Calliande cast the spell, and Otto climbed upon the palisade, gripping one of the stakes for balance.
“Well?” said Otto, his voice echoing over the field. “What do you want? If you’ve come here to trade, you can do it without throwing dark magic at my walls. If you’ve come to hire whores…well, you’re so ugly they’ll have to charge triple!”
The mercenaries hooted with laughter, some of them offering rude gestures to the waiting orcs.
“Bold words,” said Mournacht, “from a halfling rat. Your kindred are fit for the lash and nothing more.” Jager’s expression hardened, one of his hands curling into a fist. “Perhaps I’ll make you repeat those words, again and again, as I cut the fingers from your hands one by one.”
Otto grinned. “Hard to do that from out there, isn’t it?”
“Do you think you can withstand me?” said Mournacht. “With your walls of sticks and your men who fight for copper coins?”
“Do you think you can batter your way inside?” said Otto. He gestured at Calliande. “Seems like the Magistria already blocked your spell. Hope you brought enough food for your boys, Mournacht, because they’re going to get hungry soon.”
“Shout defiance all you want, little halfling,” said Mournacht. “I will summon more of my people from the mountains. We shall keep you holed up in your den. Try to flee in your ships and we shall burn them. Your pet Magistria’s strength will not last forever, not against the fury of Mhor. And when your defenses have failed and I take you, I shall hang you from the tower and let the ravens feast upon you.” He pointed his axe at the palisade and swept it before him. “You will perish. Everyone last man who holds a weapon against me will suffer agony for days before I at last grant you the mercy of death!”
An uneasy murmur went through the mercenaries. These were not knights and men-at-arms of Andomhaim, sworn to fight for their lords, or even militia, fighting to defend their homes from marauders. These men were mercenaries, perhaps even former bandits, the dregs of Andomhaim come to seek their fortune in the Wilderland. If Mournacht applied the right pressure, they would flee without a fight.
“Such fine threats you are making,” said Otto. “I assume there is something you want?”
“Indeed there is, rat,” said Mournacht. “Give me what I want, and I shall leave you and your nest of vermin in peace. Refuse, and I shall kill you all.”
“And just what do you want?” said Otto.
“Ridmark Arban,” said Mournacht.
Otto frowned. “What?”
“Gray Knight!” roared Mournacht. “I know you are there. Come and face me! Or do you hide behind that withered rodent of a halfling?”
Ridmark pulled himself up to stand beside Otto. “I am here!” He wondered why Mournacht wanted him dead. Had he wronged the shaman at some point in the past? Or was Mournacht seeking fame and glory by killing the Gray Knight?
Or had someone else instructed Mournacht to kill him?
“Surrender yourself to me, Gray Knight,” rumbled Mournacht.
“Why?” said Ridmark. “Why do you want me dead?”
“You have offended the Heralds of Mhor twice,” said Mournacht. “No one crosses them and lives.”
“Yet I am still here,” said Ridmark.
“I shall make this simple for you,” said Mournacht, smiling. “Surrender yourself to me, and I shall depart in peace. Resist, and I shall take Vulmhosk, burn it to the ground, and kill everyone I find within its walls. Decide now.”
An angry murmur went up from the ramparts. The thoughts of the mercenaries were plain. Why not hand Ridmark over to the orcs? He saw Morigna and Calliande draw themselves up, summoning magic, saw Caius and Gavin and Azakhun prepare their weapons. If Otto and the mercenaries tried to hand over Ridmark, his companions would fight.
And in the chaos, Mournacht could easily take Vulmhosk.
Ridmark needed to do something, now.
So he threw back his head and laughed long and loud.
The mercenaries stared at him in confusion, and even Mournacht looked taken back.
“You are pathetic,” said Ridmark. “You are not worthy to call yourself of a servant of Mhor. Does not Mhor praise brave warriors? And yet you expect me to surrender myself? Do you know who I am? I am Ridmark Arban! I broke Mhalek’s army below the slopes of the Black Mountain and made his warriors as dust on the threshing floor. I hunted him down and slew him for his crimes.” Again he saw the blood spreading across the floor of Castra Marcaine’s great hall. “I have twice faced female urdmordar in battle, and twice I have prevailed. I have ranged the length and breadth of the Wilderland, I have dared the Deeps, and still I live! And you, mighty warrior, you have the temerity to demand that I surrender? Pathetic! You demand my surrender because you are too weak to take my life. You are an unworthy servant of Mhor, and your warriors are fools and cravens to follow a weakling like you!”
An angry murmur went up from the Mhorite orcs, and Mournacht roared, waving his axe before him as if it were no more than a slender branch.
“You dare to mock me, human worm?” bellowed Mournacht. “I would have slain you because the Heralds demanded it of me, but for your impudence, you will suffer! You will know agony, you will…”
“Be silent unless you have the will to act on your empty words!” said Ridmark. “Before these witnesses, before humans and orcs and halflings and dwarves, I challenge you to a duel, Mournacht, false servant of Mhor! Prove your swords with steel!”
“So be it!” said Mournacht. “What are your terms?”
“We shall fight with weapons,” said Ridmark. “No sorcery or spells. No one shall interfere. If I am slain, your mission is accomplished and you can depart in peace. But if I slay you, your men shall depart and trouble Vulmhosk no further.”
“So be it,” said Mournacht. “We shall fight halfway between the palisade and my warriors, accompanied by a herald of your choice. Come forth!”
Ridmark dropped down from the palisade, and Otto followed suit.
“You’re mad,” said Otto. “You’re actually going out there?”
“If I don’t,” said Ridmark, “can you stop your men from throwing me over the wall?”
Otto hesitated, which was answer enough.
“You’re risking your life unnecessarily again,” said Calliande, her mouth a tight line. She usually took that tone when lecturing him about his guilt. But there was fear, real fear, in her blue eyes.
He remembered their kiss and felt a pang of guilt.
“Do you have a better plan?” said Ridmark.
“Yes,” said Calliande. “Stay inside the palisade and don’t take this risk.”
“The Kothluuskan orcs are here for me,” said Ridmark. “I don’t have the right to ask Otto’s men to die to save me. Perhaps I risk my life too often, but I always have a reason. I can force Mournacht to retreat.”
“How?” said Calliande.
“He cannot use magic during our duel,” said Ridmark. “If he does, the agreement is broken, and you can act freely. I assume you both can hit him with spells.”
Morigna grinned. It made her look fierce, almost feral. “I could melt the skin from his bones, if I wished.”
“And I could work a warding and augmentation spell around you,” said Calliande.
Ridmark nodded. “And Otto’s men can use their crossbows.”
“How are you so certain,” said Calliande, “that Mournacht is going to use magic?”
“Because,” said Ridmark, “I’m going to force him to it. I will press him hard enough that he has no choice but use his magic. When he does, strike at him. If Mournacht is slain, and his warriors bloodied, they will lose heart and likely retreat.”
“And can you challenge him severely enough that he will resort to his spells?” said Calliande.
“Well.” Ridmark looked over the wall. “Let us find out.”
Calliande sighed, closed her eyes, and nodded. “May God go with you.”
“Fear not, lady Mag
istria,” said Otto. “God favors fools and madmen, and while the Gray Knight is the latter I am definitely the former.”
“Then I suppose victory is all but assured,” said Morigna.
“You will need a herald, I trust,” said Caius.
“You’ve done it before,” said Ridmark.
He strode from the ramparts with Caius, every eye upon him. He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his grip on the staff. The men opened the gate, crossbows raised in case Mournacht attempted any treachery, but the Mhorites remained motionless.
“Our cause is just,” said Caius, “and the might of the Lord shall be with us.”
Ridmark wondered what Azakhun would say to that. An odd thing to think about, given that he might die in the next few moments.
“Let us hope that God agrees with you,” said Ridmark, and walked through the gate.
###
Morigna held a spell ready, watching the scene play out before her.
She felt the steady pulse of Calliande’s power as the Magistria summoned magic.
Ridmark and Caius strode from the palisade and stopped a dozen paces from Mournacht. Another Mhorite orc came from the warband and joined them. Caius and the orc argued for a few moments, and then walked twenty paces away, marking out a circle in the rocky ground. Morigna had never seen a formal duel between champions before, but she had read of the rules in one of the Old Man’s books. The two champions would fight within the bounds of the circle. The first one to leave the circle, to accept aid from another, or to break another rule, such as the condition against using magic, would lose the duel. Otherwise the fight would be until first blood.
But that was in more civilized lands. Morigna doubted that Mournacht would stop at first blood.
Nor, for that matter, would Ridmark.
She watched him as Caius and the orcish herald argued. Ridmark stood motionless, staff low and loose in his right hand, his gray cloak rippling in the breeze coming off the lake. He looked calm, almost indifferent, but Morigna knew better. He could explode into motion in a heartbeat, his staff dealing death.
“Quintus,” said Otto. “Get the engine ready.”
The grizzled mercenary frowned. “Why? We might not need it. If that brute kills the Gray Knight, he’ll leave us in peace.”
“Do you really trust the word of a Mhorite orc? Are you as stupid as you look?” said Otto. “Get it ready. That warband isn’t moving, so you should have plenty of time to get it targeted.”
Quintus grumbled a few curses, but descended from the wall and headed towards the ruined tower.
“Engine?” said Calliande.
“A little something I purchased a few years back,” said Otto, “to help discourage unwelcome visitors. Maintaining peace in an…establishment such as mine is often difficult.”
Calliande nodded, keeping her eyes on Ridmark. She had been acting oddly around him since Kharlacht had been poisoned. Morigna suspected that Calliande blamed Ridmark for Kharlacht’s injury, and now sought to punish him for it. If so, it was a ridiculous plan. Ridmark would do what he thought best.
“Have you known him long?” said a deep voice.
Morigna saw the amber-eyed halfling staring at her, the peculiar man who had engaged Ridmark in conversation outside the tavern. Jager, that was his name.
“A short time,” said Morigna.
“Is he always so…” Jager paused, tilting his head to the side.
“Bold?” said Morigna.
“I would say reckless,” said Jager, “but I suppose ‘bold’ would be the polite term, yes.”
“You are correct,” said Morigna. “His boldness saved my life.”
The halfling grinned. “Is that why you are so besotted with him? Or is it the brand? I imagine women love a dangerous man…”
“As if you would know,” said Morigna.
Jager raised his hand in a mocking little salute. “Indeed. But he has the brand of a coward upon his face, and the proud and haughty knights of Andomhaim do not often mark their brethren so. No matter how egregious their offenses.”
“Bitter?” said Morigna, watching Caius haggle with the orcish herald.
“Merely observant,” said Jager. “I would not expect a man with a coward’s brand to have so many followers…yet here we are.”
“He saved our lives,” said Morigna. “That brand is an injustice, had you only the wit to see it.”
Jager nodded, staring at Ridmark.
“Regrettable,” he said at last.
“What is?” said Morigna.
“Merely that he undeservedly bears a coward’s brand,” said Jager. His tone grew bitter. “But when has there ever been justice in the world?”
“If you find some, do let me know,” said Morigna. “Then I would enjoy playing you at dice.”
Jager snorted. “And taking my every last copper coin, I assume. I do not know if there is a proverb warning against dicing with sorceresses, but there ought to…”
“Enough,” said Calliande. “They’re starting.”
Caius and the orcish herald backed off, and Ridmark and Mournacht faced each other. Then Mournacht started to circle to Ridmark’s left, and Ridmark moved to his right. Mournacht, for all his bulk, moved with a precise, deadly grace, the huge axe motionless in his fist. Ridmark was fast and strong, but the huge Mhorite orc was obviously stronger and at least as fast. The Gray Knight might find himself overmatched.
Morigna did not want to see him die. Not after he had risked everything to save her from Coriolus.
If need be, she would ignore his instructions and use her magic to intervene in the duel. He would be annoyed, of course, but that hardly mattered. Mournacht undoubtedly planned some treachery. Morigna would simply be treacherous first.
And then Mournacht moved, so fast that Morigna barely followed the movement.
One moment Mournacht circled Ridmark, his axe hanging loose in his right hand. The next the huge orc towered over Ridmark, his weapon a blaze of crimson flame and black steel. The blow could have split a tree in two. Yet Ridmark somehow danced to the side, the sweep of the axe barely missing him. He retreated as Mournacht drove at him, swinging the axe with terrifying speed. Yet somehow Ridmark stayed ahead of him, and Morigna wondered how Ridmark could possibly avoid the blows.
Then she saw Ridmark glance at the shaman’s feet, and she understood. To swing those mighty blows, Mournacht needed proper footing. Ridmark need only glance at Mournacht’s feet to anticipate the next blow.
Of course, if Mournacht feinted, or if Ridmark guessed wrong, a single strike from that axe would kill him.
Morigna saw Calliande’s lips moving, and wondered if the Magistria was casting a spell. But, no, her aura of power remained constant.
She was praying in silence.
Morigna scowled. God, if he even existed, had never lifted a finger to aid Morigna. Ridmark had saved her life through his strength and courage and cunning. Strength alone was the only thing that could guarantee security. Not prayer, not love, not mercy.
Only power.
And she would use her power to save him, if she could.
But he might not need her help.
Mournacht was fast, but it took him time to recover from his swings. And in that time, in that instant, Ridmark landed a blow with his staff. It was never a heavy blow, and Mournacht recovered before Ridmark could do any serious damage. But bruises started to spread across Mournacht’s green-skinned torso, and she saw a faint hitch in his step from where Ridmark’s staff had impacted his knee.
“The fool should have worn armor,” said Jager.
“I agree, sir,” said Gavin. “If he had, the Gray Knight’s blows would just bounce off him. But as it is…”
“He’s losing,” said Calliande. “He’s used to employing spells to make himself stronger and faster, and…”
Blood-colored fire burned around Mournacht’s hands, and suddenly he moved faster than Ridmark could match.
“A spell
is cast!” roared Caius, his deep voice rolling over the field. “The terms of the duel are broken!”
“Kill them!” howled Mournacht, stalking after Ridmark. “Kill them all! Show no mercy!”
“Quintus!” said Otto, yanking off his coat and waving it over his head like a banner. “Now! Damn you, now!”
The Mhorite orcs charged, while the orcish herald ran at Caius, who yanked the mace from his belt. Mournacht leapt at Ridmark, and Ridmark barely dodged the massive black axe. His boot caught on the ground, and he lost his balance and fell upon his back.
Mournacht howled in glee and raised his axe for the killing blow.
“No!” said Calliande, gesturing as she unleashed her magic, and Morigna worked a spell of her own. The white light of a ward appeared around Ridmark, and he rolled to the side as Morigna gestured. A column of white mist swirled around Mournacht. Yet sigils of bloody light sprang to life upon Mournacht’s chest and back, wards of his own, and Morigna’s mist did him no harm.
Yet she had captured his attention.
Mournacht thrust his free hand at her, and a bolt of shadow and crimson flame burst from his fingers and hurtled towards the ramparts. Morigna struck her staff against the palisade, the dead wood responding to her will, and one of the logs heaved up. Mournacht’s spell slammed into it, and the log withered and crumbled into smoking ash. Mournacht began another spell, but by then Ridmark had regained his feet, and the shaman spun to face the threat. A moment later both men were locked in combat, the staff and the black axe blurring. Caius dispatched the orcish herald with his mace, the crack of the killing blow coming to Morigna’s ears, and ran to aid Ridmark. The other Mhorites charged at the duel, and the men upon the wall loosed a volley of crossbow bolts. A dozen orcs fell, wounded or dead, and Morigna cursed and summoned more power. The crossbows were well and good, but the Kothluuskan orcs would overwhelm Ridmark…
She heard a loud, metallic thud from the ruined tower and turned her head just in time to see a fireball arc overhead, leaving a long trail of greasy black smoke in its wake. Smiling Otto whooped like a child, and the fireball crashed into the midst of the charging orcs. It exploded, and the flames engulfed a score of Mhorites. Some fell dead, killed by the blast, while others ran back and forth, flailing as they tried to quench the flames devouring their flesh.
Frostborn: The Master Thief Page 7
