Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife

by Jonathan Moeller

  A few hours later they emerged from the trees and into the cleared fields around Aranaeus. The fields stood empty and deserted, the furrows spotted with the stubble from last year’s harvest. Gavin had spent most of his springs and summers in those fields, helping to sow the crop and harvest it before the winter came.

  “Where is everyone?” said Kharlacht. “This late in the spring, the planting should be well underway.”

  “They’re all afraid, sir,” said Gavin. “Ever since the disappearances started, the beastmen attack anyone who goes too far from the walls.”

  A few moments later Aranaeus itself came into sight, and Gavin looked upon his home.

  The village housed about seven hundred people, and it sat upon a wide hill, with taller hills rising to the north. A strong wall of stone encircled the village, men standing guard on the ramparts and the gate. Even before the beastmen had grown hostile, the Wilderland had been a dangerous place. Gavin’s father and the elders had told stories of pagan orcs seeking slaves, of the sorcerous beasts of the dark elves rampaging through the fields while the villagers huddled behind their walls. Gavin knew his ancestors had come here to escape the rule of the High King, to live their lives as they pleased without paying taxes to the Dux of the Northerland.

  But he could not help but think that the protection of the Dux of the Northerland, and his Swordbearers and Magistri, would have been helpful.

  Ridmark came to a stop, frowning. “I had forgotten about that.”

  “About what?” said Gavin.

  “Tell me,” said Ridmark. “If you live in the shadow of that, why does your father think the beastmen are responsible for the disappearances?”

  He pointed at the hill rising behind Aranaeus.

  More specifically, at the white shapes atop the hill.

  A dozen slender, gleaming towers of white stone crowned the hill, surrounded by a crumbling wall. Gavin disliked looking at the ruins. The ancient towers were beautiful, but…wrong. Their angles and shapes had been designed to please the eyes of dark elves, not humans. Looking at the ruins for too long gave Gavin a headache, so he ignored them.

  As did everyone else in Aranaeus.

  “Urd Dagaash,” said Ridmark. “Once the seat of a minor dark elven lord, destroyed in the war with the high elves long before humans ever came to Andomhaim. I had forgotten this was here.” He looked at Gavin. “Almost certainly whatever took the villagers is inside Urd Dagaash.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” said Gavin. “The ruins…the elders have always said they are cursed, that evil things dwell within. Yet those evil things never come forth. The elders say if we leave the ruins alone, the evil things within will not trouble us.”

  “Perhaps that was true once,” said Ridmark, “but you recall the omen twenty days ago? Maybe the creatures within the ruin have changed their minds.”

  That had not occurred to Gavin. The thought of some horror of dark magic creeping out of Urd Dagaash was not a pleasant one. Would Philip be able to keep Rosanna safe it that happened? Philip was a blacksmith, true, and stronger than Gavin. Yet he rarely ventured outside the walls of Aranaeus. What did he know about the dangers of the Wilderland?

  Of course, what did Gavin know, compared to Ridmark and Calliande and the others?

  He thought of the undead kobolds he had fought.

  After that, he knew more than anyone else in Aranaeus.

  “When we get to the gate, sir, let me do the talking,” said Gavin. “The men on watch know me, and they’ll listen. You’re rather…well, outlandish for strangers, and they might not react well.”

  Calliande smiled at him, and Gavin felt himself flush. “So a human, a dwarf, an orc, and a Magistria do not walk up to the gates of Aranaeus every day?”

  “It is the first time I can recall, my lady,” said Gavin.

  He led the way through the fields, up the side of the hill, and to the village’s closed gate. Four men stood atop the gate, fingering hunting bows, their eyes moving back and forth over Ridmark and his companions.

  “Stop,” said one of the men, middle-aged with a graying beard, “and identify yourself. Strangers are not welcome in Aranaeus just now.”

  “Mallen!” said Gavin, looking at the elder. “You know me. My father has me help you make chairs in your shop during the winters.”

  “Gavin ran off yesterday,” said Mallen. “Disappeared from sight. You could be one of the beastmen, taking Gavin’s form to beguile us.”

  “If I was,” said Gavin, “would I know about the still in your cellar? The one your wife doesn’t know about, since she thinks you stopped drinking?”

  The other men upon the wall chuckled, as did Caius.

  “Aye,” said Mallen, “and you had best keep your mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you.” He peered at Ridmark and the others. “And who are these? A brigand, an orc, a noblewoman, and…a short gray fellow?”

  “Good sir,” said Caius, “I am Brother Caius of the order of mendicants, and twenty years ago I heard the word of the Dominus Christus and believed in his good news. I have since come north to preach the gospel to the pagan tribes of the Wilderland. After some peculiar misadventures,” Kharlacht snorted, “I have come to the gates of your fair village, and beg your permission to enter.”

  “Indeed. Where did you find them, Gavin?” said Mallen.

  “I was making for the ford,” said Gavin. “I wanted to go to Castra Marcaine, to ask the Dux of the Northerland for help against whatever creatures are taking our folk.”

  “Your father’s going to be wroth, boy,” said Mallen.

  His father was always wroth, but Gavin knew better than to say so.

  “The beastmen chased me,” said Gavin. “I think they would have killed me, but Ridmark and his companions arrived to stop them.”

  He did not mention the undead kobolds. At best, Mallen simply would not have believed him. At worst, he would refuse to open the gate.

  “There you go,” said Mallen. “That’s proof, then, boy. The beastmen are taking our folk, just like your father and Morwen said.”

  “No,” said Gavin. “I wasn’t finished. Someone’s taking the females and young of the beastmen. They think we’re doing it.”

  Mallen snorted, and the other guards laughed. “Why? What would we do with them? They’re too feral to be beasts of burden, and they carry fleas, too.”

  “But…” said Gavin.

  “Enough,” said Ridmark, his voice low. “You don’t have to convince him. It’s your father you’ll have to persuade.”

  He was right.

  “Let us in, Mallen,” said Gavin. “My father will want to talk to the newcomers.”

  “Aye,” said Mallen. “Your stepmother, too.” Gavin scowled. He did not want to talk to his stepmother. Mallen pointed at Ridmark. “But you had best behave, aye? The men of Aranaeus are peaceful folk, but we can defend ourselves.”

  Ridmark spread his arms, staff in his right hand. “By my sworn word, Mallen of Aranaeus, no harm will to you from my hand unless you break trust with us first.”

  Something in the way he said it sent a chill down Gavin’s back. Mallen must have felt it, too. The carpenter swallowed, rubbed his beard, and gave a curt nod.

  “Aye,” he said at last. “Well, the praefectus can decide what we are to do with you.” He shook a finger at Gavin. “And your father will be glad to see you.”

  “No, he won’t,” muttered Gavin.

  Calliande glanced at him with a frown.

  Mallen shouted something and the gate swung open with a creak. Gavin led the others through the gates and into Aranaeus. Houses of built of fieldstone lined the short street leading to the main square, their roofs made of thatch.

  “Your father, boy,” said Mallen. “He’ll be at the hall. Better go to him at once. You let the strangers wander about without seeing him first, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “From Morwen, most likely,” said Gavin.

  “Morwen?” said Ridmark.


  “My father’s wife,” said Gavin. He sighed. “My stepmother.”

  “Ah,” said Ridmark.

  “Well,” said Gavin, “we should talk to my father and get it over. This way, sir.”

  They walked towards the village’s square. The villagers stood on their doorsteps, speaking with each other in low voices, and cast hostile stares toward the strangers. Belatedly Gavin wondered if bringing Ridmark and the others here had been a good idea. The people of Aranaeus were frightened, and they might blame Ridmark and his companions for what had happened.

  If that happened, Gavin was more concerned about what Ridmark and his friends might do to the villagers than what the villagers might do to Ridmark.

  They passed the blacksmith’s shop. A young man of about twenty stepped into the street, thick and muscular, a leather apron covering his clothes. A girl of about Gavin’s age walked with him, her hand resting on his forearm. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying.

  Philip and Rosanna.

  His heart sped up when he looked at her. Rosanna saw him, and her green eyes widened in surprise.

  “Gavin!” she said, and she hurried towards him and hugged him. “You’re alive! Oh, thank God. I was up all night praying for you. We both were.”

  Philip moved to her side, a heavy arm going around her shoulders. “Aye.” He frowned. “Why did you run off? You made poor Rosanna think you had disappeared.” He shook his head. “You ought to have a proper craft, instead of listening to that old priest tell his outlandish tales…”

  Gavin felt his temper flare. “There’s more to the world than your forge and field, and if we hide from it…”

  “Don’t quarrel, you two,” said Rosanna. “I’m just glad you’re safe.” Her eyes turned to Ridmark and the others. “And these…they saved you from the beastmen?”

  “This is Ridmark Arban,” said Gavin, “and the Magistria Calliande, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, and Brother Caius of the mendicants.”

  “Thank you for helping Gavin,” said Rosanna to Ridmark. “He gets…well, he gets carried away sometimes.”

  Embarrassment warmed Gavin’s face, but Ridmark remained grave. “We all do.”

  “You had best speak to the praefectus, sir,” said Philip. “We of Aranaeus are not unfriendly, but you’ll understand why we’re suspicious of strangers.”

  Gavin opened his mouth to protest, but Ridmark only nodded. “I cannot blame a man for caution. Lead on, Gavin.”

  Gavin closed his mouth, nodded to Rosanna, and kept walking. He saw the eyes of the villagers staring from barred doors and shuttered windows, watching the strangers with suspicion. Looking at Gavin with suspicion. Why would they be afraid of him? Just because he had gone outside the village and returned?

  An unsteady, crooning voice raised in song caught his attention.

  An old, old woman stood on the doorstep of a house, a blue dress hanging loose around her bony frame. She was so old her face looked like skin pulled tight over a skull, her faded blue eyes hazy and unfocused. Her white hair hung in wispy disarray over her liver-spotted scalp, and her hands twitched as she sang.

  “Why,” she said, “it’s young Gavin, returned with some friends. Are you well, Gavin? They thought you had died, but I told them Gavin was too young to die.” She smiled a toothless smile. “Only the old die, alas, alas, once they’ve had many strong children.”

  “Agnes,” said Gavin with a polite bow. She was the oldest woman in the village, at least a century of age if not more, and according to Bardus the innkeeper her mind had gone twenty years past. Yet Father Martel said elders were to be treated with respect, so Gavin always tried to be kind to Agnes.

  “Who are your friends, Gavin?” said Agnes, squinting at Ridmark. “Why, I remember you! You’re young John. I put my pies on the windowsill to cool them, and you would steal them.” She gave his hands a gentle smack. “You naughty boy.”

  “I fear you are mistaken, mistress,” said Ridmark without the hint of a smile. “My name is Ridmark Arban, and I have not been to Aranaeus for nine years.”

  But Agnes had forgotten about him. She saw Calliande, and her smile widened. “Aren’t you a pretty young thing? Too skinny, though. You need wider hips for proper birthing. When you have your first child, you’re going to scream like a pig with a nail through its hoof.”

  “Ah,” said Calliande. “Thank you. I think.”

  “Is she your girl, Gavin?” said Agnes. She cackled. “You’ll have handsome, vigorous children. Even with her narrow hips.”

  Gavin felt his face go red.

  Calliande laughed. “I fear not, mistress. I am too old for him, by several centuries.”

  Centuries? What did that mean?

  “Oh, pish. I am older than everyone, and I do what I like,” said Agnes. “And now I must go to the gate. Why, I need to watch for men with swords and cattle.”

  She tottered off.

  Gavin looked at Calliande, swallowed, and then back at Ridmark. “We should keep going.”

  To his great relief, neither Calliande nor Ridmark laughed. “Of course.”

  Gavin led them to the square. A well stood in the center of the square, and the village hall and the church rose on opposite ends. Word must have run ahead of them, because Gavin’s father was already walking from the hall.

  Morwen was with him.

  His father and stepmother stopped a few paces away, frowning.

  “Where have you been, Gavin?” said Cornelius. He was thin and tired, his curly hair gray, dark shadows ringing his brown eyes. From time to time a slight tremor went through his hands. “You just…you cannot run off! Not now, not when people are going missing! I thought you had been killed.”

  Gavin lifted his chin. “I was going to go to Castra Marcaine to get help from the Dux.”

  “That was foolish,” said Morwen. She was at least twenty years younger than Cornelius, lovely and slim with long red hair and brilliant green eyes. “You ought to have remained safe in the village.”

  Gavin’s temper shivered. “You are not my mother. You cannot tell me what to do.”

  “Gavin!” said Cornelius. Morwen only smiled, the same condescending expression she always used.

  “It is all right, husband,” said Morwen, her expression never wavering. “The boy is simply overwrought.”

  “You will forgive my son, sir,” said Cornelius, taking a deep breath. “He is unaccustomed to comporting himself before strangers.”

  Gavin opened his mouth to answer, but Ridmark spoke first.

  “Actually,” said Ridmark, “he fought with great courage. I am sorry if I have caused undue disruption. My name is Ridmark Arban, and this is the Magistria Calliande, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, and Brother Caius of the mendicants.”

  Cornelius frowned. Ridmark had said he had met the praefectus before, but Gavin wondered if Cornelius remembered. It had been nine years ago, and Gavin’s mother had still been alive.

  Morwen’s eyes shifted to Calliande and then back to Ridmark.

  “It seems I owe you my son’s life, sir,” said Cornelius. “Thank you.”

  “Indeed,” said Morwen. “A surprise from a man branded as a coward.”

  Calliande bristled, but Ridmark only shrugged. “I have dealt with the lupivirii before. Praefectus, I fear you face a greater enemy than the beastmen.”

  “What do you mean?” said Cornelius.

  “The lupivir alpha I spoke with believes that you are kidnapping his females and his children,” said Ridmark.

  Morwen laughed. “That is absurd. What would we do with the vile beasts?”

  “Nevertheless,” said Ridmark. “The beastmen, as you know, do not lie. It is simply not in their nature. They believe you responsible, but I think something else is to blame. Some creature or power that is preying upon both you and the beastmen.”

  Morwen lifted her eyebrows, her condescending smile focusing upon Ridmark. “And what would that be, pray?”

  “The choices are many,” said Ridmark. “Thi
s is the Wilderland, and there are numerous creatures that regard both humans and lupivirii as useful prey. Pagan orcs and dark elves take beastmen and humans as slaves. Kobolds, deep orcs, or dvargir could be raiding from the Deeps. A pack of male urdmordar could be eating your people. A nest of fire or frost drakes or wyverns might be hunting you. Or,” he pointed at the pale ruins of Urd Dagaash rising over the town, “whatever lurks within those ruins could be carrying off your people. When your ancestors left the High King’s realm, I am surprised they settled in the shadow of such a place. Dark elven ruins are not to be trifled with.”

  “There are evil things in Urd Dagaash,” said Cornelius. “But they do not venture out of the ruins, and are harmless if left alone.”

  “The omen of blue fire twenty days ago,” said Ridmark, “might have changed their minds.”

  “We of Aranaeus,” said Morwen, “know more of our land than some wandering stranger. Might we ask your business here, sir?”

  “If you like,” said Ridmark. “I am going to Urd Morlemoch.” Cornelius’s mouth fell open, and Morwen’s smile disappeared. “The blue fire that you saw twenty days past? That is an omen of the return of the Frostborn. The Frostborn are coming back, but I need more information. So I am going to Urd Morlemoch to force the Warden to tell me his secrets.”

  “That is madness,” said Morwen. “The tales I heard from my mother…no one enters the stronghold of the Warden and returns.”

  “One man did,” said Cornelius. “I remember you now, sir. It was…nine, ten years ago, was it not? You said you were going to Urd Morlemoch, and you never returned. I thought you were dead.”

  “I took a different route on my way home,” said Ridmark. “But I entered Urd Morlemoch and lived, and I intend to do so again.”

  “Then you are welcome to purchase supplies,” said Morwen, “and to be on your way.” She pointed. “Bardus at the White Walls Inn can supply what you need.”

  “I would not leave you in peril,” said Ridmark. “I will assist you with finding whoever has taken your missing folk, if I can.”

  “No,” said Cornelius at once. “That is not necessary.”

  “Father,” said Gavin, “a score of people have disappeared in the last twenty days. The beastmen say the same. Surely there is some danger we both face. It…”