The Knight's Tale Read online

  THE KNIGHT'S TALE

  Jonathan Moeller

  ***

  Description

  RIDMARK ARBAN is eighteen years old, a new-made Swordbearer wielding a soulblade, a mighty weapon of magical power. Ridmark is sworn to defend the High King's realm from creatures and wielders of dark magic.

  Yet the dark secret waiting in the village of Victrix might doom him, or send him upon a quest to dangerous lands...

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  The Knight's Tale

  Copyright 2015 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Smashwords Edition.

  Cover images copyright Nejron | dreamstime.com & catiamadio | Dreamstime.com.

  Ebook edition published June 2015.

  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.

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  The Knight's Tale

  In the Year of Our Lord 1468, Ridmark Arban rode alone through the hills of the Northerland. The road wound its way through the green-mantled hills, the air silent save for the buzz of insects and the cries of birds. To the west flowed the broad expanse of the River Moradel, the waters heavy and slow.

  Ridmark was eighteen years old, the youngest son of Leogrance of the Arbanii, the Dux of Taliand. On the day of his eighteenth birthday, Ridmark had taken vows as a Knight of the Soulblade before the Well in the High King’s seat of Tarlion, and received the soulblade Heartwarden, which had been borne by seventeen Swordbearers before Ridmark.

  As a new-sworn Swordbearer, the Master of the Order had bestowed Ridmark’s first task. He was to travel to the seat of Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland at Castra Marcaine and obey him in all things. For the Northerland was the northernmost march of the High King’s realm of Andomhaim, and in the Wilderland beyond the borders of Northerland waited tribes of pagan orcs, petty kingdoms of dark elves, the horrors of the Nightmane Forest, the lairs of lurking urdmordar…and, perhaps, worse things yet.

  But Ridmark was still a week’s ride from Castra Marcaine. Currently he rode along the road that marked the border between the Northerland and Khaluusk, a small orcish kingdom that accepted both the High King and baptism after the final defeat of the dread Frostborn two and a half centuries past. Once great battles had been fought here, but now the river and the forest were silent.

  Then Ridmark heard the shouting.

  Through the trees he heard a man frantically arguing, while several other men tried to shout him down.

  The first voice spoke Latin…but the others, Ridmark thought, were speaking orcish. Perhaps pagan orcs had come from the Wilderland to raid and kill. If so, they would regret it. A Swordbearer was sworn to defend the realm of Andomhaim from all danger.

  Ridmark gave his horse a gentle tap with his spurs, rode around the bend in the road, and found himself in the middle of an argument.

  A dozen orcish men stood in the road, carrying clubs, pitchforks, and scythes. For a moment Ridmark reached for Heartwarden’s hilt, fearing they were indeed pagan orcs from Vhaluusk, but to judge from their clothing, the orcish men were farmers, which meant they were from Khaluusk and therefore subjects of the High King.

  The orcs confronted a man in the black robe of a village priest, a wooden cross hanging from a cord around his neck. The priest was stocky, with the thickset build of a man accustomed to hard labor, and his face had turned almost purple with anger.

  The orcs themselves looked equally furious.

  “What is this?” snarled the largest of the orcish men in heavily accented Latin. His hair was white, and most of his left ear was gone, the left side of his face marred by a scar that looked like it should have killed him. A pattern of dark tattoos denoting the headman of an Khaluuskan orcish clan covered the right side of his face. “You say these lies about us, Father Linus? You say these slanderous lies about us?”

  “Say whatever you want,” said Linus, “but you cannot change the facts. Five children from the village of Victrix are missing.”

  The orcish headman growled, his black eyes starting to gleam red with the battle rage of orcish blood. “You say that Ulacht is a liar? You say this, Father Linus? You think that we took your children? That we kidnapped them and sacrificed them to the old blood gods? Ulacht says otherwise!” Because of a peculiarity of their dialect, orcs from Kothluusk almost always referred to themselves in the third person when speaking Latin. Ulacht thumped his chest with a fist. “Bah! We of Khaluusk are subjects of the High King and baptized sons of the Church!” He leveled a finger at the priest. “And you have taken our children!”

  “We have done nothing of the sort!” said Linus.

  “Seven of our children have gone missing,” said Ulacht. “Ulacht is the headman of Rzoldur, and my kinsfolk tell me that seven of our children have disappeared! We orcs do not value our children so lightly that we fail to notice when they disappear.” He growled. “Ulacht thinks that cowardly men from Victrix slew our children to boast about how they defeated terrible orcs in the wild.”

  Linus’s face got darker. “That is preposterous! You will tell me what you have done with the children, or I shall make sure the Dux in Castra Marcaine hears…”

  “Silence!” roared Ulacht. “You shall return our children, or you will see what an orcish warband can do!” He growled again. “We may have sworn to the High King and his God, but we have not forgotten the old ways!”

  The priest lifted his fists and the orcish headman his club, both men preparing to fight.

  Then one of the orcs saw Ridmark and shouted something, and suddenly the entire mob was looking at him.

  He took a deep breath, and decided that the situation called for some authority. Specifically, Ridmark’s own as a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade. He had seen his father adjudicate disputes before. Ridmark could do the same.

  He hoped.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ridmark said, making sure to keep his voice calm. “Why are you blocking the High King’s road?”

  Father Linus cleared his throat. “Sir knight, this is...”

  “Run along, boy,” growled Ulacht, pointing his club at Ridmark. “This is none of your concern. Get out of my sight, or I'll take your horse and send you barefoot back to your father.”

  Ridmark decided more persuasion was necessary.

  He drew Heartwarden, the soulstone in the base of the blade flashing with white light, and the orcs flinched in alarm while Linus’s eyes grew wide. They recognized the soulblade for what it is.

  “I am Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii,” Ridmark said, “son of the Dux Leogrance of Taliand, and a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade. You will answer my questions.”

  Both the priest and the headman looked at each other, and then at Ridmark.

  “Tell me what is going on. Now,” Ridmark said. “And for the love of God, talk one at a time.”

  “I am the priest of the village of Victrix, sir knight,” said Linus. “Five of our children disappeared in the last fortnight, and we believe that some from the orcish village of Rzoldur,” he glared at Ulacht, “have turned to the worship of the old orcish blood gods and slain the children in their black rites.”

  “Foolishness!” roared Ulacht. “Ulacht is the headman of Rzoldur, Swordbearer, and he tells you that we are good subjects of the High King and followers of his God! We leave the humans of Victrix alone!” He pointed at Linus. “But the humans, yes, the humans th
ink they are so brave, and boast about slaying terrible orcs! Seven our Rzoldur's children have disappeared in the last fortnight, and Ulacht thinks the humans have slain them!”

  “By God and his saints!” Ridmark said, exasperated. “Did it not occur to you that this is the Northerland? There are creatures of dark magic and worse things in these forests, and they prey upon man and orc alike.” He waved a hand at the trees. “It's only the Lord's mercy that all this shouting has not drawn their attention.”

  “Your pardon, Sir Ridmark,” said Linus, “but we men of the Northerland are not fools. We know what the devils of the forest can do. Perhaps even better than a nobleman's son from the south. An urvaalg would devour its victims and leave blood and bones and a trail of carnage. Our children have simply disappeared, and I have no doubt that the orcs crept in under cover of darkness and kidnapped them!”

  “Villain!” said Ulacht.

  Both Ulacht and Linus began shouting at each other in Latin, while the orcs grumbled to each other in their own tongue and lifted their weapons. Ridmark took a deep breath to shout them down…

  …and then the ghastly shriek cut through his ears like a spike stabbing into his brain.

  His horse reared in alarm, and Ridmark tried to keep his saddle, but the pain spiking through his skull slowed his reflexes, and he fell backwards. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and came to one knee. He saw Linus and Ulacht and the orcs covering their ears.

  The air behind the orcs rippled, and the blur resolved into a hideous, misshapen creature, a ghastly combination of ape and wolf. The thing was an urvaalg, created by the dark elves through foul sorcery. Centuries of warfare had shattered the dark elven kingdoms – but urvaalgs still haunted the hills and forests of the Northerland.

  The urvaalg shrieked its unnatural cry again, and the orcs collapsed as a spike of pain shot through Ridmark’s head. He staggered to his feet, and the urvaalg stooped over the nearest orc and began raking at the man’s chest.

  It would crack his ribs and devour his heart.

  Heartwarden thrummed in Ridmark’s fist, the sword’s power awakening.

  Ridmark drew on the power of his bond with Heartwarden, and the sword’s blade flared with white light, filling him with speed, and he hurtled forward like an arrow, the world blurring around him.

  The urvaalg looked up from the helpless orc just in time for Ridmark to bring Heartwarden around in a vicious backhand. The white-burning blade slammed into the creature’s face with a burst of black blood, and the urvaalg toppled backwards and started thrashing like a landed fish, albeit an eight hundred pound fish with talons and fangs.

  Ridmark came to a stop and whirled, preparing a killing blow on the urvaalg, but there was no need. The urvaalg twitched several more times and then went motionless, the black slime of its blood spilling into the dirt of the road.

  For a moment silence fell over the trees, but then the orcish men began to groan as they recovered from the urvaalg’s unnatural wail.

  Ridmark hurried forward and knelt besides the wounded orc. The gashes on his chest and belly were very bad, but Ridmark was a Swordbearer. Again he drew on the sword’s power, and white light flared around his fingers as he summoned healing energy. The orc shuddered and went limp as the gashes turned into ugly black scars against his green skin. The orc would be on his back for a week or more, but he would not die from his wounds.

  Ridmark got to his feet, exhausted, and found the orcs and Father Linus staring at him.

  “It seems that the Lord is indeed merciful,” said Linus, voice quiet, “to have sent you when he did.”

  “Aye,” rumbled Ulacht, gesturing for his men to help the wounded orc. He sounded furious, but Ridmark realized that Ulacht’s fury was directed at himself. “And Ulacht is almost slain in the woods like some callow stripling! He should know better than to shout in the trees.”

  Both the priest and the orcish headman looked embarrassed. Perhaps Ridmark could nudge them towards working together.

  “But will you accept,” Ridmark said, “that neither one of you is to blame? That something is preying upon both your villages and kidnapping your children?”

  Ulacht and Linus shared a look.

  “This urvaalg, perhaps?” said Linus. “An urvaalg has not come this far south in years.”

  Ulacht growled. “Nay, Father. The children disappeared without a trace. An urvaalg would have left pieces of them everywhere.”

  The headman had a point. But there were numerous creatures in the wild that kidnapped victims and took them alive back to their lairs…and none of them were things Ridmark particularly wanted to meet. But Ridmark was a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, and the defense of the realm’s people was his duty.

  “Then you will help me,” Ridmark said, “to find whatever has done this? For I am bound by duty and law to do so…but aid would be welcome.”

  “As you say,” said Linus.

  Ulacht nodded, grunted, and picked up his club. “You come to Rzoldur, sir knight, and all Ulacht’s kinsfolk will speak with you.”

  “Or come to Victrix,” said Linus, “and my flock will speak to you of what they have seen. Little enough as it is.”

  “Who is lord of Victrix?” Ridmark said.

  Ulacht and Linus shared a look.

  “Sir Hamus,” said Linus, “may God preserve him.”

  Ulacht scowled. “Bloated lecher that he is.”

  Linus winced. “Sir Hamus has grown somewhat…indolent of late, true, but I am sure he means well.”

  “Does Victrix have one of the Magistri?” Ridmark asked. A Magistrius, skilled in magic, might know more about whatever dangers dwelt nearby.

  “We do,” said Linus, “the Magistrius Sempronius, though he is a touch…eccentric.”

  For a moment Ridmark hesitated. He didn’t know what to do next, and he felt like a child attempting to command his elders. Yet he was not a child, not any more. He was a Swordbearer, and it was his duty to defend the realm of Andomhaim from dark magic, and from the sort of creatures that would carry off children in the night.

  “I will see the Magistrius Sempronius first,” Ridmark said. “Perhaps his knowledge of magic will lend some insight.”

  Ulacht snorted. “Or he’ll drool on your boots.”

  Father Linus gave the orcish headman a reproving look. “I am…sure he will be glad to see you, sir knight. Please, follow me.”

  Ulacht insisted on accompanying Ridmark, and after some negotiation, the other orcs returned to Rzoldur, and Linus led Ridmark further along the road to the village of Victrix itself, deeper into the hills of the Northerland. The road cut back and forth between the hills, and at last the village itself came into sight.

  Or, rather, both the villages of Victrix and Rzoldur…and the thing that stood between them.

  A steep hill, at least five hundred feet tall, rose out of the forests of the Northerland. A farming village of perhaps six hundred people nestled in a valley at the base of the hill, surrounding a stout square keep, a sturdy church, and the kind of tall round tower favored by the Magistri. Upon an outthrust spur of the hill, overlooking the valley, stood a cluster of the domed houses of rusticated stone preferred by the orcs – the village of Rzoldur. If the villages were so close to each other, that meant the orcs and the humans had coexisted peacefully for some time.

  So why turn on each other now?

  The ruin of white stone high upon the hill held Ridmark’s attention. It looked like a delicate castle of gleaming stone, pale, beautiful…and utterly wrong. The angles of the crumbling towers were odd, and the shape of the arches and windows reflected an alien mind.

  It was a ruin of the dark elves.

  “You live near that,” Ridmark said, “and you wonder why your children have disappeared? All manner of ill creatures can lurk in a dark elven ruin.”

  Linus shrugged. “It is safe enough, Swordbearer. Men settled here a century ago, and the ruin has been deserted the entire time. We even sto
re cured meats and dried vegetables in the ruin’s cellar during the winter.”

  “Your folk are miners, headman?” Ridmark said, looking at the stone domes of Rzoldur.

  “Aye,” said Ulacht. “There are ores and gemstones in the hills, and many caves as well.”

  “Did you ever tunnel far enough to reach the Deeps?” said Ridmark. There were thousands of miles of unmapped caverns below the surface of Andomhaim, and the Deeps housed many dangerous and powerful creatures. If the orcs dug deep enough to awaken one...

  Ulacht snorted, the muscles of his scarred face tightening. “And awaken some horror, you mean? We are not so foolish. Ulacht does not let his clan dig too deep. Some things are better left to slumber.”

  They walked in silence the rest of the way to the Magistrius’s tower at the edge of Victrix. The Magistri, Ridmark understood, preferred to work in towers, since the position of the thirteen moons altered certain magical effects. (According to the scriptures and ancient Roman books, Old Earth had only one moon, which seemed like it would be altogether peculiar.) Ridmark strode towards the tower’s door, preparing to knock.

  The narrow door swung open before Ridmark could reach it, and a tall, forbidding old man in a white robe with a black sash stepped out. He looked like the very image of a learned Magistrius – stern, wise, and solemn.

  “Magistrius Sempronius,” said Father Linus. “I bring before you Sir Ridmark, son of the Dux Leogrance Arban of Taliand, and a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade.”

  “I have come seeking your counsel, Magistrius,” Ridmark said.

  Sempronius gave him a grave nod, and opened his mouth to speak.

  “Chickens!” bellowed the Magistrius.

  Ridmark blinked, and Ulacht and Linus shared a look.

  “Pardon?” Ridmark said at last.

  “Chickens!” said Sempronius, deadly serious. “Do you not see the purple chicken upon your shoulder, Swordbearer?”

  Ridmark looked at his shoulder, baffled. “I…fear I cannot.”