Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Ah,” said Ridmark, understanding.

  Caius looked at him.

  “Kharlacht,” said Ridmark. “The orcs’ champion is Kharlacht. It seems Qazarl decided to rid himself of two problems at once.”

  As they drew closer, Ridmark saw that Kharlacht wore an iron collar, two chains hanging from it. The orcs accompanying him held the chains on either side, while Mzalacht followed them, still carrying the spear with its white banner.

  They stopped a dozen paces away.

  Kharlacht’s eyes met Ridmark’s. The big orc looked utterly tired, both in body and spirit.

  “Behold!” roared Mzalacht. “Our champion. He betrayed the sons of Mhalek, aiding our foes and helping our enemies to escape our wrath! Now he shall redeem himself by striking down the champion of the humans…or he shall perish upon this field!”

  The orcish army roared, their cheers struggling against the jeers and shouts of the defenders upon the wall.

  “You’ve looked better,” said Ridmark, once the shouting faded away.

  “Aye,” said Kharlacht.

  “Perhaps you should not have returned to Qazarl,” said Ridmark.

  Kharlacht grimaced, deep lines etching his green-skinned face. “Perhaps. But I could not betray my kin, and I returned to Qazarl. He was…wroth.”

  “I can imagine,” said Caius.

  “He would have killed me on the spot,” said Kharlacht, “but his advisors convinced him that I might be useful later.”

  “Silence!” said one of the orcish warriors with the chains. “You will not…”

  Kharlacht growled, seized the chain, and yanked the warrior close. His hand closed hard around the orc’s throat, and the warrior’s face began to turn a darker shade of green.

  “Do not presume,” he snarled, “to threaten me.”

  Both Mzalacht and the other orc drew their swords and pointed the blades at Kharlacht.

  “Release him!” said Mzalacht.

  “You’re going to kill your champion for me?” said Ridmark. “That does seem to defeat the purpose.”

  Kharlacht let the warrior go. “Bring me my armor and weapons and be gone. Now!”

  The orcs unlocked the collar around his neck and produced a gambeson. Kharlacht pulled it on, and Mzalacht handed him a canvas sack. Kharlacht removed the blue steel plates of his armor from the sack and donned them one by one, covering his torso and arms in a carapace of steel. At last Mzalacht handed Kharlacht his massive dark elven greatsword, and then took a judicious step back.

  The two orcs who had held Kharlacht’s chains walked away, while Mzalacht drew a circle in the earth around Ridmark and Kharlacht.

  “This circle defines the boundaries of the trial,” said Mzalacht. “Forty paces wide. If you are forced outside the circle, you lose the duel. If you flee outside the circle, you lose the duel. Otherwise the trial by single combat shall continue until one of you are unable to continue and submits by raising your left arm.” The herald grinned. “Or until one of you are slain. Are these terms acceptable?”

  “They are,” said Caius, “though I shall be watching for treachery.”

  “As shall we, dwarf,” spat Mzalacht. “The blood gods shall grant us victory.”

  Caius smiled. “But your champion does not even pray to the blood gods. They may be…disinclined, shall we say, to favor your side?”

  Mzalacht sneered. “Then both our champions can perish. The blood gods do not favor the weak.” He stepped out of the circle, as did the other two orcs.

  “Caius,” said Ridmark, both hands on his staff.

  “May God be with you,” said the dwarven friar, stepping out of the circle.

  Leaving Ridmark alone with Kharlacht.

  “Begin!” roared Mzalacht. “Fight! Fight, and know that the honor and the glory of your kindred go with you!”

  Kharlacht lifted his greatsword in both hands and strode forward with a slow, steady pace. Ridmark shifted his staff to one hand and walked to meet him. He was not certain he could defeat Kharlacht in single combat. Ridmark was fast and strong…but so was Kharlacht, and his greatsword was a more potent weapon than Ridmark’s heavy staff.

  They stared at each other for a moment, Kharlacht’s sword held in both hands, Ridmark’s staff resting low at his side.

  A deathly silence fell over both the town and the fields as the defenders and the Mhalekites waited for the combat to begin.

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Ridmark.

  Kharlacht shook his head. “I must. It is my duty to my blood.”

  “This trial by combat is a sham,” said Ridmark, “and you know it as well as I do. If I kill you, Qazarl will not retreat to the Wilderland, and if you kill me, Joram will not surrender the town.”

  “I know,” said Kharlacht.

  “Qazarl is only doing this to buy time,” said Ridmark, “to finish whatever spell he is working in the woods.”

  “I also know this,” said Kharlacht.

  “What is he doing?” said Ridmark. “If you are willing to tell me.” If he survived the trial, he could bring the information back to Sir Joram.

  “That I know not,” said Kharlacht. “Some spell of black sorcery, I am sure. He had his warriors digging up the old burial mounds for days. He found…something, some relic, and then called me forth to fight as champion.”

  “He cares nothing for you,” said Ridmark.

  Kharlacht scowled. “And you do?”

  “I respect you as a worthy foe and an honorable man,” said Ridmark, “which is more than Qazarl can say.”

  Kharlacht said nothing.

  “He will cast you aside,” said Ridmark, “when this is done. If he prevails, he will have you killed. If he is defeated, he will blame his defeat upon you and kill you for it.”

  “But he is my blood kin,” said Kharlacht, “all that is left of it in this world. I cannot forsake him. Not until he has forsaken me.”

  “You are loyal beyond reason,” said Ridmark. “No man would blame you for turning your back upon Qazarl.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Kharlacht, “but I would know.”

  Ridmark thought of Aelia and Mhalek, the great hall of Castra Marcaine ablaze with the crimson glow of Mhalek’s black magic. “I understand that.”

  “You, too, are an honorable and a worthy foe,” said Kharlacht. He sighed. “I regret greatly that the bonds of blood require that I kill you.”

  “And I regret,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff, “that I must kill you.”

  For the first time Kharlacht smiled, the hard, merciless smile of a man who had nothing left to lose. “If you can.”

  He surged forward, his greatsword a blur of blue steel as he struck.

  But Ridmark saw the blow coming and stepped to the side, the dark elven greatsword falling past him to hit the ground. Had the sword struck him, the power of Kharlacht’s blow would have cut him open from neck to navel. Ridmark swung his staff, hoping to land a hit on Kharlacht’s head. But Kharlacht ducked, the edge of Ridmark’s staff brushing his topknot, and lashed his sword at Ridmark’s legs. The swing did not have much power behind it, and Ridmark lowered his staff and deflected the blade. He launched a thrust at Kharlacht, hoping to catch the orc in the throat, but Kharlacht snapped his sword up and sent the thrust bouncing away.

  They stepped apart, weapons raised.

  Ridmark heard a distant roaring. For a moment he thought it was the sound of his blood rushing through his veins, but then he realized it was the cheering. The Mhalekites were shouting “victory” in orcish, over and over again, while the defenders upon the wall of Dun Licinia were bellowing Ridmark’s name in defiance.

  Kharlacht advanced, and Ridmark took a step back, his mind racing through potential attacks. The orcish warrior was stronger than Ridmark, and almost as fast. His huge greatsword gave him reach to match the length of Ridmark’s staff, and his dark elven steel protected him from blows to the chest and stomach.

  No armor on his throat or head, though.
Or upon his legs. And while his sword matched the reach of Ridmark’s staff, it was a slower weapon. Ridmark could grip his staff anywhere, and Kharlacht could not do the same with his sword. In the time that it would take Kharlacht to retract his sword and prepare the massive weapon for another blow, Ridmark could adjust his grip on the staff and land two or three quick hits.

  At least, he thought he could.

  If he was wrong, at least he would die quickly.

  Ridmark thrust his staff towards Kharlacht’s face. Kharlacht retreated, sword deflecting the staff. The orc beat aside Ridmark’s next attack and charged, his greatsword sweeping in a vicious sideways cut. Again Ridmark dodged, the blade just missing him to strike the ground. Kharlacht’s stroke was neither sloppy nor hasty, and at once Kharlacht regained his balance, his weapon coming up to block.

  But in that brief moment, Ridmark had a chance to strike.

  He shifted his grip and thrust, and the end of his staff slammed into Kharlacht’s left wrist. The big orc grunted and staggered, and Ridmark thrust again, his staff striking Kharlacht’s left leg. Kharlacht jumped back, his sword coming up in guard, and Ridmark circled away.

  “You fight well,” said Kharlacht. He opened and closed his left hand several times and then put it back on the hilt of his sword.

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark.

  “But you are alone,” said Kharlacht. “You have no nest of drakes to unleash against me. No pack of spitfangs to drive into a frenzy. Only your own strength and wit to wield. Will that be enough?”

  “We shall find out, will we not?” said Ridmark. “But if it was so easy to defeat me, you would have done so already.”

  “Indeed,” said Kharlacht, and the orcish warrior flew at him. Ridmark backed away as fast as he could manage, trying to keep Mzalacht’s circle in sight. He glimpsed Caius saying a prayer, saw Mzalacht and his guards laughing in anticipation. Trying to block Kharlacht’s sword with his staff was an invitation to disaster, but Ridmark could not keep dodging. Kharlacht’s furious attack would not last forever, but he needed to only land one hit to cripple Ridmark.

  But Ridmark saw the way Kharlacht’s huge sword could become a weakness. At the nadir of his swings, before he could draw back the weapon, Kharlacht’s balance was slightly off. And if Ridmark struck the flat of Kharlacht’s blade then, he could land a quick hit on the orcish warrior.

  Kharlacht swung, and Ridmark dodged and lashed his staff against the flat of the greatsword’s blade. The orc staggered, tightening his grip to keep from having the sword knocked away, and for a moment he was open. Ridmark jabbed his staff, and the end slamming the steel plates covering Kharlacht’s stomach. Kharlacht stumbled with a grunt, the breath exploding from his lungs. Before he could catch his balance, Ridmark struck again, aiming his staff for Kharlacht’s right knee. Kharlacht swept his sword in a wide arc, deflecting the staff and forcing Ridmark to step back.

  He circled around the orcish warrior, forcing Kharlacht to turn to keep him in sight.

  “This is a useless strategy,” said Kharlacht. “Your weapon cannot penetrate my armor. It will not even dent dark elven steel.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. An idea came to him. “But you have no armor about your throat or head, do you? Which seems unwise. A man can live without a few fingers, but he cannot survive with a crushed windpipe.”

  “Indeed,” said Kharlacht, and attacked.

  His sword came at Ridmark in a sideways swing, but not quite as fast as before. The weight of his armor and sword was slowing him down and draining his stamina. Ridmark dodged the first swing, the second, and then the third, Kharlacht driving him towards the edge of the circle. By the sixth swing, Kharlacht’s movements had slowed just enough for Ridmark to slap his staff against the flat of the orc’s blade. Kharlacht stumbled, and Ridmark reversed his staff and drove the end at the warrior’s throat.

  Kharlacht saw the blow coming and stepped back, sword coming up to guard his face.

  But Ridmark’s attack had been only a feint, and he reversed the staff, driving the end towards Kharlacht’s right knee. At the last instant Kharlacht realized his peril and jumped back, which kept the staff from shattering his kneecap. Still the blow landed with a loud crack, and Kharlacht stumbled with a grunt of surprised pain. Ridmark whipped his staff around and swung the weapon into Kharlacht’s midsection. Again Kharlacht’s armor absorbed the hit, but the power of the strike knocked the orc on his heels. He stumbled back several steps, breathing hard, his sword held out before him to ward off any attacks.

  Ridmark circled to his left, and Kharlacht turned to keep him in sight.

  The shouts of the defenders grew louder, the bellows of the orcs angrier and more ragged.

  “I admit,” rasped Kharlacht, his tusked face tight with strain, “that I underestimated you at first.”

  “Oh?” said Ridmark.

  “I thought you a madman with a stick,” said Kharlacht. “A true warrior, I believed, carried a sword. Not an axe, not a spear, and certainly not a quarterstaff. A sword.”

  “When I was a squire, first learning the sword,” said Ridmark, “I grew arrogant in my skill. This displeased my father, who sent me to spar with his bailiff, a low-born man who had never carried a sword in his life, who fought with a quarterstaff. I boasted I would teach this impudent peasant his place, and show him that a knight of Andomhaim could defeat any low-born churl.”

  “What happened?” said Kharlacht.

  Ridmark felt himself smile. “The bailiff gave me such a thrashing that I could not sit down for a week.”

  Kharlacht threw back his head and roared with laughter. Ridmark could have ended the fight then, could have thrust his staff and crushed the orc’s throat, but he did not.

  He already had a heavy burden upon his conscience. No reason to add to it.

  “It seems,” said Kharlacht, recovering himself, “that you have learned that lesson well.”

  “I did,” said Ridmark. He kept circling, Kharlacht turning to keep him in sight. “There was one other lesson that man taught me, one both applicable to single combat and to leading a host of fifty thousand men.”

  “What lesson is that?” said Kharlacht. He kept turning, wincing as his weight shifted upon his bruised leg.

  “The key to victory,” said Ridmark, “is to apply your strength to your enemy’s weakness, and to do so without mercy.”

  “And how will you apply that lesson here?” said Kharlacht, resignation settling over his features.

  “You cannot hit me,” said Ridmark, “but I can hit you.”

  He charged at Kharlacht, his staff spinning. Kharlacht got his sword up, but again and again Ridmark landed minor blows, his staff darting through the brief instants Kharlacht took to recover his balance. None of the blows were particularly serious. But every one of them caused Kharlacht pain, drained away a bit of his strength and endurance.

  And every blow that struck his right leg made him wince.

  At last Ridmark’s thrust caught Kharlacht’s right knee, and the orc stumbled. Ridmark sidestepped, reversing his staff, and swung the weapon against the back of Kharlacht’s knee. The orcish warrior bellowed in sudden pain as his leg folded beneath him, and Ridmark swung his staff with all his strength.

  The staff caught Kharlacht across the forearms, knocking the dark elven greatsword from his hands. Kharlacht reached for the weapon, and Ridmark’s next thrust slammed into his forehead.

  It was not enough to kill him, not even enough to render him unconscious, but it was enough to send him sprawling to the ground.

  Ridmark rested the butt of his staff on Kharlacht’s throat.

  One brief flex of his arm, and he could crush Kharlacht’s windpipe.

  Kharlacht blinked, his black eyes swimming back into focus.

  “Do it,” he rasped. “You vanquished me fairly and without trickery.” He closed his eyes and relaxed. “Do it, and send me to join Lujena.” Ridmark wondered who that was. One of Kharlacht’s dead kin, perhaps? Th
e one who had inspired such loyalty to family in him? “Do it and end my misery.”

  Ridmark said nothing.

  Utter silence had fallen over the field. He saw Mzalacht and his guards staring at him, aghast. No doubt they had expected Kharlacht to prevail. The defenders watched in silence from the ramparts. He saw Caius watching him, expression solemn.

  The orcish army remained motionless. Yet beyond the trees Ridmark caught glimpses of activity. Qazarl was up to something, and the trial by combat had gained him time to prepare it.

  Perhaps it would be best to simply kill Kharlacht and force Qazarl to show his hand.

  “I accept,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff from Kharlacht’s throat, “your surrender.”

  Kharlacht opened his eyes, frowning.

  Ridmark shifted his staff to his left hand and extended his right. After a moment, Kharlacht took it, and Ridmark pulled him to his feet.

  “You have fought well and with honor,” said Ridmark, “and therefore, I accept your surrender.”

  Kharlacht blinked. “But…I did not…”

  Ridmark turned to Mzalacht. “I have prevailed in this trial by single combat, and by the terms of the agreement, Qazarl and his warriors shall withdraw from this siege and return to the Wilderland.”

  Mzalacht’s mouth opened and then closed again, and then he looked to his warriors, as if for assistance.

  “I was defeated,” said Kharlacht. “By Qazarl’s own word, he must withdraw from the field.”

  The herald spat. “You deliberately lost the fight, you are a weakling coward enslaved to the god of the humans, and…”

  Kharlacht growled, his eyes glazing red with the orcish battle fury, and the ground jolted beneath Ridmark’s boots.

  He looked around, as did the orcs and Caius. Again the ground shook, and a cold wind sprang up from nowhere, tugging at Ridmark’s cloak. The wind stank of sulfur and carrion, of dead things left in the dark.

  Mzalacht began to laugh. “Behold! The wrath of the blood gods come! In Mhalek’s name, Qazarl has awakened their wrath. You shall perish! You…”