Wraithshard: Sword & Flame

By Jonathan Moeller

Mazael Cravenlock is the lord of the Grim Marches, and no one dares to attack his lands or the people under his protection.

He has crushed every enemy...but it will take more than swords to defeat his new foe.

When the dreaded necromancer Lucan Mandragon returns from the grave, Mazael will need to rally all his allies and followers to face the threat.

But the things hunting Lucan are far more dangerous...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Mar 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005778040

Jonathan Moeller

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.He has written the "Demonsouled" trilogy of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write the "Ghosts" sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the "$0.99 Beginner's Guide" series of computer books, and numerous other works.Visit his website at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.comVisit his technology blog at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

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WRAITHSHARD: SWORD & FLAME

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

Mazael Cravenlock is the lord of the Grim Marches, and no one dares to attack his lands or the people under his protection.

He has crushed every enemy…but it will take more than swords to defeat his new foe.

When the dreaded necromancer Lucan Mandragon returns from the grave, Mazael will need to rally all his allies and followers to face the threat.

But the things hunting Lucan are far more dangerous…

***

Wraithshard: Sword & Flame

Copyright 2020 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover images copyright RF License : STANDARD | Print & Web | Unlimited Digital Impressions, up to 250,000 Prints neostock-s011-karlos-grimdark-knight-115 - Original file (2617x5334 pixels) & © Pawel Przybyszewski | Dreamstime.com & Sandaboy | Dreamstime.com.

Ebook edition published February 2020.

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.

***

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***

Prologue: The Demonsouled

From the book of the Guardian of Liminalus:

For millennia beyond count, the High Elderborn ruled their world with power, wisdom, and prosperity. But such is the way of civilization that some are never content, no matter their power or wealth. This can raise a kingdom to new glory, or it can lead a realm to destruction.

Among the High Elderborn, some chose the path of ruin.

Their greatest wizards reached beyond the boundaries of the void, seeking new wonders. There they found a new cosmos, alien to our own, the home of the mighty Great Demons. Believing they had found a new source of magical might, the wizards of the High Elderborn attempted to summon and harness these creatures.

But the plane of the Great Demons is alien to our own, and their power is innately corruptive. The High Elderborn who tried to summon the Great Demons became the Dark Elderborn, and the High and the Dark warred against each other. Using human slaves, the Dark Elderborn bred humans with the power of a Great Demon, creating the Demonsouled. The wizards of the Dark Elderborn thought to use the Demonsouled as soldiers and weapons in their endless war against their cousins.

But the greatest and oldest of the Demonsouled had his own plans and desired the throne of the gods for himself.

He tricked the Dark Elderborn into the final summoning of a Great Demon, which destroyed both them and the Great Demon. This first and mightiest of the Demonsouled destroyed or imprisoned his siblings, and for centuries wandered the human nations, siring children, raising them to power, and then devouring their strength. In time the first of the Demonsouled became known as the Old Demon, and for three thousand years, the kingdoms of men danced upon his strings, and generations of his children were slain to grow his power. After thirty centuries of treachery and murder, he harvested enough stolen power to become a god himself.

But in the end, in the moment of his final triumph, the Old Demon was destroyed by the strongest of his children, Mazael Cravenlock, who slew his malignant father and freed the world from his dark grasp. Mazael now rules the lands of the Grim Marches with an iron yet fair hand, and none dare challenge him.

But the Old Demon locked away many dark powers, not out of benevolence, but to rid himself of potential rivals. With the Old Demon destroyed, those dark powers are free to act.

Including the master of dark magic I have spent three thousand years fighting.

Let us hope Mazael Cravenlock is equal to the task before him, for the defense of both mankind and the world rests in his hands.

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Chapter 1: Valgasts

Mazael Cravenlock awoke from a dream of blood and death.

That did not trouble him. To him, such dreams were commonplace and did not disturb him. His challenge, the reason for his constant self-discipline, was to keep from indulging such dreams in the waking world.

Mazael opened his eyes, reached for his wife, and could not find her.

That did not concern him either. Romaria often woke before he did and went for a walk to clear her head. Had she been any other woman, Mazael would have been worried. Even after the defeat of the runedead and the end of the Skuldari war, the Grim Marches were still a dangerous land. But Romaria was more formidable than any bandit, Malrag warrior, or valgast raider she might encounter. And her senses were far keener than normal, and she would bring Mazael’s party advanced warning of any foes.

Not that he expected any trouble, admittedly. For once, he had not left Castle Cravenlock to hunt bandits or to drive valgasts back to their holes, but to attend a wedding. Lord Robert of Castle Highgate was one of the most powerful lords of the Grim Marches. His first wife had died of illness some years ago. His second wife had been Tymaen Highgate, who had helped the traitorous necromancer Lucan Mandragon summon the runedead, tried to stop him, and been killed for her effort. Undaunted, Robert was betrothed yet again, this time to a woman twenty years his junior.

Though Mazael thought it unlikely that Robert would dominate his new wife. Robert was not betrothed to a noblewoman of the Grim Marches, but a holdmistress of the Tervingi nation. Specifically, to Guthinga daughter of Alanovil, the headman of the hold of Rathburh. Mazael had met Guthinga a few times, and while she was undeniably beautiful, she was as tall as he was, and he had seen her chopping firewood without breaking a sweat. Guthinga no doubt viewed her impending marriage with cold-eyed practicality – the hold of Rathburh bordered on the lands of Castle Highgate, and together the two families would become richer than they could otherwise.

For his part, Mazael hoped the marriage would help keep the peace in the Grim Marches. After the desperate war against the runedead and the more recent struggle against the Skuldari, the Tervingi barbarians and the Marcher folk had fought alongside each other enough to forge a bond. The frequent Malrag attacks and valgast raids helped encourage unity in defense. Yet Mazael never forgot that the Tervingi and the Marcher folk were two different peoples, with different customs and attitudes, and that the Tervingi had originally invaded the Grim Marches in search of a new homeland.

Best to encourage unity whenever possible.

Mazael thought about going back to sleep, decided it was unlikely, and rose from his blankets. He was tall enough that the top of his head brushed the tent he shared with Romaria. His sword belt hung on its rack, his curved sword Talon in its scabbard, and Mazael took the belt and buckled it around his waist. Bitter experience had taught him the wisdom of never going anywhere without at least one weapon.

He stepped out of the tent and into the chill of the early spring morning. A few stars glimmered in the sky overhead, disappearing as the horizon grew brighter. The dark wall of the Great Mountains was to the west, the mighty barrier that divided the Grim Marches and all the lands of the sundered kingdom of Calenmar from the unmapped wilds of the middle lands. Around Mazael stood the tents of his camp in orderly lines. One of his armsmen waited outside the tent, spear in hand, and offered a quick bow as he stepped outside.

My lord, said the armsman.

Mazael nodded back. Any news?

Immediately he thought of three different ways to kill the soldier. He could have drawn Talon and plunged it into the armsman’s chest. Or Mazael could have yanked the dagger from the soldier’s belt and driven it into his throat. He could have reached up and snapped the man’s neck. Mazael was strong enough to do it, even without drawing on his darker nature.

His Demonsouled blood.

Once, Mazael had thought that everyone went around thinking of ways to kill those around them. Later, once he had learned what he really was, it had horrified him, and he had feared losing control and going on a rampage. Now he simply ignored it. Mazael was the master of his own will and heart. He governed his actions, not his corrupted blood, not the legacy of his father.

But when something threatened his lands and his people, Mazael had a target for his fury…as many bandits, Malrags, and valgasts had learned to their woe.

Nothing, my lord, said the armsman. The guards didn’t see anything in the night. Lady Romaria left about an hour ago, and took her…um, other shape.

Mazael nodded and clapped the armsman on the shoulder. Good man.

He walked to the privy trench and relieved himself. Mazael insisted that his soldiers dig a privy trench every time they camped. Disease was as much of a enemy to a warrior as the swords and arrows of his foes, and far more relentless. His armsmen even made jokes about how the first thing they had to do when stopping to camp was to dig the latrine trench…but they obeyed, which was the important part. Given how many men the Grim Marches had lost to the runedead and the Malrags over the last few years, Mazael did not want to lose any to disease, not if he could avoid it.

The sun rose over the eastern horizon as he walked back to his tent. One of Mazael’s squires waited outside the tent, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Rudolph Larsar was about fifteen, with brown hair and brown eyes, and he had been Mazael’s squire during the Skuldari war. The boy was much less nervous than he had been, which was good. Another year or two, and Mazael would have the boy knighted.

My lord? said Rudolph. Would you like some breakfast?

Not yet, said Mazael. Go get some food for yourself and the other lads. He had four squires now. Well, technically he had three squires and one Tervingi shieldbearer, which was the Tervingi equivalent of a squire, a noble-born youth who served an older warrior until he came of age and became a spearthain or a swordthain. Four squires were more than Mazael needed and certainly more than he wanted. After he had been expelled from Lord Adalon’s court, Mazael had wandered all over the realm as a landless knight, fighting for gold and to amuse himself, and he had looked after his own weapons and equipment and horses. Still, he was the liege lord of the Grim Marches now, not a wandering knight. Accepting the son of a powerful lord or Tervingi headman as a squire was a good way to forge a tie, further protecting the Grim Marches from civil war.

Yes, my lord, said Rudolph. Should I come find you after arms practice?

Aye, said Mazael. Best way to wake up in the morning. Which wasn’t entirely true. The best way to wake up in the morning was to pull Romaria close, but she wasn’t here.

Mazael wasn’t about to tell Rudolph that, though.

Probably shouldn’t try to break any arms, my lord, said Rudolph.

Impudent boy, said Mazael. Go get some breakfast before I pound some respect into your skull.

Rudolph grinned, but he bowed and ran off.

Mazael set off through the camp, which stirred around him as men awoke. He was traveling to Rathburh and Castle Highgate with a hundred knights and armsmen, and half again as many servants and squires. Some of the knights had brought their wives, who had in turn brought their maids. Mazael had almost a small village following him to Lord Robert’s wedding. He remembered his days of wandering alone as a landless knight and shook his head.

Sir Hagen Bridgebane stood at the northern edge of the camp, flanked by three armsmen wearing padded gambesons. He was a big, fierce-looking man with a bushy black beard and hard eyes. Despite that, he almost always spoke in a soft, calm voice, even when administering beatings to armsmen who had transgressed. Mazael’s Tervingi shieldbearer, a skinny youth of twelve named Valchar, stood with Hagen. Valchar was one of the innumerable cousins of Earnachar son of Balnachar, the headman of Banner Hill, and one of the most powerful Tervingi headmen in the Grim Marches. Earnachar was also a tremendous annoyance to Mazael, though after the business with the Skuldari, he had been much less willing to make trouble, though the man remained as grasping and arrogant as ever. As a gesture of peace, Mazael had agreed to take Valchar as his shieldbearer. Fortunately for Valchar, he had neither Earnachar’s looks nor his temperament, a fact the boy’s future wife would no doubt appreciate.

My lord, rumbled Hagen. No trouble in the night, so far as any of our men saw. He turned a scowling glance towards the distant wall of the Great Mountains and the jagged foothills. Some of the villages we passed claimed they saw Malrags in the mountains, but we’ve seen no trace of them.

Mazael grunted. The gods know they’ve seen enough real Malrags in the last few years. Probably they are jumping at shadows. Well, if we find any real Malrags, we’ll slay most of them, and chase the rest to their mountain holes. You brought the practice swords?

Yes, hrould, said Valchar, using the traditional title for the leader of the Tervingi headmen, a title Mazael had assumed when he had become the liege lord of the Grim Marches. The boy went to one knee and lowered the bundle he carried. Valchar unwrapped it, revealing four wooden practice swords. He handed one to Mazael, who took it and spun it, testing the balance of the weapon. Castle Cravenlock had a good inventory of practice swords, and Mazael put them to use regularly. The swords had a metal core sheathed in wood. They were slightly heavier than normal swords, which was just as well. Using them in practice helped build strength for real battle. Of course, the wooden swords had no edges that could cut, but they could still break bones and smash fingers.

The three armsmen lifted the remaining wooden swords. Two of the armsmen were young men, no more than twenty and not long in Mazael’s service. One was middle-aged, a man who had joined Mazael’s service soon after Mitor’s failed rebellion, and had survived the Malrag war, the attack of the runedead, the battle with the Skuldari, and countless minor skirmishes along the way. Mazael had sparred against him a few times before.

You know the rules? said Mazael.

I do, said the middle-aged armsman, who was named Toth. These new lads…ah, William and Harald, they don’t.

You do your best to knock me from my feet, said Mazael. If I knock you down, that’s that. But if you knock me down, each one of you will get a new sword. Sir Hagen will watch to make sure that we don’t cheat. Understand?

Toth nodded. William and Harald murmured their ascent.

Good, said Mazael. He tossed the sword from his right hand to his left and back again. The wooden sword came up in guard, and Mazael took several steps back. Then let’s begin.

Toth raised his sword. William and Harald looked at each other.

We…just attack you, my lord? said Harald. Just like that?

If you can, said Mazael. Unless you want to stand there staring while Toth does all the work. Toth snorted at that.

William and Harald looked at each other, and then at Toth.

Begin, said Sir Hagen in a tone of command.

The three armsmen came at Mazael. William moved to his left side and Harald to his right. Toth hung back, wise enough to conserve his strength and let the younger men take the first clash of combat.

Mazael waited until the last second and then moved.

He went after William first. The armsman was holding his sword in a one-handed grip, suitable enough under most circumstances, but he didn’t have a shield. Mazael attacked, swinging his own blade with a two-handed blow. The speed of the move took the younger man off-guard and knocked his sword to the side. Before William could recover, Mazael sidestepped and brought his sword hard into the back of his legs. William landed on his back with a yelp, followed immediately by a string of furious curses.

Mazael turned just in time to meet Harald’s attack. The armsman had his sword in a two-handed grip, hoping to overwhelm Mazael with speed and power. Mazael retreated, the wooden blades clacking together a half-dozen times in as many seconds. Harald was better than William, but he was still too eager, and he put too much strength into his attacks. He overbalanced, and Mazael gave him a blow to the side of the head. Harald flinched, stumbled, and Mazael sent him to the ground.

Toth chose that moment to attack.

The armsman’s sword blurred in a thrust, and Mazael had to both block and dodge, knocking the sword out of line. Toth came on with cool, methodical precision, conserving his strength, keeping most of his body out of reach of Mazael’s sword. Toth wasn’t a better swordsman than the two younger men, but he was a better fighter and knew how to make proper use of his footing. Youthful strength and stamina were always advantageous in a fight, but experience often made up the difference.

Yet Mazael was different. His Demonsouled blood and heritage meant that he enjoyed war and fighting in a way that few men ever could. He saw a dozen different ways he could kill Toth in the space of the next three seconds, and then kill Harald and William and Sir Hagen. But Mazael held back the dark rage that always simmered in his mind, and he went on the attack. His sword cracked against Toth’s weapon three times. On the fourth blow, he locked blades and twisted, and ripped the sword from Toth’s hands. The armsman stumbled back with a surprised look, then sighed and went to one knee.

I yield, he said. Damn it all. Though I had you that time, my lord.

You came close, said Mazael, holding out a hand. Toth took it, and Mazael hauled the older man to his feet. Next to him, William and Harald stood, rubbing their bruises. Figured you would attack when the other two were down, and I was right.

Toth sighed again and shook his head. I’m getting predictable in my old age.

Has anyone ever won one of those swords, my lord? said Harald.

Mazael looked at Hagen.

The armsmaster grunted. Nineteen, I think?

I thought it was twenty-three, said Mazael.

Yes, that’s right, said Hagen. I forgot that bout after the harvest.

William shook his head. You’re so fast, my lord. How does anyone hit you?

The same way they hit anyone, said Mazael. No one is invincible.

Especially not you two, said Hagen. When we return to Castle Cravenlock, more sword drills for you. You’re the armsmen of Lord Mazael, and you’re going to wield your swords properly, not swing them like damned clubs.

Harald shook his head. How did you knock off my feet, my lord?

Mazael took a few moments to explain the finer points of sword technique to the younger two armsmen, who listened with wide eyes. By then, most of the camp had awakened. Squires and pages were breaking down the tents, and in another hour, they would be ready to resume their journey to Rathburh and then Castle Highgate.

He returned to his tent since Valchar and Rudolph and the other squires would be anxious to get started with their duties for the day. Valchar put the practice swords away and followed him and helped Mazael don his armor. He never liked to travel anywhere without his armor, and he put on a gambeson and a cuirass of overlapping golden plates that fell to his knees. The plates were not metal but dragon scales, taken from the dragon he had slain before the gates of Arylkrad in the Great Mountains.

His sword was a curved blade fashioned from one of the talons of that same dragon, lighter and stronger than normal steel. The Guardian Riothamus had worked spells of power over the sword, giving it the ability to wound creatures of dark magic. That had proven useful numerous times. Mazael had once carried a mighty sword of the High Elderborn that he had called Lion, but unfortunately, it had been destroyed in the final battle with the Old Demon. The hiltshard remained in Castle Cravenlock, a memory of that terrible battle. Still, given that it had stopped the Old Demon from transforming himself into a malignant god, it had been worth the trade.

Mazael stepped outside of his tent, and his squires started breaking it down. Progress was well underway, the tents getting loaded into the wagons.

He turned and saw his wife walking through the activity, a frown on her face.

Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock was tall for a woman, almost as tall as he was, with long black hair and eyes like blue ice. She wore leather armor reinforced with steel rivets and a green cloak, the hilt of her preferred bastard sword rising over her shoulder, and in her right hand, she carried her composite Elderborn bow. Her black hair had been bound back in a thick braid, revealing the points of her ears, a legacy of her Elderborn mother. She looked mostly human, but there were signs for the observant that she was not. The pointed ears were the most obvious. The eyes were a little too vivid and blue. She looked anywhere from eighteen years to forty, depending on how the light struck her, and she moved a little too fluidly and gracefully.

Almost like a prowling wolf.

Which made sense, of course.

Mazael wished she had woken up with him in their tent. Still, they ought to reach Rathburh today. Alanovil and Guthinga would have a guest room with a proper bed, and they could make good use of that.

What’s wrong? said Mazael.

Valgast tracks, said Romaria, her voice soft and quiet. A band of about a hundred of them, heading north. I think they passed this way about two days ago, maybe three.

Hell, said Mazael. Did they tunnel up from the underworld? The valgasts lived in underground cities far beneath the earth, the nearest of which was Tchroth beneath Skuldar. Since the death of the Old Demon had removed his binding upon the valgasts, the creatures had grown more aggressive.

I don’t think so, said Romaria. They came out of the Great Mountains. The tracks headed west before they turned north. She looked towards the distant wall of the great peaks. Likely they came out of one of the cavern entrances there.

Hell, said Mazael again. That’s the last thing we need.

Romaria shrugged. Lord Robert is about to marry Guthinga. I suppose for their wedding feast they could split some valgast skulls. You’ve met Guthinga. She would think a row of valgast heads mounted upon spikes would make a lovely wedding gift. She smiled. And you would enjoy a fight, husband, don’t deny it.

Mazael didn’t. She knew him too well for that. He wanted his people to live in peace and prosperity…and if he had to wipe out a warband of valgasts for that, so be it.

Let’s talk to Timothy, said Mazael. Make sure he keeps his sensing spell active.

Romaria grinned at him. My scouting isn’t enough for you, my lord?

Mazael snorted. You’re the one who always tells my scouts that four eyes are better than two.

They headed through the dissolving camp and found Timothy deBlanc, who had served as Mazael’s court wizard ever since he had become the Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Timothy was about ten years younger than Mazael, with brown hair and a pointed beard in the Travian style. He wore the long black coat favored by members of the college of wizards, the pockets heavy with the various tools he used in his spellcasting. He had been with Mazael through a lot of battles and dangerous situations, and Mazael trusted the wizard as much as he trusted anyone.

My lord, said Timothy. We ought to reach Rathburh today.

Unless something goes wrong, said Mazael. Romaria found the tracks from a valgast warband this morning. They might have been heading north towards Rathburh. Best keep your sensing spells up. I would rather surprise the valgasts than the other way around.

I quite agree, said Timothy, reaching into one of his coat’s pockets. He drew out a fist-sized lump of crystal wrapped in fine copper wire, concentrated on it, and cast a spell, gesturing with his free hand. The milky crystal began pulsing with a faint glow. I will be able to sense the approach of any foes. The valgasts are fond of ambushes, but they will not take us unawares.

Good man, said Mazael, clapping Timothy on the shoulder.

A few moments later, the party was ready to move. Mazael walked to the head of the column and mounted his horse. Sir Hagen was nearby, and so was Sir Aulus Hirtan, a thin knight with a tired face who served as Mazael’s standardbearer. Aulus normally had spent most of the year at Mazael’s court to escape the harsh tongue of his wife, but after the Skuldari war, his wife had fled to the city of Barellion with one of her lovers. Aulus had vowed to never marry again,