The Soulblade's Tale

by Jonathan Moeller

  Especially since he kept his hood up.

  But if he kept his hood up, they would not see the brand that marred the left side of his face.

  He came to Dun Licinia’s northern gate. The wall itself stood fifteen feet high, and two octagonal towers of thirty feet stood on either side of the gate itself. A pair of men-at-arms in chain mail stood at the gate, keeping watch on the road and the wooded hills ringing the valley. He recognized the colors upon their tabards. They belonged to Sir Joram Agramore, a knight Ridmark had known. They had been friends, once.

  Before Mhalek and his horde.

  “Hold,” said one of the men-at-arms, a middle-aged man with the hard-bitten look of a veteran. “State your business.”

  Ridmark met the man’s gaze. “I wish to enter the town, purchase supplies, and depart before sundown.”

  “Aye?” said the man-at-arms, eyes narrowing. “Sleep in the hills, do you?”

  “I do,” said Ridmark. “It’s comfortable, if you know how.”

  “Who are you, then?” said the man-at-arms. He jerked his head at the other soldier, and the man disappeared into the gatehouse. “Robber? Outlaw?”

  “Perhaps I’m an anchorite,” said Ridmark.

  The man-at-arms snorted. “Holy hermits don’t carry weapons. They trust in the Dominus Christus to protect them from harm. You look like the sort to place his trust in steel.”

  He wasn’t wrong about that.

  Ridmark spread his arms. “Upon my oath, I simply wish to purchase supplies and leave without causing any harm. I will swear this upon the name of God and whatever saints you wish to invoke.”

  Three more men-at-arms emerged from the gatehouse.

  “What’s your name?” said the first man-at-arms.

  “Some call me the Gray Knight,” said Ridmark.

  The first man frowned, but the youngest of the men-at-arms stepped forward.

  “I’ve heard of you!” said the younger man. “When my mother journeyed south on pilgrimage to Tarlion, beastmen attacked her caravan. You drove them off! I…”

  “Hold,” said the first man, scowling. “Show your face. Honest men have no reason to hide their faces.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. He would not lie. Not even about this.

  He drew back his cowl, exposing the brand of the broken sword upon his left cheek and jaw.

  A ripple of surprise went through the men.

  “You’re…” said the first man. He lifted his spear. “What is your name?”

  “My name,” said Ridmark, “is Ridmark Arban.”

  The men-at-arms looked at each other, and Ridmark rebuked himself. Coming here had been foolish. Better to have purchased supplies from the outlying farms or a smaller village, rather than coming to Dun Licinia.

  But he had not expected the town to grow so large.

  “Ridmark Arban,” said the older man-at-arms. He looked at one of the other men. “You. Go to the castle, and find Sir Joram.” One of the men ran off, chain mail flashing in the sunlight.

  “Are you arresting me?” said Ridmark. Perhaps it would be better to simply leave.

  The first man opened his mouth again, closed it.

  “You think he made the friar disappear?” said the younger man, the one who had mentioned his mother. “But he’s the Gray Knight! They…”

  “The Gray Knight is a legend,” said the first man, “and you, Sir…” He scowled and started over. “And you, Ridmark Arban, should speak with Sir Joram. That is that.”

  “So be it,” said Ridmark.

  A dark thought flitted across his mind. If he attacked them, he might well overpower them. Their comrades would pursue him. Perhaps they would kill him.

  And he could rest at last…

  Ridmark shook off the notion and waited.

  A short time later two men approached and spoke in low voices to the first man-at-arms.

  “You will accompany us,” he said.

  Ridmark nodded and walked through the gates of Dun Licinia, the men-at-arms escorting him. Most of the houses were built of brick, roofed with sturdy clay tiles, making it harder for an attacker to set the town ablaze. Ridmark saw men at work in their shops, making shoes and hats and aprons to sell to the nearby freeholders.

  A memory shivered through him. The last time he had stood here, he had been wearing plate and chain mail, the sword Heartwarden blazing with white fire in his fist, the ground carpeted with slain men and orcs and halflings and manetaurs.

  He pushed aside the memory and kept walking, his staff tapping against the cobblestones.

  The men-at-arms led him to the main square, fronted on either side by the sturdy stone church and the small castle. They walked through the castle’s gates, across the dusty courtyard, and into the keep’s great hall. It had changed little since his last visit five years ago.

  Though this time dying and wounded men did not lie on rows upon the flagstones of the floor.

  The men-at-arms instructed him to wait and left.

  Ridmark rolled his shoulders and walked towards the dais, his staff a comfortable, familiar weight in his left hand. A few motes of dust danced in the beams of light leaking through the windows. Tapestries on the wall showed scenes from the court of the first High King on Old Earth, of Lancelot and Galahad questing for the cup that had held the Dominus Christus’s blood. Others showed more recent wars, the High King Arthurain fighting against the urdmordar, or the Dragon Knight leading the armies of the High King against the Frostborn.

  Idly Ridmark wondered what would happen if he simply tried to walk out of the keep.

  Perhaps the men-at-arms would kill him.

  The doors opened, and Sir Joram Agramore entered the hall.

  He had always been heavyset, but now he verged towards the plump. Peace, it seemed, agreed with him. He had curly red hair and bright green eyes, and wore a long tunic and a mantle, a sword and dagger at his belt.

  He stared at Ridmark in silence for a moment.

  “Ridmark Arban,” he said at last. “God and all his saints. I was sure you had died five years ago.”

  Ridmark shrugged. “Perhaps God still has work for me.”

  “He must,” said Joram. “But I was sure…the Magistri always say that Swordbearer severed from his Soulblade wastes away. Or kills himself. It just…”

  “If grief,” said Ridmark, “could kill a man, I would have died long ago.”

  His left hand tightened against his staff, and he glanced at his hand before he could stop himself. A ring glinted on his finger, the gold still bright despite the five years he had spent wandering the Wilderland. Memories burned through him at the sight of it, good memories, happy memories.

  But those memories ended in death.

  “Indeed,” said Joram. “Forgive me, I did not mean to…I wish…” He sighed and shook his head. “I am not sure what to say to you.”

  “A knight strives to be courteous to all men,” said Ridmark, “and there is no protocol for greeting a disowned exile and former Swordbearer.”

  “Alas,” said Joram, “no.”

  Ridmark felt a twinge of pity for his old friend. Joram had always been a solid knight, but not man to take the lead in a crisis. “Then tell me of yourself. You are the Comes of Dun Licinia now?”

  “No, just a caretaker, I fear,” said Joram. “The old Comes died in the winter without any heirs, and the Dux sent me north to oversee the comarchate until he appoints a new man.” He shrugged. “It is quiet enough. The occasional band of pagan orcs or beastmen, but nothing like the days of Mhalek.”

  “You are wed?” said Ridmark. He did not want to talk about Mhalek.

  Joram grinned. “How did you…oh, yes, the ring. Yes, four years. You remember Lady Lydia?”

  Ridmark laughed. “You talked her around at last?”

  “Well, I imagine my new lands helped sway her father, at least,” said Joram. “But, aye, we are happy. Two children, so far. God, but they can fill a castle with their wailing!”


  Ridmark nodded.

  Joram took a deep breath. “If you will allow me to say so…I am glad to see you, Ridmark. What happened to you was unjust, and I think Tarrabus Carhaine forced the Master to expel you from the Order. It was unjust, especially after what happened to Aelia…”

  “What is done is done,” said Ridmark. He did not wish to discuss Aelia, either.

  “Indeed,” said Joram. “Ridmark, I must ask. Why have you come here? You were disowned and banished from the Order, not exiled from the High King’s realm…but you must know that the Dux Tarrabus still has a price on your head.”

  “Only the High King,” said Ridmark, “can pronounce a sentence of death.”

  “I think Dux Tarrabus disagrees,” said Joram.

  “He can think whatever he likes,” said Ridmark. “I simply wish to purchase supplies and be on my way.”

  “Back into the Wilderland?” said Joram.

  Ridmark nodded.

  A hint of pity went over Joram’s face. “Still seeking prophecies of the Frostborn?”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark.

  “Well,” said Joram, “at least let me resupply you from my own pantry.”

  Ridmark lifted an eyebrow. “Dux Licinius might not approve.”

  “He has forgiven you,” said Joram. “He never blamed you for what happened to Aelia.”

  Ridmark said nothing.

  “And if you like,” said Joram, “think of it as repayment. For not beating me black and blue when we were squires, the way Tarrabus and his lot used to do.”

  Ridmark bowed. “If you must.”

  “I insist,” said Joram, clapping his hands. The servants’ door by the dais opened, and a pair of halfling women wearing Joram’s colors entered the hall, carrying a tray of food and drink. They set the tray on the table and bowed. One of the halfling women glanced at Ridmark for a moment, her eyes like disks of amber in her face, and then left with the other servant. He was always struck by how alien and ethereal the halflings looked.

  “Please,” said Joram, “sit, sit. You’re as lean as a starving wolf.” He grinned. “Though I fear I indulge too much at the table, and must confess to gluttony every week.”

  “There are worse things,” said Ridmark, sitting across from Joram, “than gluttony. One never knows if there will be food tomorrow.”

  “A wise man,” said Joram.

  Ridmark ate. Joram did set a good table. There was bread with honey, dried fruit, and even a few pieces of leathery ham. He listened to Joram discuss his children and the various problems of governing Dun Licinia.

  “Offering me hospitality,” said Ridmark, “will get you in trouble with Tarrabus Carhaine.”

  “Tarrabus Carhaine can…” said Joram, and stopped himself. “I am sworn to the Dux of the Northerland, not the Dux of Caerdracon. If my liege the Dux Gareth Licinius has a problem with my actions, I am sure he will inform me in short order.”

  “It might get you into trouble with your wife,” said Ridmark. “She never did like me.”

  “That concerns me more,” admitted Joram. “But a knight is supposed to be hospitable. And that duty might cause me more…difficultly, I fear.”

  “Just from me?” said Ridmark. “As soon as we finish, I am returning to the Wilderland. I could very well never return.”

  He had not expected to return the first time.

  “Not from you,” said Joram. “From a different, more…troublesome guest.”

  “How is he a troublesome guest?” said Ridmark.

  “I lost him.”

  “Ah.”

  “And the Dux,” said Joram, “will be upset if I cannot get him back.”

  “What kind of guest?” said Ridmark.

  “A dwarf.”

  Ridmark frowned. “A noble from the Three Kingdoms?”

  Joram shook his head. “No. Well, he was at one time, but no longer. This dwarf insisted upon baptism. He joined the Order of Mendicants and became a friar, taking the name of Caius, after Saint Caius of old.”

  Ridmark stopped eating to listen. “A peculiar story. I have been to the Three Kingdoms…”

  Joram blinked. “You have?”

  Ridmark nodded. “They accept the High King, but they are devoted to the gods of the Deeps, the gods of stone and water and silence. I would not expect a dwarf to enter the Church.”

  “This one has,” said Joram. “Brother Caius came here with the idea to preach to the pagan orc tribes of Vhaluusk and the Wilderland.”

  “A fool notion,” said Ridmark.

  “He left the town two days ago,” said Joram, “and has not been seen since.”

  “Then he is likely dead,” said Ridmark. “This part of the Northerland is relatively safe, but it is still dangerous to travel alone. And the orcs of the Wilderland pray to the blood gods, and their shamans wield black magic and blood spells. A mendicant who tries to preach the faith to them will find his head upon a spear.”

  “I fear you are correct,” said Joram.

  “And,” said Ridmark, “you want me to find him, don’t you?”

  Joram sighed. “Am I truly so transparent? Of course, you were always the clever one.” He shook his head. “The Dux’s letter said I was to treat this Caius with all honor. And if he has gotten himself killed in the Wilderland…”

  “The Dux can hardly blame you for that,” said Ridmark.

  “Nevertheless, I was his host, and he was my guest,” said Joram.

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “I will find him for you.”

  Joram blinked. “That’s it? I thought you would take more convincing.”

  “Why not?” said Ridmark. “The dwarf seems valiant, if foolish, and does not deserve to die alone in the Wilderland. I will either find him and bring him back to you, or tell you of his fate.”

  Or die trying.

  “Will that not take time from your…other task?” said Joram. “The search for the Frostborn?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn are extinct.” He knew better, but continued speaking. “Joram, you were always a friend to me, and you have shown me kindness now. I know you wished to persuade me…but I have been persuaded. I will find Brother Caius for you.”

  And, perhaps, he would find his death. But that did not trouble him. He had ranged over the length and breadth of the Wilderland, following the long-dead urdmordar’s prophecy of the Frostborn, following the warning the undead dark elven wizard had given him…and he had defeated every foe he had faced in that time.

  But perhaps hunting for this strange dwarf would kill him.

  And then, at last, he would have peace.

  “Thank you,” said Joram. “You will have whatever help you require.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “This is what I need.”

  ###

  An hour later Ridmark walked to Dun Licinia’s northern gate, staff in his left hand, gray cloak hanging from his shoulders, and a pack of fresh supplies on his back. The men-at-arms he had confronted earlier gave him wary glances, but Ridmark ignored them. He stepped through the gate and gazed north, at the flowing River Marcaine, the cultivated fields, the tree-choked slopes, the narrow road…and the great dark mass of the Black Mountain. A mile tall, the Black Mountain stood like a dark fist thrusting from the earth. The high elves of old had considered it cursed, along with the orcs and the beastmen and the halflings and the manetaurs and every other kindred to cross through the lands that became the High King’s realm of Andomhaim.

  And Brother Caius had gone to that mountain, intending to preach the word of the Dominus Christus to the orcish tribes living in its northern foothills.

  Ridmark shook his head, half in admiration, half in annoyance, and started walking. The road lead to the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance, burned during the civil wars of the Pendragon princes fifty years past. It was a logical place for Caius to make camp, though bandits or orcs or other renegades might have taken shelter in the ruins.

  He kept walking, and the fields
began to thin out, patches of bristly pine forest appearing here and there. Ridmark supposed hardly anyone took the road north. Dun Licinia was the very northern edge of the Northerland, and beyond lay the vast Wilderland, with all its unknown lands and dangerous creatures.

  Only a madman or a fool ventured into the Wilderland.

  So Ridmark kept walking.

  “You!”

  He stopped, left hand tightening around his staff.

  A stocky middle-aged man in the rough clothes of a freeholder climbed onto the road, his face red with anger. He carried a spear, its head worn but still sharp. The man held his weapon competently, but it would have been the easiest thing in the world for Ridmark to swing his staff and break the freeholder’s wrists.

  Instead he said, “Have I wronged you in some way?”

  “You’ve been taking my pigs,” said the freeholder.

  “I have not,” said Ridmark.

  The freeholder sneered. “Aye, you have. I’ve seen you lurking in the woods, snatching my pigs when my back is turned. Outlaws, I knew it! Sir Joram’s constable wouldn’t listen to me. Well, they should have listened to Peter of Dun Licinia! I have captured an outlaw! You will come with me now…”

  Ridmark sighed, stepped forward, and thrust his staff. It caught the spear just behind the head, and sent the weapon tumbling. Peter’s eyes went wide, and Ridmark rested the end of his staff on the freeholder’s throat.

  “Or,” said Ridmark, “you could admit that I did not steal your pigs, and let me go on my way.”

  “Or that,” said Peter.

  Ridmark frowned. “How many pigs have been stolen?”

  “Five. Prime hogs, too.”

  “When did this start?” said Ridmark.

  “Two days ago,” said Peter.

  Ridmark nodded. Caius had departed Dun Licinia two days ago. Had the dwarven friar gone bandit?

  Or, more likely, whatever had killed and eaten Caius was now stealing and eating Peter’s hogs.

  There were far worse things than pagan orcs in the Wilderland.

  “Your pen,” said Ridmark. “Show me.”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed. “So you can steal my hogs?”