Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  Gavin yelled and threw himself forward, slashing with his sword.

  He felt the blade bite into leather and skin and flesh, and the impact almost knocked the weapon from his hand. Jager screamed and stumbled, but kept running, and Gavin fell flat upon his stomach, his sword outstretched. The halfling thief vanished around a corner. Gavin scrambled back to his feet as Kharlacht came to his side.

  “Now what?” said Gavin.

  “I don’t know,” said Kharlacht at last.

  ###

  An hour later Jager slumped against a stone wall in the catacombs, every breath sending a fresh wave of agony through him.

  “That boy,” he muttered. “That damned boy.”

  The sword blow had been meant to kill or disable him. Instead it had struck his left shoulder, slashing down across his back and bouncing off his ribs. It would not be fatal.

  Assuming it did not putrefy. Thank God he had had the foresight to hide some supplies in the catacombs. Jager cleaned the gash as best as he could, every movement sending a fresh wave of pain through his back and his left arm. He wrapped bandages around his torso, as tight as he could manage. The gash would likely need stitches, but Jager could worry about that later. Right now he just needed the bleeding to stop.

  At last he got the bandages on, and then donned his shirt and jerkin. Every movement hurt, and his left arm ached so badly it was all but useless. He started to pull on the knapsack, realized that was an extraordinarily poor idea, and settled for carrying it in his right hand. If he had to fight, he was going to be in trouble.

  But if he ran into the Hunter, he was going to die anyway.

  No one knew what the Hunter was...and Jager had no wish to solve that particular mystery.

  Some said it was a horror wrought through the sorcery of the dark elves, while others claimed it was a creature that had crawled out of the Deeps. Some even thought it was a legend. From time to time bands of young Swordbearers and knights, eager for glory, descended into the catacombs and the dwarven ruins in search of the Hunter. Assuming the old dwarven traps did not kill them, the Swordbearers returned empty-handed, convinced the Hunter was a myth.

  Yet from time to time corpses were found in the catacombs with all their viscera removed.

  Jager had spent considerable time in the catacombs since coming to Coldinium, hiding caches of supplies, and he knew the Hunter was real. He did not know what it was, yet he had heard the rasping hiss of some bulky creature dragging itself through the tunnels, had smelled the creature’s peculiar odor, a musky mixture of wet dirt and rotting meat. The thing preferred the pools of water in Coldinium’s sewers, and Jager made sure to stay well away from there.

  He passed through the catacombs, the dead resting silent in their niches around him, and found one of the entrances to the dwarven ruins. Ancient glowstones shone in niches, throwing light and shadow over walls carved with angular statues of dwarven warriors. Jager made his way past the traps he had mapped out and came to an abandoned stone hall. He knelt in the center of the floor upon one of the stone tiles.

  He took a deep breath, trying to control his fear.

  Then he pressed the stone tile in front of him in a specific pattern.

  Metal clicked as a hidden mechanism released, and one of the tiles popped open. Jager reached down with his good arm and pushed aside the tile, revealing a small hidden compartment. A bundle of cloth rested at the bottom of the compartment, and a wave of dread went through Jager as he looked at it.

  He unwrapped the bundle, revealing the dagger.

  The blade was a foot long, housed in a sheath of black leather. Like Kharlacht’s greatsword and armor, it had been forged from blue dark elven steel. Unlike Kharlacht’s sword, a gem glittered in the base of the blade, and two more in the crosspiece. They were soulstones, similar to the ones in embedded in the Soulblades of the Swordbearers. The soulstones of the Soulblades shone with a gentle white light. The three small soulstones in the dagger gave off a sickly yellow radiance that seemed diseased and corrupted. Combined with the blue steel of the blade and the black leather of the sheath, it made Jager think of a poisoned wound pumping its venom into healthy flesh.

  The minute he touched the hilt, he heard the voices.

  He never could make out what they said, but they whispered and hissed inside his head. Part of him was sure they were plotting against him, that they were conspiring with the people of Coldinium to destroy him. The rest of his mind realized that the dagger’s dark magic was twisting his thoughts.

  Jager quickly hooked the dagger to his belt, hiding it beneath the side of his jerkin.

  The whispers faded away, their scornful laughter echoing in his thoughts.

  He closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. The pain in his shoulder was almost welcome, compared to those horrible, whispering voices. Little wonder the Matriarch was mad, if she had carried that weapon for centuries.

  The dagger was an evil thing. Jager was certain of it. Yet it had power…and he needed help to save Mara.

  He would not turn aside aid from any source.

  Jager took a deep breath, picked up Calliande’s knapsack, and headed to the surface.

  Chapter 15 - Memory Bleed

  Calliande drifted through a field of broken glass shards, and in each shard she saw an image.

  A memory.

  In one she saw herself dragged before Shadowbearer, the ancient wizard’s shadow rotating like a banner caught in the wind of a storm.

  A shadow that would crack the world.

  In another she saw Imaria and Aelia Licinius riding through the hills of the Northerland, laughing and shouting.

  In another fragment she saw herself fighting Agrimnalazur in the ruins of Urd Arowyn, the urdmordar’s dark magic snarling around her.

  One of the shards displayed Imaria weeping as she learned the news of Aelia’s death.

  Another shard showed Calliande sitting on the edge of the pier with her father, eating stoneberries. Her father’s lined, sun-beaten face, stern and grim, yet a twinkle in his eye that sometimes erupted in laughter. Calliande reached for the memory, desperate to see more of it. The shard pierced her skin, blood welling from the wound, but she did not care. There were other shards scattered across the ground, filled with swirling mist.

  The memories of her past.

  One by one Calliande grabbed them, ignoring the pain, trying to seize a piece of her lost history.

  And for a moment, memories wavered in front of her eyes.

  The Tower of Vigilance, not a ruin but new-built, the proud banners of the Pendragons and the Order of the Vigilant flying from its towers.

  A knight with a sword of red gold, his face scarred and battered, but his eyes bright and laughing.

  An old woman with a twisted staff of oak, leaning upon it in exhaustion.

  And Shadowbearer himself standing before a…a gate, a hole in the air, a portal that led somewhere else, his strange mercury-colored eyes filled with fury as he faced her, black fire rising at his call as the winter winds howled, the Frostborn standing around him in their ice-colored armor.

  Skulls. Dragon skulls lining the walls, staring down at her as she laid her staff upon an ancient altar in a vast stone hall.

  Dragonfall.

  She reached for it, desperately trying to find the location. She had to find her staff. The Frostborn were returning, and she was the only one who could stop it, but only if she found her staff…

  A wind screamed through the plain of glass shards, gathering them one by one. Calliande shouted and reached for the memories, trying to see more, but they eluded her. The glass shards reassembled themselves, forming into a giant mirror that towered over the featureless plain.

  She saw her image in the mirror…but not as she knew herself.

  The reflection wore a rich green gown with black trim on the sleeves and bodice, a belt of black leather around her waist. In her right hand she carried a rough staff of twisted oak, a faint white glow flickering fr
om the staff. A diadem of gleaming bronze and blue gems encircled her brow, and she looked regal, almost queenly.

  Was that who she had been, before she had locked herself below the Tower of Vigilance?

  “Yes.”

  Calliande stiffened. The voice was eerie, inhuman, a distorted echo of itself. As if two voices were trying to speak out of the same mouth at once.

  She whirled, summoning power for a spell, and saw Shadowbearer standing a dozen yards away, the shards of glass hurtling past him.

  He wore a black tunic, black trousers, and gleaming black boots beneath a long red coat the color of blood. His skin was the grayish-white of a corpse, and black veins throbbed beneath his hands and face, like fingers of corruption digging into rotting flesh. His bloodshot eyes were the color of mercury, of quicksilver, and Calliande saw her reflection in his irises.

  “You,” said Calliande, her hands curling into fists. Again she remembered standing naked and helpless before him. But she was not helpless, not any longer, and she summoned more power for a spell.

  “How eloquent,” said Shadowbearer, his double voice full of amused contempt. “And how typical. You stopped me once all those centuries ago…but in the end you defeated yourself. You maimed yourself, surrendered your powers, and locked yourself away in that dank little vault. Foolish, foolish, foolish. You could have defeated me again, had you remembered who you were when we met anew on the slopes of the Black Mountain, but you destroyed yourself.”

  “Yet I am still here,” said Calliande, her mind racing.

  “Only due to the chronic ineptitude of my servants,” said Shadowbearer. His pale face twisted in a smile. “I would have killed you myself, but Ardrhythain has been keeping me occupied, and this would be a most inconvenient time to die.” He grinned, the black veins beneath his pale skin seeming to pulse and writhe with corrupted blood. “But once again you are your own worst enemy, Calliande of Tarlion.”

  “How?” said Calliande, holding a warding spell prepared.

  “Because you have made yourself vulnerable to me,” said Shadowbearer. “Your duel with that petulant child of a Magistria? You really should not have done that. The mortal mind has natural defenses against magical attack, defenses that even I cannot penetrate while evading Ardrhythain. But your duel shattered those defenses. They will recover in time, true.” He gestured at the mirror. “They are recovering even now. But not in time to save you from me.”

  “I am not dead yet,” said Calliande.

  “No,” said Shadowbearer. “But you will be. The soulstone is already on its way to me. I had hoped to fill it with your resonance, dear Calliande. How delightful it would be to bring the Frostborn back to this world with your own power! Alas, I shall have to settle for a lesser source of magic.”

  “Then it’s you,” said Calliande. “It’s always been you. You are the one bringing back the Frostborn.”

  He laughed, both his voices ringing in her ears. “Of course! I brought them here the first time. And I can bring them back again…without any help from you. It would have useful if I could have wrenched the secret of that damned staff and that wretched sword from that box of broken shards you call a mind. But, no matter. Farewell, Calliande.”

  He gestured, and darkness surged through the veins in his arms and face. For a bizarre moment she wondered if he was about to explode, if his corrupted blood would spray all over her. But the darkness gathered around his hand, and she realized that blood did not pump through his veins, but manifested darkness.

  He was the bearer of the shadow…and the shadow had consumed him and given him its strength.

  Black fire wreathed in shadow burst from his fingers and flew toward her, and she cast a ward, a dome of white light appearing in front of her.

  Shadowbearer’s shadow fire struck the ward, hesitated for a moment, and then ripped the spell apart. The black fire drilled into Calliande, throwing her back. Despite the strike, she felt no pain, save for a dull ache behind her eyes.

  But a web of cracks spread over the colossal mirror, and the image of the regal, green-clad woman within it started to waver.

  “Really, you ought to thank me,” said Shadowbearer. He flung another blast of flame that sliced through Calliande’s wards, ripping shards from the mirror. “Better if you die here. You’re following the Gray Knight to Urd Morlemoch, the fool. Do you have any idea what will happen if come into the Warden’s grasp?” He laughed. “A pity you will never find out!”

  Calliande snarled and recast her wards, but to no effect. She had faced Agrimnalazur and Coriolus, had dueled an urdmordar matriarch and an ancient Eternalist.

  Shadowbearer was stronger than all of them put together.

  Calliande screamed, fighting in vain to hold back his spells.

  Then a blast of white fire fell out of the sky and slammed into Shadowbearer. The wizard rocked back with a surprised shout, a cocoon of black fire wrapping around him to deflect the attack. He spun with a snarl of fury, his coat flying around him as he summoned more power.

  Another man in a long red coat similar to Shadowbearer’s stood near the mirror, the sleeves and hem and collar trimmed in black. Beneath it he wore a white tunic and black trousers tucked into black boots. In his right hand he carried a black staff carved with intricate designs, the symbols shining with the same pale light as a Soulblade. His face was alien, thinner than a human’s, the ears long and pointed. An unruly shock of night-black hair topped his head, and his eyes were like disks of glowing gold. The golden eyes narrowed as they contemplated Shadowbearer, and Calliande was struck by the strange weight of the eyes, by their age and weariness.

  The stranger was a high elf, like Shadowbearer.

  And with a shiver Calliande realized that she recognized him, could recall him just as she recalled how to speak orcish or how to stitch a sword wound or cast a spell. Since awakening from the darkness below the Tower, she had only recognized one other living creature, Shadowbearer.

  But she knew the high elf in the black-trimmed red coat.

  “Ardrhythain,” she said, stunned. “You are Ardrhythain, the archmage of Cathair Solas.”

  “Calliande of Tarlion,” said Ardrhythain, his voice deeper and more musical than any human’s or orc’s or dwarf’s, so deep it reminded her of Rjalfur the trolldomr. His eyes turned back to Shadowbearer. “Tymandain.”

  “Shall we duel even here?” said Shadowbearer. “You have pursued me since I took the soulstone from Cathair Solas.” His shadow began to rotate around him, faster and faster, and black fire filled his hands. “Of course, if we fight here, we might shatter the mind of that poor maimed fool of a child.” He gestured at Calliande. “And you care so very much for the humans.”

  “You care nothing for them,” said Ardrhythain, “and you have been overwhelmed by the power of Incariel, Tymandain. But if we fight here, your mind might be damaged as well. And there are only eleven months left for you to accomplish your goal. Come, then. Shall we gamble together?”

  Shadowbearer said nothing. Then he gestured, darkness swirled around him, and he disappeared into nothingness.

  Calliande let out a long breath. Behind her the cracks in the mirror began to vanish.

  “Thank you,” she said to Ardrhythain.

  He nodded. “Then you do remember who I am?”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “I must have known you…before. Before I went into the long sleep, when the Frostborn attacked the first time.”

  “You did,” said Ardrhythain. “By the standards of my kindred, your kindred live and die very quickly. It is…strange to speak with a human I knew centuries ago. In truth it is the first time it has happened.”

  “Please,” said Calliande. “Can you tell me who I am? Or where I can find Dragonfall?”

  “I cannot,” said Ardrhythain. “That was one of the two pledges you asked of me, that I would tell no one of your secrets. Even you, if you should ask before you remembered.” He took his staff in both hands. “But I can tell you this
. You originally planned to have the Order of the Vigilant tell you everything once you awakened. Shadowbearer could not harm you directly, not with the spells you placed upon the vault. So he instead stirred up civil war within the realm of Andomhaim to destroy the Order of the Vigilant and their records. It is up to you to find Dragonfall and your staff.”

  “What was the second pledge I asked of you?” said Calliande.

  “To hold something in trust for you,” said Ardrhythain, “until the hour came when you needed it once more.”

  “My staff?” said Calliande.

  “It was not.”

  Calliande nodded. “Thank you for your aid. But, please, lord archmage…is there anything else you can tell me? We are in sore need of aid.”

  “Only this,” said Ardrhythain. “You are going to Urd Morlemoch. The Warden does indeed have the knowledge you seek. Yet he is subtle and dangerous, so dangerous than even I would not challenge him within his demesne.”

  “Ridmark defeated him once,” said Calliande, “at one of his games.”

  For some reason she felt a twinge of unease when she thought of Ridmark.

  “He did,” said Ardrhythain, “but Ridmark Arban was stronger then. He, like you, has a habit of wounding himself when he thinks it necessary. And I suspect the Warden played some deeper game, that he wanted Ridmark to escape from Urd Morlemoch.”

  “Why?” said Calliande.

  “I know not,” said Ardrhythain, “but I fear you shall find out. Go with God and your Dominus Christus, Calliande.”

  The strange dream dissolved into nothingness around her.

  ###

  Calliande opened her eyes and groaned.