Frostborn: The Master Thief (31 page)

Jager ducked under another tentacle, jumped over a second, and landed a stinging hit upon the glistening flesh. Just a little further, and he would be close enough to bury his sword into the Hunter’s misshapen body. 

Then three of the glowing eyes fixed upon him.

Jager tried to duck, but the tentacle moved too fast. It slammed into his chest with the force of a club, and he felt himself hurled into the air. For a strange, tantalizing instant, it felt as if he was flying. 

Then he struck the wall. He heard bones snap from the impact, felt something hot and metallic in his mouth which he realized was blood. Suddenly his back and left arm no longer hurt so much, mostly because his entire body exploded with pain when he struck the floor. 

He tried to stand and realized he could not.

Mara. He had failed Mara.

Everything went black.

###

Ridmark ducked under a lashing tentacle as Jager bounced off the wall. He spun, gray cloak billowing behind him, and swung his orcish war axe with both hands. Again he sliced off one of the thick tentacles, the thing falling to the floor with a meaty thud. It dissolved into reeking black smoke, while glistening slime spurted from the ugly stump on the Hunter’s misshapen body. 

But the tentacle started to regrow at once. 

The lash of a tentacle drove Azakhun back, his armor rattling. Gavin retreated against the blows of the tentacles, striking with his sword, while Kharlacht cut off tentacle after tentacle. Calliande stood motionless, face set as she concentrated on maintaining the aura around the weapons, while Morigna conjured columns of acidic mist to eat into the malophage’s body. 

Yet none of it did any good. The Hunter regenerated any damage too quickly. Ridmark had not been able to get close enough to land a killing blow. He wasn’t even sure how to inflict permanent damage. He could see the Hunter’s organs, floating in the slime beneath the translucent hide, but he didn’t know which ones were vital. A sword thrust to the heart would kill a man, but Ridmark could not tell if the malophage even had a heart. 

Foot by foot the malophage advanced. Soon it would be close enough to reach Calliande and Morigna, and when it did, the fight was over. Without Calliande’s magic, they had no way to harm the malophage, and then it would kill them all in short order. 

But if they could not kill the Hunter, perhaps they could drive it away. 

Ridmark dodged the sweep of another tentacle, and then deliberately stepped into the path of a second. It coiled around him, and he raised his arms over his head as it did so. The tentacle wrapped hard around his chest and legs, and he felt his ribs creaking, felt the breath squeezing from his lungs. 

“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande. 

“The wraith!” Ridmark bellowed, forcing air into his lungs. “The day we met Morigna! All your power!”

He hoped she understood the message.

The Hunter shrieked in glee and pulled him close, one of its mouths yawning wide. 

The white light surrounding the weapons of the others winked out.

A heartbeat later the head of Ridmark’s axe blazed with white fire as Calliande poured all her magical power into the weapon. The day they had met Morigna, they had helped her fight off a pack of the Old Man’s undead. One of the undead had been a wraith, and only by putting all of Calliande’s power into Ridmark’s staff had they been able to destroy the creature.

The Hunter’s mouth yawned wide before Ridmark, a vile stench washing over him, and for an instant the Hunter hesitated. Perhaps it sensed its sudden peril, but before the malophage could react, Ridmark buried the heavy blade in the interior of the Hunter’s mouth. The weapon sank through the translucent hide and struck one of the floating organs, slime gushing from the wound. 

Every one of the malophage’s mouths shrieked in unison. A shudder went through the creature’s gelatinous bulk, and Ridmark released the axe and jerked his hands back an instant before the malophage’s mouth snapped shut.

Which mean it pulled the enspelled axe deeper into its body.

The Hunter screamed again, a spasm going through its tentacles, the tendril wrapped around Ridmark growing tighter. His vision started to go black, and fingers of acidic mist appeared around the base of the tentacle. The tentacle jerked, unwinding, and Ridmark fell hard to the floor. He scrambled back to his feet, preparing for an attack, but none came.

The Hunter fled into the dwarven ruins, tentacles pulling it along with tremendous speed. Bronze-colored blades, their edges glinting with deadly serrations, erupted from the floor, but did no harm to the creature. Still screaming, the malophage fled into Thainkul Balzon and vanished around a corner, the blades retracting back into the floor as the trap reset itself. 

At last the screaming faded, and silence fell over the catacombs of Coldinium. 

“Did…did you kill it?” said Gavin, wiping sweat and blood from his face.

“I don’t think we did,” said Ridmark. “I’m not sure it can be killed. But I think we hurt it. Such a creature prefers victims that have no chance of fighting back. I think it will hide somewhere to heal its wounds.”

“So as long as we vacate the catacombs in a timely manner,” said Morigna, “the Hunter will not pursue us.”

“Likely not,” said Ridmark. He turned towards Jager’s slumped form. “Meanwhile, let us have some answers at last.”

Chapter 20 - Mercy

“Will he live?” said Ridmark.

Calliande shook her head. “I don’t know.” 

The Hunter had broken both of Jager’s legs and some of his ribs, and she suspected the fall had cracked his skull. Additionally, he had lost a lot of blood from the wound on his back. She was amazed that he had appeared so confident, so full of bravado. 

Kharlacht handed Calliande her knapsack. “The dagger is in there, but the soulstone is not. He must have hidden it.”

“Or handed it over to Tarrabus,” said Ridmark.

Calliande took a deep breath, gathering her magic. It had been an exhausting fight against the malophage, and the past few days had not been restful. And she would need all her strength for healing Jager. Even rested, she was not sure she would have been up for it. 

“You are certain he gave it to the Dux, then?” said Caius.

“Mostly,” said Ridmark. “You saw how he flinched when we mentioned Tarrabus, and heard him complain about the nobles of Andomhaim. Those are the words of a man who encountered Tarrabus Carhaine and his vassals.”

“If you are certain,” said Azakhun in his rough voice, “then there is no need to waste your strength healing him, Magistria. Let the thief’s bones lie here among the graves of better men.”

“We are all sinners,” said Calliande, flexing her fingers. 

Morigna snorted. “Sanctimonious claptrap. I…”

There was one advantage to what Calliande planned. She would not have to listen to the rest of Morigna’s speech.

She summoned her power, clapped her hands to Jager’s temples, and cast the spell of healing.

At once agony flooded through her, and a strangled cry burst from her lips. To successfully cast the healing spell, she had to take the pain of the victim’s wounds into herself. She felt Gavin’s sword rip open her back and shoulder, felt the Hunter’s tentacle coil around her, felt her legs break and her skull crack as she slammed into the wall. For a moment the agony threatened to overwhelm her, and Calliande almost fell over. Yet Ridmark’s strong hands closed around her shoulders, and she sagged against him, her hands still pressed to Jager’s temples as the pain pulsed through her. 

Then Jager let out a long breath, and the pain drained from Calliande. Ridmark helped her straighten up, and she took a few deep breaths of her own, catching her balance.

“I think,” said Calliande, “that he might be more inclined to answer your questions now.”

“Your mercy does you credit,” said Ridmark, his hands still on her shoulders.

“Thank you,” said Calliande, looking up at him. Suddenly she recalled that day in the clearing, the day that he had kissed her.

He must have been thinking the same thing, because guilt flashed over his face, and he stepped back.

Jager sat up, blinking.

###

Slowly Jager’s head cleared, and he realized something important.

He expected to hurt…but he did not. 

Surprised, he sat up. His back did not hurt, and neither did his legs or his legs. He groped at his back, and through his torn vest and shirt felt smooth, unbroken skin beneath the bandages. 

In fact, he felt better than he had since he had stolen that damned ring.

He looked up and saw Ridmark and his companions staring at him. 

“Oh,” said Jager.

They looked at him in silence.

“I confess I do not know if this is heaven or hell,” said Jager, “but either way, I did not picture it quite like this.”

“Neither,” said Morigna, her voice sour. “For some reason Calliande saw fit to heal you.” 

“Ah,” said Jager. “Thank you.”

Calliande held out a hand. “The soulcatcher. Now. That thing is dangerous.”

Jager shrugged, unhooked the dagger from his belt, and handed the weapon over. A twinge of relief went through him. In truth, he felt better without the thing. Though he would likely die in the next few moments, at least he would not turn into an urhaalgar or some other horror.

“Thank you,” said Calliande, dropping the dagger into her knapsack, which he noted that she had reclaimed. The dagger in the pack had been hooked to her belt. 

“Out of curiosity,” said Jager, “how did you find me?”

“The dagger,” said Calliande. “Suffice it to say…it has a spell on it that allows me to find it anywhere.” 

“Clever,” said Jager.  “So. Are you going to kill me?”

“You are a thief,” said Azakhun. Jager suspected the dwarven Taalmak was scowling beneath his mask, but then he had never seen Azakhun smile. “You deserve death.”

“Probably,” said Jager. “But…I don’t think Lady Calliande would have gone to all the work of healing me just to have you kill me. That seems very ungrateful.”   

“It does,” said Ridmark in a quiet voice. 

The others looked at him. Ridmark would make the decision, and the others would abide by it. If Jager wanted to live, Ridmark was the one he had to persuade. 

“Well,” said Jager. “If…the Magistria went to such pains to heal me, I would hate to undo all her good work.”

“That would be unfortunate,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps it would be best if you answered some questions.”

Jager sighed. “What do you want to know?” 

“Tarrabus Carhaine hired you to steal the soulstone?” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Jager. “Well. ‘Hired’ might be the polite way to put it.”

“Coerced, then,” said Ridmark.

Jager nodded. “A few weeks ago the Dux visited Coldinium. On a whim I decided to steal his signet ring. I don’t know how, but Magistria Imaria and the Dux’s men managed to track me.” 

“The Enlightened of Incariel, most likely,” said Ridmark.

“The what of what?” said Jager. “What the hell is an Incariel? A kind of cheese?”

“One of the names of the great void the dark elves worshiped,” said Caius. “In recent years a cult has arisen among the nobles and Magistri that worships Incariel, and in exchange they receive powers of shadow magic.”

“I suspect Tarrabus is either high among their ranks,” said Ridmark, “or allied with them.”

“So you are telling me,” said Jager, “that in addition to being a ruthless, murderous bastard, Tarrabus is also a demon-worshiping madman?”

“I fear so,” said Ridmark.

“God and the apostles,” muttered Jager. 

“Clearly,” said Morigna, “you chose the wrong man from whom to steal.”

“Clearly,” he said.

“So Tarrabus found you and offered your life in exchange for the soulstone,” said Ridmark. 

“Among other things,” said Jager. “The truth is…he has Mara.”

“Who is Mara?” said Ridmark. “Your wife?”

“Er,” said Jager. “Well, no, not quite. You see, you’ve heard of me before, I think, but you just don’t know it yet. Have you ever heard of the Master Thief of Cintarra?”

They stared at him in silence for a moment. 

“You’re the Master Thief?” said Caius at last. “The one who stole the Prince of Cintarra’s diadem while he slept?”

“The thief who stole nine jewels from the High King’s treasury in Tarlion?” said Ridmark.

“That’s me,” said Jager.

Azakhun made a displeased noise. 

“There is an absolutely enormous bounty for your capture,” said Ridmark. 

“Really? I always thought it was insultingly low,” said Jager. “But you see the problem. I am the Master Thief of Cintarra. And Mara…she was once an assassin of the Red Family.” He smiled at the memory. “We met when she was hired to kill me.”

“And so naturally she fell for your roguish charms,” said Morigna, “and you two ran off together?”

Jager grinned. “You have the right of it.”

Morigna rolled her eyes. 

“So you can see,” said Jager, “why we were not overly eager to find a priest, given that half the nobility of Andomhaim and the entirety of the Red Family wants us dead. That soulcatcher?” He waved his hand at Calliande. “It belonged to the Matriarch, the head of the Family. I stole it when Mara and I escaped.”

“You do have a knack for acquiring powerful enemies, do you not?” said Caius. 

“You stole the signet ring and came to Tarrabus’s attention,” said Ridmark. “He’s keeping Mara prisoner, and will hand her over to you in exchange for the soulstone.” 

“She’s in the Iron Tower,” said Jager. 

“But you don’t have the soulstone now,” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Jager. “I, ah, took it from the Crow’s Helm and delivered it to Tarrabus at his domus.”

Kharlacht grunted. “Where he tried to kill you.”

“Aye,” said Jager. “I expected as much. I took the soulcatcher with me, and used it to turn their shadows against them. Fortunately Tarrabus has a secret entrance to the catacombs, and I made my way down here, where we met and had this delightful talk before the Hunter decided to eat us.” 

Ridmark frowned. “You used the dagger against Tarrabus’s men?”