Wraith Knight Read online

  WRAITH KNIGHT

  Book One of the Wraith Knight Series

  By C. T. Phipps

  A Mystique Press Production

  Mystique Press is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright © 2017 C. T. Phipps

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  C.T. Phipps is a lifelong student of horror, science fiction, and fantasy. An avid tabletop gamer, he discovered this passion led him to write and turned him into a lifelong geek. He is a regular blogger and also a reviewer for The Bookie Monster.

  Bibliography

  The Rules of Supervillainy (Supervillainy Saga #1)

  The Games of Supervillainy (Supervillainy Saga #2)

  The Secrets of Supervillainy (Supervillainy Saga #3)

  The Science of Supervillainy (Supervillainy Saga #4)

  Esoterrorism (Red Room Vol. 1)

  Lucifer’s Star

  Straight Outta Fangton

  Cthulhu Armageddon (Cthulhu Armageddon Series #1)

  The Tower of Zhaal (Cthulhu Armageddon Series #2)

  Wraith Knight (Wraith Knight Series #1)

  Wraith Lord (Wraith Knight Series #2) – coming summer 2017

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

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  WRAITH KNIGHT

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter One

  Snowflakes fell as I stood surrounded on the peak of a frozen mountain. My body stretched outward, hunched over the hilt of a sword blade, snow heaped up to my calves. I had no notion of how I’d gotten there, where in the World Between I was, or what my purpose here could be.

  Indeed, I had no conscious thought at all, only memories and feelings.

  I remembered life.

  My absent mother. My cruel sire.

  An unhappy parting. Training in the Grand Temple.

  I remembered love.

  A woman’s face with black eyes and skin the color of chestnuts. I remembered her touch and the forbidden joys we’d found together in each other’s arms. Her name. Jassa.

  I remembered sunlight. The brilliant, gentle rays of it against my face.

  Knighthood. The hammering of the forge. Battle.

  Blood and screams of pain, metal on metal, metal on meat, crashing, maiming, Formor battling sidhe, the deathless hounding the living, Lightborn and Shadowkind on two sides of a great melee. I remembered using the magic sword I’d enchanted with the divine sorcery I’d learned as a Temple Knight to shatter the blade of a deathless shade. I remembered ending that creature and challenging its master.

  Then pain, followed by darkness.

  Immense, immeasurable, unendurable darkness.

  Was I dead?

  If so, why was I not in the World Above? I’d followed the Path all my life, even dedicating myself to the Grand Temple at Warmaster Kalian’s behest. I believed in the Lawgiver, the Peace-Weavers who were his son and daughter, and the Great Mother amongst the other Gods Above. Yet, for all my vivid recollection of dying, I was most certainly not in the City of Light nor the endless gardens promised to the faithful.

  It was…painful.

  Slowly, the memories and images formed a coherent pattern. I knew who I was and had a sense of reason. There were large holes in my identity, though, like a mosaic missing a quarter of its tiles. I shook away those thoughts, deciding I was not dead since I was conscious on top of a mountain.

  I struggled to remember more but the blackness formed an impenetrable wall. After a few minutes, more of trying and failing to recall anything beyond that battle, I decided to take a moment and think about my situation. I did not feel in the slightest bit cold, but that told me nothing. There were many spells which could guard against the winter’s chill.

  Looking down, I saw my hands covered in studded black gloves made of a peculiar sort of material I’d never yet seen before. A heavy cloak mantled my shoulders, a hood shrouded my face, and I wore boots designed more to stamp than to stride. Coarse robes covered the rest of me, my attire belted in battered leather.

  My right hand still clutched the grip of a curved black demonsteel sword, almost beautiful for all that its edges were notched and toothy. Engraved across its sides were Frost runes of incredible power, beautiful in their terribleness. The blade shimmered in the moonlight of the Peace-Weavers above and possessed an eerie pale blue aura of witchfire. I forced my hand to open and the blade stood erect in the snow in spite of the wind and its curved shape. I’d seen weapons like it before but only once or twice in my lifetime.

  The memories cut deep into my recollection, even in my current state of confusion.

  Oh no.

  I reached up to touch my face, worried I’d gouge myself with the studded gloves.

  But I had no face.

  And I knew why.

  I was a Wraith Knight, one of the four Dark Lords of the King Below.

  Shit.

  How is one supposed to react to the discovery you’re a monster out of children’s story? For the past thousand years, the King Below and the Dark Lords had been a curse on the Southern Kingdoms. Over and over again, they’d risen to deva
state the land with their armies. Usually, they’d been beaten back with great cost to all the races of men but not always.

  Always had the Wraith Knights been the King Below’s chosen four, their names each burned into the minds of children and shared over fires at campsites. I had become one, perhaps because I was one of the few to have laid one low. A monster I had met on the fields of battle only to cast him down.

  Kurag Shadowweaver.

  I’d killed him.

  Or so I thought.

  Glancing over at the sword beside me, I saw it to be identical to the one wielded by that terrible creature. I’d shattered Kurag’s sword, what poets called Chill’s Fury, and the creature had withered away into nothingness. I had awoken with that very sword held in my hand as naturally as though it were mine own.

  Had I somehow become Kurag?

  “No,” I said, my voice sounding like an echo from beyond the grave. “I am Jacob Riverson, Knight Paramount of the Shadowguard.”

  But was I?

  Jacob the Fisherman’s son, the bastard slave turned warlord, seemed like a dream now. I remembered how my sire had sold me to Kailin as a slave, how my master had freed me as part of his religious conversion, and how I’d ended up in the Grand Temple’s service.

  I recalled my stolen time with Jassa in the hidden nooks of that courtyard between the Temple Guard Barracks and the Priestesses Chambers. All the years before my disgrace and atonement as one of the Shadowguard.

  The memories came hot and thick now, threatening to drown me. There were gaps after that. Long ones. Flashes of important people, meetings, general strategy, politics, and nothingness.

  Then death. Sudden death on the same fields I’d slain Kurag.

  Killed by the King Below himself.

  Gods Above and Below.

  The memory of the King Below’s giant hellish sword piercing my chest threatened to overwhelm me. The God of Evil had been a warrior, nine-feet-tall, made of living darkness and armed in icy black armor harder than adamant. I’d been a fool, trying to fight the invincible, but it had been to protect the fallen form of Edorta Tremor, Warlord of the Southern League. It was a choice which had resulted in my death.

  What a jest this was. After achieving a victory against one of the great evils of our history, I’d fallen in battle only to be raised up again as his replacement. Wraith Knights weren’t invincible. Several times, they’d been reported killed, only for these same beings to rise again. How humorous humanity had assumed they were all immortal when it was merely their evil master replacing them with whatever soldier had killed them. The Trickster had been having a joke on us this entire time. After all, one hooded ghost looks the same as another.

  “I must destroy myself,” I whispered.

  I’d witnessed the King Below’s power over the dead. He’d called forth the souls of those who fell in battle to aid him. If I was free from his control, it was only a matter of time before he resumed it. I did not know whether I would go to the World Above or Below but either was better than preying on the living.

  Walking over to the place Kurag’s sword still stood, I grabbed it by the hand and placed its hilt on the ground while aiming the blade where my heart should be. As a ghost, it didn’t technically matter where I struck, but I figured I’d go with the traditional suicide method for a disgraced soldier.

  “Courage, honor, duty,” I whispered, somehow, the words of the Shadowguard. The words came out as a horrific rasp. I steeled myself against all fear with the thought of Jassa, struggling to believe this honored her whether she was alive or dead. Though we were never married—such things forbidden by our vows—I held her to be my wife. I tried to throw myself on my blade but, no matter how hard I willed it, my body did not move an inch. No matter how hard I tried.

  “Bastards and hellspawn!” I cursed, knocking Chill’s Fury aside. “You are a coward and a fool.”

  A voice from the shadows spoke, “As cowardly as any man who wants to live.”

  I turned around and stared at the figure which greeted me. He seemed a lad with not above twenty years to his name, impish in feature. The youth was wearing something too wicked to be a smile and possessed eyes belonging to a man far older than his appearance suggested. He was clad in sage-green and sable clothing, motley like a court jester from the bells of his collar to the points of his shoes.

  I stared at him, wondering where such a comical figure had come from. “Gods Below, who are you?”

  “Asked and answered, Wraith Knight,” the figure said. “But do you not recognize your master?”

  I did so I snapped up Chill’s Fury and turned it upon him. “Back to the shadows, fou—”

  The figure snapped his fingers and my sword became a bouquet of withered black roses. I tossed the useless item aside. It turned back to its original form in the snow, if it had ever turned in the first place outside of my head.

  “You are the Trickster,” I growled, staring at him. “The form the King Below takes when he wishes to sew mischief and lead men’s souls astray.”

  The Trickster grinned. “As if men needed me to lead them astray! I play out my part in the universe for the young races, as does Old Man Law, my brother. You should thank me, Fisherman’s bastard, for I provide mortals the opportunity to strive against something wicked. I provide the contrast which allows men to speak of good and evil, honor and dishonor, order and chaos.”

  “Release me from this cursed torment, fiend. I will not be your puppet.”

  “You have been my puppet for two hundred and fifty-two years, six months and three days. Two Ages and a half, roughly.”

  I stared at him, a second wave of dawning horror passing over my body in as many minutes. “No.”

  “Oh Yes.”

  “Jassa—” I fell to the ground, wishing I could weep.

  “Is dust and memory, I imagine. If it’s any consolation she undoubtedly mourned, moved on, and had many fat little brats who went on to do the same. Mortal love tends to go like that. They forget. It requires a truly immortal being to carry a torch for their loved ones across the ages as you have.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that. I’d not have unleashed you if I had known it would lead to such maudlin sentiment.”

  “You freed me?” I asked, confused and appalled at once.

  “I retreated to my black throne after casting down Emperor Edorta during the Fourth Great Shadow War.” The Trickster paused, looking to the sky. “I rebuilt my armies, planned and plotted until it seemed mortals had forgotten their gods needed devotion, then I launched my fifth invasion. This time, you won.”

  “We…won?” I was too put off by the Trickster’s causal manner to respond.

  “Yes, I’m dead. At least the King Below is dead,” the Trickster said, giving a short clap and something almost a smile. “My brother sent a vision of a holy sword and a cup, or perchance it was a cauldron, I forget, and a band of ruffians called the Nine Heroes claimed them. The Dark Lords were defeated, save yourself, and I was struck down. My evil was ended and armies scattered. There was a bit with some gryphons and a crowning. It was all very beautiful and poetic.”

  I pointed at him, paused to take in that rush of recollection, then looked at him sideways. “Uhm…”

  “You mean, how can I still stand before you in spirit?”

  “Yes.”

  “I, of course, am eternal.” The Trickster shrugged then gestured to the sky. “But King Below had become a tired jest. It’s hard to embody cruelty and tyranny, no matter how many victories you have to your name, when you must always be driven back. I am laying said identity to rest. I shall craft a new one when time permits me and mankind needs some new villain to blame for their problems. That is, after all, my purpose. You mortals would destroy yourselves if not sufficiently distracted.”

  His claim disgusted me. “I refuse to believe the last thousand years and ten Ages have been a farce put on by you and the Lawgiver!” I was surprised to find my voice sounded almost normal.

&n
bsp; Everything seemed crisper and sharper.

  And colder.

  I edged my gloves up to discover I had a face again.

  The Trickster looked as amused as ever. “I’m pleased to see you remember how to put on a human semblance, even if it’s only because you’re too angry to go without substance enough to strike me.”

  I was too confused to respond. I felt my face, stunned by its sudden appearance. The spikes in my gloves hurt but even that feeling was welcome.

  “You need to get the blood pumping, so to speak.” The Trickster put his hands on his hips. “As for a farce, you should try and imagine it from my perspective. What else could mortal lives be but a joke?”

  I picked up Chill’s Fury off the ground and sheathed it. “I will no longer listen to this nonsense.”

  “You speak as if you have a choice. Your willfulness is an indulgence I am offering you because of recent inconveniences. Take no great comfort from your new form either,” the Trickster said, pulling out a pan pipe and giving it a whistle. “Blood is the only path to something akin to life and you will need to shed it copiously to enjoy much by way of mortal pleasures. Not that you ever had a problem with such in life.”

  “What game do you play, spirit?” I asked, wishing he’d send me off to the World Above or Below rather than toy with me.

  The Trickster stared with cold sapphire eyes. “Humanity is ruining my demise.”

  “Such a tragedy,” I said, daring sarcasm to the God of Evil.

  “All of the Fir-Bolg, giants, men, and sidhe were united against me. Even Trow and Spiderfolk joined the alliance to upset me. Only the Formor remained entirely loyal, which was touching albeit pathetic. It was the perfect end to my reign.” The Trickster wrinkled his nose. “The epilogue leaves something to be desired, however. Victory hasn’t ushered in an age of peace and cooperation but rather petty ambitions. I want you, Wraith Knight, to be the instrument which brings the Nine Heroes to ruin and take my place as mankind’s bane.”

  This was ludicrous. “Forgive me if I do not accept such an honor.”