Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  “And it is not over yet,” said Morigna.

  “Now,” said Sir Cortin. “What happened here? I suggest you tell me everything.”

  “So be it,” said Ridmark. “You saw the omen of blue flame forty-eight days past?” Cortin nodded. “You know I went to Urd Morlemoch nine…”

  “Lies and ravings,” spat Imaria, “from the diseased mind of a murderous madman.”

  “Peace, Magistria,” said Cortin. “You are here to advise. Do not interrupt again.”

  Her glare was just short of murderous, but she fell silent.

  “You know I went to Urd Morlemoch nine years ago,” said Ridmark. “The Warden warned me this would happen, that the omen of blue fire would herald the return of the Frostborn. So when the fire filled the sky, I resolved to return to Urd Morlemoch once more, to learn where the Frostborn would return and how I could stop them.”

  “Perhaps you are mad,” said Cortin, voice quiet. “Few enough can claim to have entered Urd Morlemoch and returned even once. To go a second time is indeed madness. That is why you are in Coldinium? Passing through on your way to the Torn Hills?”

  “In part,” said Ridmark. “Along the way I have gained…companions. You have met Brother Caius.” The dwarven friar offered a bow. “This is Morigna and Calliande, and Gavin of Aranaeus and Kharlacht of Vhaluusk.” He looked around, but Calliande saw no sign of Jager. Likely the halfling had taken the opportunity to flee.

  Or, if he truly served Tarrabus Carhaine, to report to his master.

  “A Vhaluuskan orc,” said Cortin. “Are you in league with the Kothluuskans?”

  “No,” said Kharlacht, his voice a rumble. “The tribes of Vhaluusk are hard and brutal, but even they think the orcs of Kothluusk are mad. And I am baptized, and all my kin are dead. I follow the Gray Knight because I have nowhere else to go.”

  “One renegade deserves another,” said Imaria.

  “Enough,” said Cortin. “These Mhorite orcs were after you, were they not? A curious coincidence to find them here.”

  “They were after me,” said Ridmark.

  “Why?” said Cortin. “Did you offend them in some way?”

  “Repeatedly,” said Ridmark. “You know of the Red Family of Cintarra?”

  Imaria laughed. “A myth. A cult of organized assassins, operating out of the realm’s largest city? The High King and the Duxi would never allow it.”

  “I have heard the name,” said Cortin.

  “I killed several of their assassins in the last few months,” said Ridmark. “The assassins worship Mhor, and the orcs of Kothluusk believe they are heralds or prophets of the blood gods. So the Red Family commanded Mournacht and his warriors to drive me here so they could kill me.”

  Cortin frowned. “How do you know this?”

  “Behind the inn,” said Ridmark. “Four of the Red Family were waiting for me.” Calliande looked over her shoulder in alarm. “They would have slain me, but they fled at your arrival.”

  “Then it is a pity,” said Imaria, “that we did not tarry.”

  Cortin rubbed his jaw with an armored hand. “A fantastical tale. You were many things, Sir Ridmark, but you were never a liar.”

  “Surely you do not believe this nonsense,” said Imaria.

  “There is no reason to disbelieve it,” said Cortin. “It fits the facts we have observed. And the Kothluuskan orcs have been restless of late. Strong warbands have attacked Rhaluusk and Durandis, and my father believes the King of Rhaluusk and the Dux of Durandis will ask the High King for aid against the Kothluuskan orcs. Certainly Ridmark’s tale fits with recent events.”

  “Fine,” said Imaria. “So you believe him. What do you intend to do about it?”

  Cortin turned to face Ridmark. “What are your plans?”

  “To leave Coldinium and continue to Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark. “I didn’t think the Mhorite orcs would follow me here, but now that they have, I will not endanger others with my presence. We shall leave Coldinium.”

  “That seems reasonable,” said Cortin. “I doubt my father would object. We…”

  “What?” said Imaria. “No! I forbid this!”

  “You may forbid nothing, Magistria,” said Cortin, his voice cold. “I command here, not you. And…”

  “Men of Coldinium!” said Imaria, pointing at the knights and men-at-arms surrounding Cortin. “I am Imaria of the Licinii, daughter of the Dux Gareth of the Northerland and a Magistria of the Order! This man before you, Ridmark Arban, is a murderer and an exile! I command you by the authority of the Magistri to take him into custody at once!”

  A few of the men shifted, reaching for their weapons. Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin moved to stand with Ridmark, Calliande, and Morigna.

  “Hold!” bellowed Cortin. “I said to hold!”

  “Take him, now!” said Imaria.

  “You will hold your ground!” said Cortin.

  “Take his head!” shouted Imaria. “The Dux Tarrabus Carhaine has promised riches and his favor to anyone who takes the head of Ridmark Arban! You shall receive gold, even lands of your own to hold as a benefice. Kill him now!”

  “Any man draws a sword and strikes,” said Cortin, “I will have him brought before the Comes on charges of assault and murder.”

  “And if any man does not,” said Imaria, “I will hold him personally responsible for the escape of this criminal!” She pointed at the watching men. “Do you want to dare the wrath of Tarrabus Carhaine? The man who murdered my sister stands before you! How do you think the Dux will react when I tell him that you let Ridmark Arban escape justice? His reach is far and his memory is long.”

  Calliande looked at Ridmark and wondered why he didn’t argue, why he didn’t try to defend himself. But he couldn’t. He would not say a word in his own defense. He blamed himself for Aelia’s death.

  He agreed with Imaria.

  “Corbanic Lamorus governs in Coldinium,” said Cortin, “not Tarrabus Carhaine, and certainly not you, Magistria!”

  “And what will you tell your father,” said Imaria, “when he learns that your folly has turned the Dux against him? Do not presume to contend with those beyond your station, Cortin Lamorus! Your father is merely a minor knight who holds Coldinium by the favor of the High King. Tarrabus Carhaine is the most powerful Dux in the realm. And a Magistria says that Ridmark Arban must die for his crimes! Will you fail to heed my word? I…”

  “And another Magistria,” said Calliande, stepping forward, “says he does not.”

  For the first time Imaria paid attention to her.

  “And who are you?” she said, her eyes moving back and forth between Calliande and Morigna. “He travels with two women? Both his whores, I assume?”

  Ridmark scowled. “They are not.”

  “I am Calliande, a Magistria of the Order,” said Calliande.

  “Anyone can claim that,” said Imaria, “but the penalty for impersonating a Magistria is death. Run along, girl, before you earn the wrath of your betters.”

  Calliande smiled and lifted her hand, a ball of white light shimmering above her palm. “If I am impersonating a Magistria, I am doing a rather good job of it. And I say that Ridmark has committed no crime and can go.”

  “You think to stand against me?” said Imaria. She spun her horse to face the waiting men. “I will give a thousand golden marks to the man who brings me Ridmark Arban’s head.”

  A few of the men started forward, and Kharlacht and the others raised their weapons. Calliande looked back and forth. It seemed a fight was inevitable. Could…

  “There is another way,” said Ridmark.

  Cortin looked at him. “Yes?”

  “Your father is the Comes of Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “and I suggest we take our dispute to him for resolution. Else I fear it shall come to bloodshed in the streets.”

  “No,” said Imaria. “Take him now!”

  “Do not be a fool, Magistria,” said Cortin. “You see his companions are clearly ready to fight for him.�
� He gestured at the dead Mhorites. “And given their prowess, it would be folly to raise arms against them. Especially since I doubt they are in the wrong. So be it, Ridmark Arban. If you will consent to accompany us, my father shall hear your dispute with Imaria tomorrow.”

  Ridmark nodded and stepped forward.

  “You will, of course, come alone,” said Cortin.

  “I shall accompany him,” said Calliande.

  “By what right?” said Imaria.

  “By the right of the Magistri,” said Calliande, “which I possess. And Brother Caius shall accompany us, for spiritual guidance.”

  “I have no objection to that,” said Cortin.

  “And Morigna, as well,” said Calliande.

  Imaria scowled. “The wilder woman?” She gave Morigna’s tattered cloak a disdainful sneer. “Why?”

  “She is my maid,” said Calliande.

  The look Morigna gave her was just short of murderous, but she nodded.

  “Well,” sniffed Imaria. “You have peculiar taste in servants. Sir Cortin, if you are set upon this idiocy, then let us move at once.” She gave Ridmark another icy glare. “I have no wish for this murderer and his deluded lackeys to breathe free air any longer than necessary.”

  “I should accompany you as well,” said Kharlacht. He was leaning on his greatsword, his face strained and tired.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “You shouldn’t have even been on your feet yet.”

  Kharlacht snorted. “The Mhorites disagreed.”

  “Stay here and watch over the baggage,” said Ridmark. “Gavin, too.” The boy nodded. “I will return soon enough.”

  “You had best do so,” said Kharlacht. “Death in battle is one thing.” He glanced at Imaria. “Death from the vengeful spite of a child is quite another.”

  Imaria hissed. “You dare to insult…”

  “Magistria, please,” said Cortin. “Let us depart.”

  “Very well,” said Imaria, turning her horse. “Bring them.”

  “Sir Ridmark, if you please,” said Cortin.

  Ridmark nodded and started forward, Calliande, Caius, and Morigna following him. The knights and men-at-arms closed around them, and they left the Outwall behind, heading for Coldinium’s southern gate.

  ###

  Jager crouched behind a table in the common room and watched the confrontation.

  Apparently the white-robed Magistria he had seen with Tarrabus Carhaine had quite the grudge against Ridmark. As he watched, he realized that the woman was Imaria Licinius, and Ridmark had married her older sister Aelia Licinius. All the stories Jager had heard claimed that Mhalek had slain Aelia, or Ridmark had slain them both.

  But Jager had his own problems.

  This was his chance. He felt a pang for abandoning Ridmark and the others. They had fought boldly, and they had committed no wrongs against Jager. But he needed the soulstone. Without it, Mara would die…and if Jager was honest with himself, he would sacrifice every single man and woman upon the street to save Mara’s life. Such an act would haunt his conscience, he knew, would change him forever.

  But he would do it anyway.

  Fortunately, if he made haste it wouldn’t come to that.

  He crept up the stairs to the balcony, trusting in the shouts from the street to disguise his movements. Save for Ridmark and his companions, everyone else had fled out the back of the inn, even the owner. Apparently he did not feel like dying in defense of his ramshackle inn. Jager could hardly blame him.

  He moved from door to door, peering into the guest rooms. At last he found one that looked like it belonged to Ridmark and his companions. Jager slipped inside and went to a set of knapsacks leaning against the bed. One held food and bread and jerky. Useless. Jager opened the second pack. Inside he found a sheathed dagger wrapped in a cloth. Why wrap it up? Ridmark and his friends needed all the weapons they could get. Perhaps it had sentimental value. Next to the dagger was a leather pouch, and inside…

  Jager’s eyes widened, relief flooding through him.

  The pouch held a lump of white crystal about the size of a grown human man’s fist. Jager lifted it from the pouch, the crystal cold and rough against its fingers. A strange milky light flickered and danced in the stone’s depths, and Jager felt a sense of…potential from the thing. Like it was a seed. Right now, it was harmless. But if it grew and became stronger, it could have awesome power.

  Power enough to crack the world in half.

  The thing was the empty soulstone. It had to be.

  Alarmed, Jager put the stone into the pouch and tugged it closed. Just touching the thing had put strange thoughts into his head. He had never liked or trusted magic, and his experience since leaving Caerdracon had only confirmed that choice. He picked up the pouch, changed his mind, stuffed it back into the knapsack, and picked up the pack instead.

  Better to keep layers between his skin and the stone.

  He slipped back into the common room. The argument outside had grown louder, Imaria shouting at Ridmark and Calliande. They did not notice him. Likely they would not notice if he set the building on fire.

  But there was no reason to test his luck.

  Jager slipped out the back.

  ###

  Gavin stood motionless among the dead, his shoulders and back aching from the fight. He watched as Ridmark and Calliande and Caius and Morigna departed with Sir Cortin’s soldiers, and he wondered if he would ever see them again. The hatred in Imaria’s eyes had not been rational. It reminded Gavin of the madness he had seen in his stepmother’s eyes.

  And Morwen had been a spiderling. Imaria Licinius, as far as Gavin knew, was fully human.

  “Come,” said Kharlacht, snatching a cloak from a dead Mhorite to clean his blade. “I fear we can do nothing for them.”

  Gavin sighed. “As you say.”

  He looked around with a tired shake of his head. He had always talked about visiting Coldinium one day, had dreamed that he would wed Rosanna and take her here.

  Gavin found himself laughing.

  “What?” said Kharlacht, handing him the cloak.

  Gavin cleaned his sword off. “I always wanted to visit Coldinium. I just…I never thought it would be quite like this.”

  Kharlacht barked his harsh laugh. “Few things ever are. Still. By rights I should be dead. So I suppose I cannot complain.”

  He watched the receding horsemen.

  “Do you think they'll return?” said Gavin.

  “Calliande and Morigna and Brother Caius?” said Kharlacht. “Certainly. But the Gray Knight…”

  “You think they’ll kill him?” said Gavin.

  “I fear he wants them to kill him,” said Kharlacht.

  “Like you?” said Gavin. “After Qazarl was slain?”

  Kharlacht grunted. “There is a difference. All my kin are slain, so while I do not fear death, I do not believe I deserve it. The Gray Knight, though. He believes he deserves death for what happened to his wife, and with his wife’s sister there to accuse him… he may not have the will to fight back as he usually does.”

  “And we can do nothing for him,” said Gavin.

  “No,” said Kharlacht. “If a man wants to die, he will find a way to do it. I only hope Calliande and Caius can persuade him otherwise.”

  “And Morigna,” said Gavin. “Likely she will berate him until he decides to live from sheer annoyance.”

  Kharlacht snorted and returned his greatsword to its sheath. “Aye, she would. Though I suspect Calliande’s opinion has more weight with him.”

  “We should watch over the soulstone while they are gone,” said Gavin. “Calliande left it in her pack.”

  “Yes, you are right,” said Kharlacht. “We should not leave such a dangerous thing unattended. Likely Calliande would have taken it with her, had she not been distracted.”

  Gavin hesitated. “Should we attend to the bodies?”

  Kharlacht shrugged. “I see no point. The residents of the Outwall will loot the corpses, and t
he militia will haul them away.” He scowled. “Though I would suggest we avoid the sausage makers of Coldinium for a few days.”

  “Ghastly thought,” said Gavin.

  They climbed the stairs back to their rooms. Gavin opened the doors, checking them one by one.

  He stopped at the room that Calliande and Morigna would have shared.

  “Her pack’s gone,” said Gavin.

  “What?” said Kharlacht.

  “The pack with the soulstone,” said Gavin. “It’s gone.” He hurried into the room and looked around, finding no sign of the knapsack. “She always puts it in that pack when she doesn’t carry it at her belt.” Had Calliande taken it with her? No, she hadn’t had the pouch with her departed with Ridmark. Or had she concealed it somewhere?

  Then a memory clicked.

  “Jager,” whispered Gavin.

  He had seen the halfling fleeing from the inn during Imaria’s confrontation with Ridmark and Calliande. Jager had carried a pack with him, and Gavin had paid it little note at the time.

  “That halfling,” said Gavin. “He left with a pack. I saw him.”

  “God and his saints,” said Kharlacht. “That’s why he followed us from Vulmhosk. He must have learned of the soulstone and sought to steal it for himself. Did you see which direction he went?”

  Gavin nodded. “Towards the docks.”

  “Then we have no time to waste,” said Kharlacht, and they left the Crow’s Helm.

  Chapter 12 - The Dux and the Magistria

  The next morning the guards escorted Ridmark to the great hall of Castra Coldinium.

  The castra had stood upon this site for centuries, but the great hall was new. It had been built in the style of a Roman basilica of Old Earth, with thick pillars supporting arches and balconies. Tapestries hung upon the pillars, showing scenes from the scriptures and the history of Old Earth – the Emperor Constantine winning his victory at Milvian Bridge, the Dominus Christus healing the ten lepers, Arthur Pendragon dueling his bastard son Mordred at Camlann. Lead-framed windows of glass admitted the morning sunlight, spilling it across the gleaming tiles of the floor. A dais at the far end of the hall held the curule chair, an uncomfortable-looking thing of curved arms and legs, the formal seat from which the Comes of Coldinium pronounced his judgments.