Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  And to his unease, Constantine and his escort obeyed without question.

  ###

  Calliande slipped into the cellar below the keep.

  Into the dungeon.

  Though the dungeon was really more of a storeroom. Narrow windows close to the ceiling admitted grainy light, revealing sacks of grain stacked against one wall. A third of the cellar had been divided off with a row of iron bars, a door set in their middle.

  Alamur, the Magistrius, sat in the center of the impromptu cell, bound wrist and ankle to a wooden chair, a blindfold over his eyes and a gag over his mouth to keep him from working magic.

  Yet Calliande felt Shadowbearer’s power in the cellar. Was the renegade high elf lurking the shadows, preparing to strike her down? She suddenly felt foolish for bringing the empty soulstone with her. Yet if she had left it behind, Shadowbearer could find it just as easily once she was dead.

  A shadow moved, and Calliande stepped back.

  Alamur’s shadow was moving, rotating around him.

  She saw the disgraced Magistrius shiver, saw sweat trickling down his brow and into his stained white robes.

  Then the shadow reached over him, covering him like a shroud…and the gag in his mouth turned to dust. Alamur spent a few moments coughing and spitting, but then began to speak in a rapid, terrified voice.

  “Master, I…I have done as you commanded,” said Alamur. “I…”

  “Be silent.”

  Calliande flinched, recognizing Shadowbearer’s strange, reverberating voice. She looked around, expecting to see the wizard.

  But the voice was coming from the shadow enveloping Alamur.

  “I did as you bade me, Master,” said Alamur, a terrified whine in his voice.

  “Did you?” said Shadowbearer. “I told you to secure the woman and the soulstone once they came to Dun Licinia. Instead I find you bound and gagged like a pig trussed for the slaughter.”

  “But I kept your secrets, Master!” said Alamur, his terror intensifying. “I did not tell them the truth! I said…I said I served you for blood spells, for forbidden magic. I said nothing of your true intent.”

  “How admirable,” said Shadowbearer. “How shall I repay such…daring initiative? I am sure I can think of a suitable reward. Perhaps I ought to make an example of you…”

  “Please, Master!” said Alamur, shuddering. Calliande saw his eyes darting back and forth behind the blindfold. “Please! Give me another chance! One more chance, and I will prove to you that I am worthy.” Tears streamed into his beard. “Please, just don’t…don’t…”

  “Give you immortality…of a sort?” said Shadowbearer, the alien voice thick with amusement. “Oh, don’t worry, Alamur. I wouldn’t give you immortality. The thought of listening to you whine for the next thousand years is appalling. But you are fortunate. I have only thirteen months before the influence of the great conjunction passes, and I am in something of a hurry. So you are going to get one more chance. Exactly one.”

  The shadow slithered around the bound Magistrius, and the ropes on his wrists and ankles turned to dust.

  “Find the woman Calliande and the empty soulstone,” said Shadowbearer, “and bring them to the standing stones south of the Black Mountain. Bring her to me unharmed, Alamur. Unharmed! And the soulstone must be empty. If I find a single scratch upon her, or you attempt to work a spell using that soulstone…I shall be most displeased.”

  “I will not fail you, Master,” said Alamur. “I swear it.”

  “Your devotion is ever so touching,” said Shadowbearer. “Now go. Qazarl has launched his final assault upon the town. He may prevail, or he may not. It is of no concern. But the fighting occupies the woman’s defenders. Now is your best chance to take her.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Alamur.

  “Go,” said Shadowbearer, and the strange shadow vanished.

  And as it did, the remaining ropes and the blindfold crumbled into dust.

  Calliande took a step back. She had to find Ridmark, or Sir Joram, and warn him that Alamur had broken free.

  Then the Magistrius’s dark eyes fell upon her.

  ###

  Sir Constantine and his escorts carved their way through Qazarl’s host.

  Ridmark jogged alongside their horses, striking at any target that presented itself, but few did. The massive charge of Constantine’s horsemen had broken the orcish host, and most of the survivors fled for the foothills of the Black Mountain. Those that remained offered little resistance against a charge of heavy horsemen. Ridmark remembered the power of such a charge, his horse thundering beneath him, Heartwarden shining in his fist…

  He pushed aside the thought.

  But every orc they slew would only rise again as an undead puppet, dancing on the strings of Qazarl’s sorcery, and Constantine’s Soulblade could not be everywhere upon the field. Sooner or later the undead orcs would wear down the horsemen and seize the town.

  Unless they found Qazarl first.

  The horsemen reached the edge of the trees and slowed. Ahead Qazarl’s strange pillar of flame rose into the sky, painting the nearby trees with a bloody light. Ridmark hurried forward as the horsemen picked their way over the roots and the needles, Kharlacht and Caius following him. The ancient orcish burial mounds lay off the road, in a clearing ringed by pine trees.

  He stepped past the last tree and into the clearing, the space dominated by a grass-covered mound about twenty feet tall. Someone had dug into the mound’s southern slope, and the air shivered and buzzed with the presence of potent dark magic.

  Qazarl stood atop the mound, a strange staff in his right hand.

  Its length had been fashioned from orcish leg bones bound with corroded bronze wire, and the tusked skulls of three orcs adorned its top. The empty eyes of the orc skulls blazed with crimson fire, and the staff shivered and pulsed in Qazarl’s hand in time to the fire rising overhead.

  A flame, Ridmark realized, that appeared directly above the bone staff itself.

  “Gray Knight!” shouted Qazarl, his voice gleeful, his white beard rippling in the icy wind. “I had hoped you would come here. You defeated Mhalek here…and here you shall die. Poetic, no?”

  Ridmark said nothing, Kharlacht and Caius joining him.

  “And you, traitorous cousin,” said Qazarl, pointing the staff at Kharlacht. “I am glad you have declared your allegiances at last. If you love the god of the humans so much, then you can perish with the humans.”

  “Qazarl,” said Kharlacht as the horsemen entered the clearing. “This is madness. Do you think this plan of yours will bring you victory? You cannot conquer the Northerland, let alone the realm of Andomhaim.”

  Qazarl laughed. “Do you think this is about conquest? Fool boy! The world is changing. Did you not see the blue fire fill the sky, just as Shadowbearer predicted? The old era of the world is passing. A new age has come…and the humans shall be slaves. If they even survive at all.”

  Constantine swung down from the saddle and pointed Brightherald at the orcish shaman. “Qazarl of the Wilderland! I am Constantine, Knight of the Soulblade and son of the Dux of the Northerland. By his authority, I command you to cease your black magic, gather your host, and depart the realm, never to return. Otherwise you shall face my justice.”

  “Shall I, boy?” said Qazarl. “Your wretched little sword is useless here.”

  “This Soulblade was forged to defeat dark magic,” said Constantine, “as you shall soon find out.”

  “Yes,” said Qazarl, his voice heavy with mockery, “you shall break my spells with your sword, and then the Gray Knight shall beat me to death with his stick. Or you shall all die here. Shall we find out who is right?”

  He struck the butt of the staff against the earth, the jaws of the tusked skulls clattering.

  The ground shuddered…and hunched shapes erupted from the earth. Orcish skeletons, wearing corroded bronze armor, ancient swords in their bony hands. Long ago they had been buried here, to attend their chiefta
in in the next world.

  And now they rose to kill at Qazarl’s bidding.

  A dozen of the undead warriors charged at Ridmark and Constantine.

  ###

  “Ah,” said Alamur. “Isn’t this fortuitous?”

  Calliande turned to run, but Alamur was faster.

  The Magistrius gestured with his good hand, summoning power. Invisible force slammed into the cell door and ripped it free from its hinges with a shriek of tortured iron. Calliande flung herself to the side, and the edge of the door clipped her leg. The impact knocked her from her feet. Alamur strode out of his cage, and Calliande tried to stand, but the Magistrius gestured again.

  She felt the surge of magic as invisible force seized her, threw her across the cellar, and slammed her against the stone wall. The same force kept her pinned against the wall, her boots dangling a few inches above the floor. Calliande strained against the force, trying to move, but it was too strong.

  Alamur walked towards her, hand extended, white light glimmering around his fingers.

  Again Calliande reached into her mind, trying to find some memory of magic. If she could find a way to counter Alamur’s spell, she could break free of him.

  But again, nothing happened.

  “The Master was right,” murmured Alamur, stopping a few paces away. “He did give me one more chance.” He laughed. “And here you are, walking right into my grasp. Why?”

  “I sensed him,” spat Calliande. “Shadowbearer.”

  Alamur raised an eyebrow. “And you thought to…confront him? To defeat him?” His dark eyes widened. “Which means…you have the means to defeat him…”

  He took several alarmed steps back. He was terrified of her, Calliande realized. But why?

  Did he believe she had the power to destroy him?

  “Yes,” she said, hoping to delay. “I came to destroy him, but I suppose I shall have to settle for you.”

  Terror flashed over Alamur’s face, and she thought he would run from the cellar.

  “No,” he said at last. “No. If you had the power to kill me, you would have done so already. You wouldn’t let me hold you like this.” The fear faded from his expression, the confidence returning. “Which means…it will be easy enough to subdue you and deliver you to the Master.”

  “Are you so sure of yourself?” said Calliande.

  “Yes.” He smirked. “You don’t even know who and what you are, do you? The Master knows. But you don’t. And when I deliver you to the Master…you will die in your ignorance.”

  He strode towards her, hand raised.

  ###

  The skeletal orcs charged at Ridmark and Constantine, their bronze swords flashing in the bloody light.

  “Take the shaman!” shouted Constantine, raising Brightherald over his head.

  “Kill them!” screamed Qazarl, gesturing with the staff. “Kill them all!”

  Ridmark met the first of the skeletal orcs. The undead thing stabbed at him, and Ridmark sidestepped, sweeping aside the thrust with a jerk of his staff. He began raining blows down upon the skeletal orc, sending cracks through the yellowed bones. His fifth blow ripped the tusked skull from the skeleton and sent it tumbling across the grass.

  The skeleton wavered and collapsed.

  Constantine proved even more effective. Brightherald blazed in his fist, and he struck down three of the undead in rapid succession. The magic binding their bones burned away at the touch of the soulblade, and the Swordbearer cut through them with ease. Ridmark smashed another of the skeletons, his eyes turning to Qazarl at the top of the mound. The shaman’s defenses were crumbling, and if Ridmark could get close enough to strike a killing blow…

  Qazarl shouted, struck the staff against the mound, and flung out his hand. A torrent of blood-colored fire erupted from his fingers, the grass withering to ash beneath its passage, and slammed into Constantine. The Swordbearer stumbled, raising his sword in guard. A Soulblade had the power to ward its bearer from hostile magic, and the blade shone with white light, Qazarl’s bloody fire snarling and snapping.

  The trees rustled, and more undead orcs emerged from the forest, summoned from the battlefield.

  “Their heads!” shouted Ridmark, smashing the skull of another skeletal orc. “Take their heads!” He saw the undead driving back Constantine’s knights. Kharlacht and Caius fought back to back, the dwarf’s mace smashing the bones of the undead, Kharlacht’s whirling greatsword taking their heads.

  But there were too many of the creatures, and Qazarl loosed blast after blast of magic, keeping Constantine pinned in place. The Swordbearer could deflect the shaman’s blasts, but he could not advance, not while Qazarl continued his attack.

  And with that strange bone staff, it seemed unlikely that Qazarl’s strength would wane.

  “Perish!” roared Qazarl, and the undead closed around them.

  ###

  “I’m afraid,” said Alamur, stopping just out of reach, “that this will inflict a considerable amount of agony on you.”

  Calliande struggled, trying to tear free of his spell, but his will was too strong.

  “A simple spell, that is all,” said Alamur, “to dampen your will and make you a bit more…tractable.” Purple light glimmered around his hand. “A spell I learned from the Master, as it happens. You yourself held the scroll. Now you shall get to experience it firsthand. A privilege, no?”

  “You are a traitor and a coward,” spat Calliande.

  Alamur smiled. “On the contrary. I am a man with the vision to see that the order of the world shall soon change, and the courage to seize the opportunities for power. Like this.”

  He gestured, a pulse of purple light washing over Calliande, and she felt his will hammer into her mind, his magic sinking into her thoughts.

  ###

  The undead orc toppled before him, its dead black eyes staring up at him. Ridmark snatched the axe from his belt, raised it high, and brought it down onto the orc’s neck.

  Two blows later, the undead orc’s head rolled from its shoulders, and the corpse collapsed to the ground.

  Ridmark grabbed his staff, the melee swirling around him. A limping orcish corpse staggered towards one of Constantine’s knights, and Ridmark attacked from behind, his quick blow breaking one of the orc’s legs. The undead thing fell to one knee, and the knight beheaded it with a powerful swing.

  And for a moment, just a moment, Ridmark was free to move.

  He shot a quick look around the clearing. Qazarl flung another gout of fire at Constantine, and the young Swordbearer swayed beneath the fury of the attack. Brightherald’s light was starting to dim. The sword had great magic, but the weapon’s strength matched the power of its wielder, and no man could bear up under such an assault for long. Sooner or later, Constantine would fall.

  And then Qazarl could turn his magic against the rest of them.

  Ridmark had to get to the shaman.

  But he could not do it alone.

  He raced forward, knocking down an undead in his path, and made his way to Kharlacht and Caius. The friar and the warrior battled together, keeping any of the undead from making their way to Constantine. A skeletal orc stabbed at Caius, and the dwarf blocked the blow on his mace. Ridmark came up from behind and swung once, twice, three times. His staff shattered the bones of the orc’s right leg, and the undead thing tottered.

  Caius’s mace came down upon the top of its skull, shattering the yellowed bone to a dozen fragments.

  “Qazarl,” said Ridmark, breathing hard, and both Kharlacht and Caius looked at him. His arms and shoulders ached, sweat dripping down his face…but the battle was not over yet. “This isn’t over until we get Qazarl.”

  “Then I suggest,” said Caius, “that we get him.”

  Kharlacht nodded, and the three of them cut their way through the undead, making for the burial mound.

  ###

  “You will obey me,” said Alamur, his voice echoing in Calliande’s ears and thundering inside her head. “Y
ou will obey me. By the power of this spell and the strength of my will, I compel you to obey me. Obey!”

  Calliande shuddered, his magic sinking deeper into her thoughts. She felt it reshaping her thoughts, forcing her to obey.

  But as before, when she had faced Talvinius, fury rose up inside her, rage that Alamur should abuse his magic, rage that he had betrayed the people in his care to their deaths at Qazarl’s hands.

  And with that rage the white fire welled up inside her again.

  The fire burned away Alamur’s spell, though his will still held her fast.

  “That is not possible!” hissed Alamur. “You don’t know who you are. You can’t do that!”

  Calliande gritted her teeth. “Try that again and I’ll show you what I can do.”

  “No,” said Alamur. He surged forward, his uninjured hand locking around her throat, and Calliande felt his thumb digging into her windpipe. “When you pass out, I’ll carry you out of here like a sack of meat. The Master wants you alive. I suppose he will forgive a few bruises.”

  Calliande gagged, pawing at his hand, but the Magistrius was stronger than she was. Her arms twitched, her hands falling to her sides.

  Her right hand brushed the handle of the dagger Ridmark had given her.

  With a last desperate burst of strength, she yanked the dagger free of its sheath and stabbed.

  The blade sank into Alamur’s side.

  The Magistrius fell back with a scream, and Calliande fell in a heap, coughing, as both his magical and physical grasp released. Alamur grabbed his side, his eyes wide as blood stained his white robes.

  “You…you stabbed me,” he whispered. He sounded more surprised than anything else.

  Calliande staggered to her feet. “Then you should not have tried to take me to Shadowbearer.”

  Rage blossomed over his face. “Then die!” He lifted his left hand, purple light snarling and hissing around his fist. Calliande recognized the spell. It was an attack of dark magic, a spell that would shatter her mind and stop her heart.