Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  They reached the base of the fortified tower. Two double doors stood in the tower’s base, thick and banded in steel. Ridmark tested one of the handles, found it unlocked, and pulled the door open a few feet, enough to for a man to slip through. He went inside, hesitated, and beckoned to Jager.

  Jager followed and found himself in a stone hall that had the look of an armory. Racks of spears lined the walls, and shields and quivers of crossbow quarrels had been stacked on a long wooden table. Narrow balconies rose on either wall, their pillars reaching to the vaulted ceiling. Pale blue moonlight leaked through the high windows.

  The armory, like the rest of the domus, was deserted.

  That was strange. That was very strange. Weapons and armor were valuable, and armories were almost always guarded, lest the servants try to steal things. Why the devil would Tarrabus leave his armory unguarded?

  “The vault is below us,” whispered Ridmark. “You will need to pick the lock.”

  “Gray Knight,” said Jager, his suspicion growing. “This isn’t right. Why isn’t the armory guarded? God knows I could use some good fortune, but it seems awfully convenient to begin now.”

  Ridmark frowned in the gloom. “You’re right.”

  “I think,” said Jager, “that we are…”

  Light flared on the balconies as lanterns were unhooded, and Jager yanked his sword and dagger from their sheaths. In the sudden light, he saw a score of crimson faces grinning down at him from the balconies, weapons in hand.

  Mhorite orcs.

  A dark shape moved from beneath the balcony, and Mournacht himself came into sight, his huge black axe in hand, the sigils upon his chest and arms flaring with bloody light. With him came a figure in a hooded black cloak and crimson leather armor, face concealed behind a skull-mask of red steel.

  “You both have come?” said Rotherius. “How convenient. Let us begin the night’s work.”

  Chapter 22 - Vengeance of the Family

  Jager took a step back beneath Rotherius’s gaze.

  Yet neither Rotherius nor Mournacht advanced, and the Mhorites had not moved to block the doors. Though that meant they likely had men stationed throughout the domus, waiting to attack anyone who tried to escape.

  “I was going to say,” said Jager, trying to keep his voice confident, “that I think we are walking into a trap, but it seems a little late now.”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” said Ridmark, his blue eyes taking in the scene. He still seemed calm, his staff in a loose grip in his right hand.

  “Tell me, Gray Knight,” said Rotherius. “Will you offer a surrender?”

  Ridmark shrugged. “If you offer it, who am I to refuse? Surrender and lay down your arms, and I shall allow you to go in peace.”

  A rumble of laughter went up from the Mhorite orcs.

  “Your boldness pleases me,” said Mournacht in Latin, his words thick with the accent of Kothluusk. “Such defiance in the face of death is valiant. Truly, you shall be a worthy sacrifice to lay before the crimson skull of Mhor.”

  “Alas,” said Ridmark. “I regret that I must deny you this pleasure. Do tender my apologies to Mhor.”

  “Soon,” said Mournacht, his tusked, scarred face splitting in a hideous crimson smile, “you can offer the apologies yourself. While the little halfling rat watches and screams.”

  “You are here for the soulstone, I assume?” said Rotherius.

  Ridmark shrugged. “I thought to visit Tarrabus. We were squires together at Castra Marcaine, and have fallen out of touch over the years.”

  Rotherius laughed, a dry raspy sound without a hint of mirth. “Yes, I am sure you were comrades in arms. Or could it be that you have come to steal away the empty soulstone that Shadowbearer requires?”

  “Given that Shadowbearer seems to have stolen the thing from Cathair Solas,” said Ridmark, “he can hardly claim ownership.”

  “Nevertheless, it is now his and the Dux’s, thanks to your little rat of a thief,” said Rotherius, the crimson skull turning Jager’s direction, “and they shall use it to begin a new age of glory.”

  “Why don’t we make this simple?” said Ridmark. “Give me the soulstone and I shall let you live.”

  Rotherius laughed again. “A tempting offer, Gray Knight. So very tempting. Alas, I cannot comply. The soulstone isn’t here.”

  “Then where is it?” said Ridmark.

  “I imagine it is twenty miles closer to the Iron Tower by now,” said Rotherius.

  “What?” said Jager.

  “You see, Master Thief,” said Rotherius, “after your little stunt with the soulcatcher, the Dux knew you would return. And likely you would bring the Gray Knight and his ragged little band of followers with you.” He looked over the hall. “Where are the others, by the by? I would hate for them to miss what comes next.”

  “I sent them to safety,” said Ridmark, “so we could steal the soulstone unobserved. I am curious how it wound up twenty miles closer to the Iron Tower.”

  “After Jager’s little game,” said Rotherius, “the Dux knew the thief would return. The Dux and Sir Paul had planned to depart on the morrow. Instead, they left at once. The Dux’s business in the north is complete, and he is returning to Tarlion to await Shadowbearer’s triumph. And Sir Paul is riding hard for the Iron Tower with the soulstone. Shadowbearer shall meet him there to claim the relic. By then you shall be dead.”

  Jager swallowed. The soulstone was out of their reach, and Shadowbearer would use it to wreak unspeakable evil. And Mara would languish in the Iron Tower until Tarrabus turned her into a monster.

  They had failed, and it was his fault.

  “And so you and your pet Kothluuskan orcs remained behind,” said Ridmark, “to kill us.”

  “Correct,” said Rotherius. “You have earned the enmity of the Red Family of Mhor, both of you. You, Ridmark Arban, for slaying so many of our brothers. You, Jager of Cintarra, for seducing one of our sisters and stealing from the Matriarch.”

  “She is not your sister,” said Jager, “and I did not seduce her. She left of her own volition. Better to die free than to live as a slave of your whore of a Matriarch.”

  An angry hiss came from beneath the balcony, and three more Red Brothers came into sight, swords in hand.

  “You shall regret,” said Rotherius, “insulting our Matriarch.”

  “Why are you telling us this?” said Ridmark. “Why not just kill us in the name of Mhor and have done with it?”

  “Because you shall know the reason for your death, Ridmark Arban,” said Rotherius. “You have transgressed against the Family, and upon the Family’s blades you shall perish. Sometimes it is good to kill a man in ignorance, to savor the look of incomprehension upon his face as his life is offered to Mhor. But for you…you both shall know the truth of your death, so that you might grasp the profundity of your failure just before you die.”

  “Ah,” said Ridmark, glancing at the Mhorites. “Then you’re not going to have your pet orcs kill us?” Mournacht’s lips parted in a snarl. “You will do it yourself?”

  “You shall die upon the blades of the Red Family,” said Rotherius, drawing his sword. “The worshippers of Mhor shall ensure that we are not interrupted, and that you do not escape.”

  “I see,” said Ridmark. He glanced at Jager. “Delay.”

  Jager understood. Calliande was coming with the Comes’s men, and Azakhun would arrive with the dwarves of the Enclave. They would break into the domus, and Ridmark and Jager need only hold out until then. Of course, Rotherius and the Red Brothers might kill them first. Or the Comes and the dwarven elders would not listen to Calliande and Azakhun, and no help would come.

  “If I would,” said Jager in a loud voice, flourishing his sword, “I would like to take this opportunity to address some last words to you, my mortal enemies, before…”

  “No,” said Rotherius. “Brothers. Kill them.”

  “Atrium,” said Ridmark.

  Jager nodded, and they dashed
through the doors to the atrium.

  Rotherius and the three Red Brothers ran after them in silence.

  ###

  Ridmark sprinted into the atrium and came to a stop near the fountain, his staff ready in his right hand.

  What he saw did not fill him with confidence.

  Hundreds of Mhorite orcs lined the atrium, waiting in the colonnade, their crimson-scarred faces full of dark glee. They must have hidden themselves in the domus proper, waiting until Ridmark and Jager had walked into the trap. Now they would witness the downfall of their Heralds’ foes, and keep Ridmark and Jager from escaping.

  Of course, if Ridmark prevailed, he rather doubted the Mhorites would simply let him walk away.

  “Remember,” said Ridmark, turning back towards the tower. “Delay.”

  “I’m not stupid,” said Jager.

  “Then what are we doing here?”

  Jager sighed and shrugged, his blades flashing. “Good argument.”

  Rotherius and the other three assassins exited the tower, each man carrying a sword and a dagger. Mournacht stepped after them and planted himself before the tower doors, both hands wrapped around the handle of his enormous black axe. Ridmark expected more challenging words from Rotherius, more taunts, but the Red Brothers glided forward in silence, raising their blades. The time for words had passed.

  So be it.

  “Stay behind me,” said Ridmark, gripping his staff with both hands. “Try to keep them from coming at my back.”

  Jager nodded and moved behind Ridmark. The assassins began to encircle Ridmark, moving with the quiet coordination of men who had spent a great deal of time fighting as a team. Ridmark turned in a slow circle, trying to keep them in sight, while Jager circled behind him, face grim as he gripped his blades. One of the Red Brothers darted forward, sword stabbing, and Ridmark moved, his staff blurring to deflect the thrust. The assassin stepped back, joined the others circling around Ridmark, and a second assassin moved to strike. Ridmark caught the blow in a parry. The assassin struck again, no doubt hoping to cut the staff in two. Given that the weapon had a steel core, that was unlikely. Ridmark thrust, and the Red Brother jumped back. The others advanced, and Ridmark whirled his staff in a circle, forcing them back on their guard.

  Jager kept his blades ready, but the assassins never moved within his reach.

  Ridmark saw their strategy. They would circle him like wolves trying to bring down a wounded boar, landing hit after minor hit until he bled out or collapsed from exhaustion. Then they could close for the kill at once. Jager they could deal with at their leisure.

  They were dictating the terms of the fight, and the man who did that usually won the battle. Ridmark had to change the rhythm, had to throw them off their guard.

  But how?

  One of the assassins stepped forward, slashing, and Ridmark parried the thrust. The assassin stepped back, but this time Ridmark pursued, swinging his staff. On instinct the Red Brother raised his sword to block, which proved to be a mistake beneath the power of Ridmark’s swing. The force of the strike knocked the Red Brother back a step, and before the assassin recovered, Ridmark reversed his staff and jabbed. The butt of the weapon slammed into the assassin’s right knee, and the man stumbled.

  One more swing, and Ridmark was past him, closing on Rotherius. The other Red Brothers attacked, and Ridmark retreated as they closed around him. Yet he could keep all three of him in front of him at once, aided by the longer reached of his staff. Yet they were driving him back step by step, and if they pushed him into the Mhorites, Ridmark was sure the Kothluuskan orcs would kill him. Fighting against three skilled Family assassins was not a winning strategy, and unless Ridmark found a distraction, they were going to kill him.

  Fortunately, Jager provided the distraction in fine form.

  Jager charged with a yell, bellowing curses in both Latin and orcish, and attacked the Red Brother on Ridmark’s left. The assassin wore a dark cloak and a cuirass of thick red leather, but Jager punched his sword and dagger through both, angling the blades to sink them through the Red Brother’s stomach and into his lungs. The assassin let out a gurgling groan, and Ridmark sidestepped and slammed his staff against the side of the Red Brother’s head with all of his strength. The sound of crumpling metal came to his ears, and Jager ripped his bloodied blades free as the assassin toppled. The Red Brother Ridmark had stunned regained his feet, and Ridmark backed away as Rotherius and the third assassin pursued him.

  “Mathias!” barked Rotherius, pointing at the assassin Ridmark had tripped. “Finish off the halfling. I will deal with the Gray Knight.”

  Rotherius and his companion pushed towards Ridmark, fanning out on his left and his right. Ridmark sidestepped and backed away, retreating towards the fountain while Mathias drew closer to Jager. He needed to find a way to help Jager. The halfling was good with his blades, but so was Mathias, and his height and strength gave him advantages that Jager did not have.

  Then Rotherius and the second assassin attacked as one, a storm of flashing steel flying for Ridmark’s head, and blocking and dodging consumed the entirety of his attention.

  ###

  Jager watched the sword and dagger in Mathias’s hands, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  He had been in any number of fights since leaving Caerdracon and the smoldering remains of the Tallmanes’ domus, and he had won most of them and survived all of them. But he had been forced to acknowledge a brutal reality – humans and orcs were stronger and had a longer reach than halflings. There was a reason the dark elves and the orcs and the dvargir had kept halfling slaves. They were simply stronger.

  And Mathias was taller and stronger than Jager.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” said Jager, backing away. Mathias followed, silent as death. Ridmark and Rotherius and the final assassin whirled in a deadly dance of steel, and Jager glimpsed a crimson cut across Ridmark’s forehead. “They get the glory of killing the feared Gray Knight. You’re stuck killing the halfling.”

  “You stole from the Matriarch,” said Mathias. “You offended the chosen of Mhor. There shall be great glory in laying your skull upon Mhor’s crimson altar.”

  “All this over a stupid soulcatcher?” said Jager. Mathias tensed, and Jager jumped back, just avoiding the thrust of the sword. “Really, I did her a favor, taking the thing off her hands. The dark magic was eating her mind.”

  “The dagger is irrelevant,” said Mathias. “You lured away one of the Matriarch’s favored daughters. You corrupted her from the worship of Mhor. For that, your blood shall be poured out as an offering to Mhor. The time for talk is ended, thief.”

  Mathias charged, his sword and dagger a blur. Jager didn’t even have time to curse. He threw himself to the ground and rolled, the blades just missing him. He came back to one knee and slashed for Mathias’s leg, but the Red Brother danced away, his black cloak swirling around him. Jager jumped back to his feet at the assassin recovered his balance and attacked again. He heard a low, rumbling noise. The nearby Mhorite orcs were laughing at him, no doubt amused at the sight of one of their precious Heralds chasing a halfling thief all around the atrium.

  Mathias shot an irritated glance their direction, and the Kothluuskan orcs fell silent.

  And there, in that glance, Jager saw an instant of weakness, a gap in the assassin’s impenetrable prowess.

  “Well, come on, then!” said Jager, spreading his arms. “Kill me already. Offer up my tiny little skull to Mhor. Bet it’ll look nice on the altar. Assuming you have an altar, of course. All those skulls of slain foes, and there will be my head, sitting next to them.” He grinned at the assassin. “Wonder if I’ll have a stupid look on my face. Like this, maybe.”

  He stuck out his tongue at the Red Brother, and one of the orcs guffawed before silencing himself.

  Mathias’s skull-masked helm turned towards the orc, and again Jager saw irritation in every line of his posture. The brothers of the Red Family considered the Kothluuskan orcs their inferio
rs, their servants and tools. To have one of them laughing at their betters would be intolerable.

  Jager didn’t care. People had laughed at him all of his life.

  But for someone unused to the sensation…

  “Rotherius has the prestigious task,” said Jager, waving his short sword at the furious duel. Ridmark and Rotherius and the final assassin wheeled around each other, moving so fast Jager could barely follow the movements. Mathias growled and lunged at Jager. He dodged again, but the edge of the assassin’s sword sliced through his jerkin and shirt, opening a shallow gash along his ribs. The pain flooded through him, but he already taken a sword wound today, had his skull cracked and both his legs broken, so one more wound at this point hardly mattered.

  He rolled away, just barely dodging another slash, and came to his feet, feeling the hot blood trickle down his side.

  “He gets to kill the Gray Knight!” panted Jager. “The man who slew Mhalek, who killed an urdmordar at eighteen, who went into Urd Morlemoch and came out again! That’s who he’s going to slay. You’re going to kill the halfling thief! Well, there’s a glorious victory! Maybe they’ll make a song of it.” Mathias slashed, and Jager dodged again, his side throbbing with pain. He started to bellow a song, improvising the lyrics as he went. “Mighty Mathias, oh he slew the tiny halfling!”

  “Shut up!” roared Mathias.

  “Mighty Mathias, oh he slew the tiny halfling!” sang Jager, trying not to wheeze. “Mighty Mathias, he slew the halfling with his sword as hard as a rock, but the halfling was not as tiny as his…”

  Again the Kothluuskan orc burst out laughing.

  “Silence!” commanded Mathias, glancing at the orc. “I command you to silence! I am a Herald of Mhor, and you will not mock…”

  Jager had his chance.

  He flung his dagger with all his strength. He had never been good with throwing knives, and his aim was off, but the blade struck Mathias in the right thigh. The assassin stumbled with a screech of fury, his balance lost for a moment, and Jager charged with a yell. Mathias started to turn, and Jager stabbed his sword with both hands. He had been aiming for Mathias’s belly, but the assassin dodged, and the blow opened his right hip instead. The Red Brother’s hasty thrust struck Jager’s left arm, and pain bloomed down the limb. Yet Jager threw himself at Mathias with all his remaining strength. The Red Brother was twice his weight, but his right leg had been wounded twice, and it buckled beneath the unexpected impact. Mathias went down with a bellowed curse, and Jager landed atop him.