Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Did what?” said Ridmark.

  “Why he forsook the gods of the khaldari, the gods of stone and silence,” said Azakhun, “and chose instead to follow the alien god of the humans, the Dominus Christus.”

  “I do not know,” said Ridmark. “He has not told me.”

  “You follow the Dominus Christus?” said Azakhun.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, though he was surely damned for his failures.

  “Then why does the apostate follow the human god?” said Azakhun.

  “Perhaps you should ask him,” said Ridmark.

  “I would rather not,” said Azakhun. “We already endured enough of his preaching when he left Khald Tormen the first time.”

  He walked back to his men without another word.

  Ridmark wondered what that was about, and kept walking.

  ###

  A short time later they returned to the camp.

  Calliande took a cautious look around. Morigna had bound some ravens and sent them ahead, the dwarves watching with unease, and claimed that the camp was undisturbed. Yet Calliande preferred to look with her own eyes. Fortunately, Morigna’s scouts had been correct. The camp was undisturbed, though the donkeys were agitated.

  “Now what?” said Morigna.

  “Now,” said Ridmark, “we are going to the city of Coldinium.”

  Silence answered him.

  “Forgive the question,” said Caius, “but why?”

  “Because,” said Ridmark, “the city of Coldinium is the nearest place to find the antidote for wyvern venom.”

  “I thought that saltflower is the only thing that can cure the poison,” said Gavin. “My knowledge of the High King’s realm is not thorough,” Morigna snorted, “but Coldinium is far from the sea.”

  “It is,” said Ridmark, “but there are apothecaries in Coldinium. Saltflower is used it a variety of medicines, is it not?”

  Calliande nodded. “It is.”

  “Almost certainly the apothecaries of Coldinium buy dried saltflower from the merchants of Tarlion,” said Ridmark. “Would dried saltflower be effective against the venom?”

  “It would,” said Calliande. “In sufficient quantities. If it is prepared correctly.”

  “And you know how to prepare it correctly, I assume?” said Morigna, raising her eyebrows.

  Calliande refused to rise to the bait. “I do.” She hesitated. “What about Urd Morlemoch and the Frostborn? It is at least twelve or thirteen days to Coldinium from here.”

  “Only if we travel overland,” said Ridmark. “Which we will not. The overland route to Coldinium goes right past the Iron Tower. And if Paul Tallmane is in command of the Tower, we will almost certainly find other foes there.”

  Calliande nodded. She guessed he did not want to speak of the Enlightened of Incariel before the dwarves. The Enlightened had tried to kill Ridmark at Aranaeus, and again outside the Old Man’s lair north of Moraime. They were Shadowbearer’s servants, and would kill her and take the empty soulstone to their master if given the opportunity.

  “The Iron Tower is the northernmost outpost of the High King’s realm on the Lake of Battles,” said Calliande. “Traveling over the lake is well and good…but are we to build a boat of our own?”

  “We won’t need to,” said Ridmark. “The High King’s writ ends at the Iron Tower, but there are other settlements along the northern shore of the Lake of Battles, villages like Aranaeus and Moraime. Some are dangerous, full of worshippers of the old blood gods of the orcs.”

  “And some are merely dens of thieves and smugglers,” said Caius. “You have such a place in mind, do you not?”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “There is a smugglers’ den west of the Iron Tower, a village called Vulmhosk. It was once the stronghold of an orcish chieftain, but he was slain centuries ago, and various gangs of thieves have operated out of it ever since.”

  “It sounds dangerous,” said Gavin.

  “Compared to the Iron Tower,” said Ridmark, “it is pleasant garden. A smuggler named Smiling Otto controls it, and makes his living trading with the tribes and villages of the Wilderland. I have traded with him before, and while he is a rogue, he is an honest one…within certain limits.”

  “How do you know?” said Calliande.

  “I save his life once,” said Ridmark.

  Caius snorted. “I thought as much.”

  “At Vulmhosk we can hire a boat and take it to Coldinium,” said Ridmark. “I know some of the apothecaries of the city, and we can purchase saltflower there.”

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  “A sound plan,” said Caius.

  “But what about,” said Calliande, “Urd Morlemoch?”

  “Once Kharlacht is healed, we will depart Coldinium and continue to the Torn Hills,” said Ridmark.

  Azakhun blinked in surprise. “You are going to Urd Morlemoch?”

  “I will explain later,” said Ridmark. He hesitated. “If need be…I can continue to Urd Morlemoch alone while you go to Coldinium. You…”

  “No,” said Calliande at once, and to her mild annoyance, Morigna said it at the same time.

  “You clearly need my help, Gray Knight,” said Morigna, “and I will repay my debt to you.”

  “And we shall see this to the end together,” said Calliande. “We will discover how the Frostborn shall return,” Azakhun’s green eyes got a little wider, “and stop them. Together.”

  She felt a twinge of embarrassment as the last word left her lips. It was absurd to feel embarrassment. She was centuries old, had come through terrible perils and survived.

  Yet it lingered nonetheless. Especially with Morigna’s eyes upon her.

  “Kharlacht has been a loyal friend,” said Caius. “I will see him healed, if it is within our power.”

  “As shall I,” said Gavin.

  “You speak of strange things, Gray Knight,” said Azakhun, “but if this is how you wish us to discharge our debt to you, so be it.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “Then you can start by helping us break camp. We can make another seven or eight miles before nightfall.”

  They went to work, packing their supplies and loading them upon the donkeys.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande, when they were out of earshot of the others. “I think…”

  He looked at her for a moment, a flicker of emotion going through his cold eyes.

  “Later,” said Ridmark. “We can…discuss it later, after we reach Coldinium. We must save Kharlacht first.”

  Calliande nodded, hiding her disappointment. He was right, of course.

  But she still wanted to talk to him about the kiss.

  She turned back to the camp, and saw Morigna staring at them.

  Calliande ignored her and went to help the others.

  Chapter 4 - Vulmhosk

  Three days later, they arrived at the gates of Vulmhosk.

  “That,” said Gavin, “is a very large lake.”

  “As ever,” said Morigna, “your gift for observation astounds me, Gavin. Truly, you ought to be a bard.”

  Ridmark sighed, his fingers tightening against his staff. “Enough, both of you.” He sometimes wished Morigna and Gavin could simply brawl and get it over with, but that would likely end with both of them dead.

  They strode out of the forest and toward Vulmhosk’s stockade.

  The Lake of Battles filled the horizon to the south, broad and gray, rippling in the cool wind coming from the west. It was vast, so vast that it took a team of strong men five days to row from its northern point to its southern. It looked like an ocean, and one of Ridmark’s tutors had called it one of the two the great inland seas of the High King’s realm.

  But others had lived here long before Andomhaim had become the High King’s realm, before Malahan Pendragon had led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm from Old Earth. The dark elves and the high elves had fought terrible battles here, with magic that rent the very earth. Some old books even claimed that a battle had c
reated the Lake, a single wayward spell of colossal power gone awry carving it from the earth. After the dark elves had summoned other kindreds to this world, those kindreds had warred along the shores – the dwarves against the orcs, the orcs against the dvargir and the kobolds and the manetaur, and then the urdmordar had swept them all away.

  Likely a carpet of bones covered the lake’s bottom.

  A round tower of rough stone rose from the edge of the water, surrounded by crumbling stone ruins. Once the stronghold of an orcish chieftain, it had burned in one of the endless wars fought on the shores of the lake. Waves lapped at the tower’s base, ruined walls and pillars jutting from the waters.

  A maze of ramshackle wooden structures sprawled at the foot of the tower - an inn, a marketplace, and a dozen warehouses. A stout wooden palisade ringed the entire place, incorporating the ruined stone walls here and there. Tough-looking men with crossbows stood atop the walls, keeping a careful watch over the woods.

  “Rough-looking place,” said Calliande.

  “Too rough for your delicate sensibilities?” said Morigna.

  “My sensibilities,” said Calliande, giving her a flat look, “have no bearing on whether or not we get knifed and robbed in an alley.”

  “Smiling Otto is a hard man,” said Ridmark, “but he keeps his business orderly. Troublemakers in Vulmhosk tend to have their throats cut and their corpses dumped into the lake.”

  “I find I must agree with the Magistria,” said Azakhun. His two warriors still followed them, carrying Kharlacht upon his litter. “This place looks like a den of thieves.”

  “It is,” said Ridmark, “but we’ll be able to hire passage to Coldinium.” He headed toward the gate in the palisade. “Let me do the talking. I’ve been here before.”

  He walked off before Morigna or Calliande or anyone else could raise any objections, and stopped a dozen paces from the gate. The others followed, eyes watching the ramparts. The men upon the wall squinted at him, their crossbows ready.

  “I know you,” said the oldest of the guards, a lean, grizzled-looking man with ragged gray hair.

  “And I know you, Quintus,” said Ridmark. “It has been a while, has it not?”

  Quintus laughed. “So the Gray Knight returns! Figured your head would be atop some Mhor-worshipping orc’s spear by now. Instead here you are with a sleeping orc, some dwarves,” his bloodshot eyes wandered over Calliande and Morigna, “and some lovely young women. Must be quite a tale.”

  “I’ve been busy,” said Ridmark.

  “Clearly,” said Quintus, grinning at Morigna. “Here to sell? You’d find a buyer for that one, I’m sure…”

  Morigna smirked at him. “You are welcome to try.” She lifted her hand, purple fire crackling around her fingers.

  At once a dozen crossbows pointed in her direction.

  “A wildling sorceress?” said Quintus. “You’d bring a woman like that here?”

  Ridmark looked at Morigna. “That was not helpful.”

  She gave him a defiant scowl, but dismissed the purple flame.

  “I do not mean harm,” said Ridmark. “I am in great haste, and need to hire a boat to Coldinium. As soon as I can find a willing vessel, I shall be on my way.”

  “Just as well.” Quintus spat over the wall. “Too much trouble these days, Gray Knight. Too much trouble.”

  “What do you mean?” said Ridmark.

  “About a month and a half ago,” said Quintus. “You saw the blue fire in the sky?”

  “I may have taken note of it, yes,” said Ridmark.

  “The orcs of Kothluusk have been riled up ever since,” said Quintus. “Not that they were ever friendly. But now warbands are coming out of the mountains and raiding everything in sight. Hear they’ve even attacked Durandis and Rhaluusk down south. They think that the world’s about to end, that old Mhor himself is going to come back and take the skulls of every living thing.”

  They weren’t entirely wrong.

  “Then all the more reason,” said Ridmark, “for me to leave quickly. A boat, Quintus. No cargo, just nine passengers. That’s all I need.”

  “That orc the dwarves are carrying,” said Quintus. “Is he Rhaluuskan?”

  “No, Vhaluuskan,” said Ridmark.

  Quintus spat again. “The Vhaluuskan orcs aren’t as bad as the Rhaluuskans, but they’re still right bastards.”

  “He’s baptized,” said Ridmark.

  “It’s usually only the southern orcs who are baptized, the ones who swore to the High King,” said Quintus.

  “We’re in the Wilderland,” said Ridmark. “The High King’s writ and the High King’s law do not extend here. Strange for you to be so concerned about it.”

  The other guards laughed.

  “Fine,” said Quintus, “come inside. You want a boat, go talk to Smiling Otto. He’ll be at the tavern this time of day. But if you make any trouble, either you or your pet witches, we’ll stick you full of arrows and dump you in the lake.”

  “I assure you, Master Quintus,” said Calliande, “that you shall have no trouble from us.”

  Quintus laughed. “So polite for a witch of the wilderness! Well, Smiling Otto will decide what to do with you.”

  He barked a command, and the gate to the palisade swung open. Ridmark led the others inside. The interior of the palisade looked even more decrepit than the exterior. A tavern and a store occupied most of the space inside the wall, along with warehouses for goods and a few small houses. A dozen wooden docks jutted into the water, fishing boats floating alongside them. A score of men moved near the docks, a mix of humans and orcs and halflings, though none of the orcs had the crimson skull tattoos of the Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk.

  “Your orc,” called Quintus. “He’s dead?”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “Poisoned. Wyvern venom.”

  Quintus snorted. “Then he’s as good as dead.”

  “Not yet,” said Ridmark, walking deeper into Vulmhosk. He led the others along the palisade, to a corner of the ruined stone wall where they could converse in privacy.

  “It seems we have indeed entered a den of thieves,” said Caius, watching the men working near the boats.

  “We have,” said Ridmark. “But compared to some of the perils we have faced, this is nothing. But do not lower your guard. Caius, Calliande, Azakhun. Stay here and keep watch over Kharlacht. No one in their right mind would try to start a fight with three dwarven warriors, and Calliande’s magic will aid you if necessary.”

  “And where are you going?” said Morigna.

  “To hire a boat,” said Ridmark. “Gavin, come with me. I’ll need you to watch my back.” It would also keep him away from potential mischief. The boy was brave and increasingly skilled, but had not dealt with men like Smiling Otto and his followers before. “Morigna, also.”

  “Why?” she said.

  “So we have no more little magical demonstrations to draw the eye,” said Ridmark.

  She scowled. “I have dealt with places like this before, Ridmark Arban. I traded with the pagan orcs of Vhaluusk, and they would just as easily kill a human as trade with one, especially a human woman. Yet I am still unscathed.”

  “Let us hope you stay that way,” said Ridmark. “Let’s go.”

  He walked towards the tavern, Gavin on his right, Morigna on his right. Gavin scowled and tried to look intimidating. Morigna merely glanced around with cool hauteur, the sigil-carved staff ready in her right hand.

  The tavern was a large building of fieldstone and timber that looked like a repurposed barn, and the smell of smoke and cheap beer filled the air. A broad porch ran the front of the tavern, holding splintered tables and worn chairs.

  A halfling man leaned against one of the pillars, staring at Ridmark.

  He was about four and a half feet tall, with a mop of curly blond hair and bright amber eyes in a pale, square-jawed face. His black leather boots gleamed, and he wore a black leather vest over a stark white shirt, his trousers crisp and spotless. A short
sword and a dagger hung at his belt, and both weapons looked expensive and well-maintained.

  “So,” said the halfling, his voice a deep rumble, “you are indeed real. And not a dream after all.” He spoke Latin with the accent of central Andomhaim. He was from Caerdracon, or perhaps Calvus. That gave Ridmark a moment’s pause. Tarrabus Carhaine was the Dux of Caerdracon, and he wanted Ridmark dead. Though he could not imagine Tarrabus sending a halfling assassin. Most of the nobles of Andomhaim had halflings as domestic servants, bound by ancient oaths sworn before the defeat of the urdmordar. Few nobles paid the halflings any mind at all, and regarded them as little more than beasts of burden that happened to be able to talk.

  But Ridmark knew better…and something about this halfling made him want to reach for his weapons.

  “If you are dreaming, sir,” said Ridmark, “I fear your dreams must indeed be disappointing.”

  The halfling laughed. “Is that so? Well, your woman is attractive enough, I’ll warrant, though a bit tall for my taste.” Morigna drew breath to answer. “And I imagine she has a tongue that could strip the hull from a boat.”

  “You would not be wrong,” said Gavin. The look Morigna gave him was just short of murderous.

  “I am real,” said Ridmark. “Why should that surprise you?”

  “Because,” said the halfling, “you are such an…implausible tale.”

  “And you know of me?” said Ridmark.

  “Why, all in the Wilderland know of the Gray Knight,” said the halfling. “At least those who are not howling savages and unholy abominations of dark magic. The son of a mighty Dux, a Swordbearer, the slayer of Mhalek, now an outcast and an exile wandering the wilderness in hopes of avenging his lost wife.” The halfling shook his head. “Really, if a bard sang that tale to me, I would say he had drunk too much wine and vomited forth something ridiculous.”

  “Having lived it,” said Ridmark, “I can attest to its veracity.”

  The halfling laughed. “Well, truth often gives the lie to tales, or so they say.”

  “You have business with me?” said Ridmark.

  “Not at all,” said the halfling. “I merely had business here in Otto’s charming palace of delights.” He waved a gloved hand, taking in the ruined tower, the spiked palisade, the ramshackle tavern. “But I heard tale after tale of the Gray Knight of the Wilderland. Now here you are in the flesh.”