A brand of a broken sword marred his left cheek and jaw.
The orcs gaped at him, and the man raised his staff crosswise before him.
“Who are you?” said Kharlacht, pointing his sword at the newcomer. “Name yourself!”
Vlazar snarled a curse.
“You!” he spat.
“Vlazar,” said the man, stepping to the side. “So you remember me?”
“You know him?” said Kharlacht.
“Fool!” said Vlazar. “Do you not recognize the bane of our kindred, the man who betrayed great Mhalek to his doom? That is Ridmark Arban, the fallen Swordbearer!”
The orcs edged away from him.
“You remember me, I see,” said Ridmark.
Vlazar sneered. “Do you think I would have forgotten? You wrought great harm upon us…but Mhalek repaid you in kind, did he not? Your soulblade was taken from you. You were cast out from your precious High Kingdom.” He grinned. “And you lost that which was most precious to you in the world.”
Ridmark said nothing, the staff motionless in his hand.
“Kill him!” said Vlazar. “Kill the man who slew great Mhalek!”
Five orcs charged him, swords drawn back.
And then Ridmark moved.
The staff blurred in his hands, the crack of shattered bone filled Calliande’s ears, and two orcs fell limp and motionless to the ground. Another orc stabbed at him, and Ridmark dodged, the staff spinning, and the orc dropped his short sword with a scream of pain. Ridmark’s staff slammed into the orc’s temple, and the warrior collapsed to the ground.
Calliande watched, stunned, as Ridmark fought his way through the orcs. The battle rage made the orcish warriors stronger and faster, but it didn’t matter. Ridmark struck and moved with perfect precision, their stabs and slashes just missing him, his swings and thrusts landing to crack limbs and shatter wrists. The staff must have been heavy, to judge from the force of its impacts, yet Ridmark wielded the weapon as if it were no more than a light branch.
He was the most gifted warrior she had ever seen, with natural talent augmented by years of experience. Not that she remembered any other warriors. But even if the fog lifted from her memory, she doubted she could recall any more skillful warriors.
But he was still going to die.
A half-dozen orcs lay dead around him, but more rushed to face him. Kharlacht stalked forward, greatsword in both hands, and Vlazar lifted his free hand and began to mutter a spell. Ridmark might take half of the orcs with him in death.
But they were still going to kill him.
Then something gleaming and slender flew overhead, and fire erupted across the stone circle.
###
Ridmark killed another orc, and the drakes attacked.
All of the adults had taken to the air, and they swooped over the stone circle, unleashing their fiery breath. Ridmark threw himself backwards, and a jet of flame slammed into the nearest orc. The warrior shrieked in agony as his clothes and skin went up in flame, and fell thrashing and howling to the ground.
“Arrows!” said the big orc in dark eleven armor. “Arrows! Now!”
The orcs with bows raised them, arrows hissing into the darkness. Two of the drakes fell to the ground, yet more fire poured from the sky. The stone circle dissolved into screaming, burning chaos as some orcs fled, while others tried to fight the maddened drakes.
Which gave Ridmark his chance.
He raced through the mayhem, jumped over a burning orc, and came to the altar. The woman lay upon it, her blue eyes wide with fear and surprise, her blond hair pooled around her head. An odd, fist-sized white stone lay on her chest, nestled between her breasts.
In less dire circumstances, Ridmark suspected he would have found her attractive.
Right now he was more concerned about staying alive.
Especially since Vlazar stood on the other side of the altar, crimson fire burning around his fingers as he cast a spell.
Ridmark raced around the altar, hoping to land a blow, but Vlazar was faster. The orcish shaman thrust out his hand, darkness and flame mixing before him, and a wall of agonizing pain slammed into Ridmark. He stopped with a strangled cry. It felt as if razors had sunk into every inch of his skin, as if his clothes had caught fire.
But it was not real. Vlazar’s spell was touching his mind, not his body.
Vlazar shrieked a laugh, his tusks reflecting the harsh glow of his spell. “Feel the wrath of the blood gods!”
“The same blood gods,” rasped Ridmark, taking another step, “that failed to save Mhalek. Those blood gods?” He groaned and forced himself to take another step.
Vlazar gestured, and the pain redoubled. “Mhalek took your heart and your soulblade from you! I shall take your life. Perish! Perish…”
A deep voice rang out, calling to God for strength, and Ridmark saw an orcish warrior collapse. A shape in a brown robe raced across the stone circle, and Ridmark saw Caius throw himself into the fray, his mace rising and falling.
“A dwarf?” said Vlazar, shocked. “Here? Kharlacht!”
And as he flinched, his concentration wavered…and the pain digging into Ridmark lessened.
He surged forward, the staff whistling before him. Vlazar realized his mistake and refocused his spell, but it was too late. Pain surged through Ridmark, but not before his staff slammed into Vlazar’s left knee. The shaman fell with a howl, and the pain vanished.
“No!” said Vlazar. “The blood gods will save me! I am strong! I am…”
Ridmark hammered the staff against Vlazar’s temple with both hands.
He stepped over the shaman’s corpse, yanking the dagger from his belt, and cut the woman’s bonds as Caius hurried to his side.
“Good timing, Brother Caius,” said Ridmark.
“Thank you,” said Caius. “Madam, are you able to walk? We shall have to flee quickly.”
The woman grimaced. “I will run until my feet are bloody, if you can get me away from here.” She spoke Latin with an odd, formal stateliness. For a brief instant her voice reminded Ridmark of his grandmother’s accent.
“We must go,” said Ridmark. The drakes would keep the remaining orcs occupied, but not for much longer. Or the drakes would kill the orcs, and then come after Ridmark.
“Thank you,” said the woman. “Ridmark Arban. That is your name? Vlazar called you that. My name is Calliande. But I don’t know for sure.” She gazed at his face, a deep confusion in her blue eyes. “You have the brand of a coward and a traitor…but you have saved me…”
The orc in blue armor, the one Vlazar had called Kharlacht, swept the head from a drake with a single massive blow, his hard black eyes falling upon Ridmark.
“I haven’t saved you yet,” said Ridmark. “Run!”
Chapter 9 - The Ursaar
Every step sent pain shooting up Calliande’s legs, the rough ground tearing at her feet, but she ran as fast as she could anyway.
She heard the orcs in pursuit. She didn’t know how Ridmark had gotten the drakes to attack the orcs, but his gambit had succeeded brilliantly. Yet it seemed that Kharlacht and the survivors had cut their way free from the drakes.
Belatedly she wondered if Ridmark had a plan beyond the drakes.
“Where are we going?” she shouted.
“Yes, where?” said the odd dwarf Ridmark had called Brother Caius. The dwarf wore a friar’s robe, and a crucifix hung from a leather cord around his thick neck. She had never heard of a dwarf joining the Church and turning away from the gods of stone and silence …
But with the fog filling her memories, how would she know? For all she knew, dwarves filled every church in Andomhaim, harmoniously singing all one hundred and fifty Psalms in their native tongue.
“The Deeps!” said Ridmark. “We can slip into the caverns, hide ourselves, and escape once the orcs give up pursuit.”
Calliande suspected the orcs would not give up. Shadowbearer did not seem the sort to forgive failure.
And she st
ill had the soulstone clutched in her left fist.
She did not want to touch the thing. The power stirring in its crystalline depths made her uneasy, and she wanted to throw it away. Yet she dared not leave it behind. She knew it was a thing that not should fall into Qazarl’s hands.
Or, worse, Shadowbearer’s.
So she held the stone and ran as fast as she could.
###
Ridmark spun around a boulder, caught his balance, and kept running. A narrow path wound its way over the hill, and his boots gripped the stony surface. He shot a glance over his shoulder, saw Caius and Calliande running after him. He was surprised Calliande could keep up – the rough path would tear her feet to shreds.
But if the orcs caught them, they would do far worse.
The path sloped downward, the trees getting thicker further away from the mountain proper. According to the maps Master Galearus had commissioned, the entrance to the Deeps was near. If they gained entrance to the maze of caverns and galleries beneath Andomhaim’s surface, they could elude the surviving orcs.
Assuming the orcs did not catch them first.
And assuming they did not encounter greater dangers in the Deeps. The tribes of deep orcs were far more vicious and violent than their surface brethren. Kobolds lurked in the darkness, preying upon both the deep orcs and human settlements upon the surface. And there were other horrors in the deep darkness. The creatures the dark elves had created with their sorcery lurked in the underworld. And the urdmordar themselves, the great spider-devils that had once ruled most of Andomhaim, still spun their webs in the Deeps.
The path dipped into a valley. Ridmark’s heart lifted at the sight. The entrance to the Deeps was at the end of the valley, nestled between two wooded hills. Just a little further, and they could reach the cavern.
But the orcs would overtake them first.
Ridmark scanned the path, and saw that it cut between two massive boulders, each larger than the menhirs encircling the black altar atop the hill.
He came to a stop, staff in hand.
“Why have you stopped?” said Caius. Calliande halted next to him, breathing hard.
“Keep going,” said Ridmark. “The cavern to the Deeps is at the end of the path, at the bottom of the valley. Wait for me there. I will slow down our pursuers.”
“That is madness,” said Calliande. “You cannot overcome them alone.”
Ridmark shrugged. “I wasn’t planning to overcome them, merely to delay them. Stop talking and go.”
“You might yearn for your death,” said Caius, “but there is no reason to throw away your life so lightly.”
“I’m not,” said Ridmark, “and if you don’t shut up and run, we’ll all die anyway. Go!”
Caius sighed, nodded, and urged Calliande along.
They darted between the boulders and vanished into the valley.
Ridmark hurried into the trees off the path. He wrapped his cloak around himself, went to one knee, drew his bow, and waited.
He did not wait long.
A band of orcish warriors raced along the path, weapons in hand. Of the thirty or so orcs that had occupied the stone circle, about half of them had survived the drakes’ rampage. That was good. The fewer orcs who survived, the better chance Ridmark had of getting Calliande away and stopping whatever black magic Qazarl intended.
The orcs approached the boulders, and Ridmark had no more time for idle thought.
He raised the bow and released. It was dark, and he had never been more than a mediocre archer, but the arrow slammed into the thigh the lead warrior. The orc roared and fell upon his face, and the other warriors spun and raised their weapons, seeking for their foes.
Ridmark loosed a second arrow. This time his aim was better, and the arrow took an orc in the throat. The big orc in the blue armor, the one Vlazar had called Kharlacht, pointed his greatsword at Ridmark.
“There!” he boomed. “In the trees. Flush out the archer!”
Ridmark moved to the side, walking as silently as he could, the gray cloak hanging around him. Five orcs stormed into the pine trees, making no effort to conceal their footfalls. But Ridmark had spent years living in the wild, surviving by the game he could hunt, and he knew how to move silently. He ducked behind a pine tree, trusting the elven cloak to turn aside the eyes of his enemies, and waited.
The orcs charged past him, likely charging the nest of enemy archers before they could loose more shafts. Ridmark sprang from behind the tree, swinging his staff. The heavy weapon cracked into the back of an orc’s head with enough force to shatter bone, and the warrior collapsed without a sound. A second orc turned, only to have Ridmark’s staff shatter his jaw and break one of his tusks. The orc fell with a burbling scream, and Ridmark killed him with a single sharp thrust to the neck. He danced past the thrust of another orc’s sword and raced for the path, intending to rejoin the others…
“Take him!” Kharlacht’s voice boomed, and then the huge orc stood before Ridmark, his dark elven armor gleaming blue in the moonlight. His greatsword came up, and Ridmark knew that massive blade might well tear right through his staff’s wood and steel. He struck first, his staff impacting the flat of Kharlacht’s blade, forcing Kharlacht’s swing away from Ridmark. He reversed his staff and drove the butt for Kharlacht’s knee. But the orcish warrior dodged, bringing his greatsword around in a massive sideways swing. Ridmark hammered his staff down with both hands, driving Kharlacht’s sword into the ground. He raised his staff, but Kharlacht acted first. The orc raised his right hand from the greatsword’s hilt and punched, and Ridmark dodged. Kharlacht’s fist missed his face but slammed into his shoulder, and the power of the blow sent him stumbling.
Facing Kharlacht alone would have been a challenge. Facing Kharlacht and a dozen other orcs meant certain death. Ridmark might have welcomed death, to join Aelia at last, but he would not court it without cause.
He had delayed the enemy. It was time to go.
He launched a flurry of swings and thrusts, forcing Kharlacht on the defensive. Battle cries rang out as the other orcs drew near, and Ridmark turned and sprinted into the trees.
The darkened woods swallowed him, and he heard the orcs in pursuit. But Ridmark doubled back, his cloak pulled close to mask his movements. He slowed, though every instinct screamed for him to run, and kept his footfalls silent. The ruse worked, and he saw the orcs running to the path. Ridmark hastened past the boulders and into the valley as fast as he dared.
For a moment he thought he might get away. Kharlacht and his warriors might not know of the entrance to the Deeps …
“There!”
Ridmark glanced over his shoulder and saw Kharlacht standing on the edge of the valley, pointing his greatsword.
He abandoned stealth and ran down the slope.
###
“I think that is it,” said Caius, pointing at the hillside.
Calliande followed his thick finger. The narrow valley ended in a steep cliff face of dark rock, tough trees clinging here and there to the stone. In the center of the cliff face stood a yawning cavern, half-hidden by dangling roots. Beyond Calliande saw a stone tunnel sinking into the earth.
The entrance into the Deeps.
“Come,” said Caius. The sound of fighting rang from the edge of the valley. “I do not think Ridmark will buy us much time. We must be out of sight by the time the orcs overpower him.”
“You do not think he will prevail?” said Calliande.
“Not against so many foes,” said Caius, “and I pray he will escape. But if he does fall, let us ensure his sacrifice was not in vain.”
Calliande nodded and followed the dwarven friar to the cavern entrance.
And as she did, she felt a chill. That hardly should have surprised her, given her lack of clothing.
Yet it was not a…physical chill coming from the cavern. She felt it against her thoughts, rather than her flesh. It reminded her of the chill she had felt from the menhirs within the stone circle.
&
nbsp; Of the soulstone that still waited in her left hand.
Was the cavern also a place of black magic?
Yet Kharlacht and his orcs would kill her far more quickly than whatever waited inside the cavern, so she followed Caius into the gloom.
“Here,” said Caius, stopping just inside the entrance. The floor felt cold and gritty beneath Calliande’s feet. “We’ll wait here. We can see outside, but we’re far enough in that the orcs won’t follow us. We’ll wait until Ridmark joins us…or until we learn his fate.”
They stood in silence. Calliande heard the distant sounds of battle, of orcish voices raised in fury.
“Have you known him long?” said Calliande.
“Ridmark?” said Caius. “No. In fact, I met him just this afternoon.”
“I am grateful for the rescue,” said Calliande, “though I am curious how you found me.”
Did Ridmark and Caius know her? Perhaps they knew who she really was…and they might know how she had been sealed in that cold vault below the Tower of Vigilance.
“Pure chance, I am afraid,” said Caius, “or the guidance of the Lord, if you do not believe in chance. I came to the Northerland to bring the word of the Dominus Christus to the pagan orcs of the Wilderland. Ridmark came on some…strange errand of his own. We saw the blue fire filling the sky and followed it to its source, and saw Vlazar leading you away from the Tower of Vigilance. Neither Ridmark nor I would leave you to such a fate…so here we are.”
“Blue fire?”
“Aye,” said Caius. “The blue fire that filled the sky around noon. It must have been visible for miles. Surely you saw it?”
“No,” said Calliande. “I didn’t.” Had the fire filled the sky at the same moment she had awakened below the Tower? “I think…I think I was underground at the time.”
“I see,” said Caius. “You were a prisoner of the Mhalekites, then?”
“I don’t know,” said Calliande. “I…I don’t remember anything. I woke up in the darkness below the Tower of Vigilance a few hours ago. Before that…I can’t remember anything.”
Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1) Page 10