Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Instead he walked through the church with the brand of a coward upon his face, speaking to the wounded.

  He crossed to join her, his staff tapping against the stone floor.

  “Calliande,” he said.

  “Ridmark,” she said back. “It is good you are unharmed.” She saw spots of dried blood, green and red both, upon his leather jerkin. Dark circles ringed his deep blue eyes, which seemed colder and harder than she remembered. He looked unchanged, but she could see that the fighting had worn on him.

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. He looked at Elaine. “Mistress Elaine. Your husband is well, I hope? Sir Joram had to order him from the wall before he fainted.”

  “He is, Gray Knight,” said Elaine. She did a curtsy. “Forgive me, but I must see to the wounded.”

  Ridmark nodded, and Elaine hurried away, leaving Calliande alone with Ridmark, or at least as alone as they could be in the crowded church. She saw what the older woman was doing, and was mostly amused. Perhaps a little annoyed.

  And part of her, more than she would have thought, was grateful.

  “How are things here?” said Ridmark. “Sir Joram wanted to visit the wounded, but he feared to leave his post, lest Qazarl launch another assault. So I offered to go in his stead.”

  “As well as can be expected,” said Calliande. “Those we can save, we save. Those we cannot save…we make them as comfortable as we can and wait for the end.”

  Ridmark nodded. “I have seen field hospitals before, more than I care to recall. You are doing good work, Calliande.” He almost smiled. “If we live through this, Sir Joram might well ask you to start a hospital in Dun Licinia.”

  “Perhaps I will,” said Calliande. “Assuming my memory never returns, I will need to learn a trade in order to support myself.”

  But that was an idle fantasy and she knew it. She still had the empty soulstone. No doubt dark secrets lurked in the swirling mists of her memory.

  And Shadowbearer would still be looking for her.

  “You could simply wed,” said Ridmark, “and have your husband support you.”

  Calliande laughed. “Indeed? Yes, I would be a prize indeed. A woman with no memory and no wealth, pursued by a renegade high elven sorcerer for reasons she has forgotten.” Her laughter faded. “And I might have a husband and children, long dead. I…may have just forgotten them.”

  “Some of your memory has returned,” said Ridmark, “if you recall so much of medicine.”

  “It is like the other parts of my memory that have returned,” said Calliande. “It came only because I needed it. I remembered I could speak orcish because Ulazur and Qazarl and the others only spoke orcish. I remembered I could sense magic because I had that soulstone sitting upon my chest. And I remember I knew something of medicine because I saw so many wounded men. But who taught me to speak orcish or to stitch wounds? I fear I cannot recall.”

  “If we live through this,” said Ridmark, “I will help you to find your memory, if I can.”

  Calliande shrugged. “Will you not be busy pursuing the Frostborn?”

  “They are connected, somehow,” said Ridmark. “Your memory and the Frostborn. I do not know how, not yet. I am sure you were put into that sleep because of the Frostborn. Caius thinks I am mad, and Joram thinks I am addled with grief…but the Frostborn are returning. How, I do not know. Perhaps they will be resurrected, or they are simply in hiding…but they shall return.” His blue eyes regarded her without blinking. “And you are at the center of it somehow, though I cannot see how.”

  “I wish I knew,” said Calliande. “I wish I could tell you.”

  “I know,” said Ridmark. “But you have comported yourself well. Most women – most men, for that matter – would have been broken by the trials you have experienced since awakening. But not you.”

  “No,” said Calliande. She frowned. “I suspect…I suspect I have lived through worse. But cannot remember it. I do not know if that is a comforting thought or not.”

  He almost smiled. “I hope you have the opportunity to find out.” He glanced at the church doors. “I should go. Qazarl could launch another assault at any moment.”

  He turned to go.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande.

  He looked back at her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For my life.”

  This time he did smile, and his blue eyes turned a touch less cold. “You already thanked me for your life, the night we escaped from the ursaar. No need to do it twice.”

  “You rescued me from the kobolds since then,” said Calliande.

  “By the time I arrived,” said Ridmark, taking a step closer, “it seemed you were well underway to rescuing yourself.”

  “I would have gotten away,” said Calliande, “only to die on the spears of the kobold warriors.” She stared at him for a moment, and then shook her head. “I don’t understand you.”

  “What is there to understand?” said Ridmark.

  “That brand on your cheek,” she said. “You ought to be a craven, a traitor…and you are none of those things. None of them at all. What did you do to get that brand?”

  “No one has told you yet?” said Ridmark. His eyes did not turn cold, but…distant. Lost, even. “I should have died here, Calliande. Five years ago, when we faced Mhalek. It would have been better if I had died during the battle. Mhalek would have been defeated, and…much evil would have been averted.”

  “No,” said Calliande. “Never say that, Ridmark Arban. Never. If you had died, I would be dead, Caius would be dead…and God alone knows how many men and women and children within these walls would be dead.”

  “You almost make me believe it,” said Ridmark.

  “I believe it,” said Calliande, “and I believe in you.”

  He stared at her, and Calliande felt her heart hammering against her ribs. With a sudden surge of fear, she realized that he wanted to kiss her. And she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to do it, right here, and damn the witnesses.

  “Calliande,” he said, voice rough. “I…”

  He leaned forward…and the blast of trumpets echoed outside the church.

  Both their heads snapped to look at the church’s doors. They knew what the trumpet blasts meant.

  Qazarl and the Mhalekites had launched another assault.

  “Go,” said Calliande. Her throat was dry as dust, and she licked her lips. “Go. They need the Gray Knight. Be careful.”

  “I am always careful,” said Ridmark.

  But she knew that was not true.

  ###

  Ridmark ran through the streets of Dun Licinia, his cloak snapping behind him.

  Bit by bit the unfamiliar feelings Calliande had inspired in him drained away.

  Not unfamiliar, not really. But…forgotten. He had not felt like that in a long time.

  For a brief moment, she had almost made him feel like he was a better man than he really was.

  But Ridmark knew better.

  For it would have been so much better if he had died here after the orcs were defeated. Mhalek would not then have fled to Castra Marcaine, but would have fought to the bitter end.

  And then Aelia would still live.

  The trumpets rang over the town, accompanied by the distant boom of the Mhalekite war drums. Ridmark forced all thoughts of the past and of Calliande from his mind. Battle was coming, and he needed all his attention focused on the present.

  And perhaps he would die in the fighting, and finally meet his just punishment.

  Ridmark ran up the steps to the rampart overlooking the northern gate. Sir Joram stood there, stern in his plate armor, Caius waiting at his side. A cluster of sergeants of the men-at-arms and militiamen waited around their Comes, staring to the north.

  At the motionless Mhalekite host.

  “Ridmark,” said Caius.

  “They’re not attacking?” said Ridmark, gazing at the orcs. He saw that they had formed themselves into columns around a new set of siege ladders, but des
pite the constant booming of the drums, they had not yet advanced.

  “No,” said Joram with a scowl. “I suspect they are trying to intimidate us, to play for time.”

  “But why?” said Caius. “Time is not on their side. The longer they delay, the more likely it is that aid shall arrive from Castra Marcaine.”

  “They want to distract us, not intimidate us,” said Ridmark, his mind racing through the possibilities. “Qazarl has something planned, and he doesn’t want us to notice it. More kobolds over the wall?” He glanced at the sky. “No, it’s too bright, and kobolds don’t see as well in daylight.”

  “Perhaps a tunnel?” said Joram.

  “I would have noticed the vibrations from the digging,” said Caius. “And they have been here only three and a half days. Some of my kindred could have constructed a mine beneath the walls in that time, aye. But these orcs from the Wilderland? Never.”

  “Reinforcements,” said Ridmark. “Qazarl must have reinforcements coming down from the foothills of the Black Mountain, and he wants to mask their approach.”

  “And,” said Joram, “if he has reinforcements, he might have sent them to assail the southern wall while he holds our attention from the north.”

  “It could be even simpler,” said Ridmark. “Qazarl might have split his remaining warriors and sent some of them under cover of darkness to assail the southern wall. If we wait for an attack, and he launches a second attack from the south…he might be able to force his way into the town.”

  “A desperate move, surely,” said Joram.

  “It’s been three days, and we’ve taken losses, but the town has held,” said Ridmark. “If Qazarl doesn’t do something dramatic before the Dux’s men arrive, he’s going to lose. Assuming he survives the defeat, he’ll have to report back to Shadowbearer. And I suspect that would be fatal.”

  Joram pointed at a militiaman. “Take a message to the southern gate. The sergeant in command is to exercise extra vigilance, and call for reinforcements at once if anything at all seems amiss. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, lord knight,” said the militiaman with a bow, running for the southern wall.

  “That is all we can do for now,” said Joram. “We wait until aid arrives, or until Qazarl throws more warriors at…”

  The drums stopped.

  Ridmark watched the enemy lines, expecting the Mhalekites to begin another assault.

  Instead a procession of a dozen orcs marched from the lines. Mzalacht marched at their head, again carrying the lance with the white banner.

  “An embassy?” said Caius. “Now?”

  “The same reason as before,” said Ridmark. “Delay.”

  The orc herald stopped at the same place as before. Dead orcs dotted the ground here and there. The retreating Mhalekites had sometimes taken their dead and wounded back with them, but sometimes they had not, and dozens of slain orcs lay upon the fields.

  The stench was becoming a problem.

  “Men of Dun Licinia!” boomed Mzalacht in Latin. “For three days we have struggled, and for three days you have fought valiantly. Again and again you have repelled our assaults.”

  Joram climbed upon the battlements, armor clanking. “If you have come to state the obvious, do not weary our ears.” Laughter rang up around him. “For three days we have repelled you, and we shall repel you for three and thirty more!”

  Cheers answered his defiant shout, the defenders shaking their spears and swords at the embassy.

  “You can defy us for as long as you wish,” said Mzalacht once the shouts had subsided, “but we shall grind you down in the end. Yet why should you die, men of Andomhaim? You will make excellent slaves. We wish to preserve your lives.”

  “Then turn around and march back into the Wilderland,” said Joram, “and we shall all die of old age in our beds.”

  “Ridmark,” murmured Caius, voice low. “Look. There, in the trees, behind the second ladder on the left.”

  Ridmark followed the dwarf’s pointing finger. In the trees, just behind the orcish army, he saw signs of motion. The orcs were working on something. More ladders, perhaps? Maybe siege engines? Yet he doubted the Mhalekites had the engineering skill to build catapults or ballistae.

  “They’re digging,” said Ridmark at last.

  “But why?” said Caius. “If they want to dig a tunnel to undermine the wall, that’s far too great a distance.”

  A dark suspicion stirred in Ridmark’s mind. “A spell. There are some burial mounds in those woods. Leftover from an old orc kingdom the urdmordar destroyed and enslaved centuries ago.”

  Caius snorted. “If Qazarl wanted to rob tombs, there are better ways to go about it.”

  “He might need some old bones for a spell,” said Ridmark. “Or there might be something of old magic buried in the mounds. God and his saints, but I should have thought of this earlier. The orc shamans were stronger in the old days, before the High King’s realm reached this far north. They learned their dark magic directly from the wizards of the dark elves.”

  “Or the urdmordar, when it amused the spider-devils to teach their pets sorcery,” said Caius. “So it is written in the histories of my kindred. If only Alamur were not a traitor. He might be able disrupt Qazarl’s efforts, or at least sense the spell and tell us its nature.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. He turned towards Joram, intending to warn him of the threat, but Mzalacht’s next words stole his concentration.

  “To end this siege,” thundered the orc, “Qazarl, the loyal disciple of great Mhalek, proposes a trial by combat. We have chosen a champion, and we suggest that you choose a doughty warrior from among your number. Let him come forth, escorted only by a herald, and meet our champion halfway between your walls and our warriors.”

  “And the outcome of this duel?” said Joram.

  “If our champion is defeated,” said Mzalacht, “we shall withdraw from the field and return to Vhaluusk.”

  “And if our champion is defeated?” said Joram.

  Mzalacht laughed. “Then you lay down your arms, open your gates, and become our slaves.”

  Joram scoffed. “Do you really expect me to accept this ridiculous offer? Our position is strong, and we can hold for months. How much longer will your food last?”

  “Joram,” said Ridmark, voice quiet.

  The knight looked down at him.

  “Let me accept this challenge,” said Ridmark.

  “That is folly!” said Caius. “The orcs almost certainly intend treachery.”

  “I agree with the good Brother,” said Joram.

  “No, they don’t,” said Ridmark. “Well, they do, but not at the duel. Qazarl’s up to something in the trees. Some trick…probably a spell, I think. The trial by single combat is only a gambit to buy more time. Qazarl knows help is coming from Castra Marcaine, and he know he has to get inside the walls before it arrives.”

  “Then why would we aid his distraction?” said Caius.

  “Because,” said Joram, “distraction plays to our advantage.”

  “The longer I draw out this duel,” said Ridmark, “the longer we have for Dux Licinius’s men to arrive.”

  “Are you sure about this?” said Joram.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “I will delay for as long as I can. And when I am victorious…well, we will see what Qazarl has in mind.”

  “You are so certain you can prevail?” said Caius.

  “I am,” said Ridmark.

  But he wasn’t, not really. He knew the extent of his skill and abilities, and doubted any single orcish warrior could defeat him.

  But he had been wrong before.

  He remembered Aelia screaming, remembered the blood…

  “Very well,” said Joram. “Do as you think best.”

  Ridmark nodded and headed for the stairs.

  Chapter 21 - The Duel

  The town’s gate boomed shut behind Ridmark and Caius with an air of finality.

  It sounded rather like a coffin’s lid closing
.

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Ridmark.

  “Nonsense,” said Caius. “You are permitted a witness and a herald, to ensure that the trial is fair.”

  “True,” said Ridmark. “And a priest to administer the last rites, if I am mortally wounded?”

  “Well,” said Caius. “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get on with it,” said Ridmark.

  He walked away from the gate and towards the Mhalekite host encamped at the edge of the trees. In the distance he saw the foothills and the dark mass of the Black Mountain itself. He knew the orcs were too far away for a bow shot, yet nonetheless his skin itched, and he felt the urge to take cover.

  Ridmark stopped a dozen paces from the orcish embassy. Mzalacht looked him up and down and sneered.

  “You are the champion?” said the herald. “The ragged Gray Knight and his pet dwarf? You are the best that Dun Licinia could muster in its defense?”

  Ridmark shrugged. “If I die, no great loss.”

  “And it is my wish,” said Caius, “that you repent on your sins, and join us in brotherhood and amity in the Church.”

  Mzalacht spat. “Pathetic. We ought to kill you here and now, and insist that the humans send out a worthier champion.”

  Ridmark met his eye. “Try.”

  Mzalacht looked away first.

  “So be it,” said the orc. “Remain here until our champion and his attendants arrive.”

  “Attendants?” said Ridmark. “The agreement was that we would come alone to the field.”

  Mzalacht laughed. “Fear not, Gray Knight. You have your dwarven priest, do you not? The champion requires his attendants. But they will not harm you.”

  The herald turned and walked towards the Mhalekite host, his guards following.

  “Can you see what they’re doing in the trees?” said Caius, once Mzalacht and his party were out of earshot.

  “Not from here,” said Ridmark. “There are too many orcs blocking the view.”

  Another roll of drums came from the Mhalekite host, and the orcs started to cheer, thrusting their weapons into the air. Four orcs emerged from the army and walked towards him. The orc in the center was tall, almost seven feet, and wore only trousers and boots. Bruises marked his chest, and…