The Knight's Tale

THE KNIGHT'S TALE

Jonathan Moeller

***

RIDMARK ARBAN is eighteen years old, a new-made
Swordbearer wielding a soulblade, a mighty weapon of magical power.
Ridmark is sworn to defend the High King's realm from creatures and
wielders of dark magic.

Yet the dark secret waiting in the village of Victrix
might doom him, or send him upon a quest to dangerous lands...

***

The Knight's Tale

Copyright 2015 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover images copyright Nejron | dreamstime.com &
catiamadio | Dreamstime.com.

Ebook edition published June 2015.

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.

***

In the Year of Our Lord 1468, Ridmark Arban rode
alone through the hills of the Northerland. The road wound its way
through the green-mantled hills, the air silent save for the buzz
of insects and the cries of birds. To the west flowed the broad
expanse of the River Moradel, the waters heavy and slow.

Ridmark was eighteen years old, the youngest son of
Leogrance of the Arbanii, the Dux of Taliand. On the day of his
eighteenth birthday, Ridmark had taken vows as a Knight of the
Soulblade before the Well in the High King’s seat of Tarlion, and
received the soulblade Heartwarden, which had been borne by
seventeen Swordbearers before Ridmark.

As a new-sworn Swordbearer, the Master of the Order
had bestowed Ridmark’s first task. He was to travel to the seat of
Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland at Castra Marcaine and obey
him in all things. For the Northerland was the northernmost march
of the High King’s realm of Andomhaim, and in the Wilderland beyond
the borders of Northerland waited tribes of pagan orcs, petty
kingdoms of dark elves, the horrors of the Nightmane Forest, the
lairs of lurking urdmordar…and, perhaps, worse things yet.

But Ridmark was still a week’s ride from Castra
Marcaine. Currently he rode along the road that marked the border
between the Northerland and Khaluusk, a small orcish kingdom that
accepted both the High King and baptism after the final defeat of
the dread Frostborn two and a half centuries past. Once great
battles had been fought here, but now the river and the forest were
silent.

Then Ridmark heard the shouting.

Through the trees he heard a man frantically arguing,
while several other men tried to shout him down.

The first voice spoke Latin…but the others, Ridmark
thought, were speaking orcish. Perhaps pagan orcs had come from the
Wilderland to raid and kill. If so, they would regret it. A
Swordbearer was sworn to defend the realm of Andomhaim from all
danger.

Ridmark gave his horse a gentle tap with his spurs,
rode around the bend in the road, and found himself in the middle
of an argument.

A dozen orcish men stood in the road, carrying clubs,
pitchforks, and scythes. For a moment Ridmark reached for
Heartwarden’s hilt, fearing they were indeed pagan orcs from
Vhaluusk, but to judge from their clothing, the orcish men were
farmers, which meant they were from Khaluusk and therefore subjects
of the High King.

The orcs confronted a man in the black robe of a
village priest, a wooden cross hanging from a cord around his neck.
The priest was stocky, with the thickset build of a man accustomed
to hard labor, and his face had turned almost purple with
anger.

The orcs themselves looked equally furious.

“What is this?” snarled the largest of the orcish men
in heavily accented Latin. His hair was white, and most of his left
ear was gone, the left side of his face marred by a scar that
looked like it should have killed him. A pattern of dark tattoos
denoting the headman of an Khaluuskan orcish clan covered the right
side of his face. “You say these lies about us, Father Linus? You
say these slanderous lies about us?”

“Say whatever you want,” said Linus, “but you cannot
change the facts. Five children from the village of Victrix are
missing.”

The orcish headman growled, his black eyes starting
to gleam red with the battle rage of orcish blood. “You say that
Ulacht is a liar? You say this, Father Linus? You think that we
took your children? That we kidnapped them and sacrificed them to
the old blood gods? Ulacht says otherwise!” Because of a
peculiarity of their dialect, orcs from Kothluusk almost always
referred to themselves in the third person when speaking Latin.
Ulacht thumped his chest with a fist. “Bah! We of Khaluusk are
subjects of the High King and baptized sons of the Church!” He
leveled a finger at the priest. “And you have taken our
children!”

“We have done nothing of the sort!” said Linus.

“Seven of our children have gone missing,” said
Ulacht. “Ulacht is the headman of Rzoldur, and my kinsfolk tell me
that seven of our children have disappeared! We orcs do not value
our children so lightly that we fail to notice when they
disappear.” He growled. “Ulacht thinks that cowardly men from
Victrix slew our children to boast about how they defeated terrible
orcs in the wild.”

Linus’s face got darker. “That is preposterous! You
will tell me what you have done with the children, or I shall make
sure the Dux in Castra Marcaine hears…”

“Silence!” roared Ulacht. “You shall return our
children, or you will see what an orcish warband can do!” He
growled again. “We may have sworn to the High King and his God, but
we have not forgotten the old ways!”

The priest lifted his fists and the orcish headman
his club, both men preparing to fight.

Then one of the orcs saw Ridmark and shouted
something, and suddenly the entire mob was looking at him.

He took a deep breath, and decided that the situation
called for some authority. Specifically, Ridmark’s own as a Knight
of the Order of the Soulblade. He had seen his father adjudicate
disputes before. Ridmark could do the same.

He hoped.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ridmark said, making
sure to keep his voice calm. “Why are you blocking the High King’s
road?”

Father Linus cleared his throat. “Sir knight, this
is...”

“Run along, boy,” growled Ulacht, pointing his club
at Ridmark. “This is none of your concern. Get out of my sight, or
I'll take your horse and send you barefoot back to your
father.”

Ridmark decided more persuasion was necessary.

He drew Heartwarden, the soulstone in the base of the
blade flashing with white light, and the orcs flinched in alarm
while Linus’s eyes grew wide. They recognized the soulblade for
what it is.

“I am Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii,” Ridmark
said, “son of the Dux Leogrance of Taliand, and a Knight of the
Order of the Soulblade. You will answer my questions.”

Both the priest and the headman looked at each other,
and then at Ridmark.

“Tell me what is going on. Now,” Ridmark said. “And
for the love of God, talk one at a time.”

“I am the priest of the village of Victrix, sir
knight,” said Linus. “Five of our children disappeared in the last
fortnight, and we believe that some from the orcish village of
Rzoldur,” he glared at Ulacht, “have turned to the worship of the
old orcish blood gods and slain the children in their black
rites.”

“Foolishness!” roared Ulacht. “Ulacht is the headman
of Rzoldur, Swordbearer, and he tells you that we are good subjects
of the High King and followers of his God! We leave the humans of
Victrix alone!” He pointed at Linus. “But the humans, yes, the
humans think they are so brave, and boast about slaying terrible
orcs! Seven our Rzoldur's children have disappeared in the last
fortnight, and Ulacht thinks the humans have slain them!”

“By God and his saints!” Ridmark said, exasperated.
“Did it not occur to you that this is the Northerland? There are
creatures of dark magic and worse things in these forests, and they
prey upon man and orc alike.” He waved a hand at the trees. “It's
only the Lord's mercy that all this shouting has not drawn their
attention.”

“Your pardon, Sir Ridmark,” said Linus, “but we men
of the Northerland are not fools. We know what the devils of the
forest can do. Perhaps even better than a nobleman's son from the
south. An urvaalg would devour its victims and leave blood and
bones and a trail of carnage. Our children have simply disappeared,
and I have no doubt that the orcs crept in under cover of darkness
and kidnapped them!”

“Villain!” said Ulacht.

Both Ulacht and Linus began shouting at each other in
Latin, while the orcs grumbled to each other in their own tongue
and lifted their weapons. Ridmark took a deep breath to shout them
down…

…and then the ghastly shriek cut through his ears
like a spike stabbing into his brain.

His horse reared in alarm, and Ridmark tried to keep
his saddle, but the pain spiking through his skull slowed his
reflexes, and he fell backwards. He hit the ground hard, rolled,
and came to one knee. He saw Linus and Ulacht and the orcs covering
their ears.

The air behind the orcs rippled, and the blur
resolved into a hideous, misshapen creature, a ghastly combination
of ape and wolf. The thing was an urvaalg, created by the dark
elves through foul sorcery. Centuries of warfare had shattered the
dark elven kingdoms – but urvaalgs still haunted the hills and
forests of the Northerland.

The urvaalg shrieked its unnatural cry again, and the
orcs collapsed as a spike of pain shot through Ridmark’s head. He
staggered to his feet, and the urvaalg stooped over the nearest orc
and began raking at the man’s chest.

It would crack his ribs and devour his heart.

Heartwarden thrummed in Ridmark’s fist, the sword’s
power awakening.

Ridmark drew on the power of his bond with
Heartwarden, and the sword’s blade flared with white light, filling
him with speed, and he hurtled forward like an arrow, the world
blurring around him.

The urvaalg looked up from the helpless orc just in
time for Ridmark to bring Heartwarden around in a vicious backhand.
The white-burning blade slammed into the creature’s face with a
burst of black blood, and the urvaalg toppled backwards and started
thrashing like a landed fish, albeit an eight hundred pound fish
with talons and fangs.

Ridmark came to a stop and whirled, preparing a
killing blow on the urvaalg, but there was no need. The urvaalg
twitched several more times and then went motionless, the black
slime of its blood spilling into the dirt of the road.

For a moment silence fell over the trees, but then
the orcish men began to groan as they recovered from the urvaalg’s
unnatural wail.

Ridmark hurried forward and knelt besides the wounded
orc. The gashes on his chest and belly were very bad, but Ridmark
was a Swordbearer. Again he drew on the sword’s power, and white
light flared around his fingers as he summoned healing energy. The
orc shuddered and went limp as the gashes turned into ugly black
scars against his green skin. The orc would be on his back for a
week or more, but he would not die from his wounds.

Ridmark got to his feet, exhausted, and found the
orcs and Father Linus staring at him.

“It seems that the Lord is indeed merciful,” said
Linus, voice quiet, “to have sent you when he did.”

“Aye,” rumbled Ulacht, gesturing for his men to help
the wounded orc. He sounded furious, but Ridmark realized that
Ulacht’s fury was directed at himself. “And Ulacht is almost slain
in the woods like some callow stripling! He should know better than
to shout in the trees.”

Both the priest and the orcish headman looked
embarrassed. Perhaps Ridmark could nudge them towards working
together.

“But will you accept,” Ridmark said, “that neither
one of you is to blame? That something is preying upon both your
villages and kidnapping your children?”

Ulacht and Linus shared a look.

“This urvaalg, perhaps?” said Linus. “An urvaalg has
not come this far south in years.”

Ulacht growled. “Nay, Father. The children
disappeared without a trace. An urvaalg would have left pieces of
them everywhere.”

The headman had a point. But there were numerous
creatures in the wild that kidnapped victims and took them alive
back to their lairs…and none of them were things Ridmark
particularly wanted to meet. But Ridmark was a Swordbearer, a
Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, and the defense of the
realm’s people was his duty.

“Then you will help me,” Ridmark said, “to find
whatever has done this? For I am bound by duty and law to do so…but
aid would be welcome.”