Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I shall,” said Rakhaag. “You are the Staffbearer.”

  “Actually,” said Calliande. She was a Magistria, not a warrior. She wasn’t sure of the right questions to ask. “If I command you to answer the questions of Ridmark son of Leogrance, will you do it?”

  Rakhaag growled. “If you command it.”

  “I do.”

  “The men and orcs who took your kin,” said Ridmark. “What can you tell me about them?”

  “They were warriors,” said Rakhaag. “They carried weapon-tools of steel, and clothed themselves in steel. They came with great speed and stealth, and vanished before we could pursue. They employed a magic that made us weak, a vile scent that filled our minds with fog.”

  “A drug, then?” said Ridmark. “Can you tell me more about them?”

  “They were poison,” said Rakhaag.

  “They carried poison, you mean,” said Ridmark.

  Rakhaag bared his fangs. “They stank of poison. It was in their blood. Their sweat dripped with it.”

  “You mean they were poisoned?” said Ridmark.

  “Perhaps,” said Rakhaag. “If they were of the True People, I would say that they were…diseased. That they were rabid, perhaps, or that they had been infected by an illness that had driven them mad.”

  “You must have followed them,” said Ridmark. “If their blood was tainted, you could have followed their scent easily. Where did they go?”

  “To the ruins,” said Rakhaag. “To the place called Urd Dagaash.”

  Ridmark grunted. “Did they come out again?”

  “Often,” said Rakhaag. “At least a half-dozen times in the last twenty rounds of the sun.”

  Calliande frowned. “If they’re coming from Urd Dagaash, then why did you think the men of Aranaeus took your kin?”

  “Because,” said Rakhaag, “some of the humans and orcs with poisoned blood went to Aranaeus.”

  “You’re sure of this?” said Ridmark.

  Rakhaag growled again. “Humans and orcs fashion tools of falsehood from cunning words, but the True People do not lie.”

  “No, but the True People can be mistaken,” said Ridmark. “You thought me responsible for the disappearances at first.”

  “This is so,” said Rakhaag. “But we have seen and scented the poisoned ones entering the village at night.”

  “A moment,” said Ridmark. He switched to Latin and looked at Gavin. “Have any other strangers come to Aranaeus in the last three weeks?”

  “No, sir,” said Gavin. “Just you and your friends. Well, and that knight, Sir Philip. But he arrived just before you did.”

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. He turned back to Rakhaag and switched to orcish. “These poisoned men and orcs. They went to Aranaeus, and returned to Urd Dagaash?”

  “Several times,” said Rakhaag.

  Ridmark nodded. Calliande recognized that expression. He was working upon a plan. “Thank you.”

  Rakhaag snarled at him.

  “Thank you,” said Calliande. “Everything you have told us will help us to find your missing kin.”

  “If you ask it of us, Staffbearer,” said Rakhaag, “we will do whatever you wish. For we must serve you. The great memory tells us if we do not, the cold ones will return and choke the world in ice. The forests will die, all the game shall die, and the True People shall starve and become no more.”

  “Tell him,” said Ridmark, “to keep watch over the village. Let us know if you see these poisoned warriors come for the village.”

  “And what,” said Rakhaag, “will you be doing?”

  “We are going to Urd Dagaash,” said Ridmark, “and we will try to unravel the mysteries surrounding us.”

  “That place is death,” said Rakhaag. “If you enter you shall not return.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “All men are mortal.” He gestured at Calliande. “But we have the Staffbearer, do we not?”

  “Indeed,” said Rakhaag. “Her magic is mighty. With her at your side, you shall surely prevail. I was grievously mistaken. I mistook her for your mate and nothing more.”

  Calliande heard a croaking sound that she was very sure was Caius trying not to laugh.

  “Alas, I fear I am not worthy of that honor,” said Ridmark. “But with her aid, I’m sure we shall prevail.”

  Calliande did not know what to think about that, so she turned her gaze back to Rakhaag.

  “You said I have mighty magic,” said Calliande. “I have magic, but it’s no stronger than the powers of any other Magistrius. You must know more about me, your great memory must know more about me. Please, I beg you, tell me anything you know. The spell that let me survive to see this time …it damaged my memory. I know nothing about myself. If you know anything, if your great memory knows anything, tell me. Anything at all.”

  Rakhaag fell silent, his brow furrowing.

  “I am not…I am not sure how to answer you, Swordbearer,” said Rakhaag. “Your minds…the way you think does not make sense. You humans are all mad, all of you, with your lies and your tools and your magic. I cannot fathom you. The great memory cannot fathom you. You are…you are alien. That is the word. You are alien.”

  He closed his eyes, and the other lupivirii did the same.

  “What are they doing?” said Ridmark.

  “I think,” said Calliande, “they’re talking with this…great memory of theirs, whatever it is.”

  Rakhaag’s eyes opened again, his pupils dilated.

  “You are the Staffbearer,” said Rakhaag, and the other lupivirii spoke with him in perfect unison, their growling voices forming a rasping chorus. “You bore a staff of power, the last in a long line of bearers. You stood against the shadow and the frost, at the end of the war, the great war that almost consumed the world. You promised you would return, and you have. And your return is the herald of the frost, of the return of the killing ice.”

  Rakhaag shuddered, and the other lupivirii fell silent, some dropping to all fours, as if exhausted.

  “That is all the great memory knows of you, Staffbearer,” said Rakhaag. “Words…words are so crude. We know your scent. And that is richer than any words.”

  “Thank you,” said Calliande. She already knew everything that Rakhaag had told her. But it had been good to hear it again. “It is maddening to not remember one’s past. And I know nothing of my past. Only what others have told me.”

  “How you humans function without a great memory of your own,” said Rakhaag, “I cannot understand.”

  “We do what we can,” said Ridmark.

  “Go,” said Rakhaag. “We shall do as you bid, for the Staffbearer asked it of us.”

  Rakhaag turned, and the beastmen melted back into the forest.

  Ridmark let out a long breath, and Calliande saw his grip on his staff loosen.

  “They seem fond of you, mistress,” said Kharlacht.

  “They remember you,” said Caius. “Or rather this great mind of theirs does. I have never heard of such a thing.”

  Calliande shrugged. “Perhaps no one else ever talked to them before.”

  “Come,” said Ridmark, beckoning with his staff. “I thought we might encounter the beastmen again, but I didn’t think they would cooperate so well. We have you to think for that, it seems.”

  “I don’t know if I can take credit for it,” said Calliande, “seeing as I cannot remember what I did.” She smiled. “Perhaps they ought to name you Staffbearer.”

  He almost smiled. “I doubt my scent would be as pleasing to their great memory. Let’s go.”

  He led the way up the hill, the ancient road cutting back and forth across the slopes. And then the trees ended, a high, crumbling wall of white stone rising before them, its sides adorned with reliefs showing dark elves torturing and enslaving orcs and beastmen and halflings. A yawning arch of odd angles opened into a half overgrown courtyard, white towers jutting from the earth like the teeth of a long-dead beast.

  Calliande felt the faint aura of dar
k magic clinging to the walls, the remnants of long-shattered wards.

  They had arrived at the gates of Urd Dagaash.

  Chapter 9 - Urd Dagaash

  Ridmark walked through the gate and into the courtyard.

  The courtyard was vast, easily large enough to hold Aranaeus. Once it had been paved with gleaming flagstones, but centuries of weather and grass had upturned most of them. The nine slender towers Ridmark had seen from the valley stood in a loose oval in the center of the courtyard, gleaming like white knives. The towers themselves could not have held much, but the dark elves and their dvargir allies had been skilled engineers, and likely the ruins extended deep underground.

  Perhaps even deep enough to reach the Deeps themselves, the vast maze of caverns and galleries that spread beneath the surface of Andomhaim.

  Which meant any number of creatures could be lurking in the ruins.

  “It looks so desolate,” said Gavin.

  “It’s not,” said Ridmark, staring at the ground.

  “How do you know?” said Gavin.

  “Because,” said Ridmark, pointing with his staff, “of the footprints.”

  The ground, thick with grass and half-tilted flagstones, was not ideal for preserving footprints. Yet Ridmark had seen many footprints on the road outside the ruins, and he saw many more here. In a patch of bare earth he saw the impressions of a dozen iron-nailed boots. Paths of grass had been trampled towards the ring of towers in Urd Dagaash’s heart.

  “A lot of armed men passed this way,” said Ridmark. He motioned the others to stay back and took a few steps forward, examining the ground. “See there, there, and there? Armored boots. And there and there. A scabbard left those marks.”

  “Can you tell if they recently departed?” said Calliande. “Or if they are lying in wait for us ahead?”

  Ridmark frowned at the tracks. “I’m not sure. They’ve gone back and forth so many times that the details are muddled.” He shook his head. “But I think they’ve departed recently.”

  “Then there must not be any dark magic in this place,” said Gavin. “Not if these armed men can come and go freely.”

  “Or,” said Calliande, “they serve whatever dark power waits in the ruins.”

  “Aye,” said Kharlacht. “Such things were common in Vhaluusk. A creature of dark magic could dwell in its lair and command the allegiance of the nearby tribes.” He spat. "Narrakhan did it for decades."

  Ridmark wondered who that was.

  “Or a nest of bandits is simply lurking here,” said Caius.

  “No,” said Calliande, gazing at the white towers. “I sense dark magic within those towers, Brother. Not strong. But it is there.”

  “The tracks head towards the largest tower,” said Ridmark.

  He led the way across the courtyard, keeping an eye out for any movement. Clouds slid across the blue sky overhead, and a breeze set the tall grasses to rustling. It was like walking through a field on a pleasant spring day, save for the dead stone towers rising from the earth, gravestones marking the ruined kingdoms of the dark elves.

  Nothing else moved, and they soon reached the narrow, arched entrance to the tower. Ridmark stepped through it and looked around. The tower’s interior had collapsed long ago into piles of eroded white stone. Ridmark looked up, the walls rising a hundred and fifty feet over his head. In various places he saw niches holding statues of dark elves in robes and armor. Here and there stone steps jutted from the tower’s wall.

  Ridmark followed the line of the steps and saw a stairwell sinking into the earth.

  “Gavin,” said Ridmark. “Did you bring the torches I wanted?”

  Gavin scrambled to produce five torches.

  “I could work a spell to make light,” said Calliande as Gavin lit the torches.

  “You could,” said Ridmark. “But best to save your strength.”

  Calliande nodded, took a torch, and thanked Gavin. The boy turned a bit red and mumbled something in answer.

  Ridmark took a torch in his left hand, his staff in his right, and started down the stairs. They spiraled down, deep into the rock of the hill. The others followed him, their boots rasping against the white stone. Ridmark heard nothing but utter silence from the darkness ahead. Soon the sunlight behind him vanished, the only light coming from the sputtering torch in his left hand.

  Darkness filled the stairway ahead.

  And then he saw a faint red glow.

  “There’s light ahead,” he called back. “Be ready in case anyone awaits us.”

  The others nodded and lifted their weapons.

  One more twist, and the stairs opened into a wide hall of white stone, its arched roof rising high overhead. Slender pillars supported narrow balconies, and the red light came from crystals set into the columns’ capitals, each shining with a bloody red glow.

  Dust and bones lay strewn across the floor, along with pieces of brittle, ancient wood.

  Utter silence reigned over the chamber.

  “This place is huge,” whispered Gavin.

  “We’re at least five hundred feet down,” said Caius. “The dark elves could not match my kindred’s mastery of stone and steel,” he gave a grudging nod to the ruins, “but they wielded great skill nonetheless.”

  Ridmark walked into the hall, his boots clicking against the floor.

  “This was the hall of guests,” said Ridmark. “Whatever prince or lord ruled this place would welcome his visitors here. And torture slaves to death for his amusement.”

  “That’s ghastly,” said Gavin.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “The dark elves thought of cruelty as beauty, and considered a dark elf who could bring torment to a slave a great artist.”

  Gavin took a step, and Kharlacht held out a thick hand to block him.

  “You must take care,” said Kharlacht. “The dark elves loved cruelty, as the Gray Knight said, and filled their strongholds with deadly mechanical traps to kill the unwary. I found my sword and armor in such a place, far to the north of here, and almost perished.”

  “Aye,” said Caius, “the dvargir built many traps for the dark elves.”

  “Dvargir?” said Gavin. “What are they?”

  “They were dwarves,” said Caius. “When my kindred came to this world long ago, we carved out our own kingdoms. But some among us turned to the worship of the great darkness the dark elves revered, and that darkness twisted them as it twisted the dark elves. The dvargir allied with the dark elves, and made war upon us.” He shook his head. “And then the urdmordar came and smashed them.”

  “Likely what happened here,” said Ridmark. He took a few steps forward, testing the floor with his staff.

  “Are you sure that’s safe?” said Calliande.

  “No,” said Ridmark, “but I think it’s safe enough. Look. You can see the path through the dust.” A thin layer of dust covered the floor, but dozens of footprints marked it. “Note the lack of corpses and fresh blood along that trail. No traps. Follow me.”

  He walked across the vast hall. The trail of disturbed dust led to an archway in the far wall, and then into a narrow corridor with a high ceiling. Reliefs and symbols marked the wall, showing more of the disturbing scenes the dark elves had favored. Orcish bones and long-rusted weapons lay on the floor, all that remained of the dark elves’ slaves. More of the red crystals gleamed in the ceiling. Their creators had been dead for centuries, yet they still glowed in this silent place of death. Ridmark wondered how long they would last. Perhaps they would glow until the Dominus Christus returned in glory to judge the living and the dead.

  The corridor ended in another lofty hall half the size of the first.

  The stink of rotting flesh filled his nostrils, and Ridmark saw that they had a problem.

  White stone tiles, each a yard across, covered the floor. A gap of two inches surrounded each tile, bronze-colored metal gleaming in those gaps. A dead orc lay in the exact center of the chamber, clad in the wool and leather of the pagan tribes.

>   At least, Ridmark thought the corpse had been an orc.

  The dead orc had been sliced into at least seven different pieces, and lay in a mangled heap. A huge stain the green-black color of dried orcish blood covered the tiles around the dead orc.

  “God have mercy,” said Gavin. “I don’t think he died well.”

  “Probably,” said Ridmark, “he died so quickly that he barely felt anything at all. Go bring me a skull.”

  Gavin obeyed and brought Ridmark an orcish skull. The tusks jutted up from the thick jaw, giving the skull a perpetual scowl.

  “It is ill to mishandle the dead,” said Caius, making the sign of the cross.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, “and if we mishandle this room, we’ll join them.”

  He tossed the skull into the hall with an overhand throw, and it landed on the center of a tile twenty feet away.

  A loud click echoed through the chamber.

  A dozen gleaming, serrated blades erupted from the gaps around the tile. Each one looked sharp enough to cut through skin and muscle, and to judge from the force of whatever infernal engine drove them, the blades had power enough to slice through bone as well.

  After a moment the blades retracted into the floor.

  “I think,” said Caius, “that we know what happened to that orc.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Bring me more things to throw.”

  Gavin hastened to obey, bringing Ridmark a supply of crumbling skulls and long-rusted weapons. Ridmark threw them one by one, testing the tiles. There had to be a safe path past the traps. The trail through the dust led here, and he could see another archway on the far end of the hall. The dead orc must have been one of the warriors Rakhaag had spotted, a warrior who had stepped a half-inch too far and met his end on those blades.

  Yet every tile Ridmark tested sprang a trap.

  He stepped back, rubbing his free hand over his face as he thought, stubble rasping beneath his palm.

  “Likely there is some sort of mechanism to disarm the trap,” said Caius. “My kindred built similar devices to protect our colonies from kobolds and deep orcs, and there is always a way to disarm the mechanism.”