“Agrimnalazur?” said Ridmark. “I assume that is the urdmordar you serve?”
“She is the great goddess,” said the orc, gesturing with his axe, an ugly thing of dark iron. “The cold ones are returning. All with perish, save for the chosen of Agrimnalazur.”
“Assuming she doesn’t eat you, of course,” said Ridmark.
He expected the orc to take umbrage, but the warrior grinned. “We are but gnats to Agrimnalazur. And Agrimnalazur rewards her faithful servants lavishly with wealth and power.”
“Like a chicken,” said Ridmark, “buying his freedom by betraying his brothers to the fox.”
He expected the orc to take offense, but the warrior laughed.
“You understand!” said the orc. “We cannot resist Agrimnalazur’s power, for she is a goddess. Better to serve her and be rewarded. As you shall learn. For you are now her slaves, and you will come with us.”
Kharlacht and Caius stepped to either side of Ridmark, their weapons ready. Calliande waited behind them, hands raised as she summoned magic. Gavin stood on Kharlacht’s left, his club in hand. Ridmark thought about ordering the boy away, but realized that he would not listen. A man had the right to fight in the defense of his home and family, and by the time this was over Gavin would be a man.
Or he would be dead.
“I am Ugrazur,” said the orcish leader, “servant of the great Agrimnalazur, and in her name I command you to lay down your weapons and submit.”
A dozen orcish warriors fanned around him, maces and axes and swords in hand. Like Ugrazur, they all bore the same spider-scar upon their faces.
“And I am Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark, “and I will give you this one chance. Walk away, now. Or I will kill you all.”
“Ah,” said Ugrazur, the red glaze of orcish battle fury coming into his black eyes. “You are the one who slew the goddess’s sister! Agrimnalazur desires to acquire you as a servant. But since you are too defiant to bend the knee, I shall lay your head before her. Kill the men. Whoever takes the first kill may keep the woman as a concubine.”
Ugrazur and his warriors charged forward with a yell, and Ridmark ran to meet them. One of the orcish warriors swung a mace, and Ridmark ducked around the blow. His staff blurred, cracking the orc’s wrist, and the warrior dropped the mace with a yelp. Before he could recover, Ridmark reversed his grip on the staff and whipped the weapon around, raising it over his head.
The end of the staff slammed into the orc’s temple, all of the weapon’s weight and Ridmark’s strength driving the blow. The orc went down without a sound, and two more attackers jumped to take his place, one thrusting a spear and the other swinging an axe. Ridmark knocked aside the spear with a sweep of his staff, dodged a wild swing from the axe, and jabbed the end of the staff. The butt slammed into the axe-wielding orc’s belly, and the warrior doubled over with a wheeze. The spearman thrust again, and Ridmark dodged, shifted his staff to his left hand, and grabbed the spear behind its head and yanked. The orc stumbled, and Ridmark hit him in the face with his staff. With only one hand, he could not put enough force behind the blow to kill, yet the orc’s head snapped back. The warrior stumbled, stunned, and Ridmark got both hands on his staff and swung again.
The orc fell dead to the ground.
Around him the others struggled. Kharlacht’s greatsword opened one of the orcs from throat to navel. Caius’s mace struck with bone-crunching force over and over again. Even Gavin held his own with his club, ducking and dodging around strikes. Calliande stood back from the fight, white fire glimmering around her fingers. A Magistria could only use her magic for knowledge, communication, and defense, but never to kill or harm a mortal, but that hardly made her useless. One by one white light glimmered around each of Ridmark’s companions, a warding spell to blunt the impact of blows. Ridmark sensed the cold touch of her magic upon him, and then he felt faster, as he once had while wielding the soulblade Heartwarden in battle.
Ugrazur roared and came at him, and Ridmark turned his whole attention to the orcish leader.
###
Gavin ducked under the swing of a heavy sword.
He faced one of the spider-scarred orcs, the sounds of clanging steel and shouted curses ringing in his ears. The orc thrust again, and Gavin got his club up in time to block the blow. The heavy iron blade tore splinters from his club, and Gavin could only imagine what it would do to him.
But he didn’t care.
He felt terror, but it seemed remote, so remote, and everything had slowed around him. He heard his heart thundering in his ears, every beat sounding like the boom of the drum, a wild, mad mixture of fear and exhilaration filling him. The world had shrunk to the battle between Gavin and the orc with the sword.
The orc roared a curse and came at Gavin again, and he ducked, the sword blurring past his face. He felt the sharp tip graze his temple, felt the burst of pain, felt hot blood flow down his sweaty skin.
But he did not care.
He cared that the orc’s wild thrust had left him open.
Gavin swung his club with all his strength, and the heavy weapon crashed into the orc’s face. Bones shattered, teeth and black-streaked green blood flying. The orc stumbled, dropping his sword with a clang, and Gavin struck again. The orc fell to his knees, and Gavin brought his club hammering down.
The orc collapsed. Blood leaked from his smashed nose and mouth, and Gavin saw the final twitches as the life faded from the orc’s limbs.
Gavin had just killed a man.
He stared at the dead orc, stunned. It seemed so…absurd, so unreal. How could he have done this? He…
An orcish war cry rang in his ears, and Gavin remembered the orcs were trying to kill him and his friends.
He raised his club as another orc ran at him, brandishing a mace.
###
Ridmark swept aside a thrust, blocked another, dodged a swing.
Ugrazur was fast.
Too fast. He moved with the dangerous, powerful speed of a hunting predator, far faster than an orcish man his age should be able to move. Only the longer reach of his staff had kept Ridmark alive so far.
Ugrazur had some magic of his own. It must be something Calliande could neither sense nor dispel, otherwise she would have done so. Ugrazur’s speed gave him an advantage, but every advantage was a double-edged sword.
Every weapon could be turned against its wielder.
Ridmark launched a flurry of short, rapid swings against Ugrazur. The orc backed away, ducking around the swings. Ridmark’s momentum played out, and he let himself fall open. Ugrazur howled and charged into the opening, moving with superhuman speed.
Exactly as Ridmark had predicted.
The length of his staff slammed into Ugrazur’s belly with enough force to knock the weapon from Ridmark’s fingers. The staff went tumbling away, and Ugrazur doubled over, eyes bulging, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Ridmark snatched the orcish war axe from his belt, raised it high, and buried the blade in Ugrazur’s neck. The green blood of an orc gushed from the wound, but strange black streaks colored the blood.
Ugrazur toppled to the dirt, his blood soaking into the soil as Ridmark ripped the axe free.
He looked around, seeking more foes, but the fighting was over.
Kharlacht put his foot upon the chest of a dead orc and wrenched his sword loose. Caius looked back and forth, his mace spattered with orc blood and more of that peculiar dark fluid. Calliande lowered her hands, the white fire fading, and Ridmark felt his enhanced speed fade, the glow of wards fading from the others. Gavin stood in the midst of the carnage, blinking, blood dripping from a cut in his temple.
“I’m still alive,” said Gavin. He sounded astonished.
“You are,” said Ridmark. The boy had good instincts. Some men, when facing combat for the first time, froze up, or panicked and ran. Gavin had kept his head, had even managed to kill two of the orcs.
The boy was a natural fighter.
“Here,” said Calliande. �
�I’ll tend to that cut.”
She stepped toward Gavin and whispered a spell, her hand glowing as she ran it over his temple. When she left it the cut had vanished, leaving only an angry red welt.
“That will leave a scar,” she said, “but it will not putrefy.”
Gavin nodded, still gazing at the dead orcs. “I killed them.”
“You did,” said Ridmark. “If you feel guilt over it, remember that they burned your home and carried your neighbors into captivity, and they would have killed you.”
“Raising the sword is always a grave matter,” said Caius, “but to do so in self-defense is permissible in the eyes of God. It is a serious thing we have done, and you are right not to take it lightly. But you need not reproach yourself for it.”
Gavin closed his eyes, bit his lip, and nodded again. “I think…I think we should search the church, sir. To see if anyone has survived.”
“A sound idea,” said Ridmark. Calliande handed him his staff, and Ridmark took it, returning the axe to its loop on his belt. “Keep a watch out for any other orcs. Gavin, take his sword.”
Gavin blinked. “His sword, sir?”
“The fighting chewed up your club,” said Ridmark, “and if we run into trouble again, you’ll need a better weapon. Take it. And the scabbard so you don’t cut off your own leg.”
“You needn’t hesitate,” said Kharlacht. “That arachar has no need for it.”
“Arachar?” said Ridmark.
“Those orcs drank the blood of an urdmordar,” said Kharlacht. He pointed at the dark streaks in the green blood. “The blood gave them superhuman speed.”
“They drank the blood of an urdmordar?” said Calliande, disgusted. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“They urdmordar rarely permit it,” said Kharlacht. “Their blood can drive a mortal insane, but it can bestow great power. For their most loyal followers, the truly devoted, they grant the gift of their blood.”
“It sounds like a blasphemous parody of communion,” said Caius.
“Given that the urdmordar think of themselves as goddesses,” said Calliande, “it was likely intended that way.”
“So I don’t think you need feel any guilt about taking the sword,” said Ridmark, “and you will need it, before this is done.”
Gavin hesitated, nodded, and took the dead orc’s sword and belt. He buckled it around his waist, sliding the sword into his scabbard, and followed Ridmark and the others across the square. Ridmark examined the doors of the church for a moment, then pushed. The sound of wood scraping against stone filled his ears.
“Help me get the doors open,” said Ridmark. “Someone piled the benches against them.”
Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin helped him push again the doors, and they swung open with a groan. Inside a pile of benches stood heaped against the doors, and Ridmark kicked them aside. The church had not been as badly damaged as he feared. The thatched roof had burned away, but the charred timbers had not collapsed into the sanctuary, and the stone walls still stood.
“Which way to the crypt?” said Ridmark.
“There, behind the altar,” said Gavin.
Ridmark crossed the sanctuary. A wooden trapdoor rested upon the floor behind the altar. Ridmark knelt, gripped the iron handle, and pulled the heavy door open.
He heard a click and saw the flash of steel, and found himself staring at the point of a crossbow quarrel. The crossbow itself rested in the arms of Rosanna, her green eyes wide and terrified.
“You’re Gavin’s friend,” she said, her voice shaking. She was sweating and sooty, but otherwise unhurt. “Oh, thank God. Thank God.”
“Rosanna!” said Gavin. “You’re safe!”
“Gavin,” came Father Martel’s voice, and Ridmark saw the old priest moving in the darkness of the crypt. “It is good to see you. I feared you had been killed outside the walls.”
“Who else is with you?” said Gavin.
“No one, I fear,” said Martel. The old priest hobbled into the light from the trapdoor. He looked exhausted, his robes scorched, a half-congealed gash along the side of his face. “Only us. When the orcs and the human bandits arrived, I…I tried, I tried to get the praefectus to listen, but…”
He staggered, and collapsed to the floor of the crypt.
“Father!” said Rosanna, putting down the crossbow and running to him.
“Help me get him to Calliande,” said Ridmark. He scrambled down the ladder, Gavin and Caius following. Together they carried the old priest to the sanctuary and laid him upon the church floor. Calliande knelt alongside him and whispered a spell, the white light around her hands closing the gash in his face. She winced as she did it. Ridmark had once carried Heartwarden, and he had used its magic to heal. He knew that to heal wounds, Calliande had to feel the pain as if the injuries had been inflicted upon her own flesh.
Yet she bore the pain without complaint.
“He’ll live,” said Calliande when she finished. She sighed and rubbed her face. “But he lost a lot of blood.” She pointed at the dark stains on his robe. “If he makes it through the night, he should be fine.” Calliande straightened up and brushed some dust from her trousers. “What about you, child? Are you injured?”
“I’m fine,” said Rosanna, arms wrapped around herself. Gavin hesitated, took a deep breath, and put his hand on her shoulder. Rosanna let out a sob and slumped against him, and a looked of mingled relief and misery flashed over Gavin’s face. “I’m fine. I’m…I’m…”
“Rosanna,” said Ridmark. She blinked and looked at him. “Tell me what happened here.”
She wiped her face on her sleeve. “It was…it was in the morning, right after you left. The orcs and the human bandits with the spider-scars came to the southern gate, demanded to be let inside. They said we were now the slaves of something called…Agra…Agrad…”
“Agrimnalazur,” said Ridmark.
Rosanna nodded. “Yes, that was it. The praefectus came to the gate, and we thought he would tell them to go away. Instead…”
Gavin flinched. “Instead? What did he do?”
“Gavin, I’m sorry,” said Rosanna. “I know you didn’t like him, but…”
“What did he do?” said Gavin.
“He opened the gates to them,” said Rosanna. “He and Morwen both. They said that we belonged to Agrimnul…whatever it was, that we had always belonged her. There was shouting and fighting, and the scarred orcs started burning the houses. Father Martel tried to take us to the church, to hide in the crypt. Philip was with me, but we got separated.” She looked up at Gavin, her eyes pleading. “Did you see him?”
“No,” said Gavin. “I’m sorry. I think the orcs took him captive with the others.”
Rosanna started to cry again.
“But we did not see his body,” said Gavin. “He was a blacksmith. They wouldn’t have killed him. Blacksmiths are too valuable.”
“Here,” said Calliande. “Why don’t you sit down? Poor Martel will be upset if he wakes up and finds that you fell over and cracked your head on the floor.”
She and Gavin guided her to one of the steps below the altar. Kharlacht stood over them, keeping watch. Ridmark turned away, gazing at the clear blue sky through the charred beams of the roof.
After a moment Caius walked to his side.
“Ridmark,” he said, voice quiet, “this is even graver than we thought.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “It seems clear that both Cornelius and Morwen had high rank in the cult. Morwen’s was higher, I think. Likely Agrimnalazur told them that the time had come to slaughter the herd, so they were more than happy to cooperate.”
“The scriptures command a man to honor his father and mother,” said Caius, looking at Gavin and Rosanna, “but it seems Cornelius has indeed earned Gavin’s contempt.” He looked back at Ridmark. “But what are we going to do about it?”
“They won’t have killed the captives,” said Ridmark. “Not yet, anyway. Agrimnalazur will take some of the ca
ptives and put them into the death sleep, and keep others alive to breed new meals for her to eat in a few decades.”
“Where?” said Caius. “Urd Dagaash?”
“No,” said Ridmark. “Urd Dagaash is too small, too indefensible if the Frostborn do return and come after Agrimnalazur. That’s what she’s really afraid of – not the High King and the two Orders, not the other urdmordar, but the Frostborn.” He rubbed his chin, thinking. “It would have to be another dark elven ruin, one with access to the Deeps. Agrimnalazur needs food to keep her slaves and servants alive, and she can harvest mushrooms and fish and murrag meat from the Deeps to feed her slaves.” He snapped his fingers. “Urd Arowyn.”
“Where is that?” said Caius.
“About three or four days north of here, in the hills,” said Ridmark. “The archmage Ardrhythain told me about it.”
Caius snorted. “It is strange how you speak of figures from history with such ease.”
“Urd Arowyn is essentially a fortified hilltop,” said Ridmark. “That must be where Agrimnalazur has her lair. She would have enough room to keep her prisoners, and Urd Arowyn’s dungeons open into the Deeps. A perfect refuge for an urdmordar to spend a few millennia of winter. And even if I’m wrong, so many arachar and their prisoners will have left a clear trial. If we set out tomorrow before the weather changes, we can follow them, and we’ll know if they went somewhere other than Urd Arowyn.”
“So you mean to go after them?” said Caius.
“Of course,” said Ridmark. “Why would we not?”
“Because your purpose is to go to Urd Morlemoch, to question the Warden about the Frostborn,” said Caius. “Because one could argue that the villagers brought this woe upon themselves by forsaking the true God for a spider-devil.”
“One could, but I will not,” said Ridmark. “I will not abandon these people to their fate. Not if I have the power to aid them.”
And he did not care whether he lived or died, but he would not admit that to Caius. For one, the dwarven friar already knew. And while Ridmark did not care if he died, he also did not care to endure another one of Caius’s interminable sermons on the topic.
Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife Page 15