“What was that?” said Gavin. The crossbowmen reloaded and sent another volley into the shocked orcs. Some of the Mhorites fled back into the trees. Morigna felt her lip twist in contempt. For all their desire to offer sacrifices to Mhor, they did not seem terribly eager to meet him in person.
Mournacht dodged, putting himself out of reach of Ridmark’s staff.
“Cowards!” he roared. “Stand and fight! You disgrace Mhor! Fight!”
But the panic had begun, and the Kothluuskan orcs fled into the woods.
“A catapult,” said Otto, still cackling as he pulled his coat back on.
Calliande flung a burst of white fire that slammed into Mournacht. Her spell could not harm him, but it did eat into his wards, the sigils flickering and dimming. Morigna saw the Magistria’s plan at once. If Calliande knocked down his wards, Morigna could hit him with a killing spell.
Mournacht came to the same realization, and ran after his warriors as they fled into the trees.
“Where did you get a catapult, sir?” said Gavin.
“Bought it off one of Dux Tarrabus’s men,” said Otto. Jager gave him a sharp look. “The Dux of Caerdracon holds the Iron Tower. Sometimes the Tower’s garrison comes to Vulmhosk to trade and enjoy themselves. I bought the catapult from one of the Constable’s officers. Figured it would be useful if I had unwelcome visitors.”
“A wise purchase,” said Gavin.
The remaining orcs vanished into the trees.
###
Ridmark walked through the palisade gate, Caius following him.
Calliande awaited him. “You are uninjured?”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “A bit bruised from the fall, but otherwise well. That damned axe is too large of a weapon. He would be better fighting with a single-bladed axe and a shield.”
Caius laughed. “I am sure he would be glad to accept your counsel.”
“Clever timing with the catapult,” said Ridmark.
“I thought so,” said Smiling Otto. Behind his scar he looked smug. “I won’t even charge you for the barrel of oil.”
“Generous,” said Ridmark. “Our arrangement still stands?”
“Aye, it does,” said Otto. “The sooner you are gone, the better. That orc shaman is going to be wroth with you, Gray Knight. If he thinks Mhor wants you dead, he is going to keep hunting for you.”
“He will have a harder time killing me in Coldinium,” said Ridmark.
“No, the Comes’ men-at-arms will do it for him,” said Otto.
Ridmark nodded. The Mhorite orcs would not dare to attack him in Coldinium. But assuming he did not get killed with in the walls of Coldinium, sooner or later he would resume the journey to Urd Morlemoch. Mournacht and his followers would be waiting for him.
He had manipulated Mournacht once by offering the duel. He suspected the shaman would not be so easy to trick a second time.
“The sooner we are gone from here, the better,” said Ridmark.
“While I am grateful for your help,” said Otto, “I could not agree more.”
They left the next morning, sailing on one of Otto’s boats.
Chapter 6 - The Lake of Battles
The boat was crowded.
Calliande stood on the stern, mostly because it was the least cluttered space on the deck. Bales of furs and barrels of orcish rum had been lashed to the deck with nets of tough rope. A single mast rose from the center of the boat, and Smiling Otto’s crew moved back and forth along the rigging, checking the sail and rudder and descending below to pull the oars when the wind stopped. The boundaries of the High King’s realm might have stopped at Coldinium and the Iron Tower, but trade between the tribes of the Wilderland and the subjects of the High King carried on nonetheless, even if the laws of Andomhaim forbade it. Calliande supposed that was the nature of mankind. There were always things to be bought and sold, and even the scriptures said that buying and selling would continue until the Dominus Christus returned in glory.
She supposed it was better than war.
Calliande turned her head from the rippling gray water of the lake. Azakhun and his two warriors trained in a small open space near the bow, with Gavin watching intently. The boat and its cargo did not smell good, the breeze coming off the lake was cold, and the deck rolled with every wave.
Calliande ought to have been miserable. Mournacht and his orcs were still hunting for them. She still did not know who she was or where to find Dragonfall. Shadowbearer sought to kill her and take the empty soulstone for some purpose tied up with the return of the Frostborn.
And yet…she felt at peace.
It was the memory summoned up by the stoneberries she had eaten. She must have spent a great deal of time on boats like this as a child all those centuries ago. Calliande at felt at home the minute she set foot upon the boat, knew how to walk across the deck without losing her footing, understood the obscure jargon the sailors used as they went about their tasks.
She was reasonably sure she could climb the rigging and adjust the sail, if she felt like it.
The deck creaked, and Ridmark stepped around one of the bales of cargo.
“How is Morigna?” said Calliande.
Ridmark grimaced. “She is better, though mostly because there is nothing left to throw up.”
“Water travel is not for everyone,” said Calliande. She shook her head. “A spell might ease the discomfort. I wish she would…”
“She is determined to suffer on in silence, I think,” said Ridmark, “to prove that she can do so.”
Calliande shook her head. “That is dangerous.”
Ridmark lifted an eyebrow. “Throwing up over the side of the boat? Only if she loses her balance.”
“No.” Calliande considered her words. “Her…determination to be strong. Her belief that power is good above all other things. Those are dangerous beliefs for a user of magic to have. It leads to men like Coriolus and Talvinius.”
“We cannot worry about what she will be in the future,” said Ridmark, “only what she is now. And she helped us at Moraime, and against the Mhorite orcs.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Calliande. “I cannot blame her from what I think she might one day do. But it does alarm me, Ridmark.”
Ridmark nodded. “We cannot see the future. Perhaps a storm will come up, sink the boat, and solve all of our problems at once.”
Calliande laughed. “That would be a very…abrupt conclusion to our tale.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Ridmark stared into the lake, and a tangle of emotion went through Calliande. What did she feel for him, this brave man who could not forgive himself? Part of her wanted him to kiss her again. Another part of her realized that was likely unwise.
“Tell me true,” said Calliande. “When we get to Coldinium, how much danger will you be in?”
“Some,” said Ridmark. He gestured at his face. “Brands for cowardice are not lightly given. They mark me as an outcast and an exile. So long as I am not recognized, it should be safe enough.”
“But you might be recognized,” said Calliande. “From what I’ve heard, there were thousands of men at the Black Mountain the day you defeated Mhalek.”
“Tens of thousands,” said Ridmark. “The gathered might of the High King’s realm, every man of Andomhaim able to hold a spear and a sword. Any one of them might recognize me and try to collect Tarrabus’s bounty.”
“But you were safe enough in Dun Licinia,” said Calliande.
“Because Sir Joram is a friend,” said Ridmark. He shook his head. “And I had only planned to stop in Dun Licinia long enough to purchase supplies before returning to the Wilderland. Then Joram asked me to find Caius, I found the Mhalekite orcs…and, well, you were there for the rest.”
Calliande nodded. She remembered her ordeal at the hands of Qazarl’s followers better than she would like.
“But there are many men friendly to Tarrabus Carhaine in Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “and if they see me, they will be more than h
appy to kill me and collect the reward from the Dux.”
“That is appalling,” said Calliande. “Tarrabus Carhaine does not have the right to pass a capital sentence upon you, and you did nothing that deserves death.”
“He may not have the right, but he did it anyway,” said Ridmark. As usual, he did not try to claim that he deserved life instead of death. “And if I’m killed, I am sure the Comes of Coldinium will arrest my killer for murder. But Tarrabus has much influence, and my murderer would likely find himself living in comfort in some benefice in Caerdracon.”
“The Comes of Coldinium,” said Calliande. “Is he one of Tarrabus’s men?”
Ridmark gave her a strange look, and then nodded.
“What is it?” she said.
“You know nothing of Coldinium?” said Ridmark.
“No,” said Calliande. She shrugged. “Before I put myself into the long sleep, I must have never visited there.”
“I suspect you know nothing of Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “because the city was not founded until the Year of Our Lord 1307, the year the High King crushed the Eternalists. There was a castra there, and one of the last Eternalists fled there. After he was defeated, the town of Coldinium grew up around the castra.” He scratched at his chin. “Which means you went into your sleep before that.”
“You told me the Tower of Vigilance was built in 1256,” said Calliande, voice quiet. “I assume I…put myself into the vault sometime after that.” She did not like to think of it. That had been over two hundred years ago, and while Calliande looked like a woman in her middle twenties, she had no idea how old she truly was. Or who she truly was, for that matter.
If she learned the truth, would she hate herself as much as Ridmark hated himself?
“But that doesn’t answer my question,” said Calliande. “Is the Comes of Coldinium one of Tarrabus’s men?”
“No,” said Ridmark. “The Comes is a vassal of the High King directly. It is not a hereditary office, and the High King appoints a new Comes when the old one dies. The current lord of Coldinium is Corbanic Lamorus. A good man, a friend of my father’s.” He sighed. “He lost a son at Dun Licinia, killed when Mhalek murdered the ambassadors. And he has little love for Tarrabus Carhaine.” He tapped his staff against the railing for a moment. “But I hope to remain unobserved. We shall get into the city, heal Kharlacht, and leave at once.”
“You seem confident we can find saltflower,” said Calliande.
“I am,” said Ridmark. “There is an apothecary in Coldinium who owes me a favor.”
Calliande laughed.
“What?” said Ridmark. “Why is that funny?”
“How many people owe you favors, Ridmark Arban?” she said. “A halfling smuggler and an apothecary of Coldinium? How many lives have you saved?”
“Not enough,” said Ridmark.
She knew he was thinking Aelia again.
“Promise me this,” said Calliande. “That you will not try to get yourself killed in Coldinium.” He started to protest, but she cut him off. “I know, I know, I know. Your wife’s death was your fault, and you have to make yourself suffer for it, and if God and the Dominus Christus descended from the heavens to tell you that it was not your fault, you would not believe them.”
“That is…” said Ridmark.
“But, please, do not get yourself killed,” said Calliande. “If you think you deserve it, fine. If a man is fixed on folly no one can turn him from it. But we have too much to do yet. We have to stop the Frostborn, and you promised to help me find Dragonfall. I need you too much for you to die.”
For a moment they stared at each other. Calliande wondered if she had gone too far, said too much.
Finally Ridmark shook his head. “You are determined. When you decide upon something you do not let it go.”
“I can’t really say,” said Calliande. “I can only remember the last forty-five days. That’s hardly enough time to come to a proper conclusion.” Though if the Watcher’s stories were accurate, she had been just as stubborn in her previous life.
“The last forty-five days,” said Ridmark, almost smiling, “are evidence as well.” He spread his hands. “I promise I will do my best to stay alive.”
“You always say that,” said Calliande, “and you still do foolish things like challenging an urdmordar or fighting a mzrokar.”
“Yet I am still alive, am I not?” said Ridmark.
“Yes,” said Calliande. “And I pray that you stay that way.”
“Everyone dies,” said Ridmark. “And a man like me…might die sooner than you wish.” She drew breath to protest. “But for your sake, I will not be foolish. And we are the only ones who realize the Frostborn are returning. Someone has to stop them. It may as well be us.”
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the lake.
“You seem more comfortable on a boat than I expected,” said Calliande at last to break the silence.
“My father is the Dux of Taliand,” said Ridmark, “and the Moradel flows right underneath Castra Arban. Taliand has many miles of coast along the southern sea. I have spent time on boats before. Easier to row up the Moradel than to walk to the Northerland. As for the others…nothing upsets Caius, save perhaps his kindred’s refusal to hear the gospel of the church, and Gavin is new to everything. Perhaps it is just as well Kharlacht is unconscious. Otherwise he might have joined Morigna at the rail.”
The image of the mighty orcish warrior throwing up over the side of the boat was so absurd that Calliande laughed.
“That is terrible,” said Calliande. “I should not have laughed. In penance, I shall go check on him.”
“Go,” said Ridmark. “I will make sure that Otto’s men do not rob us. Not that we have much worth stealing.”
Save, perhaps, the empty soulstone Calliande carried.
She hesitated for just a moment. She wanted to ask him about the kiss. She wanted to see if he would be bold enough to steal another one. But her mind knew it was a bad idea, no matter what her heart might want.
So she smiled, nodded, and turned away, climbing down the narrow ladder to the hold. She threaded her way through the stacks of barrels and came to a narrow cot. Kharlacht lay upon it, eyes closed, sweat beading upon his forehead. Calliande cleaned him, poured some water down his throat, and then some honey to keep him from wasting away. He would have been humiliated to know that someone had to care for him like this, but Calliande was glad to do it. She had the instincts of a physician, which was just as well, since she apparently had the skills and knowledge. And she did not want to see Kharlacht die. Odd, given that he had helped take her captive the day she had awakened. But he had been a good man trapped by the cruelty of his kin, and with their death, he had been free.
“Your friend should be grateful,” said a deep voice, “that he has someone to care for him so diligently.”
Calliande flinched in surprise, and turned to see the halfling Jager leaning against the ladder. He still wore his fine clothes, his weapons at his belt, and watched her with an expression that was halfway between amusement and sadness. He had accompanied them from Vulmhosk, claiming that he had business in Coldinium, and had paid Otto for the privilege.
She did not trust him. He spoke charmingly, even eloquently, and was unfailingly polite. Yet there was a hardness in his eyes that never wavered, and she wondered why he had gone to Vulmhosk and why he had accompanied them to Coldinium.
In a way, he reminded her of Morigna, if Morigna ever bothered to be charming.
“We have been through many perils together,” said Calliande. “I do not wish to see him die.”
“Nor do I, of course,” said Jager. “The Gray Knight seems to have a knack for attracting talented followers. Not one but two sorceresses.”
“A sorceress and a Magistria,” said Calliande.
Jager gave a mocking little salute, conceding the point. “And a dwarven friar, a rarity if there ever was one, and a trio of sturdy dwarven warriors. Even the boy s
eems good with a sword. That does make me curious.”
“About what?” said Calliande.
“The Gray Knight,” said Jager. “Are the tales about him true?”
“That would depend upon the tale,” said Calliande.
“They say he killed his wife,” said Jager.
“He did not,” said Calliande with some heat. “Mhalek killed her. He bound Aelia to him with a blood spell. When Ridmark killed Mhalek, the spell also duplicated the wound upon Aelia. She died before he could save her.”
“A terrible ordeal,” said Jager. “I am sorry to hear it.”
“But if the tales talk about his bravery or his boldness,” said Calliande, “then, yes, they are true. You saw what he did at Vulmhosk. How many other men would volunteer to challenge an orcish shaman to a duel?”
“Very few, I imagine,” said Jager. “A Swordbearer, probably.” His eyes got harder. “But the nobles of Andomhaim are cruel and arrogant and eager for renown. I suspect a Swordbearer would have challenged Mournacht, and then gotten himself and all his men killed.”
“You seem to have a grudge against the nobles of Andomhaim,” said Calliande.
“And why should I not?” said Jager.
“Because most of the halflings of Andomhaim have sworn oaths of fealty to one noble house or another,” said Calliande. “They are glad to serve, and…”
“They are fools,” said Jager in his calm voice, “fools too blind and stupid to see that they toil for cruel idiots who care nothing for them, who are vessels of corruption under smiling masks, who...”
He stopped talking, blinked, and his smile returned.
“Forgive me, Magistria,” he said. “I do tend to ramble on.” He made a show of stretching. “If you will excuse me, I will take some air. It gets a touch musty down here.”
“Of course,” said Calliande. Jager offered a grand bow and climbed the ladder to the deck.
Frostborn: The Master Thief Page 8
