The Rune Knight

  THE RUNE KNIGHT

  Jonathan Moeller

  Description

  Once banished by his father, Mazael Cravenlock is now a knight in service of Malden, Lord of Knightcastle.

  But Mazael has a dark destiny, and when a school of necromancers begins preying upon the people of Knightcastle, that destiny threatens to devour him...

  The Rune Knight

  Copyright 2016 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover images copyright Katalikns | Dreamstime.com & Carlos Caetano | Dreamstime.com & Daniil Peshkov | Dreamstime.com & © Prometeus | Dreamstime.com - Strong Man Photo.

  Ebook edition published October 2016.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The Rune Knight

  It was a splendid spring day, and the sun was shining, and Mazael thought it a perfect day to take a walk with a beautiful woman through the grounds of the Fair.

  Of course, half of the residents of Castle Town had the same idea.

  The Cloth Merchants’ Fair was one of the biggest festivals of the year in Knightreach, save for the great festivals and fasts of the Amathavian church, and Mazael suspected that the townspeople enjoyed the Fair more than fasting and confessing their sins. He certainly knew that he did. Once a year, Castle Town’s guild of cloth merchants held a fair to display their wares at discounted prices to anyone who came to the tournament grounds below the walls of Knightcastle. Lords and knights from across Knightreach and even from the lands of other liege lords came to place their orders, as did wealthy townsmen from Barellion and Alamis and the other cities. All those visitors needed to be housed and fed, and merchants flocked to the tournament grounds to supply the visitors with those things, and the Cloth Merchants’ Fair had become a festival, with food and drink and games sold from the tents ringing the stately pavilions of the cloth merchants.

  And on the outer edges of the Fair, in the seedier tents, one could find games of chance and games of skill and women who could be hired for the night. Mazael had indulged in all three during Fairs past, though today he would limit himself to just games and the wine.

  The woman walking on his arm might take offense if he hired competition for her affections.

  Atalia had been in a foul mood over the last week, her tongue more waspish than usual, and Mazael’s irritation with her had grown sharper. Yet today she seemed in good humor as they walked through the crowds of peasants and townsmen. Atalia had only scorn for peasants, and contempt for townsmen and knights and nobles, and Mazael laughed at her barbed comments.

  “You’re in a good humor today, Sir Mazael,” she said, squeezing his arm.

  “And why not?” said Mazael. “The sun is shining, and I have coins in my pouch and a beautiful woman on my arm.”

  She did look good today. Usually, Atalia wore a loose shirt, leggings, heavy boots, and a leather vest, her hair cut short and ragged. Today she wore a loose shirt and close-fitting black vest, a green skirt swishing around her legs as she walked. Lately, she had started growing her hair longer, perhaps goaded by Mazael’s occasional remarks that short hair never looked good on a woman. The vest fit her well, and he caught the occasional outline of her legs as they pressed against the skirt. She had shapely legs, and he preferred her without clothes, in his bed, as they…

  He almost walked into the path of an ox-pulled cart, and Mazael veered past it at the last minute. Atalia let out a wicked little laugh. She had seen him staring.

  Yes, Mazael liked to fight, drink, and to gamble, but there were some things he enjoyed even more.

  “Well, it is clear you were not lying about the last part,” said Atalia. “Though that would be an amusing end for the great Sir Mazael Cravenlock, would it not? Crushed by an ox while staring at a woman.”

  “There are worse ways to die,” said Mazael.

  He had inflicted a few of them on his enemies.

  “True, but I would prefer one of the better ones,” said Atalia. “If I had known I need only put on a skirt and walk with you to the Fair to put you in a better mood, I would have done so weeks ago.” She considered. “Though I suppose I would have had to wait for the fair.”

  “Me?” said Mazael. “I’m the one in a foul temper?”

  Atalia snorted. “You look as if you want to beat someone to death with your bare hands.”

  Well, she might have a point. Lord Malden had been exchanging threats with the Dominiar Order again, and every time that happened, the Dominiar ambassadors politely hinted that their Order would be pleased to help Mazael overthrow his brother and claim the lordship of Castle Cravenlock for himself. Mazael didn’t want Castle Cravenlock, didn’t want to return to the Grim Marches, and he never wanted to see his older brother again. The Dominiars’ hints always put him in a foul mood, which he tried to excise upon the training ground with Lord Malden’s armsmen, or at the bottom of a cup of wine.

  He really wanted to kill someone. It had been too long since he had been in a proper battle, with the screams of the dying around him, blood flowing down his sword blade, his heart thundering in his ears as he felt alive…

  Atalia was staring at him.

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “You had that look on your face again,” she said.

  Mazael scowled. “And just what look is that?”

  “The way you look,” she said in a quiet voice, “when you are thinking about killing someone.”

  He glared at her and the thought of violence flashed through his mind. Rage welled up within him, and he wanted to draw his longsword from his belt and start laying around him…

  Mazael shook his head and forced back his anger. Gods, what was wrong with him? There hadn’t been any reason to get angry, but he had almost exploded. There wasn’t any need to get angry when walking through the Fair with Atalia, but of late he had been experiencing surges of anger that threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Maybe I have been testy lately,” said Mazael.

  “Testy,” said Atalia, still looking at him with caution. “I suppose that is one word for it.”

  “Bah,” said Mazael. “You’re one to speak. You just said that merchant looked like two hundred pounds of lard stuffed into a hundred-pound sack, and you say I’m the angry one?”

  Atalia lifted her chin with an imperious sniff. “I’m not angry. Merely truthful. And that red doublet the man was wearing…does he does not realize it makes him look like an apple on legs?”

  “More of a tomato, really,” said Mazael, “to match his face.”

  Atalia blinked, and then burst out laughing. “Aye, that he does. Maybe you’ll look like a tomato when you reach that age, Mazael.”

  “I hope not,” said Mazael. “It would make it harder to fight.”

  “No, I suppose you won’t,” said Atalia, her tone thoughtful. “Not you. You enjoy fighting too much for that. The merchant we saw, I doubt he’s done anything more taxing in the last fifteen years than mounting his mistress. You like riding and fighting and swordplay too much for that. By the time you get to that age, you’ll likely look like some weathered old oak tree.”

  Mazael rarely thought about the future, or what his life might be like in ten years or even five. Ever since he had been a boy, he had always assumed he would die in battle at some point. Certainly, he was surprised to have lived this
long. Suddenly he wondered if he would still be alive in twenty years…and if he would still know Atalia in that time.

  Would they still be together in twenty years?

  The thought seemed staggering. He couldn’t imagine putting up with her for that long. Yet…the idea was less troubling than he might have thought even a year ago.

  He couldn’t articulate that, though.

  “I wonder,” said Mazael, “what you will look like in twenty years.”

  Atalia snorted. “I shall be some terrifying old crone the local villagers visit for love potions and petty spells, I’m sure of it. Or I’ll still be running Trocend’s little errands.”

  “I doubt old Trocend will live another five years, let alone twenty,” said Mazael. The old man pretended to be a monk, but in truth, he was Lord Malden’s court wizard and did tasks that Lord Malden wished kept secret. Atalia was his apprentice, much to his annoyance. And hers.

  “You might be surprised,” said Atalia. “The old wretch will live forever.”

  Mazael glanced at one of the merchant stalls. A plump woman in a gaudy dress and kerchief stood there, selling apple cakes to the Fair’s visitors. She looked as if she had sampled quite a few of her own wares. “On the other hand, maybe you’ll look like her in twenty years.”

  Atalia’s eyes snapped to his face. “Don’t even joke about that. That’s not funny.”

  Her expression made him laugh. She slapped him, which made him laugh harder, and finally, she started laughing as well.

  “Perhaps I overreacted,” she said, shaking her fingers. “You ought to apologize for hurting my hand.”

  “You slapped me,” said Mazael.

  “It’s your fault for having a hard jaw.”

  “Ridiculous,” said Mazael, taking her arm again. “Let’s find some wine. All this talking is making my throat hurt.”

  “It’s not even noon,” said Atalia. “A bit early to start drinking, isn’t it?”

  “We’re talking so much,” said Mazael, “and it’s making my throat hurt even more.”

  Atalia scoffed but did not protest as he led her through the crowds of the Fair and towards the biggest pavilion at the center of the tournament grounds.

  “Unless, of course,” said Mazael, “you want to go back and buy an apple cake.”

  “That’s still not funny,” said Atalia, but she laughed anyway.

  He walked to a large blue pavilion at the heart of the Fair. A pole before the pavilion flew the banner of the House of Roland, a silver greathelm sigil upon a field of blue. Mazael ducked into the pavilion, lifting the flap so Atalia could enter. Two long tables ran the length of the pavilion, and scribes sat on stools at the tables, scribbling away as they handled bills and the other legal documents the business of the Fair generated.

  Two knights stood in the center of the pavilion. One was Sir Mandor Roland, one of Lord Malden’s sons. He was a little over thirty years old, tall and strong with a paunch just barely held in check by his love of hunting and fighting, his hair blond and his eyes blue. He wore a doublet and a surcoat adorned with the sigil of the Rolands.

  Next to him stood a shorter knight in a red surcoat with a sigil Mazael did not recognize, a horse’s head next to a mace. The knight was about forty, with dark hair and eyes and a beard trimmed to razor precision. He turned as they approached, and his eyes passed over Mazael, but he smiled when he saw Atalia.

  “Oh,” said Atalia.

  Did she know him?

  “Mazael,” said Mandor, scowling. “Did my father send you to take over the management of the Fair?”

  “No,” said Mazael. “That’s your job, sir.”

  “You can have it if you want it.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Mazael. “Your father was quite clear. A Roland must preside over the fair. Lord Malden doesn’t want to do it, and Sir Garain is busy, and Tobias and Gerald are too young, so that leaves you.”

  Mandor let out an exasperated groan. “Gods have mercy! I am not suited for this, Mazael. Give me a sword and a horse and a wineskin, and I’m happy.” He wasn’t wrong. Mandor was a good fighter and could hold a tremendous amount of wine, but the gods had not blessed him with an abundance of wit. “All these money-grubbing merchants, and every one of them whining about tolls and taxes…gods! It makes my head hurt! Do you know two of them almost came to blows over who would have their stall closer to the pavilion? They almost fought. Two old fat men threatening each other with clubs. It would have been funny if I hadn’t been the one to settle the quarrel. And then the town’s licensed whoremonger has the temerity to complain to me. He says his whores keep disappearing! As if this is my problem. If he wants to keep his whores, maybe he ought to pay them better.”

  During Mandor’s rant the knight in the red surcoat kept staring at Atalia. She looked nervous, then irritated, and then had drawn herself up with hauteur, gazing at the knight in a good imitation of a noblewoman’s cool contempt. For all her disdain for the nobility, Atalia could do a good imitation of a noblewoman, perhaps because she spent so much time mocking them.

  “You’ll fight in the melee, won’t you?” said Mandor. “At least Father is letting us have a melee at the end of the day to entertain our guests, though he refused to pay for a proper tournament.”

  “Of course I’ll fight in the melee,” said Mazael, looking back and forth between Atalia and the knight in the red surcoat. “When have I ever missed the chance to ride in a tournament or fight in a melee?”

  Mandor barked a laugh, oblivious to the tension. “Of course! I forgot to whom I am speaking.” He looked at the red-clad knight. “If you ever need a reliable sword in a fight, Mazael Cravenlock is your man.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Mazael.

  The red-clad knight offered a small bow, and Atalia’s lip twisted with contempt.

  “This is Sir Calvin Astarre,” said Mandor. “Out of Whitewood. He’s here for the Fair. Before you joined Father’s household, Mazael, he rode with us from time to time.”

  “Did you?” said Atalia. “I am surprised. Lord Malden seems a man with such high standards.”

  Mandor blinked. He had forgotten Atalia was there. He usually did when she accompanied Mazael. Mandor considered her beneath his notice, which never failed to put her in a foul mood.

  Sir Calvin smiled. “Don’t worry, darling Atalia. I am only here for the melee. Lord Malden may not have wished to pay for a full tournament, but he promised a rich purse to whoever wins the melee.” He smiled at Mazael. “Perhaps I shall have the honor of laying you low in the melee.”

  “And perhaps I can return the honor,” said Mazael with a hard smile. “You know each other?”

  “Sir Mazael’s whore and I are acquainted,” said Calvin.

  “I’m not a whore,” said Atalia through gritted teeth.

  “Your mother was,” said Calvin. “And I fed and kept you until you grew bored and ran off.” He grinned at Mazael, his hard eyes flashing. “Though I suppose a household knight cannot be discontented with another man’s cast-offs.”

  “You didn’t cast me off,” spat Atalia. “I left.”

  The fingers of her left hand flexed, the way they did before she began casting a spell. Mazael caught her hand, and she blinked in surprise, and then gave him a faint nod. Hardly anyone knew that Trocend Castleson was a wizard, and even fewer knew about Atalia’s own magical skills. Using magic in front of Mandor Roland and Calvin Astarre would be stupid at best, and at worst might get Atalia burned at the stake by the Justiciar Order as a consort of demons.

  “Oh ho!” said Calvin with amusement. “Mandor, your lord father’s household knight is fond of the whore. You ought to find Sir Mazael a wife soon. Else he might start bringing the slattern to your father’s hall.”

  Atalia took a hissing breath, and Mazael smiled.

  “Sir Calvin,” said Mazael, “you dance perilously close to the edge of rudeness. If I don’t like the words that come out of your mouth next, I shall challenge
you to a duel. I’m sure Sir Mandor wouldn’t object. A formal duel would enliven the day a great deal.”

  “Especially once I collect wagers,” said Mandor.

  “And you will find it very difficult to win the melee,” said Mazael, “after I break both of your arms.”

  For a moment they stared at each other, Calvin’s sword hand flexing.

  “Well,” said Calvin at last. “How your father permits his household knights to behave is no concern of mine. Good day, Sir Mandor. I shall see you at the melee.”

  He glared at Mazael once more and stalked from the tent.

  “That was entertaining,” said Mandor with a laugh.

  Atalia glared at the wall of the tent and folded her arms over his chest.

  “A friend of yours, Sir Mandor?” said Mazael.

  “He holds his liquor well enough,” said Mandor, “but he’s a bit too greedy. He’s a knight errant like you used to be before you joined Father’s service.” He laughed. “I had no idea he’d had your whore before you found her.”

  Atalia stalked out of the pavilion.

  “She’s not a whore,” said Mazael. “She works for Brother Trocend.”

  “Then you share her with the monk?” said Mandor.

  “For the gods’ sake,” said Mazael, and he walked from the pavilion. Mandor laughed, shook his head, and started yelling at one of the scribes.

  Mazael found Atalia standing a few yards away, still scowling, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

  “Yes,” she snapped.

  “Yes what?” said Mazael.

  “Yes, I was with him,” said Atalia. “It was about five years ago, right after I was chased out of the wizards’ college for…various things, but before I had that falling-out with Trocend. I was alone and hungry, and he was handsome and strong, so that was that.”

  “You said he’s handsome?” said Mazael.

  She scowled. “Jealousy from the mighty Mazael Cravenlock? Maybe you’ll go beat Calvin to death.”

  “Why would I do that?” said Mazael. “I just met him five minutes ago. You’re the one who used to know him. Quite well, apparently.”