Dragontiarna: Knights

by Moeller, Jonathan

  After about ten minutes, something came through the gate.

  But it wasn’t a goblin, nor was it an armored giant.

  It was a human man riding a gray war horse, clad in golden armor, a white cloak streaming from his shoulders and a burning sword in his right hand.

  ***

  Chapter 15: Ruins of Empire

  Sir Tyrcamber Rigamond, Dragontiarna Knight of the Empire, gazed at the burning shell of Castle Grimnir.

  The castle was a strong fortress, surrounded by the waters of the River Bellex on its northern, eastern, and southern sides, its towers stark against the yellow-orange light of the sky fire. The curtain wall was tall and thick, and every so often watch towers rose from the wall, topped with siege engines. Despite its strength, the castle had changed hands multiple times since the dark elven lord called the Valedictor had launched his invasion of the Empire four years past. First, the Valedictor’s massive invasion had overrun the duchy of Valstrasia, and the Duke had lost his castle. Later, the Duke had launched a counter-attack and reclaimed his ancient seat. That had proven to be ill-advised because it left the forces of Valstrasia overextended, and the Valedictor had swept back into Valstrasia and reconquered Castle Grimnir. The Duke had fallen in the fighting, his son Hulderic inheriting his lands and titles, and the shattered forces of Valstrasia had fallen all the way back to Sinderost, the capital of the Empire and seat of the Emperor.

  Sinderost, where the Emperor had led his armies in a final stand against the hordes of the Valedictor.

  Where the Emperor had fallen, and Tyrcamber had met his destiny.

  Over and over again.

  He shuddered and closed his eyes, forcing aside the memory.

  Commanding an army of six thousand men and gnolls was not the time to show weakness.

  Tyrcamber had thought the war over when he had slain the Valedictor and burned the dark elven lord’s host. But the Valedictor had been served by many vassals and lieutenants, whether lesser dark elven nobles or goblin and ogre chieftains. They could not cooperate with each other and squabbled constantly, but they each sought to claim a piece of the Empire for their own personal fiefdom.

  And the Emperor had been dead for two years, and the surviving Dukes had been unable to elect a successor.

  Which meant the traitors to the Empire and the Imperial Church felt free to show themselves openly.

  The Fallen Order had come out of the shadows, and their Master now led hosts of the undead against the Empire. Perhaps worse, the Dragon Cult had declared itself, and now a Dragonmaeloch who had once been Duke Merovech Valdraxis of Swabathia led an army against the nobles of the Empire.

  Five Heralds of Ruin, the Guardian Rilmael had said.

  Perhaps those Heralds even now walked the reeling Empire.

  But for now, for this battle, the men of the Empire were going to win the victory.

  The final stronghold of the Signifier was about to fall, and when it did, the duchy of Valstrasia would have been liberated from the remnants of the Valedictor’s forces.

  “Advance!” shouted Duke Hulderic Grimnir from the back of his horse, pointing his sword at his ancestral castle. The Duke was a vigorous man in his early thirties, tall and imposing with a forbidding expression and a black beard that hung to his chest. His father had been arrogant and reckless, and while Hulderic was no less arrogant, he was considerably smarter. He had become a soldier of keen skill, and he had been at the forefront of every battle since the defeat of the Valedictor. “Advance! In the name of God and the Empire, drive the foe from the castle!”

  The footmen cheered and advanced, shields raised, swords drawn back, their magic held ready to defend. Hulderic commanded a force of six thousand men and gnolls. Four thousand of those soldiers were men-at-arms and militiamen gathered from the wreck of Valstrasia, all that remained of the ten thousand his father had once commanded. Five hundred were serjeants, common-born soldiers, of the Order of Embers, and another five hundred were from the Order of Iron. A thousand were not humans but gnolls, half-mad mercenaries from Culachar led by Lord Nakhrakh.

  Hulderic commanded this force. At least in theory and in name. In reality, he would do whatever Tyrcamber told him to do. Though Tyrcamber used that authority lightly, and never in front of the men when he would weaken Duke Hulderic’s position. He might not have his father’s instincts for politics, but neither was Tyrcamber a fool, and he had learned a great deal in the ten years since he had become a knight of the Order of Embers.

  Ten years.

  He felt a hysterical urge to laugh and fought it down.

  Ten years…but from his perspective, it had been longer.

  Much longer.

  “Siegebreaker,” called Hulderic.

  God and the apostles, Tyrcamber hated that title.

  “Aye, my lord?” called Tyrcamber, voice calm.

  “Will you accompany the final assault?” said Hulderic. “It was your…ah, attack that broke the gates of the castle and burned the siege engines. Perhaps the honor of leading the last assault should be yours.”

  Tyrcamber said nothing. What Hulderic wanted was for the serjeants of the Order of Embers and the Order of Iron to take the bulk of the casualties, leaving his own men intact. Tyrcamber could hardly blame him. Most of the Valedictor’s former armies had been driven to the eastern bank of the River Bellex, to the duchies of Talgothica and Carnost, but Hulderic wanted to be ready to face another attack.

  And there was no Emperor in Sinderost. With the Empire so unsettled and riven by civil wars, Hulderic would need to be on guard against his neighbors.

  But Tyrcamber had already taken the field against the castle, using his terrible power to burn its siege engines and break the gates. He was weary and sick at heart and wanted to lie down and sleep. But he had undoubtedly saved many lives by breaking the castle’s defenses, and if he led the assault into Castle Grimnir, likely he would save many more.

  “Aye, Lord Hulderic,” said Tyrcamber. “I shall take my companions and Lord Nakhrakh, and we shall lead the assault into the castle.”

  Hulderic nodded as if giving permission. Though if he had wanted to stop Tyrcamber, there was nothing he could have done. “Very good, Sir Tyrcamber.” He turned to his standardbearer and barked an order. Trumpets rang out, and the advancing host came to a stop. “We shall follow after you clear the way. For the glory of the Empire!”

  “For the glory of the Empire,” said Tyrcamber.

  He turned his horse and looked at the two men sitting atop their mounts nearby.

  “Have you any objection to fighting on foot?” said Tyrcamber.

  The two men, two of Tyrcamber’s four closest friends, laughed. Sir Angaric Medraut let out a booming, jovial laugh. Sir Daniel Tremund managed a dry chuckle, the closest the Knight of the Third Eye ever came to expressing mirth.

  “Certainly not,” said Angaric. He was a big man. Somehow, despite the four years of constant campaigning since the Valedictor’s invasion had begun, he was still stout, though he had lost quite a bit of weight since Tyrcamber had first met him at the Order’s motherhouse in Sinderost. His teeth flashed behind his bushy black beard in a smile. “It’s a wasted day unless I have the opportunity to incinerate some goblins.”

  “Then it is well we are here, Sir Angaric,” said Daniel. He was a thin man and wore the black armor and tabard of a Knight of the Order of the Third Eye, the Imperial Order dedicated to wielding the magic of the mind. His voice was quiet, almost soft, but his calm never wavered, not even in battle. “You shall have abundant opportunity before the battle is won.”

  “Good,” said Tyrcamber, turning his horse to the south “We’ll have Nakhrakh’s mercenaries join us, and together we’ll storm the castle.”

  “A lot of corpses to eat. Nakhrakh will like that,” said Angaric. “Though the gnolls are always disappointed when you burn the slain. They like their meat raw.”

  “We all must live with disappointment,” said Tyrcamber, and he galloped to the s
outh, Angaric and Daniel following him.

  The three knights reined up and dismounted before the southern wing of the army, where Nakhrakh and the gnoll mercenaries waited. The gnolls had human-shaped bodies, but they stood taller than most men and covered with brownish-gold fur speckled with black spots. Their limbs were heavy and corded with muscle, and their heads looked vaguely like those of dogs. In the desert lands of the xiatami across the sea, Tyrcamber had been told, there were doglike creatures called hyenas, and the gnolls looked like men with the heads of hyenas. Years ago, during a skirmish against the xiatami snakemen in the duchy of Mourdrech, Tyrcamber had indeed seen hyenas skulking along the battlefield, looking to feed on the slain, and he had to concede the resemblance.

  Lord Nakhrakh lumbered forward at Tyrcamber’s approach. The big gnoll stood seven feet tall and wore chain mail. In his right hand, he carried his favorite weapon, a chain flail with a spiked ball at the end, though he also had an axe and a sword strapped to his back. His ears had been pierced with copper earrings, and his nostrils flared as Tyrcamber approached. The smell of the gnolls, a mixture of carrion and musk and sweat, came to Tyrcamber’s nose. Gnolls had a far more sensitive sense of smell than humans, and Tyrcamber often wondered how the gnolls could tolerate their own reek.

  “Sir Tyrcamber,” growled Nakhrakh. “The shedding of blood. The hour is now?” As far as Tyrcamber knew, Nakhrakh understood both Frankish and Latin without any difficulty. But something in the shape of the gnolls’ jaws made it difficult for them to pronounce human words. The gnolls’ language seemed to consist of a lot of barking, growling, and yelping, and it was even harder for a human to speak the gnoll tongue.

  “Aye,” said Tyrcamber. “We are going to storm Castle Grimnir and break the remaining defenses. The last forces of the Signifier are inside. We shall overcome them and defeat the Signifier.”

  Nakhrakh’s nostrils flared, and he nodded. “Aye. But when the fighting is done. The carrion. The warriors of Nakhrakh shall feast! Not the humans.”

  “It will be as you say,” said Tyrcamber. Gnolls could eat almost anything, and they regularly dined upon slain enemies after a battle. They found it baffling that humans did not do likewise. It was something of a nauseating habit, but Tyrcamber conceded it did help reduce the risks of plague. Or of a dark elven or an umbral elven necromancer raising the slain as undead soldiers. “But don’t eat any humans. Only ogres, goblins, and muridachs.”

  Nakhrakh showed his yellowed teeth in a toothy snarl. “Fear not. There shall be enough of the enemy.”

  “Good to know,” said Tyrcamber. “Let’s move.”

  Nakhrakh turned and growled commands in the gnollish tongue. The column of mercenaries moved forward, lifting shields and preparing weapons. Tyrcamber kept one eye on the shattered gates of Castle Grimnir. His attack had destroyed the siege engines and killed a lot of the defenders, but he wondered if the survivors would risk a sortie. For that matter, he wondered where the Signifier and his dragon had gone. This was the Signifier’s last stronghold, and Tyrcamber had been sure the dark elven lord would make a stand here. The Signifier had no other allies, and if he lost Castle Grimnir, he would have to flee in search of a new home or throw himself at the mercy of one of the Valedictor’s remaining lieutenants.

  Tyrcamber’s hand curled into a fist, and he remembered the feeling of claws sprouting from his fingers, of the Malison ripping apart his body and building it into something new.

  If the Signifier and his dragon showed themselves, it would be up to Tyrcamber to deal with them.

  “We are ready,” said Nakhrakh.

  “Follow me,” said Tyrcamber, and he turned and strode towards the smoldering gate of Castle Grimnir.

  A wise lord, Tyrcamber’s father had told him more than once, did not lead from the front. The prudent lord commanded from the back, overseeing the reserve, because someone had to lead, and an army without a commander quickly degenerated into an armed mob, easily swept aside by more disciplined soldiers. Tyrcamber supposed that was true enough, but that maxim no longer applied to him, not after he had become a Dragontiarna Knight. The grim truth was that he was the most dangerous fighter in Hulderic’s host, and his place was at the front.

  And if Tyrcamber fell in battle, well…in some ways, that would be a relief. He didn’t want to die. If he’d wanted to kill himself after his experiences during the siege of Sinderost, there had been ample opportunities in the two years since. He did not seek death, but neither did he fear it, not any longer.

  His eyes glanced down to where his sword hung on his belt. Tyrcamber wore the golden armor and white cloak that the Guardian Rilmael had given him, the armor and cloak of the ancient Dragontiarna Knights of old. The white cloak never got dirty, which was useful, and Tyrcamber had also realized it was woven of something as strong as steel. It wouldn’t protect him from a club, but it would stop him from getting stabbed.

  He reached down and drew Kyathar from its scabbard.

  The sword was ancient, older than the Empire, as old as the kingdoms of the cloak elves that had once covered the world. The blade had been forged of a strange metal that looked like blue steel from one angle and like crystal from another, and for a moment the weapon glittered in the light of the sky fire.

  Then it burst into flames.

  It was not something Tyrcamber did, at least not consciously. He knew the Sword spell, one of the Seven Spells the Guardian had taught the first Emperor Roland and his men when they had come to this world centuries ago, and Tyrcamber could use that spell to sheathe any weapon in elemental fire. But Kyathar drew on Tyrcamber’s changed nature, on the power of the Malison that filled him like an inferno burning in his heart, and the sword burst into flames without any conscious effort on his part.

  He strode towards the gate, Angaric on his right and Daniel on his left, and the gnoll warriors followed him.

  The enemy responded when he was about a hundred feet from the gate.

  Goblins appeared on the ramparts. Some of them held crossbows and longbows, while others began to cast spells.

  “Shields!” said Tyrcamber.

  Behind him, the gnoll warriors raised their shields over their heads, and Tyrcamber reached for magic. It came easily, much more easily than it had before the fire of the Malison had filled him and changed him. Tyrcamber lifted his hand and cast the Shield spell, putting a great deal of power into it. A translucent dome of fiery light appeared before him, wide enough to cover Tyrcamber, Angaric, Medraut, and a dozen of the gnolls.

  Arrows and quarrels hissed from the ramparts. They struck the gnoll shields and bounced off, but some of the missiles struck the warriors. Any arrows that hit Tyrcamber’s Shield spell burned, ashes falling to the ground like black snow. Through the broken gate, Tyrcamber saw a ragged mob of goblins and armored ogres charging towards them.

  “Angaric,” said Tyrcamber.

  The bearded knight nodded and began casting one of the secret spells of the Order of Embers, and Tyrcamber followed suit. Every man, woman, and child of the Frankish Empire learned the Seven Spells, for only by mastering them could a man gain the discipline to keep the Malison at bay and prevent the Dragon Curse from taking hold. But each of the five Imperial Orders had their own secret spells that they taught to their knights and serjeants, and Tyrcamber and Angaric had learned those spells. Angaric was one of the most powerful wizards of the Order of Embers, and his presence in a fight had helped tip the scales of many battles.

  And as a Dragontiarna Knight, Tyrcamber was in a category of his own.

  But he had paid for that knowledge and power. He had paid, and paid, and paid.

  Angaric shouted, thrust his hand out, and cast the Fire Stream spell. A shaft of blazing flame swept from his palm and slashed across the courtyard, glowing white-hot. It ripped across a dozen goblins and half as many ogres, slicing them in half like a hot knife through butter. A heartbeat later Tyrcamber cast his own spell, flinging a sphere of fire the size of his fist. It leaped
from his hand and landed amid the charging ogres and goblins, and the resultant explosion killed a score of the creatures.

  Nakhrakh lifted his muzzle and roared a phrase, and Tyrcamber understood enough of the gnoll language by now to recognize the command to charge.

  He sprinted forward, Kyathar burning in his hand, Angaric and Daniel following him, the howling mass of blood-mad gnolls rushing after the three knights. Daniel waved his hand, his eyes glowing white as he cast a spell. A wave of invisible telekinetic force rushed out from him, and the power hurled a score of goblins from their feet. Unlike Tyrcamber’s attack, Daniel’s spell did not kill the creatures. But it left them stunned, and that was all the opening that the gnolls needed.

  Nakhrakh roared a phrase in the gnoll language, and hundreds of his warriors shouted it back. Others threw back their heads and howled, loosing long, screeching hunting cries that made the hair on the back of Tyrcamber’s head stand up on end. He was glad that at least some of the gnolls were on the side of the Empire. Some of the gnoll nobles had accepted baptism in the Imperial Church, at least in part, and had turned from their bloody gods to follow the Dominus Christus. (Or had at least accepted the Dominus Christus alongside their old gods.) Gnolls were formidable fighters, and they proved it when they charged screaming into the fray, butchering the prone goblins and attacking those still on their feet.

  Tyrcamber charged in the melee, Kyathar burning in his right fist. One of the armored ogres lumbered towards him, raising a massive battle axe. Tyrcamber cast the Shield spell, lifting his left arm. This variant of the spell created a shield of flame that settled upon his left forearm. The ogre roared and brought its axe hammering down for his head, and Tyrcamber raised his left arm. The blade of the axe struck his magical Shield and shattered into dozens of white-hot splinters, and the ogre reeled back in shock. Tyrcamber went on the attack, slashing and hacking with Kyathar. His sword was far harder and more resilient than normal steel, and he tore smoking gashes in the ogre’s plate armor. Finally, the armor shifted, revealing a gap, and Tyrcamber plunged his sword to the hilt in the ogre’s chest. The creature screamed as it died, and Tyrcamber ripped his sword free and sought another foe.