Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Heavier than it looks,” he mused, and then his peculiar blue eyes widened. “It’s made of steel!”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Wood over a steel core. A blacksmith owed me a favor.”

  “A potent weapon,” said Caius, handing the staff back, “in the hands of a strong man. A weapon much like its owner.”

  “Oh?” said Ridmark, resuming his climb.

  “More than it appears,” said Caius. “So you are truly the Gray Knight?”

  Again Ridmark laughed in annoyance. “God and his saints. You do not weary of questions. So you have heard the tales about the Gray Knight?”

  “I didn’t leave the Deeps yesterday,” said Caius. “I have spent nearly twenty years in Andomhaim. And ever since the fall of Mhalek, I have heard the stories. A warrior clad in a cloak of elven-gray, a warrior who haunts the wilderness of the Northerland and Durandis and Coldinium. A man who wields a staff, saves travelers from bandits and pagan orcs and worse creatures, and then vanishes as quickly as he appeared.”

  “A man must do something to keep himself occupied,” said Ridmark.

  “Indeed,” said Caius. “Though I wonder what would drive such a man. But now that I know you are Ridmark Arban, the victor of Dun Licinia and…”

  “And what?” said Ridmark, looking back at Caius. “Ridmark the traitor? Ridmark who fled the field? Ridmark who slew…” He looked back at the road.

  “I was going to say,” said Caius, “a bold and skilled warrior. Orlacht and his lot were capable fighters, and you overcame them single-handedly.”

  “You helped.”

  “Minimally,” said Caius. “So what drives a man to haunt the Wilderland for five years?”

  “Answers,” said Ridmark.

  The road rounded a hill, working its way along a steep stone slope. Soon, if Ridmark remembered correctly, the Tower of Vigilance itself would come into sight.

  “What kind of answers?” said Caius.

  “I told you already,” said Ridmark. Yet, perhaps prodded by the dwarf’s unending questions, he kept speaking. “A long time ago, I slew an urdmordar, a creature who called herself Gothalinzur. She told me that the Frostborn were returning. A year after that, I overcame an undead wizard of the dark elves in the ruins of Urd Morlemoch. He, too, claimed the Frostborn were returning.”

  “Lies,” said Caius, a touch of sympathy in his tone. “Deceits to poison your mind in defeat. The Frostborn were exterminated.”

  “I thought so, too,” said Ridmark. “Then Mhalek said the same thing, before…”

  He remembered the scream, remembered the blood pooling on the floor, the pain filling his chest.

  Pain that would never leave him.

  “Before he died,” he finished. “So I decided to find out the truth of it.” He turned and look back at Caius. “And both the Warden and Mhalek claimed that blue fire would fill the sky to herald the return of the Frostborn.”

  “So here we are,” said Caius.

  “Here we are,” said Ridmark. “If you’d prefer not to travel any further in the company of a madman, you are welcome to return to Dun Licinia.”

  “No,” said Caius. “I don’t think you are mad. No, I think you are…something else.”

  “What, then?” said Ridmark, climbing up the road.

  But Caius did not answer.

  Ridmark took another step, and then stopped.

  “What is it?” said Caius.

  “Keep your voice down,” said Ridmark, lowering his staff so it tapped against the dwarf’s burly chest. “Up ahead. See those boulders, just around the curve of the hill?”

  Caius nodded. “A perfect place for a sentry.”

  “Exactly,” said Ridmark. “Another few feet, and he’ll be able to see us.” He looked around, scowling. He supposed they could go around the hill, but that would take hours, and night would fall long before they reached the Tower of Vigilance. Ridmark could scramble up the slope and reach the pile of boulders from behind, but it would be obvious. One mistake, and any sentries would see him.

  “A distraction,” said Ridmark.

  “What did you have in mind?” said Caius.

  “You,” said Ridmark.

  “Me?”

  “Keep walking along the road,” said Ridmark. “Draw attention to yourself. Sing a hymn or something. While the sentry is watching you, he won’t notice me, and I can deal with him.”

  “I don’t like this plan,” said Caius.

  “You said you like to talk,” said Ridmark. “It plays to your strengths.”

  The dwarf snorted. “I like to ask questions. But very well. I assume you know what you’re doing.”

  Ridmark nodded and climbed the hill, and Caius marched along the world. He began to sing, his deep, rolling voice echoing off the hillside. Ridmark scrambled over the stones, moving from pine tree to pine tree with as much as much silence as he could manage. Caius kept walking, looking for all the world like a friar relieving the tedium of his journey with a hymn.

  An orcish man stepped into sight from around the boulders, a short bow in hand, forehead branded with the Mhalekites’ blood drop sigil. The orc lifted his bow, taking aim at Caius, and Ridmark charged forward.

  At the last minute the orc saw him coming, but it was too late. The first swing of Ridmark’s staff ripped the bow from the orc’s hand. The second caught the orc behind the knees and sent him sprawling to the stony ground. The orc landed with a grunt of pain and tried to rise, only to find the butt of Ridmark’s staff resting on his throat.

  “Don’t move,” said Ridmark in orcish.

  The orc growled. “What do you want?”

  Caius scrambled up the hillside, mace in hand.

  “You were going to shoot my friend,” said Ridmark.

  “You should not be here,” said the orc. “These lands belong to the sons of Mhalek.”

  “Mhalek is dead,” said Ridmark.

  The orc growled again. “Betrayed and murdered by the cowardly Ridmark of Andomhaim…though the wretched human paid for his folly.”

  “Indeed,” said Ridmark. “That does not explain why you are here.”

  “The omen came,” said the orc, “just as the Master promised. Mhalek is slain, but the blood gods will come again. We will drive the humans and the halflings from these lands. We will butcher those of our kindred who pray to the weakling god of the humans.”

  “That is unlikely,” said Ridmark.

  “Many thousands of us have gathered,” said the orc. “And the Master has promised a second sign, a force of warriors that shall make us invincible. Soon the lands of the humans and the faithless shall drip with blood.”

  “I think not,” said Ridmark.

  He lifted his staff.

  “Are you going to kill him?” said Caius. “He is a prisoner.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “I’m going to let him go.”

  He stepped back, staff in hand. The orc climbed to his feet, black eyes narrowed.

  “You will let me go? Why?” said the orc.

  “Tell your master,” said Ridmark, “that we know about his plans. That the men of Dun Licinia are ready for him. Tell your master to turn aside from his folly while he still can. Go.”

  The orc spat and turned.

  Ridmark stretched, tightening his fingers against his staff.

  “Ridmark!” shouted Caius.

  The orc whirled, short sword in hand, and sprang at Ridmark.

  But Ridmark had anticipated the treachery, and met the orc’s attack with one of his own. He sidestepped the stab, swinging his staff, and the heavy weapon slammed into the orc’s forehead with a crack of bone. The orc toppled, and Ridmark stabbed the end of the staff onto the orc’s throat.

  The orc died a few heartbeats after that.

  “Did you really intend to let him go?” said Caius.

  “If he had left without attacking us, then yes,” said Ridmark. “I would have let him go. But as you said, a man has a right to defend himself.”


  “He would have warned the other Mhalekites,” said Caius.

  “I know,” said Ridmark. “But I will not murder a prisoner.”

  He beckoned, and they worked their way back to the road.

  “Your mercy does you credit,” said Caius.

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark.

  “But I do not think,” said Caius, “that was your real reason.”

  “Oh?” said Ridmark. “Enlighten me, then.”

  “The Gray Knight,” said Caius. “The man seeking the Frostborn. The man saving travelers and freeholders from bandits and the creatures of the Wilderland. A man who has no trouble risking his life.”

  “God and his saints!” said Ridmark. “It is just as well that you became a friar, Brother Caius, for you are enamored with the sound of your own voice.”

  Caius smiled. “Thank you.” The smile faded. “But I think, Ridmark Arban…I think you are a man who very badly wants to die, but hasn’t yet found anyone capable of killing him.”

  “All mortals die,” said Ridmark.

  He remembered the blood pooling on the floor of Castra Marcaine’s great hall, remembered that last scream.

  “Even those,” he said, “who do not deserve it. I suggest we remain quiet now. There may be more scouts in the hills.”

  Caius gave him a long look, nodded, and Ridmark continued on the road.

  Chapter 5 - Shadowbearer

  Calliande fought against the orc’s grasp.

  But the orc was too strong, and whatever had caused Calliande to wake up in a vault below the ruined castle had left her weak and exhausted. The orc pulled her along, her feet slipping and skidding on the rough ground, and she had no choice but to follow.

  He pulled her towards the crumbling shell of a tower in the outer curtain wall.

  “Kharlacht!” called the orc. “I’ve found her!”

  A second orc emerged from within the tower.

  He was huge, nearly seven feet tall, his topknot bound with a gleaming bronze ring. He was young, no more than twenty-five at the most, yet the middle-aged orc seemed frightened of him. The orc wore peculiar armor fashioned from overlapping plates of gleaming blue steel, and after a moment Calliande realized that the armor was of dark elven make, as was the hilt of the greatsword rising over his right shoulder.

  Apparently that was something else she knew.

  Kharlacht looked her up and down and grunted.

  “She is far too young, Ulazur,” said Kharlacht, his voice a stern growl. “You’ve found some lost human wench. The Master will be wroth if you bring her before him.”

  He turned away. A leather cord encircled his thick neck, and Calliande saw that it held a small wooden cross.

  The orc was baptized? Unlike Ulazur, he did not have that peculiar brand upon his forehead.

  “I am sure of it,” said Ulazur. “That flooded tower in the inner castle. She came out of the water in the cellar.”

  Kharlacht turned back.

  “She appeared right after the great sign,” said Ulazur. “After the blue fire. It happened just as the Master said it would. She is the one, Kharlacht.”

  Kharlacht stooped over her, his huge, hard hand engulfing her chin, and titled her face up to examine it. His black eyes were like disks of stone, and held not a hint of pity or mercy.

  “You will tell me your name,” he said.

  “Calliande,” she said, her teeth chattering.

  “Calliande,” repeated Kharlacht. “How did you come here?”

  “I…I don’t know!” said Calliande. “I can’t remember.” She suspected telling the orcs anything would prove unwise.

  “She speaks our tongue,” said Ulazur. “Unusual for a common peasant. And the Master said she might call herself Calliande.”

  “Indeed,” said Kharlacht. “Very well. We shall speak to Qazarl.”

  “Do not think to claim the reward, Kharlacht,” said Ulazur with a scowl. “You might be Qazarl’s kin, but I found her.”

  “I will not claim the reward,” said Kharlacht. Ulazur grinned. “But if she is not the one the Master seeks…then you will answer to the Master for it.”

  That made Ulazur’s smile vanish.

  “Come, girl,” said Ulazur, yanking on Calliande’s arm. “Let us see what the Master thinks of you.”

  “Where am I?” said Calliande. “Where you taking me?”

  “Silence,” said Ulazur, raising his hand to strike her.

  “The Master wished,” said Kharlacht, “for her to remain undamaged.”

  Ulazur lowered his hand.

  “This place is called the Tower of Vigilance in the human tongue,” said Kharlacht. The name clicked in Calliande’s mind, and she knew he spoke the truth. “Once it was a mighty fortress. It burned when the High King’s sons made war upon each other, and now it is a ruin.”

  “No,” said Calliande, “no, that’s not right. The Vigilant keep watch here, in case…in case…”

  But she could not remember why the Vigilant kept watch.

  “As for where we are taking you,” said Kharlacht. He looked away. Did she see guilt on his face? “You will see what the Master wants from you soon enough. Bring her.”

  Kharlacht strode across the courtyard of the ruined castle, Ulazur dragging Calliande after him. They circled the castle’s curtain wall, coming at last to the wreckage of the southern gate. Memories flickered within Calliande’s mind as she looked at the ruins. She saw the walls standing tall and strong, unmarked by weather and violence. Banners flew from the towers, men in gleaming armor standing atop the ramparts.

  But the details dissolved into mist whenever she tried to focus on them.

  She was certain she had seen this castle, the Tower of Vigilance, at the height of its splendor. But to judge from the state of the ruins, it had been abandoned for a century, if not longer.

  What had happened to her?

  Though as she felt Ulazur’s fingers dig into her arm, Calliande realized that she ought to be more concerned about what was going to happen to her.

  Kharlacht marched up the stairs to the outer wall. A wide turret stretched next to the barbican, offering a splendid view of the foothills below the Black Mountain. A half-dozen orcish men stood there, scowling, and Calliande felt the weight of their gaze fall upon her.

  She desperately wanted to cover herself.

  At the edge of the turret, gazing down at the foothills, stood a tall figure in a long coat the color of blood. The black-trimmed coat rippled in the icy wind coming down from the mountains. All Calliande saw of the figure in the coat was a shock of dark hair rising over the collar. The wizards of the high elves often wore such coats, indicating their rank and magical prowess.

  Evidently that was another fact she had known before…whatever had happened to her.

  Though she had no idea what a high elf would be doing among these orcs.

  “Qazarl,” said Kharlacht.

  One of the orcish men stepped forward. He was the oldest orc Calliande had seen so far, his hair and ragged beard white. Unlike the others, he wore neither a warrior’s topknot nor armor, but only trousers and a ragged vest. Elaborate tattoos and ritual scars marked his arms and chest.

  She recognized the symbols. The orc was a shaman, a priest of the orcish blood gods…and a wielder of dark magic.

  “Cousin Kharlacht,” said Qazarl, his voice a thin hiss. “You have something?”

  “Aye,” said Kharlacht. “Ulazur believes he found her.”

  Qazarl’s black eyes shifted to the warrior.

  “Yes, great shaman,” said Ulazur. “This is her.”

  He shoved Calliande towards the shaman.

  “Her?” A second, younger orc stepped to Qazarl’s side. Like Qazarl, his chest and arms were marked with scars and tattoos, though not as many as the older orc. That meant he was still an acolyte, not a full shaman of the blood gods…though he was still powerful and dangerous.

  Again she wondered how she knew that.

  Ulazur growle
d at the acolyte, lips pulling back from his teeth. “You doubt me, Vlazar?”

  “This…girl is supposed to be the one the Master seeks?” said Vlazar. “He bade us to find a woman of power and strength. Instead you bring us this…huddling peasant girl.” He stepped forward, glaring down at Calliande. “What is your name?”

  Calliande said nothing, trying not to show any of her fear.

  Vlazar backhanded her across the face. The power of the blow knocked her from her feet, and Calliande landed upon the rough stone floor with a cry.

  “Enough,” said Kharlacht. “This accomplishes nothing.”

  Vlazar spat. “More crying for mercy, Kharlacht? Why don’t you pray to the sheep god of the humans and see if he will save the girl? Or perhaps you can put on lambskin and have Qazarl’s wives put you to bed at night?”

  The other orcs laughed, even Qazarl.

  “Say that again, wizardling,” said Kharlacht, his voice deepening and his eyes glowing as rage took hold. Orcs could fly into a murderous fury that made them stronger and faster than all but the most puissant human warriors.

  “Do not threaten me,” said Vlazar. “I have the favor of the blood gods, and unlike your god, they have power...”

  Kharlacht reached for his sword hilt. “We shall see. It…”

  “Enough.”

  The deep voice was calm and resonant, and yet carried a strange echo.

  Almost as if it was two voices speaking at once.

  Vlazar fell silent at once, and Kharlacht dropped his hand.

  The orcs turned to look at the figure in the long red coat.

  Calliande felt a shiver of fear. There was something wrong about that figure, something off…

  She realized what it was. The gray clouds blocked out much of the sun…but a long black shadow streamed behind the man in the blood-colored coat.

  A shadow pointing in the wrong direction.

  “Master?” said Qazarl.

  “Control your kinsman and your acolyte,” said the strange voice. “I need her alive. If you harm her unduly, I fear I shall be…disappointed.”

  The figure in the blood-colored coat turned, and Calliande found herself looking at a high elf

  And there was indeed something wrong with him.

  He wore a black tunic, black trousers, and gleaming black boots beneath the red coat. His skin was the grayish-white of a corpse, and black veins throbbed beneath his hands and face, like fingers of corruption digging into rotting flesh. His bloodshot eyes were the color of mercury, of quicksilver, and Calliande realized she could see her reflection in his irises.