The First Warlock Read online

  THE FIRST WARLOCK

  Jonathan Moeller

  ***

  Description

  The path of dark magic leads to endless destruction or ultimate power.

  Mharoslav is a master warlock of the orcish city of Vhalorast, one of the most feared enemies of the realm of Owyllain.

  But for all his power, he has many enemies.

  To survive, Mharoslav will need to find even greater power.

  But the cost of entering the Pyramid of Iron Skulls is higher than any mortal can bear...

  ***

  The First Riding

  Copyright 2022 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Smashwords Edition.

  Some cover images copyright Photo 102262652 / Stormy Sky © Stevanovicigor | Dreamstime.com & Photo 52399564 / Mayan Pyramid © Ivan Soto | Dreamstime.com & istockphoto | StationaryTraveller & Photo 159131215 © Njmusik | Dreamstime.com & Illustration 6462671 © Mmgemini | Dreamstime.com.

  Ebook edition published March 2022.

  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 First Warlock

  Few things ever pleased Mharoslav, master warlock of Vhalorast.

  But the battle shaping up on the moors of northern Owyllain might have made him smile, if anything ever could.

  Much had changed for the warlocks of the Pyramid of Iron Skulls in the decade since the final defeat of the Sovereign and his Maledicti priests. The human kingdom of Owyllain to the south had been reunited, the Nine Cities under the rule of a single Pendragon High King once more. With trade coming through the Guardian’s Gate from Tarlion and Andomhaim, Owyllain was growing stronger and more prosperous.

  But so were the warlocks of Vhalorast.

  Many of their numbers had fallen with Justin Cyros at the Battle of the Plains. But with the Sovereign and the Maledicti gone, the warlocks of Vhalorast were free to exercise their powers as they willed. Rather than appointing another Warlord to lead their armies, the new High Warlock created the Council of Masters to govern the city. Free of the dictates of the Maledicti, the Vhalorasti armies conquered, subduing the nearby orcish city-states and making them vassals of the Council. Even tribes of jotunmiri and kobolds from the Cloak Mountains to the north had been brought under their control, compelled to provide slaves and warriors for Council’s wars. Soon Vhalorast would control an empire and would be strong enough to take the war to an Owyllain still exhausted from its long struggle against the Sovereign and his Maledicti.

  But all that was in the future.

  For now, Mharoslav had command of a hundred and fifty orcish warriors, fierce and deadly, veterans of the endless campaigns of the War of the Seven Swords.

  Well. Joint command, anyway.

  Perhaps fortune would favor him, and Rhalkaar would catch a kobold arrow through the eye.

  The tribe of kobolds formed up at the base of a rocky tor, about two hundred warriors strong. Their females waited behind them. Male kobolds were short and spindly, their bodies covered in gray scales, their fingers and toes tipped with claws, yellow eyes glaring from their lizard-like eyes, crests of crimson scales rising from the back of their skulls. The females looked more or less the same, save that they were smaller and didn’t have those elaborate crests.

  The tribe of kobolds was supposed to have provided a deputation of warriors to serve as skirmishers and scouts in the armies of Vhalorast. They had failed to meet their obligation and had fled north towards the Cloak Mountains, no doubt hoping to escape into the Deeps and elude the wrath of the warlocks.

  They had made a serious error.

  An example would have to be made.

  “They are trapped against the base of the tor,” growled Zharstrik. The hulking orcish warrior’s green-skinned face was leathery and marked with old scars, his tusks yellowing from age. He wore bronze plate mail but carried one of the new steel swords that had become increasingly common in Owyllain over the last several years. Zharstrik had killed a knight of Owyllain and claimed the sword from his corpse, and no one had dared to take the weapon from him.

  “Good,” said Mharoslav.

  He wanted to give orders but looked at his colleague and bitter enemy.

  The master warlock Rhalkaar stood between Mharoslav and Zharstrik. He was smaller than Zharstrik, and like Mharoslav, wore a dark robe, a wooden club at his belt. And like Mharoslav, his tusks were a dark gray instead of the usual yellowish-white.

  For his bones had turned to iron.

  Following the path of chaos magic, learning the secrets hidden in the Pyramid of Iron Skulls, offered many rewards.

  “They have defied the Council of Masters, so they must suffer the consequences,” said Rhalkaar.

  Mharoslav repressed the urge to sigh. Rhalkaar had less battlefield experience, and he had failed to realize that the more general a command, the less useful it was.

  “Kill all the males,” said Mharoslav. “If any surrender, spare them. They can earn their lives toiling in the mines or the fields. Take as many of the females captive as feasible. We will distribute them to the loyal kobold tribes as spoils of war.”

  “As you wish, master warlocks,” said Zharstrik. “What of their shamans? If they have shamans, they will try to use their spells against us.”

  “If they do,” said Mharoslav, “they will learn their petty magic is no match for the power of the warlocks of the Pyramid of Iron Skulls.”

  Zharstrik nodded and began shouting orders, and the orcish warriors advanced, Mharoslav and Rhalkaar walking behind them. They did not speak to one another because the conversation would inevitably devolve into an argument, and it would not do for two masters of the Council to bicker in front of the common soldiers.

  The orcish warriors shouted battle cries, banging bronze swords and spears against their shields as they advanced. Their eyes glimmered with the battle rage every orc carried in his blood, the joy of battle and the ecstasy of combat, the blood lust that Mharoslav himself now felt. But like Mharoslav, the warriors kept the battle fury in check. They were too disciplined to charge madly at the foe, and they knew the penalties for disobedience.

  The kobolds hissed and loosed trilling shouts, and the lizard-like creatures began releasing arrows. Mharoslav’s lip curled in disdain. A disciplined volley of arrows might have slowed the steady advance of the orcs, but the kobolds’ archers were disorganized and sporadic. The Vhalorasti warriors easily caught the shafts upon their shields, and Mharoslav did not think that any of their men were even wounded.

  Blue light flared behind the lines of the kobold warriors.

  “Shaman,” said Mharoslav.

  “Yes, I see him,” said Rhalkaar with that usual hint of condescension that made Mharoslav want to cut his head off. “I believe there is just one. I will hold off his power, and you will strike.”

  “Very well,” said Mharoslav.

  Though he would keep one eye on Rhalkaar nonetheless. They had been bitter rivals for years, since the days when they had both been acolytes under the previous High Warlock, and they had both tried to kill one another more than once. The present High Warlock had forbidden the masters of the Council to kill one an
other.

  But.

  Accidents happened.

  Especially in battle. Best to remain cautious.

  The blue light brightened, and Rhalkaar began casting a warding spell. Mharoslav concentrated, clearing his mind, and reached for the dark power.

  There were many different branches of dark magic. Necromancy ruled the undead and drained life force. Another kind of dark magic corrupted and twisted, which was how the dark elves had created urvaalgs and ursaars in ancient days.

  But the strongest kind, the sort of dark magic that the warlocks of Vhalorast wielded, was called chaos magic. The cosmos was built upon order – the elements interacted with one another according to rules and principles, and from that truth came life and the natural world.

  Chaos magic subverted and twisted those rules. The power of a chaos spell had transmuted Mharoslav’s bones to iron, allowing him to withstand blows from bronze blades and even steel weapons that would otherwise have killed him. Spells of chaos magic could warp anything. In ancient times, the blood god Vhalzarok himself had descended and taught the first warlocks the secrets of chaos magic. Or so the ancient scrolls claimed – Mharoslav’s private opinion was that Vhalzarok had been a powerful warlock around whom time and myth had accreted a veneer of divinity. Nonetheless, the secrets of chaos magic had made the warlocks of Vhalorast the most powerful wielders of dark magic in the Sovereign’s former empire.

  As the unfortunate kobold shaman was about to discover.

  The shaman did manage to work up a good strike, hurling a shaft of shadow and blue flame at the advancing warrior. Rhalkaar snarled and cast a spell, crimson fire pulsing around his fingers, and a burst of red flame ripped from his hand. It struck the shaman’s attack and unraveled it, the dark power draining away.

  By then, Mharoslav had finished his own spell, and a scything whirlwind of red light leaped from his fist. It shot over the heads of the orcs and landed amid the front ranks of the kobolds, ripping through them in a glaring vortex. The kobolds it touched fell dying to the earth, their blood turned to iron, sentencing them to an agonizing if brief death. The vortex struck the shaman, a pathetic, spindly creature wielding a staff topped with a kobold skull. The shaman rocked back, gesturing, and a mantle of shadows sprung up around him. Mharoslav’s attack began shredding through the shaman’s wards. Another few seconds and the kobold’s defense would collapse, and the chaos magic would kill him.

  But the shaman had enough power left for one last attack, a bolt of twisting shadow that would rip away Mharoslav’s life and leave him a withered, emptied husk.

  Rhalkaar should have intercepted it, but the other warlock released his ward, drawing his power back into himself. Mharoslav would have had no defense against the shaman’s attack, but he had anticipated the treachery and surged dark power into his own ward. A shell of crimson light appeared around him, and the shaman’s spell shattered against it.

  Mharoslav’s vortex tore apart the shaman’s defenses and sank into his flesh. The shaman rocked back with a hissing shriek, tail lashing back and forth. His gray-scaled skin bulged and split apart as tumorous growths erupted from his limbs. The underlying order of his body broke apart, dissolved by the chaos of Mharoslav’s spell, and the kobold shaman twisted into a grotesque, misshapen caricature. Of course, the kobold’s body could not sustain itself, and the creature died, blood leaking from the shaman’s eyes and mouth.

  By then, Zharstrik’s warriors had reached the enemy and were butchering their way through the kobolds. The defense collapsed, some kobolds throwing down their weapons and begging for mercy, others fleeing. The kobold females let out jeering imprecations at their males, shouting at them to fight harder, but the battle was over.

  Mharoslav looked at Rhalkaar.

  “You were to ward against any attacks,” said Mharoslav.

  Rhalkaar smiled behind his tusks. By the blood gods, Mharoslav hated people who smiled too much. “Indeed. I was so impressed by your attack that I was certain the kobold shaman would fall to your power at once. I didn’t anticipate that the scaled wretch would have the strength for another spell. Do forgive my lapse.”

  Mharoslav gritted his teeth.

  Yes, a “lapse,” that was what it had been. And if the miserable shaman had somehow managed to kill Mharoslav, no doubt Rhalkaar and his harridan of a sister would have expressed their dismay in public, laughing behind their tusks all the while. As it was, Mharoslav could do nothing about it. They were victorious, which was all that mattered to the Council of Masters. If Mharoslav complained, no one would believe him – the other master warlocks would see it as yet another eruption of his feud with Rhalkaar.

  But. Rhalkaar and his sister had best be cautious.

  Accidents did happen.

  “It is of no concern,” said Mharoslav. “I expected no better performance from you.”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing the rage in Rhalkaar’s eyes for a second.

  The orcish warriors busied themselves by taking the captives in hand, roping the kobold females together in long coffles. A few proved truculent, and at Zharstrik’s request, Mharoslav used chaos magic to kill a few of the more rebellious ones in a gruesome fashion.

  The sight of the twisted corpses inspired a spirit of swift obedience in the new-made slaves.

  Mharoslav was glad the tedious business was concluded. Once they returned to Vhalorast, his military service obligations would be finished for several months, and he could resume his studies.

  His true work was far more important than rounding up slaves and the endless politicking of the Council of Masters. Or even the growth of Vhalorast’s power over the surrounding kindreds.

  For once Mharoslav unlocked the secrets of the Dragonskull, he would have all the power he needed to lead the Vhalorasti orcs to glory…and to rule over his people as an immortal god-king.

  ###

  Two days later, they returned to Vhalorast.

  The great city-state spread over the plains, secure behind its mighty walls of black stone. Between a hundred and fifty and two hundred thousand orcs lived within the walls, and counting the various slaves and mercenaries who had been gathered in the last ten years, the true population was even bigger. Vhalorast was now as large as Urd Maelwyn had been at the height of the Sovereign’s power. Perhaps soon, Mharoslav thought, the warlocks of the city would rebuild the Sovereign’s empire for themselves, but this time, the Council of Masters would rule, rather than the dark elves in their madness and self-destructive folly.

  To the north, just before the horizon, Mharoslav saw the massive shapes of the Cloak Mountains. But rising from the heart of Vhalorast was a towering ziggurat of black stone, ramps and stairwells ascending its sides to reach its crown. The Pyramid of Iron Skulls rose a thousand feet tall, built by the skill of the warlocks and the blood of toiling slaves, and within its catacombs rested the iron skulls of the master warlocks of millennia past. Their secrets and power lingered within the iron skulls. Those seeking power and wisdom entered the catacombs to question the masters of ancient days.

  Sometimes the seekers returned with the knowledge they sought.

  Or they returned as gibbering lunatics.

  And very often, they never returned at all.

  Seven gates pierced the outer wall of Vhalorast. The orcish warriors entered through the Gate of Servitude, the traditional entrance by which captives were brought into the city to begin their lives of toil. Mharoslav left the mundane matters of handling the captives to Zharstrik and strode through the crowded streets. Vhalorast seethed with activity as slaves and women went about their business. The domed houses preferred by the orcish kindred dominated the streets, though in many places, necessity overcame preference in the form of multi-story apartment houses of stone with fired tiles of clay on the rooftops. The tallest buildings were the towers of the master warlocks, built of black stone. The position of the thirteen moons could affect the performance of various spells, and so the warlocks needed towers to observe
the sky and chart the moons’ courses through the heavens.

  Or so they claimed. Given how petty some of his fellow master warlocks were, Mharoslav suspected they were building the towers as a competition, like common warriors competing to see who could throw a spear the farthest.

  His black robes meant no one dared to impede him, and slaves hastened out of his way, bowing as he passed. As a master warlock, Mharoslav could execute any slave in the city with impunity.

  They were wise to avoid his attention.

  His tower was not far from the plaza at the foot of the Pyramid of Iron Skulls. It was a cylindrical spire of dark stone surrounded by a small courtyard. The demands of his rank meant that the courtyard held a great hall and a slaves’ barracks, though Mharoslav would have preferred to live in complete solitude. That said, he wasn’t about to scrub his own floors and cook his own meals.

  He grimaced, walked into his courtyard, and stepped into his great hall.

  A firepit crackled in the center of the floor, smoke rising to a hole in the ceiling. A table sat on the far end of the hall, and an orcish woman stood there, glaring at him. Two human slaves in gray tunics hurried close and bowed. They did not speak to greet him - Mharoslav only purchased slaves whose tongues had been removed. They could not act as spies for his enemies, and he did not have to endure their chattering.

  “Bring me food and drink,” he ordered and then turned to the orcish woman who stood near the table.

  Sadly, he could not have her tongue removed.

  “My lord and master,” said the woman, her scorn apparent. “I see you have managed not to get yourself killed.”

  “Veljara,” said Mharoslav. He walked around the table and seated himself.

  His chief concubine scoffed. The sound grated on Mharoslav’s nerves, as nearly everything about her did. When the High Warlock had forced a resolution to Mharoslav’s and Rhalkaar’s feud, one of the terms had been that Mharoslav would take Rhalkaar’s favorite sister as his chief concubine. The old devil’s punishment had been subtle in its vexations. Rhalkaar had to suffer the humiliation of his favorite sister sharing the bed of his chief rival.