The Sorcerer Knight Read online

  THE SORCERER KNIGHT

  BOOK TWO OF THE KINGSHIELD SERIES

  Robert Ryan

  Copyright © 2020 Robert J. Ryan

  All Rights Reserved. The right of Robert J. Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by www.damonza.com

  Trotting Fox Press

  Contents

  1. A Shadow of Dark Magic

  2. The Arts of the Knights

  3. The Tombs of the Letharn

  4. Brand of the Duthenor

  5. The Shadow of Fear

  6. Your Time Will Come

  7. Aranloth the White

  8. Armor, Swords and Treasure

  9. Force of Will

  10. You Have Met Your Match

  11. The Magic of their Making

  12. Battle Will be Rejoined

  13. A Peaceful Land

  14. Hunting

  15. Tidings of the Land

  16. Words Have Power

  17. A Thirst for Knowledge

  18. A Price in Gold

  19. Wards of Protection

  20. A Duel of Magic

  21. What Went Wrong

  22. The Strategies of War

  23. All Things End

  24. Fire and Smoke

  Appendix: Encyclopedic Glossary

  1. A Shadow of Dark Magic

  Faran drifted on a wave of magic.

  He did not know where he was, for in the void there was no where. Nor was there a when. He merely was, and he floated on currents of time and space that were but echoes of the real world.

  It was a lonely place. Yet it was peaceful also. Here, he might contemplate a speck of dust for eons to unravel its mysteries. Or he might cast out his mind to encompass the vast cosmos and grasp its secrets in a single moment. It was all the same, in the end.

  His mind felt stretched, as though these thoughts were too big for it. Yet thoughts had no size, so there was no limit to what his mind could perceive. If there was a wall there, he had built it himself.

  Something changed, and he felt a sensation of falling.

  Down he dropped, plummeting. And memory came back to him of where he had been.

  Within the standing stones he had stood, that circle of monuments from another age. Aranloth had invoked their magic. Traveling, it was called. By doing so they had escaped Lindercroft as their enemy was on the cusp of capturing them. Or more likely, killing them.

  But even as the sensation of falling increased, Faran remembered one other thing. At the very last moment, some creature of dark magic had leaped within the circle and Traveled with them.

  It was here now, in the void. It was falling with him, and its purpose was to kill him. There was no question of that. And it could move with blinding speed.

  Faran felt his bow in his hand. Before the magic of the stones commenced, he had been preparing to loose an arrow and defend himself. But the creature had been coming for him, and he knew that he would not be quick enough.

  Had anything changed? He felt reality swiftly approaching, and expected to be torn and shredded by the terrible claws and teeth that he had seen.

  A brilliant light burst against his eyes, and then, swift as it had come, it faded away into oblivion.

  He was left where he had been when the magic commenced, in a ring of standing stones.

  No. These stones were taller and grander. They had Traveled, as Aranloth said they would.

  His bow felt heavy in his hand. The dark shadow of the creature streaked toward him. Aranloth was straightening from where he had been stooping to activate the magic. Kareste was turning from where she had been looking at Lindercroft.

  Faran held his bow before him as a protection against the creature that now leaped at his throat. It was too late to loose an arrow. But suddenly, out of nowhere, Ferla was there.

  Ferla, her red hair flying behind her, launched herself at the creature. She had drawn no knife, but instead used her own body as a weapon.

  There was a thump as the two bodies met. The creature grunted in surprise and Ferla cried out, and then she rebounded as her slight body collided with the much larger.

  She fell down as though she had hurled herself against a wall, and yet, for all the creature’s size, her intervention had thrown it off balance.

  Teeth flashing and claws gleaming, it twisted in the air and landed to Faran’s left even as he dodged to the right. He was amazed at his friend’s courage, but her bravery had not saved him.

  The creature scrambled over the ground, claws tearing up chunks of dirt, and then its dark eyes fixed at Faran’s throat and it leaped again.

  This time, he had the opportunity to loose his arrow. It sped over the few feet that separated him from his attacker and drove into its chest.

  The shaft penetrated deep, taking the creature square on and sending it tumbling to the side. Part wolf it seemed, and part man. Faran had no name for it, but he sensed it was a thing born of deep magic.

  Whatever it was, it was strong. It reared up now on two legs, and a deep-throated growl tore the air. It was not a growl of pain, but of anger. Again it came at Faran, this time sprinting at him.

  Faran loosed another arrow, but the creature swerved and dodged it. Kareste now joined the fray, a streak of brilliant blue flame leaping from her staff and pummeling the beast. Even as it reeled from that, Aranloth was there also. At a wave of his staff, a silver-white wall of flame leaped up between Faran and his attacker.

  But the creature was not done. It rolled to the ground, snapping the arrow that protruded from its chest, and it lurched upright once more, patches of its dark fur smoldering with remnants of blue flame. It leaped again.

  Faran reeled back, and the beast leaped into Aranloth’s wall of flame. That wall bent under the creature’s weight, and Faran, fearful nothing would stop the creature trying to kill him, fumbled to nock another arrow.

  The silver-white wall bent, but held. Then it folded back over the creature, enveloping it. Aranloth had made it to do so, and with a sweep of his staff he sent more lòhren-fire at it to shore up the weak spots of his trap.

  Ferla was standing again, and she worked her bow, speeding several arrows into the creature.

  Faran followed her example. Coolly now, he stood his ground and sped arrows, one after another, with rapid movements that only long practice could hone.

  He could not be sure how effective this was. The arrows burned even as they pierced the lòhren-fire, but the darkened shafts streaked into that deadly trap and, if nothing else, the metal heads struck the creature. It turned and twisted, seeming to bite itself in response to the pain they caused.

  But it did not die. Its black eyes fixed once more on Faran, and he felt the cold wind of death blow upon him. The thing howled, and though there was terrible agony in its voice, there was not yet weakness. This thing would come for him until its last breath, if a thing of such dark magic even breathed.

  The beast strained against the bonds that held it, ignoring the fiery touch of Aranloth’s magic and looking like it would leap out of its confinement and rend Faran’s flesh.

  Kareste took a few paces closer. Now, each arrow that Ferla sped into the creature the lòhren infused with her own magic.

  The arrows flew, flaring with blue light and piercing the chest of the creature. It reared and howled, those blue arrows sticking from its chest, and they continued to burn long after the wood that made them must have turned to ash.

  Enveloped by white flame, pierced by blue lòhren-fire that burned from within, at last the creature staggered.

  Yet, summoning its last st
rength, it bunched its muscles and leaped again. The white magic about it bent and shredded, and it tumbled from its trap, a thing of snapping teeth, razor-sharp claws and smoking fur burned in places to expose blackened flesh.

  It fell, rose again, and scrambled toward Faran setting the grass afire where its massive paws trod the ground.

  Ferla strode closer, and she loosed an arrow straight at the creature’s head. Kareste’s magic touched the shaft in flight, and it penetrated an eye and drove deep into the brain.

  The beast screamed, and it reared up on two legs again. Faran sent an arrow into its throat, and slowly, like a fallen tree, it toppled to the ground.

  There it lay, trembling and panting, its hind legs twitching as life ebbed away. Faran looked into the remaining eye, and beyond the signs of agony he saw surprise and the fear of death. In pity, he drew one more arrow and loosed it into the creature, seeking its heart.

  The arrow sped home, and the creature went limp. Faran turned away then, overcome by a strange grief at the death of an enemy that would have killed him. Tears stung his eyes, and the stench of burned flesh wafted through the air, making him gag.

  “Look!” Ferla cried, and he swung back. Even as he did so the body of the beast writhed and twisted, turning to smoke as the dark magic that held it together unraveled.

  But that was not all. Within the smoke a vision formed. It was a man, like Lindercroft, though older. His hair was silver, and on his head was a crown.

  “The king,” Aranloth said softly. Then more loudly, “Beware! Magic is unleashed!”

  Light flared and then subsided. The king reeled, as though in pain, and perhaps that was so. The king wished Faran dead, so it may have been his dark sorcery that sent the beast rather than Lindercroft’s. If so, would the summoner of such a creature remain connected by magic to it? Would its death bring pain?

  But there was no time to think of such things, still less how a vision of the king came to be formed. That he was there was what mattered, and he regained his composure and turned to look at them with bloodshot eyes, one by one.

  Faran was disturbed. If Lindercroft had seemed a man of power, how much more so the king? His eyes bored into everything they saw like driven nails. Authority draped him like a cloak, and even Faran sensed the aura of sorcery that enveloped him, greater by far than the power of kings.

  Those bloodshot eyes turned to Aranloth. “We meet again, Nuatha. For so I now call you. Aranloth is not a name we respect anymore.”

  Aranloth, despite being a figure of legend, older by far and more powerful than the king, looked nothing like him. He leaned casually against his staff, as though crowns and dark sorcery were nothing to him.

  “Names mean little to me, Druilgar. I have forgotten more of mine than you have ever had. But the title of Guide, of Osahka, is important. To me at least. It means something. Do you tell me that it means nothing now to you?”

  The king frowned. “The title remains important. It is a name of honor and respect. But I now bestow that honor on another. I learn deeper of the mysteries than you would ever have taught me, and I am content. Do not seek to undermine that, for it is stronger by far than the bond we ever shared.”

  “If you say so,” Aranloth answered.

  “I do say so,” the king said, and if he did not raise his voice there was still a tone of anger in it.

  “Who now is Osahka to you, Druilgar? Do not say the Morleth Stone itself. That would be no bond. That would be a chain.”

  “Ah, you seek to provoke me. By trying to make me angry you hope I will reveal more of what I know and how I learned it. But I have no time for childish games.”

  Aranloth laughed, but there was little humor in the sound.

  “I know whence your power comes, and your knowledge. I knew these things before your ancestors ever thought of traveling east and founding cities such as Faladir. I know also that high as you may rise under the influence of the stone, your fall will come also, and it will be hard for you.”

  The king paled, though whether in fear or anger was not obvious.

  “You know nothing,” he said quietly. “Less than nothing. Have you ever held the stone and invoked its power?”

  Aranloth shook his head. “No, for I know its origin. I would not use the thing even at great need. It would—”

  “Enough! You have never used it, and you do not understand it. Perhaps you lacked the courage. But I have, and I have leaned things you would never have taught me.”

  The lòhren shrugged. “I’m no more, or less, courageous than most people. But this is not about courage. It’s about wisdom, and one day you will remember my words.”

  “You tried before to anger me. Now, you try to plant the seed of doubt. But I am beyond your manipulations. Are you, though, beyond mine?”

  The king shifted his gaze, and Faran felt the force of those bloodshot eyes again.

  “This is the pitiful man you would raise against me? Do you really think he has it in him to fulfil prophecy?”

  Aranloth grinned. “Who is really the pitiful one? You tell me that you will try to manipulate me, but really what you seek is information.”

  The king inclined his head. “Then tell me straight out. Is he the seventh knight?”

  The lòhren ran a hand through his hair as though in thought.

  “A fair question, and so I’ll give you a fair answer. No, I don’t think he is.”

  The king sighed. “I should have known better than to bother. You never could answer a straight question with a simple answer. But lying is beneath you.”

  The king glanced at Faran again. “Tell me this, if Aranloth will not. Are you the seventh knight?”

  Faran felt the weight of those bloodshot eyes, and he sensed what he should not in a king. Evil. It was one thing to be told that this man was ultimately responsible for the destruction of Dromdruin Village, but it was another to see him face to face, and to feel the truth of it.

  “I’m not the seventh knight. I don’t care what anyone says or thinks – that’s not me. But this much is true, and I said it to Lindercroft, and now I say it to you. I’ll hunt you down for destroying my village. And I’ll kill you for it.”

  The king seemed startled, but he smoothed over his features swiftly.

  “Bold words, and maybe Aranloth has chosen better than I thought. You have the makings of a knight. Or at least the courage of one. Sadly, we’ll never know. You are marked for death, and it will find you. Not as swiftly as I had desired, but swift enough.”

  The gaze of the king then fell to Ferla, and he made to speak. But Aranloth acted first.

  “This conversation is done, Druilgar.” Raising his staff, the lòhren called forth a gust of wind that shredded the image of the king and sent it into oblivion.

  “None too soon,” Kareste said. “I was growing tired of him. The knights have indeed fallen.”

  Aranloth did not answer. He seemed preoccupied. Faran looked around in the silence that ensued. This was a greater ring of standing stones than the one they had left near Nurthil Wood.

  The stones were just as old, made ragged by the passage of time, but the circle itself was larger and the stones themselves were half as tall again.

  There was something not quite right here, though. It felt odd, and an uneasiness that he could not explain crept up on him.

  He looked out for the first time beyond the stones. The sun was high in the sky, and the afternoon was drawing on. But the light was good, and what he saw stretching out for mile after mile surprised him. Everywhere he looked were ruins. This had once been a vast city. So vast that it must have dwarfed even Faladir.

  The ring of stones was on a hill, and Faran gazed down on the remnants of a long-forgotten city. Perhaps that was what was making him uneasy, for it was hard not to think of mortality in the face of that. Millions of people must have lived here on a time, and they were all dead now.

  He turned to look at Aranloth. Perhaps not all were dead. But the lòhren seemed unw
ell. His brown robes shimmered, and they became white. He must have been using the same sort of magic that Kareste had done before to disguise his appearance.

  Why that should be, Faran did not know. They knew now who he was. Perhaps the illusion was to disguise himself from others they met or that would see them from a distance.

  “Best to be gone from here,” the old man said. “There’s still daylight left and time to walk several miles.”

  But even as they crossed the threshold of the stones, Aranloth stumbled. If not for his staff, he would have fallen. And as he lurched, Faran saw what looked like a shadow detach from him and lengthen away down the hill. But that was not possible, so he ignored it.

  2. The Arts of the Knights

  Kareste rushed to Aranloth’s side and put an arm around him. He tottered for a moment, and then straightened, a terrible look in his eyes.

  What had just happened, Faran was not sure. But whatever afflicted the old man passed swiftly. He gave a shrug and then spoke in a steady voice that was reassuring.

  “Don’t mind me. Traveling is never easy, and it can cause strange … feelings. I’ll be fine in a moment or two.”

  “Let’s sit and rest for a little while,” Kareste suggested.

  There was a tumbled wall nearby, the remnant of some sort of building, and they moved over to that and found some knee-high stones to sit on.

  Aranloth did seem fine now, and he looked about him alertly, so Faran decided to ask some questions.

  “Where, exactly, have we Traveled to?”

  Aranloth sighed. “What you see now are ruins, but once this was the greatest city ever built. It had many names, but Tallach-far was one of the most widely known. This is the heart of the Letharn empire that was. Here, emperors and empresses ruled a dominion that stretched leagues beyond count and into lands that are lost to history. As is this city.” He looked back at the ring of standing stones and then continued. “In a matter of moments, we have Traveled some hundred miles south of where we started.”