Gateway to Nifleheim Read online

  He dreaded the thought of carrying his father down there—of leaving him alone, in the cold dark, to rot. His mother was taken far too young. It wasn’t fair. His father was still in his prime. The norns wouldn’t dare take him too, would they? If he were gone, he wouldn’t put him down there, tradition or not. The old way of placing a chieftain aboard a boat and burning it was better somehow, cleaner. But his father would want to lie next to his mother. They had to find him. He just wasn't ready to lose him. Not yet. Not for long years. Claradon snapped himself out of his daze. He took off his priestly vestment, sent the pages off to their beds, and walked up the steps to where Ob, Theta, and Dolan still sat.

  “You know what Gabe is up to?” said Ob.

  “No idea,” said Claradon. “But he’s taking his time about it, whatever it is. Lord Theta, I hope that our rite did not offend or make you uncomfortable.”

  “Not at all,” said Theta.

  “The Warrior's Oath,” said Claradon, “is an ancient prayer amongst our people. We wouldn't embark on a quest or go off to battle without speaking it.”

  “We speak a similar prayer in our lands,” said Theta.

  “I hope that you don't mind my saying this, but I noticed you didn’t join us in reaffirming your path.”

  “I chose my path long ago, Eotrus. I know its every crag and crevice. I could no more divert from it, than could the sun choose not to rise in the morn.”

  “Then I'm glad that we will face this road together, since you know it so well.”

  Theta stared off into the distance. “Mine is a perilous road; those that walk it with me are seldom long for Valhalla.”

  Dolan raised an eyebrow at that; Ob just shook his head.

  “Ominous words, my Lord,” said Claradon. “I would gladly end the day in Valhalla, if before I drew my last breath I avenged my father.”

  “Be not so quick to fly to Valhalla, young Eotrus, it will still be there however long your journey. It is—eternal.”

  “And don’t be so quick to assume Aradon needs avenging,” said Ob. “We are going to find him out there, I'm sure of it.”

  “Here they come,” said Ob, as Gabriel and his men appeared. Each dragged a large, ironbound chest behind them. Artol and Paldor looked spent from the effort—even Gabriel was sweating. They heaved the chests up on the edge of the dais, and Gabriel unlocked one of them.

  “Gather around,” said Gabriel, and all the men did. Hinges creaked when he lifted open the lid and an unnatural glow crept from within. The open chest smelled of wood and oiled leather. Gabriel reached in and pulled forth a long dagger housed in a bejeweled, leather sheath. When he bared the silvered blade, it glowed with a soft white light. Similar blades filled the chest—all well-kept and shining, without a hint of rust or decay.

  The men gasped at the sight of that eldritch blade, ensorcelled as it was with some forgotten magic of bygone days to luminesce so.

  “Sorcery,” shouted one knight as he drew his sword.

  “Witchcraft,” cried another, backing up. Most of the others did much the same.

  “Hold,” boomed Gabriel. “There is no danger here. This blade and its kin are weapons for us to gird, not foes for us to fight. Cover your blades. Now.”

  Fear and doubt filled many a face, but the men complied.

  “What’s this humbug, Gabe?” said Ob. “We've no need of fairy magics; we have honest steel to gird us,” he said, patting the hilt of the sword that hung at his hip.

  “And honest steel is all one needs when facing mortal man or beast,” said Gabriel. “But today I fear we face something more.”

  “Bah,” said Ob. “Don't spout me children’s stories of monsters. That be all bunk and bother. If there are enemies skulking about out there, they are made of flesh and blood, same as us, so our weapons will work just fine.”

  “You've never known me to meddle with magic, and normally I don't,” said Gabriel to the men, “but sometimes, it’s a tool that must be used, just like an axe or a hammer. So long as we’re mindful that it can cut us just as quick and deep as our enemies, we can make good use of it if it's needed, and if Ob’s right, we won’t need to use it at all.”

  “Sir Gabriel speaks wisely, as always,” said Par Tanch. “We're facing something whose howls carry for miles, that spouts evil fog, and waylays our finest men. To face such an enemy, we need a bit of the arcane, I think.”

  “Well, I will have none of it,” said Ob, waving his hand before him. “Nothing but rubbish.”

  “I will not touch those things,” said one knight.

  “Nor will I,” said another.

  “I will take one,” said Claradon, as he and Theta moved toward Gabriel. The knights looked surprised and made way for Claradon. Claradon reached for the glowing blade.

  “Dargus dal is mine,” said Gabriel as he sheathed it and reached down into the chest. “But you may have its twin.” Gabriel pulled another wondrous blade from the chest and handed it to Claradon. “It is called Worfin dal,” he said, pointing to the runes inscribed on the side of the blade, “which means the lord's dagger in the old tongue.”

  “Asgardian daggers,” said Theta. “I thought them all lost long ago.”

  “Not all, my Lord,” said Gabriel. “Some few remain. I regret that I cannot offer you one, for of them I possess only two.”

  “What makes them things special, besides the weird glow?” said Ob.

  “Legend says they were forged by Heimdall himself during the Dawn Age,” said Gabriel. “And ensorcelled by Tyr.”

  “Daggers of the gods?” said Claradon.

  “Oh boy,” said Ob, shaking his head. “That is a tall one, if I've ever heard.”

  Gabriel reached into the chest and withdrew another dagger. This one was longer and thinner than the first two. Its scabbard and pommel were less ornate, and although it glowed, its luminescence paled in comparison to the first two. He presented it to Theta.

  “This one, and all the rest in these trunks are of the finest Dyvers steel and ensorcelled by the archmages of the Order of the Arcane. No finer blades are forged in Midgaard today.”

  Theta nodded his thanks.

  “These blades will protect us from the fog and blind our enemies with the light of Tyr,” said Gabriel. “There are enough for each of you. Each man will take one, like it as not. That includes you, good Castellan.”

  Ob narrowed his eyes, set his jaw, and glowered at Gabriel.

  The men grumbled and grunted in protest, but in the end, each dutifully girded one of the daggers about their waist or leg.

  “You should've come to me when you wanted these made,” said Ob. “I could’ve fixed you up with my cousin Bork—best smith this side of Heimdall. So who made these?”

  “McDuff forged the steel,” said Gabriel, “and a tower wizard ensorcelled them.”

  “Good ole McDuff,” said Ob. “Wears a lot of hats, he does. That old dwarf has some skills, there is no doubt, but genuine gnomish blades are better than anything dwarvish by a good stretch. It’s all in the heat, you know. You’ve got to get the blade hot enough, but not too hot, and then fold the metal enough—a hundred times or more for a blade of quality. Dwarves don't understand that—they’re all about sticking jewels in the pommel, getting some wizard to magic them up so that they glow in the dark, and smearing silver pigment on them so they can tell folks they’re made of mithril or some other mythical gunk. No real talent in that, if you ask me. Bunch of frauds and cheats, they are. Stinking dwarves.” Ob looked down at the blades and shook his head. “Well, I suppose, these will have to suffice.”

  “I look forward to hearing the tale of how you acquired the Asgardian blades,” said Claradon.

  “And I will gladly tell it to you and Aradon both, on our return,” said Gabriel.

  “I'll be hearing that tale too,” said Ob, “as long as it comes with mead or good gnomish ale—the best that Portland Vale has to offer.”

  “I will need an entire keg, no doubt,” said Gabriel.


  “Only one, assuming it will be just us four,” said Ob. “Any more than that, and you had best get two.”

  VIII

  SHADES

  To be ready to leave for the Vermion at dawn, Claradon needed to retrieve armor and gear from his chambers before retiring for the night to the makeshift accommodations that the servants prepared in the citadel's lower levels. He could have sent his manservant, Humphrey. Humph always knew what to pack, and with the help of another servant or two, he could have hauled down everything Claradon needed. But Claradon wanted to go himself. There were one or two things he wouldn't trust to anyone else, not even Humph. Besides, he was too worked up to sleep just yet. Perhaps the long walk up the stair would tire him enough to get a couple of hours sleep before dawn. At least he hoped it would.

  Humphrey and a House guard called Gorned silently shadowed Claradon as he trudged up the stairs, lanterns in hand. Normally, he wouldn’t task a House guard with porter duties, but Ob insisted that Claradon take a guardsman with him, “just in case”. Ob feared that the Dor might come under attack at any moment, and he wasn’t taking any chances, even within the citadel.

  Rare it was that Claradon walked through the Dor's halls and found them empty and silent. There was always some family member or retainer going about their business, and servants cleaning, scrubbing, and polishing everything in sight, and guards guarding whatever Ob or his father thought needed guarding. But not that night. That night the halls of Dor Eotrus were deserted, everyone having fled to the lower levels to escape the bizarre wailing sounds that demanded entry through every window, crack, crevice, and door, and even through the stout walls themselves. The emptiness and noise made the place feel odd in a way that Claradon couldn't explain, except to say that it just didn't feel like home. Not any longer. Not until he found his father and things returned to normal.

  He walked slowly up the long flights of stairs, much more slowly than was his custom. Tapestries lined the walls and regal carpet runners woven in far-off places called Ferd, Bourntown, Dyvers, and Lent were perfectly aligned down the center of the stairs and the connecting halls; they minimized the hollow echoing sounds that plagued most keeps.

  For 1200 years, the Eotrus called the Dor home, but over the centuries, the core bloodline dwindled. The last three generations saw no more than one son born to the lord of the House, despite some reportedly vigorous efforts by Claradon’s great-grandfather, a man of wide wanderings but otherwise sound reputation. Claradon’s father rejuvenated the Eotrus line at long last, begetting four sons, and thus ensuring the continuation of the ruling family. Only a very few of the various and sundry Eotrus cousins that ruled manor houses, estates, and stout keeps in the countryside and the surrounding villages and smalls towns were disappointed by those births, their lofty dreams of lordship crushed.

  While the long years threatened the Eotrus bloodline, they also conspired to accumulate untold treasures that filled the Dor, most purchased with silver, some with blood, but the most prized heirlooms were crafted by family members, noble allies, or loyal retainers. Claradon passed those antiques every day of his life, but he rarely saw them, his thoughts focused either on his duties and obligations or on far off places, wild adventures, or a certain young lady. Amongst other things, he took the antiques for granted, especially the artwork, but that night was different—he needed to look at them, to study them. He needed to appreciate them and to carve their likenesses into his memory, “just in case”.

  Each piece of art he passed had a plaque affixed nearby it that described its creation, history, and subject matter. The plaque below one marble bust that caught his eye read:

  Lord August Eotrus, the seventh of his name, sculpted by Lady Sirear Eotrus, first daughter, in the year 651 by Lomerian reckoning.

  Claradon’s companions patiently waited behind him as he read the plaque and studied his ancestor’s face for some moments before moving on.

  A striking painting entitled, The Dor in Winter, resided at the top of the stair landing at the same floor as Claradon’s chambers. It depicted a happy scene of children frolicking in the courtyard's snow and reminded Claradon of many similar times he shared with his brothers.

  Humphrey and Gorned exchanged concerned looks as Claradon lingered before the painting. “Brother Claradon?” said Humphrey. “The hour is late, we should—”

  Claradon raised a hand in a gesture that called for silence and Humphrey complied, though he looked taken aback. “This may be my last chance to see these,” said Claradon softly. He knew that whatever waylaid his father's patrol might well do the same to his. If that happened, he might not live to return to the Dor. And if Eotrus lands were being invaded, the Dor itself might be sacked before his return. As hard to believe as it was, his whole world might be on the verge of crumbling. Or, his father might be found safe and sound, and all would go back to normal, and like Tanch said, they would all laugh about how afraid they were and about how they overreacted to some weird sounds in the night.

  A sketch drawn in charcoal hung just beside the door to Claradon's chambers, its canvas protected by clear glass and a stout oak frame. The drawing was a near perfect likeness of him as a child of three or four. He felt his eyes begin to grow wet when he read its inscription and he felt ashamed that he hadn't read it in years.

  Master Claradon Eotrus, first of his name, drawn by his mother, Lady Eleanor Malvegil Eotrus. Year 1246 of the fourth age of Midgaard, year 832 by Lomerian reckoning.

  Claradon ran his hand along the words and paused when his fingers brushed his mother's name. Her loss terribly plagued him, and he still thought of her every day. He couldn’t imagine not thinking of her. Recent events aside, the Dor was a happy place, but not like it was when his mother graced its halls. Her energy was electric and contagious. Her support, comfort, and unconditional love could never be replaced, and were sorely missed by every member of the House.

  Humphrey stepped past him, unlocked and opened his door. “Brother Claradon, I'll get your clothes and armor, but I'll need Gorned's help to carry it.”

  His words snapped Claradon back to the present. “Fine, Humph. I'll get the rest,” said Claradon as he stepped into the modest anteroom that served as both coatroom and Humphrey's duty station. Through another door, he entered the large sitting room where Claradon entertained guests. It had a water closet, which was large by most any standard, and featured: a huge griffin's foot tub, a granite basin with a pump handle and spout beside it to bring up water from the Dor's aquifer, a small wood burning stove to heat the room and the bathwater, a toilet carved from a block of white marble, and various accouterments, both rich and functional. He grabbed what he needed from there and headed through the lounge to his bedroom, dodging Humphrey who shuffled awkwardly out, a teetering pile of clothes in hand.

  The cavernous bedchamber's walls were paneled in dark wood, and the granite floor tiles were softened by area rugs and animal furs. Two wood-burning stoves, one at each end of the chamber, kept the room as warm as he liked, unlike the Dor's halls, which were always a bit too cold and leaned toward frigid at winter's peak.

  Claradon tried not to look at the sketch he had left half-finished on the writing table beside the window as he strapped on his sword and dagger belts. He only glanced at it for a moment, just to be certain it was still there and undisturbed. Satisfied, he scooped up the gear he needed, and crammed it with some difficulty into his bulging pack. He liked to be prepared, which resulted in a tendency to carry too much.

  When he was done, he turned his attention to the sketch. It was a drawing of a girl that he fancied and that his mother had wanted him to marry. Retrieving it was much of the reason that he had walked up there, of that, there was no denying any longer, at least not to himself. He needed to look at her face one more time, just in case. As his eyes lingered on her lovely features, he decided to take the sketch with him. At least she would be near him, in a way. The sketch might get damaged, maybe ruined, but he could always redraw
it. He had the skills for that—his mother had taught him well.

  Marissa Harringgold was the second daughter of Harper Harringgold, the Archduke of Lomion City, a lifelong friend of his father's, and arguably the most powerful man in the realm, save for the king and perhaps the chancellor. While her pedigree lent an air of excitement, it had little to do with his feelings. Those took root for other reasons.

  Usually, Claradon had trouble speaking to women. He would get nervous and clam up, and inevitably, they would think him dense or odd or just not interested. He had no such trouble with Marissa. They used to speak for hours on end about every topic imaginable and he never grew tired of it. They never fought or argued—not once in all the years they knew each other. He was drawn to her and couldn't take his eyes off her whenever she was in sight. It's not that she was a great beauty—while she was certainly pretty by most men's standards, she was not unusually so. There was just something about her. He couldn't define it and it didn't matter. He wanted her and that was that. But as far as he could ever tell, she didn't want him as any more than a friend, or at least not enough to ever let on, despite both their mothers’ meddlings. Beyond being friends, he never knew where he stood with her, and that was vexing.

  He wanted to tell her how he felt, and often thought about how and when and what he’d say. The planning was an utter waste of time and he knew it, since he knew he would never go through with it. She knows, she has to know, he would assure himself. She just doesn't care. If he told her directly, she would likely say nothing, leaving him hanging, or else tell him she felt nothing for him. Either way, the discomfort between them would damage and perhaps even end their friendship. Then he wouldn't even have that. And that is all he had of her. He didn’t want to give that up.