“I am sure,” said Ridmark, “this moment is the crowning glory of your life.”
The halfling threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Indeed it is.”
“Though I am curious,” said Ridmark, “what brings a halfling from Caerdracon to the Wilderland. It is a long journey.”
“I fear you are mistaken,” said the halfling, and for the first time there was a hint of annoyance in his expression. “I am from the great city of Cintarra, the jewel of the High King’s realm.”
“Indeed?” said Ridmark. “You must have migrated, then. You speak Latin like a man of Caerdracon.”
“And you speak Latin like a highborn nobleman’s son,” said the halfling, “and not the ragged, gray-clad bandit you appear to be.”
Morigna laughed. “Is that so?” She had a knack for spotting insecurities, and it seemed she had seen one in the halfling. “Are you so ashamed of coming from Caerdracon, then? What did you do, hmm? Steal a sheep and flee the realm to avoid the Dux’s wrath?”
“I romanced your mother,” said the halfling, his eyes narrowing, “and your twin sister. At the same time.”
Morigna’s laughter redoubled. “Unlikely, as my mother has been dead for fourteen years, and I have no sister.”
“Well she is clearly no noblewoman,” said the halfling, looking at Ridmark.
“I should hope not,” said Morigna.
“Then I bid you good fortune,” said the halfling. “And enjoy the amenities of Otto’s little hovel here.”
He strode away without another words, his boots thumping against the planks of the porch.
“A friend of yours?” said Morigna.
“No,” said Ridmark. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“He wasn’t this…Smiling Otto?” said Gavin.
“He certainly wasn’t smiling when he left,” said Morigna.
“There were some halflings in Aranaeus,” said Gavin. “They were so quiet and polite. Nothing like this man.”
“They were likely domestic servants,” said Ridmark. “Sworn to lifelong service to a noble or a monastery.”
Gavin scowled. “Morwen’s servants were halflings.”
“Then I hope she did not feed them to her mother,” said Ridmark. “Keep an eye out for our new friend. Otto might be trying to play a game with us.”
He pushed open the door and stepped into the tavern. It was cavernous, a pair of hearths throwing wild shadows over the rough stone walls. Long benches and tables filled the space, no doubt to accommodate the crews of the smuggling boats. Right now the tavern was deserted, save for a scowling keeper standing guard over the casks of wine and ale in the back of the hall.
Smiling Otto sat upon one of the benches, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger and staring at Ridmark.
He was a halfling, his face gaunt, almost skull-like, his hair a tangled graying mass. He wore a ragged gray coat and trousers, his boots worn and dusty. A vicious scar went down the left side of his face, giving his eyelid a permanent droop and his lip a twisted, mocking smile.
Smiling Otto rarely smiled.
“Well,” said Otto, his voice a gravely rasp. “I thought old Quintus had too much to drink…but here you are. The Gray Knight himself. I thought the orcs of Kothluusk would have eaten you years ago.”
“They tried,” said Ridmark. “I fear I am indigestible.” Morigna laughed.
“So it would seem,” said Otto. “Did you find the book you sought?”
“No,” said Ridmark. He had gone into the mountains of Kothluusk, seeking a monastery that had been destroyed soon after the defeat of the Frostborn. He had hoped to find a chronicle of the Frostborn in the monastery, but the monastery’s library had been destroyed long ago. “But I eventually found some of the answers I sought.”
“Oh?” said Otto. “Well, don’t keep secrets from an old man.”
“The omen of blue fire forty-four days past,” said Ridmark. “That was a sign of the return of the Frostborn. I don’t know how or why, not yet, but they will return sometime within a year and a month of the blue flame.”
“Unless you find a way to stop them, of course,” said Otto.
Gavin blinked. “How did you know that, sir?”
Otto cackled. “Sir? I am no knight, my boy…but your squire is polite, Gray Knight.”
“Father Martel said it was proper to respect one’s elders, sir,” said Gavin.
“A wise priest, then,” said Otto. He pointed at Ridmark. “The Gray Knight. That legend started for a reason. You could never turn away from someone in need, could you?”
“Like you?” said Ridmark. “Those bandits would have killed you if I had not happened along.”
“Like me,” agreed Otto. “So you’re going to stop the Frostborn from returning, are you? Just how will you do that?”
“I am going to Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark, “and I will challenge the Warden to one of his games, defeat him, and demand the knowledge for my prize.”
Otto stared at him for a moment, the dagger flickering over his fingernails.
“You haven’t grown any saner in the last three years, I see,” said Otto.
Morigna scowled. “You do not believe him?”
“Of course I believe him, girl,” said Otto.
“You do?” said Gavin. “Forgive me, sir, but most people we have spoken with seem…dubious.”
“I am not most people,” said Otto. “I’m an old man. I can feel the storms coming in my bones. I felt it the moment I looked up and saw that damned blue fire in the sky. I have lived a rough life, and have endured some things and done some things I regret.” He gestured at his scar with the dagger. “But worse is coming. I’m sure of that. The orcs of Kothluusk are stirring, and I hear tales of creatures moving in the forests. Worse is coming, you mark my words.”
“It may be,” said Ridmark, “unless my companions and I can stop the Frostborn from returning.”
“Your companions?” said Otto. “You convinced others to follow you?”
“They convinced themselves,” said Ridmark.
Otto snorted. “I suppose you saved a collection of fools who then chose to follow you?”
“You are more right than you know, old man,” said Morigna.
Ridmark glanced at her. She was looking at him, not at Otto. And there was something in her face…admiration? Respect?
Affection, even?
He looked away, surprised at the guilt that flashed through him.
“I suppose you’ve come to me for help?” said Otto.
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “One of my friends was brought low by a wyvern’s venom. He is unconscious for now, but without saltflower, he will die. The only place to find saltflower so far from the sea is Coldinium…”
“And you need one of my boats to take you there in haste,” said Otto.
Ridmark nodded. “I can pay.”
“You’re a fool, you know that?” said Otto. “That brand on your face means any knight or man-at-arms who sees you will try to arrest you. Or kill you. And Dux Tarrabus still has a huge price upon your head. Occasionally hunters come to Vulmhosk, seeking you.” Perhaps that explained the peculiar halfling. “In fact, Sir Paul Tallmane himself passed through a few weeks ago with a broken hand, swearing that he would add his own wealth to the price upon the head of Ridmark Arban.” Otto smirked. “I wonder why he decided to do that.”
“I broke his hand,” said Ridmark.
“That would put a man in a foul mood,” said Otto. “If you go to Coldinium, Gray Knight, you are going to die. It is reckless even by your standards.”
“Since I am planning to go to Urd Morlemoch after I leave Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “I think I can endure the risk.”
For a moment Otto sat in silence, tapping his dagger against the table.
“Still the same man,” said Otto. “Still determined to save people even when it is a fool’s quest. But I cannot blame you. Not when I would be dead, if not for your folly.” He smirked again
. “Besides, I am a man of business. I can hardly conduct business if the Frostborn turn the world to ice.”
“Then you will aid us?” said Ridmark.
“One of my boats sails for Coldinium tomorrow,” said Otto, “to take on cargo to sell to the villages of the Wilderland. I will bid them to convey you to Coldinium.”
“That is unusually generous of you,” said Morigna, “for…”
“For a thief and a smuggler?” said Otto.
“You said it,” said Morigna, “not I.”
“Your face is as transparent as it is pretty,” said Otto. “A pity you aren’t shorter. Or that I am not thirty years younger. But I owe the Gray Knight my life. And if he says the Frostborn are returning, they are returning." He stood up with a grunt, sliding his dagger into its sheath. “You can lodge here tonight. My boat sets out after sunrise for…”
The door to the tavern burst open, and Quintus ran into the room.
“Quintus?” said Otto. “What is it?”
“Orcs,” said Quintus, breathing hard.
Otto scowled. “There are always orcs here.”
“No!” said Quintus. “Mhorite orcs, out of Kothluusk.”
Ridmark gripped his staff tighter.
“Scores of them, coming out of the woods,” said Quintus. “They’re preparing to attack the palisade.”
“Damned raiders,” said Otto. “Call out all my guards. Every man with a weapon is to get to the palisade. Tell the merchants to fight, too, if they’re not too lily-livered. Those Kothluuskan orcs get inside Vulmhosk, they’ll take our heads as an offering to Mhor.”
“You shall have our aid as well,” said Ridmark, and Gavin nodded.
“Looks like you’ll earn that boat yet,” said Otto.
“But it’s worse than that!” said Quintus, his fear plain. “They have a shaman with them. He’s burning with his own dark magic.” He looked at Morigna. “I suppose we’ll see how strong your magic is, witch.”
Chapter 5 - Sons of Mhor
Calliande left Kharlacht with Azakhun’s retainers and hurried up the ladder to the palisade’s rampart. A few of the mercenaries looked at her askance, but she ignored them.
They both had bigger problems upon their hands.
Scores of orcs came from the forest, clad in leather and fur. They carried spears and swords and axes, and a few of them had rough-hewn ladders. All the orcs bore the same ritual scars and tattoos Calliande had seen upon the warriors they had fought three days earlier, the scars transforming their faces into hideous crimson skulls.
Mhorite orcs.
Were they looking for Ridmark, too?
“God and his saints,” said one of the mercenaries. “What is…is that?”
He hadn’t been asking her, but Calliande answered nonetheless. “A shaman of the orcish gods.”
The mercenary looked at her with fear on his face, and then back at the advancing orcs.
Calliande had encountered orcish shamans of the blood gods before. Vlazar had been young and arrogant, while his master Qazarl had been old and withered. This shaman was neither. He was huge, nearly seven and a half feet tall, and wore only a pair of ragged trousers. Like the others, his tusked face had been scarred and tattooed into the image of a crimson skull, bronze rings glittering in his nose and ears. Three human skulls, each one painted crimson, hung from his belt.
In his right hand he carried an enormous double-bladed axe, the metal as black as a moonless night. Sigils of crimson flame burned upon the blades, and Calliande worked the spell to sense the presence of magic. Spells of blood and death and dark magic blazed on the weapon, and she suspected the evil thing could kill with a scratch. Likely the mighty orcish shamans of old had made the weapon, when they had still been slaves and vassals of the wizards of the dark elves.
Or this shaman had been strong enough to create the thing himself.
The shaman held out the axe, and another warrior scurried forward to hold it. The hulking shaman strode forward a few steps, the crimson battle rage of his orcish blood glimmering in his black eyes. He lifted his hands, the muscles in his thick arms knotting.
Shadows and bloody fire blazed around his fingers as he started casting a spell.
Calliande recognized the spell. It was dark magic intended to summon corruption and decay. Was he going to cast it upon the men on the walls? No, he was aiming at the gate. More specifically, at the timbers of the gate. His spell would rot away the wood, leaving the palisade vulnerable.
And then the Mhorites would storm inside and kill everyone.
The shaman flung out his hands, and Calliande cast a spell of her own. White light flared around her, and one of the mercenaries shouted in alarm. Calliande gestured, and a dome of white light appeared before the gate. A burst of shadow and fire tore from the shaman’s fist and slammed into Calliande’s warding spell. She gritted her teeth and braced her mind as the shaman’s dark magic strained against her spell. She had felt stronger attacks from Coriolus and Agrimnalazur.
But shaman still possessed considerable power.
The shaman narrowed his eyes and stared at Calliande, his lips curling away from his teeth in a snarl.
###
Smiling Otto hurried from the tavern, carrying a loaded crossbow. Quintus followed him, and Ridmark came after, Gavin and Morigna at his side.
The strange halfling in the black leather jerkin watched as they went past. After a moment he unfolded his arms and followed them.
“Damn the Mhorites,” said Otto. “Damn them! If they want trouble, we’ll give it to them. We’ll give them so much trouble they’ll bloody well choke on it.”
They reached the palisade. Caius hurried over. “Gray Knight! Mhorites at the walls. We…”
“I heard,” said Ridmark. “Have the dwarves take Kharlacht to the tavern. He’ll be safe enough there. Then all of you join us on the walls. I suspect we’ll need every sword and axe before this is done.” He saw Azakhun and the other dwarves standing guard over Kharlacht. “Where’s Calliande? Did…”
There was a pulse of bloody radiance, followed by a flash of white light and a loud sizzling noise.
“It seems she is occupied,” said Caius.
“Go,” said Ridmark. Caius ran back to the dwarves. Smiling Otto and Quintus climbed to the ramparts, and Ridmark followed him.
“God and the apostles,” said Otto. “So damned many of them.”
There were eighty or ninety of the Kothluuskan orcs, unless further reserves skulked out of sight in the trees. A hulking giant of an orc led them, his head shaved in the manner of orcish shamans. A huge double-bladed axe rested in his right hand, the blades burning with bloody sigils. Ridmark had seen such weapons before, products of the dark magic the pagan orcs had learned from the dark elves long ago.
Calliande stood over the gate, white light glimmering around her fingers.
“And just who the devil are you?” said Otto.
She looked at Otto. “Calliande of the Magistri. I traveled here with Ridmark.”
Otto snorted. “Two of them?” He looked at Ridmark. “You have two of these lovely sorceresses following you? That’s going to cause some trouble.”
Morigna narrowed her eyes, and Calliande opened her mouth to speak.
“We have larger problems just now,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff over the palisade.
“Aye,” said Otto. Caius and the other dwarves climbed to the rampart. The halfling in the black leather jerkin followed them, and Otto pointed at him. “You. Jager. What are you doing up here? Thought you’d be hiding in the cellar.”
Jager shrugged, his amber eyes glinting. “Why, you wound me, dear Otto. If those orcs get inside the palisade, they’ll kill us all. If I am to die, better to die fighting than waiting for a Mhorite to take my head for his dusty old god.”
“Very well,” said Otto, his scarred lip twitching. He turned to Ridmark. “So what do you suggest, Gray Knight? Of every man here, you know the most of war…and I’m sure the magic of
your lovely sorceresses will prove useful. What would you have us do?”
“For now, wait,” said Ridmark. “I assume that shaman tried a spell to open the gate?” Calliande nodded. “Then they haven’t come here to trade or talk.”
“The presence of those siege ladders would suggest as much,” said Jager.
Ridmark nodded. The strange halfling had been clever to spot them. Which made him wonder again who the halfling was and why he had come to Vulmhosk. “Aye. Which means our foe is prepared, and therefore cunning. The palisade is stout, and as long as Calliande is here he cannot use his magic to batter down the defenses. So it is up to him to take the initiative.”
“And when he does?” said Otto. “I have thirty men here to keep order. They’re tough fighters, aye, but they’ve only seen action against bandits and raiders. These Mhorites are fanatics.”
“Your position is stronger than you think,” said Ridmark. “Calliande and Morigna can aid us with their magic. And the shaman does not have enough men to storm this place, not unless there are more lurking out of a sight. If the battle goes ill, you can retreat to your boats and flee across the lake.”
Otto scratched at his scar. “Then why are they attacking us?”
“If we wait long enough,” said Ridmark, “I suspect we shall find out.”
“It appears we shall not have to wait very long,” said Caius.
The shaman walked from the ranks of the orcish warriors, his massive axe in hand. The men on the palisade raised their crossbows, and the shaman stopped just out of range.
“Hear me!” roared the shaman in orcish, his voice a booming snarl. “I am Mournacht, servant of the great god Mhor! I will speak with whatever rat rules over this dung heap! Speak with me, or know my fury!”
“I believe that is me,” said Otto.
“I have a spell,” said Calliande, “that can amplify your voice.”
“Ah, splendid,” said Otto. “I’ve always wanted to shout threats over a wall.”
Frostborn: The Master Thief Page 6
