Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  Morigna turned her head and saw Calliande and Gavin and Caius sitting with Arassa and Rodinius. The Magistria seemed to have taken a liking to the apothecary’s daughter, and they had been talking the entire time. From time to time Caius told one of his stories to an appreciative audience. Kharlacht himself was in the inn’s finest room, sleeping off his ordeal.

  “Maybe you are right,” said Morigna. “But Mournacht and his orcs will not have forgotten you.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “If they followed us, better to be within walls.”

  “We’re not within walls,” said Morigna. “We’re within a shoddy inn.”

  Ridmark nodded, his eyes distant.

  “And that halfling Jager,” said Morigna. “If he was a spy for the Dux, he might bring the Dux’s friends here.” Ridmark nodded again. “Or he might just hire some toughs and bring them here to collect the bounty.”

  “He might do that, too,” said Ridmark. He rubbed his chin, staring into nothing. “There are risks no matter what we do. Camp in the wild, and Mournacht might find us. Stay in the Crow’s Helm, and one of Tarrabus’s followers might find us. Or we go into the wilderness and both the Mhorites and Tarrabus’s men find us. Or they find us here.” He shrugged. “I am not a prophet. This seems the best choice.”

  “As you say,” said Morigna. “What troubles you?”

  He snorted. “Besides the obvious?”

  “Yes,” said Morigna.

  “Many things,” said Ridmark. “When I left Dun Licinia, my course was clear. Go to Urd Morlemoch and wrench the secret of the Frostborn from the Warden. Now things have grown more complicated.”

  “How?” said Morigna. “We are still going to Urd Morlemoch.”

  “You lay your finger upon it,” said Ridmark. “We are going to Urd Morlemoch. I thought to go alone.”

  “So you blame yourself for Kharlacht?” said Morigna. “You should not. We might all have died, but we did not. And your efforts saved him.”

  “And yours, and Calliande’s, and Arassa’s,” said Ridmark. “I have not always made good decisions for the lives of those in my care.”

  He was thinking about Aelia again, she guessed. Likely Rodinius’s comment about wives had put it into his head.

  “And you worry that your decisions will kill us all?” said Morigna. “Well, do not be such a fool.”

  “Blunt as ever,” said Ridmark.

  “The truth is blunt,” said Morigna. “Kharlacht is a grown man, and I am a grown woman. You saved our lives, aye, but we are responsible for our own decisions. We chose to follow you to Urd Morlemoch, and we must bear the consequences of that choice. Not you.” She shook her head. “The Old Man was right about one thing.”

  “And what is that?” said Ridmark. “Possessing your body to live forever?”

  “Not that,” said Morigna. “But he was correct about strength. Power is the only thing that can guarantee security.”

  “Do not let Calliande hear you say that,” said Ridmark. “She is half-convinced you will turn to dark magic.”

  “Given my upbringing, one supposes that is a reasonable fear,” said Morigna. “But power alone safeguards and brings respect.”

  “There is always someone more powerful,” said Ridmark.

  “True,” said Morigna. She hesitated, unsure of what to say. Part of her thought him a fool for turning back to save Kharlacht, for letting it turn him from Urd Morlemoch. The sensible thing would have been to let Kharlacht die and continue on. But he had succeeded, had he not? Kharlacht would live. And Ridmark had done the same thing for her, coming back to save her from Coriolus at great risk to himself.

  “I wish,” she said at last, “that you could see yourself the way I see you.”

  “And how do you see me?” said Ridmark.

  “A strong man,” said Morigna, her voice quiet. “A warrior. Not a man who should constantly question himself…or torment himself over a woman long dead.”

  Ridmark said nothing. For a moment he looked tired. Morigna could guess at some of what he felt. She blamed herself for Nathan Vorinus’s death, but the grief had not eaten through her the way Ridmark’s sorrow had.

  “Thank you,” he said at last.

  Morigna nodded. “Think on what I have said.” She got to her feet and picked up her staff, adjusting her tattered cloak. “I am going to have a look around outside.”

  “For what?” said Ridmark.

  “Mhorite orcs,” said Morigna. “Or assassins or spies. One never knows.”

  “Try not to kill anyone,” said Ridmark.

  Morigna grinned. “Truly, Gray Knight? You know me. I am the soul of gentleness.”

  “That is hardly reassuring,” said Ridmark.

  She laughed and went into the night. Feral dogs wandered the Outwall, and it as a simple matter for Morigna to cast a spell over a half-dozen of them and bind the beasts to her will. She set them to patrolling around the Crow’s Helm, watching for anything unusual, anyone that smelled of danger.

  If attackers came to the inn, she would be ready.

  And thanks to the dogs, she spotted Jager as he headed for the Crow’s Helm.

  ###

  Caius and Gavin retired to bed, leaving the common room deserted save for Calliande, Ridmark, Morigna, and Arassa. Calliande sat alone with Arassa, while Morigna and Ridmark talked in low voices.

  “You were betrothed?” said Calliande.

  “Aye, I was,” said Arassa. “A good man. When Mhalek came out of the Wilderland, the militia marched with the Comes to Dun Licinia. He fell in the fighting there.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Calliande.

  “He was a good man,” said Arassa, “and I mourned him deeply.” She took a drink of her beer with every indication of enjoyment. Calliande did not have much recollection of drinking beer, but she suspected the Helm’s beer was not very good. “But I moved on, in time. I had always worked with Father in his shop, and when he dies, I shall inherit the business.” She shrugged. “I confess, I would not have chosen the life of an independent widow, but I find that it suits me.”

  “That is good,” said Calliande. She found herself glancing at Ridmark, watching as Morigna stood and walked into the night. Had they been fighting? Yet neither one of them looked angry.

  “What of you?” said Arassa. “Why is a Magistria following a man like the Gray Knight?”

  “Did Ridmark tell you what he was doing?” said Calliande. “When he saved your father?”

  Arassa shrugged. “He thinks the Frostborn are returning. An urdmordar warned him of it, years ago, and he has been looking for proof ever since.” She shrugged. “Between you and me, I fear grief unseated his mind.”

  “He’s not wrong,” said Calliande. “Listen to me. The omen of blue fire forty-eight days ago?” Arassa nodded. “The Warden of Urd Morlemoch told Ridmark that it was going to happen, that it would herald the return of the Frostborn within a year and a month of the omen. That’s why I am following Ridmark. The realm is in grave peril, and Ridmark is the only one who sees it. We are going to Urd Morlemoch to force the Warden to tell us how and when the Frostborn are returning.”

  Arassa sat in silence for a moment.

  “God and the apostles,” she said. “You’re telling the truth?”

  Calliande nodded. “I wish I were not, but I am.”

  Arassa sighed. “Grim tidings. The Frostborn returning? Creatures out of legend. I had hoped such dark days were behind the realm, that after Mhalek was slain we would have peace…if the lords in their pride would not start another war.”

  “The lords of Andomhaim have their flaws,” said Calliande, thinking of Tarrabus Carhaine and Paul Tallmane, “but they can hardly be blamed for Mhalek’s invasion.”

  “I suppose not,” said Arassa. “But the Frostborn returning. I had thought you followed Ridmark for a simpler reason.”

  “What’s that?” said Calliande.

  Arassa raised her eyebrows over her watery eyes. “You don’t know?”


  Calliande shook her head.

  “You’re obviously in love with him,” said Arassa.

  Calliande opened her mouth, closed it again, and sat in silence.

  “And just as obviously,” said Arassa, “in denial about it, I am afraid.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Calliande. “I just…I can’t do anything about it. I don’t know who I am.”

  “You don’t?”

  “There is a ruined castle north of Dun Licinia, the Tower of Vigilance,” said Calliande. “I was in a vault beneath the ruins, bound in a magical sleep. When the blue fire filled the sky, I awoke, but I can’t remember anything that happened before that. Nothing. I apparently have retained all my skills and knowledge, but I don’t remember how I acquired them.”

  “That must be horrid,” said Arassa.

  “It is,” said Calliande. “So I don’t know myself. I don’t know who I am, if I have a husband or children.”

  Arassa nodded. “Therefore you don’t know what to do about Ridmark.”

  Calliande shook her head. “I don’t. It hardly seems important. If the Frostborn return, they will destroy the world. They almost did the first time. I think…I think I was there for it, Arassa. The first invasion, over two and a half centuries ago. I think that was how long I slept below the ruins.”

  “My God,” said Arassa. “Then you’re…two hundred and fifty years old?”

  “Maybe even older,” said Calliande.

  “You surely do not look it,” said Arassa. “You look younger than I am.” She paused. “Why would you do that to yourself? Put yourself into a sleep below a ruined castle?”

  “I don’t know,” said Calliande, recalling some of the clues she had learned, the discussions she had had with the Watcher. “I think I knew that the Frostborn would return, and that I would have to stop them. So I put myself into the long sleep to wait until their return.” She shook her head. “It sounds foolish. Proud. Was that the kind of woman I was?”

  “Or noble,” said Arassa.

  “I suppose it depends upon whether or not I succeed,” said Calliande.

  “There is that,” said Arassa. She hesitated. “I do not know if I should offer you counsel or not.”

  “No, please,” said Calliande. “I am sorry to burden you with it. You have already helped us, and then I had the temerity to lay my problems upon you.”

  “You’re in love with Ridmark,” said Arassa, “but I am pretty sure that Morigna is too.”

  “Her? I’m not sure she’s capable of loving anyone,” said Calliande.

  “She’s colder than you are, less merciful,” said Arassa, “but if she’s not in love with the Gray Knight yet, she’s going to be.”

  “Then you’re saying that I should…stand aside?” said Calliande. “Stay out of her way? Morigna knows who she is and I do not.”

  It hurt more than she had expected to say that.

  “No,” said Arassa, “I think both of you should stay away from him because he will get you killed.”

  “Why?” said Calliande with a frown. “He has saved my life repeatedly. And Morigna’s, for that matter.”

  She glanced at him. He sat alone, seemingly lost in thought.

  “He is a brave and valiant man, and a formidable warrior, I doubt neither of these things,” said Arassa. “But he has never forgiven himself for his wife’s death, and that makes him dangerous. He cares nothing for his life. He fought off a dozen orcs to save my father. That sort of recklessness lets him do great deeds, but it will get him killed. And it will get anyone with him killed.”

  “The Frostborn are returning,” said Calliande. “I need his help to stop them.”

  “I know,” said Arassa. “And I will not presume to tell you what to do. I am an apothecary and a physician. What do I know of these deep matters of centuries? But if I were you, I would not give my heart to Ridmark Arban. For his heart has been dead for years, and he cannot give it to anyone.”

  Calliande thought on that for a moment. “Thank you. I…”

  The door to the common room swung open, and a short figure in a black leather jerkin, white shirt, crisp trousers, and gleaming black boots stepped into the Crow’s Helm. A short sword and dagger rested at his belt, and wide amber eyes contemplated the inn beneath a mop of curly blond hair.

  It was Jager.

  “Oh,” said Arassa. “It’s Master Dieter.”

  “Wait,” said Calliande, turning back to the apothecary. “You said his name is Dieter?”

  Arassa nodded. “A merchant with a house near the Forum of the North. Odd to see a halfling merchant, true, but he’s successful. And such a charming fellow.” She chuckled. “He tells the sauciest jokes.”

  Jager or Dieter or whatever his name was took a deep breath and strode towards Ridmark.

  Calliande’s alarm grew.

  “He never calls himself Jager?” said Calliande.

  “Not to my knowledge,” said Arassa.

  An alias. He had been using alias.

  “He comes to my shop sometimes,” said Arassa. “Buys some herbs for tea, says his mistress enjoys them. Though I haven’t seen him since…oh, since the Dux of Caerdracon came to…”

  Calliande’s head snapped around. “The Dux of Caerdracon? Tarrabus Carhaine? He’s in the city?”

  “He arrived several weeks ago,” said Arassa. “He has a domus in the city, near the castra. The Dux of Caerdracon holds the Iron Tower, so he comes once a year to check on his Constable, I suppose. It ought…”

  Calliande cursed, got to her feet, and hurried to join Ridmark as Jager approached.

  ###

  Morigna stood unobserved in the shadows across the street and watched Jager enter the Crow’s Helm.

  What the devil was he doing here? Morigna had been suspicious of him ever since he had accompanied them on Smiling Otto’s boat. Oh, he spoke charmingly, and smiled and laughed often, but neither the smiles nor the laughter ever touched his eyes.

  Morigna flexed her fingers and stepped towards the Inn. She would go inside and keep an eye on him. And if he had come to spy upon Ridmark for Dux Tarrabus or anyone else, he would regret it sorely…

  A surge of alarm stabbed into her mind, and Morigna stopped, wide-eyed.

  It took a moment to realize the alarm was not her own.

  The feral dogs she had bound. Her spell created a link to their minds, and their impressions filtered through to her thoughts. If she concentrated, she could see through their eyes and hear through their ears, even smell through their noses, and dogs had a far superior sense of smell than humans. One of the dogs had seen something…unnatural. Something that had filled it with unreasoning, instinctive terror. A feral dog would avoid humans, and it would fear predators like lions or wyverns. But this madness, this terror, there was only one thing that could inspire such fear in an animal.

  Dark magic. An urvaalg, perhaps, or one of the other creatures of the dark elves.

  Or something worse.

  Morigna frowned, summoned power, and headed in the dog’s direction.

  ###

  Jager put a calm expression on his face, took a deep breath, and strolled towards Ridmark Arban.

  He had not yet decided upon a course of action. He was almost certain Calliande would keep the empty soulstone with her, but perhaps she had given it to Ridmark for safekeeping. In any event, it had been a tremendous stroke of fortune that Ridmark had gone to Coldinium. Tarrabus Carhaine was still here, staying in his domus, and Jager suspected that Ridmark and Calliande would notice the theft at once. All Jager needed to do was take the soulstone and elude them long enough to reach the Dux. Then he could get Mara back and wash his hands of this entire business.

  Assuming Tarrabus did not simply have both him and Mara killed.

  In fact, Jager could not think of any reason Tarrabus would not have them killed.

  For a moment utter despair took him. Perhaps it had always been meant to end this way. Paul had killed his father Hilder, and perhaps
Jager would share his father’s fate.

  But he would not surrender, not while he still had life. Not while Mara still needed him.

  So he kept his calm expression in place and walked to the Gray Knight’s table.

  Ridmark looked at him. The firelight from the hearth painted his face in harsh tones, the brand an ugly gash across his left cheek. His blue eyes were cold, icy cold, and Jager felt himself falter for a moment. This was not a man to trifle with.

  But neither was Tarrabus. And Tarrabus had Mara.

  “Master Jager,” said Ridmark. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  “And you, Sir Ridmark,” said Jager.

  Ridmark gestured at his scarred face. “I am not a knight any longer.”

  “I suppose not,” said Jager, rebuking himself for the lapse. “But a pleasant coincidence seeing you here. I often frequent the Crow’s Helm…”

  “You are not dressed like one of the Helm’s regular patrons,” said Ridmark.

  “A man has to cut an impressive figure,” said Jager.

  Ridmark leaned a little closer. “Let us dispense with the games, shall we?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Jager.

  “You were waiting for me in Vulmhosk,” said Ridmark. “You followed me to Coldinium. There are dozens of taverns within Coldinium, and most of them are inside the walls. Yet out of all the taverns and inns in the city, you happen to stroll into the one where I am staying. That is a very unlikely coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Jager said nothing, wondering if he had miscalculated.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you want?” said Ridmark.

  For a mad instant he considered telling Ridmark everything. Tarrabus hated Ridmark, and the feeling had to be mutual. Perhaps Ridmark could help Jager against Tarrabus. But when had a noble of Andomhaim ever lifted a finger to help Jager? And if Tarrabus knew that Jager had asked Ridmark for help, he would hand Mara over to Paul Tallmane.

  He opened his mouth to answer, and Calliande appeared at the table.

  “Ridmark,” she said. She gave Jager a suspicious look. “We have to leave, now.”