The Knight's Tale

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Shoot her!” roared Hamus to the archers on the church’s roof. “Shoot her…”

  Gotha stepped forward…and her body changed.

  She swelled to immensity, changing into the form of a crimson spider the size of an ox, the bulbous thorax armored with red chitin. Eight knobbed legs curved from her flanks, tipped with barbed claws dripping with poison. The torso, arms, and head of a woman of stunning beauty rose from the spider’s neck, the red chitin covering her back and breasts and belly like plates of close-fitting armor. Jagged claws tipped her fingers, the fingers themselves long and distended, and blazing green fire shone in her eyes.

  It was true form of a female urdmordar. All trace of the old woman Gotha had vanished. In her place stood a female urdmordar in all her terrible power and dark majesty, Gothalinzur unveiled at last.

  “Shoot it!” roared Hamus and Thomas and unison. The archers fired, and Magistrius Sempronius began casting a spell, but normal steel could not permanently harm an urdmordar, and Gothalinzur paid no heed to them.

  She rushed at Ridmark, moving with the speed of a racing horse despite her massive bulk.

  Ridmark’s sword Heartwarden and Magistrius Sempronius’s spells, he realized, were the only threats to the urdmordar. Once Gothalinzur killed Ridmark and the Magistrius, she could then slaughter the rest of the villagers and the orcs with impunity.

  A plan flashed through his mind. If he stood his ground and held Gothalinzur’s attention, perhaps he could distract her long enough for Magistrius Sempronius to strike with a potent spell.

  But as the urdmordar raced towards him in a crimson blur of armored chitin and razor-edged claws, Ridmark questioned the wisdom of that plan. Gothalinzur lunged at him, both her legs and her claw-tipped arms stabbing for his face, and Ridmark used Heartwarden’s power to dodge.

  The urdmordar’s claws missed by barely half an inch, and Gothalinzur whirled with speed despite her armored bulk, two of her legs slamming into Ridmark’s chest and stomach.

  Even through the chain mail, it still felt like getting hit with a tree.

  The force of the blow threw Ridmark back a dozen feet, and he hit the ground hard, the breath exploding from his lungs, and for a moment sheer pain stunned him. Gothalinzur reared up above Ridmark, her legs raised for a killing blow, and Ridmark saw the glee on her inhumanly beautiful face.

  A blast of white fire lanced from the doors of the church and slammed into Gothalinzur. The urdmordar stumbled to the side with a snarl of annoyance, her clawed legs digging furrows in the earth. Ridmark saw Magistrius Sempronius standing before the militiamen on the stairs, beginning another spell.

  Ridmark forced himself to one knee, breathing hard.

  Gothalinzur whirled to face Sempronius, her face twisted in a snarl of fury, and threw out her left hand. A sphere of black fire erupted from her fingers and hurtled towards Sempronius and the church. The Magistrius raised his hands, and a shimmering veil of white light appeared before him. The black fire hammered into the veil with a howling explosion, and a wall of dark flame rose up before the church, devouring the stone and wood it touched. Sempronius’s expression twisted with strain, and Ridmark realized that it took the whole of the Magistrius’s strength to hold back the urdmordar’s fire. If he wavered, the black fire would devour the church…and everyone inside it.

  Gothalinzur spun to face Ridmark as he staggered to his feet, and he barely avoided a swipe of her claws and a stab from her legs. Ridmark managed to land a blow with Heartwarden on her flank. The wound smoked from his soulblade’s touch, and Gotha hissed. The side of her leg struck his shoulder, the strength of the blow knocking him back.

  A chorus of battle cries rang out, and Ulacht, Sir Hamus, and Sir Thomas charged the urdmordar, brandishing their weapons. Hamus’s axe and Thomas’s longsword dug grooves in the urdmordar’s side, and Ulacht’s club slammed into a leg with a loud crack. Gothalinzur shrieked in fury…but the wounds the knights and the orc headman dealt began to vanish at once.

  Normal steel could not harm an urdmordar.

  Gothalinzur turned, her legs lashing like a whip, and knocked Ulacht and Thomas to the ground. Hamus bellowed and buried his axe with a two-handed blow into Gotha’s thorax.

  “Die!” roared Hamus. “Foul urdmordar! You will not…”

  Gothalinzur sneered and drove two of her legs through the old knight like a child ramming a fork through a piece of fruit.

  At least his death was quick.

  Ridmark recovered his balance, and Gothalinzur turned towards him, snapping her legs to kick off Hamus’s corpse.

  But he was stuck.

  Gothalinzur stumbled, her balance thrown off by the slain knight’s weight, and for a moment, just a moment, she was vulnerable.

  Ridmark raced forward, drawing on Heartwarden’s power, and sprang into the air as Gothalinzur struggled with Hamus’s corpse. The dead knight fell free from her barbed legs, but it was too late. Ridmark slammed into her, plunging Heartwarden’s glowing blade into her chest.

  The soulblade sank to the hilt between the crimson chitin covering her breasts.

  Gothalinzur reared back and shrieked in pain, her cry ringing inside both Ridmark’s ears and mind. She went into a mad dance, her legs digging into the earth, and her clawed hands come up and plunged into Ridmark’s chest and stomach, the talons sinking deep into his flesh. Pain erupted through him, and Gothalinzur flung him away, ripping Heartwarden from her chest, the sword's hilt still in his right hand.

  Ridmark landed hard upon the ground, blood splashing from the gashes in his side. Gothalinzur convulsed once, black ichor dribbling from the gash in her chest, and her glowing eyes met Ridmark’s.

  “A herd animal,” she whispered. “A herd animal. That’s not…that’s not…”

  Then the green glow faded from her eyes and she slumped into a tangled, motionless heap upon the ground.

  Everything went black a moment later, and Ridmark felt himself sinking away…

  Then blazing white light filled his vision, and agony wracked Ridmark’s body. He sat up with a gasp, Heartwarden clutched in his right fist, and saw Magistrius Sempronius stooping over him, the white light of a healing spell glimmering around his fingers.

  “It worked,” Sempronius said, his face gray with exhaustion and strain. “He will not die.”

  Strong hands helped Ridmark to stand. He looked at Gothalinzur’s motionless husk, dazed. Ridmark had faced an urdmordar and lived.

  He had not thought that possible.

  “Good,” said Ulacht. “Good! He has fought like one of the great orc kings of old!”

  Ridmark looked around and saw the villagers hard at work tending to the fires, trying to save what yet could be saved.

  “God’s hand was upon us,” said Father Linus. “If you had not come when you did, Sir Ridmark, we would all be slain.”

  “Aye,” said Sir Thomas, gazing at his father’s corpse. “We have lost much…but we could have lost everything.”

  ###

  After the battle, the men of Victrix and the orcs of Rzoldur went to the mines. There they discovered Gothalinzur’s lair…and the missing human and orcish children wrapped in her webs, drugged and in a deep sleep. Magistrius Sempronius was able to awake them from their comas, and the children returned to their parents.

  After recovering from his wounds, Ridmark Arban, Knight of the Soulblade, resumed his journey north, and at last arrived at the court of the Dux of Castra Marcaine.

  Already he found that a legend had begun growing around him. Before leaving Tarlion, he had been a young Swordbearer, untried and untested. Now he had faced an urdmordar, aided by only an elderly Magistrius and a few local knights, and triumphed. More, he had even lived!

  Few Swordbearers in the Order’s centuries of history could make such a claim.

  Once he would have gloried in his new renown, but Ridmark only felt troubled.

  The “great culling to come.” What had Gothalinzur meant by that? What had the urdmor
dar, in the black depths of her evil wisdom, had foreseen?

  Would the Frostborn truly return, as she claimed? They had been annihilated by the Swordbearers and the Magistri centuries ago…but could Gothalinzur have foreseen their return?

  Ridmark didn’t know, but he was going to find out.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading THE KNIGHT'S TALE. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on my Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189). Turn the page for a bonus chapter from Ridmark's next adventure, Frostborn: The First Quest (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4439).

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  FROSTBORN: THE FIRST QUEST Chapter 1 - The Archmage

  In the Year of Our Lord 1469, the court of the Dux Gareth Licinius celebrated the Festival of the Resurrection in the great hall of Castra Marcaine.

  Ridmark Arban walked across the hall, his boots clicking against the black and white tiles of the floor. He wore his finest tunic and mantle, both crimson with gold trim. A sword belt of black leather encircled his waist, the soulblade Heartwarden resting in its scabbard there. He felt the sword’s magic, his link to its power. He had felt it ever since he had become a Swordbearer, ever since he had spent the night in vigil in the Chamber of the Well within High King’s citadel of Tarlion.

  But now the sword’s magic was quiet.

  For today was not a day of battle, but a day of celebration.

  The gates of the Castra had been thrown wide, and townsmen and freeholders from the nearby farms filled the courtyards, feasting and drinking in honor of the Dominus Christus’s resurrection and the Dux’s generosity. Ridmark thought it a curious custom, but found that he approved. He had grown up in the south, in the court of Castra Arban, in the great cities of Tarlion and Cintarra. There the high nobles, the Comites and the Duxi, kept themselves aloof from the townsmen and the freeholders.

  But here in the Northerland, life was harder and more dangerous. The southern reaches of Andomhaim had been cleansed of creatures of dark magic since the defeat of the urdmordar and the Frostborn, but the Northerland was far more dangerous. Urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things haunted the hills. Pagan orcs raided out of the Wilderland, and kobolds dragged victims into the darkness of the Deeps.

  Rich and poor, lords and commoners, often had to fight side by side.

  And so they feasted together to celebrate the end of winter and the end of Lent.

  Ridmark joined a man and a boy who stood together near one of the pillars. The man was short and stocky, with curly red hair and green eyes, while the boy was tall and lean, with olive-colored skin and black hair. The man was nineteen years old, Ridmark’s age, while the boy was still sixteen, but neither one of them were Swordbearers.

  Few men carried a soulblade at the age of nineteen.

  But, then, few men had slain an urdmordar at the age of eighteen.

  Ridmark pushed aside the thought. He had earned great renown for that victory, but he did not want to think about Gothalinzur now.

  Nor of the disturbing things she had told him.

  “Sir Ridmark,” said Sir Joram Agramore, the shorter of the two men. “A blessed day to you.” He was already slightly unsteady on his feet, no doubt from his fondness for wine. “A pity the tournament is not today.”

  The boy, Constantine Licinius, frowned. “Today is a holy day, Sir Joram, and it is proper that we do not fight, but dwell in peace.”

  “Yes, true enough,” said Joram, “but we must be vigilant. The pagan orcs and the dark elves do not respect holy days, and we must be ready to fight. Did not the Frostborn come out of the north on the day of the Festival of the Nativity? A knight of Andomhaim must ever be ready for battle!”

  Ridmark laughed. “So we must fight in the tournament to prepare for battle?”

  “Exactly!” said Joram. “You understand, sir. Indeed, you understand better than most. A Swordbearer at eighteen? Ha!” He slapped Ridmark upon the shoulder. “You’ll have your pick of the ladies, I’m sure.”

  “Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of Taliand will likely pick his wife,” said Constantine.

  Joram grinned. “Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of Taliand has four older sons. Likely he will let the Hero of Victrix pick his own wife.”

  “Don’t call me that,” said Ridmark.

  “Anyway, I think,” said Joram, “that the man who earnestly claims not to be the Hero of Victrix already has his mind made up.”

  He looked across the hall, and Ridmark followed his gaze.

  The Dux of the Northerland, Gareth Licinius, stood upon the dais, clad simply in a red tunic and mantle. Like Constantine, he had olive-colored skin, though his black hair had long ago turned gray. His family claimed descent from Septimius Severus, one of the Emperors of the Romans from Old Earth, and Gareth indeed looked like an emperor, stern and commanding. His older sons, all knights and Swordbearers and Comites of renown, stood near him.

  Aelia stood next to the Dux, watching her father as he spoke.

  She resembled both her father and her brothers, with the same curly black hair and green eyes. Yet she was beautiful, radiantly so, and Ridmark felt a little jolt whenever he looked at her. He had learned to distrust beauty after he had learned how the urdmordar and their daughters could shapeshift into forms of stunning loveliness.

  Yet Aelia did not have a malicious bone in her body. She had taken over much of the household management of Castra Marcaine after her mother had died. And she saw to it that no one in Castra Marcaine or its town when hungry, that the sick and orphans and widows were cared for in the town’s church.

  She saw him looking, smiled, and then looked down. Her younger sister Imaria caught him looking and scowled.

  “Ha!” said Joram, slapping Ridmark on the shoulder again. “The Lady Aelia likes you, my friend.”

  Ridmark expected Constantine to protest, but the squire only nodded. “Indeed, Sir Ridmark. I think you would make a worthy husband for my sister. Certainly better than some of her other suitors.”

  Joram snorted. “And who might you mean by that?”

  “It would be uncouth and unbecoming to say, sir,” said Constantine, and then fell silent.

  The man Constantine meant walked towards them, his followers trailing after.

  Ridmark stepped forward, resisting the urge to reach for Heartwarden. Another knight approached him, a tall, lean man about Ridmark’s own age with close-cropped blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and blue eyes like disks of ice. Several other knights followed him, like wolves trailing the leader of the pack.

  They stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak.

  “Sir Ridmark,” said Tarrabus Carhaine at last.

  “Sir Tarrabus,” said Ridmark.

  They had never gotten along, from the day both had arrived at Castra Marcaine to serve as squires. Later Ridmark had tried to put their rivalry behind him. Tarrabus was the eldest son of the Dux of Caerdracon, would one day be the Dux himself. If he was arrogant and proud, that was no different from the children of many other lords and knights, and perhaps Tarrabus would grow out of it.

  But while he could not deny Tarrabus’s courage or skill with a blade, Ridmark’s dislike of the man had only grown. He was brutal and merciless to anyone in his way. If a freeholder or a townsman annoyed him, he sent his followers to harass and torment the unfortunate man. Once, when they had gotten drunk together with the other squires, he had told Ridmark that he thought of the peasants as cattle, as beasts to be shaped and used as their lords wished.

  Ridmark had given up trying to make peace with Tarrabus after that, and would have preferred to ignore him.

  But Tarrabus wanted to wed Aelia, and Tarrabus would one day be the Dux of Caerdracon.

  “A blessed Festival of the Resurrection to you, Swordbearer,” said Ta
rrabus. He was always polite. Ridmark had heard that Tarrabus had once killed a man, and then bid his children a pleasant day before departing.

  “And you, sir knight,” said Ridmark. “I did not see you at the mass this morning.”

  The knights behind him laughed, but Tarrabus lifted a hand and they fell silent at once.

  “I attended private masses in the chapel at dawn,” said Tarrabus, “as is proper for a man of noble birth, rather than attending the church of the ignorant rabble in the town. I sometimes think the teachings of the church are useful for the commoners, to teach them how best to spend their insignificant lives, but are useless for men of power and rank.”

  “That borders upon blasphemy,” said Constantine.

  Tarrabus spread his hands. “Have I denied God or his Dominus Christus? I have not. God has given us, the lords of Andomhaim, power over lesser men. We must use it as we see fit.”

  “We must use it for the defense and welfare of the realm,” said Ridmark, “not to glorify ourselves.”

  Tarrabus almost smiled. “You shall quote the Pact of the Two Orders at me next, sir.”

  “It speaks wisdom,” said Ridmark. “The Magistri are only to use their magic for defense, for knowledge, and for healing. Never to harm another mortal. It is a wise provision. Else we shall be like the dark elves, ruled by cruel sorcerers of power, or like the pagan orcs, beholden to shamans of blood spells.”

  “Perhaps we are not wise,” said Tarrabus. “Perhaps it would be better if we used our magic as a weapon. The dark elves can live for millennia, and the urdmordar are immortal. We live but a short span of years, and face foes of tremendous power. Perhaps if we used magic to elevate ourselves, to ascend…”

  “As Eve ate of the tree to ascend to the knowledge of good and evil?” said Ridmark.