Frostborn: The First Quest (4 page)

“Then I shall endeavor to do so,” said Ridmark, and he descended the hill without another word.

Urd Morlemoch drew closer as he made his way through the low, rolling hills. Ridmark watched the ruins, but nothing moved within them, save for the rippling fingers of ghostly blue flame. Perhaps all the orcs and creatures of dark magic lurked underground, in the catacombs below the ruins. Or perhaps the mutated orcs only visited Urd Morlemoch a few times a year, the way other pagan orcs visited their sacred places on holy days. 

That was a hopeful thought.

Yet here and there, Ridmark spotted footprints in the dirt.

He made for the junction of the stream and the cliff, trying to keep the hills between him and the walls of Urd Morlemoch. Bit by bit the top of the waterfall drew closer. Ridmark hoped the dark elves of old had left a path to their secret entrance. He had a rope in his pack, thought that might prove…

The rasp of a boot upon earth caught his attention. 

He turned as three orcs unlike any he had ever seen came around the base of a hill.

They had green skin, tusked jaws, and black hair and eyes like every other orc he had ever met. But something was wrong with these orcs. They were bigger, more muscular, so muscular they looked grotesque. Their tusks were longer and sharper than usual. Blue light, the same color as the light that danced overhead, glimmered in their eyes, and the web of veins covering their arms and temples pulsed with the same glow. 

And one of the orcs had a great tumor-like mass bulging from his right temple, a mass that likewise had its own blue glow. 

“What is this?” rasped the orc with the strange growth. “A stranger come into the master’s realm?” 

Ridmark spread his hands. “I am merely a traveler,” he said in the orcish tongue. “I am passing through, and mean no harm. I shall go on my way and never trouble you again.”

The orc laughed. “No, you will not. The master has commanded that all strangers be brought before him. Take him!” 

The other two orcs rushed forward, drawing swords from their belt. The first orc stepped back and began muttering to himself, blue fire crackling around his fingers, and the mass upon his head glowed brighter. 

He was casting a spell.

Ridmark drew Heartwarden from its scabbard, the crystal embedded in the blade flaring with light. He concentrated upon his link with the soulblade and drew on its power, strength flooding through him in a torrent. 

The orcs charged him, and Ridmark moved.

He dodged to the left, Heartwarden lending him speed, and slashed with the blade. The soulblade sheared through the nearest orc’s sword arm, and the orc fell to his knees with a howl of pain. Ridmark sidestepped, whipping Heartwarden around, and took off the orc’s head in a burst of blue-glowing blood. The second orc slashed at him, and Ridmark dodged the first blow and parried the second. Steel clanged on steel, and Heartwarden’s crystal burned brighter. Ridmark shoved, his strength competing against the mutated orc’s, and found that he could not maintain his parry.

So he didn’t try. 

He fell back, letting his legs buckle, and dropped to one knee. The hulking orc overbalanced, his sword falling past Ridmark’s shoulder. Ridmark stabbed, driving Heartwarden into the orc’s ribs, and the warrior screamed. Heartwarden blazed with white fire in Ridmark’s hands, and he ripped the blade free and plunged it again into the orc. 

The orc collapsed, his blue-glowing blood smoking on Heartwarden’s blade, and Ridmark turned just as the final orc finished his spell.

Dark power flared, and black flames erupted from the orc’s hands. Ridmark raised Heartwarden in guard, calling upon the sword’s power to defend him. The shadow fire slammed into the blade, and Ridmark stumbled back, straining to hold against the torrent of power. But the sword’s protection held, and Ridmark forced his way forward, the dark fire raging around him, its touch turning the grasses into dust. The orc snarled in fury, his arms trembling with exertion.

Then the flames winked out. The orc started to cast another spell, but Ridmark surged forward. The mutated orc raised his hands in guard, but Heartwarden sank into his chest, Ridmark’s blow driven by the power of the sword’s magic. The orc screamed, blue and black fire mixing around his fingers. Ridmark stepped back, yanked the sword free, and swung with both hands.

The orc’s head rolled away across the dead grass, body slumping to join the others. 

Ridmark let out a long breath and lowered his sword, looking around the hills for any more orcs. But these three seemed to have been alone, and he saw no movement upon the gleaming white walls of Urd Morlemoch. 

The place was as motionless as a tomb.

Ridmark cleaned Heartwarden upon the grasses, sheathed the sword, and kept going. The sooner he was gone from the hills, the better. Sooner or later the dead orcs would be missed or found, and then the orcs would know that an intruder had entered Urd Morlemoch. 

Or, worse, they would tell the Warden. 

Ridmark kept moving, making for the stream. 

Chapter 4 - Bones

The stream leapt off the edge of the world.

Ridmark stood at the edge of the cliff and gazed at the sea.

It was a long way down, at least a thousand feet of grim, weather-beaten rock. The water of the stream fell in a widening white spray until it struck the heaped boulders far below. By then, Ridmark supposed, the waterfall was little more than a gentle fall of mist.

He squinted at the waterfall, trying to see any hint of an entrance behind the water. Finding nothing, he moved further north along the edge of the cliff, taking care to keep his balance. It would be a poor joke, he supposed, to come all this way only to trip over his own feet and plunge his death. 

He crossed over the stream to stand at the very foot of Urd Morlemoch’s hill. The white ruins towered over him, the ribbons of blue flame painting the walls with a ghostly light. Still he saw no sign of any guards. Ridmark moved carefully along the edge of the cliff, the salt-scented breeze tugging at his hair and elven cloak, and spotted the entrance.

A dark cave yawned behind the white spray of the waterfall, perhaps thirty yards below the edge of the cliff. Ridmark scrutinized the cave, wondering how to get down there, and then spotted the stairs. Narrow, rough-hewn steps had been carved from the rock, descending to a slender ledge behind the waterfall. 

The steps were weathered, the ledge itself damp with spray. One false step would send him tumbling to his death.

Ridmark shrugged, took a deep breath to steady himself, and started down the stairs.

He moved carefully, testing each step before he put his weight upon it, his left hand braced against the cold stone, the wind moaning around him. He glanced at the boulders and the surf far below, decided that looking down was a very bad idea, and kept going.

Inch by inch he descended the stairs. At last he reached the narrow ledge, and he started forward. He felt the cold spray of the waterfall against his face, and…

His boot slipped.

His weight went out from under him, and Ridmark grabbed at the rock wall for support. He landed hard upon his rump, and for an awful moment he teetered on the edge of the path. But his left hand kept its grip upon the rough stone, and he managed to pull himself back.

He took a moment to catch his breath, his heart pounding. He would almost rather face a dozen more of the mutated orcs than this damnable path. Yet lying here would accomplish nothing. Ridmark regained his feet and moved carefully along the wet stone. 

At last he ducked under the waterfall, noting with surprise that the gray fabric of the elven cloak repelled water as if it had been oiled. Useful, that. Another few steps, and he pulled himself into the mouth of the cave, damp sand gritting beneath his boots.

He moved forward a few steps and leaned against the wall, taking a moment to recover his balance. He had no particular fear of heights, but he would rather not do that again. 

After a moment he moved deeper into the cave.

The cave was not large, and an arch of the same white stone as Urd Morlemoch’s walls dominated the far wall. A flight of stairs rose beyond the arch, climbing into the rock. He expected the cavern to be dark, but a faint red glow gleamed in the distance. 

Was the cavern beyond inhabited? Ardrhythain had said it was a secret entrance, but the mutated orcs or worse things might have found their way down here. Or perhaps the Warden had left a guard to watch over the hidden entrance into his citadel. 

It didn’t matter. Ridmark could hardly march up to the main gates and knock.

He drew Heartwarden and climbed the white stone stairs, moving one slow, silent step at a time. The stairs spiraled up, and Ridmark spotted the source of the red light. Crystals, no doubt enchanted, had been embedded in the ceiling at regular intervals. Ridmark wondered how long they had been glowing here, forgotten beneath the earth, and shivered. Men had lived in Andomhaim for almost a thousand years, and that seemed like a tremendous gulf of time. 

The tens of thousands of years the dark elves and the high elves had spent in warfare was almost too much for him to grasp. 

Ridmark pushed aside the thought. This was no time for idle speculation. If his attention wavered at the wrong moment, it would mean his life. He would never return to Castra Marcaine, would never see Aelia again, or his father or his brothers. 

He kept climbing, the sword ready in his hand. 

At last the stairs ended, and Ridmark found himself in a rough-hewn natural cavern. Only a few of the red crystals threw back the gloom, and massive clusters of glowing blue mushrooms dotted the floor. Ghost mushrooms, they were called, and they grew thick and wild in the gloomy caverns of the Deeps. 

Ardrhythain had said that the tunnels beneath Urd Morlemoch opened into the Deeps. The vast maze of caverns and galleries was dangerous, and any number of dangerous creatures dwelled within. Which meant any number of those creatures could have found their way up here.

Ridmark took a cautious step forward, and something rattled against his foot. 

A bone rested against his boot. It looked like a thigh bone, perhaps from an orc or a large human, and deep grooves scored its length. Fang marks, most likely, left from a creature with large teeth. 

Ridmark reached into his pack, pulled out a torch, and ignited it. If something was down here, the light would draw unwelcome attention. Yet he needed the light. If some dark elven creature was creeping on him, he needed to see it.

He lifted the torch in his left hand, Heartwarden in his right, and saw the bones. 

Thousands of bones covered the cavern floor. He saw the tusked skulls of orcs lying strewn against the stalagmites, and the skulls of humans grinned at him from the floor and corners. The gray, stone-like bones of dwarves lay in heaps, while the smaller skulls of halflings seemed like white rocks. Ridmark saw the bones of every kindred he recognized and some he had never seen before.

Every last one of the bones bore the marks of fangs and claws.

And some of the bones looked as if they had not been here that long. 

Walking through the front gates no longer seemed like such a bad idea.

Ridmark moved forward, careful to keep from making noise, sweeping the torch back and forth. The cavern was a large gallery, and he saw another, narrower tunnel on the far end. He made for it, moving around the heaped bones and the clusters of ghost mushrooms and stalagmites. A gleam of metal caught his eye, and Ridmark lowered the torch.

A dwarven skeleton in full plate armor rested near the mouth of the tunnel, empty eye sockets gazing up at Ridmark. The armor was a peculiar bronze-colored metal, and despite its obvious age, showed no signs of rust or wear. It was dwarven steel, far stronger to anything the men of Andomhaim or even dark elves themselves could forge. 

A single-handed war axe of dwarven steel lay near the armored skeleton, its crescent blade carved with the blocky glyphs of the dwarven language. Ridmark sheathed Heartwarden and picked up the axe, marveling at its balance. The weapon looked as if it should have weighed twenty pounds, but it was no heavier than Heartwarden. 

Ridmark tucked the axe into his belt, turning it so the blade would not slice into his leg, and drew Heartwarden once more.

“Forgive me for this,” he told the dead warrior. “If I come this way again, I will return your weapon. But perhaps I shall have the chance to use it against whoever slew you.”

The dead dwarf made no response. Ridmark said a brief prayer for the repose of the warrior’s soul, and then made his way into the tunnel. It curled back and forth, his torch throwing mad shadows over the wall. Here and there a cluster of ghost mushrooms gave off a pale glow. Ridmark felt a breeze against his face, a breeze that grew stronger with every step.

One final turn, and the tunnel opened into a large cavern, easily four times the size of the great hall in Castra Marcaine. Heavy stalactites, as thick as the pillars of the great cathedrals of Tarlion and Cintarra, hung from the ceiling. A lake, as smooth as a mirror and so clear that Ridmark saw strange eyeless fish darting through the waters, filled the central third of the floor. A thick ring of ghost mushrooms ringed the lake, their glow turning the water the color of blood. 

And more bones carpeted the floor. 

Ridmark lifted his torch. Many of the bones looked as if they had been disturbed, and recently. The cavern’s floor was sandy, and he saw a great many tracks into the dirt. 

They looked like wolf prints. Albeit prints from a wolf far larger than any Ridmark had ever seen.

He took a cautious step forward. He had only traveled in the Deeps once, a few years before he had become a knight and a Swordbearer. A band of kobolds had been raiding the eastern edges of the Northerland, carrying off villagers into the Deeps, and the Dux had ridden at the head of a party of knights and men-at-arms to defeat the raiders. The veteran men-at-arms in the party had warned Ridmark about the lakes in the Deeps. Drinkable water was rare in the underground caverns, and predators preferred to remain near a source of water.

The lake in front of Ridmark would provide ample water for any predators.

Or, more likely, a convenient ambush for any predators waiting for prey to come and drink.

He remained motionless for another few moments, but nothing moved in the gloom.

At last Ridmark shrugged and started in a slow, steady walk around the edge of the lake and its mushrooms, keeping his eyes open for any sign of attackers.

Still nothing.

Something splashed, and Ridmark whirled. Ripples spread over the surface of the lake, and he saw one of the deformed, eyeless fish jump from the water and land with a splash. Ridmark shook his head in annoyance. He was reasonably sure the fish were harmless, but he wasn’t about to jump into the lake to prove it.

And as he shook his head, he saw the ripples in the water extend from the lake and over the mushrooms.

He blinked, sure that his eyes were playing tricks on him. 

But, no. He saw it now. A patch of air over the mushrooms was rippling.

Ridmark raised Heartwarden, and the sword’s soulstone began to glow.

He knew what made those ripples. The dark elves had created many war beasts with their sorcery, using dark magic to mutate and alter living creatures, just as the blue-veined orcs above had been twisted. One of their creations had been a creature called an urvaalg, and urvaalgs had the ability to blend with their surroundings. Even worse, only magic could harm them.

And when they hunted in packs, one of the beasts often created a distraction while the others circled around to attack from behind…

Ridmark cursed himself for a fool and threw himself to the side.

It was just in time. He heard a ravening snarl, and a blurred shape shot over him and landed a few yards away, sending a dozen loose bones rattling into the lake. Ridmark rolled, barely avoiding the swipe of blurred claws, and sprang to his feet, Heartwarden in both hands, the torch burning on the ground.

The three blurred forms stepped forward, their camouflage fading away, and Ridmark saw the urvaalgs.

They looked like some ghastly hybrid of ape and wolf, their eyes glowing with crimson light, their black, matted fur hanging off their lean frames in ropy strings. Two of them prowled towards him in all fours, while the third reared up on its hind legs. 

Ridmark backed away, Heartwarden glowing in his hands. At least he did not need to worry about the light. With their glowing eyes he could see the urvaalgs even in deep darkness. The two creatures on all fours prowled towards him, while the one standing on its hind legs hung back, watching him with its crimson eyes. One urvaalg circled to his left, while the other moved to his right.

They were trying to flank him, force him to focus his attention upon one so the other could strike. Ridmark backed away, Heartwarden held out before him to ward off any attacks. He would have to strike soon. Yet why hadn’t the urvaalgs attacked? If they came at him in a rush, they would overwhelm him quickly.   

Unless…

Again Ridmark cursed himself as a fool.

Unless they were simply trying to distract him once more.

Ridmark whirled, swinging his soulblade with both hands, and met the blurred shape that was coming up behind him. Heartwarden blazed with white light, throwing back the urvaalg’s camouflage, and the blade sheared through the creature’s shoulder and chest. The urvaalg screamed, its cry echoing inside both Ridmark’s ears and thoughts, and he ripped Heartwarden free and swung again, beheading the creature with a single sharp blow. Malodorous black ichor spurted from the stump of its neck, and the furred, gaunt corpse collapsed in a heap to the floor.

Ridmark spun as the remaining three urvaalgs converged. He jumped back, drawing upon Heartwarden for speed, and the creatures sprang. Ridmark ducked under the first, lashing with Heartwarden, and managed to open a gash upon its flank. The urvaalg rolled to the side, snarling, and darted back. The second raked at him, its black claws scraping across his chest. The chain mail he wore beneath his jerkin stopped the claws from reaching his flesh, but the claws parted the thick leather of his jerkin like paper. Even the glancing blow sent him stumbling back, and the final urvaalg sprang at him.

Ridmark just had time to thrust out Heartwarden, and the urvaalg speared itself upon the blade. The creature screamed, jaws yawning wide as the sword found its heart. Ridmark fell with the dying urvaalg still on top of him, its rotting breath filling his nostrils, drool falling from its fangs to splash against his face. The urvaalg shuddered, trying to bite his head, and Ridmark twisted Heartwarden.

The creature shuddered once more and then went still.

Ridmark heard the rasp of claws upon stone as the other urvaalgs charged.

He drew on Heartwarden’s power, as much as he could manage, and filled his muscles with strength. He heaved, shoving with his legs and his arms. The urvaalg’s corpse flew backward, and Ridmark ripped Heartwarden free. 

He gained his feet just in time for the remaining two urvaalgs to reach him. He dodged as a clawed limb raked for his face and instead struck his left arm, opening a line of blood down his forearm. Ridmark stabbed Heartwarden into the urvaalg’s side, and the creature screamed. He ducked the slash from the second creature and yanked his sword free, managing to whip the blade around to open the urvaalg’s throat. The creature stumbled, choking in the black ichor that filled its veins, and Ridmark drove Heartwarden into the chest of the urvaalg he had wounded. The creature perished, and Ridmark kicked it off his sword, turned, and beheaded the dying urvaalg.