The Bronze Knight Read online

  THE BRONZE KNIGHT

  Jonathan Moeller

  Description

  Once banished by his father, Mazael Cravenlock is now a knight in service of Malden, Lord of Knightcastle...and Malden's wizard advisor, the cold and calculating Trocend.

  When Trocend sends Mazael to investigate rumors of dark magic, Mazael finds more than just rumors.

  Dark magic stirs in Knightcastle, and Mazael might be its first victim...

  The Serpent 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 March 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.

  Chapter 1: Bad Match

  Mazael got drunk.

  It was nothing something he did every night. As a household knight of Lord Malden Roland of Knightcastle, Mazael Cravenlock found himself involved in fights ranging from brawls to battles on a regular basis, and he needed to keep his wits sharp and his arms strong. Lord Malden had many enemies, and he needed knights and armsmen to fight them.

  Yet not all of Mazael’s duties to Lord Malden involved battle.

  Chief among Lord Malden’s foes was the Dominiar Order, the order of knights that ruled the land of Mastaria to the south, and the Order’s Grand Master Malleus had long been a foe of Lord Malden. The Dominiars and the House of Roland had skirmished several times, and everyone knew that sooner or later the Dominiar Order and Lord Malden would go to war.

  So, of course, Lord Malden invited Grand Master Malleus to a feast.

  The Dominiars sent an escort of knights and armsmen to protect their Grand Master, and Malden feasted them in the Court of Challengers in the second tier of Knightcastle’s three concentric curtain walls. Lord Malden expected his household knights to attend the feast, and so Mazael attended, sitting with the other unmarried knights in the edges of the Court.

  He might have been sitting at the edges, but that did not mean he escaped attention. Several Dominiar Knights visited him, inquiring politely whether or not Mazael’s older brother Mitor might be interested in an alliance against Lord Malden. After all, Mazael’s father Adalon Cravenlock had once been the liege lord of the Grim Marches, and with the help of the Order, Mitor Cravenlock could be the liege lord again. Lord Mitor need only aid the Dominiars against Lord Malden, and the Dominiar Order always remembered its friends.

  Mazael told them, much less politely, to go to hell.

  He was not about to betray Lord Malden. For that matter, he had despised his father and he hated his brother Mitor, and he certainly would not betray Lord Malden on behalf of a spineless worm like Mitor. He told the Dominiars that, at length.

  And maybe louder than was polite in the court of Knightcastle.

  Thinking about his family always put Mazael in a foul mood, and he wound up drinking quite a bit more than he intended, and then even more. Lord Malden’s seneschals had brought out the good wine in honor of their guests, and Mazael liked good wine.

  After the feast, Mazael staggered back to his rooms in the curtain wall of Knightcastle’s outer courtyard, his squire Gerald keeping a cautious eye on him. Gerald Roland was Lord Malden’s youngest son, a sober, dutiful boy of thirteen. Gerald did not approve of drunkenness, brawling, quarreling, whoring, and other forms of immoral behavior.

  Which meant he didn’t approve of a lot of what Mazael did, come to think of it.

  But the boy had good instincts, and had the potential to become an excellent knight.

  “You don’t need to follow me,” said Mazael, walking across the courtyard. Knightcastle was a vast, ancient maze, with three concentric curtain walls climbing the slope of a hill to the Old Keep and seat of Lord Malden himself. Mazael’s room was in one of the outer towers, a long walk from…well, anywhere else in the castle, really.

  “If you trip down the stairs and break your neck, sir,” said Gerald, “my father will be wroth with me.”

  “There aren’t any stairs left,” said Mazael.

  Gerald gave him a puzzled look. “Knightcastle is full of stairs.”

  “I mean between here and my bed,” said Mazael.

  “You could still trip and fall on your sword,” said Gerald.

  “I’m not going to trip and fall on my sword,” said Mazael. He struck the pommel with his fist. “It’s in its scabbard. See? In the scabbard.”

  “A true knight should drink only moderately…” started Gerald.

  “I don’t want to hear it!” said Mazael. Gerald flinched, and Mazael dragged his anger back under control. Gods, but it had been hard to keep his temper in check lately. “Maybe you’re right. But I’ve had to listen to idiots all night. Gods! As if I want anything to do with my imbecile brother.” He laughed. “If they had ever met him, they wouldn’t want to plot with him either. There are jellyfish more frightening than Mitor Cravenlock.”

  Gerald frowned. “Jellyfish are common in the waters near Knightport. Their stings, I understand, are quite painful.”

  “See?” said Mazael. “You understand. You wouldn’t want to ally with a stinging fish either. I wouldn’t.”

  “Um…indeed,” said Gerald.

  They reached Mazael’s door at the base of the tower. The nearby courtyard was deserted, though the pale gleam of a hearth fire came through the narrow windows next to the door.

  Gerald grimaced. “It seems you have company, sir.”

  Mazael grunted. “I thought she would be with Brother Trocend.”

  “I shall withdraw, then,” said Gerald.

  “Gerald,” said Mazael, and the squire paused. “Be at arms practice at the usual time tomorrow.”

  Gerald hesitated. “Won’t you be too…ah…”

  “Hung over?” said Mazael. “It’ll be good practice. In battle sometimes you must fight for your life while you are tired and thirsty and starving and wounded. A hangover is nothing.”

  “I will be there, sir,” said Gerald.

  Mazael nodded. “Thank you. For making sure I didn’t break my neck.”

  “And that your sword didn’t fall out of your scabbard, sir?” said Gerald.

  Mazael laughed. “Exactly.”

  Gerald bowed and departed, and Mazael pushed open his door.

  His room was modest, but he was still a knight and a lord’s son, so he didn’t share with anyone. The room had a bed, a table, and a chair, along with a wardrobe for his clothes and stands for his weapons and armor. It even had its own garderobe and hearth. Right now a fire crackled in the hearth.

  A woman of about thirty sat in the chair near the fire, her boots propped up on the table as she read a heavy book. She wore a peculiar mixture of clothing - a leather vest laced tight over a white shirt, leggings, heavy boots, and a dusty brown cloak. She had short black hair, and Mazael had never really cared for short hair on a woman, but her face was pretty enough to pull it off. Her clothes were peculiar for a woman for Knightreach, but they emphasized her figure and her long legs, and Mazael found himself thinking of cheerier things than the feast.

  Atalia looked up from her book and raised an eyebrow. “You smell like a walking vineyard.”

  “There are worse smells
in the world,” said Mazael, undoing his sword belt and returning his sword to its stand.

  Her mouth twisted a little. “I suppose you got drunk again.”

  “A little,” said Mazael, stepping towards the chair. She closed the book and set it upon the table, but did not get up. “Does that trouble you?”

  Atalia shook her head. “It…you could be more than you are, Mazael Cravenlock. A lot more.”

  He scoffed. “You sound like those Dominiars. They kept hinting that there might be a lordship for me if I betrayed Lord Malden. As if I would want to go back to the Grim Marches.”

  “You ought not to refuse power,” said Atalia. “Power is safety and security.”

  “Power is a damned burden and a danger,” said Mazael, irritated. He didn’t like having these conversations when he was sober, and wine did not improve them.

  “Spoken like a noble-born man,” said Atalia, a bit of bitterness in her voice. “If you’d had to steal and lie for your bread, as I have, then you wouldn’t be so quick to turn away security…”

  Mazael laughed, which seemed to vex her. “Then you should have come to the damned feast.”

  That annoyed her enough that she stood and glared up at him. “I’m a whore’s daughter from Knightport. The lords and knights wouldn’t want anyone like me near their precious feast, unless it was to serve and pour wine…”

  “Maybe you should put on an apron and do that,” said Mazael.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

  “Or maybe,” said Mazael, “you should put on an apron with nothing underneath and do that.”

  She blinked, and then laughed, unsure whether to be angry or not. “You are incorrigible.”

  “Or get rid of the apron altogether,” said Mazael. “It would just get in the way.”

  “You presumptuous man,” said Atalia, caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “You think you can just walk in here and…and crook your finger, and I’ll jump into your arms…”

  “Walk in here?” said Mazael. “This is my room. You were waiting for me. What was I to make of that?”

  Atalia opened her mouth, closed it, her face reddening.

  “What I want,” she said, “is power, and you don’t want that.”

  “Fine,” said Mazael. “Go sleep in Trocend’s rooms. You can spend the night cleaning the cages of his messenger birds.”

  Atalia still didn’t move. Mazael undid the buttons of her vest and slid it off her shoulders. She didn’t try to stop him.

  “Or perhaps,” said Mazael, “you can spend the night copying letters for him.” His left hand went under her shirt and up her back, the skin warm and smooth beneath his fingers. “Why don’t you do that instead?”

  “Arrogant man,” said Atalia, though her voice had gotten a bit husky. “You’re too drunk to perform.”

  “Prove it,” said Mazael. “You like being right so much.” He pulled off her white shirt, and she raised her arms to let him tug it over her head. “So prove me wrong.”

  Atalia responded to the taunt with enthusiasm, her arms coiling around his back, her mouth pressed hard against his. In a short time he had her out of her rest of her clothes, and she had him out of his. She started to lead him to the bed, but instead he scooped her up and carried her there, accompanied by her startled whoop of surprise.

  “Well, then,” said Atalia, her dark eyes sparkling. “I thought you were too drunk to perform? Why don’t you prove me wrong?”

  He did, with great enthusiasm.

  After, Mazael sprawled on the bed, Atalia curled against him, the sweat hot upon his skin. Despite the amount of wine in his blood, she had fallen asleep first.

  His thoughts reeled and careened against each other. Atalia was by no means the first woman he had been with since he had left the Grim Marches seven years earlier, and she wasn’t even the first woman he had been with since entering Lord Malden’s service a year past.

  She was, however, the woman he had been within the longest. He had seduced her the first night after they escaped from mad Sir Traeger at Castle Highstone, and they had been together ever since. Usually he tired of a woman by now, wearied by her complaining or her demands upon him. With Atalia, though…she often annoyed him, but he hadn’t tired of her. Certainly she hadn’t made any demands of him, despite her criticisms. The apprentice of Trocend Castleson valued her independence too much for that.

  Was he in love with her?

  No. For one thing, Mazael doubted that there was even such a thing as love. And, gods, she did sometimes get on his nerves. Yet she certainly was interesting company. He looked at her and smiled.

  In the right circumstances, she did enjoy being proved wrong.

  Mazael drifted off to sleep.

  He had nightmares, as he often did, jangled images of blood and death from the battles he had seen, but they were not very severe and did not disturb his sleep. He awoke as the dawn sunlight started to creep through the narrow window, the sounds of the castle filling the courtyard outside. Atalia was still asleep, and Mazael ran his hand down her bare back. Some of the nightmares still clung to his mind, but he knew just what would dispel their shadows…

  “Time to rise, Mazael Cravenlock,” said a dry voice. “There is work to be done.”

  Mazael sat bolt upright, snatching the dagger from beneath his pillow, Atalia falling off his chest with a surprised yelp.

  A gaunt, ascetic-looking man sat in Mazael’s chair, clad in a monk’s brown robe. He had thinning gray hair and a lined, weary face, and his age could have been anywhere from forty to sixty. His brown robes swallowed his lean frame, and a number of pouches hung both from his belt and a leather baldric slung across his chest. He held a cane across his lap, but Mazael suspected that was an affectation.

  “Brother Trocend,” said Mazael.

  Chapter 2: A Forbidden College

  “For the gods’ sake,” said Atalia, snatching the blanket and pulling it up to cover herself. “How long have you been sitting there? Were you watching the entire time?”

  Trocend raised his thin eyebrows. “I am a wizard, not a voyeur. And if you drank yourself into a stupor, that is your own affair. I knocked quite loudly, I will have you know.”

  Mazael scowled. There were no wizards in Knightreach. The Justiciar Order had forbade the practice of magic in their lands, and as a gesture of goodwill to his Justiciar allies, Lord Malden had issued a similar decree in Knightreach. Nevertheless, Trocend Castleson was Lord Malden’s court wizard, though only a few knew the truth. Trocend was also Malden’s advisor, the man that Malden relied upon to get things done quietly.

  Mazael had helped the old wizard with a few of those quiet tasks, and he suspected he was about to help Trocend with another.

  “I’m not late, old man,” said Atalia, looking around for her clothing. They had left their clothes piled near the hearth, out of reach. “You said to attend you after breakfast…

  “A more urgent matter came to my attention,” said Trocend. “You should to know, apprentice, that regular sexual congress can dissipate a wizard’s control over her magic…

  “It doesn’t, and you know it,” snapped Atalia. “Or maybe you never knew it.”

  Trocend offered a thin smile. “I’m old, child, not dead.”

  “For the gods’ sake,” said Atalia. She threw aside the blankets and got to her feet, heedless of her nudity. “Have a good look, then.”

  Trocend rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen more impressive sights in my time, thank you.”

  Atalia scoffed, stalked to the garderobe, and slammed the narrow wooden door behind her.

  Mazael looked at the door for a moment, and then at Trocend.

  “I don’t think she likes you very much,” said Mazael.

  “Of course not,” said Trocend, tapping his spidery fingers against his cane. “She is grating, brazen, impulsive, and reckless. Nevertheless, she is clever and possess a capable talent for magic. We also work together effectively, which is more imp
ortant than sentiment.”

  “I assume,” said Mazael, “you have some work.”

  “Indeed,” said Trocend.

  Mazael grunted, stood, and started gathering his clothes. “Couldn’t it have waited?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Trocend. “The matter is rather urgent.” His thin face tightened. “And potentially grave. Just how hung over are you?”

  Mazael reached to the table, picked up the carafe of water that stood there, and drank half of it in three massive swallows.

  “I’ve been worse,” said Mazael.

  “Has he left yet?” called Atalia from the garderobe.

  “I can wait longer than you, apprentice,” said Trocend. “I know there is no food in there.”

  Even through the door Mazael heard Atalia’s aggravated sigh, and she stalked out and began getting dressed.

  “Must you always be so dramatic?” said Atalia, bending over to retrieve her trousers. That was an enjoyable sight, and Mazael wished that Trocend could have waited another damned half hour to deliver his news.

  “Surprise keeps the mind nimble, apprentice,” said Trocend. “Recently I received an unpleasant surprise myself.” His voice hardened. “I suggest you pay closer attention.”

  “Why?” said Mazael, locating his own trousers and pulling them on.

  “Because I am about to tell you something that will put your lives in considerable danger,” said Trocend. “I am about to tell you a secret that men are willing to kill to protect.”

  Mazael shared a look with Atalia, his lustful thoughts forgotten. Trocend enjoyed his little games, but the man was no fool. If he thought the danger was that severe…

  “What is it?” said Mazael.

  “The practice of magic, as you know, is forbidden in both Knightreach and Mastaria,” said Trocend. “A few years ago, it came to my attention that a secret college of necromancers has been operating for some time in both lands.”

  “Necromancers?” said Mazael as he pulled on the last of his clothes.