Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Where is Ridmark?” said Calliande.

  Jager did not know, and Calliande started casting spells.

  ###

  Ridmark was overmatched.

  He landed hit after hit upon Mournacht, but the big shaman ignored the impacts, and every time Ridmark dealt damage, the Mhorite’s dark magic healed the wound. Worse, without Calliande and Morigna to distract him, Mournacht was free to bring his magic to bear in their duel, his powers raising his strength and speed to superhuman levels. If Ridmark made one mistake, Mournacht would take off his head with a single blow.

  Or blast him to a withered corpse, as he had done to the Crow’s Helm.

  Step by step Ridmark retreated, Mournacht forcing him away from the main battle. His friends were holding their own against the Mhorites, but they needed his help. And without the help of Calliande or Morigna, Ridmark doubted he could overcome a magically-augmented foe like Mournacht.

  ‘Pathetic,” growled Mournacht. “I had heard you were a fierce warrior, worthy of respect. Perhaps you would have been, had you still carried a Soulblade. Instead you are simply a fool with a stick.”

  “Then stop talking,” said Ridmark, “and send me to face your red god.”

  “You shall met him soon enough,” said Mournacht, “but that pleasure is not mine to take, alas.”

  Suddenly he stepped back, axe raised in guard. Ridmark turned, watching for any other attackers. Mournacht had driven him into the courtyard behind the Crow’s Helm, and he heard the shouts and clangs from the fighting.

  But the courtyard was deserted.

  “Heralds of Mhor!” thundered Mournacht. “Have I not done well?”

  “You have,” said a raspy, deep voice.

  A familiar voice.

  Four men glided from the shadows, clad in dark cloaks and cowls, swords and daggers glittering in their fists. Each man wore a cuirass of crimson leather and a mask of red steel. The masks had been worked in the shape of grinning crimson skulls.

  Ridmark had seen such masks before.

  “The Red Family of Cintarra,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff at them. “No. That’s not quite right, is it? The Red Family of Mhor. Worshippers of the old blood god of death.”

  “You speak correctly,” said the lead assassin in his raspy voice.

  “And you are the Heralds of Mhor,” said Ridmark.

  The assassin inclined his skull-masked face. “The orcs of Kothluusk see us as such, at least those who worship Mhor. For Mhor is the bringer of death, the crimson skull…and we of the Red Family are devoted to his service, the heralds of Mhor’s death to those who challenge us.”

  Ridmark saw that Mournacht had vanished.

  “That was the point of all this, then?” said Ridmark. “Just to drive me to you?”

  “They Mhorites were to kill you,” said the lead assassin, “but if they failed, they were to drive you into our grasp…and here you are.” He beckoned with his sword, and the four assassins began to circle around Ridmark.

  “Let me guess,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus Carhaine hired you. Or Shadowbearer. Then you’ll kill me and take the soulstone for him. Isn’t that right…Rotherius?”

  He had fought Rotherius before, below the Old Man’s hill, and had barely escaped. Rotherius had been deadly quick, and if Ridmark had not been able to outwit the assassins, he would not have come out of that fight alive.

  The assassin laughed and lifted his red mask. Rotherius had a narrow, lined face beneath a tangle of graying yellow hair, his pale eyes cold and dead. “You remember. Very good. But this is not about the Dux and the Enlightened of Incariel, Ridmark Arban, nor about the wizard Shadowbearer. This is about you.”

  “Me?” said Ridmark.

  “You slew two of our brothers in Aranaeus,” said Rotherius, “and five more in the swamps outside of Moraime. No one defies the Red Family and lives.”

  “So you are here,” said Ridmark, “to kill me for the blood of your brothers.”

  “You should regard it as an honor,” said Rotherius. “Others have slain assassins of the Family before, but we have hunted them down. No one has ever slain seven of us and lived. Usually we accept payments of gold to sacrifice infidels to Mhor’s halls, but not this time. The Matriarch of the Family herself has decreed your death. Your head shall make a worthy sacrifice to Mhor when I lay it before her throne.”

  “You’ll have to take it first,” said Ridmark.

  “Easily accomplished,” said Rotherius, dropping his skull mask into place. “Farewell, Ridmark Arban. You were a worthy foe…but we are the heralds of Mhor, and in his name we shall claim your death.”

  “Then come and take it,” said Ridmark.

  The Red Brothers did not respond to his taunt, save to glide forward in silence, their weapons glittering in the darkness.

  ###

  Earth magic rose at Morigna’s command, and her mind shaped it into spells of mist and stone. Yet the sheer press of the orcs drove them back, and she had to take shelter behind Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin and Jager as they battled the orcs, standing alongside Calliande as she cast spells of speed and strength.

  Yet she could not see where Ridmark had gone. Mournacht had driven him around the corner of the inn and out of sight, and Morigna could tell that Ridmark had been overmatched. Without magical aid, he would fall to Mournacht’s axe.

  Then the Mhorites began to retreat.

  “What are they doing?” said Calliande, sweat tricking down her face. Close to thirty orcs lay dead upon the ground, maybe even forty, but many more filled the street. Mournacht must have found reinforcements somewhere. Certainly they had enough warriors to take the inn if they…

  Trumpets rang out, and Morigna heard the clatter of steel-shod hooves against the ground.

  “Arassa did it,” said Calliande, lowering her hands. “She brought help.”

  The Mhorites fled, vanishing into the darkness. Calliande hurried forward and began healing the others. She winced as she did so, gritting her teeth as her magic washed over them and closed their wounds. As much as Morigna disliked the Magistria, she had to admire Calliande’s resolve. Healing wounds meant Calliande took the pain of the wound into herself, and to do so over and over again without flinching took tremendous mental discipline.

  “We have to find Ridmark,” said Morigna.

  “Aye,” said Calliande, wiping more sweat from her forehead. “He needs help against Mournacht. We…”

  The horsemen came into sight. They wore gleaming chain mail beneath surcoats adorned with a stylized red dragon, the sigil of the Pendragons, the ancestral High Kings of Andomhaim. The lead rider was a short, stocky young man with a chest like a barrel, clad in the shining steel plate of a knight. He had a bushy black beard and narrowed brown eyes. A young woman in a white robe rode at his side, slender and haughty. She had black hair that fell in ringlets around her shoulders, bright green eyes, and olive-colored skin.

  A Magistria. Morigna released her magic. Only the Magistri were allowed to wield magic within Andomhaim, and if the Magistri or the Swordbearers caught her using earth magic, they would kill her.

  “Her,” said Calliande, staring at the Magistria upon the horse.

  “You know her?” said Morigna.

  “No,” said Calliande. “But…her face is familiar…” She shook her head. “Brother Caius, I think you had better do the talking. We need to find Ridmark.”

  Caius nodded and walked towards the knight and the Magistria.

  “Welcome!” said Caius. “My lord knights, you are most sorely welcome. Another few moments and the Mhorites would have had us. One of our friends is in peril, and…”

  “Mhorites?” said the young knight. “Identify yourself.”

  “I am Caius, a brother of the mendicant order,” said Caius.

  “I am Sir Cortin Lamorus,” said the young knight. Ridmark had said that a man named Corbanic Lamorus was the Comes of Coldinium. “What has happened here? We saw fires from the walls, and heard reports
of Kothluuskan orcs in the Outwall. We killed several, but the rest have fled.”

  Caius told the facts of the battle, claiming that they were travelers staying in the Crow’s Helm, awakened when the Mhorites attacked. All that was technically true, though he failed to mention Ridmark or the soulstone. Morigna judged that wise. “The orcs pursued our friends behind the inn,” said Caius. “Forgive my presumption, sir knight, but we must go to their aid.”

  “You are right,” said Sir Cortin. “We…”

  “These men the orcs chased,” said the Magistria in a cool voice. “Did one of them wear a gray cloak and have the brand of a coward upon his cheek?”

  ###

  Ridmark braced himself, and the trumpets rang out.

  The militia and Comes Corbanic’s men had come.

  Rotherius and the other assassins shared a glance among themselves.

  “Well?” said Ridmark. “I don’t know how long I’ll last against the four of you. Shall we find out? You will kill me in the end, but I think I will last a long while. Long enough for the garrison to show up. How do you think they will react when they find four Brothers of the Red Family in the Outwall.” He waved his staff. “Or however many of you are still alive by then.”

  He stood motionless, staring at the assassins, his heart thundering in his ears. Death did not faze him. But he would prefer not to die until he had fulfilled his promise to Calliande, until he had stopped the return of the Frostborn.

  And he definitely would prefer not to die at the hands of Rotherius and the murderous madmen of the Red Family of Mhor.

  Then Rotherius beckoned, and the assassins stepped back.

  “This is not over, Ridmark Arban,” said Rotherius. “You will not escape the vengeance of the Red Family.” He barked a harsh laugh. “And perhaps you will not live out the night. The judgment of Mhor takes many forms, and even unwitting infidels can be his instruments.”

  The assassins vanished into the shadows.

  Ridmark let out a long breath, then turned and ran back for the main street. The Mhorite orcs would be attacking the wreckage of the Crow’s Helm.

  But the orcs were gone. Armored horsemen sat before the inn, and Ridmark recognized Sir Cortin Lamorus as he spoke with Caius. A woman in a white robe sat atop a horse next to him, and…

  Ridmark froze, his blood turning to ice.

  Aelia. It was Aelia, looking just as she did the day Ridmark had failed…

  Then the woman looked at him, and he saw the hatred in her green eyes.

  “Well,” said Imaria Licinius. “My sister’s murderer deigns to join us.”

  Chapter 11 - A Wanted Man

  Calliande looked back and forth between Ridmark and the Magistria.

  “My lady Imaria?” said Cortin.

  Calliande had heard that name before, when she had spoken with Sir Constantine Licinius, son and heir of the Dux Gareth Licinius and Knight of the Soulblade. He had also been the brother of Aelia and Imaria, and according to Constantine, Imaria blamed Ridmark for Aelia’s death.

  “Do you not, Sir Cortin,” said Imaria, pointing at Ridmark, “recognized the murderer that slew my sister?”

  Cortin frowned. “Wait.” He spurred his horse closer. “You. I know you. My lord Ridmark?”

  “I am not a lord,” said Ridmark.

  “I heard that you returned,” said Cortin. “When the leftover Mhalekites attacked Dun Licinia a month and a half past.” He scratched at his jaw. “I never thought to see you alive again. A Swordbearer severed from his Soulblade…most wither away and die of despair. Or so I have heard. Ridmark Arban.” He shook his head. “My God.”

  “You would greet your brother’s murderer so calmly, Sir Cortin?” said Imaria, her lip curling in disgust.

  Cortin scowled. “Sir Ridmark did not murder my brother. Cormalon fell fighting valiantly against the Mhalekites. It is an insult to his memory to claim that Ridmark murdered him.”

  Imaria scowled right back at him. The Magistria turned her horse toward Ridmark and walked it forward a few steps, glaring at him. Her every line radiated fury. The magic of the Magistri could not harm other mortals, but if it could, Calliande was sure Imaria would have struck down Ridmark then and there.

  “You should have died,” said Imaria. “You should have died instead of Aelia. She was better than you. She deserved better than you.”

  “I agree,” said Ridmark, his eyes as dead as his voice.

  That only enraged Imaria further. “Why did you come back? You crawled off into the Wilderland when you were exiled. You should have died there.”

  “The Frostborn,” said Ridmark.

  “The Frostborn?” said Imaria, her voice rising. “Still? You have ranted about the Frostborn for years. Gothalinzur warned you against the Frostborn. The Warden spoke about the Frostborn. Mhalek gloated about the Frostborn in the final moments before he died. We all thought you were a mad fool. Even Aelia thought it, though she was too blinded by affection to see you for the madman you were. And then after you killed Aelia, you clung to this madness, as if it was your hope of salvation for your crimes…”

  “Mad I may be,” said Ridmark, “but I am not wrong.”

  Cortin looked back and forth between them.

  “Five years in the wilderness has not taught you otherwise?” spat Imaria.

  “This is not folly,” said Ridmark. “The omen of blue fire forty-eight days ago? That was the herald of the return of the Frostborn. Within a year and a month of the blue fire. Somewhere. I don’t know where or how, but…”

  “Enough!” said Imaria. “Do you ever stop spouting lies?”

  “The Frostborn are coming back,” said Ridmark. “Tell your father. Tell the High King. The realm has to be ready…”

  Imaria snarled fury, yanked a dagger from her belt, and spurred her horse toward Ridmark. He made no move to defend himself, no move to dodge. To her horror, Calliande realized that he was just going to stand there. “Ridmark!” she said.

  Morigna stepped forward. If she used her earth magic in front of Imaria, the Magistria could claim that Ridmark had smuggled a renegade sorceress into the realm, that Cortin had no choice but to take them all in custody. Calliande drew a deep breath and summoned power, preparing to intervene.

  “My lady Magistria!” said Cortin. “Hold! Hold, I say!”

  Imaria stopped, turned in the saddle, and glared at him. “You would let this vermin live?”

  “I suggest,” said Caius, “that we have more immediate problems.” He gestured with his bloody mace at the dead Mhorite orcs. “You may or may not believe us about the Frostborn, but Kothluuskan orcs are in the Outwall, and they will harm others unless they are stopped.”

  “You speak well, Brother Caius,” said Cortin. “Magistria, wait a moment. We shall deal with Sir Ridmark soon.”

  Imaria drew herself up. “You dare to give me commands? I am a Magistria and…”

  “I do not care if you are the High Queen and the Mother of God rolled into one,” said Cortin. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “My father appointed me the marshal of Coldinium, and until he revokes this appointment, I am in command here. You may advise, but you certainly will not attack travelers without cause. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Abundantly,” said Imaria. “Dux Tarrabus would be wroth to hear you speak to me in such a tone.”

  Cortin smiled. “And what relationship do you have with the Dux that he would care what you think?”

  Imaria’s green eyes narrowed, but she said nothing else.

  “Sir Ridmark,” said Cortin, “the rest of you, stay here. I wish to question you.”

  Ridmark said nothing.

  “Of course, sir knight,” said Caius. “We shall be happy to offer aid in any way we can.”

  “Capital,” said Cortin. “If more of these Mhorites descend upon the city, we shall need the aid of every fighting man.” He turned to his knights and men-at-arms and gave orders. Some of them galloped off, carrying his instructio
ns to the city proper. Imaria remained on her horse, glaring at Ridmark. Calliande crossed to Ridmark’s side, and felt Imaria’s cold gaze shift to her. Morigna joined them as well, shooting an expression of supreme, haughty indifference at Imaria that rankled the Magistria further.

  “That Magistria,” said Calliande in a low voice, “that is…”

  “Aelia’s sister, yes,” said Ridmark. “She is…not fond of me.”

  “Or anyone, one would expect,” said Morigna. “She does not seem to have a knack for winning friends.”

  Calliande swallowed the biting remark that came to her lips. In this, she and Morigna were on the same side. “She will try to have you killed if she can. Or hand you over to Tarrabus Carhaine.”

  “I know,” said Ridmark. “I won’t try to stop her if she does.”

  “What?” said Calliande. “Why not?”

  “She’s right,” said Ridmark. His voice was calm, but his eyes were dead. “I did kill Aelia. It was my fault, my folly. I should have saved her. I should…”

  “Stop it,” said Calliande. “That is madness.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “It is justice. I…

  “You are not,” said Morigna, voice cold and hard, “going to kill yourself to appease the pride of that arrogant harridan upon the horse. I have a debt to you, Ridmark Arban, and I promised to see you to Urd Morlemoch. I can hardly fulfill that debt if you get yourself killed at the whim of some fool Magistria.”

  “As loathe as I am to say this,” said Calliande, “for once I am in complete agreement with Morigna. You promised to help me find Dragonfall, and you cannot do that if you are dead. If Imaria Licinius kills you, that would be a useless death. ”

  Ridmark looked between them, and for a moment he looked utterly exhausted. Then he took a breath, something like sanity returning to his eyes. “Yes. Yes, you are right. It is my duty to press on. I…forgive me. Seeing her was a shock.”

  “It has been a long night for us all,” said Calliande, gesturing at the dead orcs.