Frostborn: The First Quest (11 page)

Chapter 11 - The Frostborn

The mist cleared, and Ridmark found himself standing in a forest.

It was a warm summer’s day, the sun shining through the leafy branches of the trees overhead. A gentle breeze set the leaves to whispering, and Ridmark heard birds singing. It was a beautiful day, the sort of day meant for hunting or riding or both.

Was this the future? What had the Warden meant?

Ridmark heard someone moving through the brush, and he turned.

A man in a gray cloak came into sight, a wooden staff in his right hand, his features concealed beneath the cloak’s cowl. He wore leather and wool of gray and black, dirty and worn from long travel in the forest. 

The man stopped, and Ridmark caught the glint of eyes beneath the cowl.

“Greetings,” said Ridmark. “I mean no ill.”

The man drew back his cowl.

His face was hard and lean, with close-cropped black hair and dead, grim blue eyes. A brand marked the man’s left cheek, the sigil of a broken sword. It was the symbol of a coward, a craven who fled the field of battle. 

And the face…

It was Ridmark’s face.

It was older, thinner, harder, the lines deeper. It was his face in ten years, perhaps, hardened by years spent wandering the wilderness. 

But it was his face.

The face of his future self.

“Who are you?” said Ridmark, stunned.

“You,” said the gray-cloaked man, his voice filled with loathing. “Do you not realize? I am you. I am what you shall become.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “A coward’s brand? No!”

“I remember,” said the gray-cloaked man. It was the same cloak, Ridmark realized, that he wore even now. “The day I went into Urd Morlemoch, the day the Warden showed me the future. Would that I had heeded him! Then perhaps I might have averted so much evil.”

“This isn’t real,” said Ridmark. “This cannot possibly be real. You are only a shadow of the future and nothing more.”

“No,” said the gray-cloaked man with a snarl. “I am your future. I am what you will become. It is inevitable. You have already taken the first steps upon the path that will transform you into me.” 

“I would never do anything to earn a coward’s brand!” said Ridmark, hot with anger at the thought.

The gray-cloaked man barked a harsh laugh. “Do you truly think so, foolish boy?” He pointed at the scar upon his cheek. “Do you think I received this unjustly? That I was falsely accused of some heinous crime? No! I deserved this. I deserved all of this! They branded me a coward, expelled me from the Order, took Heartwarden from me, and banished me to wander the wilderness until I died!” His eyes glittering with despair and madness. “And I deserved every last bit of it. I deserved to die for what I did!” 

“What did you do?” said Ridmark. He could not imagine himself fleeing a field of battle. He had faced an urdmordar without flinching, certain that he would go to his death. Why had his nerve failed in the future? Or had he committed some other heinous crime?

“It was your fault,” spat the gray-cloaked man.

“I have done nothing!” said Ridmark. 

“But you will,” said the gray-cloaked man. “I remember what it was like to be you. So arrogant, so confident! Facing an urdmordar? Jaunting into Urd Morlemoch? Nothing! It cost you nothing. But it will.” He stepped closer, shaking with anger. “It will cost you everything!” 

“I don’t understand,” said Ridmark.

“You will,” whispered the gray-cloaked man. “I tried…I tried to save them all. Why not? I had done it before. I thought…I thought I could save them. And it cost me everything. Everything!”

“What happened?” said Ridmark. “For God’s sake, stop babbling and tell me what will happen!”

“Your fault,” whispered the gray-cloaked man. “Your choices led me to it. The blood is upon your hands.”

“What blood?” said Ridmark. “Who did I kill?”

The gray-cloaked man’s eyes met his. It was like looking into a mirror, albeit a mirror that showed him an older, half-crazed reflection. 

“You haven’t killed anyone yet,” whispered the older Ridmark. “I have. But you will.” He raised the staff, gripping it with both hands. Steel capped both of the staff’s ends, and likely the weapon had a metal core. It could strike with terrific force in the hands of a skilled user, hard enough to crush skulls and deal death.

And Ridmark knew how to fight with a quarterstaff. His father had made sure of that. 

“You will,” said the gray-cloaked man. “The blood will be on your hands. Our hands. But you haven’t done it yet, have you? Yet if I kill you now…that means it will never happen.” A desperate hope covered his face. “It never will have happened…”

“But if you kill me,” said Ridmark, “you’ll never exist.” 

The hope on the gray-cloaked man’s face hardened.

“Good,” he said. “I do not deserve to live for what I did. And if my death means it will never happen…that is a small price to pay.” 

He ran at Ridmark, swinging the staff with both hands.

Ridmark parried the blow on reflex, and almost lost the fight. The staff struck Heartwarden’s blade with terrific force, jerking the sword to the side and nearly tearing the hilt from Ridmark’s hands. Ridmark stumbled, and the gray-cloaked man reversed the staff and jabbed the butt into Ridmark’s stomach. The breath exploded from his lungs, and Ridmark lost his footing and landed upon his back.

The gray-cloaked man raised the staff, preparing to bring the butt hammering down upon Ridmark’s temple. 

Ridmark slashed Heartwarden, the sword’s magic filling him with strength, and the tip of the blade cut across the gray-cloaked man’s right thigh. The older man hissed in pain and stumbled, and the butt of the staff slammed into the ground a few inches from Ridmark’s head. Ridmark kicked, catching the gray-cloaked man in the wounded leg, and his future self staggered back.

Ridmark rolled to his feet, holding Heartwarden before him. 

“Idiot!” raged the gray-cloaked man. “Stop fighting! Do you know what will happen if we live? The things we will do? It would have been better if we had never been born at all!” 

“Then stop fighting and tell me!” said Ridmark, watching his other self. “If I know what will happen, then I can avoid it, I can avert it.”

“No,” said the older Ridmark with a shake of his head. “You will walk into the trap as you always do, thinking that your wits and courage will snatch victory from defeat. Just as you walked into Urd Morlemoch. But your choices will bring ruin and death upon so many people. Better to die now.” He lifted the staff. “I will pay for my crimes. I will make sure they never even happen!”

He sprinted at Ridmark, ignoring his wounded leg, and they fought. Ridmark had Heartwarden, had the sword’s magical strength and speed. But the gray-cloaked man’s staff had a long reach, and the older man wielded the weapon with expert precision. Ridmark was one of the best swordsmen of his generation, but he had the capacity to grow and reach new heights.

The man before him had ten years’ worth of additional experience, and a skilled man with a quarterstaff could often defeat a swordsman. 

They danced around each other, the staff a blur in the gray-cloaked man’s hands, Heartwarden glinting in the sunlight. Ridmark landed minor blows upon his future self’s right arm and another upon his right left, but the older man hardly seemed to feel them. His expression was a mask of rage, his lips peeled back from his face in a furious snarl.

He would kill his younger self die trying. 

A thrust from the staff clipped Ridmark’s chest, staggering him, and it was only with Heartwarden’s magic was that he was able to avoid the older man’s following swing. He drew on Heartwarden’s power again and swung, darting past the gray-cloaked man’s guard and opening another gash across his ribs. The older man stumbled, cursing, but did not stop attacking. 

He did not even slow. Blood loss should have slowed him down by now, but the gray-cloaked man struck with speed and vigor, a storm of swings and thrusts flying towards Ridmark. He just barely managed to keep ahead of the staff, praying that his boots would not find a root and send him sprawling to the ground. 

The older man might bleed out, but it was far more likely that Ridmark would trip first, and then the gray-cloaked man would have him.

He remembered his early training as a squire, his father’s insistence that he learn to fight with a quarterstaff. There was only one good way for a swordsman to defeat a skilled fighter with a staff. It was dangerous, but Ridmark could think of nothing better.

The gray-cloaked man swung, and Ridmark threw himself forward.

The older man recovered at once, his staff smashing against the side of Ridmark’s chest with terrific force. Pain exploded through Ridmark, and heard the sound of his ribs snapping. The staff’s powerful blow knocked him to the side, but not far enough, and Heartwarden plunged into the gray-cloaked man’s belly. 

The older man stumbled, eyes growing wide, and Ridmark drove the blade deeper into the wound. The older man sagged, and Ridmark ripped Heartwarden free. The front of the gray-cloaked man’s jerkin turned shiny with blood, and Ridmark realized his soulblade must have struck a vein. Enraged or not, determined or not, not even the best fighter could survive losing that much blood at once. 

Ridmark stepped back as the older man fell to his knees. His every breath burned, and he tasted blood upon his tongue. The broken ribs must have scratched or even pierced one of his lungs. He drew on Heartwarden’s magic for healing, and bit by bit the terrible pain lessened.

“Listen to me,” whispered the older man. “You have…you have…Aelia…”

“Aelia?” said Ridmark. “What about Aelia? What happens to Aelia?”

The gray-cloaked man collapsed, his face gray, his clothing wet with blood.

“What happens to Aelia?” shouted Ridmark. “Damn it, tell me!”

The older man did not answer, and Ridmark realized that he had stopped breathing. 

He hurried forward with a curse and knelt. He released Heartwarden’s power, trying to ignore the flood of agony in his side, and prepared to use the sword’s magic to heal his older self.

And as he did, the world dissolved into mist.

When the mist cleared, Ridmark found himself standing in the circle of black menhirs atop Urd Morlemoch, the ribbons of blue fire dancing across the black vault of the sky. The Warden stood on the other side of the altar, motionless as a statue, his blue coat rippling in the wind. 

“You prevailed,” said the Warden, “and…”

“The future,” demanded Ridmark. He drew on Heartwarden’s magic, using it to heal the pain in his chest, but he hardly noticed. “The future I saw. Is it inevitable? Is it destiny? Or can I change it?”

The Warden shrugged. The gesture seemed eerie on his alien form. “Who can say? The future is a shadow cast by the fire of the past, that was the metaphor Ardrhythain used with you? Then it can be changed.” He grinned. “But fire can be ever so dangerous.”

Ridmark nodded. If something had happened to Aelia, something that was his fault, he saw how he could become the grim, scarred man he had fought. He would have to make sure that nothing happened to Aelia, that no one dared to harm her.

Whatever the cost. 

“You prevailed fairly,” said the Warden, turning Ridmark’s attention to his more immediate problems, “and so I will abide by the rules of our game.”

Ridmark blinked. “You will release Rhyannis to me? Without any further tricks?”

The Warden almost looked affronted. “I am a man of my word. Observe.”

He snapped his fingers. Black fire flashed next to him, and when it cleared a high elven woman stood next to him, clad in only a shift, her wrists and neck bound with chains of blue dark elven steel. She had the same features and golden eyes as the illusion Ridmark had seen in the Chamber of Stone. The Warden gestured again, and the chains vanished into black smoke. The woman looked up, blinking in fear.

She said something in a liquid, musical language.

“Speak Latin,” said the Warden. “Our guest does not know our tongue, alas.”

“Who are you?” said the woman. “I see you bear one of the swords Ardrhythain created for the humans, but…”

“My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark, “and I am a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade. I assume I am addressing the bladeweaver Rhyannis?” The woman nodded. “The archmage sent me to rescue you from this place.” 

“He…he did?” said Rhyannis, blinking. She looked at the Warden and cringed. Ridmark wondered what torments the undead sorcerer had inflicted upon her. “But why?”

“Because,” said Ridmark. “I won his game.”

The Warden grinned, making his face look even more skull-like. “But she did not, alas. Yet you have won fairly, Sir Ridmark, and provided me with an afternoon of amusement. I cannot begrudge you that. Take this foolish child and depart from Urd Morlemoch in peace. She has lived a century…but it seem you, a stripling of nineteen, have far more wisdom than she.” 

“My lady,” said Ridmark, trying to ignore the pain in his side. “Come quickly. We must be gone from here.” He did not know how long the Warden’s magnanimity would last, and he did not care to find out. “The lord archmage awaits us beyond the bounds of the Warden’s…demesne. We should hurry.”

Rhyannis hesitated, looking at the Warden as if she feared a trick. The Warden remained motionless, and at last Rhyannis hurried over and stood by Ridmark, shivering in her thin shift. He thought about asking the Warden for her clothing back, and then decided that would be unwise. 

“This way,” said Ridmark. He saw a stairwell at the edge of the turret, sinking into the depths of the tower. He intended to take Rhyannis down through the tower, into the catacombs, and out through the secret exit. She looked exhausted and malnourished, but he suspected terror would give her the necessary strength. Ridmark walked for the stairwell, Rhyannis at his side. He resisted the urge to run, and felt an itching between his shoulder blades as if an unseen archer was taking aim…

“Sir Ridmark.”

He stopped and took a deep breath, wincing at the sharp pain in the side of his chest.

Then he turned and looked at the Warden, his hand tightening against Heartwarden’s hilt. “Yes?”