Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I don’t know,” said Joram, scowling in frustration. “The man has been nothing but trouble ever since Dux Gareth sent him to Castra Marcaine. He is arrogant, and refuses to cooperate on even the simplest of tasks. He spends days locked up in his tower with his books, and refuses to emerge to aid in the governance of the comarchate.” He smacked his right fist against his left palm. “I have no Swordbearers here, and you know the beasts of the dark elves can only be slain through magic or flame. Last month an urvaalg attacked one of the outlying freeholds. Had Alamur roused himself sooner, we might have saved the freeholder and his family. Instead, our learned Magistrius only struck down the urvaalg once it drew near to the town.”

  Something in the knight’s story woke the anger in Calliande, the same rage she had felt while facing Talvinius. A Magistrius ought to use his power for good, not selfishly, and the prospect of a Magistrius neglecting those in his care infuriated her.

  “But you are acting as the Comes of Dun Licinia,” said Ridmark. “Command him to aid in the defense of the town.”

  “I tried,” said Joram. “He refused to recognize my authority, and said he would only obey a command from either the Dux or one of the Masters of the Magistri. Not from me.”

  “The idiot,” said Ridmark. For the first time since Calliande had met him, he looked angry. He had fought Kharlacht’s warriors and Talvinius’s kobolds with icy calm, but now he looked angry. “We will need the help of a Magistrius, and not just to send messages. Qazarl has the black magic of a pagan orcish shaman, and I doubt he’s a weakling. We must have Alamur's help.”

  Joram shook his head. “He refuses to give it.”

  “Then,” said Ridmark, “let’s go persuade him.”

  Chapter 17 - A Bargain

  Ridmark left the keep and walked to the Magistrius’s tower. Caius, Calliande, and Sir Joram followed him, trailed by a pair of Joram’s men-at-arms.

  The tower stood behind Dun Licinia’s stone church. The Magistri often resided in high towers to study the position of the thirteen moons, since the conjunctions and positions of the moons altered the effects of certain spells. Alamur’s tower looked little different than the others Ridmark had seen, tall and round with the bronze tube of a telescope jutting from the roof.

  He knocked several times, but no answer came.

  “Caius,” said Ridmark, “would you lend me your mace?”

  “Why?” said Caius.

  “Because,” said Ridmark, “I’m going to break down the door.”

  “But he is a Magistrius,” said Joram. “You…”

  “You can’t break down his door and compel him,” said Ridmark, “because you are a knight in service of Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland, and that would reflect poorly on the Dux. You, Brother Caius, cannot do it, because you are a mendicant friar and friars can only fight in defense of their lives. I, however, am a disinherited exile expelled from the Order of Swordbearers for cowardice and desertion. No one is responsible for me, and my actions reflect upon no one. If the Masters of the Magistri dislike what I am about to do, Sir Joram, you can tell them to take it up with me.”

  Calliande blinked. He could not tell if she was impressed or disgusted.

  “As ever,” said Caius, “you make a persuasive argument.”

  He handed over the mace.

  The mace was quite a bit heavier than it looked, as most dwarven weapons were. Ridmark stepped back, raised his arm, and hammered the mace against the door.

  After the fifth strike, the door splintered away from the lock.

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark, handing the mace back to Caius.

  He pushed aside the ruined door and climbed into the tower, the others following. The first floor held a richly furnished living room, overstuffed chairs surrounding a gleaming table. The second held a dining hall, and the third held the Magistrius’s luxurious sleeping chamber.

  The top floor contained the Magistrius’s workshop, library, and observatory. Wooden shelves groaned beneath the weight of books and scrolls, and worktables held jars and bottles and a variety of peculiar instruments. Another table held an elaborate bronze astrolabe, next to the bronze telescope.

  In the center of the room stood the furious Magistrius Alamur himself.

  The Magistrius was a tall man of regal bearing, clad in a gleaming white robe with a black sash. He had a close-cropped gray beard and gray hair, and his dark eyes flashed with fury. Joram and the men-at-arms looked nervous. They had broken into the home of a Magistrius, one of the wielders of the potent magic taught by the elven archmage Ardrhythain himself, masters of mysteries beyond the reach of most men.

  Ridmark was less impressed.

  In his dealings with the Magistri as a Swordbearer, he had found them conceited and pompous…and often less knowledgeable and less powerful than they liked to claim.

  “Joram Agramore!” thundered Alamur. “What is the meaning of this egregious intrusion? You have invaded my home! This will draw the wrath of the Order of the…”

  “I broke into your home,” said Ridmark, his staff tapping against the polished wooden floor. “Sir Joram is just here to make sure I don’t hurt you unduly.”

  Alamur’s bearded face twisted into a sneer. “Yes, I know you. The branded man, the renegade the peasants like to call the Gray Knight. The man who fled the field of Dun Licinia to save a woman, and utterly failed.”

  Calliande gave him a sharp look.

  “I am that man,” said Ridmark.

  Alamur smirked. “Then what does the Gray Knight wish of a Magistrius?”

  “Nothing complex,” said Ridmark. “Only your duty.”

  Alamur raised his eyebrows. “Duty? It is the duty of a Magistrius to defend the realm from black magic. It is a duty of a Magistrius to shepherd the people of the realm, to guide the nobles in their tasks, to urge them to wise decisions.” He cast a disdainful look at Joram. “It is not the duty of a Magistrius to assist the nobles in every petty brawl with a ragged orcish warband.”

  “This is hardly a petty warband,” said Ridmark. “These orcs are Mhalekites.”

  “Any fool can brand a sigil upon his forehead,” said Alamur. “Mhalek is dead…as you ought to know…and his followers were destroyed. These orcs that have Sir Joram so concerned are nothing but brigands. If Sir Joram were competent, he could have defeated these attackers without bothering his betters.”

  Joram looked away from the older man’s glare. Ridmark saw the source of the problem. Like all knights of the realm, Joram had spent his life in awe of the Magistri. It would have been difficult for him to defy one.

  “The attacking orcs are at least three or four thousand strong,” said Ridmark. “And they are led by Qazarl, one of Mhalek’s disciples.”

  Alamur sniffed. “A thug with a sword, no doubt.”

  “A shaman, strong in blood sorcery and dark magic,” said Ridmark. “If you do not oppose him, his spells will wreak havoc on Sir Joram’s men.”

  Alamur laughed. “A wretched little hill shaman is not worth the time of a Magistrius.”

  Ridmark tilted his head to the side, considering the Magistrius.

  Something was…off. Ridmark had dealt with the Magistri before, and they had usually been as pompous and arrogant as Alamur. Yet they had been eager to flaunt their powers, to prove their prowess by smashing creatures of dark magic. This utter refusal to fight was unusual.

  But Ridmark did not need Alamur to fight.

  “Fine, then,” said Ridmark. “If you will not fight, then at least send a message. There are Magistri at Castra Marcaine.”

  The Magistrius offered a patronizing smile. “Yes, I know. I have been there. Recently. Unlike you, I imagine. Castra Marcaine is the closest thing to civilization in the wretched Northerland.”

  “Send a message to the Magistri there,” said Ridmark. “Bid them to warn Dux Licinius about the Mhalekites.”

  “I most certainly will not,” said Alamur.

  “Why?” said Ridmark. “Becau
se it is beneath the dignity of a Magistrius?”

  “Yes, but that is not the reason,” said Alamur.

  “Will you deign to share it?” said Ridmark.

  “If I must,” said Alamur. “I will not trouble the Dux of the Northerland with so petty a concern.” He stepped forward, his smirk changing into a glare. “And I will not trouble the illustrious Dux with the ranting of Ridmark Arban, the man who slew his daughter.”

  A spasm of rage and grief and endless sorrow went through Ridmark. But none of the emotion touched his face.

  “My failure,” said Ridmark, “does not excuse your failure to do your duty.”

  “You are pathetic,” said Calliande.

  All eyes turned to face her. Ridmark was certain that she was speaking to him. He had stopped Mhalek, but he had failed in the most profound way possible, and…

  But she stepped towards Alamur.

  “A Magistrius is supposed to wield magic in the defense of the people of the realm,” Calliande said. “All you do is lurk in this tower and nurse your injured pride.”

  Alamur laughed. “Who is the girl, Gray Knight? Some country bumpkin dressed up in orcish rags? Or a whore in costume? You have a taste for…orcish tarts, as it were?”

  “Such comments,” said Caius, face stern, “are unworthy of a child, let alone a Magistrius.”

  “Do not lecture me, dwarf,” said Alamur. “You…”

  “Be silent,” said Calliande, her voice hard with icy contempt. “You were sent to Dun Licinia because you were the weakest, were you not? The least skilled…the least popular among your brothers and sisters?”

  Alamur’s face went hard. “Do not speak so to your betters, woman.”

  She turned away from him, and a strange expression went over her face as she looked at the Magistrius’s shelves.

  ###

  Calliande heard Ridmark and Alamur continue their argument, but something else drew her attention.

  She sensed something…wrong.

  Something rotten.

  Ever since they had set foot in the tower, she had sensed the currents of magical power rippling around her. Alamur worked magic here, powerful magic. The currents of power felt both familiar and…benign, somehow. Vlazar’s magic had been dark, like shadows mixed with burning blood, and Talvinius’s magic had felt like rotten fruit, like a dead animal eaten away by corruption. The magic within the tower, by contrast, felt warm and strong, like the wall of a castle defended by bold men.

  Yet she felt something dark within the warm aura.

  A shadow.

  “The Masters of my Order shall hear of these grievous insults to the Magistri,” said Alamur. “As shall Dux Licinius, Sir Joram. It seems clear to be that you are not fit to act as the Comes of Dun Licinia. Perhaps you are not even fit to clean your own stables.”

  “If Dun Licinia falls and Qazarl kills everyone within the walls,” said Ridmark, “then neither the Masters nor the Dux shall hear your complaints.”

  Calliande walked closer to the shelf. The Magistrius’s shelves held books and scrolls, written in both Latin and high elven, and a variety of odd curios – a tasseled manetaur spearhead, a stone with a fish’s skeleton imprinted upon it, an old orcish war helm.

  A scroll, tucked between the helm and the spearhead, caught her eye.

  The corruption radiated from it.

  “Be reasonable, Magistrius,” said Caius. “We must all stand together, or we shall perish together. That has been the history of Andomhaim. The High King and his nobles fought together against the orcs. Ardrhythain taught your people magic, and the Magistri and the Swordbearers stood as one against the urdmordar and then the Frostborn.”

  “Threats worthy of a Magistrius’s efforts,” said Alamur. “Not this rabble of hill orcs. If Joram is even marginally competent, he can handle them without my aid.”

  Calliande gazed at the scroll, fascinated. It had been fashioned of old leather, and she glimpsed strange symbols upon its surface.

  “Then think of the words of the Dominus Christus,” said Caius. “You are mighty, Magistrius, and we are to look after the weakest among us…”

  Alamur laughed, his voice full of scorn. “Do not throw the words of the Church at me, dwarf. The Church is an instrument to keep the peasantry in their place and nothing more. The idea that its laws should bind a Magistrius is ludicrous. And I will not take part in your little backcountry brawl. The blood of a Magistrius is worth that of a thousand lesser men.”

  “You are eaten up with pride and arrogance,” said Caius. “You should turn your back on them, lest they devour you.”

  Calliande picked up the scroll. The leather felt icy cold beneath her grasp, and seemed to radiate dark magic. She unrolled it, the scroll creaking, and looked at the black symbols marching across its surface. The characters were dark elven, but the language was orcish, and…

  “Pride is merely the word the weak give to the confidence of their betters,” said Alamur. “You ought to…wait. What are you doing? Put that down at once!”

  Calliande looked up from the leather scroll, and saw the Magistrius hurrying towards her, a hint of fear on his haughty face.

  And suddenly she understood what he had done.

  She wondered if Talvinius had looked like Alamur, before he had taken the body of that kobold.

  “Put that down, you foolish girl,” thundered Alamur. He reached for the scroll, and Calliande took a quick step out of his reach. “You will injure yourself. That scroll…”

  “That scroll,” said Calliande, holding it up so the others could see it, “was written by Qazarl, wasn’t it?”

  A stunned silence fell over the others.

  “Preposterous,” said Alamur. “Sir Joram, the girl is obviously addled. Remove her from my presence at once.”

  “This is written in orcish,” said Calliande. “The characters are dark elven, but the language is orcish. It is a magical incantation for a spell that draws its power from the blood of a sacrificial victim.”

  “As if you would have the learning of the Magistri,” said Alamur.

  “She’s right,” said Caius. “I can read dark elven characters, and she speaks the truth.”

  “And how would you know, dwarf?” said Alamur. “Have you dabbled in dark arts?”

  Caius smiled. “It is simply the education given to all dwarven nobles before we come of age. The dark elves were our foes long before the humans ever came to this world, and a warrior must understand his foes if he is to defeat them.”

  “And that is what I am doing,” said Alamur, “understanding my foes in order to defeat them.”

  He was starting to sweat, Calliande noticed.

  “Indeed?” said Ridmark. “Your foes, you say? The foes you said were beneath your notice? The foes you would not trouble yourself to fight? If they are beneath your notice…then why do you have a scroll of orcish blood magic in your library?”

  “And one,” said Calliande, “that looks as if it was written recently?”

  “I do not have to answer any questions,” said Alamur. “If you have complaints, direct them to the Masters of my Order in Tarlion. Otherwise cease wasting my time and wearying my ears with…”

  “Ah,” said Ridmark, tapping his staff against the floor. “I think I understand.”

  They looked at him.

  “You didn’t want to come here,” said Ridmark. “Dun Licinia was beneath your dignity. But the Masters of your Order sent you anyway, and that rankled. And then you found Qazarl…or Qazarl found you? He is a strong shaman, and he offered you power. Some spells of blood magic, spells that would let you take revenge on those who wronged you and claim your rightful place in the Order.”

  “This is a calumny,” spat Alamur. “You have no proof for any of this!” He smirked. “And I have never spoken to Qazarl in my life. I would not demean myself by speaking with such a creature.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” said Ridmark. He had the same calm expression Calliande had seen on h
is face right before he killed someone. “But would it demean you to speak with Shadowbearer?”

  Alamur flinched. “How do you know that name?”

  “Because,” said Calliande, “I heard him give commands to Qazarl.”

  “And it is very strange, is it not,” said Ridmark, “that Qazarl is fighting for Shadowbearer…and you refuse to fight against Qazarl, while having a spell of orcish dark magic within your study?”

  “Magistrius,” said Joram, “this is a very serious charge. At the very least, I will have to contact the Dux and his Magistri, and let him know about these allegations. He will…”

  Panic flashed over Alamur’s face. “No!”

  He flung out his hands, and Calliande felt the surge of magical power.

  “Ridmark!” she shouted. “He’s casting a spell…”

  White light pulsed around the Magistrius, and invisible force erupted from his fingers. The force of the spell slammed into the others, driving them to the floor, the tower creaking around them. The impact knocked Calliande from her feet, the scroll tumbling from her grasp. Alamur loomed over her, and for a moment she feared that the Magistrius would kill her. But he only snatched up the scroll and headed for the stairs.

  And as he did, Ridmark thrust his staff.

  He caught Alamur across the ankles, and the Magistrius lost his balance and fell with a surprised bellow. Ridmark came to one knee as the scroll tumbled from Alamur’s hand. The Magistrius sat up with an enraged hiss, lifting his hand to cast another spell.

  “Ridmark!” shouted Calliande as she felt the magic gather. “He’s going to…”

  Ridmark seized Alamur’s hand and bent the fingers back.

  The sound of cracking bones was quite loud, and Alamur’s astonished scream even louder.

  The Magistrius might have been powerful…but clearly he was not used to pain.

  Ridmark knelt next to Alamur and rested his staff across the Magistrius’s throat as Calliande and the others stood. She felt the surge of power as Alamur began another spell, but Ridmark pressed his staff against the older man’s throat. Alamur gagged, and the magic faded that away.