ends of Midgaard, and beyond if need be,” boomed Theta. “We will cleanse the world of their plague.”

  A cheer erupted in the hall; the knights rose to their feet and shook their fists.

  “There can be no other course of action,” boomed Theta.

  After the noise died down, Tanch spoke. “It sounds as if we are about to embark on a major undertaking. Though it pains me to say it, my delicate back isn't up to the challenge, for old battle wounds plague me. No doubt, I can do far more good remaining here at Dor Eotrus, supporting young Sir Ector, than I could in the field.”

  “Are you the stinking House Wizard or not?” shouted Ob as he and Claradon made their way down the steps.

  “I suppose,” said Tanch. “Though no formal appointment has yet been made.”

  “Par Tanch,�
�� said Claradon when he reached the dais, “I will need you in this. You will come with us. We will go back to the Vermion, to the circle, and pick up the trail of the Nifleheim lords. We will make them pay dearly for what they did. We’ll not return until we rid this world of them.”

  “All right, Mister Fancy Pants, move aside,” shouted Ob as he and Claradon approached the lectern. Theta glared at the gnome, stood his ground, but said nothing.

  “Claradon is here now and will be taking over.” Ob faced the gathered knights, his arms upraised. He motioned for quiet. “Brother Claradon, as first son of House Eotrus, and upon Lord Aradon's passing, is now Lord of the Dor, and Patriarch of House Eotrus. You will serve him with the same respect and honor with which you served Aradon afore him. And if you don't, I'll rip your stinking heads off and feed your dead corpses to the dogs.”

  “Long live Lord Claradon,” boomed Artol from amidst the knights.

  “Long live Lord Claradon,” shouted all the knights in response.

  “And death to the Lords of Nifleheim,” boomed Artol, raising his fist to the air.

  “Death to the Lords of Nifleheim,” boomed the whole company in retort.