Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “It’s a large world,” said Ridmark.

  “Not for me,” said Kharlacht. “For an orc of Vhaluusk, ties of blood and honor are everything.”

  “What happened to you,” said Calliande, “to drive you to Qazarl?”

  Kharlacht looked at her, and then sighed.

  “Why should you not know?” said Kharlacht. “I was born in a village far to the north, on the edge of Vhaluusk. I was betrothed to Lujena, the daughter of the village’s shaman. He did not approve, and when the time came to make my initiation to the fraternity of warriors, he sent me into a ruin of the dark elves to claim a sword.” He lifted his greatsword and slid the massive blade back into its sheath. “But it was a trap. The shaman bound a demon of the dark elves to hunt me. I managed to overcome the demon…but not before it killed Lujena.” His voice was flat, his eyes like sheets of black stone.

  “I am sorry,” said Ridmark.

  He knew what that felt like.

  “The elders of the village blamed the deaths upon me,” said Kharlacht, “and I was made outcast. I wandered for a time, seeking a new place in the world…or perhaps I was simply seeking death, and did not find it. I found my way to Qazarl. And now I am here.”

  “I see,” said Ridmark. “Will you tell us of Qazarl’s plan?”

  Kharlacht shrugged. “Why not? His plan is folly, and you shall learn of it soon enough.”

  “Indeed it is folly,” said Ridmark. “Qazarl cannot have much more than three thousand warriors.”

  “Almost four thousand, in truth,” said Kharlacht, “but you are right.”

  “He’ll take Dun Licinia, if he wants,” said Ridmark, “but that will cost him, and he will go no further. Dux Licinius will gather his knights and smash Qazarl’s host to pieces. I suspected that the spell at the standing stones would give Qazarl some weapon of black magic, some advantage that might grant him victory.”

  “Perhaps it would,” said Kharlacht. “I do not know what the sacrifice was intended to accomplish. Only that Qazarl said it would somehow…trap Calliande’s life and power in that soulstone.” He gestured at the pale stone Calliande still carried and shrugged. “But the sacrifice, this entire plan, is Shadowbearer’s idea.”

  Silence answered him.

  “Pardon,” said Caius, “but sometimes my Latin is not as fluent as I might wish. Did you say Shadowbearer?”

  “I did,” said Kharlacht.

  “You know who he is?” said Calliande.

  Ridmark and Caius shared a look.

  “According the history of my people,” said Caius, “when we first migrated to this world and settled in what would become the Nine Kingdoms, a creature we called the bringer of the deeper darkness appeared to us. He caused the sundering in our kindred, and lured away those who chose to worship the darkness. They became the dvargir, our mortal enemies. But that was fifteen thousand years ago, or so our histories say.”

  “The high elves have a similar story,” said Ridmark. “They lived in peace for uncounted ages, until a creature calling itself the bearer of the shadow appeared among them a hundred thousand years ago.” He found it strange to speak of such vast gulfs of time. Malahan Pendragon had escaped from Old Earth and founded the realm of Andomhaim a thousand years ago, and even that seem liked a great reach of centuries. “Those who followed the bearer of the shadow became the dark elves, while those who stayed true to the task that God had given them, to act as the caretakers of this world, remained the high elves. And they have warred against each other to this day, even while the urdmordar consumed the dark elves.”

  “It seems unlikely that Qazarl’s Shadowbearer is the same creature from the legends,” said Caius. “Perhaps he is merely a renegade wielder of magic who has taken the name of Shadowbearer to frighten his foes. As a rebel against the High King might call himself Arthur Pendragon, to claim legitimacy.”

  “Perhaps,” said Kharlacht. “But the wizard has power. Qazarl feared him…and Qazarl fears nothing.”

  “What did he look like?” said Ridmark.

  “He is a high elf,” said Calliande. Her arms were wrapped tight about herself. Not to conceal her nudity, Ridmark realized, but because the memory of Shadowbearer chilled her. “There’s something…wrong with him. I don’t know what. His veins have turned black, and his eyes are like quicksilver. His shadow points in the wrong direction. He could reach into my mind and hear my thoughts. I don’t know what he wants with me.” She shook her head, blond hair sliding against her dusty shoulders. “I don’t even know who I am.”

  Ridmark wondered what she meant by that. But there would be time to figure it out later.

  “Whether or not this high elf wizard is actually the Shadowbearer of legend is unimportant,” said Ridmark. “Qazarl believes that he is…and Qazarl is going to attack Andomhaim at Shadowbearer’s command.”

  “You speak truly, Gray Knight,” said Kharlacht. “Shadowbearer has promised Qazarl power and glory beyond anything Mhalek ever knew.” He growled. “Yet it is folly. I think Qazarl and his men are the wizard’s tools and nothing more. Once Shadowbearer has achieved his purpose, he will leave Qazarl and his warriors to be smashed by the Swordbearers and the Magistri.”

  “Then why do you follow him?” said Calliande. “If you are certain destruction awaits?”

  Kharlacht shrugged. His expression was…resigned. Like a man who had made his peace with a fatal illness. “He is my blood. I cannot abandon him.”

  “That is madness,” said Ridmark.

  “Nevertheless,” said Kharlacht. “I do what I must. So.” He set himself, tension coming back into his limbs. “Do we have a truce? Or must we kill each other?”

  “We have a truce. Until we return to the surface,” said Ridmark. “Once we reach the surface, we shall go our separate ways. And you will not try to abduct Calliande. If Qazarl wants to try again, that is his own affair. But you will not turn on us once we reach the surface.”

  Kharlacht nodded, his topknot bobbing in the mushrooms’ eerie blue glow. “I agree. I will swear on the name of the Dominus Christus not raise my hand against you and to defend you and the others in all things until we reach the surface, if you will likewise swear.”

  “Very well. I, Ridmark Arban, swear in the name of the Dominus Christus not to raise my hand against you and defend you in all things, if you do the same, until we reach the surface. I so swear,” said Ridmark.

  “And I, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, swear in the name of the Dominus Christus not to raise my hand against you and defend you in all things, if you do the same, until we reach the surface. I so swear.”

  “Well, then,” said Caius. “I suppose we are all friends now.”

  “We can have a feast celebrating our amity later,” said Ridmark. He looked at Calliande. He wanted to know who she was. Her experiences should have left her exhausted and broken, too shocked and horrified to move, let alone run. Yet she seemed to have recovered, and she had kept him and Kharlacht from killing each other.

  But they had to move. Standing around talking in the Deeps was a bad idea. It was nothing short of a miracle that their voices had not already drawn attention.

  Perhaps the ursaar had claimed these tunnels as its territory, and none of the other denizens of the Deeps dared to trespass.

  “We must turn our attention to survival,” said Caius.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “First, food and water. I have some supplies, as does Caius, but I doubt you have any.”

  Kharlacht shook his head. “I fear not.”

  “And I know,” said Ridmark to Calliande, “that you don’t have any food.”

  She gave him an arch little smirk. “Where would I hide it?”

  Again her poise in the face of her trials surprised him.

  “Food and water,” said Ridmark. “We can stretch what we have between us for a few days, though it will be tight. I hope to reach the surface long before that. If need be, we can subsist on some of the mushrooms, and I can hunt some of the creatures that dw
ell in the Deeps for meat.”

  “That assumes,” rumbled Kharlacht, “that you know how to get out of the Deeps.”

  “I don’t,” said Ridmark. “But we have some advantages.”

  “For one,” said Caius, “I am a native of the Deeps. I know how to survive here.”

  “And,” said Ridmark, “the entrance the ursaar just sealed off was the highest one in the Black Mountain’s foothills. We need only to take tunnels sloping downward. Sooner or later we will find one that opens to the surface.”

  Or so he hoped. Master Galearus’s scouts had charted a half-dozen entrances to the Deeps scattered around the Black Mountain. Ridmark thought he could find one of them, assuming the creatures of the Deeps did not kill them first.

  And assuming that more ursaars, or worse things, had not set up lairs in the entrances.

  “One other thing,” said Ridmark. “We need to find you clothing. I don’t think you want to walk through the Deeps unclad.”

  “I already ran through the hills unclad,” said Calliande. “But, yes, some clothing would be welcome.”

  “Ulazur,” said Ridmark, “isn’t using his.”

  Calliande blinked, looked at the dead orc, and then back at him.

  “I suppose,” she said, “that beggars cannot be choosers.”

  ###

  Ulazur smelled unpleasant, and was twice Calliande’s size, but she was grateful to claim his clothing. She was desperately tired of being naked in front of so many men. Ulazur’s leather armor was too large and too heavy for her, but she pulled on his trousers and his worn tunic and his boots, pulling the straps tight to compensate for their size.

  “Will it suffice?” said Ridmark.

  She took a few cautious steps in the heavy boots and nodded. “I would gratefully accept rags. They will suffice.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “It is well past sundown by now, but I want to find a different place before we rest. The sound of the cave-in will have made noise.” He shook his head. “Between the collapse and our argument, it’s a miracle we have not drawn attention already.”

  “Perhaps this section of the Deeps is deserted,” said Kharlacht.

  “Perhaps,” said Ridmark, but Calliande heard the doubt in his tone.

  “What manner of creatures are we likely to encounter?” she said.

  “Kobolds,” said Ridmark. “There are tribes of them, preying on each other and any humans and orcs and halflings they capture. More creatures of dark elven magic like the ursaar, perhaps. And spitfangs - lizards with a poisonous bite. They can grow as large as wolves, and twice as mean. Come.” He lifted his staff and stepped forward. “Follow me. Do not speak unless absolutely necessary. Sound travels a long way in these caverns.”

  Caius fell in at his side, and Calliande followed them both. Kharlacht brought up the rear, and he moved with surprising silence. They walked through the gallery of stone, past the fields of glowing mushrooms, and into maze of narrow tunnels. Patches of glowing lichen, perhaps related to the mushrooms, provided light here and there, though Calliande often had to take careful steps and feel with her hands to keep from falling. From time to time Ridmark and Caius stopped and conferred in whispers, discussing the way ahead.

  At last Calliande heard a faint rustling sound. As they moved deeper into the tunnels, the sound grew louder, and she realized it was the noise of splashing water. The tunnel widened into a large cavern with a rocky floor. A narrow stream of water fell from a gash in the ceiling and poured across the sloping floor to vanish in another tunnel. Dense banks of glowing mushrooms lined the stream’s banks, and Calliande saw misshapen, eyeless fish darting back and forth in the clear waters.

  “Here,” said Ridmark. “We’ll stop here for the night.”

  “Is it safe?” said Calliande.

  “Not particularly,” he said, “but safer than the rest of the Deeps. The stream will help mask our sounds.” He pointed to a broad ledge against one wall. “That is as defensible as a location as we are likely to find, and we can camp there.”

  They climbed to the ledge. Ridmark paced in a circle, and nodded to himself, satisfied.

  “We’ll camp here,” he said. “I’ll take the first watch.”

  Ridmark and Caius shared out some dried meat and slices of bread. Calliande found that she was ravenous, and ate the food with a will. She settled against the rock wall, trying to sit as comfortably as she could manage.

  A bed would have been nice, but it was still more comfortable than that black altar.

  But had she ever slept in a bed? She didn’t know. Perhaps she would die in these tunnels, as she had almost died in that black vault below the Tower of Vigilance.

  The grim thoughts chased each other around her mind until she fell asleep.

  Chapter 11 - Lost Memories

  Ridmark stood motionless upon the ledge, both hands upon his staff.

  He wore his elven cloak wrapped around him, the cowl pulled up. He did not know if it would fool the sensitive eyes of the Deeps’ denizens, but he would not cast aside any potential advantage. Still, the cavern remained quiet, save for the constant murmur of the water. He saw no sign of any creatures, and none of the blurring ripples that marked the presence of an ursaar or an urvaalg, or worse, an urvuul.

  Odd that it had been so quiet.

  He remembered the first time he had entered the Deeps, over nine years ago. The high elven archmage Ardrhythain himself, the archmage who had taught the knights of Andomhaim to wield Soulblades as Swordbearers and magic as Magistri, had come to Dux Licinius’s court at Castra Marcaine. Ardrhythain had asked for a Swordbearer to perform a dangerous task, and Ridmark had volunteered. In pursuit of that task, he had traversed the Deeps and entered the ruins of Urd Morlemoch.

  And there he had met the dark elven wizard who had warned him of the Frostborn, the undead creature called the Warden, confirming the prophecy from the urdmordar Ridmark had slain…

  He shook aside the recollections. This was hardly the time to dwell upon the past.

  Still, he remembered the Deeps holding far more dangerous creatures than this.

  Perhaps Calliande was right, and they had entered a deserted region.

  He looked at the woman where she lay sleeping against the stone wall, wrapped in the orc’s clothes. There was indeed something strange about her. He had hoped to question her, once they stopped, but she had drifted off to sleep at once. No doubt her ordeals had exhausted her, and he could only image the tortures the Mhalekites had inflicted upon her.

  As if she felt the weight of his attention, her blue eyes opened. She climbed to her feet, making little noise despite her heavy boots, and joined him.

  “You cannot sleep?” said Ridmark.

  “Actually,” said Calliande, “I feel quite refreshed. Should we not be silent?”

  “The water will mask the sound of our voices,” said Ridmark. “You could not have been asleep more than three hours.”

  She shrugged. “I cannot explain it. I heal quickly. Too quickly. I should have bled to death or torn my feet to shreds. But I’m still alive, and I can stand.”

  “Who are you?” said Ridmark.

  She sighed. “I hoped you knew.”

  “You don’t know who you are?” said Ridmark.

  “I fear not,” said Calliande.

  He waited.

  “I don’t remember anything that happened before this morning,” said Calliande.

  “You took a blow to the head?” said Ridmark.

  “Maybe. I don’t know,” said Calliande. “I woke up in a vault below the Tower of Vigilance. I was alone, and it was dark. There was a…a spell, an image, that warned me against Shadowbearer. I managed to find my way out of the vault. I was wearing a robe, but it was…ancient, and it fell apart. I climbed my way out of the cellar, naked and freezing…and Kharlacht and his friends found me.”

  “I see,” said Ridmark.

  She gave him a hard look. “You don’t believe me?”

  “N
o,” said Ridmark. “I believe you. You have no reason to lie about it.”

  Yet it was a most peculiar tale.

  “The Tower of Vigilance burned,” said Ridmark.

  “I noticed,” said Calliande. “What happened? It must have been a strong castle once.”

  “It was,” said Ridmark. “The Order of the Vigilant founded it to keep watch for the Frostborn. Yet it became clear the Frostborn were extinct, and the Order dwindled. A century ago the sons of the High King fought each other for the throne of Andomhaim in the War of the Five Princes. The Master of the Vigilant backed the wrong Pendragon, and the current High King’s father burned the Tower. It has been abandoned ever since.”

  A flicker of fear went over her face. “His father? Then…how long ago did the castle burn?”

  “Ninety years ago,” said Ridmark.

  The fear sharpened. “Ninety years?” she whispered. “You mean I might have been lying down there for…ninety years?” She looked at him. “When…when was the Tower of Vigilance built?”

  “The year of our Lord 1256,” said Ridmark. “The year the Dragon Knight and the High King destroyed the Frostborn.”

  “What year is it now?”

  “1478,” said Ridmark.

  “God have mercy,” said Calliande. “I might…I might have been lying in that vault for two hundred years?”

  “Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “But for a two hundred year old woman, you’re looking remarkably hale.”

  She tried to smile. “Thank you. But a spell of some kind could have sustained me…left me in sort of a hibernation.”

  Ridmark shrugged. “It is possible. Though I do not know enough about magic to say for certain. I am no Magistrius.”

  “But if it is possible,” said Calliande, “if I slept in that vault for two hundred years…then everyone I ever knew is dead. My father and mother. My brothers and sisters. My husband and children, if I even had them.” She rubbed her face for a moment. “An entire life, lost to me…and with my memory gone, I would never know it.”

  “It is,” said Ridmark, “a peculiar sort of memory loss.”