Gateway to Nifleheim (11 page)

“You overcooked it quite a bit, you did, Mister Claradon,” said Dolan.

“Lots of legs, like you said,” said Ob as he nudged the smoldering heap with the toe of his boot. “You sure there ain’t two or three of them piled atop one another?”

“I’m sure,” said Claradon.

“Well, you earned your pay for the day, soldier,” said Ob. “You killed it right and proper. Would’ve been nice if you left it in fewer pieces and didn’t burn it to cinders so we could figure out what the heck it was. From what is here, I just can’t tell.”

“It was wounded, badly, even before it smashed through the window,” said Claradon. “Charred and busted up more than enough to kill a man.”

“Yet it climbed up near two hundred feet,” said Gabriel from where he stood by the window, holding a lantern over the sill to light up the outer face of the wall. “I see a blood trail down the facade. It must have seen your light, and climbed all the way up from the courtyard. That’s determination.”

“That stone is sheer and smooth as a baby’s bottom,” said Ob. “Even a Hand assassin couldn’t scale it on his best day.”

“Well that thing did,” said Gabriel.

“Let’s get that window plugged up,” said Ob. “My head is starting to spin from the darned wailing again.”

“It spoke,” said Claradon.

“Who?” said Ob.

“That thing,” he said, pointing to the remains. “It said something about giving up my soul.”

“Your soul?” said Ob. “It’s just an animal, boy. How could it talk? And even if it could, what would it know of souls? You sure your head’s on straight? Did Gorned hear it too, or Humph?”

“They weren’t in the room yet.”

Ob pulled out his sword and poked its tip around in the remains. “Maybe it was no beast at all. Maybe it was a man—all dressed up in a costume, trying to look like some kind of monster. If it spoke, that has to be it. Dagnabbit, maybe I spoke too soon before. Maybe the Black Hand is involved. That’s all we need. We might be better off with an invasion. I’ll take a stand-up fight any day over stinking assassins.”

“It’s too charred to tell for certain one way or the other,” said Gabriel.

“This was no man,” said Theta.

“Then it must be some creature what come out of the caves up in the hills,” said Ob. “Some holdover from olden days. But such a thing couldn’t talk—it would be just an animal. What say you, Gabe?”

“I say we had better search the grounds and the Outer Dor in case there are more of them. To climb up the tower wall in the condition it was in, and to put up the fight that it did, tells me all I need to know. It’s dangerous, and if there are more, we need to root them out and put them down. The quicker the better.”

“Maybe this here fellow and his kin are what jumped your patrol,” said Dolan. “Maybe that is why it was wounded, maybe.”

“Maybe so,” said Ob nodding his head. “Maybe so.”

“Do you know what it is?” said Gabriel to Theta.

“As you said, there is not enough left to tell for certain,” said Theta, “but more than likely, it's a reskalan.”

“What is a reskalan?” said Dolan.

“They’re foot soldiers out of Nifleheim,” said Gabriel.

“A what out of Nifleheim?” said Ob. “You are joking, right?”

“He doesn’t joke,” said Dolan.

“Then you’re daft,” said Ob. “Nifleheim and everything about it is a fairy story handed down through the ages. Me grandpop used to tell me tales of Nifleheim when I misbehaved. Them monsters are nothing but figments and bunk, dreamed up to scare the whelps, nothing more. The only ones what believe different, is some religious weirdos, and country bumpkins. This thing is an animal—a strange one, I’ll admit, but an animal just the same, and now it is dead and that’s the end of it.”

“How would it have gotten here?” said Claradon to Theta, “If you’re right about what it is?”

“A wizard would have conjured it up,” said Theta.

“From Nifleheim?” said Claradon.

“Aye,” said Theta.

“Oh boy,” said Ob. “Now we’ve got magic and monsters. Next you will have giant bunnies attacking us and maybe a unicorn or two. You people are loons.”

***

Two small Lomerian longboats drifted down a river whose water was as red as blood and plagued by jagged rocks and treacherous currents. Mist limited one’s vision in all directions, though it was thinnest behind and thickest ahead. The lead boat flew the black; the trailing boat flew a white sail, though otherwise, the boats were as twins.

A lonely figure manned the tiller at each boat’s stern, no rowers or crewmen in sight. Amidships of each was a small wooden platform upon which rested a body, richly dressed: garment, armor, and arms. Funeral boats were these, sailing into the afterlife, bearing the honored dead to Valhalla, though no pyre yet burned on either vessel.

Claradon looked up and saw, amidst the clouds, Valkyries astride their winged steeds, circling overhead, their gazes fixed on the doomed boats below. Claradon strained to see the faces of the pilots and of the dead, and moved closer to get a better look.

The armor of the dead man in the lead boat gleamed and sparkled so brightly that even in the diffuse light he had to squint to look at it, but he recognized the olden craftsmanship at once. The fallen warrior was his beloved father, his rugged face pale and sallow, hands crossed at his breast gripping his sword. Claradon’s worst fears had come to pass. His eyes filled with tears and his throat tightened; he could barely breathe. The man at the tiller turned toward Claradon. It was Sir Gabriel, tall and strong as ever, his eyes sad, his face forlorn. His sure and steady hand guided the boat past the rocks and through the rapids, safeguarding it along its journey.

Claradon looked again at his father and realized his mistake. It was not Aradon Eotrus at all. It was Claradon's brother, Jude. His father and Jude looked much alike, despite Jude's youth and clean-shaven face. But how could this be? Jude was off in Lomion City, safe and sound at the Tyrian Chapterhouse. Dear gods, how could he be dead? His little brother, dead? Claradon’s heart wrenched in his chest. It cannot be. When he looked again at Sir Gabriel, Gabriel had changed. His eyes were all wrong. They gleamed with a golden tint; no, more than that, they were completely golden—no whites to them at all. His expression was uncharacteristic, as was his stance, and he kept looking over his shoulder at the trailing ship, as if it were chasing him. As if he feared it. Now his steering was chaotic and bold as he pulled the vessel in one direction and then the other. Up ahead, the river split—quiet and calm water to one side, and rapids leading to great falls to the other. Strangely, it seemed that Gabriel maneuvered the ship toward the falls and certain disaster, or was the second ship forcing him in that direction? It wasn’t clear. Confused, Claradon shook his head in dismay and forced himself to look away.

Claradon looked back at the second boat. The boatman was wrapped in a dark cloak with a deep hood. He looked up at Claradon and there was no mistaking who it was. Lord Angle Theta guided the boat, subtlely nudging it this way and that as it made its way through the mist. Claradon looked down at that boat's fallen warrior and recognized the dress garment and armor at once. It was he—Claradon, dead atop the pyre. But how? When? It made no sense. Claradon made to call out to Theta, but the man at the tiller wasn't Theta after all. It was Claradon himself; he steered the boat, standing at the rear, yet he also lay on the pyre. He was at once in both positions, both alive and dead. It made no sense.

Claradon felt himself falling.

He opened his eyes to the dim light of the Dor's basement. He heard the men stirring from sleep outside his makeshift bedchamber.

IX

DOR EOTRUS

A squad of guardsmen set out at dawn to reconnoiter, but the main group’s departure was postponed due to the night’s events. At midmorning, the expedition assembled in the shadow of the curtain wall near the inner bailey’s gates. The night’s chill was still in the air, though mercifully, the wretched wailing was hours gone. A throng of family, friends, and looky-loos gathered to see the expedition off and wish them well. Claradon stood by the portcullis, Ob, Gabriel, and Ector at his side, while the men adjusted their gear and said their goodbyes. Each knight was clad in battle armor polished to a sheen and impregnated with pigments: gold, silver, blue, or gray. Theirs wasn’t the old-style armor of link and chain that was long the staple in Midgaard, nor was it the newer, fashionable and lightweight plate armor churned out by Lomerian smiths for the kingdom’s guardsmen and the private soldiery of the nobility and prominent guildsmen. This was armor designed for the professional soldier—built for war, not pomp, pageantry, or tourney, though it was as ornate as any tooled for those tasks. It was frighteningly thick and strong, thorough in its coverage, and custom crafted to suit each man’s shape by master smiths in Dor Eotrus’s own forges. Few noble Houses boasted armor that could begin to compare. Heavy as it was, the knights moved freely in it. That was in some part due to their size and strength, characteristic of men of the northlands, as well as the ingenious design of the armor’s joints, which provided robust protection while barely limiting one’s reach and agility. The main reason, though, was that the Eotrus knights wore their armor daily as part of their ongoing training. For them, it was almost a second skin.

Atop their armor, each man proudly wore the House colors on tabard, cloak, and cape, and the Eotrus sigil was prominently displayed across their tabards. Similarly, each man was equipped with a shield of oak and iron, emblazoned in blue and gold, with their own family’s sigil adorning the front. The matching armor, shields, and colors united them and identified them as a single force—as Eotrus men. Their weapons, however, held no such uniformity. Each man carried an array of death dealers of his own choosing that suited his skills, style, and tastes. Some favored lances, spears, or halberds; others, swords of one type or another; war hammers, great and small; one and two-handed axes; and crossbows of local make. And as instructed, each man girded one of Gabriel’s daggers to belt, ankle, or shoulder.

The knights’ warhorses were tall and strong and of shaggy coats common to the large northern breeds, with colors ranging from chestnut to maroon. The grooms brought them out from the stables fully accoutered—their barding and colors matching their masters’ armor and garb.

“If the kin of that creature—the reskalan or whatever Theta named it —is what hit our patrol, we’ve no more time to waste,” said Claradon. “We need to get out there and help them. Don’t you think we should call the men to order? We’ve got to get moving.”

“Not just yet,” said Ob.

Gabriel noticed the furrow that grew along Claradon’s brow as he stared at Ob, expecting some further word from him that did not come. “I know how you feel,” said Gabriel. “You want to rush out those gates and find your father as fast as can be, and you want to tear apart anyone or anything that has hurt him. I feel the same, and so do those knights, every last one of them. But they have loved ones too. We need to give them some time to say their goodbyes. We’ve got to respect that.”

“Sending men off to battle is not the same as moving pieces on a gameboard, my boy,” said Ob. “Not by any stretch. Game tokens stand all lonesome, with no history, no future, and no connection to anyone or anything else. It’s not that way with real soldiers. A good leader must never forget that.”

“Do you understand?” said Gabriel, looking to Claradon and Ector, in turn.

They both nodded and said that they did.

 Sir Bilson’s wife and triplet daughters were all hugs and kisses and tears. Sir Erendin of Forndin Manor and his brothers, Sir Miden, and Sir Talbot were each embraced by their ladies fair. Sir Bareddal of Hanok Keep hugged his daughter of two, his wife sadly passed from the fever during the previous winter. Artol's entire brood came out to see him off—his petite wife, not five feet tall, and nearly a score of children ranging in age from two to twenty. Artol took the time for a hug and kiss or a handshake for each son and daughter. He looked each one in the eye and offered them his toothy smile and a brief word.

“Artol’s two eldest boys petitioned me to take them along,” said Ob. “They made it hard to say no.”

“They are both of age and skilled with a sword,” said Ector. “Why did you deny them?”

“Ours is a job for veterans,” said Ob, “not eager boys.”

“All the same,” said Gabriel to Ector, “they will serve you well while we’re gone, if it comes to it.”

Sir Glimador Malvegil’s lady was there and did not go unnoticed by the men. “She must have gotten up at dawn to get all fancied up like that,” said Ob. “And what for, I ask you? The girl is as beautiful as Sif or Freya themselves and with curves like an elven lass. What she needs with face paint and fancy gowns, I will never know.”

“It’s part of her style,” said Claradon.

“A merchant’s daughter doesn’t get betrothed to the heir of House Malvegil unless she is something special,” said Gabriel. “The Malvegils have only married other nobility as far back as anyone can remember.”

“It’s her style and personality as much as her looks that won my uncle’s approval,” said Claradon.

“Can’t fault Torbin for that,” said Ob. “I would not turn her away, I’m not ashamed to admit. But look at stinking Indigo. That boy has got no shame,” he said as they watched the young knight get swarmed by several maidens that nearly came to blows vying for his attentions. Indigo’s chiseled features, ready smile, extreme height and muscled build had ever made him the favorite of the ladies and he was never one to squander the opportunities so provided. “If he is fool enough to have more than one at once, he should at least keep them apart and secret like. Don’t you think?”

“I think he likes to watch them fight,” said Ector.

Ob considered that for a moment. “Might be something to that,” he said scratching his chin.

A richly dressed middle-aged lady scowled at Indigo’s girls as she stood beside Sir Paldor and another man whose rumpled clothes indicated he had hastily been pulled from bed. “Paldor's parents,” said Ob. “Didn’t know they were here.”