Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  He and Kharlacht were warriors without peer.

  Caius stood before her, striking any kobold that drew too close, but few ever did. Ridmark and Kharlacht were simply too skilled for the kobolds. Calliande suspected that they would prove more than a match for their opponents.

  Even so, she wished she could help them. She hated feeling so useless, so helpless.

  So weak.

  For some reason it felt like a foreign sensation, something she had not often experienced. Though she had felt nothing but weak and helpless since awakening in that vault.

  Something arched over the melee. For a moment Calliande thought it was another arrow, but it was moving too slowly.

  It landed at her feet with a crack. It was a clay sphere, wisps of smoke rising from its broken edges.

  “Calliande!” said Caius. “Get…”

  The sphere exploded with a brilliant light, and then everything went black.

  ###

  The blast from the smoke bomb erupted in a flash of white light and a thick ring of gray haze. It was disorienting, but it surprised the kobolds as much as Ridmark, and Ridmark did not hesitate. He tore through the stunned kobolds, striking right and left with his staff. He heard Kharlacht bellow a war cry, smelled the hot tang of kobold blood filling the air. Ridmark struck down another kobold, and looked for more opponents to fight.

  But there were no opponents left.

  He spun, seeking through the haze, but saw the kobolds fleeing in all directions. The battle was over…

  “Ridmark!” Caius began to cough. “Ridmark!”

  He hurried through the haze and found Caius on his hands and knees at the base of the cliff, coughing.

  “You’re wounded,” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Caius with another cough. He snatched his mace and staggered to his feet. “No. Smoke bomb. Kobold trick. Thought they’d kill me. But they…”

  “Where’s Calliande?” said Ridmark.

  “They took her,” said Caius, “along with the soulstone. I’m sorry.”

  Ridmark cursed and turned as the smoke thinned, but the cavern was deserted.

  The kobolds were gone, as was Calliande.

  Chapter 13 - The Shaman

  Calliande swayed back and forth.

  Dreams floated through her mind as she swayed.

  She saw a field of cold gray ice beneath a sky the color of hard iron, haunted by creatures with eyes of blue fire.

  A great army gathered, the banners of the Pendragons flying overhead, Swordbearers in the van, swords of white light burning in their fists.

  A bitter argument with an old man, her oldest friend and closest advisor.

  A staff of twisted oak and a sword of red gold.

  Fog swallowing her mind.

  Cold stone closing around her, darkness swallowing her.

  And then a gaunt high elf in a long red coat, his eyes like quicksilver, laughing at her as his shadow fell upon her like an avalanche.

  Calliande screamed, realizing that she had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but it was too late, and the shadow laughed at her…

  ###

  Her eyes shot open.

  “No! I will not allow it!” she shouted in the high elven language. “You will not open another gate, Incariel! I know you brought them here! I know who you really are! I know what you are! And I will not allow you to summon them again.”

  For a moment, the fog in her memory wavered, and she could see the shape of her life, like mountains visible through looming mist…

  She reached for them…and the fog swallowed them once more.

  Calliande screamed in raw frustration. She had been close, so close. But bit by bit, facts started to penetrate her rage.

  She was in an uncomfortable position. Her legs were mashed against her chest, her face pressed against her knees, the rough wool of her trousers scratching against her chin. Her arms were pinned against her chest, and she kept swaying back and forth.

  She was in a net.

  Calliande managed to turn her head, and then almost wished she hadn’t.

  A kobold warrior walked alongside her, tail waving, an obsidian-tipped spear in his clawed hands. His head rotated to face her, his tongue flickering over his fangs.

  “So,” hissed the kobold in orcish. “You are awake.”

  “Where are you taking me?” said Calliande. “I demand you let me go at once!”

  “We have not raided the surface for too long,” said the kobold warrior. “Mushrooms and murrag meat are not fit food for a warrior. Flesh, human flesh, is succulent.” He clicked his fangs. “And then the flesh of young human females is the most succulent of all.” His clawed hands reached into the net, closing around her right wrist. “The shaman wants you alive…but you do not need your hand. Yes…”

  His claws tightened against her skin, and Calliande screamed and tried to pull away. Her efforts only made the net sway more rapidly. The kobold loosed a rasping laugh, and Calliande felt the razor-sharp claws bite into her skin…

  The butt of a spear slammed into the kobold’s head, and the warrior sprawled to the floor of the cavern.

  “Fool!” snarled Crotaph, his crimson crest flaring with his anger. “The shaman commanded that the human woman come alive. Alive, and untouched! Do you wish to explain to the shaman that we failed because you could not control your damned belly?”

  “But…” started the warrior, and Crotaph hit him again.

  The warrior did not get up again.

  “I am understood?” said Crotaph, his head turning back and forth. “The human female is to be unharmed! Or you shall answer to the Warchief…and pray that he does not hand you over to the shaman for punishment.”

  A rasping grumble of assent went up from a dozen kobold throats. Calliande saw that her net hung from a pair of poles carried by four kobolds. Other kobolds screened their flanks, guarding the narrow tunnel.

  She saw no sign of Ridmark or the others. Had they been killed?

  “Where are you taking me?” said Calliande.

  She did not expect an answer, but Crotaph turned towards her nonetheless.

  “To the village of the Blue Hand,” said the kobold, his strange yellow eyes regarding her. Calliande wondered if this was how a mouse felt as a snake slithered closer.

  “Where are the others?” said Calliande.

  Crotaph’s crest flattened, his tail coiling, and something in Calliande’s mind informed her that it was the kobold equivalent of a shrug. “Still in the ruins of the dwarves, most likely. The shaman commanded that we bring you before him. He said nothing of your companions, and they are puissant warriors.”

  Calliande felt a surge of hope. Ridmark and the others were still alive.

  “They will come for me,” said Calliande. “Your warriors cannot stop them. If they catch up to us, you will all die. Let me go, and I will make sure we never trouble you again.”

  “If they catch us,” said Crotaph, “we will likely perish. But we are almost to our village. And once you enter the village of the Blue Hand, you shall never leave.” He hissed, forked tongue darting back and forth. “Our village is strong, and your companions will never force their way past our defenses. If they enter by stealth, the shaman’s magic is strong. They cannot stand against his spells.”

  “Many others have said the same,” said Calliande, “and they are now slain. Have you heard the stories of the Gray Knight?”

  “I have,” rasped one of the kobolds carrying the poles. “Years ago, we raided a village on the surface. We would have taken the women and children back as food, but the Gray Knight intervened, and many of us were slain. Perhaps you ought to warn the shaman, Crotaph, if the female’s companion is truly the Gray Knight.”

  “Silence,” said Crotaph. “You speak of fables. The Gray Knight? Perhaps you think the Dragon Knight will descend into the Deeps to slay us, or that Saint Michael will use his god’s magic against us. Now stop talking and move! The longer we tarry, the quicker our foes will c
ome upon us.”

  Crotaph moved at a loping run along the tunnel. The kobolds dropped to all fours while running, their tails stiffening for balance. The kobolds carrying Calliande remained upon two feet, but still moved at an impressive speed. The jouncing ride reminded Calliande unpleasantly of hanging from Vlazar’s pole.

  Still, at least she had clothes this time.

  And she had to find a way to delay. Ridmark and the others would come for her. If she could just find a way to slow down the kobolds long enough for Ridmark to catch up to them…

  Of course, it was hard to do anything at all, trapped as she was. All she could do was swing back and forth, the constant rocking making her grateful that she hadn’t eaten very much today.

  Perhaps she could use that to her advantage.

  The kobolds turned a corner, the tunnel growing wider, stalagmites jutting from the floor like the teeth of some half-buried beast. Calliande saw a large stalagmite approaching, its sides glistening with moisture. She threw herself to the right as hard as she could. The net held her fast, but as kobolds passed the stalagmite, she slammed into the cold stone.

  That rather hurt.

  The force of the impact wrenched the poles from the hands of the kobolds, and they fell in a heap. Calliande clawed at the net, trying to untangle herself. Her hands found the top, and she yanked it open. She staggered to her feet, a wild hope flaring in her chest. She could break free, run down the tunnel and escape before the kobolds…

  A half-dozen obsidian spear points came to rest against her chest. The top of the kobolds’ heads only reached her stomach, but she had no doubt the creatures could drive their weapons through her flesh.

  “Do not move,” said Crotaph.

  “You won’t strike me,” said Calliande. “Your precious shaman wants me alive and unharmed.”

  “True,” said Crotaph, “but alive and untouched can also mean alive and unconscious. Fight us again, and I will have you drugged. You won’t enjoy that.”

  “Fine,” said Calliande.

  “We should bind her, Crotaph,” said one of the warriors.

  “Why bother? We have almost reached the village,” said Crotaph. “If she runs, drug her. Come.”

  The kobolds prodded her with their spears, and Calliande had no choice but to follow them. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and the dusty odor of the kobolds’ scales, and Calliande realized they were almost to the village of the Blue Hand.

  “Your shaman must be very powerful,” said Calliande, “if you fear him so. The gods of the kobolds must be with him.”

  She did not expect an answer, but Crotaph said, “The shaman is a god.”

  “A god?” said Calliande. “He claims to be a god?”

  “He is a god,” said Crotaph.

  She made herself laugh. “Mhalek of the orcs claimed to be a god as well, and the Gray Knight slew him.”

  Crotaph hissed. “The orcs are fools, and their blood gods are shadows. The shaman of the Blue Hand has power. A century ago he came among us, and he has protected us ever since. Not even the dark elves dare to cross his magic. The world will fall at his feet, and the kobolds of the Blue Hand shall make slaves of all other kindreds.”

  “Mhalek,” said Calliande, “said the same.”

  At least, she assumed so.

  Crotaph growled, and said no more. A flickering light danced on the walls of the cavern, and Calliande realized it was firelight. The tunnel widened, and opened into a large gallery, larger than the great cavern of Thainkul Agon.

  The kobold village filled most of the space.

  A stockade of piled stones surrounded it, with a gate made from lacquered mushroom planks. Herds of murrags grazed in the mushroom fields outside the walls, guarded by kobolds with short bows. A dozen kobolds prowled the ramparts, bows in hand. The gate opened, and Crotaph led her inside. Beyond she saw dozens of ramshackle houses built of loose stone and mushroom caps. Tunnels cored the cavern walls, no doubt leading to additional houses and storerooms.

  And in the village she saw kobolds, hundreds of kobolds. The kobold females were almost identical to the males, thought smaller and with intricate patterns of striped scales on their sides instead of crests upon their heads. Everywhere she saw kobolds going about their business, making weapons or tools, tanning hides, cooking, or simply talking.

  But as one, they fell silent as she entered and stared at her with unblinking yellow eyes.

  The biggest kobold Calliande had yet seen forced his way through the press. He was tall enough to reach her shoulder, and wore an elaborate mantle fashioned of bones and polished stones. He was fat, his belly and limbs swollen so badly that the scales had cracked in places. Unlike the others, he carried a short sword of actual steel in his belt.

  “Warchief,” said Crotaph, bowing and lowering his crest.

  “Crotaph,” growled the Warchief, glaring at Calliande. “You have lost many warriors.”

  “A dozen, at least,” said Crotaph. “Some may yet return. But we have been successful.” He gestured at Calliande. “The shaman’s visions were true, and we have found the woman.”

  “So I see,” said the Warchief. “A useless skinny little thing. If we butchered her here and now, she wouldn’t give more than a mouthful to a score of warriors. Human females provide the best meat when they are plump.”

  Calliande shuddered.

  “The shaman wants her,” said Crotaph.

  The Warchief’s crest deflated.

  “Yes,” said the Warchief. “What the shaman of the Blue Hand desires, the shaman of the Blue Hand gets. You have done well, Crotaph, and you have my gratitude.” He pointed at the other warriors. “You. Follow me. Bring the human.”

  Again the warriors jabbed her with their spears, and Calliande followed.

  The Warchief lumbered across the village to the cavern wall, and climbed a rough set of steps hewn into the rock. As they climbed, Calliande saw the village spread out beneath her. A large enclosed pen occupied the space below the stockade wall. Scores of spitfangs filled the pen, some sleeping, some pacing, a few fighting. Bones carpeted the ground beneath them, and Calliande wondered how many victims had met their end beneath the spitfangs’ claws and venom.

  She saw quite a few kobold skulls among the bones. Perhaps those who angered the Warchief and the shaman went to the spitfangs.

  The stairs ended before a yawning cavern mouth. A dozen human skulls hung over the entrance, yellowed and ancient. From within Calliande saw the flickering glow of a fire, and smelled the stench of rotting meat.

  “Inside,” said the Warchief. “The shaman of the Blue Hand awaits you.”

  Calliande did not want to go into that reeking cave, and the very thought of taking another step filled her with terror. But the Warchief and a dozen kobold warriors blocked the way back.

  She took a deep breath, wincing at the smell. She had to delay. She had to find a way to buy time until Ridmark found her.

  Assuming Ridmark could find a way past so many kobolds…

  Calliande turned away from the Warchief and took a cautious step into the cavern.

  The smell of rotting meat grew stronger. She walked deeper into the cave, the fiery glow growing brighter. She saw designs chalked into the wall, elaborate sigils and interlocking circles, and felt something stir in her mind. She recognized at least some of those designs.

  The cave opened into a small, round chamber. A firepit had been dug into the center of the floor, and the glowing coals within it filled the chamber with a bloody glow. Several tables lined the walls, holding books and scrolls written in Latin, high elven, and dark elven. A couch of dried mushroom planks sat on the other side of the firepit, piled high with cushions.

  Upon the cushions slouched an ancient kobold wrapped in a worn robe of murrag leather. Deep wrinkles scored his face and neck, his scales cracked and dull. The yellow eyes that turned towards Calliande were filmy, and the kobold had lost half his fangs. She heard the steady whistling rasp of breath thr
ough his nostrils.

  And she felt magical power radiating off him like the heat from the firepit.

  His clawed hands were blue. At first Calliande thought they had been painted or tattooed, but then she realized that they were glowing with a pale blue light. Some part of her fog-choked memory realized that meant the shaman had tremendous power over the magical element of water. He could freeze or boil any liquid with a thought, including the blood in an enemy’s veins, and could conjure water elementals of tremendous power.

  Little wonder the kobolds worshiped him as a god.

  For a moment Calliande and the shaman stared at each other.

  “Calliande,” rasped the ancient kobold.

  Something about his tone, his accent, sounded familiar.

  “You know me?” she said in orcish.

  The shaman sighed. “Do not weary my ears with that barbarous and uncouth tongue,” he said in perfect Latin. “Use the speech of the High Kingdom. It has been far too long since I have heard it.”

  “Very well,” said Calliande in Latin, surprised. “Then I will repeat my question. You know me?”

  “Indeed,” said the shaman. “I know you very well, Calliande.” The kobold tilted his head to the side. “A more urgent question is whether or not you recognize me.”

  “No,” said Calliande. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Ah.” The shaman sounded disappointed. “I would have assumed you would see past appearances, beyond the mere flesh. But I was wrong. To think I used to admire you. But now I see that you are as weak as all the others.”

  Two realizations came to her.

  The first was that this kobold knew who she was.

  The second was that he didn’t realize that she had lost her memory.

  Which meant if she handled him carefully, she might be able to obtain some useful information. She needed to play for time…and perhaps she could get the shaman to tell her who she was.

  “Indeed?” said Calliande. “Do not presume to lecture me on weakness. I will not tolerate such nonsense from a petty wielder of simple magic crouching in his hole.”