Dragontiarna: Knights

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “There’s an aura of considerable magical power around him.”

  “He’s a wizard?” said Ridmark.

  “Beyond all doubt,” said Calliande. “But his aura…it looks a lot like the aura around a dragon.”

  “A dragon?” said Ridmark, startled.

  “The Confessor’s dragons and the dragon Antenora and I slew in the courtyard all had very similar auras,” said Calliande.

  “The fellow looks a bit small to be a dragon,” said Kharlacht.

  “His aura is similar but different,” said Calliande. “I cannot explain it. But I do know that his magic is akin to that of the dragons.”

  The knight sheathed his sword, lifting his hands in the process. He began to shout, his voice deep and hoarse. Ridmark didn’t understand the language.

  “Do any of you recognize the tongue?” said Ridmark.

  “I fear not,” said Caius.

  “I don’t think it’s any form of the elven languages,” said Calliande.

  “I…may,” said Antenora, her brow furrowing in concentration.

  The knight repeated his shout.

  “I think that may be the Frankish tongue,” said Antenora. “God and the saints. I have not heard that language in that form for nearly a thousand years.”

  “Frankish?” said Ridmark. The word stirred something in his memory.

  “Wasn’t that one of the barbarian nations that destroyed the Empire of the Romans on Old Earth?” said Calliande.

  “It was,” said Ridmark, remembering. “The Franks, the Goths, the Alamanni, and…others.” That was all he could recall from his lessons as a child.

  “They were,” said Antenora, rubbing her temple with her free hand. “I remember now. The Franks conquered the Roman province of Gaul and started their own kingdom, but that was before the time of Arthur Pendragon. After Arthur was slain and Malahan came to this world, the Franks built a large empire in imitation of the Romans of old. In time, their empire fell apart, and its various pieces became several of the modern nations upon Old Earth.”

  “The rifts lead to Old Earth?” said Ridmark, startled. He had never expected to visit the ancient home of humanity.

  “No,” said Antenora. “I am entirely certain that the rifts do not lead to Old Earth. The sky on Old Earth did not burn.”

  “You haven’t been there for thirteen years,” said Calliande. “Perhaps things have changed.”

  Antenora shook her head. “I am certain the rifts do not go to Old Earth. Neither goblins nor armored giants lived on Old Earth, and magical talent is rare there.” She pointed at the golden knight. “And if warriors from Old Earth came here, they would wield machines and engines built by their sciences. Not swords and horses.”

  “Humans and dwarves came to this world, though we are not native here,” said Caius. “Perhaps a group of these Franks found their way to another world, just as our ancestors came to this world.”

  “Based upon the evidence, that seems a reasonable conclusion,” said Antenora.

  Again, the golden knight repeated his shout. It sounded like a question.

  “Do you understand him?” said Ridmark.

  “Somewhat,” said Antenora. “I used to know Frankish, but it has been a very long time. I believe…I believe the knight says that he is Tyrcamber Rigamond, a warrior of the Empire, and he wishes to speak in parley with the master of this town. I will attempt to answer him.”

  She stepped closer to the battlements and raised her voice, shouting out words one at a time. The golden knight’s gaze shifted to her.

  “What did you say?” said Ridmark.

  “I asked if he could speak Latin,” said Antenora. “I think.”

  There was a pause, and the knight started to shout again.

  “The speech of the Romans and the church?” he said in Latin with a heavy accent that Ridmark did not recognize. A Frankish one, presumably. “I can speak the language, aye. But how can you speak that tongue?”

  “Sir Tyrcamber?” shouted Ridmark. “I am Ridmark Arban, the Comes of this town. If you wish to parley, I am willing. I shall come out with three companions to speak. Should you attempt no violence, we will not lift a hand against you.”

  “That is agreeable,” said Tyrcamber. “I should warn you, though.” He pointed at the rift. “In a few moments, one of my companions will emerge. He rides a beast called a griffin, a winged creature you might not have seen before. He wishes to pursue the forces of our foe the Signifier, who might have come here.”

  Ridmark shared a glance with Calliande. The Signifier? The gray-skinned elf she had fought in the courtyard had mentioned someone called the Signifier.

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “We shall come out presently.”

  Tyrcamber nodded.

  “Where did he get a griffin?” said Calliande. “I thought only the high elves had griffins.”

  “Perhaps they are more common on Tyrcamber’s world,” said Ridmark. “Calliande, I would like you to accompany me. Also, Prince Accolon and Lord Kharlacht.”

  “Why me?” said Kharlacht. “I can see why you’d want a second Swordbearer along.”

  “I want to see how Tyrcamber reacts to you,” said Ridmark. “There might not be orcs on his world. Sir Longinus, you’re in command until I get back. Antenora, please keep watch on us. I don’t think this Tyrcamber Rigamond intends any treachery, but if he does…”

  “I shall act at once,” said Antenora.

  Ridmark nodded, and Calliande, Accolon, and Kharlacht followed him to the gate. The men-at-arms opened the small postern door, and Ridmark walked out. He waited for the others to join him and then strode to speak with Tyrcamber.

  The golden knight watched them approach, then dismounted from his horse and drew off his winged helmet. Ridmark found himself looking at the lean face of a surprisingly young man, no more than Accolon’s age and perhaps a bit younger. He had close-cropped blond hair that was damp with sweat, and Ridmark saw faint spatters of blue-black goblin blood on his golden armor and boots. To judge from that and his weary expression, Tyrcamber had seen fighting already today, though his white cloak remained spotless.

  He looked human, but his eyes did not. The irises were a brilliant, unsettling shade of gold. It was the exact same color of the golden fire that engulfed a dying dragon as it returned to its original form.

  “Sir Tyrcamber?” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said Tyrcamber, and he offered a polite bow, though he shot a curious glance at Kharlacht. “I come in peace and wish only to speak.”

  “Then we shall answer in kind,” said Ridmark. “I am Ridmark Arban, the Comes of the town of Castarium. This is my wife Calliande, the Keeper of Andomhaim. This is Prince Accolon Pendragon, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade and the heir to the throne of Andomhaim. And this is Lord Kharlacht, a headman of the realm of Rhaluusk and a sworn warrior of King Crowlacht.”

  “Strange titles and names,” said Tyrcamber. “But there is much that is strange about you.” He gestured at Ridmark and Kharlacht. “You both wear armor of dark elven steel. Trophies won in battle unless I miss my guess. And both you and Prince Accolon bear weapons of immense magical power.” His eyes flicked to where Oathshield hung at Ridmark’s left hip. “I have never sensed their like. Such a weapon could kill an ursaar with a single blow.”

  Sensed? Then he was indeed a wizard if he could sense the power of the soulblades. And if ursaars dwelled upon his world, dark elves likely did as well.

  “Indeed,” said Calliande. “But if you will forgive me, Sir Tyrcamber, when we see a man with golden eyes ride through a hole in the air, perhaps we have the right to think him strange as well.”

  Tyrcamber blinked, and then let out a quiet laugh. “Aye. Your wife is wise as well as lovely, Lord Ridmark. You say you are a…Comes, is that it? Is that like a Count?”

  “Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “I hold the town as a benefice from Arandar Pendragon, High King of Andomhaim.”

&nb
sp; “Some of the words you say are strange, but the meaning comes through,” said Tyrcamber. “We…”

  There was a ringing shriek, and something golden and white flashed through the rift and soared into the air.

  Ridmark looked up, his hand falling to Oathshield’s hilt on reflex. A griffin rose overhead, its legs tucked against its lean body for flight, its great white wings spreading on either side of its golden-furred body. Upon the griffin’s back rode a lean man in leather armor, the wind of his flight tugging at his graying hair and beard. The griffin spiraled up and up, and then turned to the north, heading towards the plume of smoke.

  “Do not be alarmed,” said Tyrcamber. “That is the griffin of which I spoke earlier. That is my friend Sir Olivier de Falconberg, a Knight of the Order of the Griffin, one of the five Imperial Orders. He is scouting for our foe the Signifier.”

  “You mentioned the Signifier,” said Ridmark.

  “I see the name is known to you,” said Tyrcamber. “I shall come to the point, then. For the last ten years, the men of the Frankish Empire have waged war against the forces of a dark elven lord called the Valedictor. The Valedictor was slain before the gates of the Imperial capital two years ago,” a muscle jerked near Tyrcamber’s eye, as if at a painful memory, “and much of his host was destroyed. But his vassals and captains have continued the attack, though they fight each other as often as they fight the Empire.”

  “The dark elves are treacherous,” said Ridmark.

  “Truly,” said Tyrcamber. “For the last month, we fought to liberate the duchy of Valstrasia, which was ruled by one of the Valedictor’s vassals, a dark elven noble called the Signifier.”

  “Why did they call him the Signifier?” said Calliande. “The dark elves never share their true names, but instead the cruel titles that they give one another.”

  “Ah, I see you are indeed familiar with the dark elves,” said Tyrcamber. “Once the Signifier served the Dragon Imperator, a mighty dark elven lord with the power to command dragons, just as the Valedictor did. The Dragon Imperator employed the Signifier as a herald and a messenger. In mockery, the other dark elves called him the Signifier, saying that he was fit to be the Dragon Imperator’s standardbearer and nothing more.”

  “And now that both the Valedictor and this Dragon Imperator are dead,” said Ridmark, “the Signifier thinks to make himself the master now.”

  “Aye,” said Tyrcamber, “though he lacks the brilliance and boldness of both his former masters. We defeated his forces and drove his final army to Castle Grimnir. We broke the castle’s gate and burned the siege engines.” Again, a muscle near his eye twitched. “But when we stormed the castle, we found fewer soldiers than we expected. The Signifier and his remaining host had escaped. We could not explain it. But then this strange gate,” he gestured at the rift, “open in the courtyard of Castle Grimnir. Perhaps that explained where the Signifier went. I rode through the rift…and here we are.”

  “The Signifier,” said Ridmark. “Did he ride upon a red dragon?”

  Tyrcamber blinked his strange eyes. “He did. Have you seen him? If you have, you may be in grave peril. The Signifier is not the equal of his late masters, but neither is he to be taken lightly.”

  “Sir Tyrcamber, under the laws of hospitality, I would like to invite you to be my guest and to enter Castarium with me,” said Ridmark. “I suspect we have much to discuss.”

  Tyrcamber gazed at Ridmark for a moment and then nodded. “I suspect we do, Count Ridmark. Very well. I accept your offer. Let us speak and discuss what to do about our mutual foe.”

  ***

  Chapter 17: Mutual Foes

  Tyrcamber followed Ridmark through the gate and into the town.

  It did not look all that different from one of the towns or Free Cities of the Empire, though there was more brick and fired clay and far less wood used in the construction. Perhaps forests were rarer here, or maybe the materials for brickmaking were more abundant. Tyrcamber saw obvious signs that Castarium was a town preparing for a siege. Bundles of arrows were stacked against the base of the wall, along with spears. The women and children that Tyrcamber saw in the street looked tense and fearful, and many of them had the rough garb of common farmers. Likely they had fled from the plumes of smoke he had seen to the north.

  He wondered how the town of Castarium and the realm of Andomhaim had come to be. They spoke Latin, so they must have come from Old Earth. Or maybe they hadn’t come from Old Earth and had been visited by missionaries from the church that had somehow found their way here.

  Likely he would find out in a few moments.

  “We can have our discussion atop the ramparts overlooking the gate,” said Ridmark. “An informal location, I know, but if the foe attacks, I will need to be at the wall.”

  Tyrcamber had to take a minute to translate the Latin words in his head, but he nodded. “Agreed. And I will want Sir Olivier to see me when he returns with news.” He understood Latin and could speak it fluently enough to make himself understood, but the men of Andomhaim all spoke Latin so damned fast. It must have been the common tongue here. In the Empire, the common language of both commoners and nobles was the Frankish tongue, and Latin the language of the church and formal legal documents.

  Just as well his father had forced Tyrcamber to learn it.

  They climbed to the rampart. The rift or gate or whatever the hell it was shimmered and flickered with blue fire. The black plumes of smoke still rose to the north, though Tyrcamber saw no new ones.

  “I imagine,” said Ridmark, “that we have many questions for each other. Since you are the guest, you can go first.”

  Tyrcamber smiled at that. “Very well.” He took a deep breath. “This realm of Andomhaim, ruled by a High King. How did it come to be?”

  “Our ancestors came from Old Earth, from a place called Britannia,” said Calliande, her blue eyes calm, her expression serene. Tyrcamber wasn’t sure what a “Keeper” was, but she was clearly a sorceress of immense power, perhaps even stronger than the Guardian Rilmael. Even without the Sense spell, Tyrcamber felt the aura of magic around her. “After the fall of the Empire of the Romans, the High King Arthur Pendragon ruled all of Britannia. He fell in battle during the invasion of the pagan Saxons, but his grandson Malahan discovered a magical gate that led from Old Earth to this world. He led his people through that gate to this world in the Year of Our Lord 538, and the realm of Andomhaim has stood here ever since.”

  “The year 538,” said Tyrcamber. If the Keeper’s history was accurate, the High Kingdom of Andomhaim was several centuries older than the Empire.

  “Your Empire,” said Ridmark. “How did it come to be?”

  “The history is somewhat similar,” said Tyrcamber. “Understand, I am not a scholarly man, but in the Empire, nobles must learn to read and write, so I know some of the history. After the Romans fell, the Franks, my nation, raised an empire of their own. In the Year of Our Lord 778, our king Charlemagne waged war against the pagans in the land of Hispania. On his return, the rearguard of his army was ambushed, and during the battle, they were pulled through a gate to a new world. A different world from this one, I expect.”

  “Aye, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Calliande. “I passed briefly through another rift to your world.” There was more than one rift? “The nature of the magic in your world is quite different from ours.”

  “I imagine so,” said Tyrcamber. Did that mean there was no Malison here? “The magic of our new world was quite powerful, and suddenly every man, woman, and child could wield magic. We almost went mad and slew each other, and some succumbed to the Malison.”

  “The Malison?” said Ridmark.

  “The Dragon Curse,” said Tyrcamber.

  Ridmark and Calliande shared a look. He wondered if they had heard of the Malison.

  “What is the nature of the Dragon Curse?” said Calliande.

  “It is a property of the magic on our world,” said Tyrcamber. “A man can use magic, but if he uses too
much power, it overwhelms and transforms him. He becomes a dragon, and dragons are vulnerable to magical enslavement. The dark elves of our world frequently use enslaved dragons as war beasts.”

  Tyrcamber knew that too well. A storm of black memories flickered through his mind, and he shoved them aside.

  Ridmark nodded. “We have encountered such dragons here.”

  Tyrcamber blinked. “The Malison exists on this world?”

  “No,” said Calliande. “Have you heard of a dark elven lord called the Confessor?”

  “I have not.”

  “He ruled a city called Urd Maelwyn,” said Calliande, “and he opened a gate to your world and brought dragons here to use as war beasts. They were deadly foes.”

  “I have not heard of this Confessor, I fear,” said Tyrcamber. “Likely he summoned dragons without telling the other dark elves since they all hate and fear each other.”

  “How did your ancestors keep themselves from succumbing to the Dragon Curse?” said Calliande.

  “The Guardian Rilmael taught us the Seven Spells,” said Tyrcamber.

  Again, Ridmark and Calliande shared a look. Tyrcamber idly wondered how long they had been married. They seemed capable of having entire conversations without speaking.

  He put that thought aside. He didn’t want to think about marriage.

  “A Guardian?” said Ridmark. “What is he the Guardian of?”

  “A city of the cloak elves called Cathair Kaldran,” said Tyrcamber.

  “Cloak elves?” The woman who spoke was striking, with blue eyes and thick black hair that had been bound into a braid that hung to her hips. She wore a fine blue gown with black trim and held a black staff in her right hand that sometimes flickered with a fiery light. She had a powerful aura, though not as strong as Calliande’s, and a throaty voice for a woman. “Did they ever call themselves the Liberated?”

  “Aye,” said Tyrcamber, remembering one of his conversations with Rilmael. “That was what they called themselves.”