Dragonskull: Curse of the Orcs

By Jonathan Moeller

A perilous quest. A haunted forest. Even the bravest knight might never return...

Gareth Arban knows he must stop the sorceress Azalmora from seizing the Dragonskull, a legendary relic of power.

But to catch Azalmora, Gareth must first cross the Qazaluuskan Forest, a land of dark magic and monsters.

But even the orcs who dwell within the forest are amenable to bargains.

And the cost of their bargains might be the lives of Gareth and his friends...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005395964

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: CURSE OF THE ORCS

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

A perilous quest. A haunted forest. Even the bravest knight might never return...

Gareth Arban knows he must stop the sorceress Azalmora from seizing the Dragonskull, a legendary relic of power.

But to catch Azalmora, Gareth must first cross the Qazaluuskan Forest, a land of dark magic and monsters.

But even the orcs who dwell within the forest are amenable to bargains.

And the cost of their bargains might be the lives of Gareth and his friends...

***

Dragonskull: Curse of the Orcs

Copyright 2022 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover design by Jonathan Moeller.

Ebook edition published June 2022.

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: Toricus

It’s time, said Gareth Arban.

He looked around the courtyard of his father’s domus, wondering if he would ever see it again.

The domus of the Constable of Tarlion was not large, a three-story house built of the same weathered white stone as most of the buildings of the High King’s capital. Dozens of Constables had dwelled here across the centuries, and the interior walls of the house were covered with old banners and notched swords and riven shields, the trophies of long-past battles. Perhaps because of that, Gareth’s father stayed here only infrequently, usually residing at the Tower of the Keeper instead.

But, of course, the Tower of the Keeper could unsettle those unused to it, so the Constable’s guests had stayed at the domus.

Specifically, Gareth and his friends.

The courtyard wasn’t large, and it was crowded. A string of pack horses loaded with supplies took up most of the space. His father’s servants had just finished loading the last of the bags onto the animals. Gareth stood with his friends and his brother, those who would accompany him on the quest to stop Azalmora from finding the Dragonskull. He was sweating a little beneath his armor and his clothes. It was the end of December, but winters in Tarlion were mild, and Gareth was dressed too heavily for the weather.

It was necessary.

They were about to go somewhere far colder.

So, said Crake. A magical portal.

Gareth looked at his fellow Swordbearer.

Or Knight of the Soulhammer, he reminded himself.

Crake was a big, stocky man with curly red hair, green eyes, and a ruddy face. Like Gareth, he wore armor and heavy clothes to keep the winter’s chill at bay. Unlike Gareth, he carried the soulhammer Valorforge slung over his shoulder, a soulstone set into the weapon’s haft just beneath its heavy head. The crystalline stone gave off an occasional flicker of white light, just bright enough to be noticeable.

Easier than walking to Toricus, said Gareth. He glanced at where Sir Telemachus Valaros stood, grim and silent in his steel armor, red cloak, and plumed helmet. And it should give us a head start over Azalmora and Thraxar. And Mharoslav. Given that Mharoslav had murdered Telemachus’s entire family in a fit of pique, Gareth was cautious about discussing the warlock in front of Telemachus, but the Arcanius Knight regarded nearly all subjects with grim calm.

Aye, said Crake. Mharoslav and his pet dogs might step more lightly around us now that we’re Swordbearers.

A dark memory flashed through Gareth’s mind.

Iseult Toraemus, begging Mharoslav to spare her life. The warlock had cut his palm, and she had drunk his blood on her knees, and she had transformed into a warpwolf, one of Mharoslav’s hideous minions. The twisted thing that had been Iseult would have killed Gareth then and there had his friends not rescued him, and Iseult had died upon Telemachus’s blade.

Gareth had come to understand that he hadn’t loved Iseult, not really, but his infatuation with her beauty had overwhelmed his reason. It had blinded him to things that ought to have been obvious. It offered no comfort to know that Gareth had hardly been the first man to make a fool of himself over a woman – King David and Bathsheba from the scriptures, or Mark Antony and Queen Cleopatra from the history of Old Earth.

Gareth still should have known better.

But even though he no longer loved Iseult, the memory of her death would be one of horror for the rest of Gareth’s days and a reminder of why he had risked his life to ask Lord Ardrhythain for a soulblade.

Because such horrors had to be fought.

Belatedly Gareth realized that Crake was still talking and made himself pay attention.

Aye, reckon you’re right about that, Southron, said Crake. We’re knights and Swordbearers now, and we must use every advantage against the enemies of the realm. It’s our duty. He let out a breath. Even if it means walking through a bloody hole in the air.

Ah, said Gareth. Nervous?

Crake scoffed. I’m not nervous.

Well, I am, said Jerome. He was thinner and shorter than Crake, with lank blond hair, perpetually bloodshot blue eyes, and a nose that looked as if it had been broken and never healed right. He was one of the most jittery men that Gareth had ever met, but all the nerves vanished like mist in the morning sun whenever they went into a fight. Taking up the soulblade Lightseeker had not changed any of that. Suppose something goes wrong?

And what, said Philip with calm patience, is going to go wrong? Philip Aemilius was the same age as Gareth, Crake, and Jerome, and had inherited his cold blue eyes from his mother and his curly brown hair from his father. He also had his mother’s calm demeanor and his father’s easy ability to get along with people, which had often kept Gareth and Crake from coming to blows when they had been squires at Castra Marcaine.

The soulblade Sunstrike rested upon Philip’s belt, new-forged like Gareth’s and Jerome’s soulblades and Crake’s soulhammer.

It’s magic, said Jerome. Gareth’s mother was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and Philip’s mother was her apprentice. They had both grown up around magic and were comfortable with it in a way that Jerome never would be. Suppose it stops working when we step through, and we get sliced in twain. Or we get transported somewhere halfway across the world. Or it turns us into monsters.

That’s all very unlikely, said Gareth. He had traveled through the magical gates of the Shield Knight several times, and nothing untoward had happened. Stepping through one of the portals was no different than walking through a doorway. Though it did inspire a strange sense of dislocation. I’ve done it before on journeys with my father, and nothing strange has happened.

Other than stepping through a magical hole in the air, said Jerome.

Fear not, sir knight, said Joachim Arban.

Gareth eyed his brother, wondering if a smart remark was on its way. He and his brother looked a great deal alike, though Joachim was a bit shorter, with blond hair instead of black. Joachim had traded the white robe of a Magistrius for more sensible traveling clothes of wool and leather, though he still wore a white cloak that was turning gray from travel dust. He carried a quarterstaff in his right hand, which their father had made sure he knew how to use as a weapon.

You’ve both traveled through these magical gates? said Jerome.

Many times, said Joachim. It used to be more challenging. Father could only open them once a day, and he would have waking dreams while he did it. He could see past, present, and future all at once, though he couldn’t remember what he had seen once the gate had closed. Joachim shrugged. After the defeat of the Heptarchy, Father could open the gates multiple times a day, and he doesn’t seem to go mad while he does.

Go mad? said Jerome. You can go mad crossing through a magical gate?

That’s not helping, said Gareth.

You can’t go mad walking through a magical gate, no, said Joachim.

I saw many men use such gates before the defeat of Warlord Agravhask, said Dietmar, his voice deep and quiet. He had grayish-blond hair and enormous slate-colored eyes. For most of the time that Gareth had known him, the halfling had worn the sober black of a servant. Today, his clothes were not all that different from Joachim’s – traveling garb of wool and leather, with the addition of studded leather armor. And numerous weapons – a crossbow, a short sword, and several throwing knives. They passed through the gates and returned without ill effect.

I used one as well, said Telemachus, joining the conversation for the first time, though his gaze remained fixed on something off in the distance. Beneath his helm, he had a haggard, sharp-featured face, dark stubble shading his jaw since he had shaved off his thick beard after coming to Tarlion. Before the great battle at Cathair Animus where the Sovereign fell. It was a strange method of travel, though it had no ill effect.

See? said Joachim. Magical gates are perfectly safe. More or less.

And it should put us ahead of Mharoslav, said Telemachus. His sword hand coiled into a fist, the creak of his gauntlet just audible above the noise of the preparations. His right gauntlet looked like one that might have been worn by any Arcanius Knight. His left had strange inlays of copper, which gave him the ability to use his magic to generate the power of a lodestone. Since Mharoslav and his warpwolves had bones made of iron, that would prove useful.

More prosaically, any foes they encountered would bear weapons and armor of iron and steel, and an enemy might prove more reasonable after Telemachus used his magic to rip the sword from his hand.

Gareth? It was a woman’s voice, quiet and a bit worn. It’s time.

Gareth turned his head to see his mother step past the horses to join them.

Calliande Arban, the Keeper of Andomhaim, looked like she was in her upper forties, though Gareth knew that her magic meant that she was much, much older. She was thin – too thin, he thought – with bright blue eyes that always seemed to look right through him. Her golden hair was paler than he remembered from his childhood, fading to white in places. Today she wore a green gown and cloak with gold trim, a leather belt holding a sheathed dagger around her waist. The staff of the Keeper, worn and ancient, rested in her right hand. Distantly Gareth noted that Joachim tended to carry his quarterstaff in the exact same way.

Mother, said Gareth. The others murmured greetings. Rhoanna…she wasn’t feeling well enough to come?

He remembered the vision that had come over Rhoanna in the High King’s hall. Gareth’s father had planned to lead a force after Azalmora and Mharoslav, but Rhoanna’s Sight had awakened and given her a vision. Five knights, she prophesied, and five knights alone, would need to pursue Azalmora – Sir Gareth, Sir Philip, Sir Crake, Sir Jerome, and Sir Telemachus.

Any more and their task would fail.

Dietmar and Joachim were accompanying them, true, but neither the halfling nor Gareth’s brother were knights.

Rhoanna had also spoken a cryptic prophecy for each of the five knights.

For Telemachus, she said that he must master his magic and find his teacher. Though Gareth didn’t know where they would find someone to teach Telemachus greater skill in magic inside the Qazaluuskan Forest.

For Jerome, Rhoanna had said that he must duel the awakened shaman. Gareth knew that the tribes of the Qazaluuskan orcs had shamans devoted to the blood god Qazalask, though he hoped to avoid any conflict with the bone orcs.

For Crake, she had said that he must reforge the weapon of the fallen king. Gareth didn’t know what that meant at all.

For Philip, Rhoanna had claimed that he had to find the gate into the ruins of the madmen who had created the Dragonskull. Gareth had even less idea of what that meant.

Finally, for Gareth, his sister had said that he had to follow the Waystones and the one who had wrought them. That, at least, was clear enough. The Magistria Niara had left the Waystones as a trail to show the way to the Dragonskull, lest she fail in her quest. Gareth supposed that she must have at least partially succeeded, given that the urdmordar Xothalaxiar had not returned with the Dragonskull to conquer Andomhaim, but Niara must have paid for that victory with her life.

Neither Niara nor Xothalaxiar had been seen in the five hundred years since the Magistria had left in pursuit of her.

No, said Calliande. She’s still resting. The vision in the Citadel drained her badly. But she did have a message for you and Joachim both.

Aye? said Gareth, half-hopeful, half-fearful. Rhoanna’s visions could be helpful, but they were strange and terrifying things.

She said not to do anything stupid, said Calliande with a faint smile, and not to squabble as you did when you were children.

Gareth let out an exasperated sigh. Rhoanna was wise for a child her age and often knew things that she had no business knowing. But she also had a sharp sense of humor, and sometimes she would play up receiving mysterious visions to amuse herself. Fortunately, Calliande was always able to tell when Rhoanna was feigning a vision, and their father was not an easy man to fool.

Seems like sensible advice, my lady, said Crake. Fear not. If your sons start to squabble, we’ll set them back on the straight and narrow.

How reassuring, said Gareth.

Calliande looked them over and then sighed. It never gets any easier to say farewell. But it must be done. Come. Your father awaits.

She led them across the courtyard to the gate. The Constable’s house lay between the Citadel’s crag and the harbor of Tarlion, and the air always smelled a bit of salt. Depending on which way the wind happened to blow, the air could smell of rotting fish or other, less pleasant odors, though that was less likely in winter.

Ridmark Arban, the Constable of Tarlion, stood at the gate, one hand resting upon the hilt of his soulblade.

Gareth’s father was a weathered-looking man of about fifty, with black hair turning gray at the temples. Tormark Arban, Ridmark’s eldest brother, had grown fatter as he aged, to the point where he now had trouble climbing stairs and mounting a horse. Ridmark, by contrast, looked like a gaunt, aging wolf, an impression that had been reinforced when Gareth had watched his father carve through Mharoslav’s warpwolves with ease.

You’re ready? said Ridmark without preamble.

Yes, Father, said Gareth.

We shall bring honor to Andomhaim, my lord, said Crake.

And Mharoslav’s many victims shall be avenged at last, said Telemachus, his hand curling into a fist again.

Ridmark looked them over once more. Good. I will open the gate now. I’ll have to go through last. Don’t let anyone panic when they see you.

Without another word, he drew the soulblade from its scabbard on his belt.

Most soulblades were made from a silvery metal that looked like polished steel but wasn’t because they never rusted, chipped, or broke. Ridmark’s soulblade Oathshield was forged from a metal colored a deep blue. Every other soulblade that Gareth had ever seen had a single soulstone set into the tang of the blade, the source of the power that let a soulblade strike down creatures of dark magic. The sword of the Shield Knight had two soulblades, one in the tang and a second in the pommel. Likely that explained the additional powers that Oathshield granted to its bearer.

Such as the ability to open magical portals.

Ridmark reversed the sword, resting the point on the ground between his feet, and grasped the hilt with both hands. A look of concentration went over his face, almost as if he was reading a book and had forgotten the world around him.

For a second, nothing happened, and then a sheet of gray mist rose from the center of the street. It was about ten feet by ten, a square, and glowed with its own inner light. It felt almost like Gareth was looking at a bank of mist, and then it was like looking through a window or perhaps an open doorway. Through the portal, Gareth glimpsed a forum paved with flagstones, buildings of stone and timber rising in the background.

Go, said Ridmark. I will follow once everyone is through.

Gareth nodded and looked at the others. Jerome stared at the gate with wide eyes while Crake braced himself as he did when about to go into battle. Perhaps Gareth would need to lead by example.

He took a deep breath and walked into the gate.

As always when using one of his father’s gates, Gareth felt a moment of whirling disorientation. It was a single step, but something in his body knew that he had just traveled a long distance in the blink of an eye.

A shiver went through him. That usually didn’t happen. Was something different this time? Had his bond with Stormshield altered something, made him more sensitive to the currents of magic around him?

Then Gareth realized the simple and obvious truth.

It was much colder on the other side of the gate.

Winters in Tarlion were mild. Winters in the Northerland had teeth.

He took a few steps to clear the gate and looked around the forum of Toricus.

When Gareth had last been here, Toricus had been a town under siege by tribes of medvarth. Now it was quiet. It was a relatively new town, built after a raid of Qazaluuskan orcs had destroyed the village that had previously borne the name. No weeds grew up between the flagstones, and most of the houses were built of pine logs, though some had been constructed of stone. The church rose on one side, and Lord Peter’s castra on the other. The castra had a tall rectangular keep, and Gareth saw two ballistae mounted atop the tower. He knew that Toricus stood on one of the higher hills in this part of the Northerland. After the defeat of the medvarth, Gareth had climbed to the top of the keep, and he had been able to see for miles.

Including the dense mass of the Qazaluuskan Forest to the east.

Several market stalls stood in the forum. All the merchants turned to gape at Gareth’s unexpected appearance. A little girl of about five or six stood nearby, staring at him. She was so heavily bundled in her cloak and coat that she looked almost spherical.

Greetings, said Gareth. My name is Sir Gareth Arban, and…

The girl let out a shriek, whirled, and dashed away with quicksilver speed.

Gareth sighed. That could have gone better.

He turned as the others emerged from the gate one by one. Crake went first, perhaps to prove that he wasn’t afraid. Jerome scurried after, looked around, let out a long breath of relief, and then crossed himself, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Philip and Telemachus came next. Gareth had thought that Telemachus would flinch from the cold since he was more used to the warmer climate of Owyllain, but the Arcanius Knight merely looked around as if anticipating an attack from any direction. Dietmar and Joachim followed, leading the string of pack horses.

By then, a small crowd had gathered, a mixture of merchants from their stalls and townsmen from the workshops on the nearby streets. Gareth supposed that magical gates did not open in Toricus every day, or ever. Some of the men held weapons, and Gareth hoped they were not about to come under attack.

We come in peace! he called. He turned so that Stormshield was visible upon his left hip. My friends and I are Knights of the Soulblade.

Aye, I remember you, said a man draped in a heavy cloak, a fur hat upon his head. He was selling animal pelts from his stall. Saw you with Dux Constantine when the medvarth attacked the town.

I’m grateful you remember, said Gareth.

Ridmark strode through the gate, and it snapped out of existence behind him. The Shield Knight looked around, nodded to himself, and his cold blue gaze fell upon a boy of about twelve who stood open-mouthed.

A silver coin glimmered in Ridmark’s left hand.

Catch, ordered Ridmark, and he tossed the coin at the boy, who plucked it out of the air. Go tell Lord Peter that Ridmark Arban has come to speak with him.

The boy gaped for a moment, then collected his wits, bowed, and sprinted across the forum towards the castra. Ridmark watched him go and then turned to Gareth. Come. We can leave the horses in the courtyard while we speak with Lord Peter.

We’re not waiting for him to come to us? said Crake.

Lord Peter’s getting older and has trouble walking, said Ridmark. I’m not making him march out to the forum to satisfy my pride.

Very generous, my lord, said Crake.

Ridmark only grunted, and they headed towards the castra.

They had almost reached the gate to the castra’s courtyard when Lord Peter Ferrus and four men-at-arms in his colors emerged into the forum. Peter was fifteen or twenty years older than Ridmark, though his chest was still massive and his arms thick. His hair and beard were snow-white, and despite his obvious strength, he walked with a limp, leaning heavily upon his cane as he did.

Peter came to a surprised halt. A slow grin went over his bearded face.

God and the saints, said Peter. Ridmark Arban, as I live and breathe. It’s been a long time.

Aye, said Ridmark. Since before the Frostborn war, I think.

Peter shook his head. Never thought to see you again, truth be told. Those who go into the Qazaluuskan Forest tend not to come out again. He glanced at Gareth. Though it runs in the family, it seems. His gaze swung back to Ridmark. You bastard. I’ve gotten old and fat, but you’ve scarce aged a day.

I can tell you are still an honest man, said Ridmark, because you’re such a bad liar.

Peter blinked and then let out a booming laugh. I saw your son Sir Gareth right before we drove the medvarth back. Gave me a fright, I’ll tell you. I thought you had walked back into the hall, and it was as if no time had passed since you rescued the folk of Toricus from the bone orcs. His expression sobered. But if the Constable of Tarlion has come through a magical gate to Toricus on the edge of the realm, it must be a serious matter.

It is, said Ridmark.

Have you come about the medvarth, then?

The medvarth, my lord? said Crake. Are they attacking the Northerland again?

Peter looked at him and then back to Ridmark. Not quite. Best come inside where it’s warmer, my lord. I see that we have a great deal to discuss.

###

The great hall of Lord Peter’s castra was a rectangular chamber of stone. Peter had mounted riven medvarth shields upon the walls, and tattered medvarth banners hung from the rafters as trophies of war. Twin hearths stood on opposite walls, and the heat radiating from their flames was a welcome relief after the chill of the forum. Gareth had spent a harsh winter in the Northerland before, and he was annoyed with himself at how quickly he had gotten used to the warmer climate of Tarlion.

Not that he would mention it, of course.

Crake would never let him hear the end