Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “A prisoner,” said Caius.

  Ridmark nodded. The High King’s law banned slavery in the realm of Andomhaim, but the pagan orcs often kept slaves, whether orcs from defeated tribes, halflings, or humans captured on raids. If the Mhalekites took Dun Licinia, any survivors would likely find themselves enslaved…or butchered in an orgy of sacrifice to the blood gods. Mhalek had done much the same.

  Likely the orcs’ prisoner had a similar fate awaiting her.

  “There’s just one,” said Caius. “Strange.”

  “It is,” said Ridmark, watching the woman’s pale form as she struggled. Why didn’t the orcs have more prisoners? For that matter, why did they have even one? No one lived near the Black Mountain. There had been villages here, but Mhalek had wiped them out. Had some renegades or outlaws made their nest in the foothills, only to fall afoul of the Mhalekites? That made the most sense…but Ridmark had seen no other prisoners. If the orcs had captured slaves, they would have either taken them along to battle or butchered them before abandoning the Tower of Vigilance.

  One lone woman did not make sense.

  “Something is wrong here,” said Ridmark.

  “Obviously,” said Caius. “No doubt they have a dreadful fate planned for the girl.”

  “No doubt,” said Ridmark, “but why only one prisoner? What was a lone woman doing in the foothills, let along the Tower of Vigilance? There’s something deeper happening here.”

  An odd thought occurred to him. Might the woman know more about the blue fire? The orcs stopped, the blue-armored warrior and the shaman arguing. The shaman glared towards the curtain wall, and for an instant Ridmark feared that they had been discovered. But the shaman stalked away from the warrior, dark eyes glimmering with the crimson light of the orcish battle rage. And as he turned, Ridmark saw the shaman’s profile.

  “God and his saints,” said Ridmark. “I know him.”

  “You do?” said Caius. “How?”

  “His name’s Vlazar,” said Ridmark. “He was Qazarl’s student, and Qazarl was one of Mhalek’s disciples. I thought them both slain after the battle, but…we never did find the bodies of all the disciples.” Tens of thousands of orcs had fallen like wheat, their bodies rent by blade and lance, their features churned into pulp by the stamping hooves of war horses. “And if Vlazar is here, Qazarl must be commanding the Mhalekites.”

  “Perhaps Vlazar has a following of his own,” said Caius.

  Ridmark snorted. “Vlazar is a toad. The Mhalekite orcs respect strength and charisma, and Vlazar is lacking in both. No, Qazarl is commanding the Mhalekites, I’m sure of it.”

  Though that did not explain what Vlazar was doing here.

  After a moment Vlazar and the blue-armored warrior came to an agreement. The group of warriors continued around the courtyard, still carrying the woman tied to the pole. Ridmark watched as they circled around the inner towers, vanishing to the north.

  “They’re going to the northern gate,” said Caius.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, rubbing his chin. Black stubble rasped beneath his callused fingers. “Why not join the others? Qazarl marches for Dun Licinia, that is plain. Why not simply…”

  The answer came to him.

  “They’re going to sacrifice the woman,” said Ridmark.

  “How do you know?” said Caius.

  “There are circles of standing stones higher up,” said Ridmark. “The dark elves reared them. They believed whatever demon they worshipped was imprisoned within the Black Mountain, and they performed bloody rites upon the high altars. Vlazar is a toad, but he does have magic. He’s going to kill the woman upon the standing stones and use her blood to work a spell.”

  “God and his archangels preserve us,” said Caius. “I fear you are right. We must aid her! But we are only two, and even the Gray Knight cannot prevail against thirty orcs and a shaman.”

  “Master Galearus once told me,” said Ridmark, “that a knight is guided by chivalry, but his mind and his will are his weapons. His sword is merely the instrument of his will. Come, Brother Caius. Let us put our minds and wills to the test.”

  He led the way from the tower, Caius following, and set in pursuit of the orcs and their prisoner.

  He hoped his mind and his will would produce a plan.

  After all, Master Galearus’s cunning had failed in the end, and Mhalek’s treachery had killed him.

  Chapter 7 -The High Altar

  Every step filled Calliande with fresh pain.

  The orcs departed through the Tower of Vigilance’s northern gate and started the steep climb into the highest foothills, just below the Black Mountain proper. The sun dipped to the western horizon, flinging stark shadows across the ravines and the hills. The orcs continued climbing, Vlazar walking in front and barking orders to the warriors every few yards.

  The warriors ignored him and looked to Kharlacht for their instructions. The tall orc walked back and forth up the column, speaking in a low voice to his men. Perhaps he planned violence against Vlazar. Or, more likely, he was concerned about the dangers of the mountain. Fire drakes kept nests upon the Black Mountain’s slopes, and other creatures, horrors wrought by the black magic of the dark elves, sometimes emerged from secret nests to carry off victims. And tribes of kobolds lurked in the tunnels of the Deeps, and they had no love for orcs.

  God only knew what they would do to Calliande.

  She swung from the pole, helpless. The ropes bit into the skin of her wrists and ankles. Every step sent a burst of pain up her arms and legs. Despite the chill, sweat dripped down her body as her muscles clenched, trying to support her weight. Calliande gritted her teeth, trying to ignore the pain even as she swung back and forth. She would not cry out. She would not cry out. She…

  The orc carrying the front of the pole stumbled, and Calliande bounced.

  Pain roared through her shoulders and hips, and a strangled scream came from her lips. The orcish warriors holding the pole glanced at her and kept walking.

  Calliande closed her eyes, biting her lip. Bad enough that she had begged Shadowbearer to spare her. She would not show weakness again. She…

  Another bounce, and another scream.

  “What is this?”

  Kharlacht’s deep voice filled her ears, and she opened her eyes.

  The tall warrior stood nearby, scowling at the orcs carrying her poles.

  “We are carrying her as Qazarl commanded,” said one of the orcs. “As the Master commanded.”

  “You are causing her,” said Kharlacht, his face impassive, “unnecessary pain.”

  The orc shrugged. “So?”

  “If you wrench her shoulders from their sockets, fool,” said Kharlacht, “she could tear a blood vessel. If she hemorrhages to death before we reach the standing stones, it will be hard to sacrifice her upon the altar, will it not?”

  “Perhaps,” said the orc.

  “Cut her down,” said Kharlacht.

  The orc warrior bristled. “She will escape.”

  “To where?” said Kharlacht. “Cut her down, or answer to me for it.”

  The orc shrugged, shifted the pole to one shoulder, and turned. A dagger flashed in his hands, and the blade cut through the rope binding Calliande’s ankles. Her legs fell in a tangled heap to the road, her weight sagging against the ropes upon her wrists. Another flash of the dagger, and Calliande fell to the ground. Pain throbbed through her limbs, her muscles clenching, even as the chill of the sweat upon her skin made her shiver.

  She tasted blood on her lip from where she had bitten it.

  A hand curled around her shoulder, strong and hard, and lifted her to her feet. Calliande found herself looking up at Kharlacht, his face without expression.

  “You,” he said, pointing at one of the orcs. “Your cloak.”

  The orc obeyed without hesitation. Kharlacht took the heavy cloak and swirled it around Calliande’s shoulders. The thing smelled vile, the leather and wool scratchy against her skin, but it was blessedly warm.


  “Keep that closed,” said Kharlacht, “until we reach the end.”

  “And then,” said Calliande, “I will never suffer again, is that it?”

  Kharlacht opened his mouth to answer, and Vlazar stormed towards them.

  “What is this delay?” snarled the shaman. His eyes seemed to burn like coals in their sockets as the battle fury started to come on him. “The Master commanded us to take the human bitch to the altar at once.”

  “The Master,” said Kharlacht, “commanded us to bring her alive and untouched to the standing circle. If she develops a chill or bleeds to death before we even reach the standing stones, you will hardly be able to kill her and work the magic. What do you think the Master will say then?”

  “I am a representative of the blood gods!” roared Vlazar. “You will obey me!”

  “I care nothing for your wretched blood gods,” said Kharlacht, “and I obey Qazarl because he is my blood kin. Your authority means nothing to me.”

  “Then perish!” roared Vlazar. His eyes blazed with crimson light, and he shoved Kharlacht in the chest. The bigger orc stumbled, and Vlazar lifted his hands and chanted a spell. Fiery light blazed around his fingers, and Calliande sensed malevolent forces coming at the shaman’s call.

  Kharlacht moved so fast she could barely see it.

  She heard the sound a fist striking flesh, and then Kharlacht stood with his foot upon Vlazar’s chest, his greatsword of dark elven steel in his hand. The tip rested upon Vlazar’s neck, pressing gently into the skin of his throat.

  “Strike me again, Vlazar,” said Kharlacht.

  “Get off me!” snarled Vlazar. He grabbed at Kharlacht’s leg and shoved, but even with the aid of his battle rage, Kharlacht was too strong to move.

  “Strike me again, Vlazar,” repeated Kharlacht, “and you will see what happens.”

  A hint of fear appeared on Vlazar’s face.

  “Get off me,” said Vlazar. “I am a shaman of the blood gods. Qazarl will be furious with you.”

  “He will,” said Kharlacht, “but he doesn’t like you.”

  Vlazar sneered. “He detests you.”

  “True,” said Kharlacht, “but I am blood kin. He just doesn’t like you. And if you get the prisoner killed before we even reach the standing stones, he will like you even less.”

  He stepped back, the dark elven greatsword in his right hand. Vlazar staggered to his feet, glaring, as if challenging any of the warriors to say anything.

  None did.

  “Fine,” spat Vlazar. “Take the prisoner in hand. See to it that she reaches the standing stones unharmed.” He shook a finger at Kharlacht. “But if any harm comes to her, it is upon your head!”

  He stalked back to the head of the column, snarling commands at anyone in sight.

  “Thank you,” said Calliande, huddled within her cloak.

  Kharlacht looked at her for a moment, and then nodded.

  “I do not care for needless cruelty,” he said in Latin.

  Calliande answered him in the same language. “You are baptized?”

  His free hand started to stray to the simple wooden cross hanging from his neck, but he stopped himself. “I am. My mother introduced me to the god of the humans, the Dominus Christus. I cared little for gods when I was younger, whether the gods of my fathers or the god of the Church.”

  “What changed your mind?” said Calliande.

  “Loss,” said Kharlacht.

  “Why are you doing this?” said Calliande. “You are not a follower of the blood gods. Why bring me to my death?”

  Kharlacht shrugged. “My home was lost to me, when I took this weapon and armor from the dark elven ruin.” He raised the greatsword and slid it back into its sheath. “All that is left to me is my blood kin.”

  “Qazarl,” said Calliande. “A brutal and cruel man.”

  “He is,” said Kharlacht with a sigh. “I deny it not. When I was young, I dreamed of becoming a warrior of my clan, of defending my people and village from the beasts and devils of the forest. Instead I carry out the errands of a power-mad shaman who leads his people to destruction at the word of a horror out of legend.”

  “Shadowbearer,” said Calliande.

  Speaking the name sent a shiver down her back, even beneath the heavy cloak.

  “Shadowbearer,” repeated Kharlacht. “He cares nothing for the followers of Mhalek, or for my cousin’s people. Yet Qazarl is blinded by his lust and ambition. He will do Shadowbearer’s bidding…until the wizard no longer finds us useful and casts us aside.”

  “You need not do this,” said Calliande.

  Kharlacht said nothing.

  Calliande took a shaky breath, her arms and legs still aching. “You are not a fool. You are baptized, and you know the Dominus Christus commands his followers to offer sacrifices to no other gods, to only kill in defense of life.”

  “I know this,” said Kharlacht. “Vlazar will murder you. But Qazarl is my kin. I must honor my obligation to him. Even…when his will is turned to folly. I am sorry that I must do this.”

  “Kharlacht!” snarled Vlazar in orcish. “We do not have time to tarry.” He turned and grinned, his expression mocking. “If she has so captured your fancy…remember that the Master wishes her untouched. If you have such a fire in your blood for human women, there shall be plenty behind the walls of Dun Licinia.”

  “I am sorry,” said Kharlacht again, ignoring Vlazar’s taunts. “We must go.”

  Calliande felt her heart sink. She had come so close to persuading him. But there was no escape. She was going to climb that mountain, and she was going to die upon an altar with that soulstone upon her breast.

  And she would never know why.

  “Move!” said Vlazar, turning towards the road. “We have delayed long enough.”

  Kharlacht opened his mouth to answer…and then closed it, his grim face hardening into a frown.

  Calliande followed his gaze. She saw nothing but the dimming sky overhead, the clouds lit by the rays of the setting sun. Kharlacht turned west, shading his eyes. As he did, Calliande saw a metallic gleam overhead, like sunlight reflecting off copper.

  Copper? That seemed odd. Why did…

  “Down!” snapped Kharlacht, and he shoved her to the ground.

  Calliande struck the road just as a lance of snarling flame shot over her head. The blast slammed into two of the orcish warriors, and both men went up in flames with a scream, the horrible stench of burning flesh filling Calliande’s nostrils. She rolled to her knees and saw a scaly creature the size of a large dog drop from the sky, copper-colored wings spread behind it, its talons digging into dying, burning orcs.

  Recognition welled out of the mists choking her memory.

  A fire drake.

  The drake turned to face her as Calliande scrambled to her feet. It scuttled over the burning corpses of the orcs as the other warriors shouted. Vlazar fell back, fear on his face, and began to cast a spell. Yet the drake came at Calliande, its unblinking yellow eyes fixed on her.

  She did not know if being burned alive would be less painful than dying upon the stone altar, but she was about to find out.

  The drake’s mouth yawned wide, a harsh yellow-orange light flaring to life behind its black fangs.

  A gleaming blue blur struck the drake’s neck, and its head jumped off its shoulders. Kharlacht took another step, the drake’s blood smoking on the blue steel of his sword, and kicked with a heavy boot. The drake’s thrashing body toppled over, smoking blood spraying from its neck to sizzle against the road.

  Bit by bit its thrashing stopped.

  “Is it dead?” said Vlazar, his voice shrill.

  “It is dead, Vlazar,” said Kharlacht, wiping the drake’s blood from his blade. “You can stop hiding now.”

  A mutter of nervous laughter went up from the orcish warriors.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” said Vlazar, staring at the headless drake. “You fought valiantly.” Calliande felt her lip curl in disgust. Th
is craven, cringing coward of a shaman was going to kill her? The indignity of it rankled, even as she recognized the absurdity of the feeling. “You fought…almost as a follower of the blood gods.”

  “Enough talk,” said Kharlacht. “Drakes often hunt in packs. Draw your weapons. You, you, you, and you. Guard the prisoner. You and you and you. Keep your bows out, and have an arrow ready. If anything moves in the sky over us, shoot it, along with any sign of flame. Anything wielding fire in these hills, or above them, is unlikely to be friendly.”

  The warriors hastened to obey Kharlacht’s commands.

  “Do as he says,” said Vlazar, the sound of clanking armor and rattling weapons drowning out his voice. “I command you to do as he says.”

  Kharlacht waited until the orcs had arrayed themselves, and then nodded. “Let’s get this over with. But proceed slowly. The prisoner is injured, and the Master will be angry if she perishes.”

  Before she reached the standing stones, anyway.

  The orcish warriors resumed their march, Calliande’s escorts falling around her.

  And to her surprise, she felt somewhat better.

  She rubbed her fingers over her mouth and looked at them. She had bitten her lip in her pain, had felt the blood drip down her chin. Yet there was no trace of the cut now. For that matter, the scrapes and cuts on her hands had vanished. The ache in her hips and shoulders from the ropes had faded.

  Her body was healing itself faster than it should.

  She felt grateful for the lessened pain, but nonetheless alarmed.

  Just who was she? Why did Shadowbearer want to kill her upon that altar?

  It seemed she would never learn the truth.

  Calliande considered running, but knew she would never get away before the orcs caught her.

  She kept walking.

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