The Knight's Tale (4 page)

The orcish headman fared better, whipping his massive
club around his head as if it were a light baton. He hit the
urvaalg several times in the face, knocking out about half of its
fangs, but without magic Ulacht could not do the beast permanent
harm. In its fury the urvaalg remained focused on Ulacht, and
Ridmark stepped forward and plunged Heartwarden into its side, the
soulblade tearing through furred hide and thick muscle to seek the
beast’s heart. The urvaalg screamed, and Ridmark ripped Heartwarden
free and brought the soulblade down onto the beast’s skull.

The scream came to an abrupt end.

Ridmark wrenched Heartwarden free just as the
spiderling finished her spell. Her body rippled, wavered, and
disappeared entirely. He realized that she had just cast a spell of
invisibility. The urdmordar had wielded tremendous dark magic – and
it seemed a half-human, half-urdmordar spiderling possessed some of
that power, as well.

Fortunately, Ridmark had resources of his own.

Ridmark drew upon the soulblade’s power to protect
from magic, extending that protection over Ulacht and Sir Thomas.
The air rippled, and the spiderling reappeared a few feet from her
previous position, all eight of her brilliant green eyes blinking
in surprise. Likely she had planned to use her invisibility to rip
out Ridmark’s throat.

Sir Thomas staggered to Ridmark’s side, sword and
shield ready, and for a moment Ridmark stared at the spiderling,
waiting for her next move.

“You slew Mother’s pet urvaalgs,” said the spiderling
at last. The pincers rising from her mouth clicked, as if annoyed.
“The dark ones bred them for her, long ago. She will be wroth that
herd animals slew her pets.”

“We will try,” spat Thomas, “to contain our
disappointment.”

“And you, orc,” said the spiderling, shifting her
gaze to Ulacht. “Your kind once accepted your proper place as herd
animals, and worshipped Mother and her sisters as goddesses. You
should return to your former wisdom before the great culling
begins.”

“No!” said Ulacht, angrier than Ridmark had yet seen
him. “Once we were slaves to the blood gods and the urdmordar of
old, but no more! The High King and his Dominus Christus came, and
no more do we offer our children as sacrifices to your kind!”

“You should have,” said the spiderling. “You could
have been Mother’s favored pets. Now she will kill you with the
rest.” The eight green eyes fixed on Ridmark. “I suppose she shall
forgive me the urvaalgs once I bring her your heads speared upon
that soulblade.”

The muscles in her thin limbs tensed as she prepared
to spring.

“Then you’ve been the one talking the children?”
Ridmark said, hoping to draw more information from the
spiderling.

The spiderling tilted her head, her green eyes, all
eight of them, regarding Ridmark.

“It is better to allow the herd animals to grow to
maturity,” said the spiderling, “and thereby mate and propagate the
herd. But Mother is indulging us, for she has foreseen the great
culling to come. We may as well feast now, for when the cold ones
return the herd shall be thinned for decades, if not
centuries.”

“So I suppose,” Ridmark said, “that Lady Gwenaelle is
one of your sisters?” That would explain the overwhelming strength
of his attraction to her. Spiderlings could produce any number of
potent poisons to induce hallucinations or particular emotions. Raw
animal lust was one of them.

“The local knight,” said the spiderling, “has proven
most easy to manipulate. As herd animals usually…ah. I see. You are
attempting to obtain information for me. This is cleverer than I
expected. But Mother ever warned us against overconfidence. The
time for talk is now done.”

She thrust out her hands, green fire shining around
her clawed fingers, and Ridmark raised Heartwarden to protect
himself and Ulacht and Sir Thomas.

But the spell wasn’t aimed at Ridmark.

The dead urvaalgs stirred, green fire flickering to
life in their eyes. Living urvaalgs were bad enough. Undead
urvaalgs were much worse. Urdmordar were masters of necromancy in
addition to their other powers, and they created powerful
undead.

Even as the thought crossed Ridmark’s mind, the
spiderling surged forward, claws reaching for him. As she did, she
hissed, her pincers flexing, and spat a glob of sticky green venom
at Ridmark’s face.

But Ridmark had anticipated the attack, and
Heartwarden blurred up to deflect the venom. The spiderling must
have been certain the venom would disable Ridmark, because she left
herself open as she lunged, and Ridmark sidestepped and whipped
Heartwarden around in a two-handed blow.

The spiderling’s head jumped off her shoulders and
rolled across the floor, the pincers clicking against the smooth
white marble. The emaciated body collapsed, the neck leaking a
thick greenish-black slime. The green fire around her talons winked
out, and as it did, the urvaalg corpses fell to the floor like
puppets with cut strings.

For a moment Ridmark, Sir Thomas, and Ulacht stood in
silence.

“God and his saints,” said Thomas. “A spiderling.
Here.”

“I think,” Ridmark said, “we know what happened to
those missing children.”

Thomas rubbed his face. “And I suppose Gwenaelle is a
spiderling as well. Explains why my father fell for her. And that
means old Gotha is one, too.” He looked at Ridmark. “Do you think
an urdmordar is hiding among us?”

“It must be,” Ridmark said, remembering his tutors’
lessons. “Spiderlings are the offspring of a human man and a female
urdmordar. They tend to be quite loyal to their mothers.”

“Aye,” said Ulacht. The old orc looked shaken. “One
of the old goddesses has come among us, and demands a tribute in
blood for our apostasy.”

Ridmark knew that Ulacht was right to be afraid.

Male urdmordar were dangerous enough. They were the
size of horses, and could easily kill a score of armed men without
difficulty. But male urdmordar took little interest in anything
beyond sating their immediate hungers.

Female urdmordar, though…female urdmordar were much,
much more dangerous.

They were immortal, and wielded tremendous dark magic
with the natural ease of a bird taking to the air. Additionally,
they were immune to steel – only magic, an enchanted soulblade, or
fire could harm them.

Ridmark knew that the urdmordar had warred against
the high elves and the dark elves for tens of thousands of years.
Once high elven and dark elven kingdoms ruled the entirety what was
now Andomhaim, but the urdmordar gradually ground them down to
near-extinction. The dark elves became the vassals of the
urdmordar, and the pagan orc tribes worshipped them as goddesses.
Indeed, from what Ridmark understood, the female urdmordar regarded
themselves as goddesses, and all other kindreds as their rightful
servants and prey.

When humans first came from Old Earth and founded
Andomhaim, the urdmordar almost destroyed them. The urdmordar’s
hordes of dark elven vassals and orcish slaves conquered most of
Andomhaim and laid siege to the High King’s stronghold of Tarlion.
Only when Ardrhythain of the high elves came to Tarlion and forged
the soulblades and trained the Magistri in magic did the tide turn.
The High King, the Swordbearers, and the Magistri led the nations
in a great war and shattered the dark elven and orcish armies,
defeated the urdmordar, and smashed their empire to pieces.

But the surviving urdmordar sank into the shadows,
preying on humans and orcs and halflings from the darkness.

Now it seemed that an urdmordar had come to the
villages of Victrix and Rzoldur.

Which meant that Ridmark was in over his head.

“We need to send word to Dux Gareth Licinius at
Castra Marcaine,” Ridmark said. “He can send us additional
Swordbearers and Magistri. Even a lone urdmordar could kill me,
you, and every orc and human in Victrix and Rzoldur without much
effort.” He looked at Thomas. “And we had best do it without
letting your father or Gwenaelle or Gotha know. Otherwise they’ll
warn the urdmordar.”

“Aye,” said Thomas. “I have a man-at-arms I can trust
with the task. We had best go quickly.”

They left the dark elven ruin, walked to the edge of
hill, and froze.

“God and the saints preserve us,” said Thomas.

The village of Victrix burned.

Men and women erupted from burning houses, fleeing in
terror. For a moment Ridmark wondered if the orcs had lost patience
and attacked, but he saw flames shooting from the stone houses of
Rzoldur as well, saw orcs running from their homes.

“We are attacked!” roared Ulacht, lifting his club.
“But who?”

Ridmark could not tell from this distance, but it
looked as if mottled gray-and-white figures were attacking the
villages.

“There’s fighting,” said Thomas, “outside the keep,
and by the doors of the church. They need our aid. We must
hurry!”

“To the church!” Ridmark said. “The villagers would
have sheltered there. Quickly!”

Ridmark raced down the hillside path as fast as he
dared, Ulacht and Sir Thomas at his heels. The path was narrow and
rocky, and Ridmark thought it would be a grim joke if he tripped
and fell to his death while pursuing an ancient horror of
legend.

At last Ridmark entered the burning village, and saw
that the situation was worse than he thought.

Sir Hamus’s keep was a tower of flame, black smoke
billowing from the windows and roof. The rest of the village
burned, men and women and children fleeing towards the church. The
church itself looked intact, and Ridmark saw a large group of
militia standing before the doors, managing a good impression of a
spear wall. And they were fighting…

Ridmark’s fingers tightened around Heartwarden’s
hilt.

The militia fought undead corpses.

Dozens of ragged corpses flung themselves at the
defenders, their empty eyes alight with ghostly green fire. It was
same shade of fire, Ridmark noted, that he had seen around the
spiderling’s fingers. In the distance he saw a faint pillar of that
same fire rising from the base of the hill, just outside the
village.

But the fighting held his attention. The militia
looked as if they are about to break beneath the undead onslaught,
and Ridmark saw hundreds of terrified women and children packed
into the church. Magistrius Sempronius stood before the church
doors, flinging blasts of white fire into the undead, but there
were too many of the creatures.

Ridmark bellowed a battle cry, calling to God and the
archangels to lend his sword arm strength, and charged into the
fray, Ulacht and Sir Thomas at his side. Steel could harm the
undead, but Heartwarden’s blade burned with white fire, and the
weapon’s power tore through the undead like puppets of cloth and
straw. The militiamen shouted and stood their ground, and Ridmark
saw Father Linus in their midst, wielding a club with vigor. Fat
old Sir Hamus himself stood next to him, fighting with an enormous
two-handed axe, his face red with exertion.

Ridmark wondered what had happened to
Gwenaelle. 

A few moments later the final undead fell, and the
fighting was over. But not for long – Ridmark saw more undead
corpses moving through the burning village.

And that pillar of green flame still pulsed at the
base of the hill.

“Sir Ridmark!” said Father Linus, lowering his club.
“Thank God you have come! Another few minutes and we would have
been overrun.”

“What happened?” said Sir Thomas.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Linus. “Every house in the
village caught fire at once. The folk fled into the streets…and
then the undead starting coming from the tombs.”

“The tombs?” Ridmark said, looking at the pillar of
green flame.

“Aye,” says Linus. “We have long buried our dead in
the caves below the hill.” He shrugged. “Easier than digging
graves, and cheaper than burning the dead. Though perhaps we were
foolish.”

“My wife,” said Sir Hamus, his voice a moan as he
looks at the burning keep. “My wife was in there. We have to rescue
Lady Gwenaelle. We must!”

“My lord knight,” said Linus, “I’m sure your
wife…”

“We must save her!” said Hamus, eyes glittering, his
face flushed. “Else she will perish in the flames!” He looked
half-crazed, and Ridmark remembered the effect Gwenaelle had on
him.

“Better that we strike at once,” said Thomas,
pointing at the green fire, “and find whatever necromancer is
raising the dead.”

“We must stop further undead from rising,” Ridmark
said. “If they get out of control, they’ll kill everyone in Victrix
and Rzoldur both. One of the spiderlings must be in the tombs,
raising the undead.”

Or, perhaps, a full urdmordar itself. The thought
gave Ridmark a chill. A single urdmordar was a mighty foe, a match
for even a team of Swordbearers and Magistri working together.
Those few Swordbearers who faced and defeated an urdmordar in
single combat were legendary, their names among the great heroes of
the history of the realm.

Those Swordbearers who have faced an urdmordar in
single combat and perished in short order were far more
numerous.

But Ridmark put aside his fear. He was a Knight of
the Soulblade, a Swordbearer, and it was his duty to defend these
people, even to the death.

Sir Thomas nodded. “We’ll follow you, Swordbearer.
Magistrius, Father Linus. Stay here and keep command of the
militia. If the battle goes amiss, you’ll need to see our people to
safety. Take them to Castra Marcaine, and tell the Dux know what
has happened here.”

Father Linus nodded, hefting his club. “May God go
with you, sir knights.”

Ridmark strode away from the church, Sir Thomas and
Ulacht following, and to Ridmark’s surprise Sir Hamus accompanied
them, his massive axe in one hand.