Frostborn: The Master Thief

by Jonathan Moeller

  The assassin snarled in fury, both his hands clamping around Jager’s throat. Jagger gagged, black spots swimming before his eyes, the assassin’s thumbs sinking into his windpipe. He clawed at the Red Brother’s belt, his hand curling around the hilt of a dagger.

  He yanked the blade free and drove it into the assassin’s neck.

  A spasm went through Mathias’s body, his hands loosening. Jager sucked in a deep breath, ripped the dagger free, and stabbed again, hot blood spattering over his fingers. The skull-mask bounced away, knocked loose by the impact, and Jager saw the assassin’s face, the blue eyes wide and shocked and full of pain.

  Young. He looked so young. He was even younger than Jager. The Matriarch must have taken him as a boy…

  Then Mathias slumped against the ground, his breath stopping.

  Jager staggered to his feet. He felt the eyes of the Mhorites upon him, but for the moment he did not care. Ridmark and the remaining two assassins still fought. All three men looked wounded, and the final assassin moved with a pronounced limp, likely received from Ridmark’s staff. Yet Ridmark himself bled from a half-dozen minor wounds, his face set and grim.

  He needed help.

  Jager retrieved his weapons and ran for the fighting.

  ###

  Ridmark’s staff clipped the edge of Rotherius’s arm, and the Red Brother stumbled back. But before Ridmark could follow through, the second assassin attacked, and Ridmark had to retreat. His breath rasped through his throat, his arms and shoulders throbbing from the effort of the fight, and he was starting to feel a bit light-headed from blood loss. If he passed out, Rotherius and the remaining Red Brother would kill him. For that matter, Ridmark did not even need to pass out to lose the fight. Rotherius was a deadly swordsman, and if Ridmark made one mistake, just one, Rotherius would put his blade through his heart.

  Ridmark already bled from a half-dozen near misses.

  Rotherius stepped into an attack, and Ridmark caught it on the end of his staff, deflecting the blow. He whirled the staff, spinning its end for Rotherius’s skull-masked face. Rotherius dodged, but the edge of the staff clipped his cowl, and Ridmark heard the clang as it rebounded from his helmet. The assassin stumbled, and the second Red Brother leapt to the attack. Ridmark ducked under the swing and jabbed his staff with both hands, the end of the weapon slamming into the Red Brother’s gut. The assassin stumbled, his breath exploding from his skull mask in an anguished wheeze. Rotherius recovered his balance, but Ridmark pressed his attack, swinging his staff with both hands and all his strength.

  The staff connected against the side of the Red Brother’s head with a metallic crunch. The assassin collapsed, blood leaking from the skull mask, and Ridmark spun as Rotherius stabbed at him. The edge of Rotherius’s blade sliced through Ridmark’s jerkin and shirt, opening a fresh cut on his side.

  He felt the hot blood soaking into his sweaty clothes.

  Ridmark backed away, staff held before him, and Rotherius circled to his left. Boots slapped against the paving stones, and Ridmark saw Jager running towards them, his sword and dagger wet with blood. Mathias lay motionless near the fountain. Somehow Jager had managed to overcome his attacker.

  Rotherius stepped back, keeping Jager and Ridmark in front of him.

  “You look like you were having a little trouble,” said Jager, “so I thought I would stop by and lend a hand.”

  “How generous,” said Ridmark, watching Rotherius. He stepped closer, the assassin maintaining the distance between them. “What do you think, Rotherius? You were keen enough to fight when it was four against two. Does two against one sound appealing?”

  “The halfling,” growled Rotherius, “hardly counts.”

  Jager laughed. “Ask Mathias about that.”

  “First six Red Brothers dead in the swamps of Moraime,” said Ridmark, “and now three more here. The Matriarch is going to be wroth with you, Rotherius.” Delay, he had to delay. If he killed Rotherius, the Mhorites would simply cut him down, and there was no way Ridmark could fight all of them. He had not even been able to overcome Mournacht in single combat, and he had been fresh and uninjured then. “How do you think she will react after you have gotten nine of your brothers killed?”

  “Enough,” said Rotherius. “There are no tricks to save you now, Ridmark Arban. No marsh gas for you to ignite.”

  “Marsh gas?” said Jager.

  “Long story,” said Ridmark.

  Rotherius took another step back. “Kill them. All of you, kill them now! The Herald of Mhor commands it! Kill them!”

  A moment of hesitation went over the Mhorite orcs.

  “Oh,” said Jager. “Sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t think it would end like this.” He shook his head. “That damned ring. Mara was right. I never should have taken it.”

  Ridmark nodded.

  Mournacht roared a command, and hundreds of voices bellowed back in answer. Rotherius stepped back, and the Mhorite orcs charged past him, shouting and brandishing their weapons.

  Ridmark sprang into motion, his staff a blur as he struck right and left, and two of the orcs fell dead. He whirled and brought his staff down upon the head of a third orc, sending the warrior sprawling to the ground. The Mhorites were strong and fast, but they lacked the deadly skill of Rotherius and the other assassins of the Red Family. Ridmark moved through them like a storm, and soon left a half-dozen dead in his wake. Jager followed, covering Ridmark’s flank, his sword and dagger flashing as he attacked the Mhorites from behind.

  But it was useless. The Mhorites surrounded them on all sides, filling the courtyard with a mass of leather armor and flashing steel. Ridmark fought in a circle, striking with every movement, but it was not enough. He took another hit to his left leg, a glancing blow to his right shoulder. Jager parried the blow of a mace, and the force of the impact drove him to the ground. Ridmark killed the Mhorite with the mace, and the others closed around him.

  His death was at hand.

  To his surprise, he felt regret. He had promised Calliande that he would help her find her memories, that they would find the secret of the Frostborn and stop their return. He deserved death, even death at the hands of the Mhorites…but he did not want to die before he had fulfilled his obligations and promises.

  Unfortunately, it appeared he had no say in the matter.

  He dodged the strike of a mace, and the edge of the heavy weapon clipped his temple. Ridmark stumbled, his head ringing from the impact, and barely evaded the second blow. A sheet of white mist appeared before his vision, his head spinning. That was it, then. At least he would be unconscious for the killing blow…

  The mist sizzled, and the Mhorite orcs screamed.

  Ridmark blinked as a ring of white mist spread around him and rolled over the orcs. Skin bubbled and flesh smoked, and a dozen orcs fell to the ground, rolling as the acidic mist ate into their limbs. Jager scrambled to his feet as the Mhorites bellowed in fury, and some of them turned towards the doors of the domus.

  Towards a new threat.

  “Take them!” thundered a man in Latin. Ridmark recognized the voice of Sir Cortin Lamorus. “In the name of the Comes and the High King, drive these invaders from our city!”

  Another voice shouted commands in the dwarven tongue.

  Ridmark turned and saw men-at-arms and knights in the colors of the High King storming into the domus, flanked by dwarven warriors in their bronze-colored armor.

  Azakhun and Calliande had been successful.

  Most of the Mhorites charged the new threat. Mournacht’s booming voice rolled over the atrium, and Ridmark spotted the hulking shaman before the doors to the tower. Mournacht brandished his axe and began casting a spell, bloody fire blazing around his free hand as the sigils upon his chest and arms burned hotter.

  “We will take him!” said Ridmark, pointing his staff, and Jager offered a sharp nod. Mournacht’s dark magic was strong, and left unchecked he would wreak havoc among the men-at-arms and the dwarven warriors. Calliande and
Morigna might be able to check him, but if Ridmark could distract the shaman at a critical moment…

  He struck down another orc, running towards Mournacht, and then a crimson shape filled his vision.

  Rotherius.

  The assassin attacked, and Ridmark retreated, his arms and wounds aching from the effort of holding back the attack.

  ###

  Morigna cursed, scanning the melee for any sign of Ridmark.

  She stood in the shadows beneath the colonnade, watching the fight. Calliande had persuaded the Comes to send men to the domus, but if Sir Cortin or his men saw Morigna using earth magic, their attitudes would quickly sour. Best to stay out of sight, then. Her ring of acidic mist had kept the Mhorites from overwhelming Ridmark and Jager, but the Gray Knight and the master thief had disappeared into the chaos. Morigna did not want Ridmark to die fighting vermin like these Kothluuskan orcs.

  Jager’s death would not upset her, but she supposed saving him would please Ridmark.

  Sir Cortin, the Taalmak Azakhun, and Kharlacht led the charge into the Mhorites. Kharlacht had no rank among them, but the towering orc’s strength and prowess made him a rallying point. Again and again the blue greatsword rose and fell, every strike severing limbs and hewing through necks. Gavin and Caius screened him, thrusts from Gavin’s orcish sword and Caius’s dwarven mace disposing of any Mhorites that drew too close. Calliande hung back, white light glimmering around her fingers as she held her magic in reserve, ready to heal the wounded or to repel any arcane attacks.

  A knot of orcs pressed towards Kharlacht and the others, and Morigna cast a spell. White mist rolled over them, the acid within it sizzling and biting. Morigna dismissed the mist at once, lest it touch her allies, but the effect was enough. The Mhorite charge faltered, and Kharlacht and Cortin and the others attacked, driving into the orcs with lusty yells.

  Across the atrium she saw a group of Mhorites raise bows. Morigna waved her staff, her fingers tightening against the carved wood. Her mind reached across the atrium and grasped the bows in the orcs’ hands. Her will poured through the staff, and at her command the bows shattered, leaving the weapons useless.

  Even over the chaos, she heard their howls of outrage, and Morigna grinned.

  Then she saw the blood-colored fire blazing at the base of the tower, and her smile faded.

  ###

  Calliande felt the pulse of dark magic, saw Mournacht casting a spell at the base of the tower. He would unleash his power upon the struggling men-at-arms and dwarves, and his magic would wither their flesh, reducing them to dried husks.

  Unless Calliande protected them.

  Could she ward them all at once? No, there were far too many. Yet Ridmark often said that the best shield was a sure sword stroke.

  Time to put that to the test.

  Calliande summoned as much magic as she could muster and raised her palm. White fire burst from her hand, arced across the atrium in a dazzling shaft, and drilled into Mournacht. His spell collapsed as power poured into his wards, dispersing her attack.

  But it turned his focus from the fighting men.

  Unfortunately, it also meant that Calliande now had the shaman’s full attention.

  She heard his furious bellow, and began casting wards as the bloody light brightened again.

  ###

  Jager and Ridmark dueled Rotherius.

  Well, Ridmark was doing most of the work. Jager only tried to help. Even wounded and exhausted, his clothing spotted with sweat and blood, Ridmark Arban knew how to fight. His staff was a dark blur, whirling as it blocked the assassin’s attacks and launched swings and thrusts of Ridmark’s own. Jager knew a master fighter when he saw one, and Ridmark was the best he had ever seen.

  But Rotherius was just as good.

  The Red Brother wove circles around Ridmark, his sword and dagger clanging in his hands. Ridmark’s swings sometimes came within a hair’s breadth of connecting, but they never quite did. From time to time one of Ridmark’s thrusts hit Rotherius, but the assassin twisted aside like an eel, and Ridmark never landed any telling hits. Both men were wounded, and both were perfectly matched.

  The first one to make a mistake would die.

  Yet Jager could not hit Rotherius.

  He tried to stab the Red Brother from behind, but the assassin always anticipated his movements, spinning to keep both Ridmark and Jager before him. He had tried throwing two daggers at the Red Brother, but Rotherius’s sword had knocked the blades from the air. Jager braced himself to charge, hoping to distract Rotherius long enough for Ridmark to land a killing blow.

  And then it happened.

  Ridmark made a mistake.

  He stepped back to avoid a thrust, and the heel of his boot came down upon the hand of a dead Mhorite. He stumbled, tripped, and fell upon one knee.

  Rotherius drew back his sword and dagger for the kill.

  ###

  Morigna sprinted along the colonnade as a blast of darkness and blood-colored fire shot across the atrium. It slammed into Calliande, a shell of white light burning around her as her own magic struggled against Mournacht’s dark power. The bloody fire faded away, the white light shining brighter, and Calliande sent another volley of white fire at Mournacht. It struck the whirlwind of blood-colored fire around the orcish shaman and dispersed, unable to penetrate his wards.

  Calliande grimaced and began another spell.

  Morigna raised her free hand and began a spell of her own, purple fire crackling around her fingers.

  “No,” gasped Calliande, “no, don’t. Nothing you have can get through his wards. You’ll draw his attention, and I can’t protect both of us at the same time.”

  “Then what?” said Morigna.

  “Distract him,” said Calliande, her face tight with strain. “Find a way to…get back!”

  A shaft of shadows and howling flame sped across the atrium, and Morigna ducked before the spell plowed into Calliande. The dark magic and the Calliande’s power competed against each other, white light straining against darkness and shadow, but Calliande’s wards held.

  Though Morigna did not know how much longer they would.

  Distract Mournacht? How the hell was she supposed to do that? None of her spells could penetrate his wards. Calliande could knock down his wards, given enough time, but none of her spells could actually harm the shaman. At best Morigna’s attacks would simply annoy him. At worse he would pause long enough to kill her. Or Calliande, in her foolishly merciful heart, would try to protect them both, and then Mournacht would kill them both with a single spell.

  Morigna blinked.

  She didn’t need to attack Mournacht. She only needed to distract him.

  Someone else could do the distracting.

  She cast another spell, her thoughts reaching out to issue a command.

  ###

  Ridmark saw his death descending and rolled over the dead orc, the smell of blood and sweat filling his nostrils. Rotherius’s sword nicked him, but the stab aimed for his heart missed, and Ridmark regained his feet and snatched up his staff.

  Rotherius stalked after him, Jager hovering at the side with his sword and dagger.

  “You should probably run while you still can,” said Ridmark, his voice hoarse. He was getting increasingly woozy. “Go. Now.”

  “No,” said Jager.

  “Pitiful fools,” said Rotherius. “You can both die together as…”

  His voice trailed off in surprise as a gray carpet rolled past Jager, making its way toward Mournacht.

  A gray carpet composed of dozens of squirming, writhing little bodies.

  ###

  “Rats?” said Calliande.

  Morigna shrugged. “They are easy to control. Braver in groups, too.”

  Mournacht started to cast another spell, and then stopped as a hundred rats began climbing up his legs, clawing and biting. The orcish shaman bellowed in frustrated rage and pawed at himself, throwing off the maddened rats and crushing them beneath his heavy b
oots. Yet still they swarmed over him, driven by Morigna’s magic. For all his strength, a two-handed axe was a useless tool against the rats, not unless he wanted to take off his own legs in the process. A dozen rats clambered over Mournacht’s muscled torso, sinking their teeth into his flesh. Mournacht snarled in fury, ripping at the rats.

  Calliande summoned every bit of power she could muster and directed it into a spell. White fire crackled into Mournacht, again and again, and the shaman started to cast his own spells, pouring more power into his wards. Then a rat sank its teeth into his cheek, and Mournacht bellowed and ripped the rat away.

  His spell collapsed, and his wards dissolved an instant later.

  “Now!” said Calliande.

  Morigna had already summoned the magic. She shouted and swept her hand before her, fingers wreathed in purple fire. A column of thick white mist materialized around Mournacht, and the orcish shaman’s bellows of rage turned into a howl of pain. Even over the melee, Calliande heard the sizzle of charred flesh, saw the rats fall in smoking lumps from his arms and legs.

  Mournacht’s ward snapped back into existence around him. Yet had been badly hurt, with livid burns across his face and chest and arms.

  “Withdraw!” he roared, his voice booming over the atrium. “Withdraw, all of you!”