Shield Knight: Rhodruthain

by Moeller, Jonathan

  SHIELD KNIGHT: RHODRUTHAIN

  Jonathan Moeller

  ***

  Description

  For fifteen thousand years, the Guardian Rhodruthain has protected the world from the power of the Well of Storms.

  But the quest of the Seven Swords threatens to unlock the destructive power of the Well.

  And unless Rhodruthain can defeat the shadows in his own mind, not even the Shield Knight and the Keeper will be able to save him...

  ***

  Shield Knight: Rhodruthain

  Copyright 2019 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover image copyright Sergey Borisov | Dreamstime.com & RF License : STANDARD | Print & Web | Unlimited Digital Impressions, up to 250,000 Prints neostock-s030-luke-fantasy-ranger-220 - Original file (2967x5078 pixels).

  Ebook edition published January 2019.

  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.

  ***

  Author’s Note

  This novella takes place during the events of SEVENFOLD SWORD: MAZE.

  ***

  Chapter 1: The Guardians

  Rhodruthain, the Guardian of Cathair Animus and the last living gray elf in the ancient city, wandered alone through the Chamber of the Well, his staff clanging against the white stone floor with every step.

  He felt the weight of the Sword of Life hanging on his left hip, and only his bond with the Sword kept him upright. The Sword of Life commanded tremendous healing energies, and those energies flowed through him, repairing the many wounds he had sustained over the last twenty-five years.

  Without the Sword, he would have failed in his charge, the sacred duty that Ardrhythain had given him all those millennia ago. Nevertheless, the Sword was a thing of evil, forged by the dark power of the Sovereign. Rhodruthain needed to destroy it, but carrying out his charge meant bearing the weapon of his enemy.

  Not that it mattered. Destroying the Sword of Life would mean Rhodruthain’s defeat and would make little difference in the end.

  There were, after all, six more Swords.

  He paced through the Chamber of the Well, his eyes wandering over the ruin. The chamber was huge, large enough to hold a village or even a small town of the humans and the orcs. A dome of white stone rose overhead, crumbling in places, shafts of light stabbing into the vast room. Weeds rose between the white flagstones, and the walls were marked with elaborate reliefs. Rhodruthain didn’t like to look at the reliefs. They were carved with proud scenes of the gray elves coming to Owyllain and building mighty cities and defeating the jastaani priests. The gray elves who had called themselves the Liberated had been so full of hope, had built a powerful civilization here.

  But the Liberated had also been proud…and all that they had built had come to dust and ashes.

  Rhodruthain didn’t like to be reminded that he had been proven right. He didn’t need the reminder. It occupied his thoughts, every day, at least when his mind was working right.

  A wide well filled the central third of the floor, filled with rippling water. If Rhodruthain looked into the well, he knew, he would see a storm. At least, that was how his physical eyes and brain would interpret the sight. His magical Sight would see the storm for what it was.

  A storm that could shatter the world.

  The Well of Storms, the only unlocked Well of magic on the face of the world.

  “We should not have come here,” said Rhodruthain in the ancient tongue of the high elves. “We should never have come here. The Sovereign would not have followed us otherwise. Had you just listened to me, had you heeded the wisdom of Ardrhythain, then so much evil would never have…never have…”

  He blinked, confused.

  For a moment he had been certain, utterly certain, that he had been addressing the kings of the Liberated, the lords of the gray elves, when they had met in council. It had been in the early days when they had still been confident that they could crush the Sovereign in battle. They hadn’t understood the nature of their opponent, not then.

  Now there were no kings of the Liberated left, and nothing remained of the proud kingdoms of the gray elves but ruins and dust. The last remnant of the gray elves huddled within Cathair Caedyn, far to the south, and only survived through the hive mind that linked them to the magic of the mighty Sylmarus.

  “And they will fall, too, and I cannot stop it,” said Rhodruthain. “The Maledictus of Death has gathered a great muridach host, and they shall extinguish the final ember of the Liberated.”

  He had to do something. He had to act! Rhodruthain remembered that he hadn’t always been like this. Once he had been capable of vigorous action, not this endless ruminating. Once he had worked subtle plans and counseled kings and princes. He had shown Kothlaric Pendragon the path to victory over the Sovereign, and the High King of Owyllain had taken it.

  But that had been before.

  Before the Seven Swords.

  Before this endless damned mist had filled Rhodruthain’s thoughts, eroding his wits and confusing his memory.

  “Cathair Caedyn,” said Rhodruthain. “I must go to Cathair Caedyn at once, to help defend them. Help. Or did I send help?”

  But who could he have sent to help? There was no one. No one in Owyllain.

  Unless…

  He blinked at the memory.

  The Shield Knight and the Keeper of Andomhaim.

  He had summoned them here, hadn’t he? The Shield Knight bore a unique soulblade, forged by Ardrhythain himself. Ardrhythain must have given the Shield Knight that soulblade for such a desperate hour as this. And the Keeper bore a mantle of powerful magic, stronger than any other of this world, stronger than even the Guardian’s mantle that Rhodruthain carried, the mantle represented by the dragon-headed staff in his right hand.

  Rhodruthain had summoned the Shield Knight and the Keeper because without their help, the New God would triumph.

  But why had he summoned them? He could not quite recall.

  “Why?” came a woman’s voice, sharp and acerbic.

  Rhodruthain turned and saw his fellow Guardian, the first he had seen in a long, long time.

  Morigna of Andomhaim looked like a human woman, probably because she had once been a living human woman. Her translucent form had deep black eyes and thick black hair bound in a braid, stark against her pale face. She wore clothes of worn wool and leather, and a tattered cloak of brown and green strips. Her staff of Guardianship rested in her right hand, a length of black wood carved with symbols that sometimes flashed with white light.

  Rhodruthain remembered her. Even through the mist that filled his mind and ate at his memories, he still remembered her. She had advised Rhodruthain to seek help against the Maledicti and the Masked One. Then he had summoned the Shield Knight and the Keeper, which had enraged her. Evidently, he had been supposed to ask first.

  He had the vague feeling that she wasn’t supposed to be here, but he could not remember why.

  She stared at him. Rhodruthain wondered what she wanted.

  A question, that was it. Morigna had asked him a question.

  “Why what?” said Rhodruthain at last.

  “Why are you doing this?” said Morigna. “Why are you making yourself suffer? How long have you been guarding the Well of Storms?”

  “How lon
g?” said Rhodruthain. His voice sounded cracked and weary in his ears. “A long time. Since the Liberated came to this land and built Cathair Animus.”

  “How long?” repeated Morigna

  “Fifteen thousand years,” said Rhodruthain.

  “Fifteen millennia,” said Morigna. “And everyone you have ever known is dead. Why do you keep doing this, Rhodruthain? Why do you not let yourself rest?”

  “Why?” said Rhodruthain. He blinked. “I remember. I can remember this.”

  ***

  Chapter 2: The Urdmordar

  It was because of the Threefold Law, Morigna. That was why. I remember.

  Once there were no dark elves or gray elves, only the high elves. And the high elves lived under the Threefold Law, the three laws which governed our lives. First, we were to honor God above all things. Second, we were to oppose the shadow of Incariel in all things. Third, we were to never seek power over other kindreds.

  The dark elves broke all three.

  They opened doors to other worlds and summoned other kindreds here – orcs and halflings and muridachs and manetaurs and many others. The dark elves used them as slaves and soldiers, which gave them overwhelming numerical advantages. But we fought on. Our magic was stronger, far stronger. And the dark elves could never cooperate and betrayed and fought each other regularly. The high elves had no such problem, and we fought the dark elves to a stalemate for millennia.

  Tens of thousands of years of war. Spells that shattered continents and raised islands from the deep, and marching armies larger than entire nations. A human mind cannot comprehend the scale of the destruction and carnage.

  Then the dark elves summoned the urdmordar.

  They thought the spider-devils would make the perfect war beasts. The kings of the dark elves had grand plans for crushing the high elves with the enslaved urdmordar. The Warden counseled against summoning them, and so did the Sovereign. The dark elves should have heeded them.

  They didn’t.

  They opened the door, and within five years the urdmordar had enslaved most of the dark elves and then turned their hunger on us. The stalemate became a rout, and the urdmordar swept over the kingdoms of the high elves like a tide of blood and dark fire.

  The day it began, the day the gray elves began…

  I remember.

  It was the fall of Cathair Irrynd.

  The city lay on a continent to the south of here, far beyond the Illicaeryn Jungles. The urdmordar rule there to this day over an empire of enslaved orc tribes, feeding on them as wolves feed upon a herd of penned sheep. Once a score of high elven cities dotted the continent, but one by one they were destroyed, the survivors fleeing towards the sea. Cathair Irrynd was our last stronghold on the continent, and our archmages had opened a gate that would let the population and our armies flee to one of the continents we still controlled.

  We fought to hold back the tide of the urdmordar and their slave soldiers, and my brother Rilmael and I held the western gate of Cathair Irrynd against the horde.

  I wish Rilmael was here now. He was always comfortable in battle in a way that I was not. The high elves in those days had different orders of warriors, and Rilmael and I were not bladeweavers, the bearers of soulblades. Instead, we were battle mages, bringing powerful elemental magic to bear against our foes. We could also tap what would become the Well of Tarlion to empower our spells since it had not yet been locked to prevent misuse.

  Rilmael and I stood behind the western gate of Cathair Irrynd. It had been shattered, the doors of golden metal ripped apart, and the arch and parts of the surrounding wall had been blasted to gravel. Debris lay everywhere, and behind us, the city burned. I could smell the smoke, I can still smell the smoke all these years later, and I heard the screams and shouts as the high elves of the city fled for the archmages’ gate.

  “Well, brother,” said Rilmael, swords in either hand. “Ready for another round?” He was a far better swordsman than I was, and he usually charged into the fray while I hung back and brought my magic to bear. We made for an effective team and had fought at the forefront of many battles.

  But it had been a long time since we had fought in a victorious battle. The best we had been able to manage was a fighting retreat as the urdmordar and their hordes swept to the gates of Cathair Irrynd.

  And now the city was about to fall.

  “Aye,” I said. “The enemy only brought a hundred thousand orcs. Do you think that is fair?”

  “Certainly not,” said Rilmael. “We ought to give them a chance to surrender. It’s only sporting.”

  I laughed. I do not have a sense of humor, and the centuries since Cathair Irrynd have not inspired me to develop one. Rilmael always did, though, especially on the eve of battle.

  “I suspect the urdmordar will misinterpret it and assume that we are trying to surrender,” I said.

  “Well,” said Rilmael. “It’s not our fault if the enemy is that dense.” He lifted his swords. “And here they come again.”

  We were not alone. High elven warriors lined the ramparts, armed with bows and spells. Siege engines in the watch towers of Cathair Irrynd flung enspelled missiles that exploded with fire and lightning among the enemies charging the wall.

  And there were no shortage of enemies.

  The urdmordar sent tens of thousands of orcish warriors charging towards the shattered gate. Some of them carried ladders, and others pushed massive siege towers. Our archers loosed storms of arrows, and our siege engines hurled death into the enemy. Hundreds of them died before they even reached the gate.

  But there were so many. The urdmordar had enslaved entire nations of orcs. It had only happened a few hundred years ago, which from the perspective of a high elf seems like a long afternoon, but multiple generations of orcs had been born and died in that time. To the enslaved orcish nations, the urdmordar were their goddesses. The urdmordar had colleges of orcish priests who served them, and to their enslaved orcs, it seemed the natural order of things that urdmordar ruled over them.

  And that meant the orcs would fight and die for their goddesses.

  Countless orcish warriors perished in the charge to the walls of Cathair Irrynd, but some of them made it into the plaza below the gate, and Rilmael and I fought to hold them back. We started by unleashing elemental magic, storms of fire and volleys of lightning, and orcs died by the score. The charge wavered, but the priests of the urdmordar joined the fray, tutored in dark magic by the urdmordar. They cast wards around their soldiers to shield them from magical attack, and mere elemental spells would no longer suffice. So Rilmael and I charged our spells with the power of the Well of Cathair Tarlias (or the Well of Tarlion, as you would know it), and we punched through their wards and killed more orcish soldiers.

  All the while the battle raged up and down the western wall of the city, the archers pouring arrows into the orcs, the mages unleashing spells, the swordsmen battling against the orcs scrambling up the siege towers and ladders. The carnage was appalling, and the urdmordar responded by unleashing a potent necromantic spell, and the dead orcs rose again as undead horrors, ghostly blue fire shining in their eyes.

  But we held back the enemy horde, and behind us, the people of the city fled through the archmages’ gate.

  Then the elite warriors arrived.

  They called themselves the arachar. If you fought an urdmordar during your mortal life, Morigna, then you know what the arachar are. They were the most fanatical orcish warriors of the urdmordar, the ones most devoted to their goddess. In reward for their loyalty, the arachar received a single drop of urdmordar blood to drink. That blood gave them strength and resilience beyond even orcish norms and made them deadly in battle. It also induced homicidal mania, but the urdmordar found that a useful quality in their soldiers.

  A company of arachar forced their way into the square, protected by both the wards of the priests and the spells upon their armor. They wore black plate armor, written with spells of dark magic. Upon the green faces o
f the orcs, I saw the sign of the arachar, a scar cut into their skin. It looked like a third eye cut into the center of the forehead, with eight lines spreading across their temples and onto their heads. It was a stylized spider, the symbol of the urdmordar and the empire they were building.

  The arachar rushed into the square. Rilmael shouted a command, and a company of swordsmen joined him as he charged into the fray. A company of mages joined me, and we unleashed our spells as Rilmael and the swordsmen battled the arachar. The combined effort of the mages and my own magic pushed back the arachar, while the swordsmen killed and killed.

  Rilmael fell on the orcs like a storm. He wielded twin swords of golden steel, and he slew a foe with every step. He used bursts of elemental air to make himself faster and sheathed himself in elemental earth to deflect the steel swords of our arachar foes. Fire and lightning wreathed his swords, and he danced through the arachar, his swords a blur of fire and storm. I unleashed controlled bursts of lightning and fire, killing the orcs, and we pushed the arachar back.

  I felt the surge of dark magic before I saw it, and a lance of swirling blackness ripped through the battle and scythed across the square. I shouted a warning to my men to cast warding spells around themselves, but most of them heeded the command too late. I finished my spell in time, and so did about half of the mages near me, but the rest of the men were too slow. The shadow lance ripped across them, and in the blink of an eye, perhaps fifty high elven swordsmen and mages became ancient, withered corpses, nothing more than leathery skin clinging to crumbled bone.

  The urdmordar that had cast the spell surged through the gate a second later.

  You told me that you fought an urdmordar, Morigna. Rhogrimnalazur, that was her name. You know what an urdmordar looks like. A giant crimson spider the size of a pair of oxen put together, the knobbed legs like lances. The torso, arms, and head of a woman rising from where the spider’s head should be, the features unearthly beautiful. Her eyes glowed green, along with the six additional smaller eyes in her forehead. Her long fingers ended in black talons, and crimson chitin covered her body, armor stronger and harder than any metal ever forged by the smiths of the high elves, the khaldari, or the orcs.