The Soldier's Tale

by Jonathan Moeller

  The blade struck the crown of the Mhorite’s head, sending the warrior sprawling to die beneath the hooves of my horse.

  I turned my mount, seeking new foes, but the battle was already over.

  It hadn’t been that long, but a battle always felt like an eternity. Most of the Mhorites had been slain or crippled in the fury of our charge, and the dwarves had burst from their formation, killing with every step. The surviving Mhorites fled to the west as fast as their legs could carry them, and a few bands of our veterans were hunting them down at leisure. I sought for any wounded. The Mhorite wounded were too dangerous to leave alive, and we would dispatch them with a quick slash to the throat. I didn’t see any our men wounded, which surprised me. There were always causalities in battle, no matter how well things went…

  My frown deepened.

  Romilius lay sprawled upon the ground, twitching a little as he stared at the sky. His horse wandered a few yards away. An axe blow had penetrated his armor, carving a hideous gash down his chest and into his side. His innards hadn’t quite fallen out, but if he moved, he would likely die.

  “Mallister!” I shouted. “Wounded!”

  Mallister galloped over, took one look at Romilius, and grimaced.

  My headache pulsed and throbbed behind my eyes.

  “Can you heal him?” I said.

  “No,” said Mallister, his voice grim. “The wound is too severe. It is beyond my skill. One of the masters of the Magistri could perhaps manage it…but I fear I cannot. I am sorry.”

  The headache thundered through my skull.

  I dropped from my saddle, looking down at the dying young man. He was awake, but I don’t think he was completely conscious. That, at least, was a small mercy. He was an orphan, so I wouldn’t have to write a letter to his mother and father. I suppose the monks of St. Matthew would need to know…

  His hideous wounds seemed to burn before my eyes.

  The pain in my head was indescribable. Like fire welling up inside of my skull.

  “Camorak?” said Mallister. “Camorak, are you wounded?”

  “I…I don’t think so,” I said. “God, the fire…”

  I shook my head, which was a bad idea, since that made it hurt worse. The fire in my blood seemed to intensify further.

  Mallister’s eyes got wide. “Camorak! My God! What are you…”

  I fell to my knees next to Romilius, and the fire in my blood seemed to burst from my skin. The wounds in the boy’s torso called to the fire, and I focused upon it, directing the fire towards it.

  And I pulled his wound into me.

  I screamed as pain erupted through me, as I felt the axe blow rip my chest open. I wanted to push the pain away, to shove it back into Romilius and let him die. Instead I gritted my teeth and held on, forcing the pain to remain in my flesh as the fire poured into Romilius.

  And then all the pain vanished, and my headache disappeared with it.

  “By the Dominus Christus,” whispered Mallister.

  Romilius’s wounds had vanished. He sat up, looking bewildered.

  “Optio?” he said. “What…happened?”

  “Oh, good. I think my headache went away,” I said.

  I fell over and passed out.

  ###

  “The magic of the Well of Tarlion has manifested within you,” said Mallister.

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. I’m not…I’m not a Magistrius.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Mallister, “that you’ll have to be.”

  We stood on the road with Sir Primus as the men went about their work. The dwarves tended to their wounded, and the men-at-arms prepared to escort the taalvar and his warriors to Castra Durius.

  “It is the law of the High King,” said Mallister. “All those who manifest magical ability must be taken to Tarlion to be trained in the ways of the Order of the Magistri.”

  “I’m twenty-seven years old,” I said. “I thought only children were trained as Magistri.”

  “Sometimes the power manifests at a later age,” said Mallister. “As it did for you. Look at it this way, Camorak. You saved Romilius. Perhaps now you will have a chance to save others.”

  “I am a soldier,” I said. “A man-at-arms in service to the Dux of Durandis.”

  “Optio Camorak,” said Primus. “I think the time has come to give you my final order. Go to Tarlion with Mallister, and train to become a Magistrius.”

  I sighed. “As you command, sir.”

  It seemed my time as a soldier was finished, yet that did not trouble me as much as I thought.

  I thought of Romilius, of the leader and knight he would one day be because he had not died from the axe wound.

  My duty as a soldier was over, but perhaps it was time for a different duty.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading THE SOLDIER'S TALE. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on my Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189). Turn the page for a bonus chapter from the first FROSTBORN adventure, Frostborn: The First Quest (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4439).

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  FROSTBORN: THE FIRST QUEST Chapter 1 - The Archmage

  In the Year of Our Lord 1469, the court of the Dux Gareth Licinius celebrated the Festival of the Resurrection in the great hall of Castra Marcaine.

  Ridmark Arban walked across the hall, his boots clicking against the black and white tiles of the floor. He wore his finest tunic and mantle, both crimson with gold trim. A sword belt of black leather encircled his waist, the soulblade Heartwarden resting in its scabbard there. He felt the sword’s magic, his link to its power. He had felt it ever since he had become a Swordbearer, ever since he had spent the night in vigil in the Chamber of the Well within High King’s citadel of Tarlion.

  But now the sword’s magic was quiet.

  For today was not a day of battle, but a day of celebration.

  The gates of the Castra had been thrown wide, and townsmen and freeholders from the nearby farms filled the courtyards, feasting and drinking in honor of the Dominus Christus’s resurrection and the Dux’s generosity. Ridmark thought it a curious custom, but found that he approved. He had grown up in the south, in the court of Castra Arban, in the great cities of Tarlion and Cintarra. There the high nobles, the Comites and the Duxi, kept themselves aloof from the townsmen and the freeholders.

  But here in the Northerland, life was harder and more dangerous. The southern reaches of Andomhaim had been cleansed of creatures of dark magic since the defeat of the urdmordar and the Frostborn, but the Northerland was far more dangerous. Urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things haunted the hills. Pagan orcs raided out of the Wilderland, and kobolds dragged victims into the darkness of the Deeps.

  Rich and poor, lords and commoners, often had to fight side by side.

  And so they feasted together to celebrate the end of winter and the end of Lent.

  Ridmark joined a man and a boy who stood together near one of the pillars. The man was short and stocky, with curly red hair and green eyes, while the boy was tall and lean, with olive-colored skin and black hair. The man was nineteen years old, Ridmark’s age, while the boy was still sixteen, but neither one of them were Swordbearers.

  Few men carried a soulblade at the age of nineteen.

  But, then, few men had slain an urdmordar at the age of eighteen.

  Ridmark pushed aside the thought. He had earned great renown for that victory, but he did not want to think about Gothalinzur now.

  Nor of the disturbing things she had told him.

  “Sir Ridmark,” said Sir Joram Agramore, the shorter of the two men. “A blessed day to you.” He was already slightly unsteady on his feet, no doubt from his fondness for wine. “A pity the tournament is not today.”

  The boy, Constantine Licinius
, frowned. “Today is a holy day, Sir Joram, and it is proper that we do not fight, but dwell in peace.”

  “Yes, true enough,” said Joram, “but we must be vigilant. The pagan orcs and the dark elves do not respect holy days, and we must be ready to fight. Did not the Frostborn come out of the north on the day of the Festival of the Nativity? A knight of Andomhaim must ever be ready for battle!”

  Ridmark laughed. “So we must fight in the tournament to prepare for battle?”

  “Exactly!” said Joram. “You understand, sir. Indeed, you understand better than most. A Swordbearer at eighteen? Ha!” He slapped Ridmark upon the shoulder. “You’ll have your pick of the ladies, I’m sure.”

  “Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of Taliand will likely pick his wife,” said Constantine.

  Joram grinned. “Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of Taliand has four older sons. Likely he will let the Hero of Victrix pick his own wife.”

  “Don’t call me that,” said Ridmark.

  “Anyway, I think,” said Joram, “that the man who earnestly claims not to be the Hero of Victrix already has his mind made up.”

  He looked across the hall, and Ridmark followed his gaze.

  The Dux of the Northerland, Gareth Licinius, stood upon the dais, clad simply in a red tunic and mantle. Like Constantine, he had olive-colored skin, though his black hair had long ago turned gray. His family claimed descent from Septimius Severus, one of the Emperors of the Romans from Old Earth, and Gareth indeed looked like an emperor, stern and commanding. His older sons, all knights and Swordbearers and Comites of renown, stood near him.

  Aelia stood next to the Dux, watching her father as he spoke.

  She resembled both her father and her brothers, with the same curly black hair and green eyes. Yet she was beautiful, radiantly so, and Ridmark felt a little jolt whenever he looked at her. He had learned to distrust beauty after he had learned how the urdmordar and their daughters could shapeshift into forms of stunning loveliness.

  Yet Aelia did not have a malicious bone in her body. She had taken over much of the household management of Castra Marcaine after her mother had died. And she saw to it that no one in Castra Marcaine or its town when hungry, that the sick and orphans and widows were cared for in the town’s church.

  She saw him looking, smiled, and then looked down. Her younger sister Imaria caught him looking and scowled.

  “Ha!” said Joram, slapping Ridmark on the shoulder again. “The Lady Aelia likes you, my friend.”

  Ridmark expected Constantine to protest, but the squire only nodded. “Indeed, Sir Ridmark. I think you would make a worthy husband for my sister. Certainly better than some of her other suitors.”

  Joram snorted. “And who might you mean by that?”

  “It would be uncouth and unbecoming to say, sir,” said Constantine, and then fell silent.

  The man Constantine meant walked towards them, his followers trailing after.

  Ridmark stepped forward, resisting the urge to reach for Heartwarden. Another knight approached him, a tall, lean man about Ridmark’s own age with close-cropped blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and blue eyes like disks of ice. Several other knights followed him, like wolves trailing the leader of the pack.

  They stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak.

  “Sir Ridmark,” said Tarrabus Carhaine at last.

  “Sir Tarrabus,” said Ridmark.

  They had never gotten along, from the day both had arrived at Castra Marcaine to serve as squires. Later Ridmark had tried to put their rivalry behind him. Tarrabus was the eldest son of the Dux of Caerdracon, would one day be the Dux himself. If he was arrogant and proud, that was no different from the children of many other lords and knights, and perhaps Tarrabus would grow out of it.

  But while he could not deny Tarrabus’s courage or skill with a blade, Ridmark’s dislike of the man had only grown. He was brutal and merciless to anyone in his way. If a freeholder or a townsman annoyed him, he sent his followers to harass and torment the unfortunate man. Once, when they had gotten drunk together with the other squires, he had told Ridmark that he thought of the peasants as cattle, as beasts to be shaped and used as their lords wished.

  Ridmark had given up trying to make peace with Tarrabus after that, and would have preferred to ignore him.

  But Tarrabus wanted to wed Aelia, and Tarrabus would one day be the Dux of Caerdracon.

  “A blessed Festival of the Resurrection to you, Swordbearer,” said Tarrabus. He was always polite. Ridmark had heard that Tarrabus had once killed a man, and then bid his children a pleasant day before departing.

  “And you, sir knight,” said Ridmark. “I did not see you at the mass this morning.”

  The knights behind him laughed, but Tarrabus lifted a hand and they fell silent at once.

  “I attended private masses in the chapel at dawn,” said Tarrabus, “as is proper for a man of noble birth, rather than attending the church of the ignorant rabble in the town. I sometimes think the teachings of the church are useful for the commoners, to teach them how best to spend their insignificant lives, but are useless for men of power and rank.”

  “That borders upon blasphemy,” said Constantine.

  Tarrabus spread his hands. “Have I denied God or his Dominus Christus? I have not. God has given us, the lords of Andomhaim, power over lesser men. We must use it as we see fit.”

  “We must use it for the defense and welfare of the realm,” said Ridmark, “not to glorify ourselves.”

  Tarrabus almost smiled. “You shall quote the Pact of the Two Orders at me next, sir.”

  “It speaks wisdom,” said Ridmark. “The Magistri are only to use their magic for defense, for knowledge, and for healing. Never to harm another mortal. It is a wise provision. Else we shall be like the dark elves, ruled by cruel sorcerers of power, or like the pagan orcs, beholden to shamans of blood spells.”

  “Perhaps we are not wise,” said Tarrabus. “Perhaps it would be better if we used our magic as a weapon. The dark elves can live for millennia, and the urdmordar are immortal. We live but a short span of years, and face foes of tremendous power. Perhaps if we used magic to elevate ourselves, to ascend…”

  “As Eve ate of the tree to ascend to the knowledge of good and evil?” said Ridmark.

  Tarrabus offered a short, hard smile. “Let us leave theological speculation to the priests. There is news of more immediate interest. It seems that the Dux wishes for his daughter to wed soon.”

  Constantine frowned. “It is unseemly to gossip about my sister, sir.”

  One of Tarrabus’s knights, a scowling man named Paul Tallmane, glared at Constantine. “You should keep a respectful tongue in your mouth, boy. You are addressing the future Dux of Caerdracon."

  Again Tarrabus lifted a hand, and Paul stopped talking. “What gossip is there, boy? I merely repeat common knowledge. The Dux is fond of his grandchildren, and he would like more. And Aelia is a noblewoman both fair in face and character, ripe to be wed.”

  Ridmark shrugged. “I am sure the Dux will choose a worthy husband for her.”

  “A man of high noble birth, set to rise higher,” said Tarrabus.

  “Or,” said Joram, “a knight of renown, who has made a name with great deeds. A Swordbearer, perhaps.” He shrugged. “Though I am sure I cannot think of such a man.”

  Tarrabus started to answer, then the Dux cleared his throat, the hall falling silent.

  “My friends,” said Dux Gareth Licinius in his deep voice, “I bid you welcome to my hall, on this joyous day of Our Lord’s resurrection. We have faced many challenges this winter, with raids from both the orcs of the Wilderland and from the Deep.” He nodded in Ridmark’s direction. “And an urdmordar even sought to enslave one of our villages. But by God’s mercy and the valor of our knights, we have survived, and both Lent and the winter are over. Let us then give thanks to God, and make merry with food and drink and dancing.” A page hurried over with a goblet of wine, and Gareth took a
drink and lifted the goblet.

  “To the Northerland and the High King!” he shouted.

  “To the Northerland and the High King!” the guests roared back.

  A cheer went through the hall, and the musicians upon the balconies started playing a lively song. The lords and the knights went to the ladies and started to pair up, dancing over the black and white tiles of the floor.

  “Pardon me, sirs,” said Ridmark, with a bow to both Tarrabus and Joram.

  Tarrabus opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Ridmark strode away and approached the Dux’s dais.

  Gareth looked at him, an amused look on his face. “Sir Ridmark.”

  “My lord Dux,” said Ridmark. “I hope you are well.”

  “I am,” said Gareth, “for a man of my age. Ah, but these northern winters get harder to endure every year.”

  “I wish to ask something of you, my lord,” said Ridmark.

  “Certainly. You did a great service to my lands and people when you slew the urdmordar Gothalinzur.”

  “I ask for the honor of the first dance of the evening with Lady Aelia,” said Ridmark.

  Gareth chuckled. “Well, that is hardly mine to give.” He looked at his daughter.

  Aelia smiled. “If I must, father, I shall bear up under this dreadful burden.” She grinned, holding out a hand, and Ridmark took it. His hand went on her left hip, their right hands twining together, and he led her upon the floor of the hall, moving in time to the music.

  “Shall we go faster?” said Ridmark.

  Her smile widened. “Only if you think you can keep up, sir knight.”

  Ridmark laughed, their heels clicking against the floor.

  “Poor Tarrabus,” said Aelia. “He looks like he wants to rip off someone’s head.”

  Ridmark opened his mouth, and then closed it. He was only nineteen, but he still knew enough of women to realize that pointing out his rival’s flaws would not be productive.