Harbinger of Doom ( Epic Fantasy Three Book Bundle), page 23
“You are out of line, Barusa,” said Ob, shaking his fist. “Way out.”
“Your Excellency—Lord Eotrus’s death—it happened just as Master Claradon described,” said Tanch, panting. “Mountain trolls they were. Many, many trolls. The beasts set a coordinated attack on Eotrus lands. We fought them as best we could. Only the heroism of—”
“So where are the carcasses?” said Barusa. “Show us these dead trolls that we might know the truth of this tale.”
“We burned them,” said Ob sharply. “Only way to keep them things down for good. Nothing left but ash.”
“Preposterous,” said Barusa.
“And most convenient,” said Slyman.
Lord Jhensezil, tall, broad, and muscular, but graying, leaned forward in his chair. “Hunters have reported troll spoor deep in the mountains, north of Eotrus lands, in recent years.”
“Superstitious country folk,” said Barusa. “Their accounts are not relied upon by this Council. Eotrus, can you at least tell us what happened to these mysterious brigands that you claim that you were tracking? The ones that attacked that little trading post—Riker’s whatever it is called.”
“As I said, we lost their trail at the city gates. We can’t track horses on cobblestones, Chancellor.”
“Well then why has no one else seen these brigands? The patrol that escorted you here saw nothing—no mysterious carriage, no strange riders. Did they just vanish or did you burn them to ash with the trolls?”
Claradon stared at him with clenched teeth, shaking his head.
“Admit it, wolf’s-head, there were no brigands,” said Barusa. “The soldiers stationed at Riker’s found out about your conspiracy—your treason—and sought to expose you, so you and your fellows disguised yourselves and sacked the inn, killing those good men, not to mention several innocent Lomerian citizens. Admit to your crimes, Eotrus, and this council may find a measure of mercy for you.”
“You sniveling turd,” said Ob as he fingered the empty sheath where his sword hilt would be.
“This is madness,” said Claradon. “You have no basis to level such charges against us. This is a total fabrication.”
Lord Jhensezil rose to his feet. “I for one see no reason not to accept Brother Claradon’s account of these events. No evidence has been presented that contradicts any portion of his story. Might I remind this Council that Brother Claradon is a respected member of the priestly knights of the Caradonian Order and a nobleman in good standing with the Crown.”
“Reason and logic contradicts his story,” said Guildmaster Slyman.
“Neither of which you are well acquainted with,” said Jhensezil.
Slyman looked confused, trying to grasp Jhensezil’s meaning.
Balfor slammed his fist the table as he eyed Jhensezil. “Always ready with your insults, aren’t you? If only your judgement were as sharp as your tongue.”
“I agree with Jhensezil,” said Duke Harringgold. “We have seen no evidence to dispute Brother Claradon’s account. I move that we formally accept the report he has submitted, and further, move at once to confirm his appointment as Lord of Dor Eotrus. I call for a vote.”
“I second his call,” said Lady Dahlia, flaxen-haired and statuesque, but fading.
“Hear hear,” said Jhensezil.
“Now wait just a minute,” said Slyman. “A moment ago we were about to slap the boy in irons for treason, and now you want to anoint him Lord of a Dor?”
“Perhaps matters are moving too quickly here,” said the Chancellor. “What say you, Bishop Tobin?”
“Hmm, perhaps it would be prudent to proceed with caution and due diligence in this matter,” said Bishop Tobin, an ancient figure who seemed asleep except when he spoke in his deep, halting voice.
“At the very least an investigation is in order, don’t you agree?” said Barusa.
“Oh, most certainly, an inquisition is warranted,” said the Bishop. “We must be thorough; the guilty must be punished. Justice demands it.”
“Indeed,” said Barusa. “And in the meantime, we shall appoint a Regent to run the affairs of Dor Eotrus until this matter is resolved.”
“There will be no stinking Regent,” shouted Ob. “That Dor belongs to the Eotrus and there it will stay. You have no right—no right at all.”
“You are the one with no rights, Gnome,” said Barusa, raising his voice. “All too long we have suffered your degenerate people in our midst. What with your hoarding of ill-gotten wealth and your foul-mannered ways, not to mention your stench. You are throwbacks to times past and best forgotten. Your betters command these lands now, as is our sacred right. Your welcome here will soon be worn out.”
Prince Cartegian bounced forward in his seat. His eyes grew wide and wild. “It’s fun to hunt Gnomes,” he said with an evil smile. “Your heads make such good trophies. I have a spot for you on my mantle. Gnomey, the troll killer, stuffed on my mantle; it will be wonderful.”
“Why I ought to rip your stinking heads off, you slimy sons-of-Lugron.”
“That remark will cost you a month in the deepest pit I can find for you, little man,” said Barusa. “Guards!”
“To the pit, to the pit with him,” said Cartegian, capering about in front of his chair. “Throw the little bugger in the pit. Just give me his head; his head for the mantle.”
“Stop,” shouted Claradon, his tone and outstretched arm halted the guards in their tracks. “Chancellor Barusa, this madness will not stand.” Claradon took a deep breath and cleared his throat before continuing. “By the rights granted me by the Book of the Nobility, I demand satisfaction.”
Lord Harringgold started violently in his seat.
“What say you?” said Barusa as he rose to his feet with furrowed brow.
“Pipe down, boy,” said Ob, “afore you get yourself killed dead.”
“Chancellor Barusa, you have publicly accused me of murdering my father; you have called me a liar, a conspirator, and insulted and threatened the Castellan of my fortress. I cannot let this stand. I call upon the Fifth Article of the Rules of Nobility. That decree gives me the right to challenge you to single combat, fair and honorable. And this I do. I trust this Council is still bound by the traditional laws?”
Lords Harringgold and Jhensezil cringed and squirmed in their seats as Claradon spoke. Par Tanch covered his eyes and shook his head.
“Have you the courage to accept my challenge, or do you recant these offenses?” said Claradon.
“I recant nothing, you pathetic upstart. I will—”
“Upstart,” squealed Cartegian. “My cat was an upstart.”
“Hold,” shouted Lord Harringgold, nearly jumping from his seat. “Brother Claradon, think carefully before you invoke this right. Barusa is a renowned sword master, far beyond your ken. Surely, if you had known that, you wouldn’t have put forth that challenge. Withdraw it now, before he accepts, and it will be forgotten.”
Claradon stood straight and tall; his chin held high. “I know the Chancellor’s reputation, both fair and foul. My challenge stands.”
The Duke sank slowly back into his chair. “So be it then,” he said, his eyes downcast.
“And when will this duel take place?” said Slyman eagerly.
“Now,” shouted Cartegian as he pounded his fist to his chair’s armrest. “What better time than now? Someone bring me my cat, and my slippers. I demand a turnip.”
Ob grabbed Claradon by the arm and pulled him down to whisper in his ear. “You’re a darned fool, boy, but if you must do this, call for it now. Otherwise, he will lay a trap and his henchmen will kill us all for sure.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Claradon straightened. “I demand that the duel be immediate. Here and now.”
“I need not comply with this,” said Barusa, waving Claradon’s words away in disgust. “Tomorrow at noon will suffice.” He turned as if to leave the hall.
“Run away, run away,” cackled Cartegian as he squatted atop his chair. “Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat. Barusa is a scaredy-cat, and I know what to do with cats.”
Barusa halted and glared at the crazed prince.
“Actually,” said Lord Jhensezil, holding up a copy of the referenced text, “the decree specifies that the duel be immediate, unless the challenger chooses to postpone it or unless his opponent is ill, injured, infirm, or otherwise incapacitated.”
“Do you claim such illness or infirmity, Lord Chancellor?” said Jhensezil.
Barusa shot him an evil glare. “Very well. We will do this now,” he said through gritted teeth. But then his tone changed. “We must of course always comply with the law, until at last the laws are changed,” he said sardonically, an evil grin across his weathered face.
“Yes, change the laws,” said Cartegian. “All the fun things are illegal. The laws are so tiresome, such bother—let’s burn them all. Make them ash, just like Gnomey’s trolls.”
“For too long we’ve looked upon the law as written in stone, unchanging forevermore, but that is backward and unjust,” said Barusa. “Our laws must be living, breathing documents that change with the times or else they make no sense. This challenge proves that. The days of duels are long past and best forgotten, but yet here we stand, with the old laws as they are, and so, a duel it must be. A duel to the death.”
“The Sergeant of the Guard will recover Brother Claradon’s sword from the antechamber,” announced Lord Jhensezil. “Prepare yourselves, gentlemen, and may Odin’s hand guide the righteous to victory.”
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 Cartegian. “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 Cartegian. “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 Cartegian. “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 approach. 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.
