MALISON: DRAGON UMBRA
Jonathan Moeller
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Description
The Empire struggles for its survival against the dark elven hordes, and a new ally might mean victory or destruction.
When the umbral elves offer to side with the Empire, Sir Tyrcamber Rigamond is sent to the Imperial Free City of Falconberg to help guard the Emperor's ambassador.
But in the corrupt city of Falconberg, the treacherous politics of the merchant-lords might be more dangerous than the umbral elves themselves.
And an ancient enemy might rise from the dust of the past...
***
Malison: Dragon Umbra
Copyright 2019 by Jonathan Moeller.
Smashwords Edition.
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Ebook edition published May 2019.
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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Chapter 1: Liege Lordship
Sir Tyrcamber Rigamond rode north along the dusty road, listening to his companion complain.
At least, he listened with half an ear, since his companion never really shut up.
In his five years as a Knight of the Order of Embers, one of the five Imperial Orders sworn to the Emperor and the defense of the Frankish Empire, Tyrcamber had undertaken many strange and dangerous tasks and had seen more battles than he could easily recall at this point.
Listening to Sir Angaric Medraut ramble on and on was hardly the most unpleasant duty he had ever undertaken.
Though Tyrcamber did have to remind himself of that from time to time.
Their party rode through the pine forests of the northeastern Empire, the sky fire sullen and golden-red. The vivid green of the forest made for a sharp contrast with the sheet of molten flame that rose overhead. Ahead Tyrcamber saw the dark mass of clouds to the north, the sky fire making them glow like coals. He hoped that it wasn’t about to rain again. Here in the northeastern Empire, it rained a lot. As urgent as their mission was, Tyrcamber found himself looking forward to arriving at Falconberg, if only for the pleasure of a roof over his head. Even a leaky roof would be better than another night spent in a sodden tent.
A flicker of amusement went through him. Two years ago, during Duke Faramund Berengar’s campaign against the xiatami snakemen in Mourdrech, Tyrcamber had been so hot and dry that he found himself missing the harsh, blizzard-choked winters of his native Chalons. Now, as he traveled through the rainy duchy of Ribaria, he found himself missing the harsh deserts of Mourdrech. A peasant merchant had once told Tyrcamber that sheep always thought the grass was better on the other side of the meadow, and Tyrcamber was beginning to understand what that meant.
Still. At least there were no horse-sized scorpions in Ribaria, or poisonous snakes, or venomous cacti that fired their needles at anything that drew too close. Though Ribaria had to contend with muridach raiders coming out of the mountains, or the warriors of the cruel jotunmiri earls of the north.
“What do you think?” said Sir Angaric.
“Hmm?” said Tyrcamber. He rebuked himself. Not for losing track of Angaric’s ramblings – Angaric said so many things that there was no point in keeping track of them all – but for not watching his surroundings. Ribaria was safer than Mourdrech or Chalons, true, but there was still the threat of muridach or jotunmiri attacks. Or goblins, for that matter. The umbral elves claimed a vague suzerainty over the forest of Korbalost, but the goblin tribes living in the forest often did as they pleased.
“About the umbral elves,” said Angaric.
“I think they’re dangerous and untrustworthy,” said Tyrcamber.
Angaric snorted. “About their government.”
Tyrcamber glanced at Sir Angaric. Most of the men of the Order of Embers were fit, but Angaric was paunchy and heavyset, though not quite as fat as he had been when Tyrcamber had first met him after Duke Faramund’s campaign against the xiatami. Even Angaric’s voracious love of food was no match for the rigors of life in the Order’s service. He had a bushy black beard and close-cropped black hair, and shrewd blue eyes under a heavy brow and thick eyebrows. Angaric was a mediocre swordsman at best and was more interested in books, food, and prostitutes than anything else.
He was, however, a superb wizard. He wielded the Seven Spells with great skill, able to create potent effects while using little magical power, making him far more resistant to the dangers of the Malison. Angaric could also use the secret spells of the Order of Embers with deadly skill. That made him a valuable asset to the Order if one could endure Angaric’s conversation. Tyrcamber didn’t mind, most of the time. Angaric vaguely reminded Tyrcamber of his friend Corswain Scuinar, who had died during the siege of Tongur five years past.
Though Angaric was much, much smarter than Corswain had been, a fact that Angaric would have pointed out at every opportunity. The two of them would have fought constantly, and then gotten drunk together and visited the brothels.
“The government of the umbral elves,” said Tyrcamber. “They vote for their leaders, do they not? As the ancient Romans and Greeks did on Old Earth.”
“What’s fascinating,” said Angaric, “is how the umbral elves split off from the dark elves.”
“Is it?” said Tyrcamber, glancing up and down the column.
Nearly two hundred serjeants of the Order of Embers rode north, armored in chain mail and armed with spears and swords. Tyrcamber and Angaric rode at the back of the column of horsemen, and behind them the supply wagons rumbled along, pulled by oxen and screened by the mounted scouts. It was a formidable force, but they were escorting both the Master of the Order of Embers and the Imperial Chancellor. Tyrcamber didn’t think anyone would attack them to stop the Chancellor’s mission from the Emperor, but stranger things had happened.
Besides, Tyrcamber thought it more likely they would be attacked by goblins or muridachs in search of human flesh for their bellies, or jotunmiri warriors in search of loot.
“Oh, yes,” said Angaric. “You see, the dark elves were much like humans, in that they had both nobles and commoners. But during their wars with the cloak elves of Cathair Kaldran, the commoners of the dark elves lost confidence in their lords. Finally, the commoners split from the dark elves and rejected the shadow of Incariel, and they became the umbral elves. Not dark elves, not cloak elves, but a new kindred entirely. They rejected all kings and lords and nobles, and rule themselves by electing leaders in the fashion of some of the Imperial Free Cities.”
Tyrcamber grunted. “You seem fascinated with the idea.”
“It must be pure chaos,” said Angaric. “A society without lords to keep order and maintain laws? I suppose whichever demagogue speaks the boldest lies can get himself elected the leader of the umbral elves.” He paused and frowned. “You aren’t even listening to me.”
“I am,” said Tyrcamber. “Umbral elves, commoners, laws, demagogues.”
“Just as well,” said Angaric. “If the umbral elves of Sygalynon are willing to remain neutral in our war with the Valedictor, that would be a great victory for the Empire.” He grinned. “The umbral elves don’t like humans, but
they like dark elven nobles even less. I am looking forward to our arrival in Falconberg. If the Master and the Chancellor can negotiate a pact of neutrality with the First of Sygalynon, we shall witness history.”
Tyrcamber had already witnessed enough history for his taste. “You are just looking forward to the taverns and brothels of Falconberg.”
“Indeed, I am,” said Angaric without hesitation. “I haven’t yet sampled the brothels of Falconberg.” A contemplative look went over his stout face. “I would like to visit the brothels in every Free City in the Empire. Perhaps I shall write a short book on the topic, a guide for the discerning traveler.”
“God and the saints,” said Tyrcamber. “Don’t mention that to anyone. Half the Order already thinks you’re a lecher.”
“Half the Order is jealous of me,” said Angaric with calm smugness. “All men would be lechers if they had the courage for it.”
Tyrcamber wasn’t sure about that. He was more certain that Angaric was eventually going to seduce the wrong woman and get his head bashed in by an enraged husband, father, or brother. Which was part of the reason the Master had ordered Tyrcamber to accompany Angaric on this embassy. Angaric was one of the most skilled wizards in the Order, which would make him invaluable if the umbral elves intended treachery. Tyrcamber was there to make sure that Angaric did not cause unnecessary trouble. The last thing they needed during the negotiations to ensure Sygalynon’s neutrality was for an enraged merchant or alderman of Falconberg to come after Angaric.
“If you say so,” said Tyrcamber at last.
“I do,” said Angaric, and he let out a sigh. “What do you think, Sir Tyrcamber? We could go together to the taverns and brothels of Falconberg. When our duties allow, of course.”
Tyrcamber was spared the need to answer by the approach of a horseman. A man wearing the chain mail and crimson tabard of a serjeant of the Order of Embers sat in the saddle, sword and dagger at his belt. He had pale eyes, a lined, weathered face, and a drooping gray mustache. On his left shoulder was a small bronze badge in the shape of an eagle, the insignia of a captain of serjeants.
“Serjeant-captain Rudolf,” said Tyrcamber. He had first met the man two years ago during Duke Faramund’s campaign against the xiatami. Rudolf was a level-headed, capable soldier and commander. Men like him, Tyrcamber reflected, were the backbone of the Order. Noble-born knights like Tyrcamber might command and hold the high offices of the Order, but it was the serjeant-captains like Rudolf who got things done.
“Sir Tyrcamber, Sir Angaric,” said Rudolf. Angaric gave him a distant nod. He always acted lordly and reserved around commoners, which Tyrcamber supposed was better than cruel arrogance. “The Master would like you to attend him. We’re almost to the village of Tolbiac.”
“Already?” said Angaric. “Time does fly.”
Tyrcamber had a different perception of the journey, but then he had been the one listening to Angaric. “Does Master Ruire expect trouble?”
“Trouble?” said Angaric. “Why should there be trouble?”
Tyrcamber and Rudolf shared a look that Angaric didn’t notice.
“Goblins, muridachs, and jotunmiri are always a danger in this part of the Empire, Sir Angaric,” said Rudolf.
“There might be…political problems, as well,” said Tyrcamber. “We’re on the lands of the Duke of Ribaria. But Tolbiac is right at the edge of the villages claimed by the Imperial Free City of Falconberg. The Duke and the merchants of Falconberg hate each other and spend a lot of time bringing lawsuits against each other before the Imperial court.” He could recall at least seven from his time as a squire in the Emperor’s city of Sinderost, and he hadn’t been paying attention all that closely.
His old friend Corswain Scuinar had been one of the Duke’s younger sons, and Tyrcamber had heard him complain, at length, about the greedy and grasping merchants and burghers of Falconberg. Corswain, the Duke of Ribaria, and Tyrcamber’s father had all been united in their disdain for merchants and city-dwelling commoners. The proper task of commoners, they maintained, was to farm the lands of their lords and serve in their lords’ armies. Not to gather in pestilential cities to grub after coins.
Tyrcamber had once agreed with them, but now, after five years of skirmishes and battles against the Valedictor’s growing strength, he was certain of little.
“Well, both the villagers of Tolbiac and the burghers of Falconberg should keep respectful tongues in their heads when addressing the Imperial Chancellor and the Master of the Order of Embers,” said Angaric.
“Yes, perhaps they’ll learn from your example,” said Tyrcamber. Angaric barked out a laugh, and even Rudolf smiled once before he caught himself. “Let’s not keep the Master and the Chancellor waiting. Lead the way, serjeant-captain.”
Tyrcamber steered his horse out of the line, and Angaric followed him. They rode up the line of horsemen until they came to the head of the column. Two standardbearers rode there, one holding the crimson banner of the Order of Embers, the second holding a larger banner of red and gold adorned with a sunburst, the sigil of the Emperor himself.
Master Ruire of the Order of Embers and Lord Chancellor Radobertus rode behind the standardbearers, flanked by their squires. Ruire had led the Order for the last ten years, and he looked the part, a lean, tough old warrior. He was bald, and he was missing his left ear, burn scars marking his left temple and part of his scalp, a legacy from a battle with a dragon in his youth. Radobertus was a stocky man of middle years, with thick gray hair and beard. Like most nobles, he wore armor while traveling, but he also had a jeweled chain of office and a rich, fur-lined cloak. His expression was imperious, but it almost always was.
“Master Ruire,” said Rudolf. “Sir Tyrcamber and Sir Angaric, as you commanded.”
“Good man,” said Ruire. His voice was deep but with a hard rasp acquired from a lifetime of shouting orders in battle. Tyrcamber and Angaric both bowed from the saddle. “The scouts have come back. We’re almost to Tolbiac, and it seems that the villagers are assembling in the fields outside their walls.”
Tyrcamber frowned. “Do we know why, my lord?”
“There is a party of men in the colors of Falconberg,” said Ruire. “Green tabards, with the emblem of a golden falcon. They appear to be confronting the villagers.”
“God and the saints,” grumbled Radobertus. “The Valedictor is building an army of goblins, ogres, muridachs, and jotunmiri, and the locals still waste time brawling about their petty concerns. The rights to a creek or a meadow will hardly matter if the Valedictor sweeps across the Empire in a tide of blood and fire.”
“In a hard winter, my lord,” said Ruire, “fishing rights or grazing rights can mean the difference between survival and starvation.”
“The duty of the peasants is to support their lords in war,” said Radobertus, “and the duty of the burghers is to supply soldiers and funds to support the Emperor in his campaigns.” He scoffed. “If the men of Falconberg and the men of Tolbiac want to feud over a field or a forest, then they can do so until the Valedictor marches from Urd Mythruin and sets the Empire ablaze.”
Tyrcamber reflected that it might be better if Master Ruire spoke to any angry peasants instead of Lord Radobertus.
“We should see the situation first, before making any plans of action,” said Ruire.
Radobertus glowered at him, but Ruire was one of the masters of the five Imperial Orders, and his prestige and authority exceeded that of the Imperial Chancellor in most situations. “Very well.”
They rode north, following the line of the road. The pine forests thinned, and the column entered cleared fields, freshly plowed for the spring planting. The smell of mud and wet grass filled the air. Ahead Tyrcamber saw the village of Tolbiac. It occupied the top of a low hill and was encircled by a low stone wall to help keep muridach raiders at bay. Within the walls, Tyrcamber glimpsed the tower of a stone church and the battlements of a small keep, probably the seat of whatever knight held Tolbiac for th
e Duke of Ribaria. A second hill rose about a half mile from the village, and a small stream flowed between them.
A crumbling dark elven tower crowned the second hill.
Tyrcamber had seen dark elven ruins before. Once the cloak elves had ruled all of what was now the Empire, but the dark elves had followed the cloak elves here, and they had summoned other kindreds to act as their soldiers and slaves. The cloak elves had withdrawn into their hidden city of Cathair Kaldran, leaving most of the world in the grasp of the dark elven tyrant who had called himself the Dragon Imperator. Then Count Roland and his men had been drawn here from Old Earth, and the Empire they had founded had overcome the Dragon Imperator.
But the ruins of the dark elves remained scattered throughout the Empire, places of malevolent sorcery and danger.
This ruin wasn’t a large one. A single slender tower of white stone rose from the crest of the hill, its windows gaping black holes. Crumbled walls and half-broken statues encircled the base of the tower. Urvaalgs and worse things sometimes sheltered in dark elven ruins, but Tyrcamber supposed the place was safe enough. Else the village of Tolbiac would have been destroyed long ago.
But right now, it looked like a battle was about to take place in the tower’s shadow.
Two parties had drawn up on either side of the creek. On the creek’s eastern bank stood a motley assortment of men-at-arms and peasant militiamen armed with a variety of weapons. A single knight on horseback sat in their midst, wearing a red surcoat adorned with a black raven sigil. On the western bank of the creek stood a party of men wearing green tabards adorned with the symbol of a golden falcon in flight. That was the sigil of the Imperial Free City of Falconberg, which lay further west along the banks of the River Ribar.
Both parties of men were shouting threats and brandishing weapons. Some of the militiamen banged their spears against their shields, jeering. A few men cast Lance spells at each other, only to be deflected by countering Shields. It was the usual taunting and shouting before a battle. Tyrcamber had the impression that both sides were trying to work themselves up to fight.
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