“Your father said no,” said Morwen, a hint of anger in her voice for the first time.
“We are grateful for the offer, sir, but there is no mystery,” said Cornelius. “The beastmen crept over our walls and took the missing people, that is plain. But we are on our guard now, and they will not surprise us again. Sooner or later the beastmen will exhaust the game available in the woods and move on.” He pointed at Ridmark. “You are welcome to stay at the inn for the night, and to purchase whatever supplies you need, but do not meddle in our troubles, sir. They will take care of themselves.” He turned toward the village hall. “Gavin, come.”
Gavin folded his arms and did not move.
Cornelius looked at him, sighed, and walked away. Morwen watched them for a moment longer, and then left without another word.
###
“Well,” said Calliande once Cornelius and Morwen had vanished into the hall. “That was pleasant.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark.
He suspected that both Gavin’s father and his stepmother knew more, much more, than they claimed. And his suspicion that something other than the beastmen had taken the missing people had hardened into certainty.
But what? And more importantly, did the praefectus and his wife know who was behind the disappearances? And if so, why blame the beastmen?
“I am sorry for my father, sir,” said Gavin. His disgust was plain to see.
“He is your father,” said Caius, “and the holy scriptures command us to honor our fathers and mothers.”
“I know. Father Martel says the same,” said Gavin. He took a deep breath. “Yet it is difficult.”
“When did your father remarry?” said Ridmark.
“Several years ago,” said Gavin. “A few months after a fever carried off my mother, may God rest her soul.”
Ridmark nodded. “Was Morwen born in Aranaeus?”
“No,” said Gavin. “She was born in Andomhaim, in Caerdracon. The Dux of Caerdracon demanded that she become his mistress, and she refused. He hung her father in retribution, and Morwen fled the High King’s realm and came here.”
“I see,” said Ridmark. Tarrabus Carhaine, the Dux of Caerdracon, would not scruple at such a deed, but Tarrabus usually employed more subtle methods to get what he wanted. And it was exactly the sort of story calculated to rouse the sympathies of villagers whose ancestors had fled Andomhaim. But a woman who fled the High King’s realm might have any number of reasons to conceal her identity. “This priest you mentioned, Father Martel. Might I speak with him?”
“Of course,” said Gavin. “He’ll be in the church.”
Caius frowned. “Should you not attend to your father? He asked you to come.”
Gavin snorted. “If I do, he’ll shout at me because he isn’t brave enough to shout at Morwen. He’ll rant and rave, then do nothing. But he is the praefectus of Aranaeus, and it is his responsibility to look after the people here. If he won’t do it, then I will have to. This way, sir.”
Gavin led the way, and Ridmark found himself watching the boy. He was obviously rash and impulsive, and just as obviously in love with the girl betrothed to that blacksmith’s apprentice. Yet there was a nobility to Gavin’s actions, a valor beyond the usual recklessness of a fifteen-year-old boy. He wondered how a man like Cornelius had begat a son like Gavin.
His mother must have been a remarkable woman.
The church was in poor repair, with chunks of thatch missing from the roof, the stone walls weathered and spotted with lichen. Caius looked the church up and down with a frown of dismay.
“The church is ill-maintained,” said Caius. “Why does your father not have it repaired?”
“He doesn’t care,” said Gavin. “Most of the villagers come to the mass, but not many of them really care, I think. Just me, Philip, Rosanna, and a few others.” He shook his head. “And Father Martel did not arrive until four years ago.”
“He did not?” said Caius. “Who was your priest until then?”
Gavin shrugged. “We didn’t have one.”
Ridmark blinked. That Aranaeus had lacked a priest for years raised questions. Every man worshipped something, and if he did not worship God and his Dominus Christus, then he would worship something else. Wealth and power, for one. Or the blood gods of the orcs, perhaps, or the great darkness of the dark elves, or the cold, silent gods of the dwarves.
Or more fleshy gods, such as the urdmordar or the more powerful creations of the dark elves.
So to what had the men of Aranaeus prayed to before the arrival of Father Martel?
Again Ridmark found his gaze drawn to the white ruins atop the hill.
Gavin opened the church’s doors. Inside the church was dim and dusty, with wooden benches resting upon the flagstone floor. Narrow beams of light leaked through the windows and illuminated the altar, the cross upon the far wall, and the font of holy water. An old tapestry rested next to the doors, showing the Dragon Knight and the last Keeper of Avalon leading the armies of Andomhaim against the Frostborn. The ancestors of the villagers must have brought it with them when they fled the High King’s realm.
Kharlacht and Caius crossed themselves, and Calliande and Gavin followed suit. Ridmark examined the floor and the benches. Someone went to effort to keep the church clean, but it was obviously not used much.
Again he found himself wondering where the men of Aranaeus directed their prayers.
“Gavin!”
An old man in a brown robe walked towards them. He was thin and bald, the skin of his face marked with countless creases. Yet despite his age he walked towards them with haste.
“Father Martel,” said Gavin.
“I did not think I would see you again,” said Martel. “Praise God. Morwen claimed the beastmen had taken you, but I knew better. You ran off to find help, didn’t you? That was brave, but foolhardy.”
“I fear you are right,” said Gavin. “I would have been killed, if not for these men and this woman.” He gestured at Ridmark. “Father, this is Ridmark Arban, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Brother Caius, and Calliande of the Magistri.”
The old man looked at Ridmark and blinked his watery eyes. “The Gray Knight?”
“You know me?” said Ridmark. He had never seen the priest before in his life.
“No,” said Martel, “but I was at Dun Licinia.”
“Ah,” said Ridmark. For a moment he remembered the screams, remembered the slain Mhalekite orcs covering the ground with a carpet of dead flesh.
“You saved the realm on that day,” said Martel. “I saw you take command, and I know the things that have been said about you since,” he gestured at the left side of Ridmark’s face, “must be lies and calumnies. When I heard the stories about a warrior in a gray cloak rescuing travelers, I knew it had to be you.”
“How did you come here?” said Ridmark.
“After the fighting at Dun Licinia, I was weary and sick at heart,” said Martel. “Mhalek led so many of the orcs of Vhaluusk astray with his claims to be an incarnate god. I decided to do what I could to keep it from happening again, and to bring the word of the Dominus Christus to the pagan tribes of the Wilderland.”
“A bold and worthy goal,” said Caius, who had almost done the same thing.
“And a foolish one,” said Ridmark. “The orcish tribes of the north kill missionaries.”
“God had different plans for me,” said Martel. “When I reached Aranaeus, I grew ill, and feared I would die. But I recovered, and realized the village had no priest. The church had stood empty for years. I wondered if God had brought me here for that reason, so I took the church for my own, and I have been here ever since.” The old man clutched Ridmark’s shoulder. “You saved Gavin’s life, and I thank you for that. He has a good and brave heart, and will grow into a good and strong man.”
Ridmark considered this for a moment. The priest had a better head on his shoulders than Cornelius, and his concern for Gavin was genuine. And if he had been here for years, he might know wha
t was happening.
Ridmark decided to take Martel into his confidence.
“Father Martel,” he said, “what is happening here? Cornelius claims that the beastmen kidnapped the villagers, and the beastmen claim the villagers kidnapped their females and young, but I doubt either of them are right. Do you know what is truly going on in Aranaeus?”
“I fear you are correct,” said Martel. “Something else preys upon both of us, but I know not what. Aranaeus has secrets, Sir Ridmark.”
“Just Ridmark,” he said. “I am neither a knight nor a Swordbearer.”
“The villagers come to receive the mass,” said Martel, “but I think their hearts lie elsewhere, save for a few like Gavin. Most simply do not care. But the others…ah, perhaps I am only a foolish old man, vain enough to think my preaching might sway hearts.”
“No,” said Ridmark. “There is something strange here, I’m sure of it. You saw the omen of blue flame a few weeks past?”
Martel nodded. “It caused a great stir among the villagers.”
“It was a sign of the return of the Frostborn,” said Ridmark.
“The Frostborn are extinct,” said Martel, glancing at the old tapestry. “The Dragon Knight and the High King destroyed them centuries ago.”
“They are returning,” said Ridmark, “and I am going to Urd Morlemoch to discover how.”
“That is a dark place,” said Martel.
“But before I depart, I intend to discover what is happening here,” said Ridmark.
“Praise God,” said Martel. “We are in sore need of aid. The praefectus, if you will forgive me, is not the sort of man to deal with such a threat. And a warrior of your renown and the powers of a Magistria,” he smiled at Calliande, “will be most welcome. Perhaps the other newcomers will offer you their aid as well.”
Gavin frowned. “Other newcomers, Father? What other newcomers?”
“They arrived yesterday afternoon, after you vanished,” said Martel. “Men from the city of Coldinium to the southwest. A knight and his retainers.”
“What is the knight’s name?” said Ridmark.
“Paul Tallmane, a vassal of the Dux Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Martel.
Ridmark recognized the name at once.
Chapter 7 - White Walls
“You know Paul Tallmane?” said Calliande as she followed Ridmark out of the church.
“Aye,” said Ridmark, his face grim. “Quite well.”
He set off at a brisk pace, and Calliande followed him. Gavin had remained behind in church, as had Caius, who had started discussing theology with Father Martel. Kharlacht had stayed to keep an eye on both of them. Hopefully the dwarven friar would learn useful information from the old priest, something that would shed let upon the mystery.
Because it was a mystery, one that filled Calliande with unease.
There was something wrong about this village, something she could not put into words. Perhaps it was the crumbling, barely used church. Perhaps it was the nervous twitch in Cornelius’s hands, or the icy gleam in Morwen’s jade eyes. Or maybe it was the cold, hostile stares of the villagers, or the white ruins of Urd Dagaash rising on the hills overhead. Calliande, if she worked a spell, could sense the ancient dark magic lurking within the walls. Who would choose to settle in the shadow of such a place?
And now these disappearances.
“Who is he?” said Calliande.
“One of the knights of Tarrabus Carhaine, Dux of Caerdracon,” said Ridmark.
“The man who forced the Master of the Order of the Soulblade to expel you unjustly,” said Calliande.
“Don’t start on that again,” said Ridmark. “He was right to do it.” A shadow came over his face. “Yet...Dux Gareth Licinius is a good man. Tarrabus Carhaine is not. We were squires in Dux Gareth’s court, before Tarrabus’s father died and he became the new Dux of Caerdracon.”
“What is Tarrabus like?” said Calliande. Ridmark led her away from the church, towards the village’s northern gate.
The gate facing Urd Dagaash.
“Confident,” said Ridmark. “A brilliant leader. And utterly ruthless. He has no scruples at all, and will not hesitate to use any method at hand if it will destroy his foes. And he thinks anyone not personally loyal to him is his foe.” His frown deepened. “We got drunk together once, as squires do, and he told me that God had made the world for the strong, that the strong had the right to do whatever they wished, and the weak had no choice but to submit. A strong man had the right to take whatever he wanted from the weak.”
“A thuggish philosophy,” said Calliande. “I pity the folk of Caerdracon, if their Dux thinks in such a way.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “He was right to have the Master expel me, but the man is still a serpent. You heard what Gavin said. Morwen claims she came to Aranaeus to flee Tarrabus’s vengeance. The omen of blue fire appears, men and beastmen start disappearing, and one of Tarrabus’s knights arrives in Aranaeus? Too much of a coincidence.”
“If the Dux is a hard man,” said Calliande, “what is Sir Paul like?”
“A faithful servant of his master,” said Ridmark. “Paul was a squire with us as well. He was a bully and a coward. If Tarrabus thought a freeholder or a townsman had not shown him enough respect, he sent Paul to burn the freeholder’s barns or to loot the townsman’s shop.” He looked up. “And here we are.”
The White Walls Inn sat facing the northern gate. There was nothing white about it, with its walls of gray fieldstone and its roof of yellow-brown thatch. Yet Urd Dagaash towered over them in the distance, and Calliande realized the inn had taken its name from the ruins.
An ill-omened name, to be sure.
Ridmark opened the inn’s door, and Calliande followed him inside. The common room looked cozy enough. A cheery fire crackled in the hearth, and a pair of polished, if old, tables ran the length of the room. Calliande supposed the same group of forty or fifty men came here every night to drink and escape from their wives. A doughy man in an apron hurried towards them, bowing with every step.
Three men in armor and cloaks sat near the fire, swords at their belts, speaking to each other in low voices. The old woman who had embarrassed Gavin sat on a bench near the wall, a cup of beer in her hand. Agnes hummed to herself, lost in her memories. Calliande hoped they were pleasant ones.
“More strangers!” said the innkeeper. “Welcome! I am Bardus, and this is the White Walls Inn.” He looked at Ridmark, flinched a bit when he saw the brand, and then his smile returned. “How can I serve?”
“We’ll be staying the night,” said Ridmark, “and then proceeding on our way in the morning.” The men at the fire looked up at the sound of his voice. “I’ll need a room for three men, and then a private room for the lady.”
“Of course, of course,” said Bardus. “We have the rooms, certainly. Peddlers and travelers come through the village sometimes, but not many right now, not with all the…ah, unpleasantness. But you are welcome here.”
The armored men near the fire stood. Two wore the chain mail and tabards of common men-at-arms, swords at their belts. The third wore the more expensive plate and chain armor of a knight, the steel polished to a mirror-like sheen. A blue surcoat marked with the sigil of a black dragon’s head hung over his armor, and some part of Calliande’s damaged memory informed her that was the sigil of the Dux of Caerdracon.
“Well, I shall be damned,” said the knight. He was blond and handsome, with black eyes and a mustache that had been trimmed and styled. His eyes were focused on Ridmark, and a mocking smile appeared below the mustache. “The coward of Castra Marcaine himself, still alive? God has indeed a cruel sense of humor.”
He laughed, and his men-at-arms followed suit.
Bardus looked from Ridmark to the knight, fear on his face.
“Sir Paul Tallmane,” said Ridmark. “It has been a long time.”
“Five years,” said Paul. He glanced at Bardus. “You have the privilege of a noble guest indeed, master innk
eeper. Ridmark Arban, the son of the Dux of Taliand and once the most renowned Swordbearer of the Order of the Soulblade. Then he abandoned his army in the field and murdered his wife, and the Order expelled him for his crimes.”
“I…I don’t know, my lord knight,” said Bardus. “I am an innkeeper, a simple innkeeper, and the affairs of the mighty are above me…”
“Perhaps,” said Calliande, “you should check on matters in the kitchen.”
Bardus gave her a grateful look and scurried away. If it came to violence, she did not want the innkeeper or his family hurt. And it might come to violence. Ridmark’s expression gave away nothing, but she saw the loathing behind Paul’s gleaming smile.
He hated Ridmark.
“You’re a long way from Caerdracon,” said Ridmark.
“Indeed I am,” said Paul. “I have moved up in the world, exile. The Dux of Caerdracon, as you know, owns a castle near Coldinium, the Iron Tower. Dux Tarrabus, in his gracious wisdom, has appointed me Constable of the Iron Tower, a position high in honor and prestige.”
“I congratulate you, sir,” said Ridmark. “It is a remarkable bit of alchemy you have performed.”
“Oh?” said Paul. “And what alchemy is this?”
“Coldinium is a frontier town, far from the heart of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark. “Far from Caerdracon, for that matter. Traditionally, the Dux of Caerdracon has given responsibility for the Iron Tower to those who displeased him. The failures, the incompetents, the disliked.” Paul’s hard smile grew sharper. “Those who would burn a freeholder’s farm in their Dux’s name and were stupid enough to get caught, for instance. But it is remarkable how you have made the Constable of Iron Tower into a position of honor and prestige. I didn’t think anyone could do it.”
“Do not lecture me about honor, exile,” said Paul. “Not when you have that brand upon your face, and you carry that stick,” he pointed at Ridmark’s staff, “rather than a knightly weapon.”
“A drunkard’s warnings about the dangers of wine are still true,” said Ridmark, “and you would be surprised what a freeholder can do with a quarterstaff in his hands.”
Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife Page 8