Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  FROSTBORN: THE MASTER THIEF

  Jonathan Moeller

  Description

  RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight, outcast and exiled from the High King's realm. Yet he alone sees the danger of the terrible Frostborn, the creatures that will sheathe the world in ice and quench all life.

  But none of the lords of the realm believe his warnings.

  And his enemies want him dead...and the secret allies of the Frostborn wish to silence him forever.

  As old foes and new enemies close around him, Ridmark must fight for his life.

  Or else the Frostborn will return, bringing eternal ice and darkness with them.

  Frostborn: The Master Thief

  Copyright 2014 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

  Ebook edition published May 2014.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Prologue

  An excerpt from the chronicles of the High Kings of Andomhaim:

  In the Year of Our Lord 538, Malahan Pendragon and the Keeper of Avalon led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm through a magical gate to a new world, a world far from the reach of the heathen Saxons. Here Malahan founded the new realm of Andomhaim and raised his citadel at Tarlion, and in time his new kingdom spread far and wide.

  And the knights of Andomhaim encountered the kindreds of this new world, the orcs and the manetaur, the dark elves and the dvargir, and waged many wars against them.

  Yet not all the kindreds they encountered were foes.

  For the orcs and the dark elves kept the halflings as slaves. Slender and short of stature, the halflings were nimble and stealthy, yet lacked the strength of men and orcs and dwarves. Therefore they were easily enslaved, and the pagan kings of the orcs kept vast numbers of halflings to toil in their fields and serve in their citadels.

  Yet the High King overthrew the orcish kings of Khaluusk. And in joy and gratitude, the halflings of Khaluusk swore solemn oaths to the High King and his nobles, to serve forever as free servants in their fields and houses. Thus were the men of Andomhaim free to pursue war against the many foes that threatened them.

  And so the halflings joyfully labor for their masters to this day, grateful to serve their liberators.

  Chapter 1 - Wings

  Forty-one days after it began, forty-one days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban moved alone through the forest.

  Something felt wrong, and he wanted to have a look around.

  The forest was quiet, the gray light of dawn just brightening the trees. It was the end of spring and the beginning of summer, and new green leaves whispered in the breeze. He moved in silence through the trees, his boots making no sound against the forest floor, his heavy staff ready in his right hand. The forest was quiet, but it did not mean it would stay that way. Warbands of pagan orcs might come down from the hills of Vhaluusk to the north or the mountains of Kothluusk to the west. Packs of lupivirii prowled the forest, and bands of dvargir and kobolds raided from the Deeps in search of captives and loot.

  And there were older dangers in the woods. The wild forest had been the site of many wars over the centuries, battles amongst the tribes of orcs, between the orcs and the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms, between the men of Andomhaim and the urdmordar.

  Between the men of Andomhaim and the Frostborn.

  Ridmark looked northwest. He saw nothing but trees in that direction, trees and boulders and fallen leaves.

  But he knew what waited for him to the northwest. The spell-haunted Torn Hills and the massive ruined citadel of Urd Morlemoch, the fortress rising like a tower of bones jutting from the earth. The undead Warden, ancient and mighty and cruel.

  And the answer Ridmark had sought for so long.

  The secret of the return of the Frostborn.

  But he could not learn the secret if some creature in the forest killed him first.

  So Ridmark kept going, remaining watchful.

  Something uneasy rattled in his mind. Of course, he was never at ease, not really. Not since the day he had pursued Mhalek to the great hall of Castra Marcaine, had seen Aelia’s blood spill upon the black and white tiles of the hall…

  He pushed that out of his mind. This was not the time to dwell upon it.

  Given that a more immediate danger might lie at hand.

  Ridmark had spent the last five years wandering from one end of the Wilderland to another, seeking answers about the Frostborn and finding very little. Yet he had grown familiar with the forests of the Wilderland, and this one felt wrong.

  Too quiet, and no sign of any animals. Ridmark could think of any number of reasons for that, and none of them were good. The creatures of the dark elves haunted the woods, urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things. If Ridmark encountered one, he would die. He had no weapon that could harm a creature of dark magic. Once he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden into battle, but he had lost that, too, through his own folly. Though there were any number of more mundane predators that would frighten away animals – fire drakes, swamp drakes, wyverns, manticores, and others.

  He stopped and stood in silence, listening.

  Perhaps he was simply being paranoid.

  But he had not survived this long by ignoring his instincts, and his instincts told him that something was wrong.

  Ridmark needed a better look around, and he knew where to find one.

  He moved at a quick, silent run through the trees, weaving around boulders as the ground grew rockier. The terrain sloped upward, and the trees cleared to reveal a tall, stony hill jutting from the earth. Atop the hill rose a half-ruined tower of rough stone. Ridmark had no idea who had built it. Perhaps an orcish war chief had used it as a stronghold. Or maybe a group of fleeing dwarves had constructed it as a hasty, temporary refuge. Or perhaps the knights of Andomhaim had raised it in the past as a stronghold against the dark elves or the urdmordar or the Frostborn.

  But whoever had built the tower had been dead for centuries, and it stood abandoned atop the hill. Yet its crumbling shell still had a commanding view of the surrounding forest.

  Ridmark made his way up the path to the top of the hill, staff ready in his hand. The tower had been abandoned when he had last passed here, but someone or something might have claimed occupancy since. Yet the tower remained undisturbed. Flowering bushes grew around its base, and the interior was empty. Half-rotted timbers slumped against the walls, covered with lichen and mushrooms, and a rough stone staircase wound its way to the tower’s top. Ridmark climbed the stairs, taking care to keep his balance upon the uneven stones. It would be a grim joke to have survived Urd Morlemoch, two female urdmordar, a renegade Eternalist, and a crazed orcish shaman only to trip and break his neck upon a loose step.

  He reached the tower’s top and found that he could see for miles, the green forest spreading like a mottled carpet over the ground. To the northeast he saw the distant grim shapes of the mountains of Vhaluusk. Kharlacht had shown little interest in ever returning to his homeland, and having visited, Ridmark could not blame him. To the west he glimpsed the massive, white-crowned shapes of the mountains of Kothluusk. The pagan orcs of Kothluusk lived among the vales and slopes of those mountains, wh
ile the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms maintained their fortresses beneath the mountains, forever at war with the orcs.

  And to the northwest, Ridmark just made out a faint white haze.

  The mist rolling through the spell-ravaged lands of the Torn Hills, haunted by spirits and urvaalgs and worse things.

  Urd Morlemoch waited beyond those hills.

  It was not much farther now. Another ten days to Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark thought. Then they could enter the ruined citadel and confront the Warden. For all his power and magic, the Warden was imprisoned within Urd Morlemoch, and the Warden was bored. He enjoyed games, lethal, cruel games. Ridmark had survived one of the Warden’s games, and he thought he could so again.

  Just as he had thought he could save Aelia from Mhalek.

  Ridmark stood motionless, watching the sun rise.

  There was no sign of anything unusual.

  Then why did he feel so ill at ease?

  Ridmark scratched as the stubble on his jaw in irritation, and then started back down the tower. It was past time to get back to camp. He had left Kharlacht on watch, and he trusted the orcish warrior. But Brother Caius would soon rise to greet the dawn by singing the twenty-third Psalm, as was his custom. Morigna would complain at the noise, and she and Gavin might start quarreling. Calliande would take Gavin’s side, and the entire thing would degenerate into an argument.

  If not for his presence, Ridmark suspected, his companions would all be at each other’s throats within a day.

  A flicker of guilt went through him. They followed him. He had saved each of them at one point or another, and in gratitude they would follow him to Urd Morlemoch. He wished he could have dissuaded them, convinced them to remain behind.

  Especially Calliande.

  Ridmark reached the base of the tower and stopped. A flash of color caught his eye among the gray stones of the tower’s foundation. Staff ready in hand, he stepped closer. A small green bush flowered at the foot of the tower, dotted with deep red berries.

  He blinked in surprise, went to one knee next to the bush, and plucked one of the berries. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, and then put the berry into his mouth. Surprise flooded through him at the sweet taste, and he smiled.

  Well. He had expected to find an urvaalg or a next of rock drakes, not this. Ridmark drew a dagger and cut the berries from the bush, securing them in a pouch. He straightened up and looked around one final time.

  It still seemed too quiet.

  The sooner he returned to camp, the sooner they could depart, and hopefully leave behind whatever was making his instincts twitch.

  He started down the hill.

  ###

  Calliande tended the campfire, lost in thought.

  To her surprise, she knew how to make a fire. As it happened, she knew how to do a great many things. She knew how to tend to the donkeys Sir Michael Vorinus had given them. She knew how to treat wounds, how to use herbs and roots to make medicines to treat numerous illnesses. She could speak Latin and orcish and the dark elven tongue, among other languages.

  And she knew how to wield the magic of the Magistri, how to heal and ward and drive back creatures of darkness.

  But she could remember learning none of those things.

  She remembered nothing that had happened before the last forty-one days, before the day the blue fire had filled the sky. Before she had awakened in the vault below the Tower of Vigilance, alone in the silent darkness.

  A Tower that had been burned and abandoned ninety years past.

  Calliande had no idea how old she was.

  She didn’t even know who she was.

  But she had learned some things. A spirit called the Watcher spoke in her dreams, giving her what counsel he could. She needed to find her staff at a place called Dragonfall, and once she found the staff she could recover her memories. And she had to recover her staff and her memories, because without them she could not stop the return of the Frostborn. It was her responsibility, her duty, and she would not flinch from it.

  That was why she followed Ridmark to Urd Morlemoch. The Warden had warned him about the omen of blue flame, nine years before it had happened. The Warden would know how the Frostborn would return and how to stop them.

  And if they learned how to stop the Frostborn, then perhaps Calliande could find Dragonfall, her staff, and her true identity.

  She moved alone through the camp, humming quietly to herself as she tended to the donkeys. Ridmark had gone to scout alone, as he often did. The others had been concerned about leaving Calliande alone in the camp, but she had calmed their fears. In truth, with her magic, she had a better chance of defending herself than did the others.

  Especially if Shadowbearer came for her.

  Her humming faltered as a chill went down her spine, and her hand strayed to the pouch at her belt that held the empty soulstone. Shadowbearer had tried to kill her and bind her power within that soulstone. Ridmark had saved her from that, but Shadowbearer and his servants had pursued her and the soulstone. Her friends were brave, but they could not stand against the power of Shadowbearer’s magic.

  Even Calliande could not stand against the wrath of Shadowbearer’s spells.

  At least if he came for her this morning, she would be alone.

  “Morbid thought,” muttered Calliande.

  Well, work was the best cure for worry. She brushed down the donkeys and made sure they were fed, and then turned to the fire. Kharlacht and Morigna were confident they could bring back a deer, and the fresh venison would be welcome. Still, they had an ample supply of sausages from Moraime, and Calliande could fry them up with the mushrooms Gavin had found last night.

  She turned back to the donkeys, intending to retrieve a pan, and Ridmark appeared out of nowhere.

  The man could move like a ghost through the woods. And his gray cloak had been given to him by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain himself, in gratitude for saving the bladeweaver Rhyannis from the pits of Urd Morlemoch.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande.

  “Did I startle you?” said Ridmark. “I fear stealth is a hard habit to unlearn.”

  She smiled. “Only a little.”

  He did not smile back. He hardly ever smiled. He was tall and strong, with close-cropped black hair and eyes like shards of blue ice, cold and unyielding. The brand of a broken sword marred the lines of his left cheek. He did not deserve that, no more than he deserved the burden of guilt he carried, but it was there nonetheless.

  “Where are the others?” he said. “Is something amiss?”

  “Nothing,” said Calliande. “Morigna’s ravens spotted a deer. She and Kharlacht thought they could catch it, and Caius and Gavin went with them.”

  He frowned. “They left you alone?”

  Calliande shrugged. “I am safe enough. As safe as I can be, I suppose. With my magic I can defend myself better than any of us. If Shadowbearer comes for me, I don’t think it will matter if I am alone or not.”

  “Nevertheless,” he said, his frown unwavering, “they should not have left you alone.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You are one to talk. Where did you wander off?” He opened his mouth, and she pointed at him. “And don’t tell me you know what you are doing. I might have stayed in the camp alone, but you are the one who has walked into a nest of drakes, challenged an urdmordar, lured a mzrokar into a trap, and God knows what else.”

  He snorted. “I suppose I cannot argue that. I wanted to have a look around. This section of the forest is too quiet for my liking.” He rubbed his chin. “It heartens me that Morigna’s birds saw a deer.”

  “You think something like an urvaalg frightened the animals away?” said Calliande.

  “Perhaps.” Ridmark shrugged. “Or maybe I am overcautious. That reminds me.” He reached for the pouch at his belt. “I have something for you.”

  “Really,” she said.

  “Have you ever had a stoneberry?”

  Calliande shook her head. “Not that I recall.
” She sighed. “Which is hardly conclusive. But I don’t remember having eaten one.”

  “Not surprising,” said Ridmark, drawing a number of red berries from the pouch. “They mostly grow in the south, along the banks of the River Moradel near Tarlion and Taliand. I have never seen one this far north. Try one – they’re quite pleasant.”

  Calliande gave the berry a dubious look. “It does not look…healthy.”

  To her surprise, Ridmark laughed. “They do look poisonous. But I imagine that’s to scare off scavengers.” He ate one of the berries. “Try it. I suspect you will like it.”

  “You only suspect? You’re not sure?” said Calliande, but she grinned as she said it. “Very well.” She took one of the berries from his callused hand and popped it into her mouth. The sweet, sharp taste flooded her tongue. “That’s…not bad. It would…”

  She staggered back, her eyes widening.

  “Calliande?” said Ridmark. He grabbed her arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “I…” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, “I…”

  Images burned through her mind, a memory ripped from the past. It often seemed that her memory was a landscape cloaked in a thick mist that never lifted. Sometimes Calliande caught glimpses of shapes from her past, like mountains draped in fog, but never more than outlines. It often frustrated her to the point of rage.

  But now, for just an instant, she remembered things.

  The River Moradel lapping at its blanks, broad and wide as it flowed into the southern sea.

  White towers rising on the far side of the river, the High King’s proud citadel upon its crag, the red Pendragon banner flying from its ramparts.

  A middle-aged man, his face kindly and seamed from the sun, a coil of rope in his hand and a set of scaling knives at his belt.

  She sat next him on a dock, her feet dangling in the water as they ate berries together…

  The very same berries she now tasted upon her tongue.

  “Ridmark,” whispered Calliande. She grabbed his arms for balance and looked up at him. “I…I remember these…”