Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I was a boy, I knew a man who lost his memory,” said Ridmark. “A horse kicked him in the head, and he forgot his own name. But he also forgot how to talk, to feed himself, how to do anything else, and eventually died of his injuries. But you remember your name.”

  “Calliande,” she said. “At least, I think that is my name.”

  “And you can remember how to walk and dress yourself,” said Ridmark. “You remember how to speak…in fact, you speak in both Latin and orcish.”

  “That is odd,” said Calliande, her brow furrowing. “I wonder if I know any other languages.”

  “And you are enduring this situation with remarkable calm,” said Ridmark. “You have more steel in you than I would have expected. I know men and women who would hide weeping in a corner, had they endured what you have endured.”

  “I cannot say that prospect has no appeal,” said Calliande, “but…if I surrender I die, and I have no wish to die. Not yet.”

  Ridmark could not say the same.

  “I suspect the damage to your memory was caused by a spell,” said Ridmark. “If we seek out a Magistrius, he may be able to reverse the spell.”

  “Assuming we get out of the Deeps alive,” said Calliande.

  “There is that,” said Ridmark.

  They stood in silence for a moment. Ridmark watched her profile as she gazed at the waterfall. She claimed to have awakened in a vault below the Tower of Vigilance. The Order of the Vigilant had been founded to guard against the potential return of the Frostborn, until the Magistri and the nobles of Andomhaim had decided that the Frostborn were extinct. Ridmark had once thought that, too.

  Then he had heard both Gothalinzur and the Warden speak of the future…

  “Do you know anything about the Frostborn?” said Ridmark.

  Calliande frowned. “The Frostborn?” She thought for a moment. “No. I cannot recall anything. They…tried to destroy Andomhaim, did they not? And the High King and the Dragon Knight destroyed them, wiped them out. Beyond that, all I know is what I’ve heard since I’ve awakened.”

  “You were sleeping below the Tower of Vigilance,” said Ridmark. “I would make sense that you would know about them.”

  “Perhaps,” said Calliande, “but if I do, I can remember nothing of it. Why do you want to know?”

  “Ten years ago,” said Ridmark, “I fought and slew an urdmordar named Gothalinzur. She claimed that the Frostborn would soon return, and she was kidnapping freeholders to use as a larder once they arrived. The year after that, I undertook a quest into the ruins of Urd Morlemoch. The dark elven sorcerer imprisoned within that evil place claimed he saw the return of the Frostborn in the heavens, in the position of the thirteen moons. Five years ago, I fought Mhalek, and he claimed that the shape of the world was changing, that the Frostborn would arise again.”

  “But if the Frostborn are extinct,” said Calliande, “how can they return?”

  “I have spent the last five years,” said Ridmark, “trying to find the answer to that question.”

  They lapsed into silence.

  “Mhalek,” said Calliande. “Who is he?”

  “You don’t know?” said Ridmark.

  Calliande shook her head. “Qazarl mentioned him…but I cannot recall the name.”

  Ridmark considered that. It seemed that certain facts jogged Calliande’s memory, dug the recollections out of her mind. That meant she had most likely never heard Mhalek’s name before.

  And that meant she had been sealed in that vault for five years, if not longer.

  “Mhalek was an orcish shaman, a powerful one,” said Ridmark. “He was once a subject of the king of Khaluusk, a baptized son of the Church. But he left the Church and turned to black magic, and started worshipping the old orcish blood gods. In time he came to believe that he was a blood god, incarnated in mortal flesh, and went north to raise an army from the pagan orcs of Vhaluusk. He invaded the Northerland, but was defeated at Dun Licinia.”

  “What happened to him?” said Calliande.

  “I killed him,” said Ridmark.

  He remembered the final confrontation with Mhalek, remembered the screams, the blood upon the floor of Castra Marcaine…

  Calliande took a deep breath. “You said…you said you slew an urdmordar.”

  “I did,” said Ridmark. “Gothalinzur. At the village of Victrix, ten years ago.”

  “Urdmordar are mighty foes,” said Calliande, “and can only be slain with magic.”

  “I was once a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Soulblade,” said Ridmark, “and I carried the soulblade Heartwarden. I killed the urdmordar with that sword.”

  “But you were expelled from the Order,” said Calliande. “The brand on your left cheek.”

  Ridmark nodded.

  “Can…can I ask why?” said Calliande.

  What could he tell her? That his arrogance and misjudgment had cost him everything? That he deserved his punishment and worse? That the forgiveness Dux Gareth Licinius and Sir Constantine Licinius had offered had only made his guilt worse?

  “I made an error,” said Ridmark, staring at the waterfall.

  “Thank you for my life,” said Calliande.

  He blinked in surprise and looked back at her.

  “Whoever you are or whatever you might have done, you saved my life,” said Calliande. “And at great risk. You didn’t even know who I was. You still don’t. But you rescued me nonetheless.”

  “I know what the Mhalekites are like,” said Ridmark. “I would not leave anyone to their cruelties.”

  “Thank you,” said Calliande. She hesitated, and touched his arm. “And…once this is all over, once we’ve escaped…I will try to help you find the Frostborn. If I can be of any use.”

  Ridmark inclined his head. “And I will help you find your memory. If I can.”

  She smiled at him once more and went back to lie down. A moment later Ridmark saw that she had fallen back asleep. Apparently her strange vigor had at least some limits.

  An hour later Caius awoke with a grunt. The dwarf looked at the sleeping Kharlacht, nodded, and walked into a patch of tall mushrooms, no doubt to relieve himself. A moment later he returned to the ledge and knelt in silent prayer for a time.

  Then he joined Ridmark.

  “Anything?” he said in a low voice.

  “Nothing,” said Ridmark. “If anyone is watching us, they are skilled at stealth.”

  Caius nodded. “Calliande is…rather comely, is she not?”

  “God, the archangels, and all his saints!” said Ridmark. “The tales claim that all friars are meddling matchmakers, but I had not thought that impulse would extend to a member of the dwarven kindred.”

  Caius grinned. With his gray skin and marble-like blue eyes, he seemed at home in the gloom of the Deeps in a way that Ridmark and the others did not. “Well. I have grown sentimental in my old age.” His smile faded. “What did she say?”

  “She doesn’t remember anything before waking up in a vault below the Tower of Vigilance yesterday afternoon,” said Ridmark.

  “So she woke at the same time,” said Caius, “the blue fire filled the sky.”

  “I thought as much,” said Ridmark.

  “Do you think she is telling the truth?” said Caius.

  “If she is a liar,” said Ridmark, “then she should choose a less implausible story. I believe she is telling the truth.” He scratched his chin, the stubble rasping beneath his thumb. “My guess is that someone in the Order of the Vigilant left her beneath the castle, bound with a spell. When the Order was destroyed, their records burned with the castle…and all knowledge of Calliande was lost.”

  “That seems reasonable,” said Caius. “Though why bind her like that?”

  “I have no idea,” said Ridmark.

  “You believe the Frostborn will return,” said Caius. “Perhaps…she knows something of it?”

  “I thought that, as well,” said Ridmark.


  “Or perhaps…she will be the means of their return?” said Caius.

  Ridmark shook his head. “I don’t see how. She is a strange woman, true, but not malicious.”

  “She might not remember to be malicious,” said Caius.

  “Maybe,” said Ridmark. “But I doubt the lack of memory would change her basic virtue.”

  Caius shrugged. “Are we not all shaped by our experiences? Are we not the sum of our memories? The sages of the dwarves say that just as the thousand blows of a hammer shape a blade, so to do the thousand experiences of a man shape him.”

  Ridmark grunted. “If you want to debate philosophy, Brother Caius, wait until we return to the sunlight.”

  Caius grinned. “I shall remember that! That stone she carries, the one Vlazar had. Do you think it is truly a soulstone?”

  “I do,” said Ridmark. “It looks like the ones bound to the blades of the Order’s Soulblades. But larger. Much larger. I wonder if that means it is more powerful.”

  “It may,” said Caius. “I know little of soulstones.”

  “I know that the high elves alone know the secret of their making,” said Ridmark, “and so far have only shared finished stones with the Order of the Soulblade.”

  “I fear that is all I know, as well,” said Caius.

  “That soulstone has power,” said Ridmark. “We’ll keep it away from Qazarl. And this Shadowbearer, whether he is truly the figure of legend or some renegade with delusions of grandeur.”

  Caius tugged at his gray-streaked beard. “Do you think Vlazar altered Calliande’s memory?”

  Ridmark snorted. “Vlazar? No. If he had tried, he would have either failed utterly or reduced her to a drooling imbecile. He couldn’t have managed such a precise spell.”

  “A Magistrius would have the skill,” said Caius. “But from what I understand, your Magistri are forbidden the use of such a spell.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “The Order of the Magistri may only use magic for defense, for knowledge, and for communication. Any other use is forbidden.” He shook his head. “Well, we have many mysteries. What is one more?”

  “I can take the next watch,” said Caius, “if you wish some rest.”

  “I do,” said Ridmark. “Keep an eye on Kharlacht.”

  “I shall,” said Caius.

  Ridmark crossed to the wall, placed himself between Kharlacht and Calliande, and sat down. He propped his staff against the wall, loosened his dagger in its sheath, and rested against the rock. Both Kharlacht and Calliande remained motionless. Ridmark watched Kharlacht for any sign of treachery, but his eyes kept straying to Calliande.

  The questions gnawed at him. Who was she, and why had she awakened without her memory?

  And what did she have to do with the Frostborn?

  He drifted to sleep.

  ###

  Morning came, or at least whatever passed for morning in the sunless world of the Deeps.

  Calliande awoke to see Ridmark distributing food. Neither sleep nor exhaustion seemed to have left their mark on him. Black stubble shaded the hard line of his jaw, and his eyes were like blue shadows. The brand was a harsh scar upon his cheek.

  What had he done to earn it? He was fearless and clever in battle, the exemplar of a Knight of the Soulblade. What could he have done to earn expulsion from the Order?

  Perhaps his crime had made him that way, had left him uncaring of his life and eager to risk it.

  Still, Calliande owed him her life. If he did not wish to speak of it, she would not press him.

  But the curiosity would not leave her.

  “I think,” said Caius, “that our best option is to follow the stream for as long as possible. We are high in the foothills, and water flows downhill.”

  Kharlacht grunted. “When Qazarl led his folk down from Vhaluusk, we passed a stream flowing from a cave mouth, not far from here. Perhaps this is the same stream.”

  “We may hope so,” said Caius. “Unfortunately, it is just as likely that it flows into one of the great underground seas. Not even my kindred have mapped them all.”

  “It is in the hands of God,” said Kharlacht.

  “We could always take the other cavern,” said Calliande, “near the waterfall.” Another tunnel yawned there, one that sloped higher into the hills. “Perhaps it will circle down.”

  “It might just as easily keep going up,” said Ridmark. “And I do not think we should enter the Deeps below the Black Mountain itself. A place the dark elves regard as sacred is no place to linger. If the stream proves impassable, we will double back.”

  No one argued. His plan was sound, Calliande thought. And Ridmark Arban had a…mantle of command about him, a cloak of authority. This wanderer was a man accustomed to giving orders. She expected Kharlacht to argue, but the orcish warrior only nodded.

  “Caius, walk with me,” said Ridmark. “Kharlacht, take the rear, watch for anyone following us. Calliande, keep your eyes open.”

  She nodded, getting to her feet, and stifled a laugh of admiration. Of the four of them, she was the least useful, and she knew it. She had no weapons, and would not know how to use them if she did. Yet Ridmark still gave her a task, still made her feel like a part of a larger whole.

  Why had the Order of the Soulblade expelled such a man?

  They gathered their possessions, left the stone ledge, and entered the stream’s tunnel. At first Calliande feared they would have to wade through the icy water, but the stream only occupied perhaps a third of the floor. They walked in silence, the only sound the splashing of the water, the only light coming from the patches of glowing lichen and the occasional ghost mushroom. From time to time Calliande saw light within the stream, and she wondered if spirits frolicked beneath the water.

  Or perhaps the souls of those who had died here, wandering forever in search of an exit.

  But she realized the light only came from strange, luminescent fish.

  The cavern widened, patches of mushrooms providing additional light. Finally it opened into another gallery. The stream rushed ahead into another tunnel, and six more passages opened off from the gallery. Heaps of rounded objects lay scattered across the floor, and an odd, musky smell filled the air.

  Bones. The rounded objects were bones.

  Kharlacht drew his sword with a steely hiss, and Ridmark walked to one of the piles and picked up a bone with his free hand.

  “Murrag,” said Caius, squinting at the bone.

  The word sparked no recollection in Calliande. “What is a murrag?”

  “They’re somewhat like sheep,” said Ridmark, “but with thick scales in lieu of fur, and large eyes to see in the gloom down here.”

  “Think of a fat, lazy lizard with a surly disposition,” said Caius.

  Calliande looked at the scattered bones. “Quite a lot of fat, lazy lizards.”

  “Aye,” said Kharlacht. “I know little of the Deeps, but we have entered the lair of a predator, I am sure of it.”

  “What manner of predator?” said Ridmark.

  “I don’t know,” said Caius. “That smell…I think it’s dung.”

  “Dung?” said Ridmark. “Yes, I know it. It’s spitfang dung. I’ve smelled it before. We…”

  Calliande saw the wall ripple.

  For an alarmed moment she thought it was another ursaar. But these ripples looked as if the colors of the stone wall were flowing together. With a shock she realized that a shape on the wall was changing colors, altering itself to match the hue of the wall.

  And then she could see the creature.

  It was the lizard the size of a dog, with webbed feet and an ornate crest around its neck. Huge fangs jutted from both its upper and lower jaws, and its eyes gleamed like faceted jewels.

  The lizard scuttled forward, its jaw yawning wide.

  “Ridmark!” shouted Calliande.

  Ridmark spun.

  “Spitfang!” he said. “Down!”

  Calliande ducked, and just in time. The lizard spat a gobbet
of yellow slime. It arced over her head to spatter against the floor, and she heard it hissing and sizzling. The spitfang surged at her with an angry hiss, and Calliande backed away.

  Then Ridmark was before her, his staff whirling, and the heavy wood cracked against the side of the lizard’s head. The spitfang hissed again, and its long tail cracked like a whip. Ridmark caught the tail on his staff, and it coiled around the length of wood. He wrenched the weapon back with enough force to knock the spitfire off balance, its claws raking against the floor.

  The spitfang hissed, the glands on the side of its neck bulging as it prepared to spit again.

  Blue steel streaked before Calliande’s eyes, and the blade of Kharlacht’s greatsword sheared through the spitfang’s neck. Its head rolled across the floor, dribbling yellow slime, while its body went into a thrashing dance. A few heartbeats later its tail uncoiled from Ridmark’s staff, and the body went limp.

  Ridmark yanked his staff free, and Calliande let out a long breath.

  “Good timing,” said Ridmark.

  “Ugly thing,” said Kharlacht, shaking the lizard’s blood from his dark elven blade. With its death, the spitfang’s strange camouflage faded, revealing mottled scales of gray and brown. “So ugly I can see why they disguise themselves.”

  “The disguise helps capture prey, too,” said Caius. “The dark elves use them as war beasts.”

  Calliande stiffened. “Then we’re near a stronghold of the dark elves?”

  “Possibly,” said Ridmark. “Kobolds also use them as war beasts. They’re unreliable, though. The scent of a certain kind of ghost mushroom can drive them berserk. And wild packs sometimes wander the tunnels.”

  “Packs?” said Calliande. One of these things was bad enough. She did not want to see a dozen of them.

  “If there was a pack,” said Caius, “we would be fighting them already. There was just the one, and we stumbled into its lair.”

  “And a lone spitfang,” said Ridmark, turning the corpse over with his boot, “means an escaped war beast.”

  An elaborate rune had been branded upon the lizard’s neck.

  “Kobolds,” said Caius. “That is kobold script.”

  Kharlacht grunted. “Tunnel rats.”

  “Yes, but dangerous ones,” said Ridmark. “We’ll need to avoid them.”