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    Dragontiarna: Knights
    Dragontiarna: Knights
    Dragontiarna: Knights
    Ebook498 pages7 hours

    Dragontiarna: Knights

    By Jonathan Moeller

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    About this ebook

    Ridmark Arban has defeated both the mighty Frostborn and the evil of the Seven Swords, and now he only wishes to live quietly with his family.

    But Ridmark's oldest enemy, the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, has not forgotten him.

    And the Warden knows a dangerous secret.

    For the dragons are returning...

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJonathan Moeller
    Release dateJul 30, 2019
    ISBN9780463041932
    Dragontiarna: Knights
    Author

    Jonathan Moeller

    Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.He has written the "Demonsouled" trilogy of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write the "Ghosts" sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the "$0.99 Beginner's Guide" series of computer books, and numerous other works.Visit his website at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.comVisit his technology blog at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

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      Book preview

      Dragontiarna - Jonathan Moeller

      DRAGONTIARNA: KNIGHTS

      Jonathan Moeller

      ***

      Description

      Ridmark Arban has defeated both the mighty Frostborn and the evil of the Seven Swords, and now he only wishes to live quietly with his family.

      But Ridmark's oldest enemy, the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, has not forgotten him.

      And the Warden knows a dangerous secret.

      For the dragons are returning...

      ***

      Dragontiarna: Knights

      Copyright 2019 by Jonathan Moeller.

      Smashwords Edition.

      Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

      Ebook edition published August 2019.

      All Rights Reserved.

      This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

      ***

      A brief author’s note

      At the end of this book, you will find a Glossary of Characters and a Glossary of Locations listing all the major characters and locations in this book.

      A map of the realm of Andomhaim is available on the author’s website at this link (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4487).

      A map of the Empire is available on the author's website at this link (https://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=10514).

      ***

      Chapter 1: The Lord of Castarium

      Two days before it began, two days before the sky ripped open and the dragons returned in the Year of Our Lord 1491, Ridmark Arban rode west along the coast of the southern sea.

      Ridmark was used to traveling. Truth be told, he had spent most of his adult life making journeys. He had traveled from one end of Andomhaim to another, even into the expanse of the Wilderland where he had seen wonders and terrors that no man of the High King’s realm had ever before encountered. Ridmark had journeyed through the length and breadth of the realm of Owyllain, the sundered sister kingdom to Andomhaim.

      He was accustomed to long journeys. Though, truth be told, when he had been a younger man, he had been able to travel much more quickly. It wasn’t a question of strength or stamina. Ridmark felt as fit as he had when he had first become a Swordbearer over twenty years ago. Strangely, in some ways, he felt better.

      No, something else slowed him.

      Ridmark’s eldest brother Tormark had said that a man collected baggage as he aged.

      At the time, Ridmark had thought that a metaphor.

      But when Ridmark turned his head and looked at the column of horses and wagons that followed him, he had to concede that Tormark had a very literal point.

      He had once traveled alone through the Wilderland for months at a time. Now close to sixty people, a dozen wagons, and a score of riders followed him. Ridmark hadn’t intended to travel with such a large group, but it had proven necessary. He needed to set out for the town of Castarium to attend to his duties there. Calliande had decided to come with him. Their eldest son Gareth was serving as a page at the High King’s court in Tarlion, but their younger son Joachim and their daughter Rhoanna traveled with them. Calliande had always insisted on doing as much as possible for the children by herself, but after their experiences in Owyllain and the birth of Rhoanna two years past, she had been more willing to accept help. So Rhoanna’s nurse Lucilla and a trio of maids traveled with the Keeper of Andomhaim.

      Since Calliande was accompanying Ridmark to Castarium, her apprentice Antenora had decided to come as well, since her husband Gavin was in the Northerland for another month. Antenora’s oldest son Philip was also serving as a page in the High King’s court, but her younger son Carlon was about Joachim’s age and accompanied his mother. Antenora had brought Carlon’s nurse Rotrude and several of Rotrude’s relatives, all of them in her service. Because of the large number of women and children in the traveling party, Ridmark had also brought twenty men-at-arms.

      So, in the end, nearly sixty people made the three-day journey from Tarlion to the town of Castarium on the southern coast of Taliand. A large part of Ridmark’s household was on the road. Of course, the entire reason he was going to Castarium was that he had a household to support.

      That, and a favor to High King Arandar Pendragon.

      Well, two favors, actually. Neither one of them would be pleasant.

      Ridmark put the thought from his mind and looked back down the road.

      At least it was a beautiful day for travel. The coast of the southern sea was always mild, with cool winters and gentle summers. It tended to rain a lot in spring, but it was dry today, the sky covered with countless puffy white clouds. The sea was calm, the waves pounding against the broad beach with a steady faint roar. The air smelled of salt, and dozens of white gulls circled overhead.

      A line of a dozen wagons stretched to the east. The oxen pulling the wagons plodded onward with placid apathy. Some of Ridmark’s servants walked alongside the wagons, talking to each other, while some of the older ones rode in the wagons. The men-at-arms he had brought rode alongside the wagons, clad in chain mail and leather, swords at their belts. Ridmark didn’t think they would face any danger. The lands near Tarlion were some of the safest in Andomhaim, and it had been a long time since urvaalgs had been seen here.

      Yet life had taught Ridmark that nowhere was safe, not truly. Best to always exercise a measure of vigilance. It had been just over a decade since the Frostborn had besieged Tarlion and nearly destroyed Andomhaim. And it had been a quiet day when Ridmark and his family had gone to the High King’s court and the Guardian Rhodruthain had appeared out of nowhere and taken them to Owyllain.

      He turned his horse and rode back down the column, nodding to his men-at-arms and servants as he passed. A middle-aged man in chain mail and a blue tabard turned his horse to ride alongside Ridmark. He had a broad, ruddy face with graying blond hair, an old scar marking the right side of his face. The scar made him look like a tavern brawler, but he had been in every campaign of the Frostborn war and several smaller fights since, and he had survived them all.

      Vegetius, said Ridmark to the soldier who served as the decurion of his men-at-arms. What news?

      Vegetius grunted. The best kind, my lord. No news. Me and a few of the lads rode on ahead, had a look around. The road’s clear to Castarium, and the town and the monastery are still there. No sign of these red orcs that have got the freeholders so frightened. And no vagabonds in the road, either. But some camped outside the town.

      Ridmark nodded. It wasn’t just his usual caution that had led him to take a score of men-at-arms on his trip to Castarium. For the last few months, there had been rumors of strange crimson orcs along the southern coast, though there had been no proof. More and more brigands were raiding the western reaches of Taliand. There was growing unrest in the lands of the Prince of Cintarra. Ridmark thought that the High King was going to have to take a firm hand there sooner rather than later, but the citizens of the city of Cintarra were prickly and proud and always resistant to outside meddling.

      Aye, said Ridmark. I doubt there will be trouble. But keep your eyes open.

      That I will, my lord, said Vegetius. If we run into brigands, I’ll enjoy watching the Lady Antenora set their hair on fire.

      Ridmark snorted. She won’t just set their hair on fire.

      He kept riding down the column and spotted his wife.

      Calliande Arban sat atop a placid mare, the horse maintaining a slow, steady walk. She wore her preferred traveling clothes – boots, trousers, a long green tunic, and a green cloak pinned with a bronze brooch. The staff of the Keeper hung on a leather cord next to her saddle. Her long blond hair was bound back in a braid for travel, and her blue eyes were calm as she gazed around her. She looked beautiful in a windswept sort of way, and Ridmark was always startled to see her at rest, if only for a little while. In the eleven years they had been married, they had seen battle after battle, so it was almost strange to see the Keeper of Andomhaim placidly riding a horse, her daughter sitting before her.

      Rhoanna sat in the saddle in front of Calliande, looking around at everything. She was two years old and had Calliande’s eyes and Ridmark’s black hair. Like her mother, green was her favorite color, and today she wore a green dress. Rhoanna rarely threw tantrums, rarely even cried, but sometimes she refused to wear anything that wasn’t green, and if forced to wear a different color, would take off her clothes and run naked until the servants or Calliande caught her. She was a striking child, and Ridmark had the sense that was she was going to grow into a beautiful woman. A beautiful one and a strange one. Ridmark loved the little girl with all his heart, but he could not deny that she was oddly precocious, seeming to know things that she should not.

      But given that her conception had only been possible through the last shard of the magic of the Seven Swords, perhaps that was to be expected.

      What’s that? said Calliande, pointing at one of the wagons.

      Wagon! said Rhoanna, following suit and pointing.

      Calliande turned her head. Brother Octavius?

      The old friar rode on another mare next to Calliande, clad in a rough robe, a wooden cross hanging from a leather cord around his neck. Between him and Calliande was a pony, and atop the pony sat Ridmark’s youngest son, Joachim, now six years old. This was the first journey they had made where Joachim was allowed to ride a pony, albeit closely supervised. So far, Joachim had alternated between overwhelming pride that at last he was permitted to ride, and a healthy terror of falling from the back of the creature.

      Joachim? said Octavius. He cleared his throat. How do you spell that word?

      A scowl of intense concentration went over Joachim’s face. Wagon. He took a deep breath and spelled it out in Latin.

      Very good, said Octavius. Ridmark had hired the friar on a few years after Gareth had been born, once the boy was old enough to start receiving instruction in grammar, rhetoric, and arithmetic. Gareth had heeded his lessons with diligence but had shown absolutely no interest in scholarly pursuits, though he had taken to riding and swordsmanship with zeal. The boy was going to probably make a good knight. Joachim, on the other hand, had manifested magical ability during their journey through Owyllain, which meant he was going to have to join the Order of the Magistri. Given Joachim’s sensitivity, Calliande suspected the boy would have a great talent for magical healing, which meant he would train as a physician and become a Magistrius.

      The lessons are still going on, I see, said Ridmark.

      Rhoanna pointed at him and smiled.

      Father! she announced.

      Joachim took another deep breath and spelled out the word in Latin.

      Very good, said Octavius with a chuckle.

      And successfully, said Calliande. Any trouble?

      Ridmark settled his horse next to hers. No. Vegetius and some of the men have ridden to the town and back. Doesn’t look like there’s any trouble on the road. He repressed the urge to grimace. He did not like discussing the troubles of the realm in front of his children. Though no doubt they already knew – children always seemed to have a knack for learning things their parents did not wish them to know.

      Just as well, said Calliande. She reached up with one hand and rubbed her neck. We’ve expected so much trouble for so long that it is almost a surprise when we don’t find it.

      There’s God’s own truth, said Ridmark.

      Our fates are in the hands of God and the Dominus Christus, said Brother Octavius.

      Aye, and let’s hope it’s their will that we have a quiet journey with no trouble whatsoever, said Ridmark.

      A first time for everything, I suppose, said Calliande.

      Ridmark snorted out a laugh.

      Father! said Rhoanna again, more insistently, holding out her arms. Calliande passed her over, and Ridmark reached out and lifted his daughter, letting her weight settle on his left arm so the hard metal plates of his dark elven armor or the bracer on his right forearm would not press against her.

      Rhoanna gave the blue plates of his armor a tap with a finger. Not green, she announced and began scowling at the armor like it was some sort of puzzle to solve.

      Another hour to Castarium? said Calliande.

      Most likely, said Ridmark. Rhoanna started to reach down for the hilt of his soulblade, and Ridmark shifted her so the sword was too far away for her to reach.

      That will give us just enough time to finish today’s lesson, said Calliande. She smiled. It’s handy that we can teach Rhoanna to talk and Joachim to read at the same time.

      Rhoanna already talks too much, said Joachim. We don’t need to teach her more words.

      Your brother said the same thing about you when you were Rhoanna’s age, said Calliande.

      He did not, said Joachim. That was true. Gareth was the least loquacious of the children.

      Rhoanna shifted in Ridmark’s grasp and pointed at Joachim. Brother!

      Calliande gave the boy a look. Well?

      Joachim glared at his sister but rallied and spelled out the Latin word for brother. Or he tried, anyway. He got the first three letters right, but then grew confused, and the word turned into gibberish towards the end.

      I’m afraid not, said Octavius. He corrected the spelling. Joachim endured it with mostly good grace, though he scowled and squirmed in his saddle.

      Where is Antenora? said Ridmark.

      Riding to the back, said Calliande. She wanted to use the Sight to make sure that…ah, here she is.

      Antenora! proclaimed Rhoanna, pointing over Ridmark’s shoulder.

      Antenora, repeated Joachim. A-N-T-E-N-O-R-A.

      Very good, young master, said Octavius. That is quite a long name.

      Joachim shrugged. Lady Antenora writes many letters, so I see her sign her name a lot.

      Ridmark turned and saw a horse and a pony approach. Antenora, Calliande’s first apprentice, rode the horse. She wore a blue riding dress, her black hair bound in a heavy braid that hung to nearly her hips. Her eyes were a strange sort of blue, stark and ethereal in her pale face. Ridmark wondered if Rhoanna would have a gaze like that when she grew up. He hoped not. He knew what Antenora had suffered before she had escaped from her curse of dark magic. A stout halfling woman rode the pony, holding Antenora’s younger son Carlon. The boy was about a year younger than Joachim, though he shared Joachim’s rambunctious moodiness. The two children alternated between being the best of friends or the bitterest of enemies, depending on the day.

      Shield Knight, said Antenora, grave as always.

      Any trouble? said Ridmark.

      None, said Antenora. As far as I can determine, this region of Taliand is at peace, free from both brigands and dangers of dark magic. Nor have I seen any sign of these red orcs.

      I suspect those are just a rumor, my lady, said Octavius. These tales can grow wildly in the telling. Perhaps some men of Cintarra or Durandis saw a Mhorite orc with their crimson facial tattoos, and the account has been retold into a story of red orcs that strike and fade away into nothingness.

      Orcs aren’t red, Brother Octavius, they’re green, said Joachim.

      Just so, young master, said Octavius.

      Orc, announced Rhoanna.

      That one is easy, said Joachim. O-R-C.

      Very good, said Octavius. But, as you said, an easy word.

      Perhaps you’re right about the rumors, said Ridmark, though the stories he had heard left him uneasy. Or perhaps he was growing more suspicious and paranoid with age.

      Since we are here, Carlon, said Antenora to her son, you can join the lesson. The boy sat up straighter, trying to look serious. From what Ridmark had seen, Gavin was more easygoing with his sons, while Antenora was the strict one. If the Keeper does not object?

      She does not, said Calliande. She pointed at a large gray boulder that rested on the beach, its sides spattered with layers of gull dung. What’s that, Rhoanna?

      Boulder! she announced.

      I know how to spell that, said Joachim.

      It’s Carlon’s turn, said Calliande.

      Carlon blinked a few times, and then spelled out the word.

      Well done, young master, said Octavius.

      This one will be for you, Joachim, said Calliande. She pointed at a tree rising from a small hillock north of the road. What’s that, Rhoanna?

      The girl considered it for a moment.

      Circumvallation wall, she announced.

      Ridmark and Calliande considered each other in silence for a moment.

      That’s not fair! said Joachim. Carlon got a short one. I don’t know how to spell that! No one knows how to spell circum…circast…what she said.

      That’s a tree, Rhoanna, said Calliande.

      Tree! she agreed.

      Ridmark looked at his daughter, unsettled. How the devil had she known that term? Calliande suspected that Rhoanna was exceptionally intelligent, perhaps even brilliant. Certainly, she was much, much cleverer than Ridmark would have expected from her age, and once she had learned to walk, she had started eluding her nurses with clever stratagems. Yet Ridmark wondered if it was more than that. Humans with magical ability did not tend to manifest that talent until they were five or six years old, though Joachim had been only three and Ridmark knew of cases of middle-aged men who developed magical ability. Calliande had said that Rhoanna showed no signs of magical talent, but the girl often knew things and words she should not have been able to know.

      And given the circumstances of her birth, perhaps Rhoanna would manifest powerful magical ability. Calliande’s illness before the premature birth and death of their daughter Joanna had left her unable to bear any more children. The Guardian Rhodruthain had given Calliande a shard of crystal that contained the final wisp of lingering power from the Sword of Life, which had allowed her to conceive and bear one more child. At the time, Ridmark hadn’t wondered if that would have lasting effects on the child, but he feared it might have done so.

      The hell of it was that the hillock on which the tree stood really did look like a circumvallation wall, a fortification designed to encircle a castra or a tower. The hillock seemed to encircle a low pile of boulders and had Ridmark been inclined to poetics (he wasn’t), he might have said that the hillock looked like a weathered earthwork wall encircling a crumbled tower.

      That, said Antenora, is a remarkably advanced vocabulary for a two-year-old child.

      Rhoanna looked at Antenora, her face solemn, perhaps even pained.

      Poo, she announced, and then promptly soiled herself.

      Brilliant or not, she was, after all, only two years old.

      Calliande sighed and held out her hands, and Ridmark passed her the suddenly fragrant child. Rhoanna, you need to tell me when you have to do that.

      Did she just fill her diaper? said Joachim. She did, didn’t she? I never used to do that.

      Yes, you did, said Calliande. We’ll get her cleaned up. We can’t ride into Castarium with the daughter of the town’s lord smelling bad, can we?

      Speaking of that, said Ridmark. I suppose I had better have Vegetius run up the banner. I don’t want Flavius or the men of Castarium thinking that bandits have come to attack the town.

      They’ve probably had enough scares of that sort over the last few years, said Calliande, dropping down from her saddle with fluid grace. It was impressive that she managed to do that with Rhoanna in one arm. She glanced at Octavius. Take my reins, will you? I’ll get Rhoanna cleaned up in one of the wagons.

      Yes, my lady, said Octavius.

      I never had to be cleaned up like that, said Joachim.

      If you keep telling lies, Joachim, said Calliande, climbing into the back of the nearest wagon, I’ll make you clean up your sister.

      Joachim’s horrified expression showed just what he thought of that.

      Ridmark left Calliande and her maids with the children and rode to the front of the column. At his command, Vegetius ran up the banner. After Ridmark had become the Comes of Castarium, he had been obliged to select a personal sigil for his men to wear as a badge. Gavin had suggested, half-jokingly, that he take a gray banner with a wooden staff and a dwarven battle axe for a sigil. Ridmark had given that some thought, but in the end, had settled on a blue banner with a silver shield. The realms of Andomhaim and Owyllain knew him as the Shield Knight, which made identification easier.

      An hour later, the road turned to the south, and the town of Castarium came into sight on its peninsula.

      Ridmark had become lord of the town and its surrounding lands partly to support his family, and partly as a favor to the High King. Castarium was in Taliand, the ancestral duxarchate of the Arbanii, Ridmark’s family, and Taliand was the oldest duxarchate in the realm. Ridmark’s eldest brother, Dux Tormark Arban, was one of the most powerful noblemen in Andomhaim. But the High King stood above all noblemen, and he held lands in every single one of Andomhaim’s duxarchates. The Arbanii ruled in Taliand, but for centuries the High Kings had also held the town of Castarium, and the Comes of Castarium was sworn directly to the throne, not the Dux of Taliand.

      The previous two Comites of the town had come to bad ends. The first had been killed when the Frostborn had laid siege to Tarlion. After the defeat of the Frostborn, Arandar had appointed a new Comes, and the man had proven untrustworthy. He had turned to stealing cattle and valuables from the neighboring villages, and finally, the nobles of southern Taliand had banded together and killed him while Ridmark and his family had been in Owyllain. The entire affair had brought turmoil and bloodshed into Tormark’s well-ordered duxarchate, and Tormark had threatened to claim Castarium for himself if a trustworthy man could not be found to hold it for the High King.

      The High King could not surrender the town. To do so would give a precedent for other lords throughout the realm to seize the lands of the crown, which would also give the ever-truculent nobles a pretense for civil war. Arandar had come to Ridmark and offered him the comarchate of Castarium. Ridmark had no wish to hold more lands. He already held a benefice with a small village on the western bank of the River Moradel and serving as lord there was headache enough. The town of Castarium alone was ten times larger, to say nothing of its surrounding villages.

      Arandar’s arguments had been good ones, but in the end, Ridmark had accepted the title of Comes of Castarium for Calliande’s sake. Calliande took her duties as a mother as seriously as she took her responsibilities as Keeper of Andomhaim, and a year after their return from Owyllain she had given birth to Rhoanna. Small children required a great deal of time and attention, and Ridmark knew his wife. Calliande would turn her full attention to their children at the same time she turned her full attention to her duties until the strain exhausted her. Serving as the Comes of Castarium would give Ridmark the income he needed to hire servants to help Calliande.

      So far, it had worked. Acting as the Comes of Castarium was a damned nuisance and a headache, but Ridmark had brought order to the town, and none of his brother’s vassals were willing to cross him. The new servants had assisted Calliande immensely, helping her bear the load of her various responsibilities.

      The downside, of course, was that Ridmark actually had to govern the town.

      And there was another problem in Castarium, one Arandar had asked Ridmark to help resolve.

      That might prove trickier than the usual problems of judging the disputes of the townsmen.

      But for now, Ridmark had to concede that the town did look beautiful from a distance.

      A small peninsula jutted south into the sea, and the town of Castarium filled the space. Stone walls encircled the peninsula, and within Ridmark saw houses built of brick, their walls whitewashed, with roofs of red clay tiles. The drum tower of a castra rose on the southern tip of the town, and the peninsula curved to the east, creating a good harbor. The High King had built a castra there to guard against orcish raiders moving through Taliand, and fishermen had settled in the shadow of the castra, using the harbor for their boats. As the realm of Andomhaim had expanded, so had Castarium, and now five thousand people lived within the town’s walls.

      And half of them, Ridmark thought sourly, seemed to enjoy suing the other half.

      To the northwest of the town, at the junction of the coast and the peninsula, rose another curtain wall. Inside Ridmark saw a large stone church and the other buildings of a substantial monastery. The Monastery of St. Bartholomew had been founded not long after Castarium, and as the town had expanded, the monastery had grown along with it. The monastery’s curtain wall connected with that of the town, which had let their defenses reinforce each other in ancient days when Taliand had been more dangerous.

      Ridmark felt a flicker of irritation as he looked at the monastery. He neither liked nor trusted the monastery’s abbot, and Ridmark would have to deal with the man soon. He wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, but he had promised the High King that he would do it.

      But there was another, more immediate problem at the monastery.

      A large encampment had sprung up to the north of the monastery’s curtain wall. Ridmark saw dozens of ragged tents, a score of wagons, and perhaps a dozen sickly-looking donkeys and mules. The inhabitants were mostly young men, but Ridmark saw women and children among them. What the devil were they doing here? They had the look of commoners who had been driven from their lands. Had one of the nearby villages come under attack? Taliand was mostly safe, but there were still entrances to the Deeps in the mountains to the northwest, and kobolds and deep orcs could have emerged to launch raids.

      But Ridmark remembered all the rumors he had heard about growing unrest in the city of Cintarra.

      Perhaps the truth was more serious than the rumors claimed.

      There seem to be more people camped here than our last visit, murmured Calliande. She had come up to Ridmark’s side, Rhoanna still cradled in her arms. The girl had dozed off, her mouth hanging open, her arms and legs twitching from time to time as she slept.

      Aye, said Ridmark.

      I wonder if there’s trouble nearby, said Calliande.

      When isn’t there trouble? said Ridmark. Vegetius!

      Aye, my lord? said Vegetius.

      We’re heading into the town, said Ridmark. Tell the men to keep their eyes open, but not to start any trouble. The people in the encampment didn’t look desperate or starving, only ragged and tired. Yet until Ridmark knew more of the situation in the town, best to remain cautious.

      Aye, my lads know their business, said Vegetius.

      With that, the column headed towards the northern gate of Castarium. Ridmark saw that the sentries on the wall noted his approach, and he approved their vigilance. The castellan of the castra and the praefectus of the town had not been lax in their duties. Ridmark felt the people in the encampment staring as his wagons and horses passed. None of them approached, but he thought they looked sullen and frightened.

      A short time later they reached the town’s northern gate. Castarium’s wall was not the largest he had seen, but it was still fifteen feet high and built of stone, more than enough to keep raiders at bay. A pair of men-at-arms in his colors stood at the gate, keeping watch, and they straightened at Ridmark’s approach.

      Welcome to Castarium, my lord, said one of the men-at-arms, a lean man of about twenty. He had joined Ridmark’s service during his last visit to Castarium. Ridmark could remember being that age, if barely.

      Marlon, Ridmark said. Why are all those people camped by the monastery?

      Marlon grimaced. They’re from the valley of the River Cintarra, my lord. Came from a village called Ebor. Their lord enclosed all the fields for sheep and drove the villagers off their lands.

      Has there been any trouble with them? said Ridmark.

      Not yet, said Marlon. It’s time for the planting, and the freeholders always need extra hands to help with the work. So far there’s been no major trouble, but I think it’s coming. A couple days ago one of the men of Ebor got caught stealing some of the monastery’s sheep. The praefectus put him in the castra, and the abbot wants the man hanged.

      I see, said Ridmark. No doubt he was going to hear about that soon enough.

      It’s good you’re here, my lord, said Marlon. Things are unsettled, and the rumor is that the praefectus and the abbot have been quarreling something fierce.

      Ridmark nodded, beckoned to the others, and rode through the gate with Calliande at his side, the other horsemen and wagons following him. The town, at least, seemed in good order. There were no beggars on the street, and Ridmark suspected the praefectus had not let the villagers from Ebor into the town. He saw men and women going about their work, and the smell of fish and salt hung over everything. The fishermen would have already brought in the day’s catch and would be hard at work preparing and salting it.

      A few moments later he came into the town’s chief forum, a large square at the southern end of the peninsula. The drum tower and wall of the castra rose to the south. To the east stood a large stone church, grim and solemn. Castarium had a bishop, which made the church a cathedral. To the west rose a four-story building of stone and timber, the Salty Fish, the town’s main inn. All that was customary, and little different than numerous other towns Ridmark had visited in his travels.

      The stone rising from the center of the forum was not normal.

      It was a menhir twelve feet tall, rough and irregular, and it leaned to the east at about a fifteen-degree angle. Symbols had been carved into its sides, and Calliande had told Ridmark that the symbols were glyphs from the high elven tongue, though she was uncertain what they said. Apparently, the stone had always been here, as long as anyone could remember, and had been standing here when the first stones of the town’s castra were laid upon each other. Ridmark suspected that the stone was a relic left over from the epochs when the high elves had still ruled the world. It was a harmless curiosity – Calliande had said that there was no magic upon the stone. Once, no doubt, it had been enspelled, but that had been long before humans had come to this world, and the magic had faded. As he had so many times before, Ridmark looked over the stone and forgot about it.

      There were more urgent things to consider.

      His arrival had been expected, so the chief men of the town awaited at the castra’s gate to greet him. There was Flavius, the praefectus of the town, a stout man who looked like a fatter version of his older brother Vegetius. There was Sir Longinus, a young knight that Ridmark had recruited to serve as castellan of the castra and the commander of the men-at-arms in his absence. Next to Sir Longinus and the praefectus stood a fat elderly man wearing fine robes and a skullcap, a crozier staff in his right hand. His name was Belasco, and he was the bishop of the see of Castarium. The bishop was more worldly than Ridmark thought proper for a high churchman, and Ridmark was entirely certain that the nephews whom Belasco had given various offices were, in fact, illegitimate sons from the man’s younger, wilder days. Nevertheless, Belasco had a generous heart, and he was a shrewd man who understood the ways of the world. Ridmark found that the bishop was a man with whom he could work.

      The same could not be said of the abbot of the Monastery of St. Bartholomew.

      Ridmark noted that no one from the monastery had come to greet the returning lord of Castarium. A small insult, to

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