Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Constantine and Joram shared a look.

  “He was the best of us,” said Joram. “We were all squires together, in Dux Gareth’s court, and he was the boldest and the most skilled. He achieved everything he set his mind to accomplish.”

  “I hated him at first, I admit,” said Constantine. “But I was just a boy, and I was jealous that his father, the Dux of Taliand, had greater prestige than my own father. But Ridmark had no pride in him. He befriended us all…and helped teach me and my brothers the use of the sword.”

  “He became a Swordbearer at eighteen,” said Joram, “one of the new-made knights that old Master Galearus selected. And he did deeds of tremendous renown. At eighteen, he slew the urdmordar Gothalinzur. A lone, new-made Swordbearer, and he slew an urdmordar matriarch. Such a feat…I would not have believed it, had any other man than Ridmark done it.”

  “He told me a little of it,” said Calliande, remembering their discussion in the Deeps as the others slept.

  “When the high elven archmage Ardrhythain himself came to my father’s court to ask for a Swordbearer to undertake a perilous quest,” said Constantine, “my father chose Ridmark. He ventured into the ruins of Urd Morlemoch and confronted the Warden, the dark elven sorcerer that rules over that evil place. And he was victorious!” He looked at the ceiling and sighed. “And my sister Aelia loved him. Ridmark asked my father for her hand in marriage, and he consented gladly.”

  “And then Mhalek came,” said Joram. “He declared himself a living god, and led a huge host into the Northerland. He invited the leaders of the High King’s host to a parley and slaughtered them. It would have been a disaster…but Ridmark took command of the host and crushed the Mhalekites utterly.”

  “But Mhalek escaped,” said Constantine.

  Suddenly the haunted looked in Ridmark’s blue eyes made sense.

  “And when he escaped, he went to Castra Marcaine, didn’t he?” said Calliande.

  Joram nodded. “You are wise, Magistria.”

  “Ridmark left the army and pursued,” said Constantine. “Mhalek had taken Aelia captive.”

  “What did Ridmark do?” said Calliande, horrified.

  Constantine looked away.

  “He killed Mhalek,” said Joram, “before the Dux’s seat in the great hall of Castra Marcaine. But he did not know that Mhalek had worked a spell joining his blood to Aelia’s. One final cruelty. Any wound Mhalek received would be dealt to Aelia as well.”

  “God’s mercy,” said Caius. “So when Ridmark struck down Mhalek…”

  Constantine nodded. “I fear my sister perished as well.”

  She remembered Ridmark’s grim face, the echo of pain in his blue eyes.

  “But why did the Order expel him?” said Calliande. “He did nothing wrong. His wife’s death was on Mhalek, not him! He couldn’t have known about the spell.”

  “I thought the same,” said Constantine, “as did my father, and most of the other chief nobles. But Tarrabus and his lot thought otherwise.”

  “Tarrabus?” said Calliande. She did not recognize the name.

  “Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Joram, “the Dux of Caerdracon. We were squires together, at Castra Marcaine…and he always hated Ridmark. He blamed Ridmark for Aelia’s death, accused him of cowardice for leaving his army in the field. The new Master of the Order was undecided, but Tarrabus can be persuasive. And Ridmark…I think Ridmark agreed with them. The heart went out of him after Aelia died. He did not even try to defend himself. Tarrabus forced the Order to expel him, strip him of his Soulblade, and brand him as a coward. His father and brothers turned their back on him.”

  “How is he still alive?” said Calliande. “From what I understand…if a Swordbearer is severed from his Soulblade, he quickly loses the will to live.”

  “It does not often come to pass that a Swordbearer is expelled from our Order,” said Constantine, “but when it does, the former Knight usually wastes away. But Ridmark…Ridmark is not the sort of man to lie down and die.”

  “The Frostborn,” said Caius. “He believes the Frostborn are returning.”

  “The Frostborn are extinct,” said Joram. “Some of the things Gothalinzur and the Warden told him made him believe the Frostborn would return. But they are extinct, a relic of the past.” He sighed. “Or so I thought. After your arrival, my lady, and Qazarl’s attack…I am not so sure.”

  “He believes the Frostborn shall return,” said Constantine, “and has spent the past five years searching. And along the way, he has helped people, saved them from pagan orcs and creatures of the wild and worse things. Hence the legend of the Gray Knight.” Constantine spread his hands. “And that, my lady, is the tale of Ridmark Arban. I fear he is condemned by a harsher judge than any other in the realm.”

  “His own conscience,” said Joram.

  Calliande stood in silence for a moment. Many of the things Ridmark had said and done made a great deal of sense now. Little wonder he regarded his own life so lightly.

  He did not care if he lived. Perhaps he even believed he deserved death.

  “If you will forgive the question, my lady Magistria,” said Constantine, “what shall you do now?”

  Calliande blinked. “Oh?”

  “We thought you might go to Tarlion,” said Joram, “to speak with the Masters of the Order of the Magistri. They might have the spells to repair at least some of your lost memories.”

  Calliande thought of Talvinius and Alamur. How many more Magistri were like them?

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “If not,” said Constantine, “you would be welcome at my father’s court. The Northerland is a perilous land, and Qazarl and his Mhalekites are hardly the only dangers we face. A valiant Magistria would have a place of honor among us.”

  “Or you could stay here, if you forgive my presumption,” said Joram. “Since Alamur was a traitor, we now have no Magistrius among us, and the Masters of the Order will investigate his death before they deign to send a replacement. It could be months before we have a new Magistrius, and Dun Licinia sorely needs one. We are at the very edge of the realm, and your magic would be a welcome aid.”

  Calliande thought it over. She could see herself settling here, helping the people of the Northerland to build their homes and keep the dangers of the Wilderland at bay.

  But she still didn’t know who she was. She was a Magistria, that was plain, but that told her very little.

  And Shadowbearer would hunt for her and the empty soulstone in the pouch at her belt.

  And the Watcher had told her to find him and her staff at Dragonfall.

  “I think,” said Calliande, “that I know what I must do now.”

  Chapter 24 - The Four

  Ridmark strode alone through the trees, the dark mass of the Black Mountain rising to the east.

  The vast wilderness of the Wilderland stretched before him, forest and swamps and mountains and plains.

  Of course, the wilderness wasn’t empty. Tribes of pagan orcs lived beneath the trees, warring against each other and their neighbors. Urdmordar built petty kingdoms from the shadows, feasting upon their victims. Packs of beastmen migrated across the land, hunting prey and their foes. Kobolds raided from the tunnels of the Deeps, as did dark elven princes. Wyverns flew overhead, and beasts of ancient dark elven sorcery hunted in the darkness.

  Ridmark knew it well. He had spent five years wandering the Wilderland, traveling to lands no man of Andomhaim had ever seen, seeking for evidence of the return of the Frostborn.

  And now he had seen blue fire fill the sky, just as the Warden had predicted…and Ridmark knew where he had to go.

  Urd Morlemoch awaited him.

  It lay far to the northwest, on the shore of the cold northern sea, near the border between the Wilderland and the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves. It had once been a mighty fortress of the dark elves, tens of thousands of years old, and from there the dark elves had waged their endless war against the high elves.

  And then
the dark elves had summoned the urdmordar, intending to use them as slave soldiers against the high elves…only to find themselves enslaved by the urdmordar. The High King, the Magistri, and the Swordbearers had smashed the urdmordar, wielding magic taught to them by Ardrhythain, but Urd Morlemoch remained, ruled by its undead Warden.

  The undead dark elven wizard who had taunted Ridmark with his warning of the blue fire, the omen that would herald the return of the Frostborn.

  Now that omen had come, and Ridmark would wring the truth of it from the Warden.

  He kept walking, the ground smoothing as he left the foothills of the Black Mountain behind.

  Caius might have come with him, had he asked, and possibly Calliande. Joram would have sent an escort of men-at-arms, and Constantine would have convinced his father to summon his knights and Comites, and march to Urd Morlemoch in force.

  But if they went with Ridmark, many of them would die, and he did not want any more deaths on his conscience.

  Again he heard Aelia screaming, her eyes staring up at him, full of shocked betrayal, the blood pooling around her…

  Ridmark shook his head and kept walking.

  It was better to go alone.

  He had promised Calliande that he would help her find her memory, and he regretted leaving her behind. But it was just as well. She had come into her full powers as a Magistria, and the Masters of the Order of the Magistri could help her recover her memories.

  And she was somehow connected to the Frostborn. For some reason the Order of the Vigilant had put her into a magical sleep for centuries below their castle. Ridmark suspected if he solved the riddle of the Frostborn, he would also answer the question of Calliande.

  He kept walking.

  But right now, he had more immediate problems.

  Such as the fact that someone had been following him for the last mile.

  Ridmark entered a clearing and looked around. He would have enough room here to wield his staff effectively. Of course, if his pursuers had archers among their number, they could shoot him. But he did not think they had any bows.

  In fact, he thought there was only one man after him.

  Ridmark waited, and after a moment a tall figure in gleaming blue armor stepped into the clearing.

  “Kharlacht,” said Ridmark.

  “Gray Knight,” said Kharlacht. The hilt of Kharlacht’s greatsword rose over his right shoulder, and various cuts and bruises marked his face. He walked with a slight limp, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

  “I sought you after the battle,” said Ridmark, “but you were gone.”

  “Aye,” said Kharlacht. “It seemed wisest to go. With Qazarl slain and his host broken, the knights from Castra Marcaine would kill any orc they could catch. Better to be gone, rather than try to explain myself.”

  “Sensible,” said Ridmark.

  Kharlacht nodded, his topknot bobbing, and said nothing.

  “You’re here to kill me, then?” said Ridmark, fingers loose around his staff. “I slew the last of your blood kin, and now you’re here to kill me in turn?”

  “No,” said Kharlacht. “Qazarl…was the last of my blood kin, aye. But now he is slain. And he brought his death upon his own head. Even if I had never met you, Gray Knight, Qazarl still would have met his doom. Sooner or later he would have been overwhelmed and slain.”

  “If you are not here to kill me,” said Ridmark, “then why are you here?”

  “I wish to follow you into battle,” said Kharlacht, “and aid you in your quest.”

  Ridmark blinked. “Why?”

  “Because I owe you a debt,” said Kharlacht. “You spared my life outside the walls of Dun Licinia. You could have slain me fairly and honorably…but you did not. I owe you my life, and I would see that debt repaid.” He paused. “And your quest seems a good one.”

  “My quest?” said Ridmark.

  “You did not speak of it to me, but I am neither blind nor deaf,” said Kharlacht. “You seek to stop the return of the Frostborn.”

  “The Frostborn are extinct,” said Ridmark. “The High King wiped them out two and a half centuries ago.”

  “So your nobles claim,” said Kharlacht, “yet you have heard rumor of their return. And I listened to Qazarl and Shadowbearer speak in the dark hours of the night. They, too, were certain the Frostborn would return. Loyalty to my kin bound my tongue before, but Qazarl claimed the Frostborn would return the on day of the blue fire. That was why he wished to assault Dun Licinia. He desired to seize the town and offer it as a gift to the Frostborn, that he might earn the favor of the new masters of the world.”

  Ridmark nodded. That explained much.

  “A terrible danger is coming,” said Kharlacht, “and it seems that only you see it and seek to stop it. I would aid you, if I can.”

  “I am going to Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark.

  Kharlacht’s expression did not change, but the skin around his eyes tightened. “A name of dread and fear among my kindred.”

  “A name of dread and fear among all kindreds,” said Ridmark. “Nine years ago, the Warden that rules over the ruins told me of the omen of blue fire. Now it has happened. I will return to Urd Morlemoch and force the Warden to tell me more…and I will learn how the Frostborn will return. And if it is in my power, I will find a way to stop it.”

  “I shall aid you,” said Kharlacht.

  “We might die,” said Ridmark. “If there is anything else you wish to do, anywhere else you wish to go…you should do it now.”

  “I have nowhere else to go,” said Kharlacht. “All my kin are dead. I was once betrothed to a woman of my kindred…but she, too, is dead, and I hope she resides with the Dominus Christus in paradise.”

  “I can understand that,” said Ridmark.

  “There is nothing else for me to do,” said Kharlacht. “So I will follow you. If you will have me.”

  “Come,” said Ridmark. “If we start now, we can likely make another ten miles before nightfall.”

  They walked into the woods.

  ###

  “Are you sure about this?” said Caius as they walked through the woods.

  “Absolutely,” said Calliande.

  She had traded her gown for a leather jerkin, trousers, heavy boots, and a thick cloak to ward off the chill. Behind them walked a train of four pack mules, laden with supplies. She had asked Sir Joram for modest supplies, and he had given her ten times what she needed.

  “Do you know where he is now?” said Caius.

  “Not far,” said Calliande, touching the dagger at her belt. “Perhaps two days to the northeast. Urd Morlemoch is north of the Three Kingdoms, and he’s heading there now.”

  Ridmark had given her the dagger as a gift, and it had saved Calliande’s life. That gave the dagger a sort of…resonance, an echo, of his presence. And with the proper spell, that meant Calliande could use the dagger to follow him.

  “Then let us continue,” said Caius, tugging at the reins. “Were gambling not a sin, I would wager that we could make another ten miles before nightfall, even with these truculent beasts.”

  Calliande nodded. She would find Ridmark and lend him her aid. Together they would find the secret of the Frostborn.

  And by doing so, perhaps she could find the truth of herself.

  Epilogue

  He had once been an archmage of the high elven kindred, an honored servant of his people, respected and renowned.

  That had been a very long time ago.

  So long that the humans had not yet come through the gate from Old Earth, that their ancestors had still been living in caves and hunting with sticks.

  A very long time.

  He was much more now…and yet, less than he should be.

  The rage of it burned inside him, so hot that if it burst forth, it would devour the world.

  But soon enough, he would make it right.

  The creature that had once been an archmage of the high elves, the creature that some called Shadowbearer, walked
alone in the Deeps. The clumps of ghost mushrooms clinging to the floor provided only a little light, but that did not trouble him. He needed very little light to see. In truth, he saw by things other than light, with senses other than mere eyes of flesh.

  And with those senses he saw things that troubled him.

  Qazarl dead, slain outside the walls of Dun Licinia.

  Alamur dead, devoured by his own magic.

  Calliande’s powers returned. Only a portion of them, true, but even a portion was dangerous to him.

  Even a portion could destroy him.

  “Ridmark Arban,” hissed Shadowbearer.

  He had not considered the disgraced Swordbearer before. True, Ridmark had stopped Mhalek, but Mhalek had only been a…diversion, a distraction, a ploy to wear down the strength of the High King until the moons reached their proper conjunction and the real work began. And Mhalek had died, but he had broken Ridmark in his death. Shadowbearer had not spared the man a thought since.

  That had been a mistake.

  But humans were like that. Such short lives, and they bred and died as quickly as rabbits. But the best of them, the bravest and the boldest, could reshape the world in the few short decades of their lives.

  As Calliande had, centuries ago.

  As Ridmark might yet do.

  Idly, Shadowbearer wondered if the former Swordbearer knew just how many lives he had saved in the last ten days. If Ridmark had not been there, if that idiot Vlazar had managed to kill Calliande upon the altar and activate the soulstone…well, the defenders of Dun Licinia would have faced foes more potent than a ragged band of Mhalekites.

  Far more potent.

  But it was not too late. A year and a month after the omen, that was how long the threshold would remain, how long the thirteen moons would remain aligned, their magical fields interlocking just so. Shadowbearer’s first plan had been undone, but he had been preparing for a very long time…and there was always another plan.