Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “They lost everything,” said Calliande, voice quiet. “This place must be the work of decades”

  “Men can rebuild farms,” said Ridmark. “Only the Dominus Christus can rebuild dead men.” He beckoned the others back to the trees. “Best to get away from here. The orcs might return, and…”

  Even as he spoke, he saw a movement from behind a tree.

  “Down!” shouted Ridmark. Calliande and Caius ducked, and an orc came into sight, a short bow in hand. The arrow buzzed past Ridmark, and he sprinted forward, staff raised. The orc took aim, and Ridmark swung just as the orc released. The end of the staff caught the orc in the face, knocking the Mhalekite back. Ridmark sidestepped, reversing the staff, his strength and momentum driving the length of wood and steel against the Mhalekite’s temple.

  The orc fell motionless to the ground.

  “Ridmark!”

  Ridmark saw three orcs charging towards Caius and Calliande. Caius had his mace, but the dwarf was only one man, and Calliande had no weapons.

  They would overwhelm Caius in short order.

  Ridmark charged as the orcs closed around Caius, and flung his staff like a spear. It tangled in the legs of the nearest Mhalekite, and the orcish warrior went down in a heap. The orc stood as Ridmark approached, and he threw a punch, rocking the Mhalekite, but the orc roared and swung his short sword. Ridmark ducked, grabbed his staff, and slammed the weapon into the orc’s knees. He did not have enough momentum behind the blow to do much damage, but the Mhalekite staggered back. Ridmark drove the butt of the staff into the orc’s belly. The Mhalekite doubled over with a groan, and Ridmark brought his weapon down onto the orc’s head.

  The warrior fell dead to the ground.

  The final orc faced off against Caius, short sword ringing against the dwarf’s mace. Caius launched an attack, pushing the orc back with vigorous strokes. The Mhalekite dodged right into the path of Ridmark’s next blow.

  The orc joined his companions upon the ground.

  Ridmark turned in a circle, staff raised, but saw no other attackers.

  “Scouts, likely,” he said. “They doubled back to see if anyone returned to the freehold.”

  “A cruel tactic,” said Caius.

  “Mhalek was fond of it,” said Ridmark. “I should have realized what was happening. Are either of you hurt?”

  “I am unharmed,” said Caius, and Calliande shook her head.

  “You,” said Ridmark, pointing at her, “need a weapon.”

  “I don’t know how to use a sword,” said Calliande. “And I’m not strong enough to get much use out of a weapon like a mace or a club.”

  “No,” said Ridmark, stooping over one of the dead orcs, “but it doesn’t take much strength to stab.”

  A sheathed dagger rested on the dead orc’s belt. It wasn’t orcish work, but the sort of dagger carried by men-at-arms of the Dux of the Northerland. Undoubtedly the orc had stolen it. Ridmark examined the weapon, and then handed the blade to Calliande.

  “Take this,” he said.

  “And do what with it?” said Calliande. “I can’t fight alongside you like Caius or Kharlacht. I am useless.”

  “Stop speaking folly,” said Ridmark. “I don’t expect you to fight alongside me…but if the orcs try to take you again, you will need to defend yourself.”

  Calliande hesitated, and then took the dagger and clipped the sheath to her belt.

  “We had best move on,” said Caius, “before more of Qazarl’s men find us.”

  Ridmark led the way into the trees.

  ###

  Calliande walked onward, following Ridmark’s lead.

  They had seen a dozen more burning freeholds. From time to time they passed bodies lying untended on the ground, both Mhalekite orcs and men wearing the clothes of freeholders and laborers.

  “Qazarl has likely divided his host,” said Ridmark, “sent them to burn out the countryside around Dun Licinia. He must be anticipating a long siege.”

  “A poor strategy,” said Caius. “That gives Sir Joram more time to prepare, to pull in the freeholders and supplies from the countryside.”

  “His goal isn’t just Dun Licinia,” said Ridmark. “He wants to find Calliande.”

  Calliande closed her eyes for a moment. She had caused this. All the death and destruction they had already seen, and all the death and destruction to come. It had been unleashed because of her.

  And she didn’t even know why.

  “Kharlacht must not have returned to him yet,” said Caius. “Otherwise he would know what happened to Calliande.”

  “Or,” said Calliande, “he might have killed Kharlacht for his failure, before giving him the chance to speak in his defense.”

  Another death upon her shoulders. Kharlacht had taken her to the standing stones to perish upon the altar, to fuel whatever black magic Shadowbearer intended. Yet Kharlacht had been kind to her, had helped her escape from Talvinius’s grasp. She did not wish him ill.

  She certainly did not want him to die.

  “Perhaps not,” said Ridmark. “Even if Kharlacht returned to Qazarl and told him everything, it would still take time for Qazarl to recall all his raiding parties. At least an entire day, if not longer.”

  “So we have that long,” said Caius, “until Dun Licinia falls under siege.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Let us put that time to good use.”

  He set a brisk pace through the trees. Calliande winced with every snap of a twig beneath her feet, every crackle of dry pine needles. But she did not know how to move with stealth as Ridmark and Caius did, and the heavy orcish boots certainly did not help. She dreaded the noise she made, feared that every step would bring enemies down upon their heads.

  But whether through luck or Ridmark’s skill, they encountered no other orcs. The day wore on, and as noon gave way to afternoon, they emerged from the trees and onto a dirt road. A river ran alongside one side of the road, flowing away to the southwest.

  “The River Marcaine,” said Ridmark. “We’ve made good progress.”

  “How much farther, do you think?” said Caius.

  Ridmark gestured. “See for yourself.”

  They followed the road around a stand of pine trees, and Calliande saw the town of Dun Licinia for the first time.

  A stout stone wall fortified the town of about four thousand people, and beyond the rampart Calliande saw the tower of a keep, the twin bell towers of a stone church, and the rounded turret of a Magistrius’s tower. The town’s gates were shut, and men patrolled the walls, crossbows in hand. Green banners emblazoned with white harts flew from the twin octagonal towers guarding the northern gate, and after a moment Calliande realized that the white hart upon green was the sigil of the Dux of the Northerland.

  Apparently she had known the Dux.

  Or one of his ancestors, more likely.

  “God has been with us,” said Caius. “The town has not yet fallen.”

  Ridmark nodded. “Sir Joram was never the most formidable man on the practice field, but he is smart and diligent. We should speak with him at once. He’ll need more information…and the fact that you’re still alive will likely be the first piece of good news in days.”

  Caius snorted. “I never thought I would hear anyone say that.”

  Calliande hesitated. “What will you tell him about me?”

  “The truth,” said Ridmark. “Why should I not?” He thought for a moment. “Joram is not a fool. But do not tell the full truth to anyone but him. If anyone asks, you were taken captive by the orcs, and Caius and I rescued you and brought you back to Dun Licinia.”

  Calliande smiled. “That’s true enough.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “But don’t tell anyone about the soulstone, save for Sir Joram. I think that might prove too much of a temptation for many men, especially for the Magistri. Like a woman carrying a bag of gold alone on a deserted road. Best not to expose anyone to the temptation.”

  Calliande nodded. “Do not put a
stumbling block in another’s path, is that it?”

  Caius grinned, his teeth flashing in his graying beard. “Well spoken.”

  Ridmark led the way to the northern gate of Dun Licinia.

  ###

  Men-at-arms patrolled the walls, along with peasant militia equipped with leather armor and short bows.

  And all of them pointed their weapons as Ridmark.

  “Hold!” shouted their leader, a grizzled man-at-arms in his middle years. Ridmark remembered him from his previous confrontation at the gate.

  It had only been a few days ago, but it seemed much longer.

  “I need to speak with Sir Joram at once,” said Ridmark. “I have news about the Mhalekites.”

  “You’ll stay where you are,” said the man-at-arms. “Sir Joram has ordered the town sealed, and…”

  “Thomas!” bellowed Caius, stepping to Ridmark’s side.

  The grizzled man-at-arms blinked. “Brother Caius?”

  “Stop being obtuse and let us into the town,” said Caius. “Sir Joram Agramore sent Ridmark to find me. And just in the nick of time, too, else those Mhalekites would have given me a red smile below my chin.” He stroked his beard. “Assuming they could have gotten through my beard, of course.”

  Some of the militiamen laughed.

  “And he also rescued this woman,” said Caius, gesturing at Calliande, “who had been taken captive by the orcs. Truly, without the valiant intervention of the Gray Knight, both I and this fair lady would lie dead. Now stop blustering and let us inside. We have news about the orcs that Sir Joram must hear.”

  Thomas scowled, but shouted an order, and the gates of Dun Licinia swung open with a groan.

  “Nicely said,” said Ridmark.

  “Thank you,” said Caius. “I may talk all the time, but it all that practice has occasionally proven useful.”

  Calliande laughed.

  Ridmark walked through the gates with the others, a pair of militiamen falling in around them. The entire town had been mobilized for a siege. Bundles of arrows and crossbow bolts had been stacked against the wall, along with rows of spears and shields. Women worked in the streets, some preparing bandages for the wounded, others carrying baskets of food. The militiamen led them to the square, and Ridmark saw Sir Joram Agramore speaking with a pair of men-at-arms. He had traded his tunic and mantle for plate armor and chain mail, his sword and dagger ready at his belt.

  His eyes widened in astonishment as Ridmark approached.

  “This man demands to speak with you, sir,” said one of the militiamen, “and…”

  “God and all his saints,” said Joram. “You’re still alive!” He grinned. “And you found Brother Caius, too.”

  “Good to see you again, Sir Joram,” said Caius. “I fear the orcs of the Wilderland were not particularly receptive to the message of the Church.”

  “It seems not,” said Joram. “When we first received word of the raids on the outer freeholds, I was sure that you both were slain.” He clapped Ridmark on the shoulder. “It is good to see you again. I have sore need of your aid, if you are willing to provide it.”

  “But sir knight,” said one of the men-at-arms, “he is branded…”

  “The Mhalekites will make no such distinction,” said Joram. He glanced at Caius. “Did you stir them up with your preaching? I thought we had taught Mhalek’s followers a lesson five years ago. I didn’t think there would be enough left of them to mount an attack, but it seems that I was wrong.”

  “Brother Caius didn’t stir them up,” said Ridmark. “Something else did.”

  Joram frowned. “What happened?”

  Ridmark nodded. “We had best speak privately.”

  ###

  Calliande listened as Ridmark told the entire story to Sir Joram.

  They had gone to the keep’s great hall, the chamber decorated with the tapestries of Lancelot and Galahad seeking the grail and of the Dragon Knight fighting the Frostborn, and Joram had sent away his guards. It was clear that he trusted Ridmark, and she wondered about that. Ridmark had been expelled from the Order of the Swordbearers, carried the brand of a coward and a traitor upon his face. Yet Joram was willing to believe anything he said.

  Given the bold deeds she had seen Ridmark do, she wasn’t entirely surprised.

  “And then we parted ways with Kharlacht and made our way here,” said Ridmark.

  “An incredible story,” said Joram. “Had any other man told it to me, I would call him a charlatan or a madman. You are many things, Ridmark, but you were never a liar.”

  “I fear I am not imaginative enough to come up with such a fable,” said Ridmark.

  Joram snorted. “Perhaps not.” His green eyes turned to Calliande. “I am sorry for the ordeals you have endured, my lady. As long as you choose to remain in Dun Licinia, my hospitality is yours, and you shall be my honored guest. Though Dun Licinia is hardly a safe haven at the moment.”

  “Thank you, my lord knight,” said Calliande, touched by his kindness.

  “And…you can remember nothing of your past?” said Joram. “Nothing at all? No reason why Qazarl and this…Shadowbearer creature might have wished you ill?”

  “None, my lord,” said Calliande. “I wish I could tell you more. I dearly wish I knew more myself. Other than what Talvinius told me, I know nothing. And Talvinius might have been lying.”

  “I have come to suspect,” said Ridmark, “that Calliande was once a Magistria of great power in the Order of the Vigilant, one who sealed herself away to awaken once the Frostborn returned.”

  Calliande blinked. Had she truly been someone like that? A woman of power and strength, one with the foresight to wait until the Frostborn had returned?

  Of course, if true, her foresight had been flawed. The Order of the Vigilant had dwindled, the Tower of Vigilance had burned, and she had awakened alone in the darkness with her memories lost.

  “I suspect Qazarl and Shadowbearer wanted to slay her with the soulstone upon the altar in order to unlock her power, and claim it for themselves,” said Ridmark, “to help achieve some dire purpose.”

  Joram frowned. “Like breaking the walls of Dun Licinia?”

  “Or something greater,” said Ridmark.

  “Such as the return of the Frostborn, perhaps?” said Joram. He sighed. “Ah, Ridmark. I thought the Frostborn extinct, and your quest some mad attempt at redemption. But after the strange things we have seen…who can say? Still, we only face Mhalekite orcs. If the Frostborn had returned, the rivers would freeze in the heart of summer, and men would be found dead with their blood turned to ice. Or so the tales say.” He looked at Calliande. “This soulstone. May I see it?”

  Calliande hesitated and drew out the stone, its rough sides cold against her fingers. She felt the power stirring within the stone, the raw arcane force.

  “It looks like an overlarge piece of quartz,” said Joram, voice quiet. “But…ah, I am no Magistrius, but even I can feel the power in the crystal. Put it away, please, my lady.” Calliande complied. “It seems certain that Qazarl will assail Dun Licinia, once he learns that you and the stone are within our walls.”

  “I could ride south,” said Calliande, “lure him away from the town.” She did not want to leave the Dun Licinia, but she did not want any more people to die because of her.

  Ridmark shook his head. “Qazarl will assail Dun Licinia with or without you. If you leave now, you will only fall into his hands.”

  “Then we must prepare to meet the attack,” said Joram. He hesitated. “Ridmark…your aid would be welcome.”

  “I shall fight,” said Ridmark.

  “I would also welcome your counsel,” said Joram. “I have never commanded so many men at once. I served as the army’s quartermaster in the war against Mhalek, not as its commander.”

  “Are you asking me to take command of the defense?” said Ridmark. “The men will never accept orders from a man expelled from the Swordbearers.”

  “No,” said Joram, “bu
t if you want to give any advice to the town’s commander…I think you will find him most receptive. And grateful.”

  Calliande realized that Joram was terrified.

  “So be it, then,” said Ridmark. “You’ve done well, so far, by gathering the freeholders and as much food as you can manage.”

  “Aye,” said Joram. “We’ve enough food to feed the town and all our fighting men for three months. Four, maybe, if we tighten our belts. But the battle shall be over long before that.”

  “How many fighting men do you have?” said Ridmark.

  “Three hundred men-at-arms,” said Joram. “The town’s garrison, sent from Dun Licinia to guard against orcish and beastmen raiders from the Wilderland. Another four hundred militia gathered from the townsmen and the freeholders.”

  “Qazarl as between three and four thousand orcish warriors,” said Ridmark. “He might have gathered additional allies from the beastmen packs, or from the kobolds.”

  “We irritated the kobolds on our way here,” said Caius.

  “But with seven hundred men,” said Ridmark, “you should be able to hold long enough for Dux Gareth to send aid from Castra Marcaine.”

  “If any aid comes,” said Joram.

  Ridmark frowned. “Did you send riders to Castra Marcaine?”

  “I did, as soon as we realized the scale of the Mhalekite threat,” said Joram. “But they may not have gotten through. Qazarl has dispersed his host into many raiding parties, and they might have killed my messengers.”

  “We’ll need to trust to more than your messengers’ skill,” said Ridmark. “You have a Magistrius here, do we not?”

  “Aye, Magistrius Alamur,” said Joram with a grimace. Apparently the man was just as unpleasant as Caius had said.

  “The Magistri can converse with each other over long distances,” said Ridmark. “And I know Dux Licinius has Magistri at Castra Marcaine. Tell Alamur to send a message to the Dux’s Magistri. They can warn the Dux of the danger, and he will send troops.”

  “Alamur refuses to heed me,” said Caius.

  Ridmark blinked several times. “Why?”