Shield Knight Ridmark's Tale

by Jonathan Moeller

  SHIELD KNIGHT: RIDMARK'S TALE

  Jonathan Moeller

  Table of Contents

  Description

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1: An Old Friend

  Chapter 2: Frostborn

  Chapter 3: The Urdhracos

  Chapter 4: Nightmane Forest

  Chapter 5: Lives

  Chapter 6: Change The World

  Chapter 7: Mission

  Chapter 8: Onward

  Other books by the author

  About the Author

  Description

  Ridmark Arban is the Shield Knight of Andomhaim, the defender of the realm against dark magic.

  But years before he became the Shield Knight, he faced a deadly urdhracos in battle.

  If he can save her, she will become his loyal ally.

  But if he fails, she will kill him and everyone he loves...

  Shield Knight: Ridmark's Tale

  Copyright 2018 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover image copyright mikkelwilliam | Dreamstime.com.

  Ebook edition published March 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 events of this novella take place between the novels SEVENFOLD SWORD: NECROMANCER and SEVENFOLD SWORD: SHADOW.

  Chapter 1: An Old Friend

  Fifty-five days after the quest of the Seven Swords began, fifty-five days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1488 when the cloaked stranger came to the High King of Andomhaim’s court, Ridmark Arban led the way east along the road to the village of Argin and the Monastery of St. Paul.

  He looked at his companions. They traveled through the moors east of Trojas, the rolling plain covered in tough grasses and dotted here and there with rocky tors. Steel-colored clouds hid the sky, and a dry wind blew down from the north, rustling the grasses and blowing dust from the road.

  Calliande walked behind him, her green cloak and blond hair stirring in the wind. She had the worn staff of the Keeper in her right hand, and a distant expression on her face that meant she was either lost in thought or using the Sight to look for enemies. A few yards behind her came Calem and Kalussa, both of them, as usual, talking quietly together. After that Tamlin walked by himself, his face solemn, and Kyralion brought up the back, handling their train of pack scutians. The gray elf often seemed more comfortable with beasts than with humans.

  Prince Krastikon Cyros walked up to Ridmark and fell in next to him.

  “Lord Ridmark,” said Krastikon.

  “Prince Krastikon,” said Ridmark. Krastikon Cyros, formerly an Ironcoat of Cytheria and now the husband of Queen Zenobia and the Prince Consort of Trojas, was a big, bulky man. His size came not from fat but from muscle, and even without the aid of his earth magic, he had swung his bronze war hammer hard enough to shatter skulls. Now he carried the Sword of Death at his side, his Swordborn heritage allowing him to bear the weapon without suffering the corruptive effects that had turned Taerdyn into a monster.

  “Another day to Argin, I think,” said Krastikon.

  “Most likely,” said Ridmark. “I hope the village and the monastery are safe. With the destruction of the Bronze Dead, bold raiders might decide to try their hands in the lands near Trojas once more.”

  “Aye,” said Krastikon. “Well, Zenobia and the King’s Men will organize a proper militia. Soon Trojas will have hoplites again.”

  “That is so,” said Calliande, joining them, “but I suspect you do not want to talk about hoplites or Argin.”

  “No,” said Krastikon. “I have a question about Lady Third.”

  “Oh?” said Ridmark. Third had gone out to scout. Once she was free of the auras around the Sword of Death, the Sword of Earth, and the Sword of Air, Third could use her power to travel dozens of yards in the blink of an eye, letting her cover a great deal of ground quickly.

  “I have heard the others speaking,” said Krastikon. “Is it true that she used to be an urdhracos?”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “For centuries, as it happens.”

  Krastikon frowned. “How did she become human?”

  “She’s not human, you know,” said Calliande. “Half human, half dark elf. A hybrid.”

  “I have never heard of such a thing,” said Krastikon. “When my father’s armies skirmished against those of the Confessor, we would sometimes fight the Confessor’s urdhracosi. They were always terrible foes, and were almost always insane…”

  “And you want to know,” said a woman’s voice, cold and calm, “if I am insane?”

  Ridmark turned and saw Third approaching, moving with utter silence. She was a tall woman, wearing close-fitting dark clothing and armor, twin swords of dark elven steel at her belt. She had black eyes, and her black hair had been bound away from her pale face in a long tail, revealing the elven points of her ears. Third was beautiful, but there was a strange, alien cast to her beauty. For that matter, looking at her black eyes was a reminder that she was older than the realm of Owyllain itself, and that she had seen war and battle for most of those years.

  Krastikon hesitated and then offered her a polite bow. “I think nothing of the sort. But you are rather entirely unique, my lady.”

  “Not quite,” said Third. “My sister Mara is like me.”

  “Was she an urdhracos, as well?” said Krastikon.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “She almost became one, but she was able to change the direction of her transformation.”

  “But you had already transformed,” said Krastikon. “Forgive my prying, but…”

  “But you have encountered something strange and wish to understand it,” said Third. She shrugged. “I will tell you if you wish. But the Shield Knight should tell the story.”

  Ridmark frowned. “Why? I don’t like to talk.”

  Third smiled a little. “You were there for all of it. And I like to talk even less.”

  Ridmark sighed. “Very well. This is what happened.”

  Chapter 2: Frostborn

  I met Third for the first time on the day of a battle.

  It was about nine years ago, towards the end of the Year of Our Lord 1478. That was a bad year. The Frostborn had invaded Andomhaim and conquered most of the Northerland. The realm of Andomhaim should have been united against them, but Tarrabus Carhaine had murdered the High King and tried to usurp the throne, so Tarrabus’s supporters were fighting the loyal lords. The old High King’s bastard son Arandar was leading the loyal lords against Tarrabus.

  I was with the Anathgrimm, serving as Queen Mara’s magister militum and commanding her soldiers against the Frostborn.

  Mara and Third had the same father, the dark elven prince called the Traveler, who ruled Nightmane Forest. Even by the standards of dark elven lords, the Traveler was insane and cruel, and he created a mutated race of orcs to serve him and worship him as a god. He called these orcs the Anathgrimm, and they’re stronger and faster than normal orcs, with spines and plates of bones that grow on the outside of their bodies for extra armor.

  How did Mara end up as their Queen? She killed the Traveler in Khald Azalar, and the Anathgrimm didn’t know what to do after that. Mara had just killed their god, and I think they would have killed themselves. But Mara’s husband Jager convinced the
m to follow her as their Queen. They would have worshipped her as a goddess, but Mara refused and had them baptized into the church of the Dominus Christus instead.

  That was how Mara found herself as the Queen of Nightmane Forest and Jager as her Prince Consort.

  Rather like you and Queen Zenobia, Krastikon.

  But unlike you, neither Mara nor Jager had any experience commanding men in battle. The Anathgrimm are the best foot soldiers I have ever seen either in Andomhaim or Owyllain, but they had no experience of leading themselves. I did, and Mara asked me to be her magister militum, to command her Anathgrimm against the Frostborn.

  The Anathgrimm spent most of 1478 and 1479 fighting the Frostborn in the Northerland. We planned to keep the Frostborn off-balance and disrupted, harassing them with hit-and-fade attacks. While the Anathgrimm did that, Prince Arandar would defeat Tarrabus, reunify Andomhaim, and come to our aid in the Northerland.

  That was the plan, at least. Things worked out differently.

  But back to the day I met Third.

  Nightmane Forest is on the western side of the River Moradel, and the hills and the forests of the Northerland lie on the eastern side. The Traveler’s old wards made Nightmane Forest impregnable, and the Anathgrimm had built hidden fords across the river. We would cross the river, attack the Frostborn and their soldiers, and then retreat across the Moradel to safety.

  The day I met Third, we had planned an ambush.

  It was in a little valley about five miles east of the Moradel. The hills of the Northerland are often steep and covered in pine forests, which meant most of the roads went through the bottom of the valleys. One such road led through that valley, heading to a small hilltop village the Frostborn had destroyed and then fortified with their khaldjari engineers. There was a troop of medvarth soldiers heading to the village to reinforce it.

  I intended to kill them before they reached the village.

  I had two hundred Anathgrimm warriors with me, led by Qhazulak, the Queen’s Champion and Lord Captain of the Queen’s Guard. Qhazulak was an old warrior, but an Anathgrimm warrior did not survive to any kind of advanced age without being a brutal fighter and a cunning tactician. The Anathgrimm respected him as their elder warrior, and Qhazulak followed me because his Queen commanded it of him.

  With me I had three other friends who acted as my lieutenants. Kharlacht was an orc of Vhaluusk who had been baptized into the church, and he had traveled with me ever since I had met Calliande. Brother Caius was a dwarf and a friar of the mendicant order, the first of his kindred to take holy orders. Camorak was a Magistrius and a former soldier, and while he wasn’t very good at most kinds of magic, he was a superb healer, almost as good as Calliande.

  Calliande says he was better in certain areas of healing, but I have my doubts. Camorak was a solid man in a fight, though. Even when he was drunk.

  Anyway, I split the Anathgrimm into two bands of a hundred each and hid them in the pine forests on either side of the road. Qhazulak and I commanded the band on the western side of the valley, and Kharlacht and Caius led the group on the eastern side.

  We settled down to wait, but thanks to our scouts, we knew that we would not wait long.

  “We shall face the enemy soon, Gray Knight,” said Qhazulak. Because of their bone masks, their voices always come out with an odd buzz, like they’re talking through a drum. “If we die, may we die gloriously and with a ring of slain foes heaped around us.”

  “Aye,” I said. The Anathgrimm are fond of benedictions like that. Their highest ambition was to die in battle surrounded by slain foes. Perhaps that might change in time if Mara convinces them otherwise.

  Eventually, the enemy column came into sight – a hundred medvarth warriors, led by a pair of khaldjari officers. The medvarth looked like bears that walked on two legs as men do. Unlike bears, they wore armor, and their clawed hands could grasp weapons. They weren’t as fast as humans, but they were much stronger, and they were dangerous foes. Some of the men of Andomhaim made the mistake of assuming that the medvarth were dumb beasts. That was a dangerous mistake – the medvarth were intelligent, and they had a vicious sort of cunning. They just weren’t very good at organizing themselves.

  That was why the khaldjari were there. The khaldjari looked a great deal like dwarves – short, wide, and gray-skinned. Unlike the dwarves, their eyes glowed white, and they could command the elemental magic of frost and ice. They were an offshoot of the dwarven kindred that the Frostborn had found somewhere, and the Frostborn had mutated them to serve as engineers in their armies. Likely they would be put to work fortifying the village further, with the medvarth to serve as garrison troops.

  “Now?” rumbled Qhazulak.

  “No,” I said. “Wait a moment. I don’t want them to flee.”

  Qhazulak grunted, and we waited. I watched the medvarth, waiting until they had entered the valley.

  “Now,” I said to Qhazulak.

  “Forward!” roared Qhazulak. “Forward! Kill them all!”

  We burst from the trees and rushed towards the medvarth. The Anathgrimm formed a shield wall at once, their shields interlocking together to present a barrier of wood and steel to the enemy. Each Anathgrimm orc carried a pair of javelins, and as we rushed towards the surprised medvarth, the Anathgrimm reached over their shoulders and sent a rain of javelins hurtling towards the medvarth soldiers. The barrage killed several of them, and then the Anathgrimm shield wall crashed into the medvarth column.

  In those days I usually fought with two weapons. One was a black staff that the archmage Ardrhythain had given me at Urd Morlemoch, a staff capable of wounding creatures of dark magic. The second was an enspelled axe the Taalkaz of the Dwarven Enclave of Coldinium had given me. Dwarven steel is lighter and stronger and can hold a sharper edge than normal steel, and the dwarven stonescribes had enspelled the weapon so it could kill creatures of dark magic.

  Yes, I did fight with both weapons at once. The trick was to use the staff to deflect blows and distract your enemies and then to land killing strikes with the axe. Now that I carry Oathshield, I don’t usually bother, though a staff is still a useful weapon.

  Qhazulak and I fought side by side, disrupting the medvarth so the Anathgrimm could continue their advance. We threw the medvarth off their guard, and behind us, the Anathgrimm drew their swords and started killing methodically from behind their shield wall.

  We had taken them off-guard, but the medvarth were good fighters. They rallied, and they started killing the Anathgrimm. The Anathgrimm orcs are hard to kill. Their exterior bone plates protect their torsos, and on top of that, they wear chain mail and steel plate. Yet the medvarth had the strength to punch through that armor, and they started to wear down our shield line.

  Fortunately, Kharlacht and Caius and the rest of our Anathgrimm attacked from the eastern side of the road. The medvarth have a ferocious battle rage, but that rage causes them to focus upon the most immediate foe, so they didn’t see the second group of Anathgrimm arrive until it was too late.

  The Anathgrimm smashed through the medvarth. Kharlacht and Caius fought next to each other, as they usually did. Caius was short enough and the medvarth tall enough that he had a disadvantage against them, so he broke their knees with his mace of dwarven steel. And when the medvarth were distracted with that, Kharlacht took off their heads with the greatsword of dark elven steel he found years ago in a ruin in Vhaluusk.

  In short order, we had overwhelmed and killed most of the medvarth and both the khaldjari officers.

  That was enough for the surviving medvarth, who turned and fled back to the north.

  “Let them go!” I shouted. “Let them go!” It wasn’t out of mercy, I’m afraid. We needed at least some medvarth to survive the battle and return to report to their Frostborn masters. The more chaos and disruption we caused in the Northerland, the slower the Frostborn would advance, and the longer Arandar would have to defeat Tarrabus and reunite the realm.

  The Anathgrimm obeyed. Re
luctantly, but they obeyed.

  We reformed the men, tended to the wounded, and counted the dead.

  “Six killed,” said Camorak. “Eight wounded, but I can tend to them.” The Magistri of Andomhaim tend towards the scholarly and usually wear white robes. Camorak was a former man-at-arms of the Dux of Durandis, so he wore chain mail and leather, and a long white coat that had turned mottled gray from all the campaigning.

  I remember how many Anathgrimm died in that fight, even all these years later. You’ve commanded men in battle, Krastikon. You never forget the ones who die when you lead them into a fight. Not ever.

  Then again, we had killed at least eighty-five of the medvarth, so the butcher’s bill was in our favor for once.

  “A good fight,” said Qhazulak. “I suggest we depart from here at once. The enemy will not long delay their response.”

  “Agreed,” I said as Caius and Kharlacht joined me. Caius wore the brown robes of a friar, though he had armor beneath it, and Kharlacht had dark elven armor he had taken from the same ruin where he had found his greatsword. “Camorak, get the wounded on their feet, and then we’ll head for the ford…”

  “Look!” said Kharlacht, pointing.

  I turned my head to look at the sky.

  The Frostborn had several different kinds of flying creatures in their surface. The locusari scouts looked like giant blue insects, and they made for superb scouts. The Frostborn themselves also flew on frost drakes, which were like wyverns, except larger, faster, and able to breathe a freezing mist that killed anything it touched. Locusari scouts would be a danger because they could report our location to their masters. A frost drake would be much worse because one Frostborn atop a drake could wipe all of us out.

  But it was neither a frost drake nor a locusari.

  I didn’t know what it was. I caught a dark winged shape hovering over a nearby hilltop, and then it turned and vanished to the south.