Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “The sons of Mhalek are a free people,” spat Orlacht, “and neither the urdmordar nor the dark elves rule over us now.”

  “That is only because the High King and his Swordbearers and his Magistri smashed the urdmordar centuries ago,” said Caius. “You did not free yourselves. The blood gods love only the strong…but the Dominus Christus accepts all, whether strong or weak.”

  Ridmark contemplated his next move. The dwarf friar might think to armor himself in his faith, but Ridmark doubted he would sway the Mhalekite orcs. Sooner or later Orlacht would kill Caius, or would haul the dwarf before his mysterious master. Ridmark considered letting the orcs leave and following them, learning more about their master, but decided against it. Orlacht’s master, whoever he was, likely commanded many warriors, and if Caius went into their midst, he would never come out again.

  Ridmark reached over his shoulder for his bow.

  Orlacht spat, but Caius remained glacially calm. “Then you would have us yoke ourselves with the weak, dwarf? Shall we find cripples and cowards and women and treat them as our equals?”

  “If you understood me,” said Caius, “then you would wish to do it. For you would understand that we are all weak, we are all mortal, and that all strength ends in death. The blood gods offer nothing but misery and shadows beyond death. But the Dominus…”

  “Enough!” roared Orlacht. “I will not listen to any more of this preaching. We depart to join the Master at the Tower. Bind the dwarf.” He laughed. “Let us see if his preaching will touch the ears of the Master. And gag him! If I hear a word from him, I shall be wroth. Do not fret, dwarf. It will give you time for prayer. If the god of the humans loves you so much, perhaps he will come and save…”

  Ridmark raised his bow and released, and an arrow sprouted from the neck of the nearest orc. Green blood flowed over the wound, and the orc gagged and fell to his knees. The remaining orcs whirled, and Orlacht brandished his huge axe and bellowed a curse.

  “We are attacked!” he screamed. “Archers in the trees. Take them! Take them!”

  The two remaining orcs raced forward, short swords in hand. Ridmark dropped his bow, gripped his staff in one hand and the boulder in the other, and heaved himself around it. The first orc just had time to raise his sword, and then Ridmark caught him across the belly with a blow from the staff. It was not a hard blow, but it was enough to rock the orc, and Ridmark reversed his staff and caught the orc across the knees. The orc stumbled and fell to the rocky ground, and the remaining orc and Orlacht charged at Ridmark.

  He dodged to the left, the orc stabbing with his short sword. Ridmark brought his staff around in a two-handed blow, slapping against the flat of the orc’s sword. The power of his strike wrenched the weapon from the orc’s hands. The orc reached for a dagger at his belt, but Ridmark swung the staff against the orc’s throat with all his strength.

  The orc fell, windpipe crushed, and Orlacht struck at Ridmark, wielding his double-bladed axe two hands. Ridmark jumped back, the axe blurring before his face, and thrust with the staff, hoping to knock Orlacht off balance. But the big orc kept his swing controlled, moving out of Ridmark’s reach. The orc Ridmark had stunned earlier scrambled back to his feet, growling as he waved his short sword.

  Ridmark launched a feint at Orlacht’s head, and the orc stepped back, axe raised. But Ridmark dashed past Orlacht and struck at the second orc. The butt of his staff plunged into the orc’s stomach. The orc staggered, the breath knocked from his lungs, and Ridmark spun the staff in a looping blow, smashing it against the orc’s temple.

  The orc fell, and Ridmark faced Orlacht alone.

  “You think,” snarled Orlacht, his black eyes narrowed with rage, “you can defeat me with that little stick?” A crimson light glimmered in his eyes. It was the orcish battle rage, the gift of his blood to make him stronger and faster in battle.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark, and attacked. Orlacht lifted his axe to block, but Ridmark raised the staff, hooking it behind the blades of the axe, and tugged. Orlacht stumbled forward, and Ridmark slammed his right hand into the orc’s face.

  The big orc howled in fury, and Ridmark brought the heavy staff down once, twice, three times onto the crown of his head.

  Orlacht fell, dying.

  Ridmark looked around, seeking any more foes. Caius stood rooted on the spot, gaping at him, but all the orcs were down…

  He saw a blur of green in the corner of his eye.

  Ridmark whirled and saw the orc he had struck across the temple. He had thought the blow enough to render the orc unconscious, maybe even kill him…but plainly he had been wrong. Ridmark jumped back, just avoiding the tip of a short sword that blurred before his face. He thrust with the staff, driving the orc back, hoping to use his weapon’s longer reach to keep his foe at bay.

  Caius darted forward, a heavy mace appearing from beneath his robes, and swung. The mace impacted with the back of the orc’s right knee. A hideous crunching sound filled Ridmark’s ears, and the orc fell with a yelp.

  A strike to the top of the orc’s head and throat ended the fight.

  The orc fell, and Ridmark found himself facing Caius. The dwarf’s mace had the peculiar bronze sheen common to dwarven-forged steel.

  “Was it really necessary,” said Caius in perfect Latin, “to kill them?”

  “Perhaps not,” said Ridmark, “but they would have done their best to kill me. And once they had killed me, they would have taken you back to their master, whoever he is. I suspect he would not have given you a clean death.”

  Caius lifted his bearded chin. With his gray skin and gleaming blue eyes, the dwarf looked like a statue, at least until he moved. “It would be an honor to die spreading the word of the Dominus Christus.”

  “True,” said Ridmark, “but would you really want to?”

  Caius grimaced. “Not unless I had no other choice. The flesh is weak, I fear, even the flesh of dwarves.” He turned. “But do not think me churlish. I am grateful your aid, sir knight.”

  “I am no knight,” said Ridmark.

  “I see,” said Caius. “Might I know your name, then?”

  “Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark.

  “Ah,” said Caius. If he recognized the name, he gave no sign. “And I am Brother Caius, a priest and a brother of the Order of Mendicants.”

  “A baptized dwarf,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Caius, his white teeth flashing in his gray face. “The first of my kindred, I believe.”

  “If you are a mendicant,” said Ridmark, “why do you have a mace?”

  Caius shrugged. “It was…harder to give up my old life than I thought. And a son of the Church should not seek out war, but that does not mean we cannot defend ourselves.” The dwarf grinned. “And you raised arms in my defense. It would be churlish not to aid you.”

  “Your aid was well-timed,” said Ridmark. “Come. Sir Joram sent me to find you, and you’re found.”

  Caius shook his head. “I desire to continue my journey north.”

  Ridmark frowned. “Why?”

  “I wish to bring the word of the Dominus Christus to the pagan orcs of the north,” said Caius, “and that has not changed.”

  “It has,” said Ridmark. “These are Mhalekite orcs, and there are more of them nearby.”

  “Then they need to hear word of the faith all the more,” said Caius.

  “They will kill you,” said Ridmark. A low wind whipped up around the hilltop, cold and icy.

  “I know the risks,” said Caius. He sighed. “And I am not a fool, whatever you might think. When I joined the Order of Mendicants, I hoped to meet devout sons and daughters of the Church. But there are few enough among the lords of Andomhaim. I fear your nobles have grown corrupt and complacent, as have the commanders of the Order of Swordbearers and the Magistri.”

  Perhaps Caius had met Tarrabus Carhaine and his supporters. “That may or may not be, but we need to go to Dun Licinia.” The icy wind grew stronger. “Those Mhalekite orcs
will move south, and they will attack Dun Licinia. They people must be warned.” He had told Peter to send warning, but Sir Joram might not believe the truculent freeholder.

  Caius nodded. “Yes, you are right. I should have thought of it sooner. We must warn Sir Joram Agramore at once.” He scowled and looked at the sky. “Though perhaps this snow shall stop the orcs. We never had such weather in the Deeps.”

  “There is no weather at all in the in the Deeps,” said Ridmark, looking at the sky. “But it can’t be snowing. There are not enough clouds. It…”

  The cold wind became a gale, and thunder rang overhead.

  And then the sky filled with blue fire.

  Ridmark stared at the sky, stunned, as the sheets of blue fire painted the landscape with an azure glow. He heard Caius repeating a prayer, heard the wind howling around him, but he barely noticed.

  “An omen,” he heard himself say.

  Both dread and a sense of finality settled in him.

  “The omen,” he said.

  He had been warned about that omen ten years ago, fighting the urdmordar that had terrorized the village of Victrix. A year after that, he had undertaken a quest at the behest of the high elves, entering the cursed ruins of Urd Morlemoch. The undead sorcerer that lurked at its heart, the creature that called itself the Warden, had confirmed the urdmordar’s mocking prophecy, telling him of the omen, the day blue fire would burst from the slopes of the Black Mountain.

  The omen that foretold the return of the Frostborn.

  Chapter 3 - Awakening

  Calliande opened her eyes.

  She saw nothing but utter blackness, felt nothing but the cold stone beneath her back, its chill soaking through her robes. She took a deep breath, her throat and tongue dry and rough. Something soft and clinging covered her face and throat, and she tried to pull it off. But her shaking hands would not obey, and only after five tries did she reach her face, her fingers brushing her cheek and jaw.

  She could not see anything in the blackness, but she recognized the feeling of the delicate threads she plucked from her face.

  Cobwebs. She was pulling cobwebs from her jaw.

  A wave of terrible exhaustion went through her, and a deeper darkness swallowed Calliande.

  ###

  Dreams danced across her mind like foam driven across a raging sea.

  She saw herself arguing with men in white robes, their voices raised in anger, their faces blurring into mist whenever she tried to look at them.

  A great battle, tens of thousands of armored men striving against a massive horde of blue-skinned orcs, great half-human, half-spider devils on their flanks, packs of beastmen savaging the knights in their armor. Tall, gaunt figures in pale armor led the horde, their eyes burning with blue flame, glittering swords in their hands.

  The sight of them filled her with terror, with certainty that they would devour the world.

  “It is the only way,” she heard herself tell the men in white robes, their faces dissolving into mist as she tried to remember their names. “This is the only way. I have to do this. Otherwise it will be forgotten, and it will all happen again. And we might not be able to stop him next time.”

  She heard the distant sound of dry, mocking laughter.

  A thunderous noise filled her ears, the sound of a slab of stone slamming over the entrance to a tomb.

  “It is the only way,” Calliande told the men in white robes.

  “Is it?”

  A shadow stood in their midst, long and dark and cold, utterly cold.

  “You,” whispered Calliande.

  “Little girl,” whispered the shadow. “Little child, presuming to wield power you cannot understand. I am older than you. I am older than this world. I made the high elves dance long before your pathetic kindred ever crawled across the hills.” The shadow drew closer, devouring the men in the white robes. “You don’t know who I truly am. For if you did…you would run. You would run screaming. Or you would fall on your knees and worship me.”

  “No,” said Calliande. “I stopped you once before.”

  “You did,” said the shadow. “But I have been stopped many times. Never defeated. I always return. And in your pride and folly, you have ensured that I shall be victorious.”

  The shadow filled everything, and Calliande sank into darkness.

  ###

  Her eyes shot open with a gasp, the cobwebs dancing around her lips, her heart hammering against her ribs. Again a violent spasm went through her limbs, her muscles trembling, her head pulsing with pain.

  Bit by bit Calliande realized that she was ravenous, that her throat was parched with thirst.

  And she was no longer in the darkness.

  A faint blue glow touched her eyes. She saw a vaulted stone ceiling overhead, pale and eerie in the blue light. The air smelled musty and stale, as if it had not been breathed in a very long time.

  She pressed her hands flat at her sides, felt cold, smooth stone beneath them.

  On the third try she sat up, her head spinning, her hair falling against her shoulders.

  She lay upon an altar of stone, or perhaps a sarcophagus. The altar stood in the center of a stone nave, thick pillars supporting the arched roof. The blue light came from the far end of the nave, near an archway containing a set of stairs.

  Calliande sat motionless for a moment, listening to the silence.

  She had no idea how she had gotten here. Nor, for that matter, did she know where she was.

  And, with a growing sense of panic, she realized she could not remember who she was.

  Calliande, her name was Calliande. She knew that much. But the details of her past turned to mist even as she tried to recall them. Shattered, broken images danced through her mind. Men in white robes, warriors with eyes of blue flame, armies of blue-skinned orcs…but all of it slithered away from her grasp.

  Something, she realized, had gone terribly wrong.

  “They were supposed to be here,” she whispered, her voice cracked and rasping. “They were supposed to wait here.”

  But who?

  She didn’t know.

  Her panic grew, her hands scrabbling over the altar’s stone surface. After a moment she realized that she was looking for something. A…staff? Yes, that was it. A staff.

  Why?

  Calliande looked around in desperation, her panic growing.

  “They were supposed to be here,” she said again.

  But through her fear, her mind noted some practical problems. She was alone in a strange place, her stomach was clenching with hunger, and she was so thirsty her head was spinning. Despite whatever had happened to her, she could not remain here and wait for someone to find her.

  Calliande took a deep breath, braced herself on the edge of the altar, and stood. Her boots clicked against the stone floor, and her legs felt as if they had been made of wet string. Yet she did not fall, and after a moment she took a step forward.

  Something brushed her left arm and fell to the floor.

  She looked down at herself and saw that she wore a robe of green trimmed with gold upon the sleeves and hems, and the left sleeve had fallen off, exposing the pale skin of her arm. Once it must have been a magnificent garment, but now it was worn and brittle, the seams disintegrating. The leather of her belt and boots was dry and crumbling, and the few steps she had taken had already split her right boot open.

  The clothes looked centuries old.

  Her fear redoubled. Was she dead? Had she been buried alive?

  Another part of her mind, the cold part that had urged her to find food and water, pointed out that a dead woman would not feel nearly as hungry as she did. Had not the Dominus Christus eaten food in front of his disciples to prove that he was not a spirit?

  Whatever had happened to Calliande, she was still alive.

  But she needed to take action to stay that way.

  She crossed the nave, her boots crumbling further with every step. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, and she glim
psed more cobwebs stretched between the heavy pillars supporting the ceiling. No other footprints marked the dust. It was clear that no one had entered this chamber in a long time. Soot stained the pillars, and here and there Calliande saw piles of burned wood that had once been furniture.

  Had this place caught fire?

  She saw the first bones after that.

  Three skeletons lay in the dust nearby, clad in rusted armor, swords and maces lying near their bony hands. She saw the marks of violence upon their bones. Plainly a battle had been fought here, long ago, and it had been followed by a fire.

  How long had she been lying in this place of death?

  Calliande reached the archway at the far end of the nave. A skeleton lay slumped against the stairs, clad in the ragged remnants of a robe.

  A white robe.

  She remembered the image from her dream, and reached to touch the bones.

  As she did, the blue light brightened, and a specter appeared on the stairs.

  Calliande took a step back in alarm, but the specter made no move to harm her. It looked like an old man in white robes, his head encircled by a tangled mane of gray hair, his eyes deep and heavy and sad.

  “Forgive me, mistress,” said the specter.

  “You can see me?” said Calliande. “Who are you?”

  “Forgive me, for we have failed in our sacred charge,” said the specter. “The Tower of Vigilance is overrun. The warring sons of the old king brought their foolish quarrel here, and the Tower is taken. I wished us to remain neutral, but the others thought differently…and our Order has paid for it.”

  “Answer me!” said Calliande. “Who are you? Why am I here?”

  But the specter kept talking, and Calliande realized it wasn’t really there. Or, rather, it was not a spirit or a ghost. Rather, it was a spell, a final message to her.

  Left by the man whose bones now lay moldering at her feet.

  “I have no doubt they would kill you simply out of spite,” said the old man, “and I have my suspicions of the darker forces behind the strife. But I have activated the defenses of the vault. Sealed it from the inside.” He took a deep breath. “Only you can open it.”