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

by Thater, Glenn

  The stooped and gray elder paused a few feet beyond the threshold and turned toward the youngest of the four visitors.

  “Master Claradon,” he said in a soft but raspy voice, “it is very kind of you to look into our troubles so soon after your own grievous loss.” The two shook hands; the old man softly gripped the young knight’s hand between his as tears welled in his eyes.

  “We were so sorry and so shocked to hear of your father’s passing. The people all dearly loved him, you know. Our deepest sympathies to you and your good brothers.”

  Claradon nodded. “Thank you,” he said as he gently pulled his hand free.

  “At least he died as he lived, a hero, protecting us all,” said the elder.

  “You heard then that it was mountain trolls?” said Par Tanch, a middle-aged blond man with a curious silver circlet over his brow and a long wooden walking staff banded in silver in his right hand.

  “That we did, your wizardship, sir. And we were shocked by that too. Not since I was on my grandfather’s knee have I heard tell of trolls hereabouts. These days, the young folks don’t even believe in them. Children’s tales they call them; bogeymen and figments they mark them. But we know different, don’t we, your lordships?”

  Tanch spoke up before Claradon could respond. “That we do,” he said. “The trolls have been lurking in the deep mountains for untold years, breeding like rabbits in their filthy warrens. They are patient creatures. As we have been going about our business, they’ve gathered their strength and bided their time, waiting to strike at us unawares and lay waste to our lands as they did in olden days.”

  The old man’s mouth was open, fear and shock filled his face.

  “But the Eotrus were ready for them,” said Tanch. “They did not catch us by surprise; our scouts marked their movements well. We knew when and where they would strike, and it was we that took them unawares. Lord Eotrus took to the field in force and led the assault himself. We crushed them before they threatened our towns and villages, and even before a single farm was overrun—though the price was terribly steep. Not only did we lose our liege, but many of his best and bravest fell at his side.”

  “A terrible price, indeed,” said the elder. “Lomion won’t see the like of Aradon Eotrus or Gabriel Garn again; not for long years, I expect. Talbon of Montrose, Brother Donnelin, Stern of Doriath—the best men of the North, the best men of our age, all fallen in a single day. I still can’t believe it. Heroes they were, and all their men with them; true heroes, like them from the sagas and legends of ages past. And just like them olden heroes, their deeds will be remembered in song and story long after all alive today are gone to dust.”

  “Hear hear,” said Tanch.

  The old man stepped close to Claradon and looked about to make certain the villagers weren’t watching before he spoke into his ear. “The old folk whisper about dark things stirring in Midgaard again, and not just in the mountains, your lordship. Things not seen in an age. Things far worse even than trolls, if you’ll forgive me.”

  “Why do they think that?” said Claradon.

  “We’ve heard things of late—frightful things from rangers, mountain men, and the merchants what pass through here on to Lomion City, Kern, and parts foreign. Until the other day, I thought it all humbug and babble, but then that rabble came and sacked our inn. They killed old Riker, your lordship. Right over there, behind the bar—the bastards.”

  “We have always been and felt safe here, sir, what with you fine noblemen of House Eotrus protecting our village and watching over our folk. That day was none different. It was your men what stood up to them killers, though it did no good, since they was so outnumbered, and if you’ll forgive me, outskilled.”

  “Who were they, and how many?” said Claradon.

  “It was brigands what done this thing, your lordship,” he said as he guided the group toward the bar. “They came in on horseback. Had a big carriage with them. Probably twenty of them.”

  “A carriage!” said Ob, the tiny man.

  “Was it a covered carriage or an open wagon?” said Theta, the tallest and broadest of the four visitors, as he stepped toward the bar. Theta moved smoothly and quietly as if born to the thick plate armor that he wore beneath a long, midnight blue cloak that hung open at the front. His steel armor was enameled deep blue and featured a grand coat-of-arms intricately inlaid with gold. He spoke with a slight accent that was hard to place, save to say that it was foreign.

  “A covered carriage, sir, it was. Fancy-like with doors and curtained windows as you would see in Lomion City amongst the nobles.”

  “How many of your folk were hurt?” said Claradon as he found a sound chair and sat down, his heavy plate and chain armor clanking against the wood.

  “Besides Riker, they killed dead all five of your soldiers that were stationed here, your lordship. Good lads every one, always respectful to us elders and the womenfolk, they were. Young Sergeant Jerem was set to marry my grandniece next month, and now he’s dead, the poor boy, and she is brokenhearted. And they gutted old Thom Butcher because he stood with them. He passed this morning, old Thom did. We put him and the soldiers in the icehouse for keeping until you folks investigate things all proper-like. Besides them, Riker’s two serving girls were bruised and battered, but they will live. And of course your soldiers what rode in on patrol fell too.”

  “What?” said Ob.

  “What soldiers?” said Claradon.

  The elder looked surprised and taken aback. “I thought you knew, your lordships. Didn’t the baker’s boy tell you?”

  “He said our soldiers were killed,” said Ob, “but nothing about a patrol. We thought he meant only the men stationed here.”

  “Then I’m sorry to bring you more ill news, my lords. It was young Sir Bareddal of Hanok Keep and his men. They rode in just as things went bad. We thought we were saved—that they would show them brigands a thing or two. And they did. Bareddal fought like a demon, but they bested him, the scum, with swords and magic, and all his men with him: all five of them dead. They used magic on him—real magic—if you can believe it. I never seen nothing like it.”

  “Blasted scum!” said Ob. He slammed his pointed boot into the bar with such force that it crashed through and lodged in the thick oak panel. “Bareddal too, blast it all.”

  “We put them in the icehouse, along with the others,” said the elder, his voice unsteady, clearly unsettled by the gnome's rage. “Wrapped them up as respectful as we could, but I’m afraid we had to pile them atop one another, for lack of room.”

  Theta pulled the gnome free of the bar with one hand, then leaned over the counter and looked about.

  Ob glared at the big knight, not caring to be manhandled.

  “The cash box is still here,” said Theta.

  “They left in a great hurry, sir,” said the elder. “I expect that’s why they left it; the silver had spilled out and it would’ve taken a spell to purse it. We collected it all up right and proper. Drogan Blacksmith is holding it for safekeeping until it can be dispensed all legal and such to Riker’s heirs.”

  “You going after them, your lordship?” said the elder as he turned back toward Claradon.

  Claradon didn’t answer. He stared glassy-eyed about the wrecked inn.

  “I’m just asking because if you are and you don’t mind my saying—you will need more men. A whole company of your finest, I would expect. Even besides that they got wizards amongst them, these weren’t no ordinary highwaymen.”

  “Describe them,” said Theta as he scanned the room, his hand resting on the strangely misshapen wooden ankh that hung from a chain about his neck.

  “Some weren’t volsungs, sir, if you can believe it. Lugron, or part lugron, I would call them. And some looked fouler still, like no one I’ve seen afore. And even them what were volsungs were the lowest types, except for their leader that is.”

  “It was the strangest thing—he looked much like Sir Gabe.” At that, Claradon perked up in his
seat and hung on the old man’s words.

  “Enough to be his twin, I would say, except for his eyes and that voice. His eyes were odd—golden in color and they glowed. Whoever seen anyone with gold eyes afore? And glowing? I sure have not; it’s not natural at all, at least not for Lomerians—I can’t speak for stinking foreigners. Carried a big black sword he did, and his voice was deep and raspy. I will never forget his name—Korrgonn, they called him. What kind of a name is that anyways? Something foreign, I expect. Lomion is getting overrun with them types of late, if you ask me.”

  “Had you seen any of those men before?” asked Theta.

  “Not a one.”

  “Did they have a captive?” said Claradon. “A prisoner?”

  “No, my lord, not that we saw, but I suppose they could have held somebody in the carriage. It was more than large enough; the biggest I've ever seen.”

  “Did you catch any other names?” said Theta.

  “I don’t recall them; though I’m sure I heard some. One I think they called “Ginalli” or “Ginelli” or some such. Don’t know what kind of name that is, neither. Stinking foreigners—no good bandits, every one. Let one in, and pretty soon, you are infested with them—pockets picked, and cupboards bare.”

  “When did they leave and which way did they go?” said Ob. “Speak quick man.”

  “They flew out of here near dusk, day before yesterday, headed toward Lomion City.”

  “Let’s go,” said Ob.

  The four made haste for the door.

  Theta turned. “You said they left with haste?”

  “That they did. They were chasing somebody, your lordship. Some fellow what wore a black cloak and hood. We’ve seen him in the inn now and again, but he keeps to himself. Don’t even know his name.”

  “Were they looking for that man?” said Theta from the doorway. “Was that why they were here?”

  “I don’t think so. The cloaked fellow tried to help old Riker and your soldiers, but when they fell, he ran for it, and they were at him. Brave fellow, braver than me anyways. Hope he got clear.”

  As Claradon exited the inn, he stepped amidst a bustle of activity: a crew of villagers were making repairs to the inn’s door and wooden balustrade; others pored through the broken furniture piled in the street; a squadron of Eotrus soldiers sat astride their horses, waiting; a stream of citizens were going about their daily toils, sullen expressions on their faces; other folks stood about, watching the soldiers, seeing whatever there was to see. Suddenly, a striking, middle-aged woman stood before him, her face stern but bursting with grief. Just as Claradon recognized her, she slapped him hard in the face, harder than he would have thought her capable. The street went quiet almost immediately, and all eyes and ears turned toward them.

  “Why?” she said, her eyes pleading. It was Lady Alana of Forndin Manor. “Why?”

  Her blow shocked Claradon; his mouth dropped open; he couldn’t think; he didn’t know what this was about.

  “My husband collapsed when he heard the news—his heart. He's on his deathbed even now. I’ve lost them all—all of them. You've taken them all from me. Why? Why? We’ve always been loyal. We’ve done our duty and more. Couldn’t you have taken just one of them into that battle? Why all three? Tell me, why?”

  Tanch and Ob stood by, both at loss for words, not knowing what to say or do.

  “I—they—I didn’t know—I didn’t think—” stammered Claradon.

  “You didn’t think?” she shouted. “You didn’t think that there was anything wrong-headed about taking three sons of one of your vassals into a fight with trolls? Because you didn’t think, my boys are dead. Because you didn’t think, House Forndin has no heirs. This is the end of us—after this generation, House Forndin is no more—dead—and all you can say is, ‘you didn’t think?’”

  “We took only the best knights with us, my Lady,” said Ob. “Handpicked for their skills and bravery. Erendin, Miden, and young Talbot each gave a good account of themselves. Took down no fewer than a half dozen trolls between them. Your husband would be proud of how they fought—how they defended their liege, just as he did in years past. They brought honor to Forndin Manor and to the Eotrus.”

  Lady Alana’s eyes brightened and pride appeared on her face at the gnome's words.

  “They were my friends,” said Claradon. “Their loss pains me too. I'm very sorry.”

  “They were my sons,” said Lady Alana sharply. “My only sons.” She turned and walked away, tears streaming down her face, her nervous servants following on her heels.

  “Riker was one of the good ones,” said Ob as they rode down the wooded lane. “An old war dog he was; tough as nails. Fought in the campaigns with Aradon, me, and Gabe back in the day; was with us at Karthune Gorge and the Nikeatan Gap. A loyal and true friend; a good Eotrus man; a man of honor. Never once had to pay for an ale or a bottle all the times I’ve been through here. At least he went down fighting. That’s fitting for men like us. That’s how I want to go, anyways, when it comes time.”

  “We’ve lost too many dear to us in recent days,” said Claradon. “Let’s hope Riker was the last.”

  “At least we know which way Korrgonn went. A blind dwarf could follow these wagon tracks; they’re the deepest I’ve ever seen. Twenty or more of them, he said, but there are tracks of only eight horses besides those that pull the carriage.”

  “The rest of the men must be riding in the carriage,” said Claradon.

  “Ten men piled inside wouldn’t be enough to make tracks as deep as we’ve been following,” said Ob. “What do you make of it, Theta?”

  “Fear often makes a man see more enemies than there are,” said Theta. “And the carriage may be heavy loaded with stone or metal.”

  “That’s as good a guess as any,” said Ob. “We’ll not know the truth until we find them, I expect.”

  “If they’re headed to Lomion City, will we catch them before they get there?” asked Theta.

  “By the tracks, I would say they’re moving fast, very fast, considering the load they’re pulling. Keeping that pace, with the start they have on us, they will beat us to the city by some hours. That’s assuming no stopping for the night. If they set a camp, we will catch them.”

  “The men with Korrgonn,” said Tanch, “must be the very same cultists that buried those coins and placed the magical orb in the old temple ruins in the Vermion.”

  “Still a genius, I see,” said Ob.

  Tanch ignored Ob and turned toward Theta. “Did you recover any fragments of the orb?” said Tanch—a question he had waited to ask until Claradon and Ob were there to hear both it and Theta’s answer.

  “I did,” said Theta.

  “What will you do with them, Lord Theta?” asked Claradon. “Do they still pose any threat?”

  “They do, but only in the wrong hands. I will see to it that that doesn’t occur.”

  “I would like to study the shards,” said Par Tanch. “They may hold valuable secrets. Secrets that could aid us in dealing with those that opened the gateway.”

  “Secrets they hold. Also temptation, madness, and death. It’s better that they be left alone.”

  “If I could just study a few fragments—”

  “No,” said Theta, louder. “If you experimented with them, you might fall under the thrall of the dark powers. I can’t allow that. No one touches the shards, and there will be no more discussion about it. Understood?”

  “There he goes again, giving orders,” said Ob. “Proclaiming edicts, issuing commands. You’re good at that, aren’t you, Mr. Fancy Pants? I say those shards belong to the Eotrus and it’s us that should be doing the deciding about them. I say you and the hedge wizard are both idiots. Do you want those orb chunks getting in the hands of some other nutcases? You want some more magical doors to Nifleheim opening up in our backyard? Darned fools, one and all. Destroy them I say. Ground them to dust and fling them to the winds.”

  “There are kernels of wisdom in your
babbling, gnome,” said Theta. “But such things as these shards cannot easily be undone. There are those who would seek even their dust to use in vile rituals. Better that I keep them close at hand until I can dispose of them properly.”

  “Riders approach,” said Dolan, a pale wiry man riding ahead of the others. “Looks like part of somebody’s army.”

  A group of about a dozen heavily armed horsemen approached from the south dressed in the livery of the Guard of Lomion, capital city of the realm. One wore the armor of a royal knight of the Myrdonian order. The two groups stopped as they neared each other.

  “Make way for emissaries of the Crown,” said the Myrdonian.

  “You’re riding through Eotrus lands, laddie,” said Ob, “and being as I am the Castellan of Dor Eotrus, I will ask you your business.”

  “My business is with your master, gnome,” he said with disgust, “so make way.”

  Beside Ob, Sergeant Artol signaled to the other Eotrus men and they surrounded the Myrdonian’s soldiers, weapons drawn and leveled.

  “You had best be a sight more polite, boy,” said Artol, “or we might get a wee bit cross with you.”

  The Myrdonian looked around with uncertainty. His men were but fresh-faced boys decked out in shiny new armor, whereas the Eotrus men were plainly grim veterans.

  “I’m his master,” said Claradon. “What is your purpose here?”

  “Are you Claradon Eotrus, son of Aradon?” he said, the confidence and bravado gone from his voice.