Shield Knight Calliande's Tale Read online

  SHIELD KNIGHT: CALLIANDE'S TALE

  Jonathan Moeller

  Table of Contents

  Description

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1: Magistri

  Chapter 2: War Without End

  Chapter 3: Hunted

  Chapter 4: Prisoners

  Chapter 5: Gambling

  Chapter 6: Duty

  Chapter 7: Choices

  Other books by the author

  About the Author

  Description

  Sixteen years old, Calliande is a new-made Magistria of the Order, a wielder of the powerful magic of the Well of Tarlion.

  With the hordes of the Frostborn invading the realm of Andomhaim, every one of the Magistri is needed in battle.

  But Calliande's first battle might also be her last...

  Shield Knight: Calliande's Tale

  Copyright 2018 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover image copyright fotorince | istockphoto.com.

  Ebook edition published January 2018.

  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.

  Author's Note

  The novella SHIELD KNIGHT: CALLIANDE’S TALE takes place between the events of SEVENFOLD SWORD: WARLORD and SEVENFOLD SWORD: NECROMANCER. Note that this novella will contain spoilers for the first three books in the SEVENFOLD SWORD series.

  Chapter 1: Magistri

  Forty-three days after the quest of the Seven Swords began, forty-three days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1488 when the cloaked stranger came to the High King of Andomhaim’s court, Calliande Arban spent the afternoon teaching her apprentice Kalussa.

  At the moment, that involved answering a great many questions.

  They traveled northwest, moving closer to the city of Trojas where the sorcerer known as the Necromancer awaited them. Though come to think of it, Calliande hoped he wasn’t awaiting them. Their best chance of victory against Taerdyn was surprising him and killing him before he could use the powers of the Sword of Death or bring his necromantic magic to bear.

  Calliande’s eyes roved around the countryside, listening as Kalussa talked. They were northeast of the city of Talyrium, one of the Nine Cities of Owyllain, and the landscape was a rolling plain, frequently dotted with small, wooded hills and rocky tors. Thick grass covered the ground, and a dry breeze came down from the north, rustling the grasses. It was a hot day, and Calliande felt herself sweating beneath her clothes.

  She didn’t mind. The heat was uncomfortable, but she remembered the cold. There had been times in her life when it seemed like the cold would never end, when she had been so cold that she feared that her fingers would fall off…

  “Then the Magistri are not allowed to kill with magic?” said Kalussa.

  Calliande forced her attention to the present.

  They walked in a long column through the grasslands. Tamlin and Aegeus led the way, talking and joking with each other, their bronze armor flashing in the sun. The gray elf Kyralion followed, his golden eyes roving endlessly over the plains as he sought for foes. Sir Calem Whitecloak walked with him, stiff and expressionless, though from time to time he shot glances at Kalussa. Calliande and Kalussa walked next, and Sir Krastikon Cyros brought up the back, his face distant. Perhaps he was thinking of his dead father.

  Ridmark and Third had gone to scout ahead, as they did several times a day. Calliande supposed they would be back by sundown. She worried for her husband, though truth be told, anyone who tried to hinder him and Third would regret it. She also worried about her children, though she knew they were safe behind the walls of Aenesium, and if Calliande thought about that too long, she would start brooding.

  Fortunately, teaching Kalussa provided an excellent (if occasionally annoying) distraction. In the morning, she taught Kalussa the practical side of wielding magical forces, and in the afternoon, she answered questions.

  “They are not,” said Calliande, looking at the younger woman. Kalussa was beautiful, confident, and smart, with golden hair and bright blue eyes. Little wonder Calem kept glancing at her. Kalussa walked with vigor, swinging the dark length of the Staff of Blades with every stride. She had thought to become Ridmark’s first concubine in the realm of Owyllain, an idea that Calliande hadn’t liked at all.

  She had forgiven Kalussa for that. Forgetting would take some more work.

  “But if the magic of the Well of Tarlion can only heal, defend, and seek,” said Kalussa, “then the law against killing is just a formality, isn’t it? Why ban the Magistri from doing something they cannot do anyway?”

  Kalussa was many things, but stupid was not one of them.

  “That’s a good point,” said Calliande. “There are two reasons. One, the Magistri are forbidden from using any other sources of magical power, save for the apprentices of the Keeper. So, no elemental magic, and you know that it is a simple matter to kill with elemental magic.” Kalussa nodded. “Two, to discourage the Magistri from seeking out other sources of magical power. If you are forbidden from killing with magic, then there’s no point in learning to employ sources of power that can kill. As a sign of that oath, that Magistri are banned from killing with bladed weapons.” She shook her head. “Though that doesn’t stop them from using clubs. I knew a Magistrius named Camorak, one of the best healers in Andomhaim. But I saw him beat enemies to death with a club several times.”

  “Then the Magistri serve mainly as healers?” said Kalussa.

  “Some of them, yes,” said Calliande. “Not all of the Magistri have the mental and physical stamina for healing. Some are better at warding spells or communication spells. The magic of the Well cannot harm living mortals, but it can destroy creatures of dark magic, and some of the Magistri devote themselves to hunting down such creatures.” Calliande shrugged. “It depends on the individual Magistria or Magistrius in question. I was always skilled at healing, so that was how I thought of myself. At least at first, before the Keeper found me.”

  Kalussa blinked. “When was the first time you healed a wound?”

  “Oh, in Tarlion, soon after my power manifested,” said Calliande. “I was thirteen at the time, I think. I was an initiate of the Order, and I studied in a hospital set up to treat the wounded from the war with the Frostborn.”

  “No, I mean, when was the first time you healed a wound on a battlefield?” said Kalussa. She shook her head. “I’ve seen you do it. You make it look so easy, though I know it cannot be that simple. To heal wounds in the midst of a battle…”

  “On the battlefield?” said Calliande, and then she recalled. “Yes, I remember the first time I healed wounds on a battlefield.”

  She started to tell the story to Kalussa.

  Chapter 2: War Without End

  I was sixteen years old when I had to heal wounds on a battlefield for the first time.

  It was a very, very long time ago, Kalussa. I told you how I put myself into the long sleep to face the Frostborn when they returned. My first battle would have been…the Year of Our Lord 1247, I think, or maybe 1248.

  A long time ago.

  I was sixteen years old, and I had just been raised to the rank of a full Magistria of the Order. That seems young, I know, but it was necessary. The war against the Frostborn had been raging for decades, and th
ey seemed to get a little stronger with every year. More and more Magistri and Swordbearers were needed. It wasn’t uncommon for a soulblade to have three different wielders over the course of a year, with the sword passing to a new bearer each time its previous wielder fell in battle.

  I finished my formal training in haste, though in truth working in the hospital gave me a more comprehensive education in healing wounds than I might ever have wished. After my training was finished, the Master of the Order assigned me to the army fighting against the Frostborn in the Northerland and the duxarchate of Caerdracon.

  I rode north from Tarlion with a troop of men-at-arms and my mentor and teacher Marius.

  He was the one who had found me after my magic had manifested and brought me to the Tower of the Magistri in Tarlion for training. In my memory, he is always old, but I suppose he would have been younger then. He looked like a big bear of a man, with gray hair and a gray beard that always needed trimming. It made him look wise, like the way a venerable old Magistrius is supposed to look. Marius had been sent to help the High King’s army as well, and I was grateful for his presence. I might have been a Magistria, and I might have known how to heal wounds…but I was still only sixteen years old, and I didn’t want to be alone among thousands of soldiers.

  It was bitterly cold, and it grew colder as we rode north. The hills of the Northerland are rocky and cloaked in pine trees, which means there are a thousand places to launch an ambush. I kept watch for any enemies, but the scouts thought that the Frostborn raiders had not yet come this far south. Of course, I had healed wounded men who had nearly been killed by foes who had appeared where they were not supposed to be, so I knew better than to lower my guard.

  Our escort met us a few miles south of the town of Dun Calpurnia, which at the time was the fortified northern boundary of the realm of Andomhaim. The army had raised its winter quarters there, and the Dux of Caerdracon had sent a troop of horsemen to greet us.

  “Rein up here,” Marius instructed our escort. “Calliande, let me do the talking.”

  “I wouldn’t dream otherwise,” I said.

  We came to a halt, the hills rising to our right and the frozen River Moradel to our left, and a dozen horsemen approached us. A knight of Caertigris named Sir Hadrian Aurelius led them, and…

  Yes, Hadrian. The same name as the Emperor of the Romans on Old Earth in ancient days. Sir Hadrian was the youngest son of the Dux of Caertigris, and the House of the Aurelii had ruled the duxarchate of Caertigris in the High King’s name for centuries. The Dux of Caertigris had a friend named Hadrian, and so when his youngest son was born, he was named Hadrian. Sir Hadrian hated the comparison to the Emperor Hadrian, became annoyed when anyone pointed it out, and refused to grow a beard so he would not look like the ancient Emperor. It could have been worse, though. What if his father had named him Marcus Aurelius?

  Hadrian’s men-at-arms reined up, and the knight approached us. He was about twenty-five at the time, big and strong, with close-cropped brown hair and a heavy cloak lined in wolf fur over his armor. Steel armor gets painfully cold in winter, which is not a problem you have in Owyllain.

  “Sir Hadrian,” said Marius. “Good to see you again.”

  “And you, my friend,” said Hadrian.

  “What news from the Northerland?” said Marius

  “New Magistri are sorely needed,” said Hadrian. “The Frostborn and their creatures have dug in behind their fortifications at the Black Mountain, but they still send raiding parties on a regular basis. I hope the High King can find allies soon.”

  “As do I, sir,” said Marius. “If we do not take the offensive against the Frostborn soon, they shall spend the next fifty years slicing apart the realm mile by mile.”

  “Indeed,” said Hadrian. “But that is for the High King and the Duxi to decide. How many Magistri have you brought?”

  “Myself,” said Marius, “and one other.”

  “Just one?” said Hadrian, blinking as he looked at the men. “Where?”

  Then his eyes fell on me, and he frowned.

  I admit I probably was not an impressive sight. I was wearing the white robe of the Magistri, which was made of bleached wool that started white and gradually turned grayish over time. Beneath the robe I wore a long coat, a jerkin, thick trousers, and heavy boots, and over the robe I had a long green cloak. I likely looked like a bundled-up child.

  “The girl?” said Hadrian, incredulous.

  “Sir Hadrian Aurelius, this is Calliande of Tarlion, a new-made Magistria of the Order,” said Marius.

  “The girl?” said Hadrian again. He gave an irritated shake of his head. “We asked for Magistri, and they send us a girl.”

  “She passed the trials and is a Magistria,” said Marius.

  “Is she?” said Hadrian, turning his horse to look at me. He wasn’t happy. “Tell me, girl, have you ever healed a wound? Have you ever looked into a man’s eyes as he begged you to kill him?”

  I hesitated. My initial impulse was to let Marius do the talking. But I knew that if I did not make a stand now, Hadrian would walk all over me.

  “The worst wound I ever healed,” I said, “was a man who had been stabbed through the gut. A javelin, I think. It ruptured his bowel, and by the time he made it to the hospital, it was crawling with maggots. It was one of the worst things I had ever smelled in my life, and he was delirious with fever and agony.” That had been a bad one. I had felt the agony of the wound in his belly, the fever and the infection spreading through his flesh. “I don’t know how he survived long enough to reach us, but he did. And I was able to heal him.” I made myself meet Sir Hadrian’s eyes. “And when you speak to me, Sir Hadrian, you will address me as Magistria.”

  Years later, I still can’t believe I said that.

  Don’t laugh, Kalussa. I’ve treated with kings and lords since, but back then I was a frightened girl, and I had never done anything like that before. But I was a Magistria, and I had an obligation to stand up for the Order. Besides, a sixteen-year-old girl alone among an army was one thing…but a Magistria was something else entirely.

  For his part, Hadrian only looked amused. “Very well. I suppose we must observe the proprieties even in battle. Come along, Master Marius, Magistria. Our Magistri have quarters inside the walls of Dun Calpurnia, and…”

  Right then, things went to hell.

  I didn’t have the Sight back then, but I felt the surge of icy power in the air, and I looked at the hills rising over the road just in time for the first attack to come. A blast of glittering magical ice shot out of the trees and killed two of Sir Hadrian’s men-at-arms, flinging their bodies to the ground. A second shard of spell-driven ice killed a horse, and a third came right at me.

  I reacted in time, and I cast a warding spell around myself. The shard of ice hit the ward, and it felt like getting punched in the stomach. But I knew if my will broke that I was going to die, so I held on.

  Sir Hadrian shouted commands, and Marius started casting a spell, and I looked up the slope of the hill and saw our attackers.

  There were three cogitaers. What were cogitaers? The Frostborn ruled an empire of many kindreds, and they used some of those kindreds as their soldiers or slaves, just as the Sovereign and the other dark elven lords used orcs and muridachs and kobolds. The cogitaers were small, delicate creatures, each one barely five feet high. They had pale blue skin, and their ears came to sharp points. They wore flowing gray robes, and they floated a few inches above the ground, the way that we saw Khurazalin and Urzhalar glide over the earth.

  And the cogitaers could use magic as naturally as you and I walk or run or breathe. It was part of their nature, and that made them into dangerous enemies.

  Two of our men had been killed, but the men-at-arms were all veterans and knew what to do. Hadrian bellowed orders, and his men scattered, preparing to charge up the hill from different angles. I managed to get my frightened horse under control and turned the animal to join Marius.

  �
�Warding spells!” he called to me. “We’ll need to defend the men-at-arms as they charge.” I nodded and started gathering power for a warding spell. I would only be able to ward one man at a time, but if I timed it right, that could decide the fight then and there.

  Things had already gone to hell, but then they got worse.

  Dozens of points of blue light appeared in the snowy trees, and the revenants marched into sight.

  They were undead, but not like the kind of undead Archaelon or the High Warlock of Vhalorast created, or those Bronze Dead warriors that Taerdyn is pulling out of the Sovereign’s burial mounds. These undead were created not with necromancy, but with a twisted form of the magic of elemental ice. They were as fast and as strong as normal undead, but they could also kill with a touch. If they touched exposed skin for too long, their victim’s blood froze.

  It was a horrible death, and one I saw too many times.

  There were dozens of the revenants, and they surged out of the pine trees, a cold blue light in their eyes and on their hands. The horses panicked. Horses have better noses than we do, and while they don’t like the smell of the undead, they absolutely hated the scent of the revenants. Horsemen were useless against the revenants, and the best defense against them was either a well-drilled wall of infantrymen or Swordbearers.

  Unfortunately, we had neither, and the men-at-arms struggled to keep their mounts under control in the face of the onslaught.

  My father had been a fisherman, not a farmer, and while I know how to tie every single kind of knot known to the men of Andomhaim, I had only just learned how to ride the year before, and I still wasn’t very good at it. I could keep my saddle, but trying to keep control of a terrorized mount was beyond me.

  So, I could do nothing but cling for my life as my horse screamed in panic and galloped into the trees.

  Chapter 3: Hunted