2021: The Complete Short Stories

By Jonathan Moeller

Daring heroes. Bold heroines. Fantastic adventure!

Here in one volume are all nine short stories internationally bestselling author Jonathan Moeller wrote and published in 2021.

Follow the adventures of Caina as she hunts dark sorcerers, Nadia as she battles creatures of the Shadowlands, and Gareth Arban as he fights deadly orcish raiders!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Dec 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005590970

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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DESCRIPTION

Daring heroes. Bold heroines. Fantastic adventure!

Here in one volume are all nine short stories internationally bestselling author Jonathan Moeller wrote and published in 2021.

Follow the adventures of Caina as she hunts dark sorcerers, Nadia as she battles creatures of the Shadowlands, and Gareth Arban as he fights deadly orcish raiders!

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2021: The Complete Short Stories

Copyright 2021 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Some cover images copyright Photo 102262652 / Stormy Sky Stevanovicigor | Dreamstime.com & Photo 93887612 / Carcassone Irina Papoyan | Dreamtime.com & Photo 184125892 / Gloomy Moor Pitor Janas | Dreamtime.com & Photo 159131215 © Njmusik | Dreamstime.com.

Ebook edition published December 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.

Created with Vellum (http://tryvellum.com/created)

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GHOST EYE

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DESCRIPTION

A ruthless necromancer. An artifact of dark power.

Maglarion is one of the strongest necromancers in the Empire of Nighmar, and he intends to live forever.

The ancient relic called the Ring of Rasarion Yagar might give Maglarion all the power he needs to achieve immortality.

But the Ring's guardians, the ancient servants of the dreaded Iron King, will not willingly part with their master's treasure.

And there are darker powers in the world than Maglarion...

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GHOST EYE

Maglarion walked alone through the freezing darkness, the icy wind tugging at his heavy cloak.

The snow crunched beneath his boots, his cane pushing against it. Tall buildings rose on either side of the street, their roofs sharply peaked to prevent the accumulation of snow. The houses were shuttered against the storm, dim firelight leaking through an ill-fitting shutter here and there. The city of Vagraastrad in the province of Ulkaar was one of the northernmost regions of the Empire of Nighmar, further north than even the Imperial Pale, and it got cold here. An Ulkaari winter unleashed both bitter cold and furious blizzards, and travelers desperate enough to brave the roads during a winter storm tended not to be seen again, disoriented by the snow and slain by the ravenous cold.

Or by the undead and the other creatures that haunted the forests of northern Ulkaar.

Which was why Maglarion was here.

There was power to be found here, he thought. Tremendous power, for those bold enough and strong enough to seize it.

And Maglarion needed that power.

He turned a corner, walking down a narrow lane, his cane stabbing into the snow. Thankfully, the new angle meant he was out of the worst of the wind, though the snow kept blowing into his eyes. Brick warehouses rose on either side of him, ugly and squat as all such buildings were, though with the distinctive peaked Ulkaari roofs to prevent snow accumulation from collapsing the rafters. Vagraastrad sat on the River Kozalin, and the merchants of the city shipped timber and furs and amber down the river to the port of Risiviri, where the merchandise was then carried across the Inner Sea to the rest of the Empire. In the winter, the River Kozalin usually froze, and most merchant traffic halted until spring.

Which meant the warehouses were a perfect place to hold a quiet meeting.

Maglarion turned another corner, back into the wind, and saw a dark figure standing before one of the warehouses. It was a tall woman wearing a fur-lined cloak with the hood drawn up. Her face was pale and sharp within the cowl, her eyes flat and lifeless and somehow colorless.

Master, said the woman, her voice empty of emotion.

Ikhana, said Maglarion, stopping a few paces away. Pellets of snow bounced off his face, which was irritating. You have found them?

I have, said Ikhana. She pointed at the warehouse behind her, her cloak drawing back to reveal that she wore chain mail and dark clothing. A sword and a dagger waited until her belt, and Maglarion sensed the necromantic aura around the dagger. The cultists are meeting in the cellar below this warehouse. One of the mutant priests is overseeing them.

You are certain? said Maglarion.

The priest has three eyes and tentacles, said Ikhana. It would be difficult to mistake him for anything else.

Excellent, said Maglarion. I will deal with the priest. I need him alive long enough to talk. You may have the cultists to do with as you please. An ugly glitter came to Ikhana’s eyes, a hungry lust, and she stroked the handle of her dagger. But do leave the oldest of them alive until I say otherwise. I might need him if the priest knows nothing useful.

Ikhana said nothing, but the breath hissed through her teeth in something like a quiet snarl.

Now, now, my dear, said Maglarion. Greed is such an unbecoming quality in a woman. He pointed his cane at the warehouse, snow falling from the end. Let us begin.

Ikhana crossed to the warehouse and opened the door, and Maglarion followed her inside.

The interior was dark, but Maglarion had no trouble seeing. Part of it was a spell he had laid over himself to improve his night vision. Quite a lot of it was the dim firelight that came from a flight of descending stairs against the far wall. A faint drone of voices came from the cellar stairs, men and women chanting in Ulkaari.

Ikhana glided across the floorboards, making no sounds. Maglarion followed her in silence, though with considerably less speed and grace. The Ghosts of the Empire had come close to killing him a few years ago. He had survived the attempt and killed all the attackers, of course, but his left leg had never quite worked right after that, and even all his prowess with necromancy had never been able to repair it.

No matter. Right now, stealth was more important than speed.

Ikhana paused at the top of the stairs. Maglarion came to her side and peered down the steps. He could just make out a row of men and women sitting upon a wooden bench, clad in the heavy coats and cylindrical fur hats the Ulkaari preferred in winter. Their arms were raised in supplication, and they continued chanting.

Maglarion met Ikhana’s eyes and nodded.

She moved down the stairs without a sound. Maglarion counted to five and then started after her, thumping his cane against the stairs with every step. At first, the cultists did not hear him, the sound of their own voices blocking the noise. But the chant faltered, and a few of them turned and looked back.

Ikhana exploded into motion, sword and dagger flying from their scabbards, and Maglarion cast a spell. It was a simple wave of psychokinetic force, broad and wide, and Maglarion hadn’t put enough power into it to kill anyone. But the spell did knock the cultists over, and Ikhana sprang forward and started killing.

Screams replaced the chanting.

Maglarion reached the cellar, holding power to work more spells and his defensive wards. The cellar was a large, gloomy space, wooden pillars supporting the ceiling overhead. Three rows of benches held about two dozen seated cultists, men and women with the look of merchants and merchants’ wives, and Ikhana had killed six of them already.

A Temnoti priest stood before the cultists, casting a spell as his eyes fixed on Maglarion.

All three of his eyes.

The priest wore a heavy brown robe that looked somehow greasy, the shape of his body hidden within the folds. He had been a man once, long ago, but no more. The followers of Temnuzash could gain immortality but at a price. The priest’s skin had turned corpse gray, and a third black eye had appeared in the center of his forehead, flanked by a pair of insect-like antennae. His skin glistened with slime, and as he raised his arms, Maglarion saw that his left hand had been replaced with a thick tentacle covered in barbed suckers.

Maglarion was interested in immortality, had already lived for three and a half centuries through his necromantic prowess. But for all that, he had no desire to pursue the path walked by the Temnoti. The price was too high, and Maglarion had no wish to bind himself to a lord of the netherworld like Temnuzash.

The Temnoti priests might have been fanatics, but they were still powerful, and Maglarion knew he dared not underestimate this priest.

The creature in the brown robe gestured, casting a spell as Ikhana slaughtered the screaming cultists. The Temnoti priest unleashed a powerful necromantic spell, one that would wither away the life force of its victim. It was a potent spell and would have overpowered most magi of the Magisterium, or at least the pale shadow of the Magisterium that had survived to the age of the Fifth Empire.

But Maglarion had learned necromancy from the great masters of the Fourth Empire, when the Magisterium had been at the peak of its power. More, he had learned from the ancient sorceress known as the Moroaica, who possessed the knowledge of the Great Necromancers of ancient Maat themselves.

In fact, she was the one who had destroyed ancient Maat.

Escaping her was the entire reason that Maglarion was here.

He worked a warding spell, deflecting the Temnoti’s attack. The creature’s eyes went wide. The priest hadn’t expected that, and he began another spell. Before the Temnoti could summon enough necromantic power, Maglarion struck back. He unleashed a blast of psychokinetic force that slammed the priest against a wooden pillar. The impact stunned the priest, and the power he had summoned dissipated.

By then, Ikhana had finished killing most of the cultists. Some of them had drawn daggers or short swords and tried to fight, but Ikhana had been an assassin of the Kindred before Maglarion had enslaved her. As Maglarion had ordered, she had spared the oldest of the Temnoti cultists, a fat man in a furred robe. He tried to crawl away, but Ikhana seized his collar and dragged him to Maglarion’s feet. Her face was flushed, her eyes glittering. The black dagger in her free hand drank life force and transferred it to her, and Ikhana had fed well.

Pity stolen life force was so addictive. It had so thoroughly enslaved Ikhana that she no longer cared about anything else.

The priest tried to summon power for another spell, and Maglarion focused his will. The psychokinetic force coiled around the priest’s neck, and the power dissipated. The Temnoti cleric might have a mutated form of immortality, but he still needed to breathe.

Who are you? croaked the fat man. Are you witchfinders of the Temple?

Probably not, said Maglarion, stepping closer to the cultist priest.

You play a risky game, sorcerer, said the priest. His voice was a ghastly mixture of a wet burbling and an insect-like buzz. You may have overpowered me, but more will come, stronger than me. The servants of Temnuzash do not forget our enemies.

Maybe, said Maglarion. Maybe not. Just answer a question for me, and I shall be on my way.

Who are you? said the priest.

You’ve got it backward, said Maglarion. I am asking the questions. Where is the nearest standing stone of Temnuzash?

A grim smile spread over the gray face. Beneath the ruins of the Lord’s Castle in the Old City. You wish to speak with Temnuzash, sorcerer? Go there, and you shall find the stone you seek.

Maglarion smiled back and crooked his finger. The invisible force around the priest’s neck tightened, and the cleric spent a bad moment choking. The fat merchant whimpered and tried to crawl away, only for Ikhana to kick him in the side.

I know perfectly well, said Maglarion, that the Temnoti have a lair beneath the ruins of the Lord’s Castle, and you know perfectly well your brother priests will attack if I enter. No. I need one of the standing stones in the countryside, one that the Temple of the Divine and its witchfinders have not torn down.

Why do you seek such a stone? said the priest. Do you wish to commune with Temnuzash? The Great Master welcomes all who swear to his service.

Maglarion scoffed. I have no wish to worship the thing you revere as a god…

The priest let out a quiet laugh.

What is so funny? said Maglarion.

Ah, said the priest. You are a renegade of the Magisterium who seeks power. You quest to summon the castle of the Iron King and seize the sacred relic within.

I have better use for that relic than you do, said Maglarion.

Again, the priest loosed his croaking, buzzing laugh. Fool. Should you claim the relic from the castle, you will wield it until the other magi kill you. And you shall work the will of the Great Master in your quest. For the Prophecy of Temnuzash foretells that one day all five relics of the Iron King will be reunited. The Champion of Temnuzash will rise and cover the world in the Final Night…

Glory to the Great Master! shouted the surviving merchant, perhaps hoping his god would save him.

Maglarion sighed. I rather doubt that. But I did not come here for a theological debate, I came here for information. I know there are standing stones in the countryside.

You seek the Sanctuary Stones of the cursed Warmaiden? said the priest. They are easy enough to find. Most of them stand along the highways, and…

Maglarion crooked a finger, and psychokinetic force tightened around the priest’s neck. He let the priest choke for a moment and then loosed the spell.

Not a Sanctuary Stone, said Maglarion. A standing stone dedicated to Temnuzash, a shrine of the Temnoti cultists. The Temple has removed them in the major towns and cities, and I don’t want to waste time hunting down the hidden shrines in the castles of the nobles and the mansions of the merchants. He had hoped he might find a standing stone here, but that had been an unlikely prospect at best. The Temnoti cult was strong in Vagraastrad, but it still had to remain secretive. I know there are several hidden in the forests of northern Ulkaar. Tell me where the nearest one is.

Very well, said the priest at last. There is such a stone two days’ journey west of here, in the forests north of Castle Ozera. Travel until you come to Castle Ozera, and then turn north from the castle’s gate. The shrine is about five miles to the north.

Good, said Maglarion, gathering his will, but the priest laughed. What is so funny?

I have sent you to your death, said the priest. I know what you intend, sorcerer. You think to summon Sigilsoara and take one of the sacred relics for yourself? Fool. You do not know what waits for you within the castle of the Iron King. Even the priests of the Great Master dare not walk the castle’s halls when it stirs from its slumber.

When what stirs from its slumber? said Maglarion.

For the first time, the priest smiled. His teeth had turned black, not the black of decay, but the shiny, glistening black of an insect’s carapace. The Kurghast waits for the Iron King.

The Kurghast! said Maglarion with exasperation. Yes, the fire-breathing undead horse of the Iron King. If I find it, I shall bind the creature as I bind any other undead. Ikhana, finish him.

Ikhana plunged her life-drinking dagger into the merchant’s back, and Maglarion closed his fist. The psychokinetic force closed around the priest’s neck, crushing it and killing him in an instant.

Temnuzash’s gift of immortality turned out to be quite fragile.

Ikhana straightened up and let out a long, groaning sigh, one of deep satisfaction.

Come along, said Maglarion. We will cross the River Kozalin tonight and proceed to Castle Ozera. I want to be well away by the time that the bodies are discovered.

Given the cold of the Ulkaari winter, master, said Ikhana, "likely the bodies will not