“Undoubtedly,” said Ridmark, and joined the others as they climbed down the gangplank to the stone dock. Caius and Gavin carried Kharlacht’s litter, Calliande hovering over them. Ridmark drew the cowl of his gray elven cloak over his face. Even in the Outwall, walking through the streets carrying an unconscious Vhaluuskan orc would draw attention. The sooner they got to Rodinius’s shop, the better. And if anyone tried to stop them or collect Tarrabus’s bounty, Ridmark would simply have to dissuade them.
Hopefully without bloodshed.
“We part ways here, Gray Knight,” said Azakhun, his helmet tucked under one arm, his warriors waiting behind him. “I will return to the Dwarven Enclave with the relics we obtained from Khald Azalar, and inform the elders and the Taalkaz of the Enclave of the death of our kin at the hands of the Mhorite orcs, alas. Thank you again for coming to our aid.”
“And thank you again for assisting us,” said Ridmark as Caius and Gavin maneuvered Kharlacht on the litter. “We would not have reached Coldinium without your aid. You may consider any debt owed to me repaid in full.”
Azakhun bowed. “Thank you.” His strange eyes glinted. “I cannot fathom why your own people branded you a coward. The debt may be repaid, but let there be friendship between us. My men and I shall remain in Coldinium for a few days before we return to Khald Tormen. If you have need of aid, come to the Enclave, and if it is within my power I shall grant it.”
“Thank you,” said Ridmark. “And if you have need of my aid, you have only to ask.”
They bowed to each other, and the dwarves marched into the Outwall, their armor drawing surprised stares from the porters and fishermen going about their business. Jager stepped after them, gazing at the walls with a distant expression.
“Farewell,” said Jager. “I wish you good fortune, Gray Knight. I suspect you will need it.”
“Why do you say that?” said Calliande.
Jager looked at her. “The Gray Knight seems the sort of man who collects powerful enemies.”
Morigna tapped her staff against the quay and grinned. “They are welcome to try, Master Jager.”
Jager snorted. “After seeing you in battle, perhaps I should wish them good fortune instead, simply to make it sporting. Farewell, Gray Knight. Perhaps we shall meet again.”
The halfling strolled into the Outwall and vanished into the streets.
“What do you suppose he wanted?” said Calliande at last.
“If I were to guess,” said Ridmark, “I would say he was a spy. Probably for Tarrabus Carhaine. Tarrabus wants me dead, and I disappeared into the Wilderland after Mhalek’s defeat. When I turned up at Dun Licinia during Qazarl’s attack, the Dux likely sent out spies to find me.”
“Or Paul Tallmane told him,” said Calliande.
Ridmark nodded. Paul Tallmane had attacked him in the smoldering ruins of Aranaeus, aided by two assassins from the Red Family of Cintarra. Ridmark had killed both assassins and all of Paul’s men-at-arms, but he had let Paul live. From Paul he had learned of the existence of the Enlightened of Incariel, though thankfully Paul had not employed the strange shadow-magic that Jonas Vorinus had used.
“I wonder if the Dux killed him for his failure,” said Ridmark. “Well, Tarrabus was never the forgiving sort.” He glanced at Caius, saw the dwarven friar gazing after his departed kindred. “Did you successfully preach the gospel to them?”
“I fear not,” said Caius. He sighed. “Azakhun and his warriors remain committed to the gods of stone and silence.”
“They do not laugh as much as you do,” said Gavin, shifting his grip on the litter.
“No,” said Caius, and for a moment he looked as melancholy as Ridmark had ever seen him. “The gods of silence frown upon mirth and despair both.”
“We have more immediate problems,” said Morigna. “I suggest we find this apothecary and depart Coldinium at once. If our charming Master Jager is indeed a spy for your old friend the Dux, we shall find foes upon our tail soon enough. Perhaps more assassins from the Red Family.”
“Sound counsel,” said Ridmark, and he led the way into the Outwall.
###
Morigna could not stop staring at everything around her.
There were just so damned many people.
She had known, of course, that thousands of people lived in Coldinium, had spoken with merchants and adventurers who had visited the city. But seeing it with her own eyes was something else entirely.
They walked through a market below Coldinium’s western gate, and Morigna saw more goods for sale than she had seen in her entire life. Women sold fish, fresh-caught from the lake and the River Moradel. Men sold pots and pans and hats and knives and dozens of other things. She saw even saw orcs and the occasional dwarf among the merchants and their customers. Halflings scurried through the crowd, clad in the livery of their masters as they went about their masters’ business. Their downcast eyes and diffident expressions were a marked contrast from Jager’s swaggering and Smiling Otto’s cold confidence.
“How do they live like this?” said Gavin, gazing about in wonder. To his credit, he showed no signs of fatigue from carrying the litter.
“Like what?” Morigna said.
“Like…ants in a hill, I suppose,” said Gavin. “All packed in together. And so many smells.” He was right about that. The Outwall smelled of fish and rotting meat and sweat and waste. “It must drive them mad.”
Morigna opened her mouth to make a mocking remark, and then stopped herself. Gavin had come from a small village in the Wilderland. If Coldinium seemed vast to her, it would appear the same way to Gavin.
“I do not know,” said Morigna.
“Many were born here,” said Ridmark. “They have known no other life. Living in an isolated village in the Wilderland, without the protection of the Swordbearers and the Magistri, would seem terrifying to them.”
“I suspect others have migrated here from the countryside,” said Calliande. “Life in the city offers more opportunities, and at the very least more excitement, then upon a freehold or a benefice farm.”
“Who would prefer this to the wilderness?” said Morigna, wrinkling her nose at the smell.
“Those who do not have your skill at surviving in the wild,” said Ridmark. He glanced at Gavin. “And imagine some were like you.”
Gavin adjusted his grip on the litter with a grunt. “I should hope not.”
“Well, perhaps their homes were not destroyed by an urdmordar,” said Ridmark. “But they were driven from home for some reason or another – they had no inheritance, or could not stand their families or their neighbors. So they came here to make their fortunes.”
They walked down a narrow lane leading from the market. All the houses were of similar design, brick with fired clay tiles for the rooftops. Each house had a business upon the ground floor, and Morigna supposed that the owners lived on the upper level. Wooden signs over the doors advertised the services offered within – a pawnbroker, a shoemaker, a tailor.
Ridmark stopped before a door marked with the sign of a mortar and pestle and knocked. A moment later it swung open, revealing a short woman of about thirty-five in a leather apron, her black hair pulled into a severe bun. Her clothing was stained and patched, and she gave off the smell of strong medicines. She had watery eyes in a round face, and blinked several times when she saw Ridmark.
Then she laughed.
“Greetings, Arassa,” said Ridmark. “I hope you are well.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Arassa. “Ridmark Arban. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“Perhaps,” said Ridmark, “but if so, the message has not reached me yet.”
Arassa laughed again. “Even if it did, it wouldn’t get through that thick skull of yours.” She craned her neck. “Quite the collection of followers you have. A disgraced Swordbearer, a dwarven friar, and an unconscious orc all come up to my door. It sounds like the start of a good joke…or a very fascinating story.”
“H
ow is your father?” said Ridmark.
“Alive,” said Arassa. “And in his right mind today, which is pleasant. I take it you need some medicine?”
“Saltflower, specifically,” said Ridmark. “Do you have some?”
“Most likely,” said Arassa, “though I will have to check with Father. But if one of you happened to ingest wyvern venom, you’ll be dead before it can do any good.”
“Not necessarily,” said Ridmark. He gestured at Kharlacht. “He was stung by a wyvern some miles north of here. Our Magistria, Calliande, tried to heal him…”
“But no magic can cure wyvern venom,” said Arassa. “So how is he alive?”
“This is Morigna, a sorceress of the Wilderland,” said Ridmark.
The watery eyes turned towards Morigna, shrewd and calculating. Despite her dowdy appearance, Morigna suspected a formidable mind waited behind those eyes.
“A wild sorceress?” said Arassa. “I suggest you keep a low profile in Coldinium. If Ridmark speaks for you, that is good enough for me. But the magic of the Magistri and the Swordbearers are the only magic allowed in the High King’s realm. If you draw their attention, it will not go well for you. Or for any of us.”
“I shall be the height of discretion,” said Morigna.
“Morigna knew a spell to filter his blood,” said Ridmark. “It kept the poison from harming him, so long as he remained unconscious. Calliande was able to heal the damage the poison had already wrought and used her magic to keep him asleep.”
Arassa scratched her jaw. “That…is actually quite clever. So long as he doesn’t wake up, and so long as your wildling’s magic holds, he won’t die. So you’ve come here to see if Father has any saltflower.”
“You have the right of it,” said Ridmark.
“Well,” said Arassa. “Come inside. Let’s see if we can bring a happy ending to this tale.”
She opened the door all the way, and Gavin and Caius maneuvered the litter inside. Ridmark and Calliande followed them, and Morigna stepped inside last. The interior of the shop reminded her of the Old Man’s cottage in the hills north of Moraime. She saw the same shelves, the same dried herbs and plants, the same apothecary’s instruments and tools upon the counter. Yet Coriolus had lived in unkempt squalor, like a pig rolling comfortably in its own filth, and this shop was almost compulsively neat. An old man with a resemblance to Arassa sat at the counter, clad in a leather apron and tunic and trousers stained with multicolored powders. He prepared medicines, humming to himself as he ground something in a mortar.
“Father,” said Arassa. “We have guests.”
“Eh?” said the old man, blinking as he looked up. A wide grin spread over his face. “Ridmark!”
“Greetings, Rodinius,” said Ridmark. “I hope you are well.”
The old apothecary heaved himself to his feet and caught Ridmark in a surprisingly vigorous hug, thumping him on the back. “This man! This man! Did I tell you what he did?”
“Many times, Father,” said Arassa, taking some bottles from the shelf as Gavin and Caius set Kharlacht on the floor.
“I was out picking mushrooms, yes, for medicines,” said Rodinius. “Some orcs from the Wilderland found me and tried to kill me. The Gray Knight, he killed two and drove off the rest!”
Calliande laughed. “You do have friends everywhere, don’t you?”
“You bring guests, yes?” said Rodinius. “If you need help, you are welcome, most welcome.” He looked back and forth between Calliande and Morigna, blinking. “And lovely young ladies. One of you must be his wife, yes?”
Morigna winced, and Calliande looked embarrassed.
“I’m afraid my wife has been dead for some years,” said Ridmark.
“Father, you’re being rude,” said Arassa, setting the bottles on the table. “The orc has wyvern venom in his blood.”
“What?” said Rodinius. “Why didn’t you say so? Daughter, we have work to do!”
###
Calliande watched as Rodinius and Arassa went about their task.
As addled as the old apothecary seemed, he clearly knew his business, and Arassa was just as skilled. Together the father and daughter produced saltflower and mixed it with several other herbs and medicines.
“You’re mixing it with grayroot?” said Calliande, surprised.
“Yes,” said Arassa, not looking up.
“To prevent stomach cramps and to keep him from throwing it up,” said Calliande.
Arassa blinked in surprise. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”
“And then some honey,” said Calliande, “to sweeten the mixture and make it easier to swallow.”
Rodinius cackled. “I thought you were a Magistria. Are you sure you are not an apothecary?”
“To tell the truth, no,” said Calliande.
“But it is clear you have some knowledge of medicine,” said Arassa. “If I may be blunt, this is a refreshing trait in a Magistria. I think the Magistri place too much trust in their healing magic when simpler cures would suffice. And a Magistrius or a Magistria who tries to use a healing spell without sufficient knowledge of the human body can create a…mess.” She hesitated. “But forgive me if I have spoken too bluntly.”
“It is all right,” said Calliande. “In truth, I cannot remember meeting another Magistria with as much interest in medicine.” That, at least, was entirely true.
“Perhaps you can help us,” said Arassa. “After we force the antidote down his throat, we shall have to wake him for it to take effect. For a short time the poison will attack him. Can you heal any harm it does in that time?”
Calliande nodded. “I shall.”
Rodinius lifted a glass beaker full of a swirling gray fluid, tapped his finger against the glass, and listened to the sound it made. “Daughter, I believe we are ready.”
“The let us begin,” said Arassa. “Mistress Morigna, can you lift your spell upon his blood?”
“Mistress?” said Morigna. “No one has called me that before.”
Arassa raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer that I call you a wildling sorceress?”
“Upon reflection, no,” said Morigna.
“Gray Knight, Brother Caius, Master Gavin,” said Arassa. “He may try to thrash, and your friend looks like he could punch a hole in the wall. Hold him down.”
Ridmark nodded and took Kharlacht’s right arm, while Caius gripped his left. Gavin sat upon his shins, holding Kharlacht’s legs in place. Arassa lifted the beaker with the elixir.
“Now,” she said.
Morigna whispered under her breath and gestured, purple fire flaring around her fingers. In one smooth motion Arassa knelt, pinched Kharlacht’s nose shut, tilted back his head, and poured the potion down his throat. Kharlacht began to thrash, the muscles in his arms and legs bulging as he growled. Ridmark and Caius and Gavin strained to keep him in place.
“Magistria,” said Arassa. “Now.”
Calliande knelt next to Kharlacht, summoned her power, and placed a hand upon his sweating forehead. She cast the healing spell, and felt the stabbing pain in every inch of her body as the poison attacked Kharlacht. She gritted her teeth and healed him, and healed him again, ignoring the pain. Yet the pain faded with every casting of the spell, and by the fourth time, nothing happened.
Kharlacht had been cleansed of the poison.
She let out a long breath and straightened up.
“I think,” she said, “I think it worked.”
“God has been with us this day,” said Caius.
“He had nothing to do with it,” said Morigna. “My magic, Calliande’s magic, and Arassa’s skill saved Kharlacht. Nothing else.”
Caius smiled. “And what instruments does God choose to do his work?”
Morigna opened her mouth to answer, but a weak voice cut her off.
“Do you two ever stop arguing?”
Calliande saw that Kharlacht’s eyes were open.
“Kharlacht,” said Calliande. “Do you know who I am?”
> “No,” said Kharlacht. “But neither do you.”
“He has a point,” said Morigna.
“Where am I?” said Kharlacht. He grunted and tried to sit up.
“No, stay down for a bit,” said Calliande.
“The last thing I remember,” said Kharlacht. “The wyvern. The Kothluuskans…” He blinked. “What happened?”
“It seems to be the day,” said Ridmark, “for interesting stories.”
Chapter 9 - The Crow’s Helm
“We should have left at once,” said Morigna.
Ridmark shook his head. “Calliande thinks Kharlacht needs a day or two of rest before we depart.”
Morigna scowled. “She is not always right.”
“No,” said Ridmark, “but I think she is right about this.”
Morigna leaned back and looked at the beer in her clay mug. “At least we could have found a better inn.”
“Concerning that,” said Ridmark, “you may be right.”
Morigna took another look around the common room of the Crow’s Helm, the Outwall’s best inn.
That was not saying much.
Fishermen filled the ramshackle wooden common room, no doubt hoping to escape their wives for a few more hours. A bar ran the length of one wall, guarded by a pair of surly men. The inn took its name from the massive stuffed crow that sat over the fieldstone hearth, a battered war helm resting on the poor bird’s head.
“But to find a better inn,” said Ridmark, “we would have to go within in the wall.” He tapped his left cheek. “That would have been a poor idea.” He wore his cowl up, but no one seemed to care. Quite a few rough characters populated both the Crow’s Helm and the Outwall.
“Undoubtedly,” said Morigna. “Which is why we should have headed away from the city, and camped in the wild.”
“Nothing is really wilderness for twenty miles around Coldinium,” said Ridmark. “Farms and pastures and freeholds.” He lifted his beer, took a drink, and winced. “And better to have a night or two under a roof before we travel to Urd Morlemoch.”
Frostborn: The Master Thief Page 11