Dragonskull: Talons of the Sorcerer

By Jonathan Moeller

A malevolent sorcerer. A grim fortress. Those who cross its gates never return...

Gareth Arban seeks to stop the sorceress Azalmora from finding the Dragonskull, a powerful relic of dark magic.

But the fortress of Nifheldun lies in his path, and to pursue Azalmora, Gareth must help the warriors of the Norvangir seize the fortress.

But the sorcerous master of Nifheldun is cunning, and Gareth and his friends might be the latest warriors to fall before his deadly spells...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Jan 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215063446

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: TALONS OF THE SORCERER

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

A malevolent sorcerer. A grim fortress. Those who cross its gates never return...

Gareth Arban seeks to stop the sorceress Azalmora from finding the Dragonskull, a powerful relic of dark magic.

But the fortress of Nifheldun lies in his path, and to pursue Azalmora, Gareth must help the warriors of the Norvangir seize the fortress.

But the sorcerous master of Nifheldun is cunning, and Gareth and his friends might be the latest warriors to fall before his deadly spells...

***

Dragonskull: Talons of the Sorcerer

Copyright 2023 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover design by Jonathan Moeller.

Ebook edition published January 2023.

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).

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Chapter 1: Claws of the North

Gareth Arban watched the housecarls of Jarl Ivar of Sigulforn prepare for war.

He stood with his pack horse near Sigulforn’s river gate. Since arriving with his friends and Lady Ingvilda’s warband, Gareth had gone through the southern gate and the western gate, but this was the first time he had been in this part of the city. With deep winter gripping the land, it was easy to forget that Sigulforn was a port city, that the jarl’s wealth came from the merchants traveling up and down the River Jormundgar.

It was easy to forget at the moment because the river was frozen beneath a foot and a half of ice.

But as Gareth stood outside the northern wall, he saw the evidence of trade plain enough. A score of stone piers, now surrounded by ice, jutted into the river. Between the riverbank and the city’s stockade rose a multitude of large wooden sheds with thatched roofs, currently covered in snow.

The fishing boats, Sir Gareth, said Father Colafur when Gareth asked what the sheds held. The priest was a big man with graying hair and a long beard. Like most of the warriors in Lady Ingvilda’s warband, he wore chain mail and leather beneath his heavy fur cloak. Unlike most of the warriors, he wore a wooden cross on a leather cord around his neck. The river freezes solid almost every year. When the autumn fails and the nights grow long, the fishermen drag their boats ashore and secure them in the sheds. He pressed his gloved hands together. Else the ice shall crush their hulls like eggshells. The frozen Jormundgar is stern indeed.

Aye, said Gareth. I just hope the ice is strong enough to bear the weight of all the jarl’s men and their baggage.

Fear not, Sir Gareth, said Colafur. He pointed north towards the white expanse of the river. It was yet another cloudy day, and with the snow covering the countryside, everything seemed shaded in either white or gray. You see those huts upon the ice? Gareth nodded. When their boats are beached, the fishermen drag those huts on the ice and drill holes to cast for fish. When I spoke with one of the fishermen yesterday, he said the ice was sixteen inches thick.

I doubt it’s gotten any warmer since then, said Gareth.

Colafur chuckled. It most certainly has not. Aye, I see Hordan. I must speak with him. Pardon me, sir. Lady Ingvilda’s warband must be made battle-readied and stern-faced, steel-tempered to march against the xortami foe.

Gareth nodded, and the priest strode off, calling to the housecarl. Colafur seemed in good spirits. In fact, all the Norvangir warriors gathering to march with the jarl were pleased. Many men of Andomhaim would have regarded a long march in the heart of winter with trepidation. The Norvangir, by contrast, were eager. They were a people who loved battle almost as much as the orcs did, and Gareth heard several men singing the fierce Norvangir battle-songs.

The memory of the jarl’s warriors singing the Doom of Snorri Last-King before the fight against the dragon would remain with Gareth for the rest of his life.

Or maybe the victory over the dragon had cheered them. For centuries, the great dragon had terrorized the Norvangir and killed hundreds, Jarl Ivar’s and Lady Ingvilda’s father among them. (Gareth gathered Ivar and Ingvilda had different mothers, though given the tendency of Norvangir jarls to keep concubines, that did not seem terribly uncommon.) Gareth’s brother Joachim had discovered the truth, that the great dragon was actually the high elven sorceress Myotharia shifted into a different form.

She had tried to tap the power of the accursed Dragonskull and paid a horrible price.

But Myotharia was slain, drowned in the icy waters of the Jormundgar after Gareth had injured her wings. Sixteen inches of ice might have covered the river, but even that had not been able to withstand a dragon falling from the sky. Myotharia had fallen into the waters and drowned.

Odd that it bothered Gareth, but it did. Myotharia had killed a lot of innocent people, Ivar’s and Ingvilda’s father among them. Yet she had been a pitiable creature, mad and not in control of her powers, and in her madness, she thought she had been protecting the Norvangir.

She also thought she had been protecting Gareth and his friends, blocking them from following the path to the final Waystone. But with her death in the river, the spells she had laid upon the Waystone had been broken, and Gareth had been able to activate it.

He could sense the final Waystone now, somewhere to the north.

And the sensation was different this time.

Harsher, somehow, more intense and focused. Gareth closed his eyes and concentrated. He heard the noise in the market square behind him as the housecarls and thanes prepared, the shouts of men giving orders, the occasional voice raised in song. He felt the icy wind blowing across the river, the chill that radiated from everything in the depths of winter.

For just a second, he was almost certain he saw Niara the First Magistria standing in front of him, staring at him with her strange blue-purple eyes in her lean face, the cold wind stirring her ragged white hair…

Sir Gareth?

Gareth opened his eyes as a halfling approached.

Dietmar of Cintarra was considerably shorter than Gareth, as was normal for halflings. He had graying blond hair just visible beneath the cowl of his cloak, and enormous eyes almost the same color as the leaden clouds overhead. Beneath his cloak and coat, he wore leather armor, the hilt of the short sword of dark elven steel they had taken from Nhalavask’s barrow rising from his belt. His crossbow was slung over his shoulder along with a quiver of bolts.

God and the saints, said Gareth. Everyone else walking on this snow makes a crunching racket you can hear half a hundred yards away. You don’t. How do you do that?

Industrious practice, sir, said Dietmar. The others should be arriving shortly. Sir Philip thought it prudent to spend some of our money on acquiring new arrows from the fletcher in the market.

That’s a good idea, said Gareth. So long as the fletcher doesn’t mind taking orcish coins. They had brought some money with them when they departed Tarlion, but they had found a considerable treasure in the dark depths of Nhalavask’s barrow.

I doubt it will prove an obstacle, sir, said Dietmar. In the market, I observed the merchants employing Norvangir coins, along with orcish, dark elven, and even manetaur currency. It would not surprise me to learn that a few coins of Andomhaim have made their way here across the centuries. Perhaps such coins are kept as curiosities.

Gareth grunted. Or melted down to make several smaller coins.

That would be a practical use. You appear troubled, sir.

Gareth shrugged. I was just thinking. He hesitated. Myotharia’s death bothers me more than Iseult’s.

Is that surprising?

I thought I loved Iseult, and she died…badly, said Gareth. Once the thought of discussing this with anyone would have been appalling, but he and Dietmar had been through a lot together over the last several months. Still, Dietmar was older and quite a bit wiser than any of Gareth’s other friends. Myotharia killed countless people over the centuries.

That is quite true, said Dietmar. It is equally true, however, that Myotharia was not in control of her great powers and thought she was defending the Norvangir. Lady Iseult was simply a traitor to the realm and tried to kill you for personal advancement. Myotharia’s death was tragic but necessary. Dietmar shrugged. Lady Iseult’s death, I’m afraid, was the inevitable result of her own poor decisions.

I suppose you’re right, said Gareth. You usually are.

I confess, sir, when I joined the Brotherhood of the Ravens, I did not think counseling young knights would fall within the purview of my duties, but one must be flexible.

Gareth snorted. Speaking of young knights… He hesitated, trying to think of the best way to phrase it.

Dietmar waited.

What should we do about Crake and Ingvilda?

Nothing.

Gareth blinked. Nothing?

One suspects, sir, that raising the matter with Sir Crake would draw his ire, said Dietmar. One also suspects that raising the matter with Lady Ingvilda would inspire her wrath.

How so? said Gareth.

Consider, sir, said Dietmar. Imagine how a noblewoman of Andomhaim would react if someone accused her of conducting an affair with a foreigner.

Oh. Gareth hadn’t thought of that.

Of course, the public morality of Norvangenheim seems somewhat less stringent than that of Andomhaim, said Dietmar. One suspects that this isn’t the first time Lady Ingvilda has enjoyed a quiet affair. So long as she is not casting the paternity of her husband’s children into doubt, the Norvangir seem indifferent to the matter. And since Lady Ingvilda has no husband…

The Norvangir don’t have a problem, said Gareth. Even if they know about it. What if Crake gets her pregnant?

Dietmar shrugged. Then things will become more complicated. Lady Ingvilda, if I may offer a blunt observation, appears to be the sort of woman more interested in accomplishing her task than bearing children.

But her task was reforging Gungnir and slaying the great dragon, said Gareth. Both of which have been accomplished.

Indeed, sir. Perhaps Lady Ingvilda thinks the time has come to have children before time takes the opportunity from her. Dietmar shrugged again. But, if I may be allowed a blunt observation…

I would welcome it.

Both Sir Crake and Lady Ingvilda seem quite fond of one another, but regard their time together as a passing dalliance, said Dietmar. Once our task is complete, and the Dragonskull is destroyed…

If they destroyed the Dragonskull. If they survived the quest.

But Gareth kept that dark thought to himself.

Dietmar continued, Then Sir Crake will return to Andomhaim with us, and most likely Lady Ingvilda will remain in Sigulforn. If her brother achieves his ambition and becomes the first King of Norvangenheim since Snorri Last-King, Ingvilda will rise high with him. Probably she will become the senior wife of one of Lord Ivar’s most powerful supporters, whichever one she chooses, and will wield great influence. I suspect Sir Crake and Lady Ingvilda will look back fondly on their time together, but Sir Crake will not remain in Norvangenheim for her, and Lady Ingvilda will not travel back to Andomhaim for him.

I suppose you’re right, said Gareth. It will work itself out. I’m worrying over nothing.

Though I am curious, sir, said Dietmar, why you are worrying at all.

Gareth snorted. If Crake gets Ingvilda pregnant and her brother turns against us, we’ll have all kinds of new problems.

Indeed, said Dietmar, though you were less concerned when your friends took Prince Tywall to the brothel in Cintarra…

I was concerned. That was a bad idea, and you know it, said Gareth.

Or when Sir Jerome entertained one of the serving women at Jarl Logi’s hall in Stadhur, said Dietmar.

He shouldn’t have done that, either, said Gareth. A knight ought to lie with only his wife and no other woman.

Though Gareth hadn’t done that himself, had he? He had fallen for Iseult so deeply, wanted her so badly, that all his wits had been scrambled.

Very true, sir, said Dietmar, though we both know that reality often falls short of the ideal.

Gareth sighed. I made a fool of myself over Iseult. I fear Crake might do the same with Ingvilda.

He may, said Dietmar, but Lady Ingvilda is a very different woman from Lady Iseult.

Thank God for that, said Gareth. Iseult had been proud to rely on her servants for everything, seeing that as proof of her father’s wealth and her status. Ingvilda, by contrast, wielded a rune-forged mace in battle, a mace that she had made herself, and Gareth had seen her cave in muridach skulls with the weapon.

He laughed aloud.

Sir? said Dietmar.

Nothing. I was just thinking of Iseult wielding a rune-forged mace like Ingvilda does.

The halfling’s somber expression wavered in amusement for just a second. It does make for a comical image, sir. If I can presume to offer advice, I overheard your lord father suggesting that your mother should find you a wife once you return to Andomhaim. Perhaps it would be wise to heed that suggestion.

Perhaps, said Gareth, or perhaps not. Things did not end so well with Iseult.

Not all women are like Lady Iseult Olwen, sir, said Dietmar. I’m afraid you simply had a bad first experience. Rather like a page who, when riding a horse for the first time, falls off and breaks his leg.

I can understand what you mean, said Gareth, but we probably shouldn’t let Lady Ingvilda overhear you comparing women to horses.

Doubtless she would agree with me, sir, said Dietmar. A good horse repays loyalty a hundred times over, and a good woman, a thousand.

You’re always so serious, said Gareth, that I can never tell when you are joking or not.

Dietmar started to answer, and then Gareth heard voices bickering behind him.

He turned and looked through the river gate into Sigulforn. Beyond the gate was a market square, much like the forums in the towns and cities of Andomhaim. The market by the river gate specialized in selling goods to fishermen and the merchants traveling up and down the Jormundgar in spring, which meant that taverns stood alongside the shops of carpenters and shipwrights. And a brothel, as it happened – a slightly embarrassed Father Colafur had explained that the Norvangir word for a brothel was the earth-house, staffed by earth-maidens. Evidently Norvangir custom stated that the women were still maidens when they left the employment of the earth-house to wed, since the earth took their deeds.

That logic seemed questionable to Gareth, but much about the customs of the Norvangir did not make much sense to him.

Perhaps it showed how enamored Crake was with Ingvilda that he hadn’t tried to visit the earth-house.

Or, Gareth reflected, since they had come to Sigulforn, they’d fought a dragon and almost been killed by Mharoslav and his minions twice, perhaps there simply hadn’t been time.

Right now, the housecarls of the jarl filled the market square, preparing themselves for the march. Gareth spotted his friends and his brother making their way through the chaos, leading their pack horses. Crake and Jerome walked in front, arguing about something. Joachim and Philip brought up the back, amused by the argument. Sir Telemachus walked between them, grim and silent, but Gareth worried about the Arcanius Knight. Even if Ingvilda spurned him today, Gareth didn’t think Crake would do something rash or seek his death in battle to ease the pain.

He wasn’t so sure about Sir Telemachus Valaros.

Especially since Mharoslav had escaped them yet again outside the Tower of Mourning.

Dare I ask what’s so funny? said Gareth as the others approached.

Nothing whatsoever, said Philip, though he was more amused than exasperated.

Your brothers in the Order of the Soulblade, Sir Jerome and Sir Crake, said Joachim, are debating the relative merits of mounted combat versus battle on foot.

Endlessly, said Telemachus. He sounded more exasperated than amused. Which Gareth supposed was a good sign. A man in the grips of despair might seek his death in battle. A man annoyed by the bickering of his comrades probably would not do so.

I’m just saying, said Jerome. Like the rest of them, he had grown a beard since they had left Qhazurhosk, partly because it was hard to find water and soap and mostly because it was so damned cold the beards helped keep frostbite at bay. Jerome’s beard was so pale it looked almost white, and it had come in a bit patchy. This would be a lot easier if we could ride. We’re knights. Knights ride on horses.

Not in Owyllain, said Crake, glancing at Telemachus, who only grunted.

We are not in Owyllain, said Philip. I don’t think it has ever snowed this much in the entire history of Owyllain.

Very true, said Telemachus. Sometimes there are winter snowfalls north of Cytheria, but only rarely, and never quite this much. Normally, it just rains a great deal in winter. With that, he fell back into silence.

Lord Ivar marches to the aid of the jarl of Musfell, said Jerome. He could get there a lot faster if we rode to Musfell’s aid instead of marching.

Doubt it, said Crake. You try to ride a horse in this snow, you’ll have a horse with a broken leg. Then you’ll have to kill the poor animal and eat it.

Crake’s pack horse snorted once as if suspicious. The beast was one of the smaller, shaggy horses favored by the Norvangir, and it looked truculent enough to respond with violence to any attempt to eat it.

I don’t know why you’re in such a good mood, said Jerome. It’s cold, and we have a six or seven day march to fight lizard monsters.

Having accidentally walked in on Crake and Ingvilda the night before, Gareth knew exactly why Crake was in a good mood.

Crake grinned and clapped Jerome on the shoulder. A long winter walk. Good for the circulation, aye? Besides, we’re men of the Northerland. This isn’t all that different from our winters.

Jerome sighed. Just for once, I wish we could go on one of these journeys without a foot of snow on the ground.

At least, said Philip, the roads will not be muddy.

We should get away from the gate, said Gareth. Another few minutes, and we’ll be blocking the way. I don’t want to explain to half a thousand annoyed housecarls why we’re slowing them down.

Especially since two-thirds of them don’t speak orcish or Latin, agreed Crake.

They led their pack animals the rest of the way through the gate and down to the riverbank. Gareth spotted Hordan overseeing Lady Ingvilda’s housecarls as they finished preparing for the journey. Since they would be traveling with Ingvilda’s warband, Gareth led the way to join them. The housecarls nodded as they passed or called out greetings in orcish or Latin. Given that they had survived the dragon together, the housecarls were glad for the presence of the foreign knights.

Despite the appearance of chaos, Jarl Ivar’s men knew their business, and within the hour, the marching column had formed up on the riverbank and the frozen river itself.

Shortly after that, Jarl Ivar and Lady Ingvilda strode from the river gate to join the men.

The jarl was a huge man – both taller than Gareth and wider, though very little of his bulk was fat. His red beard hung to his chest, and his blue eyes flashed like ice in the sun. Over his heavy winter clothes, the jarl wore armor of scale mail.

In his right hand, he carried the spear Gungnir, the magical spear that had long belonged to the kings of Norvangenheim, the spear that Crake and Ingvilda had reforged in a burst of madness or divine inspiration or perhaps both. The weapon looked as if it had been made of gold, but Gareth knew that it had been fashioned of some unknown metal both lighter and stronger than steel. The soulstone that Crake had taken from Nhalavask’s barrow flashed at the base of the blade, sometimes seeming to glow with its own silvery-white light.

As ever when Ivar carried Gungnir, the Norvangir warriors stared at it, some of them openly awed.

That, said Jerome, his annoyance at the weather forgotten, is indeed a kingly weapon.

It should be, said Joachim. It was enough work to reforge it.

Gareth glanced at Crake, who hadn’t said anything.

But Crake’s eyes were on Ivar’s sister.

Ingvilda walked next to her brother. She wore again the armor and cloak she had been wearing on the day they had first met outside the walls of Stadhur, including the helmet topped with the thick, fanged skull of a xortami. Her rune-forged mace hung at her belt, and with her long red hair bound in a braid and tucked into the back of her cloak, she was tall enough and armored enough that Gareth would have mistaken her for a man.

Boots crunched against the snow, and Father Colafur approached, his breath puffing through his long gray beard.

Lady Ingvilda wishes me to translate for you, said the priest.

Thank you, Father, said Gareth.

Ivar raised Gungnir over his head, the spear flashing bright even in the dim winter light. Silence fell over the assembled housecarls, and Ivar began to speak in a ringing voice, loud enough that the words echoed off the wooden stockade of the city.

The jarl says that today is a day glory-fated, translated Colafur. Already we have seen great deeds worthy of song. The spear of kings reforged. The great dragon slain and cast down from the sky. Now further deeds of renown await. Jarl Aurgelmir of Musfell has called for aid against the vile lizardmen of the north. All the men of Norvangenheim know that the xortami are deadly foes, for they take our bondsmen to toil in their mines and fields and feast upon the flesh of our women and children. All true men of Norvangenheim must take up arms and repulse the invaders, winning glory that shall endure forever.

The housecarls cheered, banging their spears against their shields.

I’m afraid the jarl is more eloquent than I am, sirs, said Colafur ruefully. He is music-tongued and honey-voiced. My poor translation is but a pale shadow.

I think we caught the important parts, thank you, said Gareth.

With that, the host of Jarl Ivar of Sigulforn crossed the River Jormundgar and headed north towards Musfell. Gareth kept a wary eye on the ice of the river as they crossed, but it remained solid. It didn’t even creak beneath the weight of so many men and horses.

Perhaps by the time the jarl’s men returned, they would need to take ferries over the river.

If, a dark thought whispered in Gareth’s mind, they survived to return at all.

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The going was slow, but they traveled faster than Gareth feared.

The snow covering the road north had been mostly trampled flat into a sheet of hard, uneven ice. A wagon traveling on that road would have broken a wheel or cracked an axle within a mile, but the pack horses managed if they were led carefully. Father Colafur explained that one of the duties of the thanes of the local villages was to make sure the snow upon the main road was cleared in