The Soulblade's Tale Read Online Free PDF Page A

him to wait and left. 
    Ridmark rolled his shoulders and walked towards the dais, his staff a comfortable, familiar weight in his left hand. A few motes of dust danced in the beams of light leaking through the windows. Tapestries on the wall showed scenes from the court of the first High King on Old Earth, of Lancelot and Galahad questing for the cup that had held the Dominus Christus’s blood. Others showed more recent wars, the High King Arthurain fighting against the urdmordar, or the Dragon Knight leading the armies of the High King against the Frostborn.
    Idly Ridmark wondered what would happen if he simply tried to walk out of the keep.
    Perhaps the men-at-arms would kill him. 
    The doors opened, and Sir Joram Agramore entered the hall. 
    He had always been heavyset, but now he verged towards the plump. Peace, it seemed, agreed with him. He had curly red hair and bright green eyes, and wore a long tunic and a mantle, a sword and dagger at his belt. 
    He stared at Ridmark in silence for a moment.
    “Ridmark Arban,” he said at last. “God and all his saints. I was sure you had died five years ago.” 
    Ridmark shrugged. “Perhaps God still has work for me.”
    “He must,” said Joram. “But I was sure…the Magistri always say that Swordbearer severed from his Soulblade wastes away. Or kills himself. It just…”
    “If grief,” said Ridmark, “could kill a man, I would have died long ago.”
    His left hand tightened against his staff, and he glanced at his hand before he could stop himself. A ring glinted on his finger, the gold still bright despite the five years he had spent wandering the Wilderland. Memories burned through him at the sight of it, good memories, happy memories.
    But those memories ended in death. 
    “Indeed,” said Joram. “Forgive me, I did not mean to…I wish…” He sighed and shook his head. “I am not sure what to say to you.” 
    “A knight strives to be courteous to all men,” said Ridmark, “and there is no protocol for greeting a disowned exile and former Swordbearer.”
    “Alas,” said Joram, “no.” 
    Ridmark felt a twinge of pity for his old friend. Joram had always been a solid knight, but not man to take the lead in a crisis. “Then tell me of yourself. You are the Comes of Dun Licinia now?”
    “No, just a caretaker, I fear,” said Joram. “The old Comes died in the winter without any heirs, and the Dux sent me north to oversee the comarchate until he appoints a new man.” He shrugged. “It is quiet enough. The occasional band of pagan orcs or beastmen, but nothing like the days of Mhalek.” 
    “You are wed?” said Ridmark. He did not want to talk about Mhalek.
    Joram grinned. “How did you…oh, yes, the ring. Yes, four years. You remember Lady Lydia?”
    Ridmark laughed. “You talked her around at last?”
    “Well, I imagine my new lands helped sway her father, at least,” said Joram. “But, aye, we are happy. Two children, so far. God, but they can fill a castle with their wailing!”
    Ridmark nodded.
    Joram took a deep breath. “If you will allow me to say so…I am glad to see you, Ridmark. What happened to you was unjust, and I think Tarrabus Carhaine forced the Master to expel you from the Order. It was unjust, especially after what happened to Aelia…” 
    “What is done is done,” said Ridmark. He did not wish to discuss Aelia, either. 
    “Indeed,” said Joram. “Ridmark, I must ask. Why have you come here? You were disowned and banished from the Order, not exiled from the High King’s realm…but you must know that the Dux Tarrabus still has a price on your head.” 
    “Only the High King,” said Ridmark, “can pronounce a sentence of death.”
    “I think Dux Tarrabus disagrees,” said Joram.
    “He can think whatever he likes,” said Ridmark. “I simply wish to purchase supplies and be on my way.”
    “Back into the Wilderland?” said Joram.
    Ridmark nodded. 
    A hint of pity went over Joram’s face. “Still