Frostborn: The Iron Tower

by Jonathan Moeller

  A mile later they came to their camp.

  Kharlacht saw them first. The big orc was a tower of green-skinned muscle clad in blue armor. His black hair had been shaved into a warrior’s topknot, bound with a ring of bronze. The hilt of a massive two-handed greatsword rose over his right shoulder, and Morigna had seen him use that weapon to behead foes with a single blow.

  “You found them?” said Kharlacht.

  “They were hard to miss,” said Ridmark. “Anything here?”

  Kharlacht shook his head. “Nothing of note. One of the men-at-arms approached, but he was too lazy to take proper note of his surroundings.” The orcish warrior shook his head in disapproval, the wooden cross hanging from his neck scraping against the blue steel plates of his armor. “I could have walked up and picked his pocket.”

  “A lazy scout indeed, if he failed to notice a seven-foot tall orcish man watching him,” said Morigna.

  “Indeed,” said Kharlacht.

  “Aye, the foe is lax,” said Ridmark, “and that is our best chance for retrieving the soulstone. Come. We must speak with the others.”

  He led the way into their camp.

  They had ridden hard for nearly three days, leaving Coldinium and drawing nearer to the Iron Tower. They had avoided the road, using trails Ridmark knew from his years wandering the Wilderland, and had passed Sir Paul’s slow-moving column. Then Ridmark had led them to a ravine in the hills, concealed the horses, and taken Morigna to scout Paul’s camp.

  Their ravine was narrow, lined with tough little trees and tumbled boulders, and the horses waited in a group, grazing. The other members of Ridmark Arban’s odd little band stood with the horses, their hands near their weapons.

  Calliande, of course, was the first to approach.

  Morigna kept the scowl from her face. She hated showing weakness to anyone, and she certainly would not show it to Calliande.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “You came back in one piece.”

  Morigna had to admit that Calliande was beautiful, with long blond hair tied away from her face and clear blue eyes. The woman was two hundred years old, if not older, but looked no older than her middle twenties, which struck Morigna as unjust. Though Calliande had paid a price for that. She had spent most of those two hundred years asleep below the Tower of Vigilance in the shadow of the Black Mountain, and when she had awakened on the day of blue fire her memories had been gone. Calliande could remember nothing that had happened before she had awakened. Morigna had seen her parents murdered by Coriolus’s dvargir, had seen Nathan die, but the thought of forgetting them was dreadful. It made her feel a pang of sympathy for the woman.

  She was still insufferable, though.

  “For now,” said Ridmark.

  Gavin stood next to her, a boy of about fifteen or sixteen with a ragged shock of curly brown hair and brown eyes. He gave Morigna a flat stare, neither threating nor hostile, but simply…aware. As if he was ready to take action if she lifted a hand against Calliande. Morigna had thought him a rural simpleton when they first met, but she had seen him keep his head in several fights.

  The final two members of their party joined them.

  “The Dominus Christus has guided you back,” said Brother Caius. The dwarf was short and stocky with muscle, clad in simple brown robes, a wooden cross hanging from his neck. His skin was the color of granite, gray and hard, and his strange eyes were like polished blue marble. His receding black hair and bushy beard were shot through with gray, giving him an air of solemn wisdom.

  “The Dominus Christus,” said Morigna, “had naught to do with it. If he truly wants to help us, then he can deign to descend from heaven and snatch the soulstone out of Paul Tallmane’s grasp.”

  Both Calliande and Kharlacht frowned. Morigna could never understand why Kharlacht had turned from the old blood gods of the orcs to follow the teachings of the church. The blood gods permitted an orcish man to take as many wives and concubines as his strength and wealth allowed, while the church restricted a man to just one.

  Caius only smiled. “Does not God give us arms and legs? Does…”

  “The two of you,” said the man next to Caius, his voice deep and mocking. He was a halfling, standing about four and a half feet tall, with a mop of curly blond hair and bright amber eyes in a pale, square-jawed face. His black leather boots gleamed, and he wore a black leather vest over a stark white shirt, his trousers crisp and spotless. Somehow the preening little dandy had kept his clothes clean even in the wilderness. A short sword and a dagger hung at his belt, and both weapons looked expensive and well-maintained.

  “What does that mean?” said Morigna.

  “The way you two fight,” said Jager, once the famed Master Thief of Cintarra. “Really, Caius, you ought to proposition her already and get it over with. Perhaps once she’s worked off that tension she won’t be quite so cross all the time.”

  Gavin barked a short laugh, and then turned red.

  Caius only smiled. “I am sworn to chastity.”

  “And I,” spat Morigna, “prefer my men taller.”

  “Just as well,” said Caius, calm as ever. “Human women are too tall.”

  Gavin laughed again and covered his mouth.

  Morigna drew breath to answer, but Ridmark spoke first.

  “Enough,” he said. “You can amuse yourselves after we have gotten the soulstone back.”

  “And after we have gotten Mara out of the Iron Tower,” said Jager.

  They all had their own reasons for joining Ridmark on his quest to reach Urd Morlemoch and learn the secret of the Frostborn. Jager simply wanted to rescue his lover Mara from her imprisonment in the Iron Tower. Assuming that she was even still alive. From what Morigna had seen of Tarrabus Carhaine, the Dux seemed quite willing to kill people he found inconvenient.

  And assuming they could even find a way to get into the Tower. Morigna had never seen the place, but every account she had heard indicated it was a strong fortress.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “But the soulstone is at hand now.”

  Jager frowned, his amber-colored eyes glinting. “And once you have the soulstone, you’ll have no further reason to help me. You can continue on your merry way to Urd Morlemoch…”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “I gave you my word that we shall rescue Mara from the Tower, and if I live I shall keep it.” The iron in his voice drained some of the insouciance from Jager, and the halfling offered a hesitant nod. “And if we happen to kill Paul in the process, that will throw the garrison of the Tower into disarray, which will make retrieving Mara all the easier.”

  Calliande frowned. “Then you mean to kill Paul this time?”

  “I told him,” said Ridmark, voice grim, “that if I ever saw him again, that I would kill him. But I let him go. And I put others in danger by doing so. I will not murder him in his cot, but if he fights, then I will not hold back.”

  From another man that would have been an idle boast. But Morigna had seen Ridmark fight.

  “If he repents of his crimes and seeks to make restitution you should spare him,” said Caius.

  “The sun is more likely to rise in the west,” said Jager.

  “I fear I agree with you,” said Caius.

  “Well and good,” said Kharlacht, “but how shall we achieve this? Our foe has at least a hundred men, and we are but seven.”

  “Distraction,” said Ridmark.

  “Ah,” said Caius. “You intend something clever.”

  “There is a stand of pine trees north of Paul’s camp,” said Ridmark. “It hasn’t rained much and the trees are dry. After midnight, you, Calliande, Morigna, Kharlacht, and Gavin will set the trees ablaze. Morigna, your acidic mist. Can you alter it to conjure a sleeping gas?”

  “Of course,” said Morigna. “Quite easily. But I should warn you that the effect will not last long. Not when dispersed among so many.”

  “It needn’t last long,” said Ridmark. “My hope is that the fire will draw most of the men to the no
rthern end of the camp. When they gather, cast your spell over them…”

  “And if they are all gathered together in one place,” said Morigna, “that will make it easier for the spell to stun them.”

  “I fear you shall have to deal with any who come to investigate the fire,” said Ridmark.

  Kharlacht grunted. “It will be done.”

  Jager grinned. “There is opportunity in chaos.”

  Ridmark looked at Caius. “Spare them if they surrender, and if it all possible overpower them without taking their lives. But if they resist, kill them. And if there are any members of the Enlightened of Incariel among their number, do not hesitate to slay them.”

  Morigna felt her lips thin. Jonas Vorinus had been an Initiated of the Second Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel, the ruthless cult devoted to the worship of the great void of the dark elves, and he had betrayed them to Coriolus. She could not understand why anyone would join the Enlightened. They offered power, yes, that Morigna could understand. She wanted power herself. But the price for the power the Enlightened offered was obviously far too high.

  “And you are up to sneaking into Paul’s tent?” said Calliande.

  “My dear lady Magistria,” said Jager with a grand bow, “I am the master of stealth and the champion of thieves.”

  “He stole the soulstone,” said Ridmark, “so it is only fair that he steal it back.”

  Morigna gave the halfling a sidelong glance. She still thought Ridmark should have killed him, and she did not trust Jager. But perhaps Ridmark could make use of him.

  “This is our best option,” said Ridmark, meeting Calliande’s gaze with his own hard blue eyes. “It will be difficult enough to get Mara out of the Iron Tower. The Tower is only a half-day’s ride from here, and Paul’s column will reach it by noon tomorrow. It has to be tonight.”

  Calliande nodded. “So be it.”

  “May God grant us strength,” said Caius.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “We shall need all the help he can spare.”

  Chapter 2 - Fire and Stealth

  Ridmark crouched with the others on the northern edge of the valley and watched Paul Tallmane’s camp.

  Full dark had fallen by the time they left the ravine, and Ridmark had led them on a circuitous route through the trees. Paul did not seem inclined to send men into the forest at night, and they had reached the northern lip of the valley without incident.

  Then they settled down to wait, watching camp’s bonfires.

  For a moment Ridmark wondered if Sir Paul was so lax that he simply would not bother to set a proper watch around the edge of his camp. But that hope was in vain. A dozen men stood guard around the camp, staying away from the campfires to keep their night vision intact. It would be impossible to sneak past them without a distraction.

  Ridmark watched as the knights and men-at-arms of Paul’s party found their way to their beds, vanishing into their tents. He saw Paul himself walk through the camp, a drunken stagger in his step. A flash of contemptuous disbelief flashed through Ridmark. Perhaps Paul was certain that Mournacht and Rotherius had killed Ridmark, but Paul’s men were at the very edge of the Wilderland, and dangerous creatures beyond count prowled the wilderness. Why? Why was he so lax?

  “If we cannot live without enemies,” Caius murmured, “then let us at least hope God grants us enemies who are fools.”

  “Aye,” said Gavin.

  “Better to have dead enemies,” said Morigna.

  “And if there was ever a man who deserved death,” said Jager, his deep voice icy, “it is Paul Tallmane of Caudea.”

  “Quiet,” said Ridmark, and the others fell silent. He doubted their voices would carry to the camp, but he did not want to listen to another one of Morigna’s and Caius’s interminable theological arguments. Bickering before a battle was never wise…and there was a real chance they might be fighting for their lives soon.

  But the sloppy camp bothered him. Surely not even Paul Tallmane could be so foolish. Ridmark felt as if he had overlooked something vital. He had had the same feeling when investigating the undead near Moraime, a feeling that had proven prescient when the Old Man had been revealed as the master of the undead.

  For a moment he considered turning back and waiting for a better opportunity.

  But this was their best chance. If Paul took the soulstone into the Iron Tower, the odds of retrieving it were small. And if Shadowbearer arrived and claimed the soulstone, the Frostborn would return. Ridmark did not know how the Frostborn would return, or why Shadowbearer needed the soulstone to do it.

  But he knew that he had to stop Shadowbearer from taking the soulstone.

  And now, right now, was the best opportunity he was likely to get.

  “Calliande,” murmured Ridmark, and the Magistria stepped to his right side. “Get ready.” He tapped one of the pine trees with the end of his staff, brown needles falling from the spindly branches. “After Jager and I leave, count to a thousand, and then start the fire. The needles and the trees will go up quickly.”

  She smiled. “I confess that I have no recollection of ever starting a forest fire before.”

  “Morigna,” said Ridmark, and the sorceress stepped to his left side. “Be ready with the sleeping mist. Once the fire is large enough, a number of Paul’s men will likely come to investigate. Wait until as many of them are gathered as possible before you cast your spell.”

  She nodded, her black eyes hard in the darkness, both hands gripping the carved length of her staff.

  “Kharlacht, Gavin, Brother Caius,” said Ridmark. “Keep watch over Calliande and Morigna. Defend them if Paul’s men attack.” He turned his head, looking over each of them. “Once the mist has taken effect, fall back and retreat to the ravine. We will meet you there.”

  “We?” said Jager. “And I assume, Gray Knight, that I shall be accompanying you into noble Sir Paul’s tent?”

  “You shall,” said Ridmark.

  Morigna raised an eyebrow, her eyes glinting into the distant light of the campfires. “The last time the two of you went thieving together, we wound up in a battle with the Mhorites on the one side and the men of Coldinium and the Dwarven Enclave on the other.”

  “We’re still alive, are we not?” said Ridmark.

  “It is a grave risk,” said Calliande.

  He saw the fear in her eyes. Not for herself, but for him. He wished she did not feel it. He deserved death, and if he lost his life trying to stop the Frostborn, then what of it? She was right that he often risked himself without need, but this time the need was dire.

  “It is a necessary risk,” said Ridmark. “This is our best chance to secure the soulstone. You know better than most what will happen if Shadowbearer claims it. We cannot allow that. No matter what the peril.”

  Calliande took a deep breath and offered a tight nod. “Go with God.”

  She thought better of him than he deserved. It touched him, but she was wrong.

  “And you also,” said Ridmark. “Jager.”

  “Well, I fancy an evening stroll through the woods,” said Jager, walking to Ridmark’s side. He looked calm, but Ridmark saw the tension there. Some men prayed before going to battle, while others remained silent or checked their weapons over and over.

  Jager, it seemed, made jokes.

  “That mouth of yours shall be the death of you yet,” said Morigna.

  Jager offered a wide smile. “At the moment I fear a crossbow quarrel is a more likely claimant to that particular honor.”

  “Then let us deny both Jager’s mouth and the crossbow quarrel the victory,” said Ridmark. “Come.”

  “Why, Gray Knight,” said Jager. “I do believe you just made a joke.”

  Ridmark gestured, and he moved from the pine trees and into the darkness as Morigna and Kharlacht and Gavin prepared the fires. Jager followed Ridmark without sound, moving just as silently as Morigna had managed. The halflings were far more agile and stealthy than humans, and Jager’s natural talents ha
d been honed by long years of practice. Any guards scanning the northern bank of the creek would not see him, and Ridmark’s own stealth and gray elven cloak would guard him from any eyes. He led Jager to the west and stopped at the edge of the creek. The water splashed and bubbled against the rocks, loud enough to mask the sound of their crossing.

  “Now what?” hissed Jager in a low voice. All trace of his jocular manner had vanished, and the halfling seemed keen and watchful.

  Ridmark looked back in the direction of the pine trees. “Now we wait.”

  ###

  “Done,” said Morigna, straightening up.

  Corbanic Lamorus, the Comes of Coldinium, had been generous with supplies when they had departed his city. Among the equipment had been several flasks of lamp oil. At the time, Morigna had thought that ridiculous, since only a fool did not know how to start a fire, but now she saw the wisdom of it. They had prepared small piles of kindling at the base of a dozen pine trees, dousing them will lamp oil. The trees were dry, and with a little encouragement would go up like torches. The carpet of dry needles beneath the trees would burn as well, creating quite the light show to draw the attention of Sir Paul’s men. Ridmark and Jager ought to be able to get in and out of the camp with ease.

  Or so Morigna hoped.

  “Now, Gavin,” said Calliande.

  It annoyed Morigna how quickly the boy obeyed the Magistria. Gavin produced a piece of flint, struck a spark, and lit a torch. He ran toward the trees, torch blazing, while Morigna, Calliande, Caius, and Kharlacht left the pine trees and moved toward the forest proper. Caius had his mace of bronze-colored dwarven steel in his hand, and Kharlacht drew his massive blue greatsword with a steely hiss. With luck they would not need the weapons.

  But if they did, Morigna would fight besides them. Calliande’s magic warded and healed, but Morigna’s spells drew upon earth magic, and she could command that power to strike down her foes, to fill their lungs with poison or to shatter their weapons.