Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Why?” said Ridmark, getting to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

  “Tarrabus Carhaine is here, in Coldinium,” said Calliande. “He’s apparently come to inspect the Iron Tower. If he finds out you are here, he’ll kill you.” She glared at Jager. “If someone hasn’t taken word of your presence to him already.”

  “Ah,” said Ridmark. Unlike Calliande, he seemed calm. “So that’s what you were doing in Vulmhosk.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Jager, sweat trickling down his back.

  “Then what?” said Calliande.

  Jager tried to think of a convincing answer.

  ###

  Morigna went around a corner and stopped.

  The Outwall lacked the protection of Coldinium’s walls, which struck her as folly. The Wilderland and its dangers were nearby. And the Nightmane Forest was just to the south, and even the Old Man had avoided that place and the mad dark elven prince that ruled over it.

  So she was not surprised to see a mass of dark figures making their way up the street. She caught the glimpse of red tattoos and scars upon their faces.

  Crimson light flashed at their head, and Morigna saw what had frightened the dogs so badly.

  Mournacht strode at the head of the Mhorite orcs, his enspelled double-bladed axe ready in his hands.

  They hadn’t spotted her yet.

  Morigna sprinted for the Crow’s Helm.

  ###

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Ridmark. “We’re leaving. Calliande, get the others.” He pointed at Jager. “If you are spying for Tarrabus Carhaine, tell him this. The Frostborn are returning, and the realm needs to make ready.”

  “The Frostborn?” said Jager, and for the first time the halfling looked bewildered. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Tell him that,” said Ridmark, picking up his staff. “The Frostborn are coming back. Tarrabus is ruthless and without conscience, but Caerdracon and Castra Carhaine will freeze alongside everything else if the Frostborn return.”

  “You think I am spying for the Dux?” said Jager. “After what he did to me?”

  Ridmark frowned. “What did he do to you?”

  Jager flinched.

  Ridmark was about to press the point further when the door to the inn burst open.

  Morigna sprinted into the common room, staff in her left hand, purple fire blazing around her right.

  “Ridmark!” she said. “Mournacht! His warriors come!”

  Chapter 10 - The Heralds of Mhor

  Calliande spun to face Arassa, summoning power. The apothecary gaped at her, eyes wide.

  “Go,” said Calliande. “Go out the back door, right now.”

  “What’s happening?” said Arassa, getting to her feet.

  “Mhorite orcs from Kothluusk,” said Calliande. “They’ll kill anyone they find. Get to your father and get to safety.”

  “Wait,” said Ridmark. “Get him to safety, but alert the militia. Comes Corbanic and his men-at-arms must be warned. If the Mhorites aren’t stopped they’ll burn down the entire Outwall and kill everyone they catch. Run!”

  Arassa reacted with admirable speed and sprinted for the kitchens.

  “Where are they?” said Ridmark.

  Morigna closed her eyes, and Calliande sensed the faint pulse of magic as the sorceress worked a spell. “Heading right for the inn. Someone knew to lead them here.” His eyes, cold and black, opened and turned towards Jager. “As if someone knew where to bring them!”

  “You think I brought those death-worshipping madmen here?” said Jager. “They’ll kill me alongside you! Probably eat our corpses, too.”

  “I suggest, Master Jager,” said Ridmark, raising his staff, “that you stay with us. The Inn is reasonably defensible, and if they catch you alone on the street they will kill you.”

  “What do we do?” said Calliande.

  “We stay here and fight,” said Ridmark. “Either the sound of fighting will rouse the militia and the Comes’s men-at-arms, or Arassa will summon them. We need only hold until they arrive.”

  “And if the Comes’s men decide to arrest you?” said Calliande. “Or kill you to collect the Dux’s bounty?”

  “Assuming Mournacht leaves us alive,” said Ridmark, “we’ll deal with it then.” He turned to Jager. “You know how to use those blades?”

  “You’re damned right I do,” said Jager, drawing his short sword and dagger.

  “Then use them,” said Ridmark. “Morigna, a veil of mist across the door, please. See if we can slow them down.” He raised his voice. “To arms! Intruders at the inn!”

  Morigna nodded and swept her free hand before her. A curtain of white mist sprang up before the door, and Calliande heard the faint sizzle as the acidic mist began to chew into the wood of the floor.

  “I can augment both of you for now,” said Calliande, “but when Mournacht shows up, I will need to focus my spells upon him.”

  “As shall I,” said Morigna.

  “Augment?” said Jager.

  “A spell,” said Ridmark, his staff low and loose in his right hand. “Makes us faster and stronger than we would be otherwise.”

  “Ah,” said Jager. “I imagine that would be useful.”

  “You’re about to find out,” said Ridmark.

  The battle cries of the Mhorite orcs rang out from the street.

  ###

  Jager set himself, his heart hammering against his ribs, sweat tricking down his back and chest.

  He was a thief, not a Swordbearer or a soldier. He knew how to use his blades, and had been in more fights than he preferred to remember. But he hadn’t liked this sort of fighting at Vulmhosk, and he certainly did not like it here.

  At least in Vulmhosk they had been behind a palisade.

  But Ridmark was right. If he fled, the Mhorites would kill him in the street, and if he was dead, there was no one to save Mara.

  An instant later the first of the Kothluuskan orcs ran through the door.

  He sprinted into Morigna’s curtain of mist. The orc loosed a hideous wail as the acidic mist ate into his skin, a horrible stench flooding Jager’s nostrils. The dying orc toppled, and two more ran into the mist, their screams ringing as they died in agony. Crimson light flashed, and the curtain of mist vanished, Morigna rocking back a step as her spells collapsed.

  The Mhorite orcs stormed into the inn’s common room, a sea of scarred faces and leather armor and furred cloaks, axes and swords gleaming in their hands. For a moment Jager stood frozen, watching as the orcs charged at him.

  Then Ridmark moved.

  Jager had seen the Gray Knight in battle before, had watched him duel against Mournacht outside the walls of Vulmhosk. That had been a fight between two equals. But this was like watching a wolf charge through sheep. Ridmark charged into the orcs, his staff a blur in his hands. He struck left, right, left again, and Jager heard the sound of shattered bones and cracking skulls. One of the Mhorites fell dead, and two more stumbled back, howling in pain, legs or hands shattered by the staff.

  Jager had never seen anyone fight so well. Ridmark had once been a Swordbearer? With a Soulblade in hand, he would have been an unstoppable terror.

  Morigna flung out her free hand and rapped her staff against the floor. The boards of the floor twisted, rising up like fingers to wrap around the legs of the Mhorite orcs. The warped boards would not hold them immobilized for long, but that gave Ridmark all the time he needed to land killing blows. White light flashed as Calliande gestured, and the white glow seemed to settle around Ridmark, lending greater speed and power to his blows.

  The same white glow settled around Jager.

  For an instant he was shocked, unsure why she would extend her magical augmentation to him. Neither Ridmark nor Calliande nor Morigna trusted him.

  Yet the Kothluuskan orcs would kill them all, trust or no trust, and Ridmark could not stand alone against all of them.

  Jager dashed into the fray. Each of the orcs stood two or three feet tal
ler, but in the close quarters that played to his advantage. They did not see him as a threat, not at first. Moving with spell-granted speed, Jager plunged his shortsword into the belly of the nearest Mhorite, tugged it to the side, and ripped the weapon free. The orc howled, one hand falling to his stomach to keep his innards in place, and Ridmark killed him with a sharp thrust to the temple. Jager circled at the edge of the melee, dodging the attacks of the orcs, and wounded them with sword and dagger. Whenever he wounded an orc, Ridmark moved into the opening, landing killing blows with his staff. Morigna cast spell after spell, the planks of the floor entrapping the orcs, slowing them long enough for Ridmark to kill them.

  Yet the sheer number of Mhorites forced them back. Crimson fire flared, and one of the windows in the inn’s wall exploded, leaving a door-sized opening. More orcs poured through the gaping hole, howling prayers to Mhor, and Ridmark had to fight on two fronts. Jager backed away, dodging the swing of a heavy axe. Ridmark fought like a lion, but the numbers and ferocity of the orcs would overwhelm him.

  And unless Jager fled right now, he would die with the Gray Knight.

  “God and St. Michael!”

  A stocky figure in brown robes charged into melee, a mace of bronze-colored dwarven steel in his fist. Brother Caius brought the mace down, shattering a Mhorite’s knee. The orc fell with a howl of pain, and quick as lightning Caius staved in the Mhorite’s skull.

  For a friar, he certainly knew how to fight.

  Gavin hurried into the fray at Caius’s left, his shield extended, his orcish sword drawn back to stab. Ridmark fought with the ferocity and power of a master, but Gavin fought with the conservative moves of an infantryman. He kept his shield up, but the minute any one of the orcs lowered his guard or stepped a little too far forward, his sword darted out, or his shield blurred in a bash.

  There was a below of fury, and Kharlacht charged into the battle. To Jager’s astonishment, the big orc wore dark elven armor of overlapping blue steel plates, a massive dark elven greatsword in his hands. A simple wooden cross hung from a cord around his neck, a marked contrast to the elaborate ritual mutilation of the Mhorites. He struck, the huge sword landing with enough power to shear off a Mhorite’s head from his shoulders.

  “You should be in bed!” shouted Calliande.

  Kharlacht grunted, parrying an axe blow and driving his boot into a Kothluuskan orc’s chest. “Your medicines are more effective than you know!”

  Ridmark and his followers fought with fury, and the Kothluuskan orcs retreated, daunted by the fury of the Gray Knight and his companions. Jager darted around the edges of the fight, crippling and wounding Mhorites whenever the opportunity presented. In a wild moment of delirium he realized that they were winning the battle.

  But the memory of Mara, chained and gagged, dashed his exultation.

  Perhaps this was his best chance. Calliande might not have the soulstone on her. Perhaps she had hidden it within her room. If he acted now, while they were distracted by the attack, he could snatch the stone and flee.

  Crimson light flared outside the inn, and the enhanced speed and strength drained from Jager. He jumped back, wondering if Calliande had been wounded. She stood well clear of the fray, yet her hands were hooked into claws, her face tight with strain as white flames burned around her fingertips.

  “Ridmark!” shouted Morigna, gesturing with her staff. “Mournacht! He’s about to…”

  Crimson fire blazed outside, mingled with shadow, and the entire wall around the door shone with it.

  And then the wall exploded in a spray of shattered beams, the blast knocking Jager to the floor.

  ###

  Ridmark rolled with the impact and got to his feet.

  The entire front wall of the Crow’s Helm had been torn apart by the crimson fire, the beams twisted and rotted as if eaten away by decay. The impact had knocked the orcs to the ground, but it had also stunned Ridmark’s companions. Calliande lay unconscious upon the ground, and Jager slumped against the wall, eyes wide. Morigna got to one knee with a grimace, leaning upon her carved staff for balance.

  Mournacht stood in the center of the street, flanked by a dozen of his warriors, his doubled-bladed axe ablaze with crimson flames.

  “Gray Knight,” rumbled Mournacht, raising his massive axe. “Did you think you could flee? Did you think you could hide behind the stone walls of your kindred? The Heralds of Mhor have decreed your death! You cannot run! You cannot hide! You…”

  Ridmark caught Morigna’s eye, saw her give a quick nod.

  “I wasn’t trying,” said Ridmark, “to do either.”

  He dashed forward as Morigna flung out her arms and shouted a spell, purple fire crackling around her. The street rippled, folding like paper caught in the wind, and the Mhorites around the shaman lost their balance. Mournacht staggered but kept his feet, growling in fury. Ridmark attacked, and landed two heavy blows before Mournacht could recover, his staff striking the shaman’s right arm and torso. He heard a rib snap and Mournacht’s left arm break, and the shaman roared in fury, stepping back as the sigils upon his torso blazed to life in bloody flame. He pointed his axe, the blade shining brighter as he summoned magic.

  Then a column of white mist swirled around him, and Mournacht’s wards pulsed with force. Morigna gestured again, shouting with the effort of her magic. Mournacht bellowed and flung a bolt of bloody fire at her, and Morigna dodged into the wreckage of the inn, the flame withering some of the shattered timbers into smoking ash. Mournacht wheeled to face Ridmark once again, gripping the huge axe in both hands. Ridmark wondered he how he managed that with a broken arm, and realized that Mournacht’s blood magic had healed the break.

  Ridmark would have to land a killing blow quickly. Else Mournacht would simply recover from any damage Ridmark dealt to him, and would need only wait until Ridmark’s strength faltered. Worse, the warriors near him recovered their feet, growling as they raised their weapons. Ridmark backed away, staff leveled before him. He might not be able to take Mournacht in a straight fight. He definitely could not take Mournacht and a dozen Mhorites in a battle.

  “He is mine!” roared Mournacht. “Deal with his companions, but the Gray Knight is mine!”

  The Mhorites charged into the wreckage of the Crow’s Helm as Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin regained their feet. Ridmark turned to aid them, but Mournacht sprang at him, his black axe blurring. Ridmark jerked to the side, just missing the blades, and brought his staff down hard upon the battle axe’s shaft. Mournacht stumbled, and Ridmark hit him across the face with the length of the staff. The shaman’s head snapped back, blood flying from his mouth. The blow would have broken the neck of a weaker man, but Mournacht merely growled and shook it off.

  He attacked in a storm of black steel and crimson flame, and Ridmark found himself driven back step by step as his companions fought in the wreckage.

  ###

  Jager blinked, shook himself, and got to his feet.

  The sound of steel on steel filled his ears. He saw Kharlacht kill another Mhorite with a broad sweep of his greatsword, crimson blood spattering across his blue armor. Caius and Gavin fought back to back, surrounded by Mhorite orcs, weapons rebounding from Gavin’s increasingly battered shield. Morigna stood atop a heap of rubble, violet flame burning around her hands as she flung spells. Ridmark himself dueled Mournacht, the huge shaman driving him back step by step.

  Calliande lay motionless some distance away. She must had thrown her magic against Mournacht’s power and been overwhelmed. Giving Jager had a perfect chance to take the empty soulstone.

  He shot a quick glance at the battle and hurried to Calliande. She wore a leather jerkin, a loose tunic, trousers, and leather boots. No room to conceal the thing in her clothing. There were several pouches at her belt, but none of them large enough to hold the soulstone. Tarrabus had said it was the size of a fist.

  Her room. The thing had to be in her room. It would have been secure enough – sitting the common room, she would have
been able to see anyone going upstairs to the guest rooms. Of course, she hadn’t known about the Mhorites.Jager had to act now. The Kothluuskan orcs would soon overwhelm Ridmark and his companions unless the city militia arrived in time.

  By then Jager needed to be well away with the soulstone, lest he encounter too many unwelcome questions.

  He turned towards the stairs, and a Mhorite orc bounded free of the melee and charged at Calliande, sword raised for the killing blow. She groaned, her eyelids fluttering, and tried to sit up, only to slump against the floorboards.

  This was perfect. If the orc killed her, Jager could make his escape.

  He remembered her sitting by Kharlacht’s prone form in the hold of Otto’s boat, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  Jager sprang at the orc, driving his dagger into the Mhorite’s right leg. The orc stumbled, his red-tinted black eyes wide with shock. Likely the Mhorite had not seen him as a threat. No one feared halflings.

  The warrior before Jager knew better, now.

  He ripped his dagger free, angling his sword for a stab, but the Mhorite snarled and slashed at Jager. He ducked, the edge of the sword tugging at his hair, and lashed with his dagger, opening another gash upon the orc’s leg. The Mhorite howled in fury and charged, and Jager just got out of the way. The sword hammered down in a heavy swing, and Jager blocked, his sword and dagger crossed, his arms trembling with the strain.

  White light flared around Jager, and he felt magic lending his limbs strength and speed. He sprang at the orc, dodging another swing of the sword, and thrust. His shortsword opened the orc’s throat, and the Mhorite fell, gagging.

  Jager finished him off with a stab to the heart.

  Calliande climbed back to her feet, white fire playing around her fingers.

  “Thank you,” she said, “for my life.”

  A wave of shame rolled through him.

  “Thank you for your assistance, my lady Magistria,” said Jager with a grandiose bow, using it to hide his discomfort. “It was most timely.”