Shield Knight Ghost Orcs

by Jonathan Moeller

  SHIELD KNIGHT: GHOST ORCS

  Jonathan Moeller

  Table of Contents

  Description

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1: The Hunt

  Chapter 2: Survivors

  Chapter 3: Undead

  Chapter 4: Alliances

  Chapter 5: The Hanging Tower

  Chapter 6: The Tombs

  Chapter 7: Winged Shadow

  Chapter 8: Omen

  Other books by the author

  About the Author

  Description

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

  But when dark magic stirs in the mountains of Taliand, not even the power of the Shield Knight might be enough to save Andomhaim...

  Shield Knight: Ghost Orcs

  Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover image copyright © Fernando Gregory | Dreamstime.

  Ebook edition published September 2017.

  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

  SHIELD KNIGHT: GHOST ORCS is a novella set about one year before the events portrayed in SEVENFOLD SWORD: CHAMPION.

  Chapter 1: The Hunt

  Ridmark Arban expected trouble.

  “I don’t expect any trouble,” said Tormark Arban, Ridmark’s eldest brother and the Dux of Taliand.

  Ridmark looked at his brother and grunted. “Sure of that?”

  They rode at the head of a column of horsemen, the party making its way through the foothills of the mountains of southern Taliand. Tormark was thirteen years older than Ridmark, which put him at just under fifty years of age. He had tended towards stoutness in his younger, more active days, and in the seven years since he had become Dux of Taliand, the stoutness had become obesity. Ridmark felt sorry for the horse that had to bear Tormark’s bulk. Nevertheless, Ridmark's brother was a good lord, and the people of Taliand had known prosperity and order in the seven years since Tormark had become Dux.

  Tormark smiled. “This isn’t the Northerland, brother.” His hair had turned entirely gray, his blue eyes in a face made ruddy by exertion and the wind. “The pagan orcs were driven out or converted long ago, the ruins of the dark elves made safe, and the Shaluuskan orcs haven’t come this far west in a long time.”

  “We’re hunting mountain lions,” said Ridmark. “Always best to remain cautious. And these mountains have entrances to the Deeps. You never know when something might come out of them.”

  “And if something does come out of the Deeps,” said Tormark, “we are be quite equipped to deal with it.”

  Ridmark said nothing. Tormark did have a point.

  The Dux of Taliand liked to hunt, and his taste for hunting had been inherited by his eldest daughter Sabrina. So, for her twelfth birthday, Tormark had offered to take her hunting for lions in the mountain valleys, and the girl had accepted eagerly. Of course, the Dux of Taliand and his eldest daughter (one of the most eligible maidens in the realm of Andomhaim) could hardly go anywhere alone. Thirty of Tormark’s household knights accompanied them, along with their squires, Tormark’s Master of the Hunt, four men from the kennel to handle the Dux’s hunting mastiffs, three squires to attend to the Dux himself, and two noblewomen chosen by Sabrina’s mother to see to her needs and to safeguard her reputation among so many men.

  So nearly ninety men and women made up the hunting party, but Ridmark had joined it alone. After the High King’s campaign against the khaldjari in the Northerland, Ridmark had wanted to return straight home to his wife and sons. But Calliande had suggested that he stop at Castra Arban on his way back to see Tormark. It always seemed to bother Calliande that Ridmark was not closer to any of his brothers, perhaps because she had been an only child herself.

  And that was how Ridmark found himself accompanying his brother and niece on a hunting party into the mountains of Taliand.

  “And there is one other thing, Father,” said Sabrina.

  “Oh?” said Tormark, glancing back at his daughter. “What is that?”

  Sabrina rode a short distance behind them, flanked by her ladies-in-waiting. She had Tormark’s thick black hair and blue eyes, though fortunately for her she had inherited her mother’s looks and not her father’s. She was thin and pale, but fit nonetheless. Some noblewomen of Andomhaim preferred to remain at home and embroider, while others enthusiastically joined their husbands on hunts and trips around their lands. Ridmark thought that Sabrina was going to become the second kind of noblewoman.

  She gave Ridmark a tentative smile. “We have the Shield Knight of Andomhaim with us.”

  Ridmark said nothing. Tormark Arban was one of the most powerful noblemen of Andomhaim, a trusted right hand of the High King Arandar Pendragon. But Ridmark was the Shield Knight of Andomhaim. He bore the soulblade Oathshield, given to him by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain himself. Ridmark had gone to Urd Morlemoch twice and escaped, descended into the ruins of Khald Azalar to restore the power of the Keeper, slain the ancient wizard Tymandain Shadowbearer, found the sword of the Dragon Knight, brought the dwarves and the manetaurs to aid Andomhaim against the Frostborn, and dueled and defeated the usurper Tarrabus Carhaine below the walls of Tarlion.

  At the time, he had mostly been trying to stay alive and save his friends. Much later, he realized that his experiences were the sort of things that bards liked to put into songs. Calliande had come to loathe bards, claiming they got things wrong and distorted what had really happened, and he was starting to agree with her. He also noticed that the noblewomen of Andomhaim, whether they preferred to stay at home or to go hunting, often became starry-eyed when listening to bards.

  To judge from Sabrina’s smile, she might have listened to too many bards.

  “What the Shield Knight of Andomhaim hopes, Lady Sabrina,” said Ridmark, “is to have an uneventful hunt and for you to return to Castra Arban with a fine lion pelt.”

  “Could you tell us a tale, uncle?” said Sabrina.

  Ridmark blinked. “A tale? Of what?”

  “Of your adventures,” said Sabrina.

  Tormark let out a guffaw, and Sabrina’s cheeks colored. Ridmark smiled a little at that. Some men in Andomhaim had become overawed at the legend of the Shield Knight. Ridmark’s oldest brother, quite thankfully, would never be one of them.

  Still, he felt bad for Sabrina. She was young enough to be enchanted by such things. She would only have been five years old at most when the Frostborn were defeated. Sabrina would have only known the tales of knights in shining armor riding to war against wicked foes. She wouldn’t have seen the reality of such things, would not have seen the blood and felt the terror, would not have seen the wounded men screaming in agony, would not have known the horror of a creature of dark magic hunting for her.

  For her sake, he hoped she never understood.

  “If you like,” said Ridmark. “I’m afraid they’re much less impressive in the retelling, though.”

  “They are not, uncle!” said Sabrina, her embarrassment forgotten. “A bard came to Father’s court, and he sang the tale of the Iron Tower, how you slew the wicked Artificer and freed Queen Mara to take the crown from her evil father.”

  “That wasn’t how it happened,” said Ridmark,
half-amused, half-annoyed. Calliande was right about bards. Damned songs. “She wasn’t the Queen of the Anathgrimm then. And she freed herself. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Well,” said Sabrina, “you could tell me what really happened.” One of the ladies-in-waiting gave her a disapproving look.

  “Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “I…”

  He fell silent as something caught his attention.

  The road wound its way through the green foothills of the low mountains, climbing towards the high valley where Tormark intended to hunt lions. To Ridmark’s right, the foothills climbed at such a steep angle they were nearly cliffs. Ahead, a waterfall fell down the steep rock face, splashing into a river in the valley below. The road became a narrow stone bridge that passed over the river, the waterfall tumbling to the right of the stone railing.

  It was, Ridmark supposed, the perfect place for an ambush.

  But who would ambush them? Tormark had a point. This was the heart of Taliand, the oldest duxarchate in Andomhaim. This wasn’t the Northerland, where urvaalgs prowled in the shadows and dvargir and kobolds regularly raided from the Deeps. Even the war with the Frostborn had avoided most of the lands of Taliand.

  Yet Ridmark’s instincts would not remain quiet.

  “Uncle?” said Sabrina. “What’s wrong?”

  “Ridmark?” said Tormark, some of his amusement fading. They had gone into battle alongside each other often enough for Tormark to recognize when something was amiss.

  “Perhaps we should find another route into the valley,” said Ridmark. “I do not like the look of that bridge. I think…”

  His sword trembled at his belt.

  Ridmark looked at it with sudden alarm, and he drew the soulblade a foot from its scabbard. Oathshield was a vivid shade of blue, different from any other soulblade that Ridmark had seen. Unlike other soulblades, it had two soulstones, one set in the pommel, the second in the tang of the blade.

  Right now, pale white flames danced around the sword’s blade.

  Soulblades only did that in the presence of creatures or wielders of dark magic.

  “Tormark,” said Ridmark, his voice sharp.

  Tormark looked at Ridmark’s soulblade, and his eyes went wide. “What the devil? How…” His face went hard, and he began barking orders in the voice of the Dux of Taliand. “Hold! Hold here!” The column of horsemen came to a stop.

  Ridmark looked around, trying to find any foes. Nothing moved in the valley, and nothing could have climbed the cliff face without making any noise. He looked at the sky overhead. It was a cloudy day, the sun hidden beneath thick banks of gray clouds, and nothing moved against the sky.

  “Father?” said Sabrina, looking at the white flames around Oathshield’s blade. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sabrina, stay where you are,” said Tormark, drawing his sword. “We need to…”

  The mastiffs started barking. Ridmark looked at the big dogs, saw them struggling against their keepers, their hackles rising and spittle flying from their jaws. They weren’t angry. No, they were afraid. Something had caught their attention and filled them with terror.

  Creatures of dark magic often had that effect on animals.

  And all the mastiffs were glaring at the cliffside.

  Ridmark looked up, and he saw the danger.

  Undead creatures clung to the rough cliff like spiders, climbing down with eerie speed. Ridmark thought the creatures had once been living orcs, for they had the tusked jaws and thicker bones of the orcish kindred. Ghostly blue fire burned in their eyes and clung to their shoulders and hands, and many of the skeletal orcs wore corroding armor and carried ancient weapons.

  He realized that they were going to jump.

  “Out of the saddle!” roared Ridmark, following his own command. “Out of the saddle!” This was a damnably bad place for a battle. It would have been a terrible place to fight normal foes. Against creatures that could cling to the cliff like insects, it was far worse. The horses could not maneuver on the narrow road, and a single misstep would send a man or a horse tumbling down the slope into the valley and the river below.

  “To arms!” roared Tormark, heaving himself out of the saddle. He took a step towards his daughter. “To arms! We…”

  The undead leaped from the cliff face and fell like thunderbolts.

  Ridmark swept Oathshield before him in a two-handed swing, using the sword’s magic to augment his strength. The blade intercepted one of the undead orcs and smashed it to bone and dust, the white fire of the soulblade quenching the blue fire of the necromantic magic. Around him the undead slammed into the members of the hunting party, knocking them from their horses and driving them to the ground. Ridmark destroyed two more undead in rapid succession, but nearly a hundred of the creatures leaped into the men, driving them to the ground. He cursed and started attacking, cutting down creature after creature, but there were too many undead.

  And as he did, an undead orc stooped over a stunned squire and opened its jaws. Ridmark’s first thought was that the undead orc would bite off the poor boy’s head, but instead, a blue mist came from the yellowed jaws and washed over the squire’s head. The boy shuddered and went limp, his eyes closing.

  The mist had put him to sleep.

  Ridmark looked up and down the chaotic line and saw the scene repeated in a dozen places. The undead were overpowering the hunters and putting them to sleep, and Ridmark saw the undead orcs picking up their victims and starting to carry them away.

  They were taking captives. Why?

  Ridmark cut down another pair of undead orcs, and then he looked up just in time to see two more undead jump from the cliff face and plummet towards him.

  He tried to move, but it was too late.

  The undead slammed into him and sent him falling into the valley below.

  Chapter 2: Survivors

  Ridmark landed in the river, which saved his life.

  The river was deeper than it looked, and he plunged into it, the shock of the impact stunning him. The powerful current drove him along, and Ridmark fought it, clawing and kicking towards the light.

  His head broke the surface, and he took a long, shuddering gasp.

  The current had carried him farther from the waterfall than he had thought. Ridmark swam towards the western bank of the river, still clutching Oathshield in his right hand. Swimming while holding a sword was difficult, but he had done it before, and urgency drove him onward.

  At last, he got his feet beneath him, and he slogged to the shore, pushing back his wet gray cloak as water poured from his dark elven armor. At least he didn’t have to worry about Oathshield or the blue plates of his dark elven armor rusting.

  No, he had far more urgent worries.

  How far had that damned river carried him? Two-thirds of a mile?He could see the foothills to the north. Ridmark wiped some more river water from his eyes and looked for any undead, but he saw no creatures. If any had fallen into the river with him, the current had swept them away.

  What was he going to do now?

  He had to return to help the others. He had been the only Swordbearer in the party, and a Knight of the Soulblade had a better chance against the undead than anyone else.

  And, more importantly, whoever had commanded those undead. That had been a coordinated ambush. There had not been any creatures of dark magic seen in this part of Taliand for centuries, so Ridmark suspected that ambush had been planned in advance. An assassination attempt against Tormark? That was possible, though Ridmark did not think his brother had enemies fanatical enough to use dark magic against him. Or had some other creature of dark magic ventured into Taliand in hopes of carving out a little domain of its own?

  Either way, Ridmark intended to stop whatever was happening.

  He returned Oathshield to its scabbard and jogged north along the river bank, his mind sorting through plans. The undead had been taking captives. That many undead creatures would have left a trail, and Ridmark could follow it
to their lair.

  And then what? Could he fight all those undead by himself? Even with Oathshield, even if he unlocked the full power of the Shield Knight and threw himself at the undead, Ridmark could not overcome them all. No, he would have to find whoever commanded the undead. If he could not overcome the master of the undead, he would have to retreat to Castra Arban, rouse Tormark’s Swordbearers and Magistri, and return in force.

  But that would take six days at a minimum, and Tormark and his men might not have that long.

  Ridmark jogged faster, and a scream rang out from the trees to his left.

  He changed direction and veered into the forest, yanking Oathshield from its scabbard as he ran. The blade flashed with white fire, and some of its fury seeped into his mind. Oathshield had been forged to destroy creatures of dark magic, to fight dark power wherever it manifested, and the sword yearned to fulfill its purpose.

  At the moment, Ridmark agreed with the soulblade.

  He burst into a small clearing and saw Sabrina Arban running towards him, her blue eyes wide with terror. Her black hair and green riding dress were wet and sodden. She must have fallen into the river and been swept further into the valley.

  Blue light flared in the trees behind her, and three undead creatures raced into the clearing. The undead orcs wore corroded armor and carried ancient weapons, and they converged on Sabrina, who stumbled and fell to one knee.

  Then she saw Ridmark and gaped at him in astonishment.

  “Stay there!” shouted Ridmark, and he dashed forward.

  He caught the undead before they reached Sabrina, and he parried an axe, retracted Oathshield, and took off the creature’s head in a flash of white fire. The other two undead orcs came at him, and Ridmark parried a sword, twisted, and thrust Oathshield into the ribs of the skeletal orc. The soulblade burned hotter, and Ridmark ripped the blade up, shattering the undead orc’s skull. The bones collapsed to the ground, and Ridmark turned to face the final undead warrior.