Frostborn: The Master Thief (27 page)

He also saw the cellar door. He threw it open and scrambled down the steps into a gloomy cellar, lit only by a few high, narrow windows. His eyes roved back and forth, his heart pounding. If he had been wrong, if his guess had been mistaken, he was about to die.

Another door stood in an arch on the far side of the cellar.

Jager pushed it open.

A set of stairs descended into the darkness, and the familiar musty smell of Coldinium’s catacombs came to his nostrils.

He hadn’t been wrong. The Mhorite orcs were many things, but inconspicuous was not one of them. There was no way Tarrabus could have gotten the Mhorites to his domus without rousing half the city to alarm. But there were entrances to the catacombs and the sewers outside the city, and if Mournacht knew of them, he could have used them to make his way unseen to Tarrabus’s domus.

Jager scrambled down the stairs and into an abandoned funerary chapel, an entrance to the catacombs on the far wall. Stone statues of apostles and saints stood in niches, dusty and neglected. A wooden table held tools and a lantern, and Jager snatched it and set the wick ablaze. He heard clattering from the cellar above. The Mhorites, or the Red Brothers, or both.

Jager raced into the catacombs, through the galleries of stone lined with niches of the silent dead. He ran and ran, his breath tearing at his throat, his back and shoulder burning with pain. He went deeper and deeper, almost to the dwarven ruins, and at last collapsed against a wall, his chest heaving, his throat burning, the knapsack digging into his wounded back.

He could run no further.

But the catacombs were silent around him. 

He had eluded his pursuers. And, indeed, why would they pursue him? Tarrabus had the soulstone. Paul had Mara in the Iron Tower. The Red Brothers likely wanted to kill Ridmark more than they wanted to kill Jager. Even with the dagger, he was not a threat to them, not really.

He could do nothing to harm them.

And they had Mara…and he had no way to help her.

Jager bowed his head and wept in the darkness.

Chapter 17 - Gift of a Dagger

“You’re sure, then?” said Ridmark, his mind racing. “You’re absolutely sure that Jager had her knapsack.”

“I am certain,” said Gavin. He sighed. “It was just out of my reach.” 

“Why is that important?” said Morigna.

“Watch,” murmured Caius. “I think he’s about to do something clever.” 

“Calliande,” said Ridmark. “Your dagger. Do you know where it is?” 

“My dagger?” said Calliande.

“Yes, the one you used to kill Alamur,” said Ridmark. “Do you have it with you?”

She touched her belt. “No, I don’t. I had it with me when we came to the Crow’s Helm, but...I put it in my pack.” Her eyes widened. “The same pack with the soulstone!” 

“Why,” said Morigna, “is that important?”

Calliande sat down, closed her eyes, and began to speak in silence, gesturing as she as she cast a spell.

“Because,” said Ridmark, “I gave Calliande that dagger after we escaped from the village of the Blue Hand in the Deeps. Later in Dun Licinia a Magistrius named Alamur tried to take her captive and present her to Shadowbearer. He attacked Calliande, and she killed him with that dagger.”

Morigna’s black eyes narrowed. “So she slew him with a gift, and that means…”

“It means,” said Calliande, “that it created a link between me and the dagger, a link that the magic of the Well can follow.”

Gavin grinned. “And if Jager still has the knapsack, a link she can use to find him.”

“Even if he discarded the knapsack and kept going,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps we can find his lair. Either way, this is our best chance of finding him and reclaiming the soulstone.” 

Calliande took a deep breath and gestured, white light glimmering around her fingers.

“And you’re sure this will work?” said Morigna. 

“I am certain,” said Ridmark. “How do you think she found me after I left Dun Licinia?” 

Morigna snorted. “Sheer rock-headed stubbornness, I would assume.”

“I can hear you, you know,” said Calliande.

Morigna smirked. “I know.”

Calliande stood up, frowning with concentration as the light faded from her hands.

“You can feel it?” said Ridmark.

“Aye,” said Calliande. “It’s not far away. Maybe a mile. And,” she frowned, rubbing her face, “below us? Yes, underneath us.” 

“You mean underground?” said Morigna. 

“I think so,” said Calliande. 

“There are catacombs beneath Coldinium, like Cintarra and Tarlion,” said Ridmark. “A clever thief might hide there.”

“There are more than catacombs beneath Coldinium,” said Caius. “There are dwarven ruins below the city.”

Kharlacht sighed. 

“What?” said Morigna.

“Our experiences in dwarven ruins,” said Kharlacht, “have not been pleasant.” 

“Thainkul Dural,” said Morigna. “The mzrokar and the dvargir.”

“Thainkul Agon,” said Kharlacht. “The kobolds of the Blue Hand. And Talvinius.”

“We can reminisce later,” said Ridmark. “There are dwarven ruins underneath the city? I never knew this.”

Caius shrugged. “Among your kindred, few did. There was an outpost of the Nine Kingdoms here called Thainkul Balzon. It was destroyed long before humans ever came to this world.”

“The dvargir or the urdmordar destroyed it, I assume?” said Morigna.

“Actually,” said Caius, “no one knows for certain.”

That caught Ridmark’s attention. “No one knows what happened to Thainkul Balzon?”

“I fear not,” said Caius. “Something wiped out every dwarven man, woman, and child in the outpost. There were only two survivors, their minds shattered, and they only spoke of something they called the Hunter in the Dark. Some creature that broke into the outpost and killed the entire population.”

“What was it?” said Ridmark.

“We never learned,” said Caius. 

Kharlacht frowned. “If some horror out of the Deeps slew the dwarves, why is Coldinium still standing?” 

“Not even my kindred have mapped the entirety of the Deeps,” said Caius, “and portions of the caverns go deeper than even we have. There are creatures down there that are older than all the kindreds of this world, save for the high elves. Fortunately for the people of Coldinium, these creatures hate sunlight, and only come to the surface under duress.”

“So Jager,” said Ridmark, “has a multitude of places to hide beneath the city.”

“It would seem so,” said Caius.

“Why hide beneath the city?” said Morigna. “He stole the soulstone, but he is not a wizard or a sorcerer. Clearly he intends to sell it. Why not simply proceed to his patron and sell his prize?”

“Perhaps they are meeting in the catacombs,” said Gavin. “A safe place for a thief to hand over stolen goods.”

“Assuming this Hunter of the Dark doesn’t bite his head off,” said Morigna. 

“But why?” said Ridmark, rubbing his jaw. “Why hand over the soulstone in the catacombs? It would be safe enough to do it in a tavern. How many people would even recognize an empty soulstone? The trade would take less than a moment.”

He was missing something. And something seemed…peculiar about Jager. The halfling was no coward, he had proved that in the fight against the Mhorites. Why steal the stone? Ridmark was missing something, some piece of the puzzle.

He disliked that feeling. It usually meant disaster was imminent. He had felt the same way before realizing that Agrimnalazur had been disguised among the villagers of Aranaeus, before Coriolus had sprung his trap in the ruins of Thainkul Dural. 

On the other hand, if he had had that feeling before Mhalek, perhaps he might have saved Aelia. 

“It is obvious what we must do,” said Kharlacht. “We must go to the catacombs and pursue him.”

“And how shall we find him?” said Morigna.

“My spell can tell me where the dagger is,” said Calliande.

“Aye, but will your spell show you the path to the dagger?” said Morigna. “Those catacombs are likely a maze, and if they intersect with the warrens of the dwarves, we’ll find more of those damned mechanical traps.” 

“Warrens?” said Caius.

“Your kindred seem overly fond of mechanical complexity,” said Morigna. 

“Then we’ll need someone familiar with the catacombs and the ruins,” said Ridmark. “And I think I know where to find such a man.” He picked up his staff. “Come with me.”

###

Morigna followed Ridmark and others through Coldinium’s streets. 

Her eyes wandered over the houses of whitewashed stone. She saw the people going about their business, closing down shops and taking down stalls as the sun set over the Lake of Battles to the west. Morigna could not fathom how so many people lived in such close proximity to each other. The smell alone would have driven her mad, to say nothing of the rats living upon their refuse. 

But those, at least, she could put to good use. 

It was simplicity itself to reach out with her magic and bind the cunning, clever little wills of the rats to her own. Soon a dozen of the creatures followed her, skittering through the alleys and remaining unseen.

“That is not a good idea,” said Calliande. 

“I think you are just frightened of rats,” said Morigna, and sent a mental command to one of the rodents. It skittered across the road towards Calliande, and she had the satisfaction of seeing a brief flicker of discomfort go over the Magistria’s face.

It was petty, Morigna knew, but she still felt angry over the things Calliande had said to Ridmark. Even if Calliande had not been in control of herself at the time.

“Rats carry disease,” said Calliande. 

“Unless you plan to pick one up and kiss it, I doubt that will be a problem,” said Morigna. “We must find the soulstone, and one would think that every set of eyes will be useful.”

“Even if those eyes are small, beady, and carry disease?” said Gavin.

“Precisely,” said Morigna. 

“Take care, though,” said Calliande. “I don’t know how many Magistri are within Coldinium. If one of them happens to sense you doing this, they’ll have you arrested as a sorceress and an outlaw, and I won’t be able to stop them.”

That was a fair point. Morigna nodded, and sent a mental command to the rats following her. They veered into the alleys and the gutters, remaining unseen as they followed her. 

They turned a corner and came into sight of Coldinium’s Dwarven Enclave.

From what Morigna had gathered, a great deal of trade flowed back and forth between the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves and the High King’s realm. It was easier to ship goods over the Lake of Battles and the River Moradel than to haul them overland. Since Coldinium stood at the intersection of the lake and the River Moradel’s two branches, it had become the nexus for this trade, and the High King had granted the dwarven merchants and nobles the right to construct an enclave within the city’s walls, governed by their own laws and customs. 

It looked like a larger version of the dwarven houses Morigna had seen within Thainkul Dural, a mansion built in the blocky, solid style of the dwarves. A wall of buttressed stone encircled the mansion and its courtyard, broken only by a massive gate of bronze-colored dwarven steel guarded by four warriors in heavy armor. The warriors stiffened as Caius and Ridmark approached, and Caius spoke to them in the dwarven tongue. 

It was interesting how the guards reacted to Caius.

“Why do they not kill him?” said Morigna in a low voice.

Calliande blinked. “Pardon?”

“Brother Caius,” said Morigna. “He has forsaken the gods and traditions of his people to become a friar and follow the teachings of the church.”

“I suspect,” said Calliande, “that they do not know what to do about him. As far as I know, Caius was the first dwarf to ever accept baptism and enter the church.”

“A profound betrayal,” said Morigna. “Why have they not killed him for it?” 

“Because they revere their traditions, their laws and their duties to the gods of stone and silence,” said Calliande. “And likely there is no tradition and no law for a dwarf who chose to follow the Dominus Christus. He has committed no crime, but they do not know what to do about him.” 

“It is different among the orcs of Vhaluusk,” said Kharlacht. Morigna had not realized he stood so close. For such a big man, the orcish warrior moved with surprising stealth. “Those who follow the church are few among the tribes of Vhaluusk, and the blood gods are held in more reverence. If my mother had not been the concubine of a chieftain, the shamans of the blood gods might well have killed her, and if I had not been the cousin of Qazarl and skilled in battle, likely I would have been put to death.”

“In the south,” said Calliande, “there are entire kingdoms of baptized orcs sworn to the High King. When this is all over, you could live among them.” 

“Perhaps,” said Kharlacht. “But ties of blood are important among the orcs of Vhaluusk, and I imagine it is the same among my kindred to the south. I am an outcast with no kin.”

“My situation is the same,” said Gavin. “My father died in Urd Arowyn,” an odd flicker of emotion went over his face, “and I have no wish to go back to Aranaeus.”

Morigna laughed.

“What?” said Gavin. “It is not funny.”

“It is not,” said Morigna, “but we are. Look at us. The Magistria who does not remember herself, the sorceress betrayed by her mentor, the orc outcast from his home, the dwarf who forsook his gods, and the boy with no kin left. Outcasts, all of us, and we follow the Gray Knight, an outcast himself. Perhaps we are all mad fools.”

“Perhaps,” said Calliande, “but we have an important task.”

“To stop the Frostborn,” said Gavin.

“Aye,” said Morigna, gazing at Ridmark, “and to repay debts.”

She would find a way to repay her debt to him, even if it meant protecting him from his own guilt-induced folly. Part of her wondered at her own motives, if she followed him for other reasons, if she wanted him to pull her close and kiss her long and hard upon the lips…

She pushed aside the notion. It was neither the time nor the place.

The gates to the Dwarven Enclave opened, and an armored dwarf with black hair and eyes like polished malachite stepped into the dimming sunlight.