DRAGONSKULL: SHIELD OF THE KNIGHT preview chapter!

The end of the year is almost upon us, and I probably won’t have time to post any more until the New Year.

But! If all goes well, DRAGONSKULL: SHIELD OF THE KNIGHT will be out next week!

Meanwhile, let’s have a look at the first chapter!

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Chapter 1: Red Orcs

On the first day of December in the Year of Our Lord 1499, Sir Gareth Arban rode south along the River Cintarra’s eastern bank.

He really hoped it wasn’t going to rain again, but it seemed likely.

It was a chilly, cloudy day, the overcast sky the color of hammered steel. To Gareth’s right, the River Cintarra flowed south. A pair of heavy wooden barges floated on the water, their decks covered with wrapped bundles of trade goods. The road ran above the river’s eastern bank, and the party of Constantine Licinius, Dux of the Northerland, filled most of it. The Dux had ridden south with a hundred knights and a hundred men-at-arms, and an accompanying wagon train laden with supplies. Between the various squires and servants who followed the knights and the men-at-arms, nearly four hundred people occupied the road.

Gareth shifted in his saddle, adjusting the weight of the chain mail upon his shoulders. Philip and Crake thought they ought to reach the town of Greenbridge by the end of the day, and Gareth hoped they were right. After most of the day on horseback, the thought of a warm meal and a dry bed was appealing. The Dux, his wife Lady Severina, and their servants would take the guest quarters in Greenbridge’s castra, but Gareth would be content with a dry tent out of the rain.

Because it had rained a lot, and it would probably rain some more.

When Dux Constantine had announced they would ride to Cintarra to escort Prince Tywall Gwyrdragon to Tarlion for his wedding, Gareth had been pleased. He had wanted to travel to Tarlion at the end of 1499 anyway to see the Great Council of the Realm because it would give him a convenient reason to ask for the hand of Lady Iseult Toraemus in marriage.

It would be different this time.

Before, Gareth had only been a squire, and she had been betrothed to a knight. Now Gareth was a knight himself, and he had received that honor after the siege of Toricus and the defeat of the medvarth. When the Dux had ridden forth to fend off raiders from the Wilderland in the year after Toricus, Gareth had proved himself in battle and gained renown. He would have every right to seek Iseult’s hand or to challenge Sir Thomas Olwen for it. Gareth had already beaten Sir Thomas in a duel once. The older man would see the wisdom of giving way, and Gareth and Iseult would be married.

At last, her father would understand. His mother would understand.

So Gareth had been pleased the Dux intended to escort Prince Tywall to Tarlion.

He also looked forward to escaping a portion of the Northerland’s winter. There was no way that Gareth would admit it to anyone, especially Sir Crake, but the winters in Castra Marcaine were brutal. Gareth had grown up in Tarlion, and he was used to the milder winters along the coast. He could recall it snowing only three times in Tarlion during his entire childhood, and those snows had melted in a day. That was nothing compared to the blizzards that howled through the Northerland.

Still, Gareth had forgotten how often it rained in winter along Andomhaim’s southern coast.

He shifted in the saddle again, trying to get comfortable, and decided it was a futile effort. Gareth wore his chain mail hauberk, a sword at his belt, and the weight of the armor dragged at his shoulders. Still, it was better than going unarmored. The lands sworn to the Prince of Cintarra were far safer than the Northerland, which was surrounded by tribes of pagan orcs on three sides. But danger lurked even this far south. Entrances to the Deeps dotted the Prince’s lands, and sometimes raiders emerged in search of loot and captives.

And beyond the southern shore lay the Isle of Kordain, which was still held by the Heptarchy invaders even though the red orcs had been driven from Andomhaim. Gareth had heard Dux Constantine speak with his knights and vassals about the danger of the Isle, how it might one day serve as a base for another invasion from the Heptarchy. Gareth’s father and the High King had voiced the same worries, though the nobles had been unable to assemble a fleet and an army large enough to dislodge the Heptarchy soldiers from the isle.

So Gareth wore his armor and made sure his sword was close at hand.

He heard the snort of a horse and turned in his saddle. Another rider approached from the east, his mount picking its way through the tall grasses along the side of the road. A lean young knight about Gareth’s age sat atop the animal. The knight had his mother’s cold blue eyes and his father’s curly brown hair, though unlike either of his parents, he was a superb archer and preferred the bow to the sword whenever possible.

“Sir Philip,” said Gareth.

“Sir Gareth,” said Philip Aemilius. “Any news?”

Gareth sighed. “It hasn’t rained yet, and I got most of the rust off my armor this morning.”

“Don’t worry,” said Philip. “We ought to get to Greenbridge before it starts to rain again.” He glanced at the sky. “Then you can spend a pleasant night listening to the rain hit your tent.”

“You’re the one who enjoys the wilderness,” said Gareth.

“A little rain never hurt anyone,” said Philip. “It’s still preferable to a blizzard.”

“Mmm, true,” said Gareth. “Did you find anything?”

“Just farms and fields,” said Philip. “I spoke to some of the freeholders. They haven’t seen the red orcs.”

Gareth frowned. “We’re a bit far north for red orcs.”

“Apparently,” said Philip, “the arachar orcs have started landing in secret, stealing horses, and then riding further inland to avoid the watch towers.”

“At least they can’t sail up the river,” said Gareth. The city of Cintarra sprawled on either side of the river’s mouth, with seven bridges connecting the city’s eastern and western halves. Any enemy ship that tried to row up the river would be spotted and quickly destroyed.

“I always wondered why Cintarra had been built on both sides of the river,” said Philip. “It would have been more efficient to simply build the city upon either the eastern or the western bank. I asked my mother.”

“And what did Lady Antenora say?” said Gareth. Antenora knew a great many things. She also had strong opinions about them. Gareth still remembered the cold look in her eyes as she attempted to dissuade him from pursuing Iseult.

He thought it disturbing that a beautiful woman could have a mind like that, and Antenora was indeed attractive, even if she was his best friend’s mother. Fortunately, Iseult was nothing like Antenora.

“She said that the first Gwyrdragon Prince was more farsighted than he knew,” said Philip. “He built the first bridge over the River Cintarra to control trade, so no ship could come to either the harbor or down the river without paying his tolls. Little did the first Prince know that it would help his descendants defend the city.”

“Well, we should have no battles today,” said Gareth. The thought disappointed him. He had seen enough fighting to have been stripped of illusions, to know that glorious battle often ended not in glory but in screams and blood mixing with the mud. But despite that, a man could win renown in battle, and Gareth had done so.

He hoped to win more, to burnish his reputation and his deeds before he came to Tarlion to win Iseult’s hand.

“Perhaps we’ll be fortunate,” said Philip, “and arrive in Cintarra to see ten thousand Heptarchy warships filling the harbor. Then you will have many chances for martial glory.”

Gareth eyed him. “You have your mother’s sense of humor.”

“So my father says. Have you seen Crake?”

Gareth shook his head. “No, not since we set out this morning. I think he and Sir Jerome are riding with Sir Tragen and Magistrius Korbin today.”

“We should talk with him,” said Philip.

“Why? We all know that Crake is a true son of the Northerland and might melt in this searing southern heat,” said Gareth. “This chill, rainy, damp southern heat.”

“That,” said Philip, “and you remember the village we rode through this morning?” Gareth nodded. “That was the village where Warlord Agravhask killed his mother.”

“Oh.” Gareth was taken aback. He had known that Crake’s father and mother had been killed in the war with the Heptarchy, that the Dux had found Crake and taken him in as a page, the boy eventually becoming a squire and a knight. Until they had put aside their differences during the battle with the medvarth, Gareth hadn’t known that Warlord Agravhask had personally killed Crake’s mother while he hid and watched. “He didn’t mention it.”

“Of course he wouldn’t,” said Philip. “But he’s in a foul mood. Best we distract him before he terrorizes the squires.”

Gareth started to say something mocking and then stopped himself. The conversation had brought to mind his own mother, who he had not seen since he had left Tarlion two years earlier. He had written her a letter every month since, as his father had commanded as a condition for arranging Gareth to become a squire in Constantine’s court, but Gareth had not seen her since he had left Tarlion. Their parting had not been amicable. She had disapproved, strongly, of Gareth’s decision to court Iseult and challenge Sir Thomas to a duel, and her disapproval and his refusal to change his mind had turned into a shouting match.

He suddenly wondered what he would do if she was killed, if the next letter informed him that she had died of illness or accident. Gareth remembered their conversations when he had been a child, when she had calmly answered every question that his young mind could summon up. He also remembered how she had collapsed into near-catatonic grief for months after his sister Joanna had died three days after her birth, how Gareth had realized for the first time that his mother was not invincible and all-wise, that she was human and fallible, that she could be wrong…

Just as she had been wrong about Iseult.

“Gareth?” said Philip.

He realized that he had been silent for too long.

“Yes, let’s go talk to Crake,” said Gareth. “We ought to take him hunting.”

“There’s hardly any game within twenty-five miles of Cintarra,” said Philip. He turned his horse to ride south, and Gareth followed. “You might shoot some freeholder’s pig, and then the Dux will have to pay compensation.”

“Not hunting, then,” said Gareth.

“Fishing,” said Philip.

Gareth sighed. “I am not going fishing with Crake.”

“Why not?” said Philip.

“Because he never shuts up about it,” said Gareth. Philip opened his mouth, and Gareth leveled a finger. “Yes, I know, I know. Crake is my brother knight and comrade-in-arms and we’ve all gone through great dangers together. But he still won’t shut up sometimes.”

“We should be grateful for that,” said Philip.

“What? Why?”

“Because how else shall we keep the mighty Sir Gareth Arban from getting a big head about all the medvarth that he has killed?”

Gareth rolled his eyes. “I thought that was your job.”

“I am but one man.”

They rode past the wagons and the other horsemen. After almost two years of service at the Dux’s court, Gareth knew almost everyone, and he greeted the men-at-arms and knights as he rode past. He spotted some of the other knights who had been squires with him at Castra Marcaine – Procopius, Luke, and Regan. As the younger knights of the Dux’s party, they had been assigned the task of guarding the supply train. Gareth supposed it offered fewer chances for glory. On the other hand, it wouldn’t feel very glorious if they lost all their supplies and starved to death. Or if they had to go from village to village begging for food.

Gareth wasn’t surprised that he heard Crake before he saw him.

Ahead, two knights rode near the head of the supply wagons. One was a big man, stocky and not quite fat, and the other was shorter and thinner. The thinner man had lank blond hair, a perpetually nervous expression, and a prominent nose that had been broken and never healed right. The overall effect made him look somehow rodent-like, which was deceiving because Gareth had seen Jerome wield his sword in battle with cool-handed skill despite keeping that nervous expression the entire time.

“No, no, no,” said Crake, gesturing. “You can’t get good fishing this far south.” He had ragged red hair, bright green eyes, and a ruddy face. A war hammer had been slung over his shoulder, which he preferred in lieu of the swords favored by the other young knights of Dux Constantine’s household.

“Why not?” said Jerome. “It’s water. There are fish.”

“Water!” exclaimed Crake. “No, no.” He drew himself up, preparing to impart his wisdom to everyone within earshot. “See, the problem is the fishermen. They put out every morning from both the river gate and the harbor, and they get most of the fish between them.” He scratched his jaw. “If you want to get any fish, you’ve got to go further upriver. Or head further out into the ocean. It’s more work to get fish out of the ocean, but it’s less…mmm, competition. Ocean’s bigger than the river.”

“I suppose not many people want to fish the ocean now,” said Jerome. “Since the Heptarchy came over the sea.”

“If you’re hungry enough,” said Philip as he and Gareth drew up alongside the other knights, “then you’ll risk it.”

“But as a true son of the Northerland,” said Gareth, “I think you’d prefer venison hunted from the hills.”

Crake glowered at Gareth for just a second, as if he knew that he was being mocked, but then nodded. “True. But fish taken from the River Marcaine or the Lake of Mourning taste just as good as venison. Especially in winter, when you have to cut through the ice. Not that a…”

“Southron like me would know about that, yes, you’ve mentioned it before,” said Gareth.

Jerome looked back and forth between them. “You two need to find something else to argue about. You’re getting into a rut.”

“I’m not arguing,” said Crake. “I never even quarrel. I am merely educating you southrons about the Northerland.”

“I’ve lived my whole life in the Northerland,” said Jerome. “I never even left Dun Meridia until I became Sir Karsten’s squire.”

“I spent half the year in Dun Aemilia since I was a boy,” said Philip.

“I actually am a southron,” said Gareth.

“Enormously helpful, as ever, Sir Gareth,” said Crake. “We…”

“I think we can see Greenbridge from here,” said Philip, pointing.

Gareth saw that Philip was correct. The land began to rise in a gentle slope, and on the horizon, Gareth glimpsed a walled town. It wasn’t terribly large by the standards of the lands near the River Cintarra – about three thousand people, he thought. That would have been a large settlement in the Northerland. A wall of stone encircled the hilltop, strengthened with towers, and inside Gareth saw houses roofed in red tiles, along with the towers of a stone church and a castra. As they drew closer, Gareth could make out the banners flying from the towers of the gate – green with a sigil of a raven perched upon a bridge.

The sigil of the Lady of Greenbridge.

“Where’s the bridge?” said Jerome.

“Eh?” said Crake.

“Well, the town is named Greenbridge, aye?” said Jerome. “So where’s the bridge?”

“There’s no bloody bridge in Greenbridge,” said Crake. “Doesn’t make sense, I admit, but there you are.”

“But the town’s named Greenbridge,” said Jerome.

“Southron, you enjoy lecturing about history,” said Crake with a wave of his hand. “Educate our poor brother knight.”

Gareth sighed but told the story anyway. “Crake’s right, there’s no bridge. A couple hundred years ago, one of the Princes of Cintarra enacted a gate tax, but it cost twice as much to enter the Western City as it did the Eastern.”

“Why?” said Jerome.

“The Prince wanted to rebuild the wall of the Western City, so he figured the people entering the western gate could pay for it,” said Gareth. “Anyway, the knight of the village where Greenbridge now is built a raft and charged about half of the gate tax to ferry people from the western bank to the eastern bank. He painted his raft green, so his village became known as Greenbridge.”

Jerome frowned. “Wouldn’t the Prince be angry? I couldn’t see the Dux letting one of his vassals defy him like that.”

“The knight of Greenbridge became the Comes of Greenbridge,” said Gareth, “And in exchange for becoming a Comes, he stopped running the ferry.” He shrugged. “But that was centuries ago. I think the Lady of Greenbridge has a ferry now. The best places to cross the River Cintarra are the bridges in the city itself, Greenbridge, Cynan’s Tower, or the town of Rhudlan further north.”

“Do you think we’ll meet the Lady of Greenbridge?” said Jerome.

“Maybe,” said Gareth. “She might be in Cintarra with her husband and the Prince.”

“You’ve met her, aye?” said Jerome.

“I have,” said Gareth.

“Is she as beautiful as they say?” said Jerome.

Gareth hesitated. Jerome was his friend, but he had an interest in gossip that Gareth thought unknightly.

“Ah, she has children by now, doesn’t she?” said Jerome. “She’s probably fat as a pig before the slaughter. Southron noblewomen get that way as they get older.”

“No, she’s not,” said Gareth. “I saw Lady Moriah and Lord Niall before I…” He started to say before he had fought the duel with Sir Thomas and corrected himself at the last moment. “Before I went north to join the Dux’s court. She looks as almost as she did when I met her before the Heptarchy came.” A memory flashed through his mind of a red-haired woman with green eyes, sharp features, graceful movements, and sinewy hands.

“So she is beautiful?” said Jerome.

Gareth considered his answer. It was unknightly to gossip, but it was also dishonorable to lie.

“Well,” he said at last. “Yes.”

“Is it true that she’s Prince Tywall’s spymaster?” said Jerome.

Gareth shrugged. “I don’t know. She might be.”

“I had heard,” said Jerome, “that Lady Moriah goes in disguise into the city at night and seduces those she wishes to destroy.”

Crake snorted. “Getting your hopes up, are you? She’s not bloody likely to seduce you.”

“Well, I’m just saying,” said Jerome.

“I really doubt it,” said Gareth. “It’s just a story. Her husband is the Constable of Cintarra. He would chop off the head of anyone who tried to seduce her.”

They kept riding, Crake expounding on the virtues of the fish of the Northerland as compared to the inferior specimens found in the River Cintarra, Jerome occasionally speculating on the morals (and negotiable limits thereof) of the women of Greenbridge and Cintarra. Gareth knew that Jerome and Crake had visited the brothel in Castra Marcaine’s town, and Philip had accompanied them a few times. Gareth had declined every invitation to join them.

He would not betray Iseult. The memory of her arms wrapping tight around him, the feel of her body against his, sometimes burned through his mind like a wildfire. Gareth often dreamed of her and awoke yearning for the day when they could be together again.

Though sometimes in his dreams, he didn’t see Iseult, but a woman with white hair and strange purple-blue eyes…

Gareth pushed that thought aside, as he did every time it came to the forefront of his mind.

He didn’t want to think about the visions he had seen in the Qazaluuskan Forest.

The drumming of hoofbeats interrupted both his reverie and Crake’s and Jerome’s rambling discussion of fishes and noblewomen. Gareth looked up to see another knight riding towards them, a hulking man with a bushy black beard.

“Sir Tragen,” called Gareth, and his friends fell silent.

“Aye, you lot keeping yourselves busy, are you?” said Sir Tragen Volarus, the master-of-arms of Castra Marcaine and one of Dux Constantine’s trusted lieutenants. After the siege of Toricus and receiving his knighthood, Gareth wondered if Sir Tragen would treat him and the others any differently. After all, they were now knights in service to the Dux, though Tragen was the lord of Mourning Keep in the Northerland.

But as it happened, Tragen still ordered them around as much as he did when they had been squires.

Though Gareth did not have to shovel out the stalls in the Dux’s stables any longer.

“We are guarding the Dux’s baggage train, Sir Tragen,” announced Crake.

Sir Tragen grunted. “Well, my valiant young knights, you can keep on guarding the supply train.” He pointed at the walls of the town. “We’re almost there. The Dux, Lady Severina, and some of the lords are going into Greenbridge. They’ll lodge at Lady Greenbridge’s castra for the night while the rest of us camp outside the walls.”

“Is Lady Moriah there, sir?” said Jerome.

“I don’t believe so,” said Tragen. “The Dux is meeting her castellan. More’s the pity. She’s a fair-looking woman, though too clever for my liking. Still, I hope to see Niall Lordsbane. I remember him from the Heptarchy War. Solid man in a fight.” Tragen shook his head. “Well, that’s not your problem. Your problem is getting the supply wagons secured for the night.”

“Where should we camp, sir?” said Gareth.

“Lady Moriah’s castellan will tell us,” said Tragen. He leveled a thick finger at them. “Don’t argue with the Magistrius about where to put the tents.” The Dux had given Magistrius Korbin the responsibility for overseeing the camp every night since none of the knights, men-at-arms, or camp followers wanted to argue with someone who could command the powers of magic.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” said Crake.

Tragen gave him a suspicious look but nodded. “I’ll send one of the squires once the castellan tells us where to camp.”

With that, he rode back to the head of the column to rejoin the Dux.

“You know,” said Jerome, “I didn’t think knighthood would involve so many arguments about where tents should go.”

“A proper camp with a privy ditch is vital,” said Philip. “If the men get sick, they cannot fight. It’s hard to win glory in battle if we’re squatting over a trench squirting out everything we’ve ever eaten.”

“Cheery thought,” said Crake.

“Why do they call Lady Moriah’s husband Niall Lordsbane?” said Jerome.

“He killed some traitorous nobles during the Heptarchy War,” said Gareth.

Jerome blinked. “Truly?”

“He did. But no great loss,” said Crake. “The Cintarran nobles before the war were a bunch of fools and degenerates. Warlord Agravhask might have been a great murdering bastard,” he leaned over and spat upon the ground, as he often did when Agravhask was mentioned, “but I reckon he might have done the realm a favor when he killed all the Cintarran lords. The High King appointed better men to take their place.”

“We’re all knights,” said Philip. “Which means we’re nobles.”

“Aye, but we’re not fools and degenerates,” said Crake. “True, the Southron here has his moments of folly, especially when waxing lyrical about Lady Iseult, but…”

“I’m not the one who visited the brothel at Castra Marcaine,” said Gareth.

Crake only grinned at that. “Your loss, Sir Gareth, your loss.”

The Dux’s column reached the base of Greenbridge’s stone wall. As Tragen had said, Constantine and Severina rode for the town’s gate, accompanied by lords and knights. A group of men-at-arms in Lady Moriah’s colors awaited them.

Gareth himself, along with Crake, Jerome, and Philip, remained behind to oversee the raising of the camp. Not that it seemed necessary. The Dux had given Magistrius Korbin the job of raising the camp, and Korbin in his long white coat (mostly gray now from the road dust) walked among the men-at-arms and the servants and made sure that the tents and pavilions were raised and a privy trench was dug. The decurion who commanded the men-at-arms hardly needed the assistance.

As knights, Gareth and the others could give the decurion commands. In practice, the decurion was a grizzled veteran named Curtius who was twice again Gareth’s age, and he regarded the young knights with both tolerant amusement and the absolute minimum amount of respect required by their stations. He followed their commands, but Gareth only told him to do what he would have done anyway.

“It’s a pity we won’t get to see Lady Moriah today,” said Jerome, glancing at the town.

Crake grunted. “God and the saints, man. You’ve been insistent about that.”

Jerome shrugged. “Well…I like women with red hair.”

Gareth snorted. “Careful. Do you think a man with a name like Lordsbane will be happy a landless knight is sniffing around his wife?”

“I wouldn’t do anything like that,” insisted Jerome. “But…I could admire her from afar. Do great deeds in her name.”

“Aye,” said Crake. “She could see us digging the privy trench in her name. That’d charm the skirt right off her, it would.”

“Maybe it’s just as well that she isn’t here today,” conceded Jerome.

Philip turned to the east.

“What is it?” said Gareth.

“Horsemen,” said Philip. “Quite a lot of horsemen.”

Gareth followed his gaze. Greenbridge occupied a hill that formed a slight bend in the River Cintarra. Past the hill lay the road that followed the river’s bank, broad and well-traveled. Beyond Gareth saw pastures and fields. Even in the milder Cintarran winter, the farmers let about half of their fields lie fallow, while the other half were sown with winter barley. At the moment, it made for a bleak sight.

Which meant it was easy to see the horsemen.

There were about forty riders. The horsemen rode in haste, heading in the direction of Greenbridge. The riders wore heavy cloaks with the cowls drawn up. While it was a cool, gloomy day, Gareth didn’t think it was that chilly. Certainly not cold enough to merit such heavy garments.

“That is a lot of riders,” said Jerome, voice soft.

“Eh, Cintarra’s the biggest city in the realm,” said Crake. “Travelers come and go all the time. It’s not like the Northerland, where some villages see one or two visitors every other year.”

“If they’re travelers, why aren’t they on the road?” said Gareth. “A lot easier than traveling cross-country.”

The four knights shared a look, and they reached an unspoken decision. Gareth broke into a jog, the others following him, and came to the eastern edge of the camp. Magistrius Korbin was there, speaking with Curtius. Korbin was a wiry, ascetic-looking man with a tangled beard and graying hair. Beneath his dusty white coat, he wore wool and leather, a wooden club hanging from his belt since the Magistri were forbidden from spilling blood with the edge of the blade.

“Ah, young knights,” said Korbin. He always called them that. “I think we’ll actually get the tents up before the rain comes down for once.”

“Those riders,” said Gareth.

The Magistrius and the decurion glanced at each other.

“Don’t like the look of them either, do you, sir?” said Curtius. He spoke softly, save when shouting commands to his men.

“No,” said Gareth. “I think we had best have some men ready to fight, decurion.”

“Reckon that you’re right, sir,” said Curtius, and he turned and began bellowing commands. Men-at-arms abandoned their tasks and rushed to the edge of the camp, raising their shields and drawing their swords. Gareth was glad that he had worn his armor, and he grasped his own sword hilt, though he wished there had been time to get his shield.

The horsemen reacted to the movement of the men, urging their mounts to a gallop. Their cloaks flew behind them as they rode, revealing chain mail and sword belts, and some of the cowls fell back.

Gareth found himself looking at orcish faces.

Crake sucked in a startled breath, and some of the men-at-arms cursed.

Nearly all the orcish nations and tribes in Andomhaim had green skin. The orcs of the three baptized kingdoms, allied with the High King, had green skin. So did the orcs of the Qazaluuskan Forest who had nearly killed Gareth, though they preferred to don black and white warpaint behind their tusks before they went to battle.

The orcs galloping towards them had skin the color of blood, and only one nation of orcs had skin that color.

The mutated arachar orcs who served the Seven Temples of the Heptarchy.

“To arms!” roared Curtius. “To arms! We are under attack!”