Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  And their roots, forming a tangled maze beneath her boots.

  Morigna thrust her staff, her mind straining with the effort of the magic she had summoned. The ground shuddered, and a dozen roots erupted from the earth in a spray of dirt, coiling around the wyvern’s legs and wings. The beast ripped free from the roots without much difficulty, but the effort slowed the creature.

  “Hurry!” shouted Morigna. “I can’t hold it for long. Hurry!”

  ###

  Ridmark staggered back to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in his legs and back from his rough landing, and struck with his axe. Again the blade bit into the wyvern’s side, but the thick scales absorbed most of the blow.

  A useless effort. The wyvern could take a score of blows to its sides and limbs and keep fighting. They had to land a killing blow, had to strike at its head or its heart. Reaching the heart was unlikely. That left the wyvern’s head.

  Ridmark raced around the wyvern as the beast tore itself free from Morigna’s entangling roots. Azakhun and the dwarves hammered at the wyvern’s legs, trying to cripple it, but the scales turned aside the worst of their blows. He saw a flash of blue, saw Kharlacht charging the wyvern’s head. The orcish warrior had likely come to the same conclusion as Ridmark.

  The wyvern ripped free of the last of the roots. Its head was the size of Ridmark’s torso, and it stabbed forward, jaws yawning wide as it reached for Morigna. The sorceress stood her ground, black eyes fierce as she worked another spell, purple fire shining around her free hand. Kharlacht struck before the wyvern could bite her, his greatsword hammering into the neck behind the wyvern’s head. The blade sank deep into the flesh, crimson blood splashing from the wound. The wyvern loosed a howl of rage and pain, and its tail hammered down. The stinger slammed into Kharlacht’s chest with enough force to throw him backward, the greatsword flying from his hands.

  Ridmark drove his axe into the gaping wound Kharlacht had carved. The heavy orcish blade sank deep, and he felt it penetrate between two vertebrae. A wild spasm went through the wyvern’s limbs, its talons raking at the ground. Ridmark ripped his axe free, and Gavin darted forward, plunging his blade into the wound. Ridmark brought his axe down once more, and the wyvern’s neck snapped back with such force that the weapon ripped from Ridmark’s hands.

  The wyvern reared up on its hind legs with a shuddering scream, its wings spread, and Ridmark thought the beast would fall upon him and rend him limb from limb.

  Then it fell in a tangle, shuddered once more, and went limp.

  Silence fell over the clearing, the air heavy with the smell of blood.

  “God have mercy,” whispered Gavin. “That was almost as bad as Agrimnalazur.”

  “Is anyone hurt?” said Calliande, hurrying to Ridmark’s side.

  “I’m fine,” said Ridmark, though he ached from his fall. “See to Kharlacht.” His mind started to clear as the fury of battle faded from him. “It hit him with the stinger. The armor should have turned the point, but…”

  “It didn’t,” said Morigna, her voice grim.

  Ridmark stepped around the dead wyvern’s head.

  Kharlacht lay twitching upon his back, his black eyes glassy, yellow foam bubbling around his lips and tusks. The wyvern’s stinger had forced its way between his armor plates and sunk a few inches into his chest.

  Chapter 3 - Only One Way

  Calliande hurried to Kharlacht’s side, knelt over him, and summoned her power.

  “Do not bother,” said Morigna in her cold voice. “There is no cure for a wyvern’s venom.” She glared at the dwarves. “Had those fools heeded the Gray Knight, perhaps Kharlacht would now live.”

  “He’s not dead yet,” said Calliande, casting the healing spell over the wound in Kharlacht’s chest.

  Agony flooded her, sharp and piercing, and Calliande could not stop herself from screaming. As her magic poured into Kharlacht, she felt the pain of the wound as if it had been driven into her own flesh. The stinger had pierced his right lung, though thankfully it had missed his heart. For a moment the sheer raw pain threatened to break Calliande’s control. But she held on, and forced the wound to close.

  The pain faded…but other agony filled her.

  The venom. It was already circulating through Kharlacht’s body, killing him piece by piece.

  “You are correct, sorceress,” said Azakhun. “We owe a debt to you, Gray Knight, and to your warriors. Your followers came to our aid when the Mhorites attacked us. And if my retainers had heeded your wisdom, your warrior would not have perished.”

  “He is not dead yet!” said Calliande.

  Again she worked the healing spell, repairing the damage the venom had done to Kharlacht. Yet at once it harmed him anew. She could not keep healing the damage over and over again, and her strength would fail long before the wyvern’s venom lost its potency.

  “Saltflower, honored Taalmak,” said Ridmark. “Do you have any saltflower with you?”

  Despite her pain, Calliande smiled. Oh, but Ridmark was clever.

  “What is it?” said Azakhun. “I know not the name.”

  “Nor do I,” said Gavin.

  “A flower that grows near the shores of the southern sea,” said Ridmark. “Hence the name. It is the only known antidote for wyvern venom. Any of you? Caius?”

  “I fear not,” said Caius.

  “Then it appears,” said Morigna, still scowling at the dwarves, “that there is nothing we can do for Kharlacht.”

  Calliande gave a frustrated shake of her head. “The poison is still in his blood. I can heal the damage, but the venom works new harm at once.” Again she healed Kharlacht, the pain flooding through her, her strength wavering. “I…I can’t keep it up. If I just had a way to get the poison out of his blood…”

  “Wait,” said Morigna, “let me try something. You. Hold this.”

  Before Calliande could object, Morigna handed her staff to a surprised Gavin, knelt on the ground, and laid her hands upon Kharlacht’s chest.

  ###

  The Old Man had taught her many things, and Morigna opened her mind to them.

  Among his teachings had been a spell to filter her blood, to purge it of any foreign substances. One of the side effects of the spell had kept her from conceiving a child, which had been useful after she had fallen in love with Nathan Vorinus. Of course, Coriolus had taught her the spell for his own purposes. He had planned to possess her body for his own, and so had an interest in keeping her flesh pristine.

  Yet even knowing his treachery, she still sometimes heard his dry voice reciting his lessons.

  “This spell will filter any poison from your blood, save for the venom of a wyvern and certain other exotic poisons,” the Old Man had told her. “Those will remain in the blood, though they will become inert. At least until you wake up. The proper antidotes are required to neutralize the poison.” He smirked at her. “Though if you are so foolish as to get yourself poisoned by a wyvern, expect no help from me.”

  He would have simply discarded her and selected another suitable vessel for his corrupted spirit.

  Yet perhaps she could use his knowledge to save Kharlacht’s life.

  “Don’t let him wake up,” said Morigna, and cast a spell.

  The earth magic flooded through her, and she used it to probe Kharlacht, feeling the flow of the blood through his veins. She sensed the wyvern’s venom like a black torrent through his blood, a fire that would devour him from the inside out. The poison had already bound itself to his blood.

  Until Morigna’s spell broke the bond.

  A relieved sigh went through him, his breathing coming easier beneath her fingers.

  She had been able to separate the poison from his blood, but it still flowed through his veins. It would not pass from his system, and wyvern venom kept its potency for centuries. So long as he remained unconscious, the venom would not fuse with his blood, and he would survive.

  But the moment he woke up…

  Morigna sighed,
rubbed her neck, and straightened up.

  “He’s going to live,” she said. “Somewhat.”

  “What did you do?” said Calliande with a frown. “You did…something to his blood…”

  “I changed it slightly,” said Morigna. “A spell my dear mentor Coriolus taught me. So long as he stays asleep, the venom will not touch to his blood, and it will circulate harmlessly through his veins. But the minute he regains consciousness, the venom will bond to his blood once more, and it will kill him.”

  “In a matter of heartbeats,” said Calliande, straightening up with a grunt. The healing had taken its toll upon her, and she looked tired. Gavin hurried to help her up. Morigna held out her hand for her staff, but the boy ignored her.

  She sighed and plucked the staff from his hand.

  “Then…he is frozen like that?” said Gavin. “For the rest of his life?”

  “No, he isn’t,” said Morigna. “He’ll stay that way until we find some saltflower.”

  “And where,” said Gavin, “are we going to get some saltflower? The sea is a thousand miles from here!”

  “That,” said Ridmark before Morigna could answer, “is a very good question. But we are safe enough for now. We had best move before the corpses draw other predators. Or the kin of the Kothluuskan orcs come looking for us.” He looked at her. “Calliande, Morigna. Thank you for Kharlacht’s life.”

  Morigna shrugged. “You saved my life with Kharlacht’s help, so one cannot help but think it fair.”

  His regard should not have warmed her as much as it did.

  But she could not help it.

  “And then,” said Ridmark, “we must decide what to do next.”

  ###

  Ridmark walked in silence, thinking.

  They had taken anything useful from the dead and then headed for the camp. Caius had objected at looting the slain orcs, but Ridmark overruled him. They needed the supplies, and the Kothluuskan orcs had carried a large amount of bread and cheese and jerky with them. But why had the Mhorite orcs been looking for him? That made no sense. He could see why the orcs would hunt Calliande – Shadowbearer or one of his disciples might have dispatched them. But why Ridmark? And who were these Heralds of Mhor?

  Perhaps these “Heralds” were in fact the Enlightened of Incariel, the demon-worshipping secret society that had infiltrated the lords and knights of Andomhaim. He had thwarted them in Moraime and in Aranaeus. Perhaps in vengeance they had roused the Mhor-worshipping orcs of Kothluusk to hunt him down.

  But he could worry about that later.

  First he had to decide what to do about Kharlacht.

  His decisions had brought Kharlacht to death’s door. If Ridmark had not chosen this route to the Torn Hills. If he had not gone to the ruined tower to take a look around the forest. If he had managed to convince Azakhun and his men to fall back, to leave the wyvern to its feast of carrion.

  His rational mind knew that he should not blame himself. Kharlacht, like Ridmark, had nothing left to lose. He had lost his family, his betrothed, and Qazarl had led his tribe to destruction below the walls of Dun Licinia. Kharlacht had followed Ridmark to die, believing that the journey to Urd Morlemoch would almost certainly kill them.

  If not for Calliande and Morigna, he would not have been wrong.

  But Ridmark would not let him die. Kharlacht had followed him, and Ridmark had already lost too many of those who had followed him.

  Who had trusted him.

  And he there was still a way to save Kharlacht.

  But did he have the right to use it?

  A year and month. That was what Agrimnalazur had said before their final confrontation in the ruins of Urd Arowyn. Sometime within a year and a month of the omen of blue fire, the Frostborn would return, unless Ridmark and Calliande found a way to stop them. Ridmark’s plan to save Kharlacht would take nine or ten days, most likely longer. Did he dare spare the time?

  Perhaps he could send Calliande and the others, and proceed to Urd Morlemoch alone. That had been his original plan. He had not asked the others to come with him, but they had followed him nonetheless.

  Or perhaps it was better to let Kharlacht die. Kharlacht sought death, just as Ridmark had. A release from burden, from duty, from the endless guilt and memory of failure. Ridmark craved that, and knew Kharlacht did as well. Did Kharlacht not deserve that release?

  He looked back at the others. Azakhun’s two remaining dwarves had improvised a litter, and carried Kharlacht between him. Calliande walked alongside the litter, and Ridmark felt a twinge of guilt as he looked at her. He knew what she would say if she could hear his thoughts. He wished he had not kissed her. She deserved someone better, a man who did not have the blood of his wife upon his hands.

  Yet for all that, he still could not bring himself to regret kissing her.

  Thinking of Calliande made Ridmark rebuke himself.

  If he had the means to save Kharlacht’s life, he had the duty to use it. He was not God, decreeing who lived and who died. It was hubristic folly to assume that the Frostborn would return because he delayed a few days before going to Urd Morlemoch. Perhaps Ridmark had no way to stop the Frostborn, no matter what he did. But he might have the power to save Kharlacht’s life.

  Best to use it, then.

  Now he just had to persuade the others.

  Twigs and leaves crunched beneath armored boots, and Azakhun stepped to his side, shield slung over his armored back, helmet tucked under his arm. The dent the wyvern’s stinger had left in his armor glittered.

  “Taalmak,” said Ridmark.

  “Your brand,” said Azakhun. “I do not understand. It is the mark of cowardice, yes? Yet a man who faces such a fiend as a wyvern is no coward.”

  “I failed in a task I set myself,” said Ridmark, “years ago.” Again he saw the blood pooling across the black and white tiles of Castra Marcaine’s hall. “I was once a Swordbearer of the Order of the Soulblade, but I was cast out for my failure.”

  “I see,” said Azakhun. “And now you walk the lands seeking to atone.”

  “Something like that,” said Ridmark.

  “This is logical,” said Azakhun. “Among the khaldari, sometimes the elders set stern penances for those who do not follow the precepts of the gods of stone and silence.”

  “I have had little contact with your kindred,” said Ridmark, “but I have heard as much.”

  “One of these precepts,” said Azakhun, “is that we honor our debts. And I am in your debt.”

  “You are not,” said Ridmark.

  “This is incorrect,” said Azakhun. “Your retainers came to my aid when the Mhorite orcs attacked us.”

  “They are not my retainers,” said Ridmark, but Azakhun kept speaking.

  “And, more, one of my warriors disobeyed your sound counsel,” said Azakhun. “He paid for his folly with his life, but some of his guilt reflects upon me, his Taalmak. Therefore my debt to you is doubled.”

  Ridmark contemplated this. Azakhun owed him nothing, but the dwarf Taalmak would not be swayed. And the aid of Azakhun and his remaining two warriors would be useful. Especially if Ridmark followed his plan to save Kharlacht’s life.

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “How shall this debt be paid?”

  “We will perform a task for you,” said Azakhun.

  “Let us start with a question,” said Ridmark. “What were you doing in the Wilderland?”

  “We were returning,” said Azakhun, “from Khald Azalar.”

  Ridmark frowned. “That is one of the six lost kingdoms of the dwarves, is it not?”

  “You say it true,” said Azakhun. “It was the last to fall. The other five were lost in the long wars with the dark elves, the orcs, and the urdmordar. Of all our lost kingdoms, Khald Azalar held out the longest, but it could not stand against the wrath of the Frostborn. Now it is a haunted ruin, filled with wild magic and fell creatures.”

  “What were you doing there?” said Ridmark.

  “It lies in th
e mountains of Vhaluusk,” said Azakhun, “and sometimes the orcs of the hills enter the ruins and return with the treasures of our fallen kin.” He scowled. “It is grievous to have the orcs defile the graves of our brothers, but they are willing to sell what they find. And, in truth, the ruins of Khald Azalar are dangerous…”

  “And it is better for you that orcs die to retrieve the treasures of your ancestors,” said Ridmark, “than that dwarves fall in the same endeavor.”

  Azakhun nodded. “You understand. We purchased several tablets from the scavengers of Vhaluusk, and planned to return to Coldinium to speak with the elders in our Enclave there.”

  “You are going to Coldinium?” said Ridmark, the plan hardening further in his mind.

  “Yes,” said Azakhun. “To return to Khald Tormen, it is easier to reach Coldinium, cross the Lake of Battles, and travel down the River Cintarra to Durandis. Otherwise we must cross more of the Wilderland, and sometimes the Warden’s creatures range south from the Torn Hills.”

  “That is what I ask of you,” said Ridmark. “Escort us to Coldinium.”

  Azakhun frowned behind his beard. “You wish to go to Coldinium? I am not familiar with the laws of your High King, but I understand the brand upon your cheek makes you an outlaw.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Ridmark. “That is what I must do.”

  “So be it,” said Azakhun. “We shall see you safely there.”

  They walked in silence for a moment.

  “The apostate,” said Azakhun at last.

  “Apostate?” said Ridmark.

  “The khaldari calling himself Brother Caius. Why does he follow you?”

  Ridmark shrugged. “I saved his life on the day of the great omen.”

  “Ah,” said Azakhun. “He is indebted to you. Is that why did it?”