by Jena Rey
Death’s Knight
War of the Lich, Book One
Matthew T. Summers
Jena Rey
Copyright © 2021 by Opal Kingdom Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Fiona Jayde Media
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
About the Authors
Acknowledgments
Matt: What a long, strange, fun road this has been! Just wanted to say a quick thanks to everyone that's helped me move forward - except that would take forever, so I'll just say a big "thanks!" to the whole mess! And, of course... thank YOU for reading.
Jena: As always dedicated to my sweetheart, Bryan. And to the readers: Never Give Up. Never Surrender.
Chapter One
Far in the west, the pale autumn sun dipped below the jagged edge of the mountains. Its feeble rays dragged across the land like claws, and as the light died, so too did hope. Twilight reigned, a moment of pregnant silence between light and darkness.
Then the night awoke.
True night came with a single howl, a guttural screech of hatred and defiance that no human voice gave rise to. It was quickly joined by other voices, one after another, until they echoed across the valley in snarling cacophony. To Ephema, the sound was familiar, something she had known her entire life, but familiarity didn’t mean comfort. The cries of the walking dead were never comfortable.
Tonight, there was excitement to the rage, a rising tone that meant the undead were not only walking, but had found a hunt. They hunted only one thing. No one knew why the undead ignored anything that wasn’t human. All anyone knew was it had to do with the necromantic magic that animated corpses and sent them wandering the world. Ephema never thought much about it. It was enough for her to know they hunted men and that, if they found her, they would hunt her too.
She cocked her head, listening as the noises drew near, frowned and scooped up her bag of roots and herbs. She strapped the bag across her shoulders to keep her hands free. The hunt was closer than she liked and common sense drove her to retreat to the proven safety of her cave.
Ephema scrambled up the narrow mountain path, jumping from side to side to keep her footing on the loose stone and dirt. The pathway was steep and treacherous by design, a barrier to the approach of the undead just as certain as the wards etched into the cave’s entrance and walls. Such precautions had allowed Ephema’s parents, and now her, to live outside of the heavily fortified cities in the valley below despite the danger.
By the time she slipped around the large stones that hid the cave entry from view, the skies were full of the bright points of glittering stars. In the east, the moon crested over the horizon, its light thin and silvery white. She caught her breath and lowered her bag to the cave floor. The hunting wail crescendoed and, almost against her will, Ephema returned to peer into the night. In the distance, she saw movement, humanoid shapes running and stumbling down her mountain.
If they kept going in the same direction, they were going to pass very close. She placed a hand on the small, clear sphere she wore on a silver chain around her neck. It was warm, pulsing under her fingers. She needed to take a closer look, to see who was being hunted. She carried no weapons, but maybe there was still something she could do to help. Her fingers tightened on the necklace and a tiny glimmer of light flashed deep within the globe. She murmured a soft prayer to the forgotten Goddess, Lianna, and began down the path she’d just ascended.
Darian stumbled down a trail that was little more than a goat path, desperately trying to keep his feet under him. He glanced over his shoulder and swore, putting on another burst of speed. They were still coming! The undead were not supposed to be so fast! Damn it all, nothing in his training as a Journeyman Knight of Osephetin had prepared him for undead capable of sprinting down the side of a mountain. If he survived, he was going to complain to the Training Sergeant, a thought that brought him little comfort as he half-fell, half-slid down the path.
He pulled himself through a stand of scraggly trees, breathing hard and risking another glance behind him. Only a few skeletal warriors continued to chase him, but that wasn’t reassuring. A few were more than enough to kill him. His mind insisted on replaying the moment when the caravan had been attacked, how the undead had poured into the clearing, howling and clawing. When he blinked, he saw the shadows of his fallen comrades with empty eyes, in broken, blood-drenched armor. He shook the visions away with a snarl. This was not the time or place to mourn the dead, or he would join them.
Branches snagged at his leather armor, and he dropped his hand to his waist and checked the scroll case lashed to his belt pouch. The case of bone and metal held information that he prayed was worth the lives they’d paid to retrieve it. It had been the mission of the caravan, his mission alone now, to bring the scroll back to the High Temple in Hawthan. He had to outrun his pursuers and get to the next city, any city, even a way station would do. He needed a safe place with solid walls away from this infested wilderness where Knights did not cull the wandering dead.
He slid around a boulder, a gash in his calf screaming as he demanded more of his battered body. The undead broke through the brush, and he lunged over another stone. He had never heard of the undead pursuing someone so doggedly. They were predators, yes, but usually predators of opportunity. These skeletal warriors were unusually strong, and he was certain they’d been directed in their attack, though he’d not heard of such a thing before. He remembered shouted commands in a language he didn’t recognize.
The deepening dark made the way increasingly treacherous, particularly for someone who was more accustomed to navigating a rocking ship than a rocky mountainside, but Darian didn’t dare slow down. Each time his steps faltered the sounds of the undead drew nearer, the footfalls behind him drumming out a deadly rhythm.
He saw the edge of the tree line and broke into a desperate, hobbling run, hoping for an open path, but his hopes were swallowed when his cloak caught on a scrabbly bush. The change in momentum brought him up short by the neck, and Darian turned and yanked on the thick wool. It came free, but as it did the scent of decay assaulted his nose and a ravaged body tumbled into him.
He twisted as he fell, trying to catch himself, but the motion opened up his guard and claws raked his face, narrowly missing his eyes. Darian screamed and wrenched away, his blood hot on his cheeks. He shoved the monster back and drew his mace, his feet scrambling for purchase as the earth and stone around him gave way. He found himself caught up in a flood of moving stone and wrapped his arms around his head, praying he wouldn’t crack his skull when the rock slide ceased.<
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Studded leather armor meant to shield his body from sword and claw did very little to protect him from the impact as he bounced down the pathway. Something in his left knee wrenched and dirt sprayed into his face. He felt himself briefly leave the ground as he went over a small precipice. When he landed, it was hard enough the wind was driven from his lungs and his vision blurred. Finally motionless, Darian lay flat on the barren ground, bleeding and broken, resigned to his death. He had failed.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard someone approaching. His fingers flexed around the shaft of his mace, which he’d clung to through his fall. He expected a killing blow, but he wouldn’t go to Osephetin’s halls without trying to defend himself. Dimly, he realized nothing was happening, and the howls rang distant, moving away. Confused, he squinted through bruised eyes. The approaching figure didn’t move like the undead, though in his blurred vision all he was really able to discern was the drift of pale fabric. A soft hand touched his cheek, and he bit his lip against a shriek of pain.
“It’s all right.” The voice was gentle, feminine. “You will be safe now. Rest.” The words that followed were strange, twisting around him with the familiar power of divine incantation, though they were nothing he’d ever heard or felt before.
Lethargy filled his body and the pain retreated. Darian tried to form words, but they were lost as he tumbled into darkness.
Darian woke slowly, his thoughts sluggish as though he was swimming through molasses. When he finally opened one eye, he lay in semi-darkness, the only light coming from a small bowl candle sitting on a stone ledge across the room. He lay on some soft object and a thick blanket, which smelled vaguely of goat and dirt, was tucked over him. Despite the smell, the bed was warm and encouraged him to return to sleep.
The weight of the blanket made him realize he was bare-chested and without armor, and he pushed away his weariness and sat up. The blanket fell to his waist, but he ignored it. He searched the room and relaxed slightly as his gaze came to rest on the pile of armor neatly stacked on the floor nearby, his mace, belt pouch, and the battered scroll case lying on top.
He breathed a sigh of relief, but tensed again when a realization crossed his mind which was more disturbing than the absence of his armor.
He could move.
He could see.
Granted, he felt stiff, but he was in far less pain than many of his training sessions with the Knights had left him. How was that possible?
He frowned, trying to process the changes. He remembered being injured, bleeding and unable to walk. Darian twitched aside the blanket to look at his calf and, to his utter amazement, the deep gash was gone. Had he died? Was this how one was reborn to Osephetin’s grace?
Darian flexed his fingers and took in a deep breath. No, he wasn’t dead. He was breathing and this certainly wasn’t the glory of the Dark Lord’s Hall of the Faithful. This was… a cave. His injuries were simply gone, like magic.
Like he’d been healed.
A divine magic which hadn’t existed for over a hundred years.
The conclusion was impossible, but the facts were undeniable.
“By the Dark One!” Darian’s breath heaved in his chest, and he rolled out of the bed, onto his hands and knees. The Daughters of Lianna, the Eternal Mother, were the only healers in history, and they had all been driven as mad as their goddess a century ago. They killed with their power, not healed. If one of them had found him they would have killed him, not helped him. None of this made sense.
A soft hand touched Darian’s shoulder and, driven by training and instinct, he grabbed it and swept the person’s legs out from under them. The body landed with a muffled yelp, and Darian jumped on top of the intruder, realizing it was a woman, but not slowing his defensive attack. He pressed his arm against her throat, cutting off her breath. “Who are you? Where am I?”
She tried to answer, but couldn’t. Her fingers wrapped around his forearm as she thrashed under him, managing to push his arm up enough to gasp a breath. In the dim candle light her dark eyes were wide and terrified.
He was hurting her and, despite his mission, he hesitated. She was smaller than he, and she might have saved him. Osephetin forbade hurting the innocent, and as his head grew clearer, he saw less threat and more fear in her eyes. He released the pressure against her throat just enough to let her breathe and speak, but not enough to escape.
It was enough. She drew in a breath and spat a few quick words. Pain surged up his arm where she touched him, blinding Darian with its intensity. His grip failed, and she scrambled away, throwing herself across the room and away from him.
The moment she was no longer in contact with him, his pain eased to a dull ache. Darian rubbed his head, falling back on his haunches. He assumed a defensive crouch, blinking until his vision cleared. Once he could see again, he cast about the room, surprised the woman was still present, huddled against the wall near where the candle burned.
“I…” Words failed him. What had he done? “I am sorry.”
A bright light flared from a stone at her neck, and she warily pushed herself up, her bare feet pale against the stone. Though her breath was heavy, her face was set, and her lips turned in a scowl. “When the sun comes up, you will take your things and leave. Do not come back.” She backed out of the room, and once she was out of sight, her steps turned from walking to running.
Darian sat alone in the flickering candle light, watching the flame burn deeper in the bowl. Unconsciously, his hand drifted to his leg, and his gaze lifted to the path where the woman had retreated.
Ephema sat in the cave entrance watching the sun rise. The light from the east wasn’t very warm, simply wan and weary, especially as autumn drifted toward winter. She had not slept since encountering her violent visitor. Not that she hadn’t tried, but each scratch of movement on stone had jerked her back to wakefulness, and eventually she’d given up the effort. Her throat ached as did her hip where she’d landed, and she wished, not for the first time, that her healing abilities worked on herself.
Another shift of stone caught her attention, and she turned, seeing the shadowed figure standing in her cave. She leapt to her feet, moving out of his way, but he didn’t leave. In fact, he wasn’t fully clothed yet, his armor left behind, leaving him in clothing which had once been sturdy, but was now battered and ripped by his trip down the mountain.
She stared at him, uncertain what he was going to do next. His strength was evident in the curve of muscle under his rich brown skin, but she’d already experienced that strength and what others might admire only increased her tension. Dirty red hair, which had looked black in darkness, fell into his eyes and brushed the collar of his shirt. She supposed he was handsome, though she had very little experience to compare him to.
Ephema’s fingers closed over her necklace, taking comfort from the cool chain and the smooth stone beneath her palm. “The sun is up. You can go down the mountain now.”
“Yes.” His gaze was piercing, and though his movements were still stiff, they were sure as he moved closer to her. She backed away, and he stopped, holding very still as though she was a wild animal and stillness would keep her from being spooked. “I am sorry for earlier. Are you…?” He hesitated, and she read the questions in his gaze. She didn’t want to know what he wanted to ask. She still wasn’t sure why she’d put so much effort into saving him, besides the fact he was human and didn’t deserve to die. “Are you safe here?”
The question struck Ephema as bizarre, and she couldn’t contain a soft bark of laughter. “Safety. Is there truly such a thing? I live. It is enough.” She knew she was being brisk with him, but she couldn’t shake the vision of him leaping at her. Her fingers tightened on the chain until it dug into the back of her neck. “There…there is food and water. Take it and go. The cities will have better.”
Darian shook his head. “I cannot take your food. Water would be welcome, but nothing more. You have done enough.” He met her gaze, and she was certain
he saw her fear as much as she tried to hide it. “I really am sorry for before. My convoy was attacked last night, and as far as I know they are all dead. My actions were rash, driven by fear and confusion. Our Lord Osephetin looks poorly on harming the innocent, and I have done you a grave disservice. Especially as I am certain now you saved my life.”
Osephetin. Ephema knew that name all too well. The God of Death, the Eternal Mother’s greatest love and most bitter enemy. And his…Knight? No. Her father had been a Knight, she knew this man was not. His armor was made of leather, not metal plates, and carried no bone or magic. He could not be a Knight -- at least not yet.
She repeated his words in her mind, his accent and pace of speech making her have to focus to understand him. She didn’t speak much to other people. Most of the townsfolk feared her and ignored her, except when they needed something, or she wished to barter with them. “I am sorry your friends died. I did not see any others on the mountain.” She hesitated before continuing. “Follow this path down, and it will lead you to a wider road and the town beyond. Do not speak of Osephetin in Aserian. His temple is closed, his disciples long gone. Those who still worship do so quietly. Many have chosen the lost god Neikan for their devotions instead. Their worship has not stopped the undead.”
“What? Why? Where was the Knight in Residence?”
“He left, five years ago. No one came for a long time. When some people did, they called themselves Followers, not Knights. They were bad, and the council made them leave. No one else has come until you.”