Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “And if we can’t?” said Calliande.

  “Then we fight,” said Ridmark.

  He led the way further into the Deeps, and Calliande and the others followed.

  Chapter 12 - Raiders

  The next day Ridmark saw the carved arch.

  The stream flowed through a winding, wide tunnel, its floor dotted with pale clusters of ghost mushrooms. Most of the mushrooms shone with a blue glow, but from time to time he saw one that emitted a bloody red light. He made sure to avoid those. The red ghost mushrooms were highly poisonous, and their smell drove spitfangs into a berserk frenzy.

  But he saw no more spitfangs. From time to time he saw a murrag. The fat lizards were the size of sheep, their leathery scales hanging in loose folds around their bodies as they grazed among the mushrooms. The beasts were harmless unless provoked, but they could kick with enough force to shatter bone.

  “Some murrag steaks,” said Caius, “would be most welcome.”

  Calliande frowned. “You eat those things?”

  “Of course!” said Caius. “Murrag meat is a delicacy among the nobles of the Three Kingdoms.”

  “Indeed,” said Ridmark, “but we have no way to cook it, and I doubt it would be pleasant raw.”

  “Alas, no,” said Caius with a sigh, and they kept walking.

  Ridmark’s stomach rumbled. He was used to traveling on light rations, but sooner or later he would need to eat enough to recover his strength. If they did not reach the surface soon, they would have to start hunting.

  He was considering how to cook the murrag when he looked up and saw the archway.

  It had been carved out of the rock of the tunnel. Writing covered its surface, and Ridmark squinted at the characters.

  “Dwarven glyphs,” he said.

  “Aye,” said Caius.

  “Can you read them?”

  Caius snorted. “Of course I can. The language is archaic, but…ah. It says that this arch marks the outer boundary of the stronghold of Thainkul Agon.”

  “I didn’t know the Three Kingdoms extended this far east,” said Ridmark.

  “They don’t,” said Caius. “The Three Kingdoms were once the Nine Kingdoms, but my people took bitter losses in the long wars with the dvargir and the dark elves and the urdmordar. Three kingdoms remain of the original nine…and I think this was an outpost of one of the lost six kingdoms.”

  “A ruin, then,” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said Caius. “And a good place for a stronghold. The stream would provide water. Harder to starve out in a siege.”

  “And a ruin,” said Ridmark, “where anyone or anything could have settled in the last thousand years.”

  “I fear so,” said Caius.

  “Perhaps it is abandoned,” said Kharlacht. “We have seen no one else.”

  “Someone branded that spitfang,” said Calliande.

  “It might be dangerous to enter,” said Caius.

  Ridmark thought it over.

  “No,” he said at last. “No, we’ll keep going. If we have to double back, we’ll lose another day. More, if the tunnels near the waterfall and the spitfang’s lair are dead ends. Perhaps this ruin will be as abandoned. If not, we’ll try to sneak past or negotiate with any residents.”

  “Assuming the creatures within,” said Kharlacht, “are even capable of negotiation.”

  Ridmark offered the orc a tight smile. “If not, you’ll get to put that greatsword to use. Let’s go.”

  He walked under the arch, the others following.

  The cavern beyond showed signs of long-ago habitation. The floor had been smoothed, and the stream’s channel straightened. The light grew brighter, not from the clusters of ghost mushrooms, but from glowing stones set in niches upon the walls.

  “Glowstones,” said Caius, pointing.

  “Are they things of magic?” said Kharlacht.

  “Nay,” said Caius. “We make them with chemicals, by bathing a prepared stone in a solution of salts mined from the lower tunnels of the Deeps.”

  “Your kindred are skilled with stonework,” said Ridmark. “Changing the channel of the stream must have been a tremendous effort.”

  “We are,” said Caius. “Among my kindred, it is said that the gods of the deep places created stone to house us, iron to serve us, and gold to feed us.”

  “Yet you left your gods for the Church,” said Calliande.

  “I did,” said Caius. “Our gods offer neither joy nor hope. They have made my kindred stern and humorless and cruel, and we spend our lives futilely striving for power, looking forward only to an eternity of oblivion as we sleep in the darkness. I find the word of the Dominus Christus much more joyful. But come! We can have such a discussion later.” The melancholy faded from his voice. “And if you think this stonework is impressive, wait until you see the ruin proper.”

  The tunnel sloped downward. From time to time they passed steles carved with dwarven glyphs. Caius said they were milestones, showing the distance to the Stone Heart in the Three Kingdoms, the place where the dwarven kindred first entered the world.

  Then the tunnel ended in a gate.

  Or, at least, it had been a gate. Once the massive gates of dwarven steel would have presented an impregnable barrier to any intruders. Now they lay broken and twisted upon the floor, their bronze edges glimmering in the light of the glowstones. Beyond Ridmark saw a tall hall of worked stone, its ceiling supported by thick pillars carved in the likeness of armored dwarven warriors.

  “Thainkul Agon,” said Caius. “Or what is left of it.”

  “I wonder what happened here,” said Calliande.

  Caius shrugged. “The dvargir attacked. Or the urdmordar. Or perhaps the dark elves. Dwarven steel is strong…but an urdmordar’s strength could rip it, or dark elven magic could twist it.”

  “I hope the attackers did not linger,” said Calliande.

  “No,” said Caius. “No, this happened long ago. My fear is that whoever has taken up residence in the ruins since will prove unfriendly.”

  “Let’s find out,” said Ridmark.

  He led the way into Thainkul Agon, his staff ready. The stream flowed through the center of the pillared chamber, disappearing into another opening in the far wall. The carvings of the dwarven warriors armor stared down from the columns, grim and silent. The only noise came from the splash of the stream in its channel. Clusters of ghost mushrooms grew at the edges of the water, and glowstones shone in the ceiling overhead.

  In places Ridmark saw signs of violence. Cracks on the pillars from where axe and mace blows had struck. Gouges on the floor from the fall of armored warriors. Bones lying scattered in the corners. Yet the signs were old. Time had weathered the gouges on the floor, and the bones were crumbling.

  “I suspect,” said Ridmark, “that this place has been deserted for a long time.”

  “It feels that way,” said Caius. “I wonder why? It is a defensible place, with ample water.”

  Kharlacht kept his sword in hand. “Perhaps a dangerous creature has taken up residence here, one strong enough to frighten away any rivals.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ridmark.

  The stream entered an archway, the tunnel beyond sloping down at a steep angle. Stone stairs ran along either side of the stream, and Ridmark descended, the wet stone gritting beneath his boots. He saw a hazy glow at the end of the stairs. Ridmark kept walking, and stepped onto a stone balcony overlooking an empty space. The others came to a stop around him, and he heard Calliande’s startled inhalation of breath.

  “My God,” she said.

  The tunnel opened into a vast natural cavern. The stream fell from the balcony in a waterfall, glittering in the light of glowstones overhead. A thick forest of ghost mushrooms, some as tall as trees, filled the cavern’s floor, their red and blue spores glowing in the air. Stone houses stood on terraces lining the cavern’s walls, their facades carved with elaborate glyphs and reliefs.

  A dozen smaller tunnels broke off from the larger
cavern, the stream vanishing into an elaborate carved arch.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Calliande.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, “and I can see why no one else has settled here.”

  “Why?” she said.

  Kharlacht answered. “The tunnels there and there, my lady. Do you see? The gates of dwarven steel have been smashed, as in the outer hall. This cavern might have water and food, but it is not defensible.”

  Ridmark nodded. He saw that Caius had moved further down the balcony, gazing at the wall. Hundreds of dwarven glyphs marked the stone, along with an odd, stylized diagram that looked like…

  A map?

  “You’ve found something?” said Ridmark.

  “I believe so,” said Caius. “This inscription records the founding of Thainkul Agon.” He snorted and ran his hand over the glyphs. “I have never understood why humans leave records in paper. Stone is so much more durable.”

  “Indeed,” said Ridmark, “but what does the inscription say?”

  “This was a border stronghold of the kingdom of Khald Rigis, founded ten thousand years ago to ward away the dark elven kingdoms under what is now the northern Wilderland.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “But it was overrun, and Khald Rigis fell to the urdmordar long ago. Now it is just another empty ruin.” His gloomy expression brightened. “But there is a map. See?” He pointed at the diagram. “Our guess was right, Gray Knight. That stream flows to the surface. Assuming the tunnel hasn’t been blocked, we need only follow it.”

  “How far?” said Ridmark.

  “Less than half a day,” said Caius. “If we start now, we may depart the Deeps before nightfall.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “Then if we hasten, we might reach Dun Licinia before Qazarl.”

  Or, if the town had already fallen under siege, they could go to Castra Marcaine and summon aid from Dux Licinius.

  “This way,” said Caius. “There are some stairs here.”

  The dwarf led the way to a narrow switchback stair that cut its way along the wall to the cavern floor. The steps were narrow and damp, and Ridmark kept one hand on the stone wall for balance. They reached the cavern floor, and the wet, musky smell of the ghost mushrooms filled Ridmark’s nostrils.

  Along with the faint smell of rotting meat.

  He looked around and spotted the skeleton slumped against the wall.

  He first thought it was the corpse of a human, perhaps of a child. But human children did not have fingers that ended in claws or long snouts filled with fangs. Nor did they have gray-scaled skin.

  “What is that?” said Calliande.

  Ridmark prodded the bones with his staff, the scraps of scaly skin rattling. “Kobold.” He noted the cracked ribs, the craters in the elongated skull. “Someone cudgeled him to death. About a year ago, I’d guess.”

  “Qazarl said tribes of kobolds live in the Deeps near the Black Mountain,” said Kharlacht, scanning the mushrooms.

  The mushrooms were large enough to provide cover for an ambush.

  “Let’s not wait around to meet them,” said Ridmark.

  He took a step towards the stream, and a gray shape appeared from behind the stalk of a mushroom.

  The creature was the size of a large child, albeit a child with scaly gray skin, long black claws, a slender waving tail, and the elongated head and unblinking yellow eyes of a lizard. An elaborate crest of red scales rose from its neck and the top of its head, twitching as the creature drew breath. It wore amulets and bracelets of polished bone and stone, and carried a short bow in its clawed hands.

  A kobold.

  “Greetings,” rasped the kobold in orcish.

  Kharlacht and Caius lifted their weapons, Calliande stepping behind them. Ridmark raised a hand to stop them.

  “Greetings to you,” said Ridmark in orcish.

  “I am Crotaph,” said the kobold, “speaker for the clan of the Blue Hand.” Ridmark saw that a four-fingered kobold hand, completed with claws, had been inked in blue paint across the scales of the kobold’s thin chest. “You are trespassing upon the tunnels of the Blue Hand.”

  “That was not our intent,” said Ridmark. He glimpsed movement in the shadows of the mushrooms, and knew that other kobolds lurked just out of sight. “We fled our foes upon the surface, and the entrance collapsed behind us. We wish to return to the surface, and then will never trouble you again.”

  “Our shaman had a vision,” said Crotaph. “The spirits spoke to him, and told him of four strange travelers from the sunlight lands. A human, an orc, and a dwarf, and a woman who burns like the fire at the heart of the earth.”

  “Perhaps the shaman ingested the wrong kind of mushrooms,” said Caius in Latin.

  Fortunately, Crotaph did not understand. “The shaman said you would enter into the ruins, and here you are. Great is his power, and the spirits heed his will.”

  “Good for him,” said Ridmark. “But what do you want with us?”

  “You trespass upon our territory,” said Crotaph, “but the shaman and the Warchief will allow you to pass. But you must pay a tribute.”

  “What manner of tribute?” said Ridmark. “Gold? Food? I imagine food is more valuable than gold down here.”

  The kobold trilled, his crest expanding as he showed his fangs, and Ridmark realized that was the kobold equivalent of a grin. “Many things have value, gray warrior. Many things. But you have one thing of great value.” A clawed hand pointed at Calliande. “The woman, and the white stone she carries. You will surrender them to us, and we shall allow you and the dwarf and the orc to leave our lands in peace.”

  Calliande stiffened, her hand falling to the pouch where she kept the soulstone.

  “What does your shaman want with me?” she said.

  “The shaman has great power,” said Crotaph, “but your power is greater. He will take your power, and lead the Blue Hand to glory and strength.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Ridmark.

  Crotaph’s head turned towards Ridmark, his forked tongue flickering over his fangs. “You spurn the Blue Hand’s generous offer? Think carefully before you make such a rash choice.”

  “An offer, is it?” said Ridmark. “Then I will make you an offer of my own, Crotaph of the Blue Hand. We will pass through your tunnels and never return, and you will not hinder us.”

  “And in exchange?” said Crotaph.

  “I will leave you in peace,” said Ridmark. “And if you try to oppose me, I will bring ruin upon you.”

  Crotaph hissed, bearing his fangs, his claws flexing against his bow. “You are one man with a stick.”

  “Last chance,” said Ridmark, glancing at the nearby mushrooms. There were five concealed kobold archers, he thought. Maybe six.

  “Impudence,” said Crotaph. “We will teach you humility.”

  “Get ready to duck on my word,” said Ridmark in Latin to the others.

  Kharlacht raised his greatsword, Caius hefted his gleaming mace, and Calliande tensed.

  “Kill them!” shouted Crotaph. “Leave the woman alive!”

  A half-dozen kobolds appeared in the surrounding ghost mushrooms, bows drawn and aimed.

  “Now!” shouted Ridmark.

  He threw himself to the stone floor as the others fell, arrows hissing past them. He saw one arrow slam into Kharlacht, only to shatter against the blue steel of the orc’s armor. Ridmark rolled, came to his feet, and charged the nearest kobold archer. The kobold shrieked a war cry and started to draw another arrow, but Ridmark was too fast. The first swing of his staff knocked the bow from the kobold’s hands, and he reversed the weapon.

  The length of the staff slammed against the side of the kobold’s head with bone-shattering force, and the archer fell limp to the ground.

  Ridmark sprinted along the edge of the mushroom cluster, catching the second archer. The kobold tried to turn, aiming at Ridmark at the last moment, but Ridmark’s staff smashed into his face. The kobold stumbled back with a snarl, its fangs broken, and the staff
came down and cracked his skull.

  The kobold fell in a limp heap to the ground.

  “Kill them!” screeched Crotaph. “Take the woman! The shaman commands it!”

  But Ridmark darted around the stalk of a towering mushroom and killed a third archer. To his left he saw Kharlacht cutting down another kobold, while Caius stood guard over Calliande, mace in hand. Kobolds were dangerous opponents, but preferred to attack from ambush, using arrows fired from a distance. They hated to fight hand-to-hand, and often fled if faced with strong opposition. If Ridmark and Kharlacht and Caius put up a stiff enough resistance, perhaps the kobolds would flee.

  Though that depended on whether or not they found their shaman more frightening than Ridmark and Kharlacht.

  “Take them!” shouted Crotaph. Ridmark turned towards him. If Ridmark struck down their leader…

  “Ridmark!”

  Ridmark saw a score of kobolds emerge from the mushrooms. The kobolds wielded clubs and axes with stone heads, their crests flaring as they hissed and shrieked battle cries. Kharlacht hurried to stand alongside Caius, his blade running red with kobold blood.

  Ridmark joined them, and they met the kobold charge.

  ###

  Calliande backed against the stone wall, her eyes fixed on the fighting. The screams filled her ears, the grunts and shrieks and the sounds of cracking bone and splitting flesh. The chaos swirled before her eyes, the bodies falling to the ground, the blood splashing over the stone.

  And all the blood came from the kobolds.

  She watched with a detached, horrified fascination as Ridmark and Kharlacht cut their way through the kobold mass. Kharlacht fought with brutal power, his massive arms driving his greatsword with such force that he often cut a kobold in half. Those few kobolds who got close enough to strike found that his dark elven armor turned their blows, giving Kharlacht all the time he needed to slay his attackers.

  But Ridmark was faster.

  He moved through the kobolds like a wolf among sheep, his staff a blur in his hands. She had seen firsthand how heavy the thing was, yet he swung and thrust the weapon as if it were no more than a light branch. Every blow either disabled or slew a kobold, and their strikes came close to touching him, so close, but they never seemed to connect.