their comas, and the children returned to their
parents.
After recovering from his wounds, Ridmark Arban,
Knight of the Soulblade, resumed his journey north, and at last
arrived at the court of the Dux of Castra Marcaine.
Already he found that a legend had begun growing
around him. Before leaving Tarlion, he had been a young
Swordbearer, untried and untested. Now he had faced an urdmordar,
aided by only an elderly Magistrius and a few local knights, and
triumphed. More, he had even lived!
Few Swordbearers in the Order’s centuries of history
could make such a claim.
Once he would have gloried in his new renown, but
Ridmark only felt troubled.
The “great culling to come.” What had Gothalinzur
meant by that? What had the urdmordar, in the black depths of her
evil wisdom, had foreseen?
Would the Frostborn truly return, as she claimed?
They had been annihilated by the Swordbearers and the Magistri
centuries ago…but could Gothalinzur have foreseen their return?
Ridmark didn’t know, but he was going to find
out.
THE END
Thank you for reading THE KNIGHT'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 Ridmark's next
adventure, Frostborn:
The First Quest (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4439) .
***
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
parents.
After recovering from his wounds, Ridmark Arban,
Knight of the Soulblade, resumed his journey north, and at last
arrived at the court of the Dux of Castra Marcaine.
Already he found that a legend had begun growing
around him. Before leaving Tarlion, he had been a young
Swordbearer, untried and untested. Now he had faced an urdmordar,
aided by only an elderly Magistrius and a few local knights, and
triumphed. More, he had even lived!
Few Swordbearers in the Order’s centuries of history
could make such a claim.
Once he would have gloried in his new renown, but
Ridmark only felt troubled.
The “great culling to come.” What had Gothalinzur
meant by that? What had the urdmordar, in the black depths of her
evil wisdom, had foreseen?
Would the Frostborn truly return, as she claimed?
They had been annihilated by the Swordbearers and the Magistri
centuries ago…but could Gothalinzur have foreseen their return?
Ridmark didn’t know, but he was going to find
out.
THE END
Thank you for reading THE KNIGHT'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 Ridmark's next
adventure, Frostborn:
The First Quest (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4439) .
***
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
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