Wraithshard: Mage & Knight

By Jonathan Moeller

The Malrag hordes have invaded the Grim Marches once more, and Mazael Cravenlock must rally his knights and warriors to face the enemy.

But the necromancer Lucan Mandragon has also returned. Has he repented of his past crimes, or does he intend new evils?

Mazael doesn't know, but he will stop anyone trying to bring fire & sword to the Grim Marches.

Including Lucan Mandragon...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005178642

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

Book preview

WRAITHSHARD: MAGE & KNIGHT

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

The Malrag hordes have invaded the Grim Marches once more, and Mazael Cravenlock must rally his knights and warriors to face the enemy.

But the necromancer Lucan Mandragon has also returned. Has he repented of his past crimes, or does he intend new evils?

Mazael doesn't know, but he will stop anyone trying to bring fire & sword to the Grim Marches.

Including Lucan Mandragon...

***

Wraithshard: Mage & Knight

Copyright 2020 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smaswords Edition.

Some cover images copyright © Pawel Przybyszewski | Dreamstime.com.

Ebook edition published June 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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***

Chapter 1: Old Enemies

The battle was over, and the enemy had been crushed, but Mazael Cravenlock remained wary nonetheless.

The Trichirabi nobles Vel-Anzakh and Val-Ulzurda had been slain, their army of annubaki warriors destroyed. Most of the annubaki had been cut down in the fall of Castle Valdrake, and the survivors had fled into the foothills, trying to get back to their homelands on the other side of the Great Mountains. Mazael doubted that many of the annubaki would survive the journey. He had placed a bounty on annubaki heads, just as he had for the Malrags and the valgasts, and the folk of the Grim Marches were nothing if not enterprising.

That threat was over. The Trichirabi had been broken, as had so many others who had tried to invade Mazael’s lands.

But where one threat had passed, more might arrive.

The San-keth, for one, hated Mazael. He had purged their temples and cults from the Grim Marches, but the serpent priests had never stopped trying to return. For that matter, the robber knights of the Stormvales might decide to launch raids, and Skuldar to the southwest was still unsettled.

And far more potent threats might come.

Lady Tymaen still bore a shard of the Wraithaldr in her arm. The Trichirabi had invaded the Grim Marches to claim that shard, and according to the Guardian Riothamus and the dragon Azurvaltoria, there were two more shards out there. Worse, the shards would be drawn to each other, and the only way the Wraithaldr could be destroyed was by reforging it first.

And when the Wraithaldr had been intact, Lucan Mandragon had used it to work the horror of the Great Rising.

That, at least, was no longer a problem. Lucan was dead and could not hurt anyone else. But other necromancers and dark wizards would seek the shards of the mighty artifact. No doubt the Trichirabi were merely the first. The mercenary captain Rothad and his brother Sihon had tried to steal Tymaen and the shard in her arm, perhaps for their own use, or perhaps at the bidding of someone else. If Mazael ever encountered the Swift Swords mercenary company again, he intended to get answers out of them before he had them all hanged.

Mazael knew that other dangers would emerge, others who sought the power of the shard for themselves.

And then his wife warned him.

Something is wrong, I think, said Romaria once they had finished.

Mazael frowned. What?

It was a little after dawn. Mazael lay with Romaria in their small tent. He had a larger pavilion for when he needed to host his lords, knights, and headmen, but raising the damned thing was a nuisance, so Mazael had ordered it stowed during the march back to Castle Cravenlock. The small tent was comfortable enough for sleeping.

And for other activities, since Mazael had begun the day by making love to Romaria, as he often did. She hadn’t been reluctant, far from it. For all her cool, calm demeanor, there was savagery in her to match his own, an aspect to the Elderborn half of her soul that allowed her to transform into a great black wolf.

But after they were done, a pensive mood had come over her.

I don’t know, said Romaria, shaking her head. Her black hair had come partway out of its braid and hung loose against her shoulder. It’s like…I can just see something with the Sight from the corner of my eye. Or I can smell something strange upon the wind. But whenever I try to focus upon it, I can't find it.

Like an itch you can’t scratch, said Mazael.

Yes, murmured Romaria, staring at the tent flap, her eyes distant.

Sihon and Rothad? said Mazael.

Romaria scoffed. Sihon is a normal wizard of the brotherhood and nothing more. He couldn’t elude me, and if he didn’t have too much of a head start, I would help you hunt him down. I don’t know what this is. Not the Trichirabi, not the annubaki. It’s just something…off.

We should speak with Riothamus, said Mazael. Perhaps he has sensed it as well.

Probably, said Romaria. She slipped out of his arms and stood, her body pale and lithe in the dim light. I’m going to have a look around. See if I can find anything, if I can smell anything. By the gods, a human nose is so limited.

Mazael smiled. Neither one of us has bathed for a few days.

Mmm. You should be glad I have a strong stomach, said Romaria. She dressed in haste, donning her clothing, leather armor, and green cloak. From the corner, she picked up her bastard sword and her composite bow. I will be back before the end of the day. Hopefully, by then I’ll have found what is troubling me. She shook her head, her braid bouncing against her back. Maybe it was nothing.

You were never one to jump at shadows, said Mazael.

Shadows, murmured Romaria. Yes, that’s it. It’s like there is a shadow I can’t quite see.

I’ll put out extra scouts today, said Mazael. If something is amiss, it won’t take us off guard.

Thank you, said Romaria. Some men would dismiss a wife’s warning as hysteria.

Most men aren’t married to a half-Elderborn woman who can become a wolf at will, said Mazael.

True, said Romaria, and she grinned, stooped, and kissed him. Then she vanished through the flap of the tent.

Mazael stared after her for a moment, got to his feet, dressed, and stepped outside.

If today was going to bring trouble, he might as well get on with it.

His squires were already up, and Mazael had them bring him breakfast. He ate dried fruit and meat and drank mixed wine and watched the camp wake around him. He traveled south to Castle Cravenlock in the company of several thousand soldiers, common armsmen and knights both. As they drew closer to the castle, the knights and lords would break off from the march and return to their own lands, but for now, they marched with Mazael.

Do you want your armor, my lord? said Valchar, one of Mazael’s squires. Technically, he was a Tervingi shieldbearer, one of Earnachar son of Balnachar’s innumerable cousins, but a shieldbearer served mostly the same functions as a squire.

Mazael almost said no, but stopped himself, remembering Romaria’s unease.

Aye, said Mazael. Best to be prepared.

The squires and the shieldbearer helped Mazael into his armor. He could have done it by himself, but serving as a squire to the liege lord of the Grim Marches and the hrould of the Tervingi nation was an honor, and the squires’ relatives might take offense if Mazael did not let them carry out their duties. He donned a quilted gambeson, and then a coat of armor made from the overlapping golden scales of the dragon he had slain before the gates of Arylkrad. The coat hung to his knees, and the squires strapped bracers and pauldrons to his arms and shoulders. One of them produced Mazael’s sword belt and wound it around his waist. On Mazael’s left hip hung Talon, the enspelled sword made from the claw of the dragon he had killed.

The sword he had just used to kill Vel-Anzakh, come to think of it.

On his right hip was the hilt of a broken sword slid into a dagger’s sheath. Once Lion had been a longsword of gleaming blue-tinted steel, its pommel wrought into the shape of a golden lion’s head with rubies for eyes. The blade ended a foot from the crosspiece. Lion had been a powerful magical weapon, and Mazael had carried it into battle against deadly foes. The sword had destroyed the ancient Old Demon, though it had been broken in the process, and now only the hiltshard remained.

Mazael wasn’t sure why he was carrying Lion’s hiltshard. Riothamus had said that Mazael would need it, and so he had brought the hiltshard back after defeating Val-Ulzurda’s attack on Castle Cravenlock. He had thought he might need the broken sword during the final battle at Castle Valdrake, but it had proven unnecessary.

Still, Mazael had never known the Guardian to be wrong, so he kept the hiltshard of Lion with him.

Perhaps Riothamus’s vision had something to do with the shadow that troubled Romaria.

Mazael shook off the thought and rode through the camp, dismissing his squires to attend their other duties. The tents were unfolded and packed, and the horses and oxen yoked to the supply wagons. Mazael greeted his lords and knights, making certain that everything went as it should. In truth, there was little for him to do just now. His men went about their business. All of them were veterans of the battle at the Valley of Burned Men and Castle Valdrake, and some of them had survived all the major battles of the last ten years – Knightcastle, the battle of the Northwater, the Malrag invasion, and others. But soldiers needed to see the eye of their lord upon them, to know that their labors met with his approval.

Mazael did make sure to send out extra scouts, telling them to remain vigilant.

In short order, the camp was broken, the wagons reloaded, and the host resumed its march southwest. His squires brought his horse, and Mazael mounted and rode in search of his daughter.

Molly Cravenlock was not hard to find. His daughter held Sword Town and its surrounding villages and castles as a fief, which made her the second most powerful noble in the Grim Marches. She was also Mazael’s heir, which meant that when he died, she would become the liege lady of the Grim Marches. Though Mazael had no idea how long he would live. The Demonsouled fire in his blood made him stronger and faster than a normal man, certainly stronger than he should have been at his age. Would that translate to a longer lifespan? He didn’t know, and neither did anyone else who knew anything about the Demonsouled. The Demonsouled had almost always met violent and bloody ends. The Old Demon had lived for over three thousand years, but he had been the progenitor of the Demonsouled, the strongest of them all.

Mazael had no idea how long he would live…but that wasn’t really different than anyone else, was it? Perhaps he would live for a thousand years, which was a distressing thought. Or maybe his horse would stumble and he would fall from the saddle and split his head open on a rock, and that would be that. The dark thought amused him. Mazael Cravenlock, liege lord of the Grim Marches, the destroyer of the Justiciar and Dominiar Orders, the slayer of the Old Demon…killed because he was too clumsy of a horseman to keep his saddle.

Still, death would come when it would come. The gods knew where to find him when his final hour struck. He was sorry for sins (which, admittedly, had been many) though he did not dwell on them unduly – what was done was done, and the past could not be changed. And some of his mistakes had resulted in unintended good consequences.

Such as his daughter.

As the Lady of Sword Town, Molly commanded the allegiance of many lesser lords and knights, and some of them accompanied her. Mazael spotted Molly’s personal banner adorned with a sigil of a dagger and headed towards it. She rode at the head of her knights and armsmen, a vaguely amused expression on her face. Molly looked a great deal like Mazael – the same brown hair, the same steel-like gray eyes. And like Mazael, she was Demonsouled, with the same urges towards violence and conquest.

Good morning, Father, said Molly with a cheery grin that looked only a little manic. A fine peaceful morning. A pity we don’t have anyone to fight.

That might change, said Mazael. The day is young.

Romaria isn’t with you? said Molly.

She thought something seemed amiss and went to have a look around, said Mazael.

Hmm. Molly frowned and looked over her shoulder. Perhaps we ought to speak with Riothamus. He and Azurvaltoria and Timothy are training Tymaen again.

Mazael grunted. You’ve got guards with her?

Molly rolled her eyes. I wasn’t born yesterday, Father. Half our army wants her dead because she helped Lucan. Probably more than that, come to think of it. Though Lord Robert and headman Alanovil are heading back to Castle Highgate and Rathburh, so we won’t have to worry about one of their followers killing her.

Aye, said Mazael. They turned their horses and rode north, towards the rear of the marching column. I’m worried that someone might try to kidnap her again.

We’re on our guard against it, said Molly. Especially Azurvaltoria. She was not happy that someone snatched Tymaen out of her tent right under her nose. I think she took it as a personal insult. She grinned. Those mercenaries of Sir Arnon’s had better hope that you find them before Azurvaltoria does. Dragon fire is a worse way to die than hanging.

They came to the back of the column. A troop of men armored in shining steel plate rode there. Azurvaltoria insisted on the best from her human guards. Molly’s husband Riothamus, the Guardian of the Tervingi, sat atop his horse. He was a broad-shouldered man with thick black hair and deep blue eyes and wore chain mail beneath a leather jerkin, his staff tucked into his stirrup like a knight’s lance. He smiled at Molly, and she grinned back at him, her usual harsh expression softening. When Molly was in a rage, Riothamus was often the only one able to calm her.

Next to the Guardian was Timothy deBlanc, who had served as Mazael’s court wizard for many years. He had brown hair and a pointed beard in the Travian style and wore the long black coat of the brotherhood of wizards wrapped around his lean frame. Azurvaltoria rode a short distance behind him. The dragon was in her human form, a tall noblewoman with black hair and black hair framing a lovely face, her body clad in a fine gown of blue and gold. She looked amused, but she often did, as if the antics of humanity were a source of entertainment. Amused or not, she had fought ferociously against her Trichirabi enemies at Castle Valdrake, and she had dealt the death-blow to Val-Ulzurda.

The reason Azurvaltoria had been able to deal a killing blow against the Trichirabi noble rode next to the dragon, head bowed in concentration.

Tymaen, the former lover of Lucan Mandragon and the former wife of Robert Highgate, wore a brown servant’s dress. Azurvaltoria, who had a dragon’s immense vanity (even while in human form) had offered to provide Tymaen with finer clothes, but she had refused. She deserved nothing better, she said.

Because, quite unintentionally, Tymaen had caused the recent war with the Trichirabi.

One of the three shards of the Wraithaldr was embedded in her right forearm. Even broken, a shard of the Wraithaldr had immense power, power enough that Vel-Anzakh had brought an army to the Grim Marches to claim it. The shard had also given Tymaen the ability to cast spells, drawn from the memories of Randur Maendrag.

And Tymaen had used her new magic to pin Val-Ulzurda in place long enough for Azurvaltoria to immolate the Trichirabi.

Lord Mazael and Lady Molly, said Azurvaltoria. A fine morning to you.

How go the lessons? said Mazael.

We were just about to start, said Timothy. He cleared his throat. But I think there is little more that we need to do.

What do you mean? said Mazael.

Tymaen has quite thoroughly mastered the knowledge she absorbed from the shard, said Azurvaltoria. She proved it in the battle at Castle Valdrake. Else she would have lost control her abilities and been slain in the fight against Val-Ulzurda.

A trial by fire, said Molly.

Azurvaltoria grinned. Her teeth were perfect and so white that it was a little unsettling. Much like her fangs in her true form. And I provided the fire.

Thank you, my lady, said Tymaen. She was beautiful, with long blond hair and clear blue eyes. During his younger days, before Romaria, Mazael suspected he could have seduced Tymaen without much effort. She was too shy, too diffident, to really stand up for herself. The shy diffidence was still there…but there was more steel in her eyes than there had been a few weeks ago.

Surviving a battle with a Trichirabi noble likely inspired new confidence.

But I expect you will have to put yourself to the test again soon enough, said Azurvaltoria. That thing in your arm is the sort of thing that invites challengers.

And the other two shards will be drawn to you, or you to them, said Timothy. We’re almost certain of it.

Speaking of trouble, said Mazael. Riothamus. Have you noticed anything amiss today?

The Guardian gave him a sharp look. Why do you ask?

Romaria said something was troubling her, said Mazael. Some shadow in the Sight that she couldn’t pin down. She went off to scout. She thought it could be nothing, but…

No, said Riothamus. No, it’s something.

The Sight has given you a warning? said Molly. You said a second shard had entered the Grim Marches. It was somewhere off to the west, and Mazael intended to set off and find the damned thing as soon as possible.

Not as such, said Riothamus. But I have seen a shadow at the edges of the Sight. Whenever I try to take a closer look at it, the shadow dissipates. He shrugged. Yet something has happened.

Almost as if, said Azurvaltoria, there has been a great shift in the currents of magic.

You sense something as well? said Mazael.

No, but I don’t have the Sight, said Azurvaltoria. I am merely intelligent beyond human comprehension. Mazael was tempted to point out that her vast intelligence hadn’t stopped her from getting bound within the mountains of Skuldar, but there was no reason for pettiness. Yet such things have happened before. I wonder if someone a long way off has worked a spell of surpassing power.

Could it have something to do with the shards? said Mazael.

Perhaps, said Azurvaltoria. But I cannot see the vision, so I can only speculate.

Mazael let out a breath, controlling his irritation. Compared to mastering the Demonsouled rage, suppressing mere annoyance was easy. The Sight was a useful power, Mazael had to concede, but it was damned annoying. Visions and shadows and portents, with concrete information as rare as a pearl upon a beach.

Was that why I saw twice as many scouts riding out? said Molly.

Aye, said Mazael. If there is trouble, we will not be taken unawares.

A sensible policy, said Azurvaltoria.

With that, Mazael turned and rode back up the column, leaving Molly with Riothamus and the others. He joined his armsmaster, Sir Hagen Bridgebane, and discussed the business of the march. Nothing serious had happened – a few men had been caught brawling, and Hagen had ordered them to receive ten lashes. Another man had tried to force himself on one of the camp followers, who had broken a jug of wine over the man’s head. He had died in the night from a cracked skull, and Sir Hagen had done nothing, deciding it was obvious self-defense. Mazael agreed with his armsmaster.

What shall we do once we return to Castle Cravenlock, my lord? said Hagen. He was a big man with thick black hair and a bushy black beard. Some of the Marcher nobles had begun growing long beards in imitation of the Tervingi thains, but Hagen’s beard had been long since before the Tervingi had migrated to the Grim Marches. We can’t feed so many men if they stay at the castle.

No, said Mazael. We’ll keep some of my knights at the castle, and lodge more in the town. The others we’ll send back to their villages and farms, but with warnings that I may recall them at any moment.

Hagen frowned behind his beard. You’re expecting more trouble, my lord?

Always, said Mazael. Vel-Anzakh and Val-Ulzurda came for the shard in Tymaen’s arm. We defeated them, but others will come to claim the shard.

Hagen sighed. Pity we can’t just kill her.

Wouldn’t solve the problem, said Mazael. Kill her, and the shard will need a new bearer. Or it will start summoning more undead.

Hell with it, grumbled Hagen. Give me a good honest war. Swords, spears, and horses. None of this business with mad wizards and wild sorcery.

We haven’t had one of those in a while, said Mazael. That…

The frightened whinny of a horse came to his ears.

No, the whinny of several horses.

Mazael turned in the saddle, frowning, and saw a great black wolf leap between several of his knights and race towards him. The wolf was huge, so big that its head would have come to Mazael’s shoulder had he been standing. The beast’s fur was black as night, and its eyes were an eerie, strange blue.

The wolf stopped a few paces away and melted and shrank, becoming Romaria in her green cloak and leather armor. Some aspect of her transformation brought her clothes and weapons with her, which was no doubt useful.

Her expression was grave.

What is it? said Mazael.

Malrags, said Romaria, her voice grim. At least a thousand of them, heading right for us.

Malrags? echoed Sir Hagen, his hand falling to his sword hilt on reflex. He had been in Mazael’s service during Ultorin’s invasion. Hagen would know the havoc a large Malrag warband could unleash.

Gods, it’s been years since a Malrag warband that large has been sighted this far west, said Mazael. How the devil did they get past us? Our men are marching past every easy path through the foothills. He turned to Hagen. We’ll have to stop here, turn towards the mountains to face…

Mazael! said Romaria.

He stopped and looked back at her.

The Malrags aren’t coming from the east, said Romaria. They’re coming from the west.

The west? said Mazael. That doesn’t make any sense. Ever since Ultorin’s defeat below the walls of Deepforest Keep, raiding Malrag warbands had been an intermittent problem in the Grim Marches. But they always came from the east, crossing the Great Mountains to enter Mazael’s lands.

They must have circled around the army, said Hagen. Or they slipped past Castle Highgate, or…

No, said Romaria. They’re coming from the west, I’m sure of it. They didn’t come from the Great Mountains or the middle lands. They came from somewhere to the west.

Mazael stared at her, surprised. From the west? Where the devil could Malrags have originated in the west? Skuldar, maybe, or the Stormvales? But if a Malrag host had come from the west, it would have razed everything in its path…

But Riothamus had said the second shard was somewhere to the west, hadn’t he?

Later. Mazael could sort out the problem later. Right now, his men had a more immediate problem.

Sir Hagen, said Mazael. Sound the call to arms.

Hagen drew a war horn from his belt and blew a ringing blast, and the call spread through the line.

###

Mazael’s men arrayed themselves for battle, facing west.

Between his own vassals and Molly’s men, he had two thousand footmen and a thousand mounted knights and armsmen. That should be enough to crush a thousand Malrag warriors, but Mazael wanted to win the fight with as little loss to his men as possible. As always, he did not want to lose any of his men to the blades of the enemy.

Additionally, Mazael suspected he would need them for the fighting ahead.

A thousand Malrag warriors…how the devil had such a large force gotten so far into the Grim Marches? There was no way a thousand Malrags could have come from the Great Mountains without detection. But if Romaria was right (and she usually was) and the Malrags had come from the west, then Mazael feared they were the vanguard of a much larger army. If another Malrag host had invaded the Grim Marches, he would need to rally his lords and headmen and knights to face them.

And perhaps the Malrags were commanded by a dark power that wished to seize Tymaen and the shard of the Wraithaldr, just as Vel-Anzakh had sent the annubaki.

Mazael rode up and down in front of the footmen, Romaria, Riothamus, Molly, and Sir Hagen keeping close behind him. Azurvaltoria and her armsmen followed close behind. A steady stream of commands came from Mazael as