Frostborn: The Master Thief (3 page)

He came to a sudden halt.

“What is it?” said Calliande.

“Arrow,” said Ridmark.

An arrow jutted from one of the trees, fletched with black feathers. Ridmark saw a dark fluid glittering upon the steel head. He yanked the shaft from the trunk and examined it. 

“Orcish make,” he said.

“Orcish?” said Calliande.

“Probably from Kothluusk,” said Ridmark. “We’re close enough. And the orcs of Kothluusk make the orcs of Vhaluusk look like kindly maidens. The Kothluuskan orcs are devoted to Mhor, the old blood god of death, and collect skulls in his name.”

“Poisoned?” said Calliande, looking at the dark fluid upon the head.

No. Not dark. Crimson.

“Blood,” said Ridmark. “The arrow grazed someone and went into the tree.” He sniffed the arrowhead and threw it aside. “Dwarf blood.” 

“Caius,” said Calliande.

The wyvern’s brassy scream echoed overhead. 

“It wasn’t a deer at all,” said Ridmark with a scowl. “Kharlacht and the others found a warband of Kothluuskan orcs. That’s what drew the wyvern. Spilled blood from a battle.”

Again he cursed himself for his blindness. They had spotted intermittent tracks over the last few days, but no sign of a large warband. Still, Kharlacht and Gavin and Caius knew how to fight, and could hold out for some time.

Especially with the aid of Morigna’s magic. 

Best not to delay, though. 

“They will need our aid,” said Ridmark. “Run!” 

Calliande nodded, and they sprinted into the trees. 

A moment later Ridmark saw the first dead orc.

The warrior lay sprawled upon the ground, clad in ragged furs and leather armor, a sword near his hand. His black eyes gazed motionless at the skies, his green-skinned face going gray from blood loss. A single massive blow had opened his chest, his blood soaking into the soil beneath him. 

An axe blow.

Kharlacht fought with a heavy dark elven greatsword, Caius with a mace of dwarven steel, and Gavin with a sword taken from a dead arachar. None of them used an axe. Had Morigna’s magic done this?

Or was there more going on here?

“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande, white light burning around her hands as she cast as spell.

Ridmark turned his head and saw the two orcish warriors running at him. 

Both wore the same style of clothes and armor as the dead warrior, fur and leather, and both carried swords and hide shields. Both orcs bore peculiar ritual scarring around their eyes and mouths and noses, the scars tattooed red. It made it look as if their faces had been covered with a stylized crimson skull. 

The mark and sign of Mhor, the orcish blood god of death. 

“Perish, Gray Knight!” roared the first warrior. They knew him? “Perish for your crimes against the Heralds of Mhor!”

Briefly he wondered what that meant, and then the orcs charged him. 

The first orc stabbed, and Ridmark jumped back, his staff in both hands. He thrust, and the warrior caught the blow on his shield, the surface trembling from the impact. The second warrior slashed, but extended himself too far on the strike, leaving himself exposed for a heartbeat.

A heartbeat was all Ridmark needed. His staff caught the underside of the warrior’s wrist, and he heard the bones crack. The orc screamed and stumbled back, his sword falling from loose fingers, and fell into the path of the first orc. They slammed into each other, and Ridmark struck once, twice, three times, the precise blows of his heavy staff cracking skulls and crushing windpipes. 

He stepped back, looking for more foes, and saw none. Calliande stared at him, blinking. 

The entire fight had taken less than a minute.

“They were looking for you,” she said.

“Aye,” said Ridmark, frowning at the corpses. He would have expected the orcs to come for Calliande, to take her to Shadowbearer or to claim the empty soulstone. But why come for him?

“You annoyed the orcs of Kothluusk, I take it?” said Calliande.

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “It was years ago. I was looking for a ruined monastery that might have held records of the Frostborn. I fought some Kothluuskan bandits, killed a few. But the Kothluuskan orcs are always fighting each other, and that was three years ago. I don’t doubt that they would kill me if they had the chance, but to come all this way just to find me…no, there must be something else going on.” 

He heard the clang of steel upon steel, and in the distance saw a faint flare of purple light through the trunks.

The glow given off by Morigna’s spells. 

“It seems we are about to find out,” said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded and hurried forward, Calliande following him. He saw two more dead orcs, both slain by massive axe blows to the chest. The sounds of battle grew louder, and he heard the harsh war cries of Kothluuskan orcs. A gleam of something metallic caught his eye, and he saw a squat form armored in bronze-colored steel lying motionless below a tree, the gray skin of its face covered in crimson blood.

A dead dwarf. 

Ridmark wanted to investigate, but the sounds of fighting were ahead, and he kept running.

He burst into a large clearing, and saw the melee. 

A dozen dead orcs and four more dead dwarves lay scattered upon the ground, and thirty Kothluuskan warriors surged forward, screaming to Mhor. Four dwarves armored in bronze-colored dwarven steel stood back to back in the center of the clearing, wielding axes, maces, and heavy shields.

Ridmark’s companions fought around them.

Kharlacht wielded a massive dark elven greatsword and wore armor of blue dark elven steel, his green-skinned face grim and implacable behind his tusks, his black hair bound in a warrior’s topknot. Even as Ridmark watched, he swung the sword in a powerful blow, taking the head from a Mhorite warrior in a spray of blood. 

Brother Caius and Gavin fought behind him. Caius wore a brown friar’s robe, a mace of dwarven steel in his right hand, a wooden cross bouncing against his chest. Like all dwarves, he had gray, granite-colored skin, his eyes like disks of blue crystal in his face, his beard and his remaining hair turning gray. Gavin stood at his side, shield raised and orcish sword drawn back. He was a boy of fifteen, with curly brown hair and brown eyes, and he looked much harder than the boy Ridmark had met outside the village of Aranaeus a few weeks past. 

Which was not surprising, given some of the foes they had faced.

Morigna, as ever, stood alone. 

She was about twenty, lean and pale with black eyes and long black hair pulled back into a braid. She wore a leather jerkin and trousers and boots, a tattered cloak of brown and green strips hanging from her shoulders. In her left hand she carried a slender staff carved with sigils, and purple fire blazed around her right hand. She gestured, and a column of swirling white mist appeared around one of the orcs. The orc fell, his screams fading as Morigna’s acidic mist ate into his flesh. 

But still the Kothluuskan orcs attacked in furious waves.

Ridmark’s friends and the dwarves were holding, but sooner or later sheer numbers would overwhelm them.

Unless Ridmark acted.

He looked at Calliande, who nodded and cast a spell. White light pulsed from her fingers, and some of it sank into Ridmark, a similar white glow flaring around the others. Ridmark felt the magic tighten around him, making him faster. A ripple of surprise went through the orcs, and some of them turned towards the source of the white light.

Ridmark took the opportunity to move.

He dashed into the orcs, his staff a blur, and killed one of the warriors before the others could react. The Mhorite orcs bellowed in fury, and several more turned to face him, swords and spears in hand. A spear stabbed towards Ridmark’s face, and he knocked it aside with a sharp blow of the staff, reversed the weapon, and drove it into the orc’s gut. The warrior doubled over, and Ridmark knocked him to the ground. He pivoted, twisted, and whipped his staff around in a wide arc, the blow landing with enough force to crush another orcish warrior’s skull. 

Kharlacht bellowed a war cry, bringing his sword around to strike down another foe, and the four armored dwarves shouted something in their harsh language. Together they surged forward, attacking the Kothluuskan orcs. The orcish warriors wavered, some turning to face Kharlacht and the dwarves, some turning toward Ridmark and Calliande.

Ridmark raced to meet their assault, striking right and left with his staff.

###

Morigna drew on her power, the magic of the earth rushing up from the ground to fill her with strength. She prepared to strike, to drive the very elements of the earth against her foes. 

Yet she hesitated for just a moment.

It was not mercy that stayed her hand. Anyone who attacked her forfeited their right to live. And she had encountered the orcs of Kothluusk before, and she knew firsthand how brutal and ruthless they were. No, killing them would not cost her even a moment of guilt or regret. 

But the sight of Ridmark made her hesitate. 

He was deadly. The orcs of Kothluusk were capable fighters, but Ridmark moved through them like a wolf through dogs, his staff a dark blur in his hands. Time and time again the orcs came close to striking at him, but at the last instant he stepped aside, his staff crashing home to crush bone and crack skulls. He made it look easy, so easy, yet Morigna knew that was an illusion created by talent wedded to experience and disciplined skill. 

And with that prowess he had saved her life. 

For a moment Morigna could not look away from him, this man who had saved her life, who had dared great odds and emerged victorious again and again. 

Then she rebuked herself with a hint of disgust. She was like some village peasant girl mooning over a handsome knight. 

And the middle of a battle was not the place to indulge in such thoughts.

Morigna thrust out her free hand and focused her will, her thoughts shaping and directing the power she had summoned. 

The spell poured into the ground, and the earth rippled like a banner caught in the wind. The distortion flowed around the dwarves and Kharlacht and Caius and the others, but focused on the Kothluuskan orcs. The force of her spell knocked a dozen of them from their feet, and Caius and Kharlacht seized the opportunity, killing three orcs in as many heartbeats. One of the dwarves looked at her askance – Morigna knew little of the dwarves, but she did know they regarded any magic not wielded by their stonescribes with suspicion. 

Well, that was their problem, not hers. And their suspicion of her magic did not stop them from taking advantage of the opportunity she had created, striking their heavy axes and maces of dwarven steel. One of the orcs raised a short bow and pointed it at Morigna, no doubt recognizing the threat of her magic.

She slammed the end of her staff against the ground, power pulsing along its length. She had made the staff years ago, imbuing it with magic, and it gave her command over wood both living and dead. 

Such as, for instance, the wood in the orc’s bow.

The bow splintered into a dozen pieces, and the orcish warrior stumbled. Gavin darted forward and slashed his blade across the orc’s throat. The warrior fell, drowning in his own blood, and Gavin wheeled, shield raised in guard as he sought another foe. 

As annoying as the boy was, he had the making of a proper swordsman in him. 

The fighting raged on, and Morigna saw the white gleam as Calliande began another spell.

###

Holding the spell of speed in place was like climbing a flight of stairs while holding a bucket of water in either hand. It was well within Calliande’s strength, but it nonetheless drained her endurance. 

But it was the best way she could help Ridmark and the others. The magic of the Well at Tarlion’s heart, the magic of a Magistria, granted many powers. She could ward herself and others from harm and could heal their wounds instantly, though she had to take the pain of the wounds into herself. She could summon white fire to drive off or destroy creatures of dark magic. 

But she could not use her power to harm or kill living mortals.

Not the way Morigna could. 

That filled Calliande with disquiet. She did not like Morigna, though she could not question the young woman’s courage. But her magic had a vast potential for abuse, to transform her into a monster the way the magic of the Magistri did not. 

Yet Coriolus and Talvinius had once been Magistri, and they had nearly killed Calliande. Alamur had been a Magistrius, and he had tried to betray her to Shadowbearer. Were all the Magistri corrupt? She remembered Agrimnalazur’s words about corruption eating the High King’s realm of Andomhaim from the inside. 

But here was a foe she could fight, and fight she would. 

She cast another spell, adding to the burden upon her power. Her second spell laid a protective ward over her friends, one to turn aside the blows of swords and spears. She could not block the attacks entirely, not with her power spread over so many, but she could at least provide a measure of protection.

The white light burst from her fingers, and Calliande focused upon holding her spells in place, her teeth gritting with the strain 

###

Another orc came at Ridmark, shouting to Mhor, a sword flashing in his fist. Ridmark dodged, jabbing with his staff. The warrior stumbled with a grunt, and Ridmark reversed his staff and sent the sword flying. The orc charged with a yell, only to meet the end of Ridmark’s staff in his throat. 

The warrior stumbled, and Ridmark finished him off with a strike to the temple. 

He turned, seeking more foes, but found none.

The battle was over. 

Most of the Kothluuskan orcs lay scattered across the ground, their lifeblood soaking into the soil. A few others raced into the trees, vanishing in all directions. Devoted to Mhor they might have been, but apparently they were not yet ready to greet the god of death in person. 

Ridmark let out a deep breath and lowered his staff, the white glow fading as Calliande released her spells. She hurried over to Kharlacht and the others, intent on checking them for injuries. The four dwarves stared at Ridmark, their faces hidden behind the grim masks of their helmets.