Frostborn: The Master Thief (33 page)

“We were squires together,” said Ridmark, “in Castra Marcaine, the court of the Dux of the Northerland.” He swung his left arm back and forth, casting the light over the walls, the heavy staff remaining rock-steady in his right hand. “We were all nearly the same age, and all were knighted at the same time.”

“Then you were friends?” said Jager.

“No,” said Ridmark. “Rivals, perhaps. As boys are. I was chosen to become a Swordbearer and he did not. Usually when squires become knights, the rivalries of boyhood are put aside. But when I became a knight and then a Swordbearer…I thought less of Tarrabus. He was too hard, too cruel. And he used Paul as a bludgeon to torment his foes. A knight should be strong in battle, yes, but he also ought to protect the weak and defend those in his care. Tarrabus did neither, and Paul Tallmane certainly did not.” 

“No,” said Jager, “he did not. Is that why Tarrabus hates you so much? You became a Swordbearer and he did not?”

“No.”

Jager grunted. “What was it, then? Since we are both likely about to die, I would prefer to die with at least one less mystery upon my mind.”

And he was curious to see if Ridmark's story would match Tarrabus's. 

Ridmark barked a short, harsh laugh. “Few men have such luxuries, master thief. But if you must know, Tarrabus and I both loved the same woman. She wed me. And then she died when I failed to save her.”

“Ah,” said Jager. “Tarrabus...mentioned it. I am sorry for her death.”

“What is done is done, and cannot be made undone,” said Ridmark.

“Still,” said Jager. “That is…a terrible thing. I see why Magistria Imaria hates you so much. Though it hardly seems just.”

Ridmark shrugged. “If we fail to save your Mara, would her sister not hate you for it?”

“I know for a fact,” said Jager, “that Mara has no sisters.”

At least none that the prince of Nightmane Forest had left alive. 

“But if she had,” said Ridmark, “would she not be justified?”

Jager had no answer for that.

“You understand, then,” said Ridmark. “Come. Let us retrieve the soulstone, and then rescue Mara…and make sure you never understand further.” He glanced at the ceiling. “How much farther to this funerary chapel?”

“A hunderd yards, I think,” said Jager.

“Best be silent, then,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus might have placed guards after your escape.”

Jager nodded and walked in silence, thinking it over.

“About that,” he said a few moments later. “I think…”

“That it is curious,” said Ridmark, “that we have found neither Mhorite orcs nor Red Brothers hunting you through the catacombs.”

“I thought that very curious,” said Jager. “Perhaps Tarrabus thinks so little of me that he didn’t bother to send out his hounds.”

“I am certain,” said Ridmark, “that Tarrabus thinks very little of you.”

Jager raised an eyebrow. “A joke about my height?”

“Sensitive, are we?” said Ridmark. “You haven’t known Tarrabus as long as I have, but you have known him long enough. Do you really see him withholding vengeance upon anyone who has crossed him, no matter so slightly?” 

“No,” said Jager. “It seems more likely that he would go out of his way to take revenge.” 

“So then why,” said Ridmark, “isn’t he hunting you?”

Jager considered that for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe now that he has the soulstone, he has larger matters to consider.”

“At the very least I thought the Red Brothers would want you dead,” said Ridmark. “Did any of the assassins recognize you?”

“Aye, one of them did,” said Jager. “A black-hearted scoundrel named Rotherius.” Recognition went over Ridmark’s face. “You know him?” 

“He tried to kill me outside of Moraime,” said Ridmark, “and he would have killed me behind the Crow’s Helm, had Sir Cortin’s men not arrived when they did.” 

“You have knack for collecting enemies, Sir Ridmark,” said Jager. 

“Though no less than yours.”

“True enough,” said Jager. “I knew Rotherius from Cintarra. He’s one of the Matriarch’s favorites, tried to kill me after the Matriarch found out that Mara and I were…ah, spending time together. We had to flee Cintarra after that.” 

“With the soulcatcher,” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Jager. “The Matriarch had tried to kill us. It seemed only fair to rob her in return.” 

“I cannot dispute that logic,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus might have decided to ignore you in favor of larger concerns, but I doubt the Red Family and Rotherius will feel the same way. Or that Rotherius will have forgotten about me, either.”

“That’s also logic I can’t dispute,” said Jager. “So. Where are they?”

Ridmark grunted. “I suspect Rotherius won’t bother chasing us. He knows that you escaped, and sooner or later either we will come after the soulstone. So he will stay near the thing, wait for us to turn up, and kill us at his leisure.”

“There’s a pleasant thought,” said Jager. “What shall we do about it?”

“The answer is simple,” said Ridmark. “We steal the soulstone without getting caught.”

Jager snorted. “A man after my own heart. Well. I never thought I would commit burglary with the son of a Dux, but all kinds of strange things have happened of late.”

Ridmark nodded and gestured for silence, and soon they came to the door to the funerary chapel. Jager watched as Ridmark listened at the door for a moment, and then peered through the keyhole. After that he dropped to one knee and swept his glowstone back and forth, scrutinizing the ground for any sign of tracks.

His frown deepened, and then he whispered into Jager’s ear.

“No tracks,” hissed the Gray Knight. “No sign that anyone pursued you. Follow me and keep quiet.” 

Jager nodded and Ridmark opened door in silence. The chapel beyond was deserted, and Jager felt a moment’s alarm when he saw robed figures watching him. But they were only the statues of the apostles in their niches. Ridmark crossed the chapel and climbed the stairs to the cellar. Jager followed him, hands waiting near his sword and dagger. The utter lack of guards troubled him. Even if Tarrabus had not been willing to pursue Jager, surely he would have been aware that Jager might return? 

Ridmark stepped into the cellar, sweeping his light back and forth. The stacked casks and sacks of drink and food rested undisturbed against the walls. The cellar was otherwise deserted. A dim light leaked from the stairs above. Ridmark undid his wristband and tucked the glowstone into a pocket, quenching its light. They crossed the cellar, climbed the stairs, and eased open the kitchen door. It was well past midnight by now, and Jager would have expected to see the domus’s servants hard at work, laboring to prepare the day’s bread. Perhaps he would even see halfling domestics in Tarrabus’s service.

But the kitchens were deserted. 

Stranger and stranger. All those damned Mhorite orcs had to eat something.

Ridmark opened the door into the atrium. Like the kitchen, the atrium was deserted, the only noise coming from the fountain in the center. Four of the thirteen moons shone overhead, throwing a pale blue light across the atrium. Here and there dark splotches marked the stone. 

Ridmark pointed at them.

“Bloodstains,” whispered Jager. “From the shadows. The soulcatcher killed a few of the Mhorites, I think.” 

That put a chill down his spine. He had known about the dagger’s power to turn shadows into weapons, but he had not known that using the thing would transform him into an urhaalgar. What else didn’t he know about the dagger? Could he have unleashed some kind of dark magic that killed everyone in the domus? He would not mourn for the deaths of Tarrabus and the Mhorites and the Red Brothers, but he did not want the blood of Tarrabus’s servants upon his conscience. 

“This way,” murmured Ridmark. “The atrium looks deserted. Stay in the colonnade – if anyone comes along, we can hide in the shadows.”

Jager followed Ridmark along the colonnade, moving from shadow to shadow. Peculiarly, Ridmark’s gray cloak seemed to conceal him as he moved, and Jager’s eyes kept wanting to slide off it. Perhaps the cloak was magical. Jager could have used such a cloak. 

They reached the base of the fortified tower. Two double doors stood in the tower’s base, thick and banded in steel. Ridmark tested one of the handles, found it unlocked, and pulled the door open a few feet, enough to for a man to slip through. He went inside, hesitated, and beckoned to Jager.

Jager followed and found himself in a stone hall that had the look of an armory. Racks of spears lined the walls, and shields and quivers of crossbow quarrels had been stacked on a long wooden table. Narrow balconies rose on either wall, their pillars reaching to the vaulted ceiling. Pale blue moonlight leaked through the high windows.

The armory, like the rest of the domus, was deserted.  

That was strange. That was very strange. Weapons and armor were valuable, and armories were almost always guarded, lest the servants try to steal things. Why the devil would Tarrabus leave his armory unguarded?

“The vault is below us,” whispered Ridmark. “You will need to pick the lock.” 

“Gray Knight,” said Jager, his suspicion growing. “This isn’t right. Why isn’t the armory guarded? God knows I could use some good fortune, but it seems awfully convenient to begin now.”

Ridmark frowned in the gloom. “You’re right.”

“I think,” said Jager, “that we are…”

Light flared on the balconies as lanterns were unhooded, and Jager yanked his sword and dagger from their sheaths. In the sudden light, he saw a score of crimson faces grinning down at him from the balconies, weapons in hand.

Mhorite orcs.

A dark shape moved from beneath the balcony, and Mournacht himself came into sight, his huge black axe in hand, the sigils upon his chest and arms flaring with bloody light. With him came a figure in a hooded black cloak and crimson leather armor, face concealed behind a skull-mask of red steel. 

“You both have come?” said Rotherius. “How convenient. Let us begin the night’s work.”

Chapter 22 - Vengeance of the Family

Jager took a step back beneath Rotherius’s gaze.

Yet neither Rotherius nor Mournacht advanced, and the Mhorites had not moved to block the doors. Though that meant they likely had men stationed throughout the domus, waiting to attack anyone who tried to escape.

“I was going to say,” said Jager, trying to keep his voice confident, “that I think we are walking into a trap, but it seems a little late now.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” said Ridmark, his blue eyes taking in the scene. He still seemed calm, his staff in a loose grip in his right hand. 

“Tell me, Gray Knight,” said Rotherius. “Will you offer a surrender?”

Ridmark shrugged. “If you offer it, who am I to refuse? Surrender and lay down your arms, and I shall allow you to go in peace.”

A rumble of laughter went up from the Mhorite orcs.

“Your boldness pleases me,” said Mournacht in Latin, his words thick with the accent of Kothluusk. “Such defiance in the face of death is valiant. Truly, you shall be a worthy sacrifice to lay before the crimson skull of Mhor.”

“Alas,” said Ridmark. “I regret that I must deny you this pleasure. Do tender my apologies to Mhor.”

“Soon,” said Mournacht, his tusked, scarred face splitting in a hideous crimson smile, “you can offer the apologies yourself. While the little halfling rat watches and screams.”

“You are here for the soulstone, I assume?” said Rotherius.

Ridmark shrugged. “I thought to visit Tarrabus. We were squires together at Castra Marcaine, and have fallen out of touch over the years.” 

Rotherius laughed, a dry raspy sound without a hint of mirth. “Yes, I am sure you were comrades in arms. Or could it be that you have come to steal away the empty soulstone that Shadowbearer requires?”

“Given that Shadowbearer seems to have stolen the thing from Cathair Solas,” said Ridmark, “he can hardly claim ownership.” 

“Nevertheless, it is now his and the Dux’s, thanks to your little rat of a thief,” said Rotherius, the crimson skull turning Jager’s direction, “and they shall use it to begin a new age of glory.”

“Why don’t we make this simple?” said Ridmark. “Give me the soulstone and I shall let you live.”

Rotherius laughed again. “A tempting offer, Gray Knight. So very tempting. Alas, I cannot comply. The soulstone isn’t here.”

“Then where is it?” said Ridmark.

“I imagine it is twenty miles closer to the Iron Tower by now,” said Rotherius. 

“What?” said Jager.

“You see, Master Thief,” said Rotherius, “after your little stunt with the soulcatcher, the Dux knew you would return. And likely you would bring the Gray Knight and his ragged little band of followers with you.” He looked over the hall. “Where are the others, by the by? I would hate for them to miss what comes next.”

“I sent them to safety,” said Ridmark, “so we could steal the soulstone unobserved. I am curious how it wound up twenty miles closer to the Iron Tower.”

“After Jager’s little game,” said Rotherius, “the Dux knew the thief would return. The Dux and Sir Paul had planned to depart on the morrow. Instead, they left at once. The Dux’s business in the north is complete, and he is returning to Tarlion to await Shadowbearer’s triumph. And Sir Paul is riding hard for the Iron Tower with the soulstone. Shadowbearer shall meet him there to claim the relic. By then you shall be dead.”

Jager swallowed. The soulstone was out of their reach, and Shadowbearer would use it to wreak unspeakable evil. And Mara would languish in the Iron Tower until Tarrabus turned her into a monster.

They had failed, and it was his fault.

“And so you and your pet Kothluuskan orcs remained behind,” said Ridmark, “to kill us.”

“Correct,” said Rotherius. “You have earned the enmity of the Red Family of Mhor, both of you. You, Ridmark Arban, for slaying so many of our brothers. You, Jager of Cintarra, for seducing one of our sisters and stealing from the Matriarch.”

“She is not your sister,” said Jager, “and I did not seduce her. She left of her own volition. Better to die free than to live as a slave of your whore of a Matriarch.”