Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  A pillar of blood-colored fire erupted from the trees behind the Mhalekite host.

  Ridmark saw movement between the town and the orcs.

  All across the field, the dead orcs were beginning to move.

  Ridmark turned in astonishment, while Caius muttered a prayer. The dead orcs were standing, getting to their feet, picking up whatever weapons lay at hand. Most had hideous wounds marring their torsos and faces, and some had bloated from decomposition. Yet they were moving nonetheless.

  And their eyes shone with the same blood-colored light as the pillar of flame rising from the trees.

  “Qazarl!” roared Kharlacht. The orc snatched his fallen greatsword and pointed it at the trees. “Qazarl! What treachery is this? You agreed that if I was defeated our army would withdraw from the field! Have you betrayed your word?”

  Mzalacht laughed. “Fool! Do you think Qazarl would keep his word when given to human vermin? The wrath of the blood gods has come, and you will perish alongside the humans!” His eyes gleamed with battle fury. “Kill him! Kill them all!”

  Mzalacht charged, roaring, and his guards did the same. Ridmark sprang to meet them, staff in both hands, and killed Mzalacht with a single powerful blow that snapped the orc's head back. One of the warriors lunged at him, only to meet Caius’s descending mace. Bone crunched, and the orc fell lifeless to the field.

  The last warrior drew back his sword to strike, but Kharlacht moved first. Blue steel blurred, and the warrior’s head jumped off his shoulders with a spray of green blood. The corpse toppled, and the head rolled away.

  Ridmark glanced at Kharlacht in surprise.

  “Qazarl has betrayed his given word,” spat Kharlacht, “and he has betrayed me as well. He swore that if you prevailed in the trial, he would withdraw from the field. He is a liar…and he has made a liar of me. I must aid you until this crime is expunged.”

  Ridmark nodded. “Glad for your help.”

  “Stand fast!” shouted Caius. “The dead are coming!”

  Two of the undead orcs staggered towards them, broken arrows jutting from their chests. One drew back its fist to punch at Ridmark, and he raised his staff in a block. The sheer power of the undead orc’s fist hammered into the staff like a missile from a catapult, and Ridmark stumbled back. He caught his balance and went on the attack, swinging his staff. The dead orc was supernaturally strong, but it was slow and Ridmark was not. In quick succession he shattered its knees and its elbows, and the orc collapsed as its legs would no longer support its weight.

  Yet still the vile thing crawled towards him. The dead would not feel pain. Would Ridmark have to cut the corpse to pieces to stop it?

  That would be a challenge with his staff.

  Kharlacht bellowed as the second undead orc charged him, dodged its blow, and brought his sword around. His strike took the orc’s head from its shoulders, a spurt of congealed, greenish-black blood bursting from the stump. The corpse collapsed, and Ridmark waited for it to get back up.

  But it remained motionless.

  “Their heads,” said Kharlacht. “Removing their heads seems to cancel whatever black sorcery Qazarl used to animate these fools.”

  “Indeed.” Ridmark hurried to the corpses of Mzalacht and his guards and plucked an axe from a dead warrior’s back. It was a crude weapon, the haft rough, the crescent steel blade showing spots of rust. Yet it was heavy enough, and with it Ridmark could take off a head or two.

  “We need to get back to the town,” said Caius.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. Hundreds of dead orcs had risen, and now all of them attacked Dun Licinia’s northern wall. Arrows and crossbows did not slow them, and the undead orcs pulled themselves up the wall by sheer strength. “Qazarl will launch an attack while the undead distract the defenders.” He looked at Kharlacht. “Will you come with us, or will you leave? Qazarl might have betrayed us, but he is still your blood kin, and…”

  “No,” said Kharlacht. “I will follow you into battle, Gray Knight. Qazarl is my blood kin, but he used me to work deception. The same blood ties that bound me to him now bind me to oppose him.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark. He looked at the melee raging along the ramparts. “They dare not open the gates for us. Let us make for the western rampart and scale the wall.” He secured the axe to a loop on his belt, turning the weapon so it would not slice his leg open. “Then we can aid Sir Joram against…”

  Blood-colored light danced over the slain herald and his guards, and the dead orcs rose in eerie silence. Ridmark turned to face them and felt a chill, his eyes straying to the slender pillar of bloody fire rising from the trees. Qazarl’s spell was still active. That meant that any orcs slain in the fighting would rise as undead.

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, the drums boomed, the orcs shouted, and the Mhalekite host surged forward.

  They were charging right towards Ridmark.

  “Qazarl,” said Ridmark. “We’ve got to get to Qazarl. If we can kill him, it will cancel the spell and break the sorcery upon the undead.”

  “Aye,” said Caius, “but how are we to reach him?”

  The orcish warriors charged towards them, howling. They did not bother with shieldbearers to protect the ladders now, not with the defenders of Dun Licinia struggling to hold the undead at bay.

  Ridmark opened his mouth to answer, and the blast of a trumpet rang out.

  But it came from the southeast, not from the walls of the town.

  From the road leading to Castra Marcaine.

  Ridmark whirled and saw horsemen galloping past the town, knights and men-at-arms in steel plate and chain, gleaming lances and swords in their hands. At their head flew a green banner with a white hart, the sigil of the Dux of the Northerland.

  And beneath the banner he glimpsed the white light of a Soulblade drawn in battle, burning in the hand of a Swordbearer.

  Help had come from Castra Marcaine at last.

  Ridmark only hoped that it hadn’t arrived too late.

  Chapter 22 - Calling the Fire

  “They said the dead have risen and fight alongside the Mhalekites,” said Elaine, her voice full of fear.

  “Yes,” said Calliande, closing her eyes. “I know.”

  She felt the pulse of the blood magic to the north, of the dark and filthy power Qazarl had conjured. She knew Qazarl was strong, but she had thought such a feat of sorcery beyond his reach. Yet she felt something…augmenting his magic, something old and strong and dark as the Black Mountain itself. Some relic of ancient sorcery, she suspected, something he had found.

  No. Something that Shadowbearer had told him to find.

  She was sure of it.

  “Perhaps…perhaps we should move out of the church, my lady, before it’s too late,” said Elaine.

  Calliande opened her eyes. “Why should we do that? If the town falls, there is nowhere to run.”

  “Before the dead below the church rise,” said Elaine, her voice trembling.

  “Oh,” said Calliande. “No, we needn’t worry about that. Qazarl’s spell will only raise slain orcs. I think he used his own blood to empower it. Trying to use orc blood in a spell to raise a human corpse would be like…oh, trying to drink water to get drunk. You’d just make a mess.”

  Elaine stared at her. “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t really know,” said Calliande, “but I do.” She took a deep breath. “Get ready for more wounded. The undead are terrible foes, and…”

  She blinked.

  She felt the wrath of Qazarl’s spell writhing to the north, a dark fire that entered the orcish dead and commanded them to fight. But she felt another power, a closer power.

  Something within the town.

  And she recognized it.

  Shadowbearer.

  He was here. Somehow he had gotten inside the town.

  “My lady?” said Elaine. Some of Calliande’s fear must have shown on her face.

  “I have,” said Calliande, swallowing, “I have to go.
”

  Shadowbearer was here, and he would come for her. And he would kill anyone who tried to stop him. He would butcher everyone in the church, all the wounded and all the women and all the halfling servants, just to get at her. She would bring more death upon these people, just as her presence had brought Qazarl and his Mhalekites and his undead to Dun Licinia.

  Calliande had to flee, at once. She would take the soulstone and escape through the southern gate. With luck, that would draw Shadowbearer and his black magic away from the town, away from these innocents…

  But something within her, something hard and cold, recoiled at the prospect.

  No. She was through running. Shadowbearer and his servants had pursued her from the Tower of Vigilance, through the Deeps, and into Dun Licinia. And if she had indeed slept in that vault since the defeat of the Frostborn, that meant he had pursued her across the centuries.

  And she was done running, done letting other people die for her.

  “Elaine,” said Calliande, “you are in charge here. There is something I must do.”

  “But my lady…” said Elaine.

  But Calliande was already running for the doors, her skirts gathered in her hands.

  ###

  Ridmark struck again and again, his staff vibrating in his hands.

  Mzalacht’s corpse came at him, his grating voice forever stilled, and reached for Ridmark’s throat. Ridmark dodged, his staff spinning, and shattered first the herald’s right knee and then his left. Mzalacht fell, and Ridmark dropped his staff, snatched the axe from his belt, and took off the orc’s head in two chops.

  Mzalacht’s corpse slumped motionless to the ground. Ridmark spun, saw Caius shatter the knee of another undead, staggering the creature, and allowing Kharlacht to behead it with a single mighty blow of his dark elven steel.

  “Gray Knight!” boomed Kharlacht, turning to the north. “They come!”

  The tide of orcish warriors rushed at them, brandishing weapons.

  Ridmark shoved the axe back into its loop, snatched up his staff, and met the enemy.

  Kharlacht and Caius fought back to back, the huge orc towering over the dwarven friar. Caius’s heavy mace stunned and disabled the orcish warriors, leaving them open for Kharlacht’s sword. The two turned around each other, carving a bloody swathe through the tide of charging orcs. Ridmark fought at the edge of the chaos, his staff stabbing and thrusting and swinging. His blows cracked skulls and crushed throats, and sent the Mhalekites tumbling to the earth. Or his strikes stunned the orcs long enough for Kharlacht to take their heads off with a sweep of his dark elven steel.

  It was more efficient that way. A beheaded orc could not rise again as an undead. For the dead orcs did rise again, and attacked anew. Whenever they did, Caius, Kharlacht, and Ridmark had to turn their attention to the undead, forcing Ridmark to abandon his staff for the far heavier and slower axe.

  Even worse, the living orcs were surrounding them. The orcish host had fallen into disarray, with some charging for the walls of the town, and others attempting to form up to face the horsemen galloping from the southeast. But more and more were surrounding Ridmark and the others, forcing Ridmark back towards Kharlacht and Caius step by step.

  Soon he would not have enough room to swing his staff or raise his axe, and then they would die. Ridmark slammed the butt of his staff into another orc’s throat, dodged a thrust, and raised the staff in an overhead swing, stunning a second orc. Both crumpled to the ground, but four more rushed to take their place, and three undead staggered towards him.

  He could not take them all at once.

  Then a wall of horsemen slammed into the orcs.

  Two of the orcs went down at once, trampled beneath steel-shod hooves. Another turned with a snarl, raising his axe, only for a lance to pierce his chest. One of the undead orcs turned towards a knight, but the knight swung a crescent-bladed war axe, all the strength of his arm and the momentum of his horse driving the blow. The blade sheared through the undead orc’s neck and sent its body toppling to the bloody grass.

  The knight turned towards Kharlacht and raised his axe.

  “No!” shouted Ridmark, moving between the knight and Kharlacht. “He is on our side. Hold!”

  The knight squinted at him, and the horsemen thundered around them, driving back the orcs.

  “My lord Swordbearer!” shouted the knight, turning in his saddle. “You were right! It is him!”

  Another horseman rode closer, a white light shining in his hand. As he drew closer, Ridmark saw that the light came from a longsword of gleaming steel, a rough white crystal shining at the base of the blade. Waves of magical power seemed to roll off the weapon.

  A Soulblade, the enchanted blade of a knight of the Order of the Swordbearers.

  A wave of longing and pain shot through Ridmark as he gazed at the weapon. He had once carried the Soulblade known as Heartwarden into battle, had used it to slay an urdmordar and numerous other creatures of dark magic. But then Mhalek had come and Aelia had perished, and Ridmark had been stripped of the blade, the brand burned upon his cheek.

  The Swordbearer reined up and removed his helmet. He had a lean, olive-skinned face, with curly black hair and bright green eyes. He was young, no more than twenty-five, and Ridmark recognized him with a shock.

  Sir Constantine Licinius, the Dux Gareth Licinius’s eldest son.

  And Aelia’s sister.

  ###

  Calliande ran into the square, following the pulse of icy magic against her senses, and headed for the castle.

  The keep was deserted. Every last man able to hold a spear or carry a shield had been called to the wall, and Calliande heard the sounds of frantic battle ringing over the town.

  The cellar. Shadowbearer’s presence was coming from the cellar of the keep. Alamur was down there. Had Shadowbearer come to rescue his wayward minion?

  Or to discipline him?

  Calliande took a deep breath to steady herself and touched her belt. The dagger Ridmark had given her still rested there. It would be of little use against a wizard of Shadowbearer’s might.

  But it made her feel better nonetheless.

  She passed through the courtyard and headed the keep’s doors.

  ###

  “Sir Ridmark Arban,” said Constantine. “My God, it really is you. Father and I thought you died years ago. We heard the tales of the Gray Knight, of course, and we thought of that cloak Ardrhythain gave you after Urd Morlemoch. But I never dreamed you were still alive.”

  “I am,” said Ridmark, his fingers tight around his staff. He had feared he might meet Constantine or his father here, and he had expected anger, fury, even an outright attack.

  Not amazement.

  “Why didn’t you come back to Castra Marcaine?” said Constantine, bewildered.

  “You know why,” said Ridmark.

  Constantine smote his saddle’s pommel. “Damn it, Ridmark, it was not your fault. It was not!” Brightherald, his Soulblade, blazed brighter in his fist in response to his anger. “I do not care what lies Tarrabus Carhaine poured into the ears of the High King, lies that you seemed to believe. And what Imaria said…well, she was half-mad with grief. It was not your fault. You should have come back to Castra Marcaine. Father would gladly have made you a knight of his household, even one of his Comites. We…”

  The dead orcs at the hooves of his horse started to move.

  “Constantine!” said Ridmark. “Beware!”

  The dead orcs surged to their feet and lunged at Constantine’s horse.

  But the Knight of the Soulblade was ready for them.

  Brightherald came down in a blaze of white light, and took off the first undead orc’s head in a flash. Two others came at the Swordbearer, and Constantine loosed powerful strokes. The magic of his Soulblade enhanced his strength and speed when he called upon it, and the power of the Soulblade was proof against dark magic.

  In a matter of heartbeats all five undead orcs had been dispatched.


  “God and his saints,” said Constantine. “Undead? Are these orcs followers of an urdmordar? Or perhaps a dark elven necromancer?”

  “Neither,” said Ridmark. “They follow Qazarl, one of Mhalek’s disciples.”

  Constantine’s eyes hardened. “I remember Qazarl. Father thought he might have escaped your victory. He has returned to work mischief?”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “It is a long story. Qazarl worked a spell to raise his slain warriors as undead. If we do not find him and kill him, I fear the town will fall.”

  “Then let us find Qazarl,” said Constantine, “and put an end to him at last.” He glanced at Kharlacht and frowned. “Your orcish companion bears curious armor.”

  Kharlacht bowed, and Ridmark said, “This is Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, a baptized son of the Church and a most valiant warrior.”

  “Is he? Your word is good enough for me,” said Constantine.

  It should not have been. Ridmark wanted to tell him that, but then Constantine spotted Caius.

  “Brother Caius!” said Constantine. “It is good to see you are well. Castra Marcaine’s halls are darker without your preaching. I take it your mission to bring the holy word to the orcs of the Wilderland did not go well?”

  Caius shrugged. “I fear not, my lord knight. Though it is with a small note of relief that I point out this attack is not in response to my preaching.”

  Constantine laughed. “The gravest fear of every preacher, I am sure. Come! Let us strike down Qazarl and deliver the town from its peril!”

  He sounded so confident. Ridmark had known confidence like that once. He had known victory after victory, and had even led the host of the High Kingdom to victory over Mhalek himself…

  Aelia’s screams echoed in his ears.

  He shoved aside the memories the sight of Constantine had stirred up. He could not afford to rebuke himself, not until Qazarl had been slain and the people of Dun Licinia saved.

  “He is in the trees,” said Ridmark. “This way.”