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

by Thater, Glenn

  Ob and Par Tanch gathered close about Claradon and spoke in hushed tones, careful that no one could overhear.

  “Now you’ve done it, boy,” said Ob. “You’ve really made your bed this time.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to assist you, Master Claradon,” said Par Tanch. “No sorcery can be used undetected in these chambers; you are on your own in this reckless endeavor.”

  “I had no choice. I can’t let him put a Regent in; it’s the same as handing over the Dor to the Alders. I would rather be dead.”

  “You soon will be, unless the luck of the Vanyar shines full on you,” said Ob. “Just a minute,” he said, his face brightening. “I bet them laws allow you to choose a champion to stand in for you. Name Theta—Mister Foreign Fancy Pants is darn good with a sword; he might be able to best Barusa.”

  “I’ve little doubt that he could, but I will not put this burden on him. This is my fight.”

  “Then name me. I’m your Castellan; let me stand in for you. I can thrash that pompous lout for sure,” he said, puffing out his little chest.

  “No, Ob. Like you told me after we lost father—I’m the lord of the land now. This fight is mine.”

  “You’re a brave lad, Claradon,” said Ob. “A credit to the Eotrus name. Aradon would be proud of you today, and so would Gabe. If you are set to this course, I will tell you what I know. I’ve seen the old man fight—strong as an ox he is, and quick like a gnome despite his years. His skill with the blade is great, but he has his flaws. Lean down, boy, so I can tell you quiet-like.”

  The sergeant of the guard exited the chambers, closing the massive oaken doors behind him. On a couch in the antechamber, Lord Angle Theta sat in full battle armor, his back to the wall. Across from him sat Dolan Silk, his manservant. A guard stood at each side of the Council Chamber’s doors; two others, and a Myrdonian Knight stood near a huge, locked cabinet within which were housed the weapons of those visitors within the chambers.

  “By order of the Council,” said the sergeant, looking toward the Myrdonian, “I’m to bring the Eotrus his weapons.”

  “What say you?” said the Myrdonian.

  “There’s to be a duel—the young Eotrus against the Chancellor; the boy called him out. The Council calls for his sword.”

  At this, Dolan stood up, a look of surprise on his face. Theta raised an eyebrow.

  “A duel?” said the Myrdonian. “You jest?”

  “It’s true. The Chancellor accused him of killing his father, so the boy challenged him.”

  “Will it be to the death?” said Theta, suddenly standing behind the sergeant.

  “Almost certainly, yes,” said the Myrdonian. “Unless the victor shows mercy. Since that will be the Chancellor, there will be no quarter given.”

  “Dolan,” said Theta, “turn over your arms to these men, and go within to watch.”

  As Dolan doffed his weapons, Theta whispered in his ear. “If there’s foul play, come out at once or give sign.”

  Theta leaned casually against the counter, carefully positioning himself within arm’s length of the Myrdonian knight while gauging the precise distance from there to each of the other guards. His gauntleted hand at his hip, just inches from the hilt of the massive falchion that hung from a bejeweled leather belt at his waist.

  The sergeant took up Claradon’s sword and reentered the Council chambers, Dolan following.

  Claradon and his comrades stepped down from the petitioners’ dais. Attendants pushed it to the side of the hall, and ushered the various aides and courtiers well away from the action. Chancellor Barusa strode down the steps from the mezzanine and strapped on his shield.

  “50 silver crowns on the troll,” shouted Cartagian. “Even my cat could take the other one.”

  Barusa stepped to the center of the hall, as did Claradon. “I always expected to cross blades with your father,” said Barusa quietly. “All the easier since it’s you, boy. Now Dor Eotrus will go to the Alders and your family will fade to nothing.”

  Claradon’s eyes were wide with fear, his face grew pale, and sweat beaded on his forehead as Barusa drew close.

  “Realizing the stupidity of this challenge, whelp?” said Barusa. “Too late now to withdraw. Soon you will be as dead as your father, but not before I have sport with you.”

  “Perhaps you will kill me, but my brothers will stand against you,” said Claradon, his voice wavering. “They will avenge me.”

  An evil grin formed on Barusa’s face. “Your brothers are already dead; I have seen to it.”

  Horror and shock covered Claradon's face and his sword clattered to the floor.

  Barusa rolled his eyes. “Dead gods, you sniveling cur—pick up your sword.”

  Claradon did so, his eyes wide, pleading.

  “Who ate my cat?” shouted Cartagian. “He's nothing but skin and bones.”

  “Are you ready?” called out Lord Jhensezil. Both men signaled that they were.

  Barusa stepped in and slashed his blade back and forth, as much flourish as attack, all designed to test and probe his opponent, to gauge his skills and take his measure. Claradon put up the slow and clumsy defense of a frightened youth with no real combat experience. His sword visibly shook from his terror. All he could do was clumsily parry the Chancellor's punishing slashes, backpedal, and sidestep in awkward fashion. It was plain for all to see that he was far overmatched and wanted nothing but to run, to flee.

  Barusa toyed with him for several minutes, beating down his defense with broad, powerful strokes, holding back his killing thrust. Claradon managed a few weak slashes, all ineffective. Winded from the strain, Claradon looked as if he were about to drop.

  “Pathetic whelp,” said Barusa. “You have even less skill than courage, and this grows tiresome. Give my regards to your father.”

  Barusa pulled his shield to the right, better covering his torso and swiftly raised his sword for an overhand strike designed to crush Claradon's skull and end the duel. Just as Ob has advised him, Claradon sprang to his left, all sign of fear and fatigue dropped from his face, and slashed his heavy blade with blazing speed and great power against Barusa's side, just below his armpit. The sound of cracking ribs erupted through the hall, though Barusa's heavy mail held, saving him from a mortal wound.

  A roar of surprise went up among the attendants, courtiers, and guards alike. The councilors gasped and jumped to their feet; even Bishop Tobin came alive and bounced up.

  The Chancellor groaned and staggered forward, then dropped to his knees, coughing blood. His sword clattered to the floor and his right arm hung limp.

  “Off with his head,” screeched Cartagian. “His head for my mantle.”

  Claradon moved smoothly to Barusa's side, kicked his sword away, and placed his blade against the back of the Chancellor's neck.

  Several Myrdonian knights pulled their weapons and moved forward. Dolan dashed for the door to the antechamber.

  “Hurry boy, finish him,” yelled Ob as he drew a hidden dagger from beneath his vest and moved to engage the Myrdonians, Tanch beside him—his palms glowing with an eerie light stemming from his wizardry.

  Ob kicked the closest Myrdonian in the groin and he went down in a heap.

  Tanch and Ob now stood back to back with Claradon.

  The Duke's men moved toward the Myrdonians, but they were far outnumbered. “Hold,” shouted the Duke from his place in the gallery. “Let no one interfere.”

  Most of the Myrdonians surrounded Claradon and his comrades, though none dared attack with Claradon's blade at their master's throat. The rest held back the Duke's men. There they stood in standoff for several moments, the leaders no doubt calculating the odds of victory for their own.

  The Vizier, still beside his seat in the gallery, lifted his hands from within his sleeves, preparing no doubt to weave some sinister sorcery. Before he could execute it, the cold steel of wide blade pressed his nape.

  The Vizier gasped in surprise, as he had heard no one approa
ch. A thin line of blood trickled down his back, staining his collar.

  “Recall your dogs, wizard,” whispered a deep voice in his ear.

  “Stand down,” shouted the Vizier after but a moment's pause. He chanced to turn his head and gaze on his besieger. Lord Theta stared back at him.

  The Myrdonians withdrew from Claradon, though slowly, begrudgingly, as if the Vizier's orders meant little to them.

  “Do you recant your accusations against me and mine?” boomed the young patriarch of House Eotrus, loud enough for all in the hall to hear.

  Barusa's eyes burned with hatred. He spit blood through clenched teeth.

  “Speak now or your life is forfeit,” said Claradon.

  “. . . I recant,” said the Chancellor coughing up more blood.

  “His blood is red just like my cat's,” bellowed Cartagian as he capered about.

  Claradon stepped back and put up his sword.

  “You will regret this, Eotrus,” said Cartagian. “Just like my troll.”

  Harringgold stood motionless. “Let no more threats or accusations be heard against the heir to House Eotrus,” said the Duke. “He has proven his quality before the gods and all those gathered here today. Henceforth, he will carry the mantle of his house and let no man challenge him for it.”

  Urged on by Ob, Claradon and the others quickly made their way out of the Council chambers, carefully stepped around the unconscious soldiers Theta had left in the antechamber, and fled Tammanian Hall.

  III

  THE SHADOW LEAGUE

  Later that day, in the grand citadel of Dor Lomion, the highest point within the walls of ancient Lomion City, Duke Harringgold held secret council with Claradon Eotrus and his retinue. Gathered about a large oval table, Harringgold sat at one end, Claradon the other, their men in between. Harringgold's trusted guards stood as silent sentinels about the door and in this corner and that. At Harringgold's right hand sat Lord Samwise Sluug, the tall, lean, and dangerous Preceptor of the Rangers Guild and master of Doriath Hall. At his left was Sir Seran, the Duke's nephew: clean-cut, shiny armored, and young. With Claradon were Ob, Tanch, Theta, and Sir Glimador Malvegil.

  “Lord Harringgold,” said Tanch, “the Eotrus greatly appreciate your hospitality and generosity in boarding us during our stay in Lomion City. After our adventure this morning, safe harbor in the city may well have been hard to find.”

  “The Eotrus are welcome in my fortress,” Dor Lomion, “as always and ever. I counted Aradon a trusted ally and friend of long years. I hope to say the same of his heir.”

  “As do I,” said Claradon.

  “Curious then,” said Ob, “that your guards have shadowed our every move since we arrived, two to each of us, and all skittish-like.”

  “That watch was set at my urging, Castellan,” said Sluug. “I meant no offense by it, but caution is prudent in the best of times, and these times are growing dark, as I'm sure you will agree.”

  Ob nodded begrudgingly and swallowed back whatever wisecrack sought to stumble out.

  “Brother Claradon,” said Harringgold. “Please share with us the tale of what truly happened to your father and his men.”

  “The whole truth this time,” said Sluug. “Not the tale of fancy you told in Tammanian Hall.”

  Claradon didn't immediately respond.

  “I want to help you,” said Harringgold, “but I can't if you don't trust me, and my help I believe you require, despite your victory today.”

  “You have ever been a friend to the Eotrus, my lord. I have not forgotten that.”

  “And today was none different,” said Ob. “You spoke up on Claradon's behalf when you could've kept silent and safe. We will not soon forget that. But your words served your own purposes as much as ours. Ain't that so?”

  “We have common purpose,” said Harringgold. “That's nothing new and no secret.”

  An uneasy silence ruled the room for several moments before the Duke spoke again. “All I can say is that within this hall, you are amongst friends and should speak freely.”

  Claradon nodded. “Very well, but the tale will take some time.”

  “The servants are bringing wine and hot tea and I have already cleared my schedule,” said the Duke.

  Claradon and Ob, supported now and again by Tanch, told all that there was to tell about the recent events in the Vermion Forest—the tragic deaths, the otherworldly monsters, the mystical gateway to Nifleheim, and the sinister Temple of Guymaog. They answered the many questions posed by the Duke and Sluug as best they could. Theta listened and watched, but said nothing. Eventually, the conversation turned back to the killers that attacked Riker's Crossroads.

  “I have made it my mission to hunt down Korrgonn,” said Claradon. “I will not rest until he and his evil band are dead.”

  “If I were you I would feel the same,” said the Duke. “But there are other grave matters to consider before you venture on that course.”

  “Such as the madness that's overtaken the Council?” said Claradon.

  “Indeed,” said Harringgold. “Madness is as good a word as any to describe it. The High Council is one of Lomion's greatest achievements. It has allowed us to maintain the traditional monarchy while placing nearly all the decision making into the hands of the mercantile, military, administrative, and religious leaders of the land—all the while maintaining a balance of power amongst those divergent groups. But as you saw today, the Council is corrupted—a mockery of its former self. For all practical purposes, the High Council is no more, and may never be again.”

  “What of the Council of Lords?” said Claradon.

  “It fares better, but not by much,” said Harringgold. “Paranoia and fear rule there as much as anything, placing the Lords in impotent disarray.”

  “And sadly, young Eotrus, the mercy you showed today may cost us dearly in the days to come. A new power is rising is Lomion. A dark power of which today you saw only the merest glimpse. The death of Barusa might have turned the tide in our favor, or at least slowed it, giving us more time to prepare.”

  “Or, it may have made things worse,” said Sluug.

  Harringgold shrugged. “Who can say?”

  “What is this dark power?” said Claradon. “What madness assails Lomion? Tell me.”

  “The Shadow League, or the League of Shadows, as some call it,” said the Duke as he carefully surveyed the faces of his guests. “Have any of you heard those names before?”

  They indicated they had not.

  “Others call it the League of Light,” said Sluug. “Have you heard of that?”

  Again, they had not.

  “By whatever name they go,” said the Duke, “they are an alliance among various corrupt churchmen, organized criminal groups, rogue wizards, and bizarre cults. I believe House Alder figures prominently in the League's hierarchy, and with the League's support, the Vizier recently gained control of the Tower of the Arcane.”

  Tanch started at this and his eyes grew wide.

  “The members of the Shadow League are not of one mind, however. They fight for position, striving to gain power and control within their treasonous alliance. It's this struggle, I believe, that causes Barusa and the Vizier to vie with each other, and only due to that infighting does the High Council survive at all.”

  “The tale of how all this came about is long and complex. What I can say now is that Barusa effectively rules in the king's stead. His majesty, King Tenzivel, is rarely seen, and likely only still lives because his bodyguards never leave his side and haven't yet been corrupted. He is a prisoner in his own palace. Barusa controls the Myrdonians, and through proxies, he commands nearly the entire City Watch. Cartagian is his puppet, though a dangerous, unpredictable, and unreliable one. Slyman is Barusa's lackey. He controls the guilds, their wealth, and their soldiers. But the Vizier may be the worst of them all—manipulating events from behind the scenes. He is subtle, smart, and devious. 'Twas in a bloody coup several months ago that he wrested control
of the Tower of the Arcane from the Grandmasters.”

  “Word on the streets is that Grandmaster Pipkorn was killed in the fighting,” said Sluug, again studying the others’ reactions.

  “But we know better,” said Harringgold. “When all was lost, Pipkorn fled the tower and went into hiding, though he has not been seen publicly since.”

  Tanch shook his head in disbelief. “How could that happen? No one could defeat Master Pipkorn. I can't believe this.”

  “Nevertheless, it is the truth,” said Harringgold. “Marshal Balfor commands the city's standing army, but grovels at the Vizier's feet. What hold the wizard has over the old war dog, we know not. Bishop Tobin ostensibly represents the Churchmen, but his true loyalties are unclear—all that I can say for certain is that he is not nearly as addle-pated as he puts on. Lady Aramere's loyalties are also suspect.”

  “And Lord Jhensezil?” said Claradon.

  “He stands firmly with us, as do most of the Noble Houses and the Church Knights. Lady Dahlia of Kern is with us, and Lord Glenfinnen, and a few others. I, of course, command Dor Lomion and its garrison—though even here skulk spies for the League. Lord Sluug commands Doriath Hall and all its rangers and agents—our eyes, ears, and good right arm, although even within Doriath’s hallowed halls, we suspect lurk spies of the enemy. For too long we focused our gazes on enemies outside Lomion, while those within grew in strength, infiltrated our ranks, and poisoned us from the inside.”

  The chamber's door swung open and the conversation halted. Claradon turned to see a tall, swarthy man framed in the portal. Dressed in gray and black, head to boot, he surveyed the room for a moment, and then stepped in, the guards paying him no heed or homage.

  “The name of this devil you will know,” said the Duke, pointing toward the new arrival, “though not his face. Meet Dark Sendarth.”

  Tanch gasped.

  “The Dark Sendarth?” said Ob, a look of amazement on his face. “The master assassin? Most deadly killer to ever walk Midgaard?”