Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife

by Jonathan Moeller

  “We can take the other four for Mother’s larder,” said a third spiderling, her pincers distorting her mouth into a hideous grin. “We can play with him first. Let’s cut off his hands and feet and make him crawl.”

  “Or make him sing for us while he crawls!” said a fourth.

  The spiderlings shrieked with laughter.

  “There is another option,” said Ridmark, staff in both hands.

  “Oh?” said the first spiderling. “What is that?”

  “You could just let me go,” said Ridmark.

  The spiderlings looked at each other, and then laughed again.

  And in their moment of distraction, Ridmark struck.

  His staff impacted the nearest spiderling’s face with enough force to rip one of the pincers from her jaw. The spiderling howled in pain, leaving herself open, but Ridmark kept running. He thrust the staff into the face of another spiderling, knocking her head back, and then reversed the weapon and slammed it into a spiderling’s legs, sending her toppling to the floor.

  Then he sprinted for the stairs as fast as he could manage.

  As he had expected, the spiderlings ignored the others and pursued him, howling with outrage as they moved with superhuman speed. Ridmark raced into the tunnel and dashed up the stairs, taking them three at a time. If he lost his balance and fell, he was finished. He reached the corridor, scooped up the thick skull of a long-dead orc, and ran past the gleaming bronze lever and into the chamber of blades.

  The spiderlings stormed up the stairs behind him.

  Ridmark ran into the center of the chamber, the tiles pulsing with blue light beneath his boots, and stopped.

  The spiderlings hesitated, looked at the lever, and then raced into the chamber. The tiles did not glow beneath them, which meant they had no protective spells. But since the blades were disarmed, it hardly mattered.

  Ridmark lifted the skull in his right hand. “You’ll want to stay back.”

  The spiderlings moved into a ring around him. Ridmark tossed the skull to himself a few times, feeling its weight and balance.

  “Why is that?” hissed the spiderling he had hit in the face, black ichor dripping from her torn mouth.

  “Because,” said Ridmark, “I am a powerful sorcerer. I have embraced the blood magic of the orcs, and have imbued this skull with deadly powers. A single touch will slay a spiderling in an instant.”

  “Ridiculous,” said the spiderling. “You are desperate, and will say any foolish thing to save your wretched life.”

  Ridmark shrugged. “You can prove me wrong, if you like.”

  Then he threw the skull as hard as he could manage.

  The spiderlings flinched, but the skull had not been aimed at them. Ridmark watched as it arced over the chamber. If he had missed, he was going to die in the next few moments.

  The skull slammed into the bronze lever.

  “Pathetic,” said the spiderling. “Kill him.”

  A resounding click echoed through the chamber, and the floor started to vibrate.

  And a horrified expression went over the spiderlings’ faces as they realized how badly they had been tricked.

  They charged, but it was too late. A storm of gleaming blades erupted from the gaps between the tiles, ripping into the spiderlings. Ridmark stood untouched in a vortex of razor metal, torn flesh, and greenish-black ichor. One of the spiderlings almost reached him, but Ridmark jabbed her with his staff, and she stumbled onto another tile.

  Five blades sliced her into as many pieces.

  Another click, and the blades slid back into their slots. The twelve spiderlings that had pursued him lay in a ring of slashed flesh and black-green ichor. One the spiderlings was still moving, her body missing below the navel. Her green eyes, all eight of them hazy and unfocused, turned towards him.

  “How?” she rasped. “Mother…Mother said…”

  “I deserve death,” said Ridmark, raising his staff, “but it seems you were not the ones to deliver it.”

  She stared at him in stunned incomprehension.

  He brought his staff down against her temple with a sharp crack, and the spiderling went still.

  Ridmark stepped around the corpses and walked back to the lever. He disarmed the trap and descended to the cavern. To his relief, the Calliande and the others lay where they had fallen. No other spiderlings, or the spiderlings’ orcish and human allies, had come to take them.

  He knelt next to Calliande and placed his hand upon her forehead. She did not feel feverish, though her breathing came sharp and rapid. That was good. The poison would likely wear off in a few hours.

  Ridmark suspected waiting a few more hours within Urd Dagaash was a terrible idea.

  He put aside his staff and picked up Calliande, her head resting against his left arm, and carried her to the lake. The clear waters rippled, and he propped Calliande’s limp body against his left arm and ran his fingers through the water.

  Ice cold.

  “I am sorry about this,” said Ridmark.

  He dunked her head under the water.

  Ridmark put a hand on her wrist and counted her heartbeats. After five, a massive spasm went through Calliande’s limbs, and she started to thrash. Ridmark pulled her head above the water. She sputtered and coughed, and Ridmark held her up until she had coughed out all the water.

  “God and his saints,” she muttered. “My head hurts.”

  “That will pass in a few hours,” said Ridmark.

  “What?” she said, blinking. “Ridmark? What happened? The spiderlings…”

  “They’re dead,” said Ridmark.

  She pushed some strands of wet hair away from her face. “You killed them all? How?”

  “They poisoned you,” said Ridmark. “A sleeping venom. I lured them into the trapped room.”

  She blinked a few more times, and then Ridmark helped her to stand. “The others?”

  “Sleeping venom,” said Ridmark. “Do you have a spell that can wake them?”

  “Aye.” Calliande blinked again, pushed the rest of the wet hair from her face. “A simple healing spell.” She frowned. “Why did you stick my head under the water?”

  “Because the poison wears off in a few hours,” said Ridmark, “but a lungful of water will jolt someone awake”

  “Then why didn’t you let me wake up in a few hours?” said Calliande.

  “I need you to wake up the others,” said Ridmark.

  She scowled. “You could have just dunked their heads in the water.”

  “Of the four,” said Ridmark, “you were the lightest.”

  She blinked, and then burst out laughing. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  ###

  A Magistria possessed many powers, but her healing spells were not as effective when used on herself.

  So Calliande’s head throbbed as she followed the others through the room of blades. Still, a headache was a small price to pay. The spiderlings had caught them off guard, and if not for Ridmark, Calliande and the others would have died.

  She looked the butchered spiderlings and shuddered.

  But despite her revulsion, she still felt amazement.

  Twelve spiderlings, and Ridmark had prevailed. He had no magic of his own, did not even carry a Soulblade. Spiderlings were faster and stronger than normal men, and could often command powerful magic.

  Yet he had killed them all.

  Calliande could only clearly remember the last three weeks of her life. Yet even if the fog lifted from the entirety of her memory, she doubted she had ever met a warrior of his skill and boldness.

  What must he have been like with a Soulblade in his hand?

  Ridmark and Caius were discussing how best to warn the villagers against the urdmordar. Gavin hung back, and then fell in step alongside Calliande.

  “Lady Calliande,” said Gavin. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” said Calliande.

  “Sir Ridmark…ah, Lord Ridmark, I mean,” said Gavin. “Have you known
him long?”

  “For three weeks,” said Calliande.

  “Um,” said Gavin. “He just saved all our lives.”

  “I know,” said Calliande. “He’s good at that.”

  “How did he get his brand?” said Gavin. “That is a coward’s brand, but a coward could not face twelve spiderlings and live.” He looked at the corpses. “A coward could not run into this trap to lure his foes after him. I don’t think I could do it.” He looked at her, his young eyes full of confusion. “How could such a man receive a coward’s brand?”

  Calliande thought about it.

  “Unjustly,” she said at last.

  “I should think so,” said Gavin.

  Ridmark stopped, and Calliande wondered if he had heard them.

  “Are you all fit to travel?” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said Kharlacht.

  “I have never been better,” said Caius. “The Magistria’s healing was most potent.”

  “I can,” said Gavin.

  Ridmark met her eyes, and Calliande nodded.

  “We should make for Aranaeus right away,” said Ridmark. “I don’t know how many villagers are part of the cult.” Gavin swallowed, his hands curling into fists. “But we must warn them. If that urdmordar decides to cull her herd, she will act soon. And once she learns we killed her daughters, she might decide to act at once.”

  “Then lead on,” said Caius.

  They returned to the spiral stair and ascended to the surface. Calliande blinked at the brilliant sunlight, and felt overwhelming relief. She had awakened in that dark vault below the Tower of Vigilance, and she had almost died there. And she had almost died in these dark elven ruins.

  It made her glad to see the sun again.

  Ridmark took a few steps from the tower, grass rustling around his knees, and froze.

  Calliande looked up, fearing that she would see more spiderlings clinging to the towers....

  Instead she saw white clouds against the blue sky, a black plume rising to the south.

  “Smoke,” said Ridmark, and he broke into a run.

  Calliande and the others followed him, and they came to Urd Dagaash’s outer wall. A flight of narrow steps ascended to the rampart, and Ridmark hurried to the battlements. He came to a stop, gazing to the south, and Calliande joined him.

  They had a fine view of the green forest spreading away to the south and the east, the distant gleaming ribbon of the River Moradel, and the village of Aranaeus sitting atop its hill.

  Thick black plumes of smoke rose from within the walls of the village.

  Aranaeus was burning.

  Chapter 11 - Ashes

  Gavin shouted in alarm and ran for the stairs, but Ridmark caught his arm.

  The boy struggled to pull free. “Let me go! They need help! Rosanna needs help!”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, “and we’ll help them, if we can. But if we run off and charge without a proper plan, we could blunder into a trap. You’re no good to Rosanna or your father or anyone if you’re dead.”

  Gavin scowled, and then nodded, and Ridmark let go of his arm.

  “You’re right,” he said. “What should we do?”

  “We go to the village,” said Ridmark, “and see what we can be done.”

  He did not think the attackers would have burned the villagers inside their homes. The urdmordar preferred to eat their food alive, and dead people could hardly breed new generations of food for the urdmordar. Of course, it was entirely possible a wandering band of bandits unrelated to the urdmordar had attacked Aranaeus.

  Disaster always seemed to attract more disaster.

  “Come,” said Ridmark. “I suspect the urdmordar’s orcish minions rounded up the villagers and burned Aranaeus behind them. Likely they will herd their captives towards Urd Dagaash. If we intercept them, perhaps we can prevail and free the villagers.”

  Kharlacht frowned. “But if they had a force large enough to overpower the village, what can we five do against so many?”

  Ridmark felt himself smile. “Much.”

  He led the way from the ruins of Urd Dagaash.

  ###

  Gavin resisted the urge to run.

  Ridmark set a brisk pace through the trees. Yet he did not run. Gavin understood the reasoning behind it. If they ran, they would exhaust their strength, arrive at the village too tired to fight.

  But Gavin wanted to run.

  He kept imaging Rosanna falling into the hands of those spiderlings, the creatures turning her into the ragged, tormented thing he had seen in the dungeons of Urd Dagaash. What would they do to Father Martel? Or Bardus the innkeeper? Or even Philip? Gavin did not think him worthy of Rosanna, but he did not deserve to die at the hands of the spiderlings. He thought of old Agnes, harmless and kindly and senile. She was too old to work or have children. Would the spiderlings simply kill her to save themselves the bother?

  They crossed the creek and came to the pastures north of the village. Gavin saw no sign of the sheep and the cows that should have been grazing there. Had they fled from the fire? Or had the attackers taken the animals with them?

  “That smell,” said Gavin. He smelled smoke and burning wood, but there was another odor mixed with it. “It’s like…bacon…”

  “It’s not,” said Ridmark. “That’s burned flesh.”

  Gavin felt his stomach turn.

  A short time later they climbed the hill and came to Aranaeus’s northern gate.

  Or what was left of it.

  The gate had been ripped down and lay in splintered pieces across the street. Raging flames danced inside the stone shell of the White Walls Inn, thick smoke billowing from the ruins. The houses lining the street burned as well, smoke rising into the air.

  A dozen bodies lay on the street, blood pooling around them.

  “My God,” said Gavin, running toward them. He heard Ridmark shout for him to stop, but he did not care. Gavin knew all the men lying in the street, spears and bows still in their hands. One had owned the mill. Another had hunted and trapped in the woods, and a third had made leather. All had been friends of his father and Morwen.

  And now they were dead.

  Ridmark stepped to his side, staff in hand.

  “Did the spiderlings kill them?” Gavin said.

  “No,” said Ridmark, pointing at the dead men. “Those are sword wounds. They haven’t been dead long. A few hours, maybe. And those fires were started recently.”

  “The attackers might still be in the village,” said Kharlacht, his greatsword raised.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, examining the ground. “But I think most of them have left. See those tracks?” He pointed at what looked like a random patch of ground. “A lot of people have gone this way, recently. I think the attackers rounded up most of the villagers and took them out the northern gate. Anyone who resisted was killed,” he gestured at one of the houses, “or tied up and thrown into the flames.”

  “That’s monstrous,” said Calliande.

  “The followers of the urdmordar,” said Ridmark, “are not known for their mercy.”

  “I should have stayed,” said Gavin. “You were right. If I had stayed behind, I could have done something, I could have…”

  “Died,” said Ridmark. “Or you’d be in chains and marching north with the others.”

  Gavin had no answer for that.

  “We’ll check the church and the praefectus’s hall,” said Ridmark. “If there are any survivors, they’ll have holed up there.”

  “And if there aren't any?” said Gavin.

  “And if there aren't any,” said Ridmark, “we go after the captives.”

  Gavin opened his mouth, closed it again.

  “Be steady,” said Caius, putting a hand on Gavin’s shoulder. “This is an hour of trial, I know. But your countrymen need you, and this is not the time to quail. Let us go forward boldly, and trust that God shall be with us.”

  Gavin nodded, adjusted his grip on his club, and followed Ridmark.


  They came to the village’s square. Flames danced and crackled in the charred stone shell of the praefectus’s hall, its interior a hellish mass of burning timbers. The church’s thatched roof had burned away, but looked otherwise intact. The doors stood closed, and Gavin felt a surge of hope. Perhaps Father Martel and the others had been able to take refuge in the church.

  Perhaps his father had been able to do so as well. Gavin did not want his father dead, but he wanted answers. If Cornelius had heeded Ridmark’s warning, perhaps this would not have happened. Gavin also hoped Morwen was alive. As much as he disliked his stepmother, she did not deserve to die upon a sword blade or in a fire.

  “The church,” said Gavin.

  Ridmark nodded. “We’ll start there. I suspect there’s a crypt beneath it. If Father Martel was clever, he might have…”

  Somebody laughed, and a rough voice called out words in a language Gavin did not know.

  Orcs in leather and wool emerged from behind the church, swords and axes in their hands.

  ###

  Ridmark stepped forward to confront the newcomers.

  To judge from their clothing, they were orcs of Vhaluusk. Most of the learned men of Andomhaim thought Vhaluusk a unified kingdom, like the baptized orcish kingdoms of Khaluusk and Rhaluusk to the south. Ridmark, who had traveled through Vhaluusk, knew better. Vhaluusk was a patchwork of dozens of squabbling tribes, united only by their hatred of humans and baptized orcs. Some followed the blood gods of the orcs, and others worshipped the great void of the dark elves.

  And some, like the orcs heading toward Ridmark, prayed to the urdmordar.

  The lead orc gazed at Ridmark, a cold smile behind his tusks. He looked about fifty, his green skin weathered, his iron-gray hair cut into a warrior’s topknot. A strange scar had been carved into his face, a circle between his eyes. Eight lines radiated from the scar, two reaching for his temples, the other two coming descending his cheeks and jaw.

  The eightfold scar, Ridmark realized, represented a spider.

  An urdmordar.

  “More for the goddess?” rumbled the leader in orcish. “Good. Great Agrimnalazur will be most pleased.”