The Cavalier Trilogy: Book 02 - The Rise of Malbeck

by Jason McWhirter

  THE RISE OF MALBECK

  JASON L. MCWHIRTER

  A Twiin Entertainment book

  Books by Jason L. McWhirter

  THE CAVALIER TRILOGY

  Book 1: The Cavalier

  Praise for THE CAVALIER, book one in this series

  “The Cavalier (Book One of the Cavalier Trilogy) is a descriptively strong story, staying true to the style of similar fantasy novels. If you enjoy being drawn into a world laced with heroes, goblins, orcs and magic, then this is the story for you.”

  Fantasy Book Review (M.G. Russell)

  Book 2: The Rise of Malbeck

  Book 3: Glimmer in the Shadow

  Soon to be out…the last book in the Cavalier Trilogy

  Published by Twiin Entertainment

  www.twiinentertainment.com

  Copyright 2012 Jason L. McWhirter

  Library of Congress

  All rights reserved

  Cover and title page art by Christian Quinot

  Oak tree drawing by Katherine Bronstad

  Map by Jason McWhirter

  Edited by Linda McWhirter and Sarah Finley

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored electronically, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this book to my wife, Jodi. She is the most incredible person I have ever met. I am thankful for her constant support. I am thankful for her amazing marketing and networking skills. She is my unofficial publicist and I couldn’t ask for one that was more supportive and dedicated to helping me get my trilogy out to the public. She brings substance to my dreams. Thank you, my love.

  Acknowledgements:

  There is a long history to the process by which I decided to write a fantasy trilogy. I’ve read so many fantasy books and spent so much time thinking of adventures that it would be impossible for me to create my own ideas without giving credit to the very authors and artists who inspired me to write and create my own works of literature. Their stories helped inspire my own.

  So let me start by thanking some of the authors that first turned me on to reading fantasy. Lloyd Alexander tops the list as one of the first authors I read when I was ten years old. After that I moved on to Tolkien, R.A. Salvatore, Simon Hawke, and Gary Gygax. Then in my college years I started reading David Gemmell, Terry Brooks, and Elizabeth Moon. In fact, it was when I had read Moon’s Paksennarion books that I was inspired to begin formulating my own ‘Paladin-like’ story based on a similar character that I had created many years ago in my adolescent Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. I continued to read many of these authors as I got older, and I discovered new writers as well, writers such as Jim Butcher, Brent Weeks, Vince Flynn, and Wilber Smith. There are many more authors I’m currently reading, not just those in the fantasy genre, but also those who write action/adventure, and even some suspense/thriller novels. Each author has given me ideas and has influenced my style, providing me with a foundation from which I can learn, experiment, and improve my skills. It’s a wonderful ongoing process by which I hope to continue developing as a writer

  Lastly I’d like to thank TSR and all the creators of Dungeons and Dragons. I spent so many years in middle school and high school playing the game and dreaming of sword wielding heroes and fire breathing dragons, that it would be inconceivable not to acknowledge the impact that the game had on my writing today, providing me with a plethora of ideas for stories, themes, characters, and conflicts.

  Maybe someday I, too, can inspire another writer, just as all these artists have inspired me. Thanks for the adventures, the journeys to other worlds, times, and places, and the ability to step out of myself for some precious moments in time!

  Shyann's symbol: Carved on the door at

  the Annurien Kulam

  Dated 4045 of the Kraawinian Calendar

  Artist: Cureleon Amorst

  THE RISE OF

  MALBECK

  BOOK TWO OF THE CAVALIER TRILOGY

  JASON L.

  MCWHIRTER

  Prologue

  The Sharneen warrior rode his horse slowly northeast, toward Finarth. It had been a long road for the assassin, the longest yet in his accomplished career. A month of hard riding had brought him to a distant land, a land forested with strange trees, steep mountains, and cold winters. These harsh lands made the foreigner eager to perform his task so he could return to the east where he was known and where his name was whispered with fear in taverns and dark alleys…Uthgil, the quick blade.

  As he meandered along the trail, he looked inwardly, thinking about the job ahead, while his eyes scanned outward, always looking for some unseen threat. This was a task that he was being paid a king’s ransom to perform, but one he would have done for free, just for the challenge of it.

  He was simply the best. He had never met a warrior who could defeat him, nor equal his skill with a blade. The assassin could move as quietly as an elf in the forest, and he killed with a speed and precision that was unmatched. There was no castle he couldn’t breach, no wall he couldn’t climb, and no target that he couldn’t kill.

  Uthgil was of average height for his race, but short in comparison to the race of men in the west. His skin was brown, tanned from the hot sun of the east, and his hair was as black as a demon’s heart. He wore it tied back in a knot at his neck. Dark oval eyes slanting at the corners gave him an exotic look, but it was the black pupils that gave someone pause. Devoid of emotion, they reflected an emptiness that was a warning to most that this man was capable of anything. His black leather armor had been enchanted by magic, making it as strong as plate mail yet as light and supple as a deer skin vest. Two unique blades adorned his hips, each about as long as his forearm, both razor sharp and double sided, with the pommels slightly curved to perfectly fit his hand. Each knife had a cross piece that extended on one side of the handle, wrapping around the hand and ending in a smaller razor sharp blade about the size of his finger. The guard was used to protect his hands and the short knife gave him a tool to deal death on both ends. They were unusual weapons that had cost him a year’s wages to have crafted, and equally that much to have enchanted by wizards. A leather bandolier on each wrist carried three small throwing daggers, and his armor was equipped with several hidden sheaths at his chest which held four throwing darts, two that carried lethal amounts of poison and two that were laced with a sleeping draught. Strapped to the side of his horse was a light crossbow of his own design that could shoot two small bolts, one on each side of the stock. He could spin the weapon quickly, firing each bolt within a heartbeat. The Sharneen assassin had mastered every weapon conceivable and had perfected every known fighting style. His pursuit of martial excellence had occupied every moment of his entire life.

  It had been one night, many weeks ago, while working in a city far to the east that an aged man had materialized in his room. Uthgil could tell that the man was a powerful wizard. He had encountered many powerful people in his life, but this man had an aura of power beyond any he had previously felt. So, keeping his blades sheathed, he had let the scene play out.

  The old man had given him a name, a name he had heard of, a place, and a large bag of gold, much more than his normal price, and had asked that
the man be eliminated. It was more a command than a request, but he took the job with a nod of his head, for the name alone sparked enough interest in the assassin that the exorbitant payment would not have been needed. The old wizard disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

  A silence in the forest alerted the Sharneen that he was not alone. His senses quickly took over and he cleared his mind, focusing on the disturbance he detected, gently stroking the crossbow strapped to the side of his horse.

  When three men leaped from the brush no more than four paces away, he was not surprised. The lead brigand carried a sword while the two men behind him held short bows drawn tight. They wore heavy wool woodsmen’s clothes that were dirty and tattered. Equally unkempt were their old and tarnished weapons. It was obvious to Uthgil that these men were mere thieves, not accomplished warriors.

  Uthgil spat in disgust but said nothing as he slowed his horse to a halt. He sat casually on the saddle with his right hand resting gently on the pommel of his crossbow.

  “We’ll be having that fine horse and anything else of value,” announced the bearded thief holding the sword. The man appeared to be around fifty winters. His face was haggard and his skin was tanned and leathery from exposure to the elements.

  The Sharneen didn’t move or speak, he simply lifted his dark eyes giving the leader a deadly glare so pronounced that the man stepped back a pace, pausing and taking a gulp before he spoke again. “Did you hear me? Give us your goods and you might walk from here alive,” he demanded weakly, his voice having lost much of its former confidence.

  “Shall we stick him like a pig?” asked one of the bowmen behind the leader. The man was young and beardless and his bow was shaking slightly, his eyes darting from his leader to the Sharneen like a nervous squirrel.

  Finally Uthgil spoke up. His voice was low, but it carried the threat of a sword being slowly drawn from its scabbard. “The story of your pitiful lives can continue, or end here, it’s up to you.” He spoke in the common tongue, but his accent was thick and noticeable. “Sheath that blade, lower the bows, and return to wherever you call home,” he paused, and then continued, “And that goes for the men behind me as well.” The Sharneen spoke a bit louder on the last phrase so the two men hiding in the woods could hear him.

  Since their hiding spot was now unveiled the two thieves behind the Sharneen slowly emerged from the forest. One held a pitted short sword, the other a long spear.

  “He’s a foreigner,” spat the bowman with the spear. “Let’s just kill him.”

  Uthgil looked down at the pitiful man with undisguised contempt. The bowman was thin as a rail with a face covered in pock marks. He then turned his attention to the leader, who shifted his feet nervously. Then the assassin saw it, the subtle clue he was looking for. The leader’s feet stopped suddenly and his knuckles turned white as he gripped his sword tighter. He saw the man’s jaw muscles flex and the weight of his body shift to his back foot, all signs of intended action.

  “Bad move,” the assassin whispered, his left hand whipping out and releasing a dart from the bandolier on his chest, his right hand bringing the crossbow up and in-line with the bowman on his right, letting the bolt fly just as the bowman released his arrow.

  The bowman on the left was struck with the dart in the neck before he could release the shaft. Dropping the bow he grabbed at the dart, all the while falling to his knees, the deadly poison quickly doing its work.

  The Sharneen ducked behind the horse’s head as the arrow from the other bowman came whistling by, narrowly missing his shoulder, but his own bolt struck true, skewering the young man through the throat. Uthgil never missed.

  The leader of the group of thieves swung his sword at the side of the horse hoping to take the assassin in the leg, but Uthgil pivoted the horse towards the warrior and the brigand’s sword struck the horse in the neck. Whinnying in pain, the horse fell to its knees just as Uthgil leaped from the animal’s back, landing on his side and rolling to his feet with the crossbow in his right hand.

  The Sharneen assassin spun the small weapon, firing the second bolt into the warrior while whirling around and side stepping the spear tip as its wielder lunged forward. Uthgil felt the wind from the thrust on his face, but he never slowed. Dropping the crossbow he drew one of his knives and stepped into the spearman so quickly that the man didn’t even have time to draw his spear back. He brought the blade across the spearman’s abdomen and then back across his chest as he spun away to engage the swordsman.

  The young swordsman stared at the Sharneen, eyes wide with fright. Then he turned and ran for the brush. Reaching to a wrist, the Sharneen flung a dagger side armed at the fleeing man, the move so fast that even if you were looking right at him you’d barely notice it. The dagger struck the man in the back, causing him to stumble forward at the side of the road.

  Uthgil looked around to make sure that everyone else was down. Then he started walking toward the doomed swordsman. The man was moaning in pain and struggling to crawl forward across the muddy road. Uthgil reached down, grabbing the man’s hair on the back of his head. He pulled back hard, bringing his razor sharp knife across the man’s exposed and tightly arched neck. There was a release of pressure and the sound of blood splattering the ground. The young thief instantly stopped moving, his blood draining quickly from his body. Uthgil released the man’s hair, dropping his face into the bloody mud, and turned to face the carnage, using his cloak to wipe the crimson from his blade.

  “That warms the blood,” he said, a smile of pleasure transforming his face.

  One

  A Calling

  Jonas, cavalier to the goddess Shyann, led the warriors increasingly further from the city of Finarth. Mounted on Tulari, the magnificent horse given to him by Shyann, he led the men through the tall grass of the Finarthian hills. The cool winds from the north were brisk, but tolerable, and created an ocean of green waves in the gentle hills. Far ahead lay the thick forests of the Tundren Mountains, whose snow covered peaks, resembling giant fangs bursting from the earth, were clearly visible even at the immense distance.

  Tulari could travel long distances without tiring, as could Kormac. Kormac was the mount of Taleen, cavalier to the god, Bandris, and she had been with Jonas ever since the fight with the Greever, the demon sent by Malbeck to kill him. She had arrived just in time, and together, along with Kiln, they were able to defeat the powerful demon.

  Fil’s horse, however, though strong and powerful, did not have the god endowed power of the cavalier mounts, and needed to rest. Nevertheless, their pace was strong and they had made good time over the last few weeks. As they neared the Tundrens, the grasslands began to melt into sporadic pockets of trees which eventually gave way to a thick growth of colossal timber.

  Jonas, on Tulari, led the procession. Fil followed closely behind, with Taleen bringing up the rear. They had been riding hard all day, but now, later in the evening, they led their horses at a more leisurely pace, their riders pulling their cloaks around them hoping for some protection against the brisk evening air. Jonas, as well as Fil and Taleen, were lost in thought as he led his comrades toward the Tundrens. They were on a mission, sanctioned by Shyann herself, to find and save King Kromm of Tarsis.

  Jonas’s mind drifted from event to event, thinking about all that had recently happened. Soon after the army of Lord Moredin was defeated at the Lindsor Bridge, Jonas had received a calling from Shyann. He was instructed to go to Tarsis, in all haste, and find the warrior king. It was a task he eagerly embraced. Tarsis had been destroyed and the city’s king and army had scattered into the outlying areas. Taleen, a second rank cavalier, was asked by Shyann to accompany him on this important task.

  As far as they knew, they were the only two remaining cavaliers. This possibility had not been lost on Kiln, the new war commander of Finarth. He had, in fact, complained about losing these two powerful warriors, though he knew their mission must be of grave importance if Shyann sanctioned it. Kiln and the new king of
Finarth, King Baylin Gavinsteal, had the formidable task of preparing Finarth for a siege, a siege that would be brought to them by Malbeck the Dark One, who, by all accounts, was now marching his army from Tarsis to Finarth, the last remaining stronghold in the East. The battle with Moradin’s army was just a prelude to what was coming. Malbeck would destroy the holdings and towns alike along the southern path to Finarth. This conquest and the winter snows would surely slow him, giving Finarth plenty of time to prepare. Or so they hoped.

  King Uthrayne Gavinsteal, Baylin’s father, had been murdered by his own adopted son, Prince Nelstrom, who had become an agent of Naz-reen and a follower of Malbeck. The poor boy had been compromised long ago by the treachery of the Forsworn, their dark designs slowly poisoning him until he was nothing but a shell of his former self. He was also Kiln’s real son, although few knew that. Jonas had defeated the demon prince, but not before Nelstrom had managed to slit the king’s throat while he slept.

  Now the throne was being guarded by his only remaining son, Baylin Gavinsteal, who had been captured, tortured, and nearly killed by Moredin’s forces. Jonas, Kiln, and Alerion, the king’s wizard, had been teleported into Lord Moredin’s tent, where they had killed the occupants, including Lord Moredin himself, and succeeded in their mission to rescue the tortured prince. He had suffered grievous wounds, wounds that left more than just physical scars. Prince Baylin had lost his manhood, the flesh cut off by a Dykreel cleric, one that was now dead, dispatched by Jonas’s swords.