Knight Eternal (A Novel of Epic Fantasy) (Harbinger of Doom Volume 3) (8 page)

From within the sack he
pulled a deerskin quiver filled with arrows of black stony heads
and shafts of exotic wood fletched with green feathers. “For you,”
he said, handing the quiver to Dolan. “Made by the Vanyar Elves of
legend. You will find that they fly truer and farther than any
others. The tips are made of ranal, a metal with the look of
obsidian, but hard as steel and near half again as light. They’re
imbued with some queer magic of the Vanyar; use them against the
minions of Nifleheim when common arrows fail you.”

“
Thank you, Mr. Wizard,
sir,” said Dolan, bowing low.

Pipkorn reached back into the tall sack and
pulled out a short sword, gleaming silver and inscribed with runes.
“For you, Sir Seran. This is a Dyvers blade, but no common one.
This beauty was forged four hundred years ago by Lord Dyvers
himself, one of his last and greatest works. Use it well.”

Pipkorn handed Seran the ancient blade.
“Thank you, Master Pipkorn; I’m in your debt.”

“
Yes of course, as is
everyone. And where is young Malvegil?”

“
Glimador left for Dor
Malvegil some days ago,” said Claradon.

“
Of course,” said Pipkorn.
Pipkorn pulled another stylish short sword from his sack. “Sir
Seran, I trust that you’ll not mind holding your blade’s twin until
Glimador rejoins this merry band?”

“
I would be honored,” said
Seran.

“
No doubt, no doubt,” said
Pipkorn.

Next, Pipkorn pulled a short-hafted
battle-axe from the sack, and handed it to Ob. “For you, sir.” The
axe had a dull silver color to its head, and a stout oaken haft
carved with curious runes.

“
Mighty pretty axe there,
Pip,” said Ob, as he grasped the handle. “It almost looks like it
were made of—”

“
Mithril?” said Pipkorn.
“Indeed it is. I know of no other like it.”

“
An axe of mithril? Even
in legend I’ve only heard of one.”

“
Yes, only one,” said
Pipkorn, a wry smile on his face. “And this is she. The axe of
Bigby the Bold, late Prince of the great gnomish city of Shandelon,
and last of his line.”

Ob’s eyes near popped from his head. “It
cannot be. How could you ever come across this?”

“
One of many tales for
which we have no time, I fear. Suffice that it will serve you well,
as it served the gnomish lords and kings of Shandelon for a
thousand years and more.”

Pipkorn patted himself down searching for
something. “Ah, here it is.” From a pocket, he pulled a bronze
ring. “For you, Tanch Trinagal of the Blue Tower, son of Sinch”
said Pipkorn as he handed over the ring. “You hold in your hand the
fabled Ring of the Magi, one of twenty born in the forge of the
Wizard Talidousen, Sorcerer Supreme during the reign of King
Zeltlin II, more than seven thousand years ago. The skills that
ensorcelled it and its brothers are long lost to the world and
likely as not, will not be found again. Keep it close, and keep it
secret, for there is many a mage and hedge wizard that would gladly
kill to possess one of these.”

Tanch stared at it in wonder. “Legend tells
that these rings can amplify a wizard’s power, increasing the
strength and duration of his magics.”

“
It does that and more, as
you’ll come to know in time.”

“
Now, young Lord Eotrus,
for you, I have something truly special.” He reached under his
cloak and pulled out a gold chain hung round his neck. He lifted it
off over his head. From the chain hung a bejeweled amulet of fiery
red and gold stones, set in a seven-sided gold base. The center
stone was red with streaks of yellow, having the appearance of a
great cat’s eye, and giving off a soft glow. “Brother Claradon
Eotrus, Lord of Dor Eotrus, son of Aradon, and first of your name,
I present to you the fabled Amulet of Escandell. Its stones were
forged in the heart of a falling star that fell to Midgaard in the
second age of our world, the Age of Heroes. Lord Escandell, first
wizard of the Tower of the Arcane found the fallen star, plucked
these very stones from its maw, and weaved them into the golden
base with eldritch spells and mighty words of power from bygone
days. When worn around your neck, no enemy can take you unawares
and no beast can surprise you. Wear it beneath your outer garments,
close to your heart forevermore and fail you it will not. Even now
it glows a bit—as there is danger here, but it’s not immediate, so
the glow is soft and dim. As the glow and heat increases, so does
your peril.”

“
There are no words,
Master Pipkorn, for such generosity. I am in your debt, sir. I
thank you,” he said, bowing before the archmage.

Pipkorn turned toward Theta. “I have not
forgotten you, my Lord. For the Great Dragon I have this.” Pipkorn
reached into his robe and pulled out a leather sheath housing a
bejeweled dagger. The handle was long, and black and silver,
perhaps metal or even stone.

“
That looks like Gabe’s
dagger, Dargus Dal, though even fancier,” said Ob. “One of those
old Asgardian blades.”

“
A good eye, sir,” said
Pipkorn. “An Asgardian blade it is, but no common one—if any of
them could be called common.” Pipkorn pulled it from its worn
leather sheath.

“
Lord Theta, I present to
you—“

“
Wotan Dal,” said Theta as
Pipkorn handed it to him handle first. Theta held the blade up
before his eyes and studied it.

“
Yes,” said Pipkorn,
smiling. “Wotan Dal, which means “god’s blade” in the old tongue.
This my friends was the blade of Lord Odin himself, the all-father,
ruler of the gods, king of the mighty Aesir. Forged before time
itself in the first age of our world, in the days of myth and
legend. Its blade cannot be dulled and no armor can turn
it.”

Theta beamed as he gazed at the blade and
its ornate handle. “This is a wonder I never thought to see
again.”

“
Bet that’s worth a pretty
penny,” said Ob as he looked back and forth between it and his new
axe.

“
It’s worth the good half
of the king’s treasury,” said Tanch.

“
More,” said Theta. “A
king’s cache of gold can be replaced, this cannot.” Theta placed
Wotan Dal in a sheath at his belt, replacing the blade that was
there. “Thank you, wizard. Truly. I will make good use of
it.”

“
I know, my Lord. That’s
why it is rightly yours, and no other’s.”

“
I have one more gift,
this one made by my own hand.” He pulled a small wooden box from a
deep pocket and held it out to Claradon. “I call this, the Ghost
Ship box. Open its lid while on deck and a duplicate of your
vessel, crew and all, will appear out of nowhere and sit the water
some hundred yards from your vessel, in whichever direction you
point the open lid. Angle the lid higher to the sky and the ship
will appear farther out, angle it down closer to the water, and the
ship will appear closer. Make no mistake, this is no parlor trick.
This duplicate will not only look as your ship, but will make the
same noises and have the same scent. If the ghost ship is hit with
catapult, ballistae, or fire it will take damage, its men will go
down, and if the damage is bad enough, the ship will sink, ending
the illusion. Use it wisely. It carries within it enough mystical
energy to hold its illusion no more than one hour–whether that be
in one use only, two half hours, or ten uses of six minutes or any
other combination. One hour only. Do not forget.”

“
Thank you, Master
Pipkorn,” said Claradon. “We will use your gifts
wisely.”

Pipkorn nodded. “Men, I
must also tell you that your enemies on this quest aren’t just
those sailing with Korrgonn on
The White
Rose;
there will be some just as deadly
behind as well. Someone, though I know not who, has hired The Black
Hand to slay you. I don’t know if their target is Lord Theta or
Lord Eotrus or both, but the Hand will follow you, however far you
go. And that’s not the worst of it. The Alders bear you a weighty
grudge, Claradon, because you bested Barusa in that duel. They’ve
hired mercenaries to see to you. There’s talk of Kaledon of the
Gray Waste—a Pict and foul sword master of mystical power. Beware
him, he is a deadly foe. Worse still, the winds say that the
Duelist of Dyvers was given a warrant on your life as well. With
him come the Knights of Kalathen, as formidable a group of tin cans
as any.”

“
Just kill us now,” said
Tanch. “The Duelist of Dyvers. The Knights of Kalathen. The Black
Hand. The Shadow League. Cultists, and Nifleheim Lords too. How
many of these madmen can we withstand? My back just can’t take this
stress,” he said groaning and wincing as he slowly sunk down to his
seat. “It’s all too much, too much,” he said, holding his brow.
“It’s the end of the world. The end times are here.”

“
Whatever happens,
Claradon, do not face the duelist in battle,” said Pipkorn. “Mark
these words well. Heed them better than you have ever heeded any
words before. The duelist is a foe you cannot match. If he stands
in your path, forget your pride, forget your good name, forget your
honor, forget your friends, and forget anything else that would
give you pause and just flee. Just run, boy, and keep running until
you’re well away and then run a good ways more and pray you’ve lost
him. Flee and live to fight another day. Don’t forget these words
or the duelist will be the death of you.” Pipkorn turned toward
Theta. “I believe you knew the duelist, my lord, in days gone by.
His name is Milton DeBoors.”

Theta furrowed his brow. “That’s a name I
haven’t heard in long years. The man I knew was a soldier, a leader
of men, not a hired killer.”

“
Times change, and so do
men. But you know that, my Lord, better than any. Let not these
mercenaries stop you or distract you from your goal. You must
succeed in your mission. You must kill Gallis Korrgonn, whatever
the cost. You must not allow him to open another
gateway.”

“
Another gateway?” said
Claradon.

“
That can’t be his mind,”
said Tanch.

“
Make no mistake, my
friends,” said Pipkorn, “That is Korrgonn’s goal, I’m certain of
it.” Pipkorn looked over at Theta. “You agree, my Lord?”

“
That is his plan, there
can be little doubt,” said Theta.

“
So all Midgaard is still
at risk?” said Ob.

“
That’s the danger,” said
Pipkorn. “That’s why your mission is so important. That’s why you
must not fail.”

“
Master Pipkorn,” said
Claradon. “If this is true, then why are the Shadow Leaguers aiding
Korrgonn? There are powerful wizards and learned men among their
number. It can’t all just be religious zealotry. Do they truly want
to destroy the world? It doesn’t make sense.”

“
Why do you think powerful
wizards would help Korrgonn?” asked Pipkorn.

“
They’re nuts, plain and
simple,” said Ob. “Crazed religious wackos.”

“
They must think they
stand to gain somehow,” said Claradon.

“
And what gain do wizards
seek?” said Pipkorn.

“
They want mystical power
above all things. Somehow, they must believe that they will acquire
it by opening another gateway. They must think that they’ll be
spared in the madness that follows, or else they plan to close the
gateway after something or someone comes through, before the world
can be overrun.”

Pipkorn smiled a thin smile. “Good theories,
Lord Eotrus. No matter what their reasons though, they must be
stopped. That task falls to you. The fate of us all depends on your
success.”

“
Now, my friends, I must
be gone before too many eyes fall upon me. More spies are watching
this ship than an old man can count. I’ll be lucky to make it back
to that hovel in Southeast unaccosted.”

Pipkorn walked to the door and unlatched it,
and then turned back. He looked at each man in the room. “There’s a
storm coming to Lomion, my friends. If your journey is long, you
may find that on your return, the Lomion you knew is no longer. Be
swift, but most importantly, be successful.”

Pipkorn put up his cowl, stooped over, and
opened the door. “Farewell,” he said, closing the portal behind
him.

Furnished in dark wood, the Captain’s Den
held a big cherrywood table and chairs, a mariner’s globe, fine
leather couches, shelves of books, maps, and more. Theta’s
floatable trunks were stacked in one corner. A spacious back room
held all manner of foodstuffs, provisions, gear, and a water
closet. A second room housed a dozen stacked bunks.

“
We’ll make our base
here,” said Theta. “It’s defensible and more comfortable than we
could ask for on a ship.”

“
The rooms below deck
assigned to you and Claradon are spacious, Lord Theta,” said Tanch.
“Wouldn’t they serve better?”

“
If it were our ship,
perhaps they would, but it’s not. Better that we stay together in a
secure location.”

“
Captain Slaayde will
never agree,” said Claradon.

The Den’s door swung open,
Captain Slaayde in its breach. He looked about at each of them.
Tall and barrel built, Slaayde’s hair, a straight golden blond, his
age perhaps forty, eyes blue and shifty. Clad in a white doublet,
loose fitting blue pantaloons, a black bandoleer, black belt, black
gloves and boots, all patent leather and shiny, and girded with a
cutlass and dagger of wide cage guards, he looked every bit the
swashbuckler of his reputation. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said
Slaayde quietly, a nervous smile across his round face. Have you
lost your way? This is a private chamber. Your cabins are below
deck.”