Dragonskull: Sword of the Squire

By Jonathan Moeller

War comes for an unprepared squire.

Gareth Arban wants to become a knight and win glory enough to marry the girl he loves.

But death is the other face of glory.

When invaders sweep out of the north wielding mighty dark magic, it will take more than a squire’s bravery to stop them...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Oct 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005191009

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

DRAGONSKULL: SWORD OF THE SQUIRE

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

War comes for an unprepared squire.

Gareth Arban wants to become a knight and win glory enough to marry the girl he loves.

But death is the other face of glory.

When invaders sweep out of the north wielding mighty dark magic, it will take more than a squire’s bravery to stop them…

***

Dragonskull: Sword of the Squire

Copyright 2021 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Some cover images copyright Photo 12533916 © Cragus | Dreamstime.com & ID 149387995 © Jasminelove | Dreamstime.com & Photo 20916381 / Fjord © Mapsico | Dreamstime.com & themacx | istockphoto.com

Ebook edition published October 2021.

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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***

A brief author’s note

A map of the realm of Andomhaim is available on the author’s website at this link (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4487).

***

Chapter 1: The Rivals

The day after the duel, Gareth Arban awoke sore and battered with a throbbing head.

The chill in the barracks didn’t help matters, either.

February in the Year of Our Lord 1498 in the Northerland was not quite as bitterly cold as January or December, but it still wasn’t warm. The squires’ barracks was icy cold, though Gareth knew it was colder still in the courtyard. The brick he had taken from the fire last night before bed had been too hot to carry with his bare hand, but now it was cold to the touch.

Gareth sat up, half-expecting to hear the angry voice of Sir Tragen Volarus filling his ears. His back and shoulders twinged with stiffness and a dull ache, though they didn’t hurt quite as much as they had last night. As he pushed aside the blankets, the cold air hit him like a slap, even though he had slept in a heavy tunic, a mantle, trousers, and thick stockings.

The barracks room was dim. The shutters were closed, and in any event, the sun wasn’t up yet. The only light came from the massive hearth on the other side of the room, a few dying coals casting a sullen orange-yellow light over the floorboards. Gareth could just make out the shape of the other beds, the squires asleep beneath their blankets.

He eased to his feet, feeling the chill of the floor even through the thick wool of his stockings. Taking care to make no sound, he crept towards the hearth. His eyes flicked to the far side of the barracks, to where Crake slept.

Gareth had a brief, intense vision of taking a chunk of wood and bringing it down upon Crake’s head, but he banished the thought at once.

It wasn’t knightly.

Instead, he stacked pieces of chopped wood in the hearth. Once they had been arranged to his satisfaction, he grasped the poker and stirred the embers until the wood caught fire. A considerable quantity of ashes had built up in the hearth over the last month, and Gareth knew it would have to be cleaned out soon.

That was something either the pages or Castra Marcaine’s servants usually did, but after yesterday’s fight, Gareth knew that Sir Tragen would assign him and Crake that task.

And then berate them the entire time.

A fresh blaze sprung to life, and Gareth returned the poker to its rack, warming his hands against the heat. God and the saints, but it was bloody cold in the Northerland. Gareth had known that the winter in Castra Marcaine would be cold, especially compared to the mild winters of Taliand and Tarlion, but knowing was one thing. Experiencing it was quite another, and the chill always struck him like it had been made of razors.

Gareth never complained, though. It would have been unknightly, and Crake would have never shut up about it.

He felt movement behind him and turned, half-expecting to see Crake creeping up behind him.

Instead, Philip Aemilius gazed at the fire, his usual thoughtful, somber expression on his face.

Philip was Gareth’s age – seventeen years old – and they had both been born in Tarlion in the same year, though Gareth was a few months older. They had known each other all their lives, though Gareth had seen less of Philip after Philip’s father had accepted a benefice from Dux Constantine of the Northerland. Philip had his father’s curly brown hair and his mother’s cold blue eyes, and he could move in utter silence through the Northerland’s pine forests. By comparison, moving quietly in the barracks was child’s play. Gareth had only realized someone was behind him when he had felt the shift in the air.

Surprised you can stand up, murmured Philip, his voice a quiet whisper.

Gareth frowned. Why?

Crake gave you quite a thrashing.

Gareth felt his frown deepen. It was a draw. And I would have won if Sir Tragen hadn’t pulled us apart.

If you say so, said Philip.

What are you implying? said Gareth. That I couldn’t have taken him?

Only that you should control your temper around Crake, said Philip.

I’d have an easier time holding my temper if Crake would keep his mouth shut, said Gareth.

Philip raised an eyebrow. And Crake knows that.

He shouldn’t have said what he did about Lady Iseult, said Gareth.

Philip clapped Gareth on the shoulder. He also knows that you can’t think clearly about her, so he knows just where to poke.

His taunts are not worthy of a knight, said Gareth.

We’re not knights yet, said Philip. And if you get into another fight with Crake, Sir Tragen’s going think up all kinds of inventive punishments. Myself, I don’t mind. It’s good exercise…

You’d be happiest freezing in the woods and drinking ice melt, said Gareth.

Yes, said Philip without rancor. But the other squires might not take it so kindly. If you and Crake get into trouble again, we’ll all suffer for it…and they’ll take it out on you.

And on Crake, muttered Gareth. But he knew that Philip was giving him sound counsel, even if Gareth didn’t want to hear it. Perhaps Philip had learned that from his father, who often talked his wife out of black moods. Fine. If Crake wants to lower himself to baseborn taunts, I will not stoop to his level.

Very wise of you, said Philip. He glanced towards the door to the courtyard. And I expect it will be easier than you think.

Why is that? said Gareth.

No sooner had he spoken than the door to the courtyard burst open with a loud thud. A gust of icy wind blew into the barracks, making the flames in the hearth dance. Through the open door, Gareth saw the curtain wall of Castra Marcaine, the sky brightening with the beginning of dawn.

He couldn’t see much more than that because the angry bulk of Sir Tragen Volarus filled the rest of the doorway.

The master-at-arms of Castra Marcaine was a big man in his late twenties who looked like an angry blacksmith. Like many men of the Northerland, he had a long, bushy beard to help keep his face warm in winter. His arms and chest strained against his leather jerkin, and he looked over the room with annoyance. He carried a war hammer slung over his shoulder, the oaken handle thick and wrapped with leather. Gareth thought that a sword was a knight’s proper weapon.

Nevertheless, Tragen had demonstrated the utility of a hammer on the battlefield by demolishing a shield with a single blow, so Gareth was forced to concede that a warhammer had its place in a knight’s arsenal.

Rise, my lads! said Tragen, his voice booming through the room. Every sleeping squire jerked at once. That’s it, you sluggards! On your feet! We’ve work to do today. He glowered at Gareth and Philip. Best get your damned boots if you don’t want your toes to freeze off.

Gareth hurried back to his bed, getting his boots and pulling them on. The other squires rose as well, boys ranging from twelve years to seventeen. Regan and Luke were already engaged in their usual snide bickering and insult contests, though unlike Gareth and Crake, the two of them had never come to blows. Procopius recited a Psalm to himself, as he usually did when startled, while the rest of the squires rose and dressed in silence.

From the corner of his eye, Gareth saw Crake rise to his feet. The other squire was big, almost as big as Sir Tragen, though he was a few inches shorter. Crake had a thick shock of red hair, hard green eyes, and coarse features. Now he just looked tired, and there was a bruise on the left side of his jaw that had come from Gareth’s right fist.

Now, announced Tragen. Which one of you bright fellows has noticed the obvious?

There was silence for a moment, and then Regan answered. He was usually the first one to speak since the master-at-arms got annoyed when the squires failed to answer questions.

It’s much earlier than usual, Sir Tragen, said Regan, a wiry boy of fourteen who was the fastest runner among the squires.

So it is, Regan, said Tragen. I’m sure your mother would be very proud that you can notice the obvious. A chuckle went through the squires, quickly silenced at Tragen’s glare. Gareth, Crake, come here.

Gareth stepped forward, Crake following suit. Tragen pointed at the floor in front of him, and the two squires stopped a few paces apart. Gareth kept glancing sidelong at Crake, expecting the other squire to attack. Crake did the same.

You all saw young master Gareth and young master Crake brawling in the courtyard yesterday, said Tragen. The Dux’s own squires, brawling in the Dux’s own courtyard, within sight of the Dux’s own wife. Disgraceful. Utterly disgraceful. You boys should be grateful you never met my father, God rest his soul. Tagrimn Volarus would have flogged you to within an inch of your lives and then made you run laps and perform sword drills until you passed out from exhaustion, or probably blood loss.

Gareth remained silent. So did Crake. In his year at Castra Marcaine, ever since the disastrous duel with Sir Thomas Olwen, Gareth had learned that Tragen Volarus was a stern but fair master-at-arms. Nevertheless, interrupting one of Tragen’s soliloquies was a sure way to earn his wrath.

However, do not the priests say that every man is to examine his own conscience? said Tragen. Perhaps the fault is mine.

Gareth blinked.

The Dux has entrusted me with your training, young masters, said Tragen. Perhaps I have been too lenient. Perhaps I have become too soft. Certainly, I am not working you hard enough if you have energy enough to brawl in the courtyard. He glanced out the door at the sky. The priests in the Dux’s chapel will soon say the Prime prayers for the day. Before that, you’re all going to run five laps around the courtyard. A chorus of groans went up from the squires, drowned out by Tragen’s voice. Anyone who is late for the start of Prime gets another five laps.

Crake and the Southron were the ones brawling, sir, said Luke. Why do the rest of us have to run laps? He was a stocky boy of sixteen. A good horseman and good with a sword, but he hated running with a passion.

The Southron.

Crake had given Gareth that nickname, and it had stuck. The mockery was obvious – Gareth was a weak-blooded southerner, unlike the robust men of the Northerland. Never mind that Crake himself had been born in Cintarra, which was almost as far south as Tarlion.

You can ask yourself that, said Tragen, stepping to the side. Or you can ask yourself why you didn’t start running right now while you’re running the five extra laps after Prime.

It took a second for that to sink in, and then Crake snorted.

Bloody hell, he said, and he ran out the door. The rest of the squires followed his example, and soon Gareth and Philip ran out the door and into the courtyard, following the line of the castra’s curtain wall.

Castra Marcaine was an old fortress, and Gareth knew it had been destroyed and rebuilt several times, most recently during the Frostborn War before he had been born. The castra filled an entire hilltop, and the curtain wall was massive. Though in places breaches had been knocked in the wall and rebuilt with less impressive stonework or even brick. The castra’s central keep was an enormous drum tower of rusticated stone, raised in the distant past by some orcish warlord who had been killed by the urdmordar or the dark elves or some other horror of dark magic. The great hall and the chapel stood next to the central keep, and the other buildings that the castra needed stood scattered around the courtyard – stables, forge, barracks, the squires’ barracks, the servants’ quarters, the bakery and the kitchen, and others. The smell of fresh bread came from the bakery, and Gareth’s stomach grumbled.

He ran along the base of the curtain wall with the other squires. Philip had worked out that a circuit of the curtain wall came to four-fifths of a mile. Gareth cast a worried look at the sky. It was still mostly dark, though four of the thirteen moons glowed in the sky, casting enough light to see his path. Nevertheless, it would be full light soon, and Father Marcus liked to sing Prime as soon as possible.

Gareth sucked in a deep breath.

The squires ended up in their usual order. Regan and Philip took the lead. Gareth, Procopius, and most of the others fell into the middle. Crake and Luke and some of the others brought up the back, slower than the rest. Gareth felt an itch to look over his shoulder to see if Crake was behind him, but he resisted the urge.

Though he wouldn’t have minded seeing Crake trip and land on his face.

He rebuked himself for the inappropriate thought. If Crake was going to end up flat on his face, it would be because Gareth had put him there with a wooden practice sword. He was faster than Crake, so at least Gareth didn’t need to worry about the loutish squire tackling him from behind.

The first two laps passed without difficulty. It was so cold that Gareth didn’t sweat even under his heavy clothes. About halfway through the third lap, he began to feel the run dragging at him, his breath coming hard and fast, his chest starting to burn. Gareth pushed himself onward, ignoring the discomfort.

Instead of his breathing, he tried to think about Iseult – her smile, her eyes, the way warmth flooded through him every time he looked at her, to say nothing of what he felt when they touched. It was a far cry from the cold of the Northerland in winter. In the past, knights had done great feats of valor for the ladies that they loved.

Gareth would do no less.

He pushed through the fourth lap and then came to the fifth one, his heart hammering, his breathing a cold line of fire down his neck and into his chest. But Gareth ran onward, determined not to shame himself, and he finished the circuit of the courtyard and came to the doors of the chapel. It was like many of the other chapels that Gareth had seen throughout the Northerland – a rectangle with thick stone walls and narrow windows. In some of the villages and towns, the chapels and churches were refuges of last resort, places where the commoners could take shelter during an attack of pagan orcs or kobold raiders.

Nowadays, the villagers had to worry about medvarth warriors and the ice dwarves in addition to other foes.

Took you long enough, said Philip. He and Regan had finished first. Philip leaned against a wooden barrel, and Regan dipped a wooden cup into the barrel and handed it to Gareth. He nodded his thanks and took a long drink – water mixed with just enough cheap wine to remove any impurities and make it harder to freeze. Sir Tragen watched the rest of the squires run with stern disapproval, arms folded over his chest.

Aye, Southron, you’re not used to running in the cold like us men of the north, said Regan, though there was no malice in his voice. Most of the squires liked Gareth, even if he was from Tarlion and his father was the High King’s Constable. For that matter, most of the squires liked Crake and had been disinclined to pick a side between the two best fighters among the squires.

Likely fear of Sir Tragen’s displeasure had something to do with it.

The other squires arrived and refreshed themselves from the barrel. Crake and Luke came last, both red-faced and breathing hard as they ran the final distance to the chapel. Gareth watched the doors to the chapel, hoping that the deacon would open them and Prime would begin, and then Crake would have to drag himself around the courtyard five more times.

But Crake and Luke lumbered to a stop before the chapel doors.

Bloody hell, said Crake again, and he drained a cup of mixed wine in one quaff. Next time, Sir Tragen, can I volunteer to fight a pagan orc with one hand tied behind my back instead of all this running?

Perhaps you’ll think on that the next time you want to brawl like a drunk, said Tragen.

Crake glanced at Gareth, and he saw the smart remark form on Crake's lips. But Crake looked back at Sir Tragen’s implacable glare and thought better of it.

Well, said Crake. We men of the north don’t mind a little exercise in the morning, do we? Suppose southrons have to lie down to rest by noon, but the men of the Northerland can fight all day, come home, and have our wives till the sun comes up again. The other squires laughed.

You’re from Cintarra, said Gareth.

A little flicker went through Crake’s hard eyes, as it did every time Gareth mentioned Cintarra.

If either of you two idiots says another word, you’ll spend the rest of the day running circles around the castra, said Tragen.

Gareth decided silence was the better option. So did Crake.

Right about then, the deacon opened the door to the chapel, and the squires filed into the chapel to attend Prime.

###

After Prime came breakfast, which the Dux and his wife ate in the great hall.

Castra Marcaine’s great hall was a lofty space, larger than the chapel. The stone walls were ancient, dating back to when a knight named Marcaine had seized the Northerland after the defeat of the urdmordar and the founding of the Two Orders. The wooden rafters of the high ceiling were new since the old ones had burned during the Frostborn War. The floor had been made from alternating tiles of black and white, the pattern striking to the eye. It reminded Gareth of the chessboards that had become popular in Tarlion. Of course, chess had become popular everywhere in Andomhaim. When Gareth accompanied the Dux on his business in the town, he often saw people playing chess on wooden boards.

Dux Constantine Licinius, liege lord of the Northerland and the lord of Castra Marcaine, sat at the high table with his wife Severina. The Dux was in his middle forties, with thick black hair turning gray, olive-toned skin, and keen dark eyes. Despite his age (or so it seemed to Gareth), the Dux still moved with vigor. Some of it was that Constantine kept himself in training, often engaging in bouts with other nobles in the courtyard.

Some of it was the soulblade that hung at his side, the soulstone set into the tang of the weapon flickering with white light every so often.

Lady Severina sat at her husband’s side, watching the crowds in the great hall with calm eyes. She was about fifteen years younger than Constantine, and Gareth thought her pretty, with blond hair and dark eyes, her features lovely. (Though she was no match for Iseult’s beauty, of course.) Severina had come from one of the few noble families in Caerdracon to remain loyal to the Pendragons during the Frostborn War. Her reward had been to become the wife of the Dux and the mother to the heir of the Northerland, who now served as a page in High King Accolon’s court. The Dux’s younger son and two daughters both sat at the table, attended by several halfling maids in servants’ dresses.

Gareth and Crake stood near the Dux’s chair, waiting on his commands. Had this been dinner, they would have carved the Dux’s meat and poured his wine. But Constantine preferred a simple breakfast of bread and dried fruit, and Lady Severina had similar inclinations.

Both Gareth and Crake remained motionless, waiting for Constantine’s commands. By unspoken agreement, their rivalry stopped in the presence of Constantine. To serve as the Dux’s personal squires was a great honor, one that neither Gareth nor Crake wished to lose.

Gareth didn’t regret fighting with Crake, not exactly, but he did wish that Lady Severina had not seen it. At the very least, Sir Tragen would not have made them run laps around the courtyard.

As he waited for the Dux’s instruction, Gareth’s eyes roamed over the great hall. A good-sized crowd gathered at the lower tables. Men-at-arms who had stood watch on the walls ate their breakfasts, along with many of the castra’s servants and craftsmen. Several petitioners waited near the walls. As the lord of Castra Marcaine, Constantine heard petitions for justice from the townsmen and the farmers of the surrounding villages. Gareth had seen both his father and the High King do the same thing countless times. Usually, such cases involved property disputes or quarrels over the ownership of a cow or a pig, though sometimes more serious matters arose.

Quite a few of them today, husband, murmured Severina.

Aye, said Constantine. Boundary disputes, I expect. The Northerland has been attacked and overrun so many times that no one is entirely sure where the boundaries between different benefices and freeholds actually lie. It doesn’t help that so many of the records were burned.

When my brother last wrote me, said Severina, he said that Dux Cortin was undertaking a survey of every field and every pasture in Caerdracon. A dry note entered her voice. The nobles were calling it the Book of Doomsday, certain that ruin will come upon them.

I could try it, said Constantine, though I expect the Northerland would rise in revolt before I was done. He took a sip of his wine and looked at Gareth and Crake. You’re to be knights someday, and you might hold lands. What do you think?

Reckon if you tried to take a survey, the surveyors might accidentally fall off their horses and land in a barrel of tar and feathers, said Crake.

The matter would end up before the High King, said Gareth. It annoyed him to agree with Crake, even obliquely.

Perhaps, said Severina. I think the nobles should consider retaking the lands held by the medvarth and the ice dwarves. Then there would be fields enough for every man of the Northerland.

One would think so, said Constantine, but that overlooks the fact that there are some men who will not be satisfied by any amount of land. He leaned back in his chair and looked from Gareth and Crake. You seem to be getting along better today.

Yes, my lord, said Gareth and Crake in unison.

I hope this newfound amity continues, said Constantine with a hint of mild reproof. Both the Northerland and Andomhaim have enemies enough that we had best not fight amongst ourselves.

A minor dispute, quickly resolved, said Crake before Gareth could speak. I’m just sorry her ladyship had to see our quarrel.

It won’t happen again, said Gareth quickly.

Oh, I don’t know, boys, said Severina. It was amusing to watch, and entertainment can be rare here.

Constantine grunted. Don’t give them ideas. He finished his wine cup and set it aside. I have no further duties for you today. Go and present yourselves to Sir Tragen.

Gareth and Crake bowed, and they left the dais and walked to where Tragen ate at a table with some of