That was all the opening that Kharlacht needed.
The orcish warrior moved with speed and power, the dark elven greatsword a blue blur in his hands. The massive blade struck the drake behind its ridged crest. The creature shuddered, its claws digging chunks of grassy dirt from the causeway, and Kharlacht ripped his blade free and swung again.
The drake’s head fell from its neck in a burst of coppery blood and rolled away. The body went into a mad, thrashing dance, tail whipping back and forth, and then went still. Kharlacht let out a long sigh and lowered his sword, while Calliande rushed to Gavin’s side as the boy sat up with a groan.
“How is he?” said Ridmark, climbing the side of the causeway.
“Sore,” muttered Gavin.
“He’ll be fine, I think,” said Calliande. “Just bruised.”
“Good,” said Ridmark. He looked at Kharlacht. “Good swing, by the way.”
“Good shot,” said the big orc. “I have never been anything but mediocre with a bow.”
“Nor was I,” said Ridmark, “but when it is your only means of filling your belly for weeks at a time, you have the motivation to learn.”
“Indeed,” said Kharlacht.
Ridmark stepped past the drake’s carcass and joined Calliande and Gavin. “A good strike.”
“It was my fault,” said Gavin. “I should have paid closer attention during our lessons.” Kharlacht had been teaching him the sword, and Caius the mace, and Ridmark the use of his shield.
Caius snorted. “Yes, the lesson was to duck faster.”
“You did fine,” said Ridmark. “That drake could have killed us all, but it didn’t, and we are alive.”
“And it seems our worries were unfounded,” said Caius. “The explanation is simple enough. The drake detected us meddling with her eggs, and she came to their defense.”
“That’s not what happened,” said Ridmark.
“Why not?” said Caius.
“Because,” said Ridmark, prodding the crest of scales ringing the severed head with his staff, “this is a male drake.” He lowered his staff. “The females don’t have crests.”
“Like kobolds,” said Calliande with a shudder.
“Like kobolds,” said Ridmark. “And the male drakes never fight to defend the nests.”
“Perhaps this one was simply…chivalrous?” said Gavin.
“No,” said Ridmark. “The male wasn’t defending the nest. He was running from something to the north.”
“What could scare a monster like that?” said Gavin, looking at the carcass.
“Well,” said Caius, “what is north of here?”
“The Wilderland,” said Calliande.
“The mountains and hills of Vhaluusk,” said Kharlacht. “My old homeland.”
“Dark elven ruins,” said Ridmark.
They shared a look. They knew the sort of things that could lurk in the ruins of the dark elves.
“Ruins of Vhaluusk, too,” said Kharlacht. “After the High King and the Two Orders overthrew the urdmordar, the orcs of Vhaluusk warred among themselves, and every chieftain tried to make himself High King of the orcs in imitation of the High King of Andomhaim. Many fortresses were raised, and many burned, and the orcs of Vhaluusk war against each other to this day.” He shook his head, his tusks throwing dark shadows over his hard face. “To this day. Mhalek killed many orcs before he came south.”
“Mhalek killed many after he came south,” said Ridmark, remembering.
He looked north.
“You’re think of investigating, aren’t you?” said Calliande.
Ridmark nodded.
“Urd Morlemoch is west,” said Caius.
“We’re less than a day from the monastery of St. Cassian and the town of Moraime,” said Ridmark. “Anything that could frighten a swamp drake is a threat to the town.”
Calliande frowned. “You don’t know that. It is an unnecessary risk…”
Ridmark opened his mouth to continue their old argument, but a new voice cut him off.
“You speak the truth, man of water.”
The voice spoke Latin, but no human, orc, halfling, dwarf, or elf had a voice like that. It was deep, so deep that it sounded like a note from one of the ancient war horns housed in the High King’s stronghold of Tarlion. If a mountain could speak, it would have a voice like that.
He turned, and saw that one of the gray boulders near the nest stand up.
“What in God’s name is that?” said Gavin, lifting his sword.
The boulder seemed to take the shape of a towering old man of rough-hewn stone. Caius’s skin looked like gray granite, but this creature actually was made of rock, but rock that flowed and moved as easily as flesh. Golden light glimmered in the creature’s eyes, and Ridmark thought its expression looked solemn.
Even sad.
That did not reassure him. Likely it could pound them to a pulp while looking solemn and sad.
“It’s a trolldomr,” Ridmark heard himself say.
“One of the giants of stone and rock,” said Caius. The dwarven friar sounded awed. “They live in the Deeps, and shun the company of all others. They visit the dwarves, but only rarely.”
“You speak truly, son of the khaldari,” said the trolldomr. “This one has wandered far from the dark places beneath the earth.”
“Do you mean us harm?” said Ridmark. He had heard of the trolldomr, but had never before seen one. Few men of Andomhaim had. He glanced at Calliande, wondering if she might know more, but she seemed just as surprised as he did.
And even if she knew something of the trolldomr, she might have forgotten.
“Does this one mean you harm, man of water?” said the trolldomr. The creature appeared to consider for a moment. “This one does not mean anyone harm. But many mean you harm, it would appear.” The glowing golden eyes wandered over them. “So many different kindreds traveling together. Many must mean you harm.”
The trolldomr did not seem hostile. Yet from what Ridmark understood, the trolldomr rarely left the Deeps, and shunned company.
Why was this one here? Surely not to collect swamp drake eggs.
“My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark. He gestured with his staff at the others. “This is Calliande of the Magistri, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Gavin of Aranaeus, and Brother Caius of the Order of Mendicants. Might we know your name?”
The trolldomr considered this. “You may. But our tongue does not translate easily to yours. You may know this one as Rjalfur.”
“Rjalfur,” said Ridmark with a bow. “Might I ask why you have sought us out? While we certainly do not find your conversation disagreeable, it is nonetheless remarkable.”
“This is so,” said Rjalfur. “This one wished to stop and speak with you because I found you remarkable.” He pointed at Caius. “Specifically, you, child of the khaldari.”
“Me, sir?” said Caius. “I fear I am altogether unremarkable.”
“You are a child of the khaldari,” said Rjalfur, “and your kindred worship the gods of stone and silence, of inevitable death and stern duty. Yet you wear a symbol of the god the humans brought to this world.”
“You mean this?” said Caius, touching the wooden cross that rested against his chest.
“Yes,” said Rjalfur. “This one found it curious, and wishes to know why you wear such a symbol.”
“Several years ago a missionary came to Khald Tormen,” said Caius, “and shared the word of the Dominus Christus. I was convinced and baptized, and came forth to share the word with others.”
“Interesting,” said Rjalfur. The golden eyes shifted to Ridmark. “And you are right, man of water. There is something wrong here. Dark magic stirs to the north, and it comes for you.”
“For me?” said Ridmark. He shared a glance with Calliande. Had Shadowbearer found her at last?
“For you,” said Rjalfur, “and the Magistria. The dark magic comes for you. This one will bid you farewell now, and thanks you for the knowledge.”
Ridmark let out a breath.
“I take it,” said Gavin, his voice a bit unsteady, “that was a trolldomr?”
Ridmark nodded.
“What exactly is a trolldomr?” said Gavin.
“A kindred,” said Caius, “utterly alien to all of ours. Orcs and dwarves and humans have much in common, despite our differences. But the trolldomr are alien to all of us. They require neither food nor drink, and do not have blood…hence we are all ‘men of water’ to them. They wield magical control over earth and stone as easily as a fish swims or a bird flies…”
“Or as an urdmordar commands dark magic,” said Ridmark.
“Aye,” said Caius, “but the trolldomr are not malicious, not the way the urdmordar are. They are simply…indifferent. They keep to themselves, and only rarely interact with other kindreds. For one to speak is rare. For one to come to the surface and speak is…well, I have never heard of it happening, and the records of our stonescribes go back thousands of years.”
“He warned us,” said Ridmark. “Dark magic to the north. I think we know what frightened the drakes now.”
He met Calliande’s eyes, and saw the fear and determination there.
“Shadowbearer,” she said. “Or more of his creatures hunting for us.”
“This dread wizard, my lady,” said Gavin. “Could he have hunted you to the Wilderland?”
“He could,” said Calliande. “His power is great. Greater than anything I have sensed…since I awakened. Though that is not very long.”
“It could be more of his creatures,” said Caius. “Like the undead kobolds.”
“If so,” said Ridmark, “then we shall take the fight to them. If not, they will pursue us to Moraime, and I would not bring death upon the heads of the townsmen.”
As would have happened in Dun Licinia, if Calliande had not pursued him into the Wilderland.
“Would it not be better to find some strong place and wait for the foe to come to us?” said Gavin.
“I fear not,” said Ridmark. “For one, there are no strong places in these marshes, not until we reach Moraime. And if Shadowbearer and his servants are hunting us, they might not expect us to hunt them in turn.”
He beckoned, and they headed north, away from the causeway and into the marshes.
Chapter 2 - Tombs
Calliande moved carefully across the grassy knoll, the ground squishing beneath her boots.
Ridmark led the way, staff in hand, his gray elven cloak hanging loose around his shoulders. His blue eyes were cold and watchful in his hard face, the black stubble shading his jaw like dust. Despite their many days in the wilderness, he moved with the grace and speed of a hunting predator, his boots rarely making a sound against the wet ground.
At such times the coward’s brand upon his left cheek never seemed more incongruous. He did not deserve the sigil of a broken sword upon his cheek, did not deserve the burden of self-inflicted guilt he carried with it. Mhalek was to blame for his wife’s death, not Ridmark.
It was unjust. She wondered if she could ever convince him of that.
But, then, life was not just.
Calliande knew that all too well. She could remember nothing that had happened before she had awakened in the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance thirty-two days ago, nothing before the omen of blue fire filled the sky. Yet she knew so many things. She knew the history of Andomhaim and the older kindreds. She knew many languages, and was sometimes surprised when Caius or Kharlacht said something in the dwarven and orcish tongues and she understood them. She knew how to treat illness, injury, and wound, and her skills had saved many lives during Qazarl’s siege of Dun Licinia.
And she knew how to use magic for healing, defense, and knowledge, the three paths of the Order of the Magistri. With those powers, she had helped Ridmark save the villagers of Aranaeus and destroy the dread urdmordar Agrimnalazur.
Yet she remembered nothing of her past life, could not remember how she had learned her skills…and if her suspicions were correct, she had rested in that dark vault below the Tower for centuries, guarded by the Order of the Vigilant.
And she remembered nothing of it, and sometimes that made her want to scream in frustration.
But for now the possibility of danger held her attention.
She kept a minor spell in place, one to detect the presence of magic. With it, she could keep Shadowbearer and his minions from ambushing them. So far she had sensed nothing, and yet…
Her spell detected a faint ripple, almost on the edge of her consciousness. An echo, really.
Someone had worked magic nearby, recently.
Yet she could not tell what kind of magic.
“Anything?” said Ridmark.
“Yes,” said Calliande, her voice tight. “There was magic here, not long ago. Maybe the trolldomr. I can’t tell.”
He nodded and kept moving. They passed through thick stands of trees, pools of stagnant water sitting at their roots, moss hanging from their branches like long gray beards. The stench of rotting vegetation was everywhere, and Calliande wondered why anyone would live in such a place. Still, she supposed food would be abundant, with the fish and the lizards and the birds. And the marshes would make for a defensible home. A large army would have trouble moving through this terrain, and a small, determined force could inflict hell upon any invaders…
She blinked. How did she know that with such certainty? Had she led armies in the past?
The memory hovered just out of reach, cloaked by the mists choking her mind, and she almost cursed in frustrated fury.
“Do you smell that?” said Kharlacht, his voice cutting into her dark thoughts.
“Aye,” said Ridmark, and Calliande caught it as well, a worse scent underlying the odor of rotting vegetation and stagnant water.
Rotting flesh.
Even in the thirty-two days since she had awakened, Calliande had smelled it too many times not to recognize it.
“It’s coming from there,” said Ridmark, pointing at the trees.
They kept walking. The trees thinned, and a fortress rose from the earth.
Or the ruins of a fortress, anyway. Once it had been a massive round tower of stone ringed by an earthwork wall. Now the tower’s roof had collapsed, and the marsh had flooded the courtyard, reeds and grass growing within. Dozens of small mounds encircled the wall, covered in grass and small trees.
And many of the mounds looked disturbed.
“Burial mounds,” said Kharlacht.
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Like the ones outside of Dun Licinia.”
“Some chieftain or petty orcish king made his stronghold here,” said Kharlacht, pointing at the ruined fortress, “and buried his chief warriors and their slaves around him.”
Something shivered against Calliande’s magical senses.
“Ridmark,” she said. “There was powerful dark magic here. Recently.”
“Today?” said Ridmark.
“Within a few hours,” she said.
“And an undead creature, brought from its grave through necromancy,” said Ridmark, “would terrify a swamp drake. It would terrify any animal. They would know it was unnatural, and their instincts would tell them to flee.”
“Like the corpses Qazarl raised outside of Dun Licinia,” said Caius.
Gavin shuddered. “Or the undead that Agrimnalazur raised against us.”
“And the sort of creatures that Shadowbearer would use to hunt Calliande,” said Ridmark. “It seemed Rjalfur warned us true. We…”
Dark magic blazed against Calliande’s senses.
“Ridmark!” she said. “They’re coming. They’re…”
But they had no need of her warning.
Dozens of dark forms burst from the fortress’s ruined gate. They were skeletal orcs, ragged tusks jutting from their
jaws, moldering flesh still clinging to their bones. Ghostly blue fire danced up their limbs and flickered inside their eyes. The undead orcs held rusted weapons in their skeletal fists, swords and axes and maces, and some still wore armor and carried shields.
“Calliande!” shouted Ridmark, but she had already begun the spell.
When Shadowbearer’s undead kobolds had attacked at the ford of the River Moradel, she had struck back at them using her magic, blasting away the necromancy Shadowbearer had bound to their corpses. She had destroyed dozens of them, yet the effort had nearly exhausted her strength. If not for Ridmark’s intervention, she would have been killed.
Yet it had taught her a valuable lesson.
She had bound her magic to his staff, giving it the power to harm undead creatures. And in doing so, she realized that enspelling the weapons of others was far, far easier than striking down the undead through raw force.
She needed to save her strength to face whoever had raised the undead.
Calliande finished her spell and thrust out her hands. White light flared around her fingers, and the same white light glimmered around Ridmark’s staff. The head of Caius’s bronze-colored mace began to glow, and both Kharlacht’s greatsword and Gavin’s orcish blade began to radiate white light. Gavin blinked in surprise and set himself, his shield upon his left arm.
As one, the undead orcs turned to look at Calliande, their ghostly eyes staring at her.
They felt the power of her spell.
“Kharlacht, Caius, with me,” said Ridmark, lifting his glowing staff, his voice icy calm. “Gavin, shield Lady Calliande and deal with any orcs that get past us.”
He strode forward, the orcish warrior and the dwarven friar following.
###
The staff thrummed with Calliande’s magic beneath Ridmark’s hands.
It brought back a storm of memories. Once Ridmark had been a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, a Swordbearer, and he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden into battle. With that sword he had slain the urdmordar Gothalinzur, entered Urd Morlemoch and escaped, and defeated the Mhalekite horde.
Frostborn: The Undying Wizard Page 2
