Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  Ridmark raced to meet their assault, striking right and left with his staff.

  ###

  Morigna drew on her power, the magic of the earth rushing up from the ground to fill her with strength. She prepared to strike, to drive the very elements of the earth against her foes.

  Yet she hesitated for just a moment.

  It was not mercy that stayed her hand. Anyone who attacked her forfeited their right to live. And she had encountered the orcs of Kothluusk before, and she knew firsthand how brutal and ruthless they were. No, killing them would not cost her even a moment of guilt or regret.

  But the sight of Ridmark made her hesitate.

  He was deadly. The orcs of Kothluusk were capable fighters, but Ridmark moved through them like a wolf through dogs, his staff a dark blur in his hands. Time and time again the orcs came close to striking at him, but at the last instant he stepped aside, his staff crashing home to crush bone and crack skulls. He made it look easy, so easy, yet Morigna knew that was an illusion created by talent wedded to experience and disciplined skill.

  And with that prowess he had saved her life.

  For a moment Morigna could not look away from him, this man who had saved her life, who had dared great odds and emerged victorious again and again.

  Then she rebuked herself with a hint of disgust. She was like some village peasant girl mooning over a handsome knight.

  And the middle of a battle was not the place to indulge in such thoughts.

  Morigna thrust out her free hand and focused her will, her thoughts shaping and directing the power she had summoned.

  The spell poured into the ground, and the earth rippled like a banner caught in the wind. The distortion flowed around the dwarves and Kharlacht and Caius and the others, but focused on the Kothluuskan orcs. The force of her spell knocked a dozen of them from their feet, and Caius and Kharlacht seized the opportunity, killing three orcs in as many heartbeats. One of the dwarves looked at her askance – Morigna knew little of the dwarves, but she did know they regarded any magic not wielded by their stonescribes with suspicion.

  Well, that was their problem, not hers. And their suspicion of her magic did not stop them from taking advantage of the opportunity she had created, striking their heavy axes and maces of dwarven steel. One of the orcs raised a short bow and pointed it at Morigna, no doubt recognizing the threat of her magic.

  She slammed the end of her staff against the ground, power pulsing along its length. She had made the staff years ago, imbuing it with magic, and it gave her command over wood both living and dead.

  Such as, for instance, the wood in the orc’s bow.

  The bow splintered into a dozen pieces, and the orcish warrior stumbled. Gavin darted forward and slashed his blade across the orc’s throat. The warrior fell, drowning in his own blood, and Gavin wheeled, shield raised in guard as he sought another foe.

  As annoying as the boy was, he had the making of a proper swordsman in him.

  The fighting raged on, and Morigna saw the white gleam as Calliande began another spell.

  ###

  Holding the spell of speed in place was like climbing a flight of stairs while holding a bucket of water in either hand. It was well within Calliande’s strength, but it nonetheless drained her endurance.

  But it was the best way she could help Ridmark and the others. The magic of the Well at Tarlion’s heart, the magic of a Magistria, granted many powers. She could ward herself and others from harm and could heal their wounds instantly, though she had to take the pain of the wounds into herself. She could summon white fire to drive off or destroy creatures of dark magic.

  But she could not use her power to harm or kill living mortals.

  Not the way Morigna could.

  That filled Calliande with disquiet. She did not like Morigna, though she could not question the young woman’s courage. But her magic had a vast potential for abuse, to transform her into a monster the way the magic of the Magistri did not.

  Yet Coriolus and Talvinius had once been Magistri, and they had nearly killed Calliande. Alamur had been a Magistrius, and he had tried to betray her to Shadowbearer. Were all the Magistri corrupt? She remembered Agrimnalazur’s words about corruption eating the High King’s realm of Andomhaim from the inside.

  But here was a foe she could fight, and fight she would.

  She cast another spell, adding to the burden upon her power. Her second spell laid a protective ward over her friends, one to turn aside the blows of swords and spears. She could not block the attacks entirely, not with her power spread over so many, but she could at least provide a measure of protection.

  The white light burst from her fingers, and Calliande focused upon holding her spells in place, her teeth gritting with the strain

  ###

  Another orc came at Ridmark, shouting to Mhor, a sword flashing in his fist. Ridmark dodged, jabbing with his staff. The warrior stumbled with a grunt, and Ridmark reversed his staff and sent the sword flying. The orc charged with a yell, only to meet the end of Ridmark’s staff in his throat.

  The warrior stumbled, and Ridmark finished him off with a strike to the temple.

  He turned, seeking more foes, but found none.

  The battle was over.

  Most of the Kothluuskan orcs lay scattered across the ground, their lifeblood soaking into the soil. A few others raced into the trees, vanishing in all directions. Devoted to Mhor they might have been, but apparently they were not yet ready to greet the god of death in person.

  Ridmark let out a deep breath and lowered his staff, the white glow fading as Calliande released her spells. She hurried over to Kharlacht and the others, intent on checking them for injuries. The four dwarves stared at Ridmark, their faces hidden behind the grim masks of their helmets.

  He glanced at the sky. No sign of the wyvern. Perhaps it had decided to hunt down the fleeing orcs.

  “I am curious,” said Ridmark, “why you wandered away from camp.”

  Kharlacht grunted. “Morigna’s ravens spotted a deer.” He spoke Latin with the harsh, rumbling accent of Vhaluusk. Like Caius, he wore a wooden cross on a cord around his neck. “Since we are not far from the Torn Hills, acquiring additional meat seemed wise.”

  “Though I did not expect to find Brother Caius’s kindred here,” said Morigna. She had a lovely, musical voice, and spoke Latin with the formal stateliness of a noble in the High King’s court, an accent acquired from Coriolus. “Apparently the dwarves move with a stealth that belies their appearance. One would think that much armor would raise a cacophony.”

  “But then we saw signs of the battle,” said Caius in his deep voice. “We came across the Kothluuskan warband, and saw them launch an attack upon the dwarves. So we came to their aid at once.” He gestured, and one of the dwarves stepped forward. “Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii, this is Azakhun, a Taalmak of Khald Tormen.”

  “Taalmak?” said Gavin in a quiet voice, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “Like a…knight,” said Calliande, “a noble and a warrior sworn to a noble of higher stature.”

  Ridmark knew a formal introduction when he heard one, and he bowed, despite the urgency he felt. He had not dealt with the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms very often, but he knew they were proud and prickly, and demanded courtesy no matter how dire the situation.

  “I greet you, noble Taalmak,” he said, “and am honored to join you upon the field of battle.”

  The dwarf reached up and removed his helmet. The gray-skinned face beneath it looked surprisingly young, though on a dwarf that could mean he was only a century of age. He had thick black hair and a long black beard, and his eyes were like disks of polished malachite.

  “It is an honor to meet you as well, Ridmark of the Arbanii,” said Azakhun in Latin with a thick accent, his face calm and emotionless. “Your aid against the Mhorites was most welcome, and we are in your debt. Though I must ask you a question at once. Are you the man known in the Wilderland as the Gray Knight?
”

  “There are some who call me that,” said Ridmark, “though I wish they would not.”

  Azakhun nodded. “The Mhorite orcs were looking for you, Gray Knight.”

  “Me?” said Ridmark, not bothering to hide his bafflement. “Why? I have skirmished with the orcs of Kothluusk before, but that was years past.”

  “Some feuds last for generations,” said Azakhun. “Yet I do not think this is why the orcs of the mountains sought you. My retainers and I were traveling south, intending to visit our Enclave in your city of Coldinium. But the orcs stopped us, and demanded to know the location of a man called the Gray Knight. The Heralds of Mhor have commanded his death.”

  “The Heralds of Mhor?” said Ridmark. “I know not the name. You are more familiar with the orcs of Kothluusk than I, honored Taalmak. Are these Heralds the shamans of Kothluusk, perhaps?”

  “I fear I know not,” said Azakhun. “I told the scum of Kothluusk that I knew nothing, and bid them be on their way. They attacked at once.”

  “I am sorry,” said Ridmark. “I did not mean to bring this evil upon you.”

  Azakhun shrugged. “It was not your doing, Gray Knight. And we would likely have come to blows in any event. There is little love lost between my kindred and the orcs of Kothluusk. Your companions came to our aid most admirably.” He looked at Kharlacht. “A pity the orcs of Kothluusk do not follow the crucified god of the humans as the orcs of the southlands do. It makes them far more amenable neighbors.”

  “If I could make the orcs of Kothluusk as I am, I would,” said Kharlacht, while Morigna rolled her eyes. She had inherited Coriolus’s contempt for the church, and while the revelation of her mentor’s treachery had shaken her, it had not altered many of the opinions she had learned from him.

  “Indeed,” said Azakhun, looking at Caius. “Though I think your crucified god is not a fit god for the khaldari.”

  Caius took a deep breath and started to answer.

  “Forgive me, Taalmak, but I suggest we move at once,” said Ridmark. Caius and Azakhun could debate theology once they had gotten to safety “I sighted a wyvern nearby, and I suspect so much blood will draw the beast. The sooner we are gone from here, the better.”

  Azakhun frowned. “The khaldari of Khald Tormen do not quail from a fight.”

  “I suggest you heed his counsel,” said Caius. “I have been on the surface longer than you, and wyverns are fell beasts. They make both the mzrokar and the deep spinners look like murrag hatchlings. We can take our fallen kin with us. If the wyvern wants to feast upon the dead of Kothluusk, who are we to gainsay it?”

  “Very well, my lord Taalkhan,” said Azakhun. “Even in your madness, apostate,” his eyes strayed to the cross hanging from Caius’s neck, “you speak wisdom.”

  Ridmark frowned. Taalkhan? He knew only a little of the dwarven tongue, but he thought that title meant ‘prince’ or ‘high lord’. Caius had spoken little of his life in Khald Tormen before he had become a friar, though he had hinted at some great regret.

  Later. Ridmark could worry about it later, once they had gotten away from the wyvern.

  He turned just as a dark shadow blotted out the light overhead.

  The ground trembled beneath his boots as the wyvern landed at the edge of the clearing, its claws digging into the earth. The harsh yellow eyes regarded them, and a pointed tongue flickered back and forth over the fangs. A wyvern’s sense of smell was in its tongue, like a snake’s, and right now the beast smelled a great deal of spilled blood and fresh meat.

  Along with still living prey, if it felt like it.

  The wyvern’s head turned back and forth as it examined them.

  “Morigna,” said Calliande, her voice soft, “can you use your spells to control it?”

  “No,” said Morigna, her voice cool, but Ridmark knew her well enough by now to hear the hint of alarm there. “It’s too old. If I touch its mind, it will interpret that as an attack and go berserk.”

  The wyvern opened its mouth and loosed a horrible metallic shriek as it reared up on its hind legs, its wings unfurling, its long tail rising above its body.

  “Back away!” said Ridmark, taking a few steps back. “Back away, slowly, and do not make any sudden movements.” The others started to back away, and Azakhun snarled a command in dwarven to his men. “If we leave it to eat the dead, it will likely let us go.” The wyvern screamed again and snapped its jaws, but did not move, its tail waving back and forth behind its ridged head. Likely the beast wanted to dine upon the dead orcs in peace. Well, it was welcome to them, once Ridmark and the others were well away.

  One of the dwarven warriors refused to move, and began arguing with Azakhun in the dwarven tongue. A moment later Caius joined the argument, his eyes on the wyvern, all three of them speaking in dwarven at once.

  “What is it?” said Ridmark. “Move, damn it.”

  “He won’t,” said Caius in Latin. “He says it is an offense to the gods of stone and silence to leave our dead kin here.” One of the dwarven warriors lay prone a few feet from the wyvern, blood gleaming upon the bronze-colored steel. “He says that the beasts of the surface are weak and feeble, that true dwarven warriors…” He switched from Latin to dwarven, his voice rising in alarm.

  For a moment nothing happened.

  “Oh, damn,” said Morigna.

  The masked dwarf raised his axe, loosed a thunderous war cry, and charged at the wyvern.

  The wyvern’s right foreleg drove the dwarven warrior to the ground. The left blurred forward, and in one smooth motion, ripped the dwarf’s head from his shoulders. A jet of blood arced across the clearing, and the dead dwarf’s head rolled away, the masked helmet clattering.

  The wyvern surged forward with a terrible scream, jaws yawning wide, the poisoned tail rising high to strike.

  Ridmark cursed, threw aside his staff, and yanked the orcish war axe from his belt. His staff would be useless against the wyvern’s armored bulk, and even the orcish axe might not be enough to penetrate the stiff scales.

  “Hit from every side!” he bellowed. “Now! Now!” That was their only chance. The wyvern could kill them all without much trouble, but there were nine of them and only one of the creature. It could not split its attention in so many different directions at once, and if they landed a serious enough blow, perhaps the wyvern would retreat.

  He sprinted at the creature, axe in both hands, and the other men followed suit as Morigna and Calliande began casting spells.

  ###

  Calliande summoned power and unleashed it in a single spell. White light burst from her hands and jumped to touch the others, and her magic augmented their speed. She saw Ridmark dash at the wyvern in a gray blur, his axe opening a wound in the wyvern’s right foreleg. Blood bloomed from the cut, but not very much. The beast bellowed in outrage and raked at Ridmark with its wounded foreleg. Ridmark dodged, the talons missing him, but the side of the limb smacked into his shoulder, and the power of the blow drove him to the ground.

  The wyvern raised its foreleg again for the kill, and the others swarmed over it. Kharlacht attacked, swinging his greatsword for the muscular coil of the creature’s neck. Caius dashed left, shouting to God and St. Michael for strength, hammering with his dwarven mace, while Gavin went right, striking at the wyvern’s flank. Azakhun and the two remaining dwarven warriors charged, the axes hammering into the beast’s scales. The wyvern recoiled in fury and pain, and for a moment Calliande thought they would overwhelm the beast.

  The wyvern screamed its furious cry and surged forward like an avalanche of armored scales.

  ###

  Morigna had hunted since she was a child, first with her father and then on her own. She had taken rabbits, deer, boars, and even a young drake or two when she had been feeling bold.

  She had seen wyverns before, of course. But always from a distance, and she had never been foolish enough to confront one.

  The wyvern thundered forward, raking with its claws, its mouth yawning
wide to reveal rows of razor-edged fangs. Ridmark rolled to the side, just avoiding the stabbing talons. The wyvern’s other foreleg slammed into Kharlacht’s chest. The blue plates of his dark eleven armor held, but the impact knocked the big orc to the ground. The dwarves attacked the wyvern, their heavy axes of superior steel penetrating the armored scales. The wyvern screamed in fury and spun, raking with its claws, the dwarves falling before its blows. Its tail blurred past its head, the stinger driving into Azakhun’s chest with a loud clang. The dwarf’s armor held, though the strike of the stinger left a large dent in the steel plates, black slime pooling in the crater.

  Wyvern venom, utterly lethal. There was no cure that Morigna knew.

  The wyvern stooped over Azakhun, jaws yawning wide, as Ridmark and Kharlacht scrambled back to their feet.

  Morigna summoned power and cast a spell, and her thoughts dug into the wyvern’s mind. She felt the creature’s hunger, its devouring need to consume hot flesh and blood, to fill its belly with sustenance. She felt its rage, its fury that lesser predators would dare to hinder its appetite.

  And its urge to kill until there were no foes left to challenge it.

  Morigna poured her will into the wyvern’s mind, commanding it to stop.

  She almost lost her balance, leaning upon her staff for support. The wyvern’s mind was strong. It was not rational, not in the way a man’s mind was rational, but it was hard and cunning. And old, so old. An adult wyvern could live for centuries, and this one had hunted and feasted across the decades, growing ever wilier. Her magic allowed her to command the minds of animals, but she could have no more twisted the ancient wyvern’s will than she could have bent a bar of steel in her hands.

  The wyvern’s head rotated to face her.

  She could not control the mighty beast…but she could certainly get its attention.

  As she expected, the creature interpreted the spell as aggression, and it surged forward with a bellowing roar, brushing aside the dwarves, its tail rising up to strike. Morigna released her spell and cast another, drawing upon the power in her staff. She felt the wood beneath her grasp, and as she drew on its magic, her senses extended until she felt the wood of the trees surrounding her.