Frostborn: The Master Thief (4 page)

He glanced at the sky. No sign of the wyvern. Perhaps it had decided to hunt down the fleeing orcs. 

“I am curious,” said Ridmark, “why you wandered away from camp.”

Kharlacht grunted. “Morigna’s ravens spotted a deer.” He spoke Latin with the harsh, rumbling accent of Vhaluusk. Like Caius, he wore a wooden cross on a cord around his neck. “Since we are not far from the Torn Hills, acquiring additional meat seemed wise.” 

“Though I did not expect to find Brother Caius’s kindred here,” said Morigna. She had a lovely, musical voice, and spoke Latin with the formal stateliness of a noble in the High King’s court, an accent acquired from Coriolus. “Apparently the dwarves move with a stealth that belies their appearance. One would think that much armor would raise a cacophony.” 

“But then we saw signs of the battle,” said Caius in his deep voice. “We came across the Kothluuskan warband, and saw them launch an attack upon the dwarves. So we came to their aid at once.” He gestured, and one of the dwarves stepped forward. “Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii, this is Azakhun, a Taalmak of Khald Tormen.”

“Taalmak?” said Gavin in a quiet voice, wiping sweat from his brow. 

“Like a…knight,” said Calliande, “a noble and a warrior sworn to a noble of higher stature.”

Ridmark knew a formal introduction when he heard one, and he bowed, despite the urgency he felt. He had not dealt with the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms very often, but he knew they were proud and prickly, and demanded courtesy no matter how dire the situation. 

“I greet you, noble Taalmak,” he said, “and am honored to join you upon the field of battle.”

The dwarf reached up and removed his helmet. The gray-skinned face beneath it looked surprisingly young, though on a dwarf that could mean he was only a century of age. He had thick black hair and a long black beard, and his eyes were like disks of polished malachite.

“It is an honor to meet you as well, Ridmark of the Arbanii,” said Azakhun in Latin with a thick accent, his face calm and emotionless. “Your aid against the Mhorites was most welcome, and we are in your debt. Though I must ask you a question at once. Are you the man known in the Wilderland as the Gray Knight?” 

“There are some who call me that,” said Ridmark, “though I wish they would not.”

Azakhun nodded. “The Mhorite orcs were looking for you, Gray Knight.”

“Me?” said Ridmark, not bothering to hide his bafflement. “Why? I have skirmished with the orcs of Kothluusk before, but that was years past.” 

“Some feuds last for generations,” said Azakhun. “Yet I do not think this is why the orcs of the mountains sought you. My retainers and I were traveling south, intending to visit our Enclave in your city of Coldinium. But the orcs stopped us, and demanded to know the location of a man called the Gray Knight. The Heralds of Mhor have commanded his death.”

“The Heralds of Mhor?” said Ridmark. “I know not the name. You are more familiar with the orcs of Kothluusk than I, honored Taalmak. Are these Heralds the shamans of Kothluusk, perhaps?”

“I fear I know not,” said Azakhun. “I told the scum of Kothluusk that I knew nothing, and bid them be on their way. They attacked at once.”

“I am sorry,” said Ridmark. “I did not mean to bring this evil upon you.”

Azakhun shrugged. “It was not your doing, Gray Knight. And we would likely have come to blows in any event. There is little love lost between my kindred and the orcs of Kothluusk. Your companions came to our aid most admirably.” He looked at Kharlacht. “A pity the orcs of Kothluusk do not follow the crucified god of the humans as the orcs of the southlands do. It makes them far more amenable neighbors.”

“If I could make the orcs of Kothluusk as I am, I would,” said Kharlacht, while Morigna rolled her eyes. She had inherited Coriolus’s contempt for the church, and while the revelation of her mentor’s treachery had shaken her, it had not altered many of the opinions she had learned from him.

“Indeed,” said Azakhun, looking at Caius. “Though I think your crucified god is not a fit god for the khaldari.”

Caius took a deep breath and started to answer.

“Forgive me, Taalmak, but I suggest we move at once,” said Ridmark. Caius and Azakhun could debate theology once they had gotten to safety “I sighted a wyvern nearby, and I suspect so much blood will draw the beast. The sooner we are gone from here, the better.”

Azakhun frowned. “The khaldari of Khald Tormen do not quail from a fight.”

“I suggest you heed his counsel,” said Caius. “I have been on the surface longer than you, and wyverns are fell beasts. They make both the mzrokar and the deep spinners look like murrag hatchlings. We can take our fallen kin with us. If the wyvern wants to feast upon the dead of Kothluusk, who are we to gainsay it?”

“Very well, my lord Taalkhan,” said Azakhun. “Even in your madness, apostate,” his eyes strayed to the cross hanging from Caius’s neck, “you speak wisdom.”

Ridmark frowned. Taalkhan? He knew only a little of the dwarven tongue, but he thought that title meant ‘prince’ or ‘high lord’. Caius had spoken little of his life in Khald Tormen before he had become a friar, though he had hinted at some great regret.

Later. Ridmark could worry about it later, once they had gotten away from the wyvern.

He turned just as a dark shadow blotted out the light overhead. 

The ground trembled beneath his boots as the wyvern landed at the edge of the clearing, its claws digging into the earth. The harsh yellow eyes regarded them, and a pointed tongue flickered back and forth over the fangs. A wyvern’s sense of smell was in its tongue, like a snake’s, and right now the beast smelled a great deal of spilled blood and fresh meat. 

Along with still living prey, if it felt like it.

The wyvern’s head turned back and forth as it examined them. 

“Morigna,” said Calliande, her voice soft, “can you use your spells to control it?”

“No,” said Morigna, her voice cool, but Ridmark knew her well enough by now to hear the hint of alarm there. “It’s too old. If I touch its mind, it will interpret that as an attack and go berserk.”

The wyvern opened its mouth and loosed a horrible metallic shriek as it reared up on its hind legs, its wings unfurling, its long tail rising above its body. 

“Back away!” said Ridmark, taking a few steps back. “Back away, slowly, and do not make any sudden movements.” The others started to back away, and Azakhun snarled a command in dwarven to his men. “If we leave it to eat the dead, it will likely let us go.” The wyvern screamed again and snapped its jaws, but did not move, its tail waving back and forth behind its ridged head. Likely the beast wanted to dine upon the dead orcs in peace. Well, it was welcome to them, once Ridmark and the others were well away. 

One of the dwarven warriors refused to move, and began arguing with Azakhun in the dwarven tongue. A moment later Caius joined the argument, his eyes on the wyvern, all three of them speaking in dwarven at once. 

“What is it?” said Ridmark. “Move, damn it.”

“He won’t,” said Caius in Latin. “He says it is an offense to the gods of stone and silence to leave our dead kin here.” One of the dwarven warriors lay prone a few feet from the wyvern, blood gleaming upon the bronze-colored steel. “He says that the beasts of the surface are weak and feeble, that true dwarven warriors…” He switched from Latin to dwarven, his voice rising in alarm. 

For a moment nothing happened. 

“Oh, damn,” said Morigna. 

The masked dwarf raised his axe, loosed a thunderous war cry, and charged at the wyvern. 

The wyvern’s right foreleg drove the dwarven warrior to the ground. The left blurred forward, and in one smooth motion, ripped the dwarf’s head from his shoulders. A jet of blood arced across the clearing, and the dead dwarf’s head rolled away, the masked helmet clattering. 

The wyvern surged forward with a terrible scream, jaws yawning wide, the poisoned tail rising high to strike. 

Ridmark cursed, threw aside his staff, and yanked the orcish war axe from his belt. His staff would be useless against the wyvern’s armored bulk, and even the orcish axe might not be enough to penetrate the stiff scales.

“Hit from every side!” he bellowed. “Now! Now!” That was their only chance. The wyvern could kill them all without much trouble, but there were nine of them and only one of the creature. It could not split its attention in so many different directions at once, and if they landed a serious enough blow, perhaps the wyvern would retreat. 

He sprinted at the creature, axe in both hands, and the other men followed suit as Morigna and Calliande began casting spells.

###

Calliande summoned power and unleashed it in a single spell. White light burst from her hands and jumped to touch the others, and her magic augmented their speed. She saw Ridmark dash at the wyvern in a gray blur, his axe opening a wound in the wyvern’s right foreleg. Blood bloomed from the cut, but not very much. The beast bellowed in outrage and raked at Ridmark with its wounded foreleg. Ridmark dodged, the talons missing him, but the side of the limb smacked into his shoulder, and the power of the blow drove him to the ground. 

The wyvern raised its foreleg again for the kill, and the others swarmed over it. Kharlacht attacked, swinging his greatsword for the muscular coil of the creature’s neck. Caius dashed left, shouting to God and St. Michael for strength, hammering with his dwarven mace, while Gavin went right, striking at the wyvern’s flank. Azakhun and the two remaining dwarven warriors charged, the axes hammering into the beast’s scales. The wyvern recoiled in fury and pain, and for a moment Calliande thought they would overwhelm the beast. 

The wyvern screamed its furious cry and surged forward like an avalanche of armored scales. 

###

Morigna had hunted since she was a child, first with her father and then on her own. She had taken rabbits, deer, boars, and even a young drake or two when she had been feeling bold. 

She had seen wyverns before, of course. But always from a distance, and she had never been foolish enough to confront one. 

The wyvern thundered forward, raking with its claws, its mouth yawning wide to reveal rows of razor-edged fangs. Ridmark rolled to the side, just avoiding the stabbing talons. The wyvern’s other foreleg slammed into Kharlacht’s chest. The blue plates of his dark eleven armor held, but the impact knocked the big orc to the ground. The dwarves attacked the wyvern, their heavy axes of superior steel penetrating the armored scales. The wyvern screamed in fury and spun, raking with its claws, the dwarves falling before its blows. Its tail blurred past its head, the stinger driving into Azakhun’s chest with a loud clang. The dwarf’s armor held, though the strike of the stinger left a large dent in the steel plates, black slime pooling in the crater.

Wyvern venom, utterly lethal. There was no cure that Morigna knew.

The wyvern stooped over Azakhun, jaws yawning wide, as Ridmark and Kharlacht scrambled back to their feet. 

Morigna summoned power and cast a spell, and her thoughts dug into the wyvern’s mind. She felt the creature’s hunger, its devouring need to consume hot flesh and blood, to fill its belly with sustenance. She felt its rage, its fury that lesser predators would dare to hinder its appetite. 

And its urge to kill until there were no foes left to challenge it. 

Morigna poured her will into the wyvern’s mind, commanding it to stop. 

She almost lost her balance, leaning upon her staff for support. The wyvern’s mind was strong. It was not rational, not in the way a man’s mind was rational, but it was hard and cunning. And old, so old. An adult wyvern could live for centuries, and this one had hunted and feasted across the decades, growing ever wilier. Her magic allowed her to command the minds of animals, but she could have no more twisted the ancient wyvern’s will than she could have bent a bar of steel in her hands. 

The wyvern’s head rotated to face her.

She could not control the mighty beast…but she could certainly get its attention. 

As she expected, the creature interpreted the spell as aggression, and it surged forward with a bellowing roar, brushing aside the dwarves, its tail rising up to strike. Morigna released her spell and cast another, drawing upon the power in her staff. She felt the wood beneath her grasp, and as she drew on its magic, her senses extended until she felt the wood of the trees surrounding her.

And their roots, forming a tangled maze beneath her boots. 

Morigna thrust her staff, her mind straining with the effort of the magic she had summoned. The ground shuddered, and a dozen roots erupted from the earth in a spray of dirt, coiling around the wyvern’s legs and wings. The beast ripped free from the roots without much difficulty, but the effort slowed the creature. 

“Hurry!” shouted Morigna. “I can’t hold it for long. Hurry!”

###

Ridmark staggered back to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in his legs and back from his rough landing, and struck with his axe. Again the blade bit into the wyvern’s side, but the thick scales absorbed most of the blow.

A useless effort. The wyvern could take a score of blows to its sides and limbs and keep fighting. They had to land a killing blow, had to strike at its head or its heart. Reaching the heart was unlikely. That left the wyvern’s head.

Ridmark raced around the wyvern as the beast tore itself free from Morigna’s entangling roots. Azakhun and the dwarves hammered at the wyvern’s legs, trying to cripple it, but the scales turned aside the worst of their blows. He saw a flash of blue, saw Kharlacht charging the wyvern’s head. The orcish warrior had likely come to the same conclusion as Ridmark. 

The wyvern ripped free of the last of the roots. Its head was the size of Ridmark’s torso, and it stabbed forward, jaws yawning wide as it reached for Morigna. The sorceress stood her ground, black eyes fierce as she worked another spell, purple fire shining around her free hand. Kharlacht struck before the wyvern could bite her, his greatsword hammering into the neck behind the wyvern’s head. The blade sank deep into the flesh, crimson blood splashing from the wound. The wyvern loosed a howl of rage and pain, and its tail hammered down. The stinger slammed into Kharlacht’s chest with enough force to throw him backward, the greatsword flying from his hands.