Date: 2014-04-28 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction; Sword And Sorcery
Description: RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight, outcast and exiled from the High King's realm. Yet he alone sees the danger of the terrible Frostborn, the creatures that will sheathe the world in ice and quench all life. But none of the lords of the realm believe his warnings. And his enemies want him dead...and the secret allies of the Frostborn wish to silence him forever. As old foes and new enemies close around him, Ridmark must fight for his life. Or else the Frostborn will return, bringing eternal ice and darkness with them.
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

FROSTBORN: THE MASTER THIEF

Jonathan Moeller

Description

RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight, outcast and exiled from the High King's realm. Yet he alone sees the danger of the terrible Frostborn, the creatures that will sheathe the world in ice and quench all life.

But none of the lords of the realm believe his warnings.

And his enemies want him dead...and the secret allies of the Frostborn wish to silence him forever.

As old foes and new enemies close around him, Ridmark must fight for his life.

Or else the Frostborn will return, bringing eternal ice and darkness with them.

Frostborn: The Master Thief

Copyright 2014 by Jonathan Moeller.

Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published May 2014.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

Prologue

An excerpt from the chronicles of the High Kings of Andomhaim:

In the Year of Our Lord 538, Malahan Pendragon and the Keeper of Avalon led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm through a magical gate to a new world, a world far from the reach of the heathen Saxons. Here Malahan founded the new realm of Andomhaim and raised his citadel at Tarlion, and in time his new kingdom spread far and wide.

And the knights of Andomhaim encountered the kindreds of this new world, the orcs and the manetaur, the dark elves and the dvargir, and waged many wars against them.

Yet not all the kindreds they encountered were foes.

For the orcs and the dark elves kept the halflings as slaves. Slender and short of stature, the halflings were nimble and stealthy, yet lacked the strength of men and orcs and dwarves. Therefore they were easily enslaved, and the pagan kings of the orcs kept vast numbers of halflings to toil in their fields and serve in their citadels.

Yet the High King overthrew the orcish kings of Khaluusk. And in joy and gratitude, the halflings of Khaluusk swore solemn oaths to the High King and his nobles, to serve forever as free servants in their fields and houses. Thus were the men of Andomhaim free to pursue war against the many foes that threatened them.

And so the halflings joyfully labor for their masters to this day, grateful to serve their liberators.

Chapter 1 - Wings

Forty-one days after it began, forty-one days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban moved alone through the forest.

Something felt wrong, and he wanted to have a look around.

The forest was quiet, the gray light of dawn just brightening the trees. It was the end of spring and the beginning of summer, and new green leaves whispered in the breeze. He moved in silence through the trees, his boots making no sound against the forest floor, his heavy staff ready in his right hand. The forest was quiet, but it did not mean it would stay that way. Warbands of pagan orcs might come down from the hills of Vhaluusk to the north or the mountains of Kothluusk to the west. Packs of lupivirii prowled the forest, and bands of dvargir and kobolds raided from the Deeps in search of captives and loot.

And there were older dangers in the woods. The wild forest had been the site of many wars over the centuries, battles amongst the tribes of orcs, between the orcs and the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms, between the men of Andomhaim and the urdmordar.

Between the men of Andomhaim and the Frostborn.

Ridmark looked northwest. He saw nothing but trees in that direction, trees and boulders and fallen leaves.

But he knew what waited for him to the northwest. The spell-haunted Torn Hills and the massive ruined citadel of Urd Morlemoch, the fortress rising like a tower of bones jutting from the earth. The undead Warden, ancient and mighty and cruel.

And the answer Ridmark had sought for so long.

The secret of the return of the Frostborn.

But he could not learn the secret if some creature in the forest killed him first.

So Ridmark kept going, remaining watchful.

Something uneasy rattled in his mind. Of course, he was never at ease, not really. Not since the day he had pursued Mhalek to the great hall of Castra Marcaine, had seen Aelia’s blood spill upon the black and white tiles of the hall…

He pushed that out of his mind. This was not the time to dwell upon it.

Given that a more immediate danger might lie at hand.

Ridmark had spent the last five years wandering from one end of the Wilderland to another, seeking answers about the Frostborn and finding very little. Yet he had grown familiar with the forests of the Wilderland, and this one felt wrong.

Too quiet, and no sign of any animals. Ridmark could think of any number of reasons for that, and none of them were good. The creatures of the dark elves haunted the woods, urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things. If Ridmark encountered one, he would die. He had no weapon that could harm a creature of dark magic. Once he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden into battle, but he had lost that, too, through his own folly. Though there were any number of more mundane predators that would frighten away animals – fire drakes, swamp drakes, wyverns, manticores, and others.

He stopped and stood in silence, listening.

Perhaps he was simply being paranoid.

But he had not survived this long by ignoring his instincts, and his instincts told him that something was wrong.

Ridmark needed a better look around, and he knew where to find one.

He moved at a quick, silent run through the trees, weaving around boulders as the ground grew rockier. The terrain sloped upward, and the trees cleared to reveal a tall, stony hill jutting from the earth. Atop the hill rose a half-ruined tower of rough stone. Ridmark had no idea who had built it. Perhaps an orcish war chief had used it as a stronghold. Or maybe a group of fleeing dwarves had constructed it as a hasty, temporary refuge. Or perhaps the knights of Andomhaim had raised it in the past as a stronghold against the dark elves or the urdmordar or the Frostborn.

But whoever had built the tower had been dead for centuries, and it stood abandoned atop the hill. Yet its crumbling shell still had a commanding view of the surrounding forest.

Ridmark made his way up the path to the top of the hill, staff ready in his hand. The tower had been abandoned when he had last passed here, but someone or something might have claimed occupancy since. Yet the tower remained undisturbed. Flowering bushes grew around its base, and the interior was empty. Half-rotted timbers slumped against the walls, covered with lichen and mushrooms, and a rough stone staircase wound its way to the tower’s top. Ridmark climbed the stairs, taking care to keep his balance upon the uneven stones. It would be a grim joke to have survived Urd Morlemoch, two female urdmordar, a renegade Eternalist, and a crazed orcish shaman only to trip and break his neck upon a loose step.

He reached the tower’s top and found that he could see for miles, the green forest spreading like a mottled carpet over the ground. To the northeast he saw the distant grim shapes of the mountains of Vhaluusk. Kharlacht had shown little interest in ever returning to his homeland, and having visited, Ridmark could not blame him. To the west he glimpsed the massive, white-crowned shapes of the mountains of Kothluusk. The pagan orcs of Kothluusk lived among the vales and slopes of those mountains, while the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms maintained their fortresses beneath the mountains, forever at war with the orcs.

And to the northwest, Ridmark just made out a faint white haze.

The mist rolling through the spell-ravaged lands of the Torn Hills, haunted by spirits and urvaalgs and worse things.

Urd Morlemoch waited beyond those hills.

It was not much farther now. Another ten days to Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark thought. Then they could enter the ruined citadel and confront the Warden. For all his power and magic, the Warden was imprisoned within Urd Morlemoch, and the Warden was bored. He enjoyed games, lethal, cruel games. Ridmark had survived one of the Warden’s games, and he thought he could so again.

Just as he had thought he could save Aelia from Mhalek.

Ridmark stood motionless, watching the sun rise.

There was no sign of anything unusual.

Then why did he feel so ill at ease?

Ridmark scratched as the stubble on his jaw in irritation, and then started back down the tower. It was past time to get back to camp. He had left Kharlacht on watch, and he trusted the orcish warrior. But Brother Caius would soon rise to greet the dawn by singing the twenty-third Psalm, as was his custom. Morigna would complain at the noise, and she and Gavin might start quarreling. Calliande would take Gavin’s side, and the entire thing would degenerate into an argument.

If not for his presence, Ridmark suspected, his companions would all be at each other’s throats within a day.

A flicker of guilt went through him. They followed him. He had saved each of them at one point or another, and in gratitude they would follow him to Urd Morlemoch. He wished he could have dissuaded them, convinced them to remain behind.

Especially Calliande.

Ridmark reached the base of the tower and stopped. A flash of color caught his eye among the gray stones of the tower’s foundation. Staff ready in hand, he stepped closer. A small green bush flowered at the foot of the tower, dotted with deep red berries.

He blinked in surprise, went to one knee next to the bush, and plucked one of the berries. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, and then put the berry into his mouth. Surprise flooded through him at the sweet taste, and he smiled.

Well. He had expected to find an urvaalg or a next of rock drakes, not this. Ridmark drew a dagger and cut the berries from the bush, securing them in a pouch. He straightened up and looked around one final time.

It still seemed too quiet.

The sooner he returned to camp, the sooner they could depart, and hopefully leave behind whatever was making his instincts twitch.

He started down the hill.

###

Calliande tended the campfire, lost in thought.

To her surprise, she knew how to make a fire. As it happened, she knew how to do a great many things. She knew how to tend to the donkeys Sir Michael Vorinus had given them. She knew how to treat wounds, how to use herbs and roots to make medicines to treat numerous illnesses. She could speak Latin and orcish and the dark elven tongue, among other languages.

And she knew how to wield the magic of the Magistri, how to heal and ward and drive back creatures of darkness.

But she could remember learning none of those things.

She remembered nothing that had happened before the last forty-one days, before the day the blue fire had filled the sky. Before she had awakened in the vault below the Tower of Vigilance, alone in the silent darkness.

A Tower that had been burned and abandoned ninety years past.

Calliande had no idea how old she was.

She didn’t even know who she was.

But she had learned some things. A spirit called the Watcher spoke in her dreams, giving her what counsel he could. She needed to find her staff at a place called Dragonfall, and once she found the staff she could recover her memories. And she had to recover her staff and her memories, because without them she could not stop the return of the Frostborn. It was her responsibility, her duty, and she would not flinch from it.

That was why she followed Ridmark to Urd Morlemoch. The Warden had warned him about the omen of blue flame, nine years before it had happened. The Warden would know how the Frostborn would return and how to stop them.

And if they learned how to stop the Frostborn, then perhaps Calliande could find Dragonfall, her staff, and her true identity.

She moved alone through the camp, humming quietly to herself as she tended to the donkeys. Ridmark had gone to scout alone, as he often did. The others had been concerned about leaving Calliande alone in the camp, but she had calmed their fears. In truth, with her magic, she had a better chance of defending herself than did the others.

Especially if Shadowbearer came for her.

Her humming faltered as a chill went down her spine, and her hand strayed to the pouch at her belt that held the empty soulstone. Shadowbearer had tried to kill her and bind her power within that soulstone. Ridmark had saved her from that, but Shadowbearer and his servants had pursued her and the soulstone. Her friends were brave, but they could not stand against the power of Shadowbearer’s magic.

Even Calliande could not stand against the wrath of Shadowbearer’s spells.

At least if he came for her this morning, she would be alone.

“Morbid thought,” muttered Calliande.

Well, work was the best cure for worry. She brushed down the donkeys and made sure they were fed, and then turned to the fire. Kharlacht and Morigna were confident they could bring back a deer, and the fresh venison would be welcome. Still, they had an ample supply of sausages from Moraime, and Calliande could fry them up with the mushrooms Gavin had found last night.

She turned back to the donkeys, intending to retrieve a pan, and Ridmark appeared out of nowhere.

The man could move like a ghost through the woods. And his gray cloak had been given to him by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain himself, in gratitude for saving the bladeweaver Rhyannis from the pits of Urd Morlemoch.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande.

“Did I startle you?” said Ridmark. “I fear stealth is a hard habit to unlearn.”

She smiled. “Only a little.”

He did not smile back. He hardly ever smiled. He was tall and strong, with close-cropped black hair and eyes like shards of blue ice, cold and unyielding. The brand of a broken sword marred the lines of his left cheek. He did not deserve that, no more than he deserved the burden of guilt he carried, but it was there nonetheless.

“Where are the others?” he said. “Is something amiss?”

“Nothing,” said Calliande. “Morigna’s ravens spotted a deer. She and Kharlacht thought they could catch it, and Caius and Gavin went with them.”

He frowned. “They left you alone?”

Calliande shrugged. “I am safe enough. As safe as I can be, I suppose. With my magic I can defend myself better than any of us. If Shadowbearer comes for me, I don’t think it will matter if I am alone or not.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, his frown unwavering, “they should not have left you alone.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You are one to talk. Where did you wander off?” He opened his mouth, and she pointed at him. “And don’t tell me you know what you are doing. I might have stayed in the camp alone, but you are the one who has walked into a nest of drakes, challenged an urdmordar, lured a mzrokar into a trap, and God knows what else.”

He snorted. “I suppose I cannot argue that. I wanted to have a look around. This section of the forest is too quiet for my liking.” He rubbed his chin. “It heartens me that Morigna’s birds saw a deer.”

“You think something like an urvaalg frightened the animals away?” said Calliande.

“Perhaps.” Ridmark shrugged. “Or maybe I am overcautious. That reminds me.” He reached for the pouch at his belt. “I have something for you.”

“Really,” she said.

“Have you ever had a stoneberry?”

Calliande shook her head. “Not that I recall.” She sighed. “Which is hardly conclusive. But I don’t remember having eaten one.”

“Not surprising,” said Ridmark, drawing a number of red berries from the pouch. “They mostly grow in the south, along the banks of the River Moradel near Tarlion and Taliand. I have never seen one this far north. Try one – they’re quite pleasant.”

Calliande gave the berry a dubious look. “It does not look…healthy.”

To her surprise, Ridmark laughed. “They do look poisonous. But I imagine that’s to scare off scavengers.” He ate one of the berries. “Try it. I suspect you will like it.”

“You only suspect? You’re not sure?” said Calliande, but she grinned as she said it. “Very well.” She took one of the berries from his callused hand and popped it into her mouth. The sweet, sharp taste flooded her tongue. “That’s…not bad. It would…”

She staggered back, her eyes widening.

“Calliande?” said Ridmark. He grabbed her arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, “I…”

Images burned through her mind, a memory ripped from the past. It often seemed that her memory was a landscape cloaked in a thick mist that never lifted. Sometimes Calliande caught glimpses of shapes from her past, like mountains draped in fog, but never more than outlines. It often frustrated her to the point of rage.

But now, for just an instant, she remembered things.

The River Moradel lapping at its blanks, broad and wide as it flowed into the southern sea.

White towers rising on the far side of the river, the High King’s proud citadel upon its crag, the red Pendragon banner flying from its ramparts.

A middle-aged man, his face kindly and seamed from the sun, a coil of rope in his hand and a set of scaling knives at his belt.

She sat next him on a dock, her feet dangling in the water as they ate berries together…

The very same berries she now tasted upon her tongue.

“Ridmark,” whispered Calliande. She grabbed his arms for balance and looked up at him. “I…I remember these…”

“From before, you mean,” he said.

“Yes,” said Calliande. “My father…I think he was a fisherman. The…the stoneberries, I would pick them for him, and then…and then…”

She closed her eyes, trying to pull more from the mist choking her memory.

Nothing came. She remembered her father, the berries, the dock as they ate together.

But nothing else.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s all I can remember. My father’s face.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ridmark.

“No, don’t be,” Calliande said. “I can remember my father’s face. Ridmark, I couldn’t remember anything else before.” She let out a deep, shuddering breath. “If I can remember that…maybe I can remember more.”

“The berries,” said Ridmark. “They must have been a strong memory for you. Enough to pull the recollection from your mind, regardless of what has happened to you.”

Calliande nodded, for a moment too overcome to speak.

Her father’s face. How could she have forgotten that? She had done it to herself, or so the Watcher claimed. But how could she had forgotten something so important?

“If the berries triggered a memory,” said Ridmark, “then in time perhaps other things will recall additional memories to your mind.”

Calliande worked moisture into her dry mouth. “Maybe I ought to wander around the forest eating things at random.”

A faint ghost of a smile flickered over his lips. “I would not recommend that.”

Calliande laughed. “Nor would I. But, Ridmark…thank you.”

“For what?” said Ridmark. “The memory? That was not my doing.”

“But you brought me the berries,” said Calliande. “That was…that was kind of you, even if you could not know what would happen. And I can remember my father’s face again. I had lost everything…but I can at least remember a piece of my past now. Thank you.”

“You will get your memory back,” said Ridmark. “After we return from Urd Morlemoch, after we stop the Frostborn. We will find Dragonfall and your staff.”

“I have more confidence of that now,” said Calliande.

She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, the stubble rough beneath her lips.

Ridmark stared down at her without blinking.

She realized that she was still holding on to his arms, that he had not released her either. They were alone in the camp, and the others would likely not return for some time.

And as her heart hammered against her ribs, she realized that none of those things troubled her.

“Ridmark,” she said, her voice a faint whisper, and then he pulled her close and kissed her.

Calliande went stiff, and then melted against him, her lips parting to accept the kiss. Her heart beat faster, a warmth spreading from her chest and into her arms and legs. Some small part of her mind realized that this was a bad idea, that Ridmark was poisoned with grief from his dead wife, that for all Calliande knew she had a husband and children asleep beneath some other ruined tower.

But right now she did not care about anything but the taste and feel of his mouth against hers.

She broke away from him with a little gasp, still breathing hard. Ridmark stared down at her.

“Calliande,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I…”

She never found out what he intended to say.

A harsh metallic scream drowned out his words.

For a furious, irrational moment Calliande wanted to curse in frustration.

And then her mind caught up to her ears, and she realized that they were likely in deadly danger.

Ridmark was already moving, his staff in hand as he turned in a slow circle. Calliande summoned power, preparing spells to ward against harm or to drive off creatures of dark magic, her hands glimmering with white light.

Again that terrible brassy scream rang out, farther away than before.

“Fool,” muttered Ridmark, “fool, fool, fool.”

For a moment she was stung, and then realized that he was rebuking himself.

“I should have realized,” he said, looking at the sky, “that’s what scared all the animals away. They have better noses. Smelled it a ways off.”

Again the metallic scream filled Calliande’s ears. “Is that a drake?” she said, remembering the fire drakes on the slopes of Black Mountain and the swamp drake they had fought near Moraime. The drakes’ cries had sounded a bit like the metallic screams.

“No,” said Ridmark. “Not a drake.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said Calliande, watching the trees for any sign of movement.

“A wyvern,” said Ridmark.

Calliande blinked. Wyverns were some of the most dangerous predators of the Wilderland, and preyed upon both humans and orcs with ease. Even the dark elves had not always been able to tame wyverns and use them as war beasts, and more than one proud dark elven wizard had met his end beneath the talons of an irritated wyvern.

“That’s much worse,” said Calliande.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Helped kill a wyvern, once. Hunting party from Castra Marcaine, when I was still a Swordbearer in the Dux’s court.” He shook his head. “The beast took down three men before we killed it. And that was only a young male.”

Calliande heard another shriek, so close she looked over her shoulder, fearing that the wyvern had somehow crept up behind her. “What do we do?”

Ridmark looked at the sky again. “They only scream when trying to flush out prey.” The donkeys stirred, tugging at their tethers as they tried to flee. “It likely scented the donkeys. Get ready to run. Once a wyvern decides to take a kill, it kills anything that gets in its way. The pack animals are not worth your life.”

“And if it decides to come for us instead of the donkeys?”

“Then we’ll have to fight,” said Ridmark, one hand straying to the orcish war axe slung at his belt. “We’ll have only one chance. Eyes and the throat are its weak points. The scales get stronger as it ages. If I can’t kill it immediately, we’re finished.”

Calliande nodded. “I will use a spell to enhance your speed, and…”

A black shadow fell over the clearing, and the wyvern soared overhead.

The creature was enormous. The fire drakes nesting upon the Black Mountain had been the size of large dogs, and the swamp drake near Moraime had been horse-sized. The wyvern dwarfed them both. Its body had the bulk of an adult ox, the limbs heavy with muscle and topped with razor-edged talons. Its wings spread like the sails of a ship, and fierce yellow eyes gazed from a head crowned with a bony crest. Its greenish-black scales looked as tough as steel, and the wyvern’s long, thick tail ended with a barbed stinger glistening with black slime. A wyvern’s poison was one of the most lethal substances in the world, and could kill a strong man in moments. Though given the creature’s size, strength, fangs, and talons, the poisonous stinger seemed redundant.

At least the wyvern could not breathe flames as a drake could.

The beast swooped over the clearing and rose higher, its massive wings flapping. Calliande wondered why Ridmark had not tried to put an arrow into the creature, and then realized her folly. His arrow could not penetrate the thick scales. The wyvern might not even notice the attack.

Or the arrow would just draw its attention.

The wyvern screamed again and banked over the clearing, moving with terrible speed as the donkeys brayed in terror. Ridmark tensed, and Calliande expected the wyvern to swoop upon the donkeys. Yet the beast flew away to the east, its head turning back and forth upon the long, serpentine neck.

And it kept going.

“Why didn’t it attack us?” said Calliande, puzzled. “We would have been easy prey. The donkeys are even tethered.”

“Because,” said Ridmark, watching the wyvern’s receding shape, “it must have spotted something else. Something easier. They’re predators, but they’re not above scavenging. Or driving wolves or cougars away from their kills. It must have smelled blood. Fresh blood, and…”

She came to the realization at the same time that he did.

“Morigna’s deer,” said Ridmark.

“She shot it, the wyvern smells the blood, and it’s coming after them,” said Calliande.

“We’d better run,” said Ridmark, and he ran into the trees, Calliande following.

Chapter 2 - Venom

Ridmark cursed himself as he dashed through the trees, Calliande behind him.

He should not have wandered off on his own. He had realized that danger was near, even if only by instinct, and he should have remained near the camp. Then he could have stopped Kharlacht and Gavin and the others from going off on their hunt.

And then he would not have kissed Calliande.

That had been a mistake. He admired her bravery and kindness, and she was unquestionably lovely. But she did not know who she truly was. As Calliande had pointed out, she might have a husband sleeping in some ruin of the Order of the Vigilant. And Ridmark was the Gray Knight, outcast and branded as a coward, a fate he deserved for what had happened in Castra Marcaine.

He did not deserve Calliande.

He deserved death.

But it had been a long time since he had kissed a woman. It had set off a fire in his blood, and if not for the wyvern’s arrival, Ridmark doubted he could have stopped himself. He did not think Calliande would have wanted him to stop.

Just as well that he had come to his senses.

Though he would have preferred a less stern reminder than a wyvern.

Ridmark kept running. Kharlacht and Morigna knew how to move without leaving a trail, but neither Caius nor Gavin were very good at it, and their tracks were as clear as letters upon a page to Ridmark. Would they have split up? No, if Morigna could follow the deer with her ravens, they would have kept close to her…

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.

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.

Ridmark drove his axe into the gaping wound Kharlacht had carved. The heavy orcish blade sank deep, and he felt it penetrate between two vertebrae. A wild spasm went through the wyvern’s limbs, its talons raking at the ground. Ridmark ripped his axe free, and Gavin darted forward, plunging his blade into the wound. Ridmark brought his axe down once more, and the wyvern’s neck snapped back with such force that the weapon ripped from Ridmark’s hands.

The wyvern reared up on its hind legs with a shuddering scream, its wings spread, and Ridmark thought the beast would fall upon him and rend him limb from limb.

Then it fell in a tangle, shuddered once more, and went limp.

Silence fell over the clearing, the air heavy with the smell of blood.

“God have mercy,” whispered Gavin. “That was almost as bad as Agrimnalazur.”

“Is anyone hurt?” said Calliande, hurrying to Ridmark’s side.

“I’m fine,” said Ridmark, though he ached from his fall. “See to Kharlacht.” His mind started to clear as the fury of battle faded from him. “It hit him with the stinger. The armor should have turned the point, but…”

“It didn’t,” said Morigna, her voice grim.

Ridmark stepped around the dead wyvern’s head.

Kharlacht lay twitching upon his back, his black eyes glassy, yellow foam bubbling around his lips and tusks. The wyvern’s stinger had forced its way between his armor plates and sunk a few inches into his chest.

Chapter 3 - Only One Way

Calliande hurried to Kharlacht’s side, knelt over him, and summoned her power.

“Do not bother,” said Morigna in her cold voice. “There is no cure for a wyvern’s venom.” She glared at the dwarves. “Had those fools heeded the Gray Knight, perhaps Kharlacht would now live.”

“He’s not dead yet,” said Calliande, casting the healing spell over the wound in Kharlacht’s chest.

Agony flooded her, sharp and piercing, and Calliande could not stop herself from screaming. As her magic poured into Kharlacht, she felt the pain of the wound as if it had been driven into her own flesh. The stinger had pierced his right lung, though thankfully it had missed his heart. For a moment the sheer raw pain threatened to break Calliande’s control. But she held on, and forced the wound to close.

The pain faded…but other agony filled her.

The venom. It was already circulating through Kharlacht’s body, killing him piece by piece.

“You are correct, sorceress,” said Azakhun. “We owe a debt to you, Gray Knight, and to your warriors. Your followers came to our aid when the Mhorites attacked us. And if my retainers had heeded your wisdom, your warrior would not have perished.”

“He is not dead yet!” said Calliande.

Again she worked the healing spell, repairing the damage the venom had done to Kharlacht. Yet at once it harmed him anew. She could not keep healing the damage over and over again, and her strength would fail long before the wyvern’s venom lost its potency.

“Saltflower, honored Taalmak,” said Ridmark. “Do you have any saltflower with you?”

Despite her pain, Calliande smiled. Oh, but Ridmark was clever.

“What is it?” said Azakhun. “I know not the name.”

“Nor do I,” said Gavin.

“A flower that grows near the shores of the southern sea,” said Ridmark. “Hence the name. It is the only known antidote for wyvern venom. Any of you? Caius?”

“I fear not,” said Caius.

“Then it appears,” said Morigna, still scowling at the dwarves, “that there is nothing we can do for Kharlacht.”

Calliande gave a frustrated shake of her head. “The poison is still in his blood. I can heal the damage, but the venom works new harm at once.” Again she healed Kharlacht, the pain flooding through her, her strength wavering. “I…I can’t keep it up. If I just had a way to get the poison out of his blood…”

“Wait,” said Morigna, “let me try something. You. Hold this.”

Before Calliande could object, Morigna handed her staff to a surprised Gavin, knelt on the ground, and laid her hands upon Kharlacht’s chest.

###

The Old Man had taught her many things, and Morigna opened her mind to them.

Among his teachings had been a spell to filter her blood, to purge it of any foreign substances. One of the side effects of the spell had kept her from conceiving a child, which had been useful after she had fallen in love with Nathan Vorinus. Of course, Coriolus had taught her the spell for his own purposes. He had planned to possess her body for his own, and so had an interest in keeping her flesh pristine.

Yet even knowing his treachery, she still sometimes heard his dry voice reciting his lessons.

“This spell will filter any poison from your blood, save for the venom of a wyvern and certain other exotic poisons,” the Old Man had told her. “Those will remain in the blood, though they will become inert. At least until you wake up. The proper antidotes are required to neutralize the poison.” He smirked at her. “Though if you are so foolish as to get yourself poisoned by a wyvern, expect no help from me.”

He would have simply discarded her and selected another suitable vessel for his corrupted spirit.

Yet perhaps she could use his knowledge to save Kharlacht’s life.

“Don’t let him wake up,” said Morigna, and cast a spell.

The earth magic flooded through her, and she used it to probe Kharlacht, feeling the flow of the blood through his veins. She sensed the wyvern’s venom like a black torrent through his blood, a fire that would devour him from the inside out. The poison had already bound itself to his blood.

Until Morigna’s spell broke the bond.

A relieved sigh went through him, his breathing coming easier beneath her fingers.

She had been able to separate the poison from his blood, but it still flowed through his veins. It would not pass from his system, and wyvern venom kept its potency for centuries. So long as he remained unconscious, the venom would not fuse with his blood, and he would survive.

But the moment he woke up…

Morigna sighed, rubbed her neck, and straightened up.

“He’s going to live,” she said. “Somewhat.”

“What did you do?” said Calliande with a frown. “You did…something to his blood…”

“I changed it slightly,” said Morigna. “A spell my dear mentor Coriolus taught me. So long as he stays asleep, the venom will not touch to his blood, and it will circulate harmlessly through his veins. But the minute he regains consciousness, the venom will bond to his blood once more, and it will kill him.”

“In a matter of heartbeats,” said Calliande, straightening up with a grunt. The healing had taken its toll upon her, and she looked tired. Gavin hurried to help her up. Morigna held out her hand for her staff, but the boy ignored her.

She sighed and plucked the staff from his hand.

“Then…he is frozen like that?” said Gavin. “For the rest of his life?”

“No, he isn’t,” said Morigna. “He’ll stay that way until we find some saltflower.”

“And where,” said Gavin, “are we going to get some saltflower? The sea is a thousand miles from here!”

“That,” said Ridmark before Morigna could answer, “is a very good question. But we are safe enough for now. We had best move before the corpses draw other predators. Or the kin of the Kothluuskan orcs come looking for us.” He looked at her. “Calliande, Morigna. Thank you for Kharlacht’s life.”

Morigna shrugged. “You saved my life with Kharlacht’s help, so one cannot help but think it fair.”

His regard should not have warmed her as much as it did.

But she could not help it.

“And then,” said Ridmark, “we must decide what to do next.”

###

Ridmark walked in silence, thinking.

They had taken anything useful from the dead and then headed for the camp. Caius had objected at looting the slain orcs, but Ridmark overruled him. They needed the supplies, and the Kothluuskan orcs had carried a large amount of bread and cheese and jerky with them. But why had the Mhorite orcs been looking for him? That made no sense. He could see why the orcs would hunt Calliande – Shadowbearer or one of his disciples might have dispatched them. But why Ridmark? And who were these Heralds of Mhor?

Perhaps these “Heralds” were in fact the Enlightened of Incariel, the demon-worshipping secret society that had infiltrated the lords and knights of Andomhaim. He had thwarted them in Moraime and in Aranaeus. Perhaps in vengeance they had roused the Mhor-worshipping orcs of Kothluusk to hunt him down.

But he could worry about that later.

First he had to decide what to do about Kharlacht.

His decisions had brought Kharlacht to death’s door. If Ridmark had not chosen this route to the Torn Hills. If he had not gone to the ruined tower to take a look around the forest. If he had managed to convince Azakhun and his men to fall back, to leave the wyvern to its feast of carrion.

His rational mind knew that he should not blame himself. Kharlacht, like Ridmark, had nothing left to lose. He had lost his family, his betrothed, and Qazarl had led his tribe to destruction below the walls of Dun Licinia. Kharlacht had followed Ridmark to die, believing that the journey to Urd Morlemoch would almost certainly kill them.

If not for Calliande and Morigna, he would not have been wrong.

But Ridmark would not let him die. Kharlacht had followed him, and Ridmark had already lost too many of those who had followed him.

Who had trusted him.

And he there was still a way to save Kharlacht.

But did he have the right to use it?

A year and month. That was what Agrimnalazur had said before their final confrontation in the ruins of Urd Arowyn. Sometime within a year and a month of the omen of blue fire, the Frostborn would return, unless Ridmark and Calliande found a way to stop them. Ridmark’s plan to save Kharlacht would take nine or ten days, most likely longer. Did he dare spare the time?

Perhaps he could send Calliande and the others, and proceed to Urd Morlemoch alone. That had been his original plan. He had not asked the others to come with him, but they had followed him nonetheless.

Or perhaps it was better to let Kharlacht die. Kharlacht sought death, just as Ridmark had. A release from burden, from duty, from the endless guilt and memory of failure. Ridmark craved that, and knew Kharlacht did as well. Did Kharlacht not deserve that release?

He looked back at the others. Azakhun’s two remaining dwarves had improvised a litter, and carried Kharlacht between him. Calliande walked alongside the litter, and Ridmark felt a twinge of guilt as he looked at her. He knew what she would say if she could hear his thoughts. He wished he had not kissed her. She deserved someone better, a man who did not have the blood of his wife upon his hands.

Yet for all that, he still could not bring himself to regret kissing her.

Thinking of Calliande made Ridmark rebuke himself.

If he had the means to save Kharlacht’s life, he had the duty to use it. He was not God, decreeing who lived and who died. It was hubristic folly to assume that the Frostborn would return because he delayed a few days before going to Urd Morlemoch. Perhaps Ridmark had no way to stop the Frostborn, no matter what he did. But he might have the power to save Kharlacht’s life.

Best to use it, then.

Now he just had to persuade the others.

Twigs and leaves crunched beneath armored boots, and Azakhun stepped to his side, shield slung over his armored back, helmet tucked under his arm. The dent the wyvern’s stinger had left in his armor glittered.

“Taalmak,” said Ridmark.

“Your brand,” said Azakhun. “I do not understand. It is the mark of cowardice, yes? Yet a man who faces such a fiend as a wyvern is no coward.”

“I failed in a task I set myself,” said Ridmark, “years ago.” Again he saw the blood pooling across the black and white tiles of Castra Marcaine’s hall. “I was once a Swordbearer of the Order of the Soulblade, but I was cast out for my failure.”

“I see,” said Azakhun. “And now you walk the lands seeking to atone.”

“Something like that,” said Ridmark.

“This is logical,” said Azakhun. “Among the khaldari, sometimes the elders set stern penances for those who do not follow the precepts of the gods of stone and silence.”

“I have had little contact with your kindred,” said Ridmark, “but I have heard as much.”

“One of these precepts,” said Azakhun, “is that we honor our debts. And I am in your debt.”

“You are not,” said Ridmark.

“This is incorrect,” said Azakhun. “Your retainers came to my aid when the Mhorite orcs attacked us.”

“They are not my retainers,” said Ridmark, but Azakhun kept speaking.

“And, more, one of my warriors disobeyed your sound counsel,” said Azakhun. “He paid for his folly with his life, but some of his guilt reflects upon me, his Taalmak. Therefore my debt to you is doubled.”

Ridmark contemplated this. Azakhun owed him nothing, but the dwarf Taalmak would not be swayed. And the aid of Azakhun and his remaining two warriors would be useful. Especially if Ridmark followed his plan to save Kharlacht’s life.

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “How shall this debt be paid?”

“We will perform a task for you,” said Azakhun.

“Let us start with a question,” said Ridmark. “What were you doing in the Wilderland?”

“We were returning,” said Azakhun, “from Khald Azalar.”

Ridmark frowned. “That is one of the six lost kingdoms of the dwarves, is it not?”

“You say it true,” said Azakhun. “It was the last to fall. The other five were lost in the long wars with the dark elves, the orcs, and the urdmordar. Of all our lost kingdoms, Khald Azalar held out the longest, but it could not stand against the wrath of the Frostborn. Now it is a haunted ruin, filled with wild magic and fell creatures.”

“What were you doing there?” said Ridmark.

“It lies in the mountains of Vhaluusk,” said Azakhun, “and sometimes the orcs of the hills enter the ruins and return with the treasures of our fallen kin.” He scowled. “It is grievous to have the orcs defile the graves of our brothers, but they are willing to sell what they find. And, in truth, the ruins of Khald Azalar are dangerous…”

“And it is better for you that orcs die to retrieve the treasures of your ancestors,” said Ridmark, “than that dwarves fall in the same endeavor.”

Azakhun nodded. “You understand. We purchased several tablets from the scavengers of Vhaluusk, and planned to return to Coldinium to speak with the elders in our Enclave there.”

“You are going to Coldinium?” said Ridmark, the plan hardening further in his mind.

“Yes,” said Azakhun. “To return to Khald Tormen, it is easier to reach Coldinium, cross the Lake of Battles, and travel down the River Cintarra to Durandis. Otherwise we must cross more of the Wilderland, and sometimes the Warden’s creatures range south from the Torn Hills.”

“That is what I ask of you,” said Ridmark. “Escort us to Coldinium.”

Azakhun frowned behind his beard. “You wish to go to Coldinium? I am not familiar with the laws of your High King, but I understand the brand upon your cheek makes you an outlaw.”

“Nevertheless,” said Ridmark. “That is what I must do.”

“So be it,” said Azakhun. “We shall see you safely there.”

They walked in silence for a moment.

“The apostate,” said Azakhun at last.

“Apostate?” said Ridmark.

“The khaldari calling himself Brother Caius. Why does he follow you?”

Ridmark shrugged. “I saved his life on the day of the great omen.”

“Ah,” said Azakhun. “He is indebted to you. Is that why did it?”

“Did what?” said Ridmark.

“Why he forsook the gods of the khaldari, the gods of stone and silence,” said Azakhun, “and chose instead to follow the alien god of the humans, the Dominus Christus.”

“I do not know,” said Ridmark. “He has not told me.”

“You follow the Dominus Christus?” said Azakhun.

“Aye,” said Ridmark, though he was surely damned for his failures.

“Then why does the apostate follow the human god?” said Azakhun.

“Perhaps you should ask him,” said Ridmark.

“I would rather not,” said Azakhun. “We already endured enough of his preaching when he left Khald Tormen the first time.”

He walked back to his men without another word.

Ridmark wondered what that was about, and kept walking.

###

A short time later they returned to the camp.

Calliande took a cautious look around. Morigna had bound some ravens and sent them ahead, the dwarves watching with unease, and claimed that the camp was undisturbed. Yet Calliande preferred to look with her own eyes. Fortunately, Morigna’s scouts had been correct. The camp was undisturbed, though the donkeys were agitated.

“Now what?” said Morigna.

“Now,” said Ridmark, “we are going to the city of Coldinium.”

Silence answered him.

“Forgive the question,” said Caius, “but why?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “the city of Coldinium is the nearest place to find the antidote for wyvern venom.”

“I thought that saltflower is the only thing that can cure the poison,” said Gavin. “My knowledge of the High King’s realm is not thorough,” Morigna snorted, “but Coldinium is far from the sea.”

“It is,” said Ridmark, “but there are apothecaries in Coldinium. Saltflower is used it a variety of medicines, is it not?”

Calliande nodded. “It is.”

“Almost certainly the apothecaries of Coldinium buy dried saltflower from the merchants of Tarlion,” said Ridmark. “Would dried saltflower be effective against the venom?”

“It would,” said Calliande. “In sufficient quantities. If it is prepared correctly.”

“And you know how to prepare it correctly, I assume?” said Morigna, raising her eyebrows.

Calliande refused to rise to the bait. “I do.” She hesitated. “What about Urd Morlemoch and the Frostborn? It is at least twelve or thirteen days to Coldinium from here.”

“Only if we travel overland,” said Ridmark. “Which we will not. The overland route to Coldinium goes right past the Iron Tower. And if Paul Tallmane is in command of the Tower, we will almost certainly find other foes there.”

Calliande nodded. She guessed he did not want to speak of the Enlightened of Incariel before the dwarves. The Enlightened had tried to kill Ridmark at Aranaeus, and again outside the Old Man’s lair north of Moraime. They were Shadowbearer’s servants, and would kill her and take the empty soulstone to their master if given the opportunity.

“The Iron Tower is the northernmost outpost of the High King’s realm on the Lake of Battles,” said Calliande. “Traveling over the lake is well and good…but are we to build a boat of our own?”

“We won’t need to,” said Ridmark. “The High King’s writ ends at the Iron Tower, but there are other settlements along the northern shore of the Lake of Battles, villages like Aranaeus and Moraime. Some are dangerous, full of worshippers of the old blood gods of the orcs.”

“And some are merely dens of thieves and smugglers,” said Caius. “You have such a place in mind, do you not?”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “There is a smugglers’ den west of the Iron Tower, a village called Vulmhosk. It was once the stronghold of an orcish chieftain, but he was slain centuries ago, and various gangs of thieves have operated out of it ever since.”

“It sounds dangerous,” said Gavin.

“Compared to the Iron Tower,” said Ridmark, “it is pleasant garden. A smuggler named Smiling Otto controls it, and makes his living trading with the tribes and villages of the Wilderland. I have traded with him before, and while he is a rogue, he is an honest one…within certain limits.”

“How do you know?” said Calliande.

“I save his life once,” said Ridmark.

Caius snorted. “I thought as much.”

“At Vulmhosk we can hire a boat and take it to Coldinium,” said Ridmark. “I know some of the apothecaries of the city, and we can purchase saltflower there.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“A sound plan,” said Caius.

“But what about,” said Calliande, “Urd Morlemoch?”

“Once Kharlacht is healed, we will depart Coldinium and continue to the Torn Hills,” said Ridmark.

Azakhun blinked in surprise. “You are going to Urd Morlemoch?”

“I will explain later,” said Ridmark. He hesitated. “If need be…I can continue to Urd Morlemoch alone while you go to Coldinium. You…”

“No,” said Calliande at once, and to her mild annoyance, Morigna said it at the same time.

“You clearly need my help, Gray Knight,” said Morigna, “and I will repay my debt to you.”

“And we shall see this to the end together,” said Calliande. “We will discover how the Frostborn shall return,” Azakhun’s green eyes got a little wider, “and stop them. Together.”

She felt a twinge of embarrassment as the last word left her lips. It was absurd to feel embarrassment. She was centuries old, had come through terrible perils and survived.

Yet it lingered nonetheless. Especially with Morigna’s eyes upon her.

“Kharlacht has been a loyal friend,” said Caius. “I will see him healed, if it is within our power.”

“As shall I,” said Gavin.

“You speak of strange things, Gray Knight,” said Azakhun, “but if this is how you wish us to discharge our debt to you, so be it.”

“Good,” said Ridmark. “Then you can start by helping us break camp. We can make another seven or eight miles before nightfall.”

They went to work, packing their supplies and loading them upon the donkeys.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande, when they were out of earshot of the others. “I think…”

He looked at her for a moment, a flicker of emotion going through his cold eyes.

“Later,” said Ridmark. “We can…discuss it later, after we reach Coldinium. We must save Kharlacht first.”

Calliande nodded, hiding her disappointment. He was right, of course.

But she still wanted to talk to him about the kiss.

She turned back to the camp, and saw Morigna staring at them.

Calliande ignored her and went to help the others.

Chapter 4 - Vulmhosk

Three days later, they arrived at the gates of Vulmhosk.

“That,” said Gavin, “is a very large lake.”

“As ever,” said Morigna, “your gift for observation astounds me, Gavin. Truly, you ought to be a bard.”

Ridmark sighed, his fingers tightening against his staff. “Enough, both of you.” He sometimes wished Morigna and Gavin could simply brawl and get it over with, but that would likely end with both of them dead.

They strode out of the forest and toward Vulmhosk’s stockade.

The Lake of Battles filled the horizon to the south, broad and gray, rippling in the cool wind coming from the west. It was vast, so vast that it took a team of strong men five days to row from its northern point to its southern. It looked like an ocean, and one of Ridmark’s tutors had called it one of the two the great inland seas of the High King’s realm.

But others had lived here long before Andomhaim had become the High King’s realm, before Malahan Pendragon had led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm from Old Earth. The dark elves and the high elves had fought terrible battles here, with magic that rent the very earth. Some old books even claimed that a battle had created the Lake, a single wayward spell of colossal power gone awry carving it from the earth. After the dark elves had summoned other kindreds to this world, those kindreds had warred along the shores – the dwarves against the orcs, the orcs against the dvargir and the kobolds and the manetaur, and then the urdmordar had swept them all away.

Likely a carpet of bones covered the lake’s bottom.

A round tower of rough stone rose from the edge of the water, surrounded by crumbling stone ruins. Once the stronghold of an orcish chieftain, it had burned in one of the endless wars fought on the shores of the lake. Waves lapped at the tower’s base, ruined walls and pillars jutting from the waters.

A maze of ramshackle wooden structures sprawled at the foot of the tower - an inn, a marketplace, and a dozen warehouses. A stout wooden palisade ringed the entire place, incorporating the ruined stone walls here and there. Tough-looking men with crossbows stood atop the walls, keeping a careful watch over the woods.

“Rough-looking place,” said Calliande.

“Too rough for your delicate sensibilities?” said Morigna.

“My sensibilities,” said Calliande, giving her a flat look, “have no bearing on whether or not we get knifed and robbed in an alley.”

“Smiling Otto is a hard man,” said Ridmark, “but he keeps his business orderly. Troublemakers in Vulmhosk tend to have their throats cut and their corpses dumped into the lake.”

“I find I must agree with the Magistria,” said Azakhun. His two warriors still followed them, carrying Kharlacht upon his litter. “This place looks like a den of thieves.”

“It is,” said Ridmark, “but we’ll be able to hire passage to Coldinium.” He headed toward the gate in the palisade. “Let me do the talking. I’ve been here before.”

He walked off before Morigna or Calliande or anyone else could raise any objections, and stopped a dozen paces from the gate. The others followed, eyes watching the ramparts. The men upon the wall squinted at him, their crossbows ready.

“I know you,” said the oldest of the guards, a lean, grizzled-looking man with ragged gray hair.

“And I know you, Quintus,” said Ridmark. “It has been a while, has it not?”

Quintus laughed. “So the Gray Knight returns! Figured your head would be atop some Mhor-worshipping orc’s spear by now. Instead here you are with a sleeping orc, some dwarves,” his bloodshot eyes wandered over Calliande and Morigna, “and some lovely young women. Must be quite a tale.”

“I’ve been busy,” said Ridmark.

“Clearly,” said Quintus, grinning at Morigna. “Here to sell? You’d find a buyer for that one, I’m sure…”

Morigna smirked at him. “You are welcome to try.” She lifted her hand, purple fire crackling around her fingers.

At once a dozen crossbows pointed in her direction.

“A wildling sorceress?” said Quintus.  “You’d bring a woman like that here?”

Ridmark looked at Morigna. “That was not helpful.”

She gave him a defiant scowl, but dismissed the purple flame.

“I do not mean harm,” said Ridmark. “I am in great haste, and need to hire a boat to Coldinium. As soon as I can find a willing vessel, I shall be on my way.”

“Just as well.” Quintus spat over the wall. “Too much trouble these days, Gray Knight. Too much trouble.”

“What do you mean?” said Ridmark.

“About a month and a half ago,” said Quintus. “You saw the blue fire in the sky?”

“I may have taken note of it, yes,” said Ridmark.

“The orcs of Kothluusk have been riled up ever since,” said Quintus. “Not that they were ever friendly. But now warbands are coming out of the mountains and raiding everything in sight. Hear they’ve even attacked Durandis and Rhaluusk down south. They think that the world’s about to end, that old Mhor himself is going to come back and take the skulls of every living thing.”

They weren’t entirely wrong.

“Then all the more reason,” said Ridmark, “for me to leave quickly. A boat, Quintus. No cargo, just nine passengers. That’s all I need.”

“That orc the dwarves are carrying,” said Quintus. “Is he Rhaluuskan?”

“No, Vhaluuskan,” said Ridmark.

Quintus spat again. “The Vhaluuskan orcs aren’t as bad as the Rhaluuskans, but they’re still right bastards.”

“He’s baptized,” said Ridmark.

“It’s usually only the southern orcs who are baptized, the ones who swore to the High King,” said Quintus.

“We’re in the Wilderland,” said Ridmark. “The High King’s writ and the High King’s law do not extend here. Strange for you to be so concerned about it.”

The other guards laughed.

“Fine,” said Quintus, “come inside. You want a boat, go talk to Smiling Otto. He’ll be at the tavern this time of day. But if you make any trouble, either you or your pet witches, we’ll stick you full of arrows and dump you in the lake.”

“I assure you, Master Quintus,” said Calliande, “that you shall have no trouble from us.”

Quintus laughed. “So polite for a witch of the wilderness! Well, Smiling Otto will decide what to do with you.”

He barked a command, and the gate to the palisade swung open. Ridmark led the others inside. The interior of the palisade looked even more decrepit than the exterior. A tavern and a store occupied most of the space inside the wall, along with warehouses for goods and a few small houses. A dozen wooden docks jutted into the water, fishing boats floating alongside them. A score of men moved near the docks, a mix of humans and orcs and halflings, though none of the orcs had the crimson skull tattoos of the Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk.

“Your orc,” called Quintus. “He’s dead?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “Poisoned. Wyvern venom.”

Quintus snorted. “Then he’s as good as dead.”

“Not yet,” said Ridmark, walking deeper into Vulmhosk. He led the others along the palisade, to a corner of the ruined stone wall where they could converse in privacy.

“It seems we have indeed entered a den of thieves,” said Caius, watching the men working near the boats.

“We have,” said Ridmark. “But compared to some of the perils we have faced, this is nothing. But do not lower your guard. Caius, Calliande, Azakhun. Stay here and keep watch over Kharlacht. No one in their right mind would try to start a fight with three dwarven warriors, and Calliande’s magic will aid you if necessary.”

“And where are you going?” said Morigna.

“To hire a boat,” said Ridmark. “Gavin, come with me. I’ll need you to watch my back.” It would also keep him away from potential mischief. The boy was brave and increasingly skilled, but had not dealt with men like Smiling Otto and his followers before. “Morigna, also.”

“Why?” she said.

“So we have no more little magical demonstrations to draw the eye,” said Ridmark.

She scowled. “I have dealt with places like this before, Ridmark Arban. I traded with the pagan orcs of Vhaluusk, and they would just as easily kill a human as trade with one, especially a human woman. Yet I am still unscathed.”

“Let us hope you stay that way,” said Ridmark. “Let’s go.”

He walked towards the tavern, Gavin on his right, Morigna on his right. Gavin scowled and tried to look intimidating. Morigna merely glanced around with cool hauteur, the sigil-carved staff ready in her right hand.

The tavern was a large building of fieldstone and timber that looked like a repurposed barn, and the smell of smoke and cheap beer filled the air. A broad porch ran the front of the tavern, holding splintered tables and worn chairs.

A halfling man leaned against one of the pillars, staring at Ridmark.

He was about four and a half feet tall, with a mop of curly blond hair and bright amber eyes in a pale, square-jawed face. His black leather boots gleamed, and he wore a black leather vest over a stark white shirt, his trousers crisp and spotless. A short sword and a dagger hung at his belt, and both weapons looked expensive and well-maintained.

“So,” said the halfling, his voice a deep rumble, “you are indeed real. And not a dream after all.” He spoke Latin with the accent of central Andomhaim. He was from Caerdracon, or perhaps Calvus. That gave Ridmark a moment’s pause. Tarrabus Carhaine was the Dux of Caerdracon, and he wanted Ridmark dead. Though he could not imagine Tarrabus sending a halfling assassin. Most of the nobles of Andomhaim had halflings as domestic servants, bound by ancient oaths sworn before the defeat of the urdmordar. Few nobles paid the halflings any mind at all, and regarded them as little more than beasts of burden that happened to be able to talk.

But Ridmark knew better…and something about this halfling made him want to reach for his weapons.

“If you are dreaming, sir,” said Ridmark, “I fear your dreams must indeed be disappointing.”

The halfling laughed. “Is that so? Well, your woman is attractive enough, I’ll warrant, though a bit tall for my taste.” Morigna drew breath to answer. “And I imagine she has a tongue that could strip the hull from a boat.”

“You would not be wrong,” said Gavin. The look Morigna gave him was just short of murderous.

“I am real,” said Ridmark. “Why should that surprise you?”

“Because,” said the halfling, “you are such an…implausible tale.”

“And you know of me?” said Ridmark.

“Why, all in the Wilderland know of the Gray Knight,” said the halfling. “At least those who are not howling savages and unholy abominations of dark magic. The son of a mighty Dux, a Swordbearer, the slayer of Mhalek, now an outcast and an exile wandering the wilderness in hopes of avenging his lost wife.” The halfling shook his head. “Really, if a bard sang that tale to me, I would say he had drunk too much wine and vomited forth something ridiculous.”

“Having lived it,” said Ridmark, “I can attest to its veracity.”

The halfling laughed. “Well, truth often gives the lie to tales, or so they say.”

“You have business with me?” said Ridmark.

“Not at all,” said the halfling. “I merely had business here in Otto’s charming palace of delights.” He waved a gloved hand, taking in the ruined tower, the spiked palisade, the ramshackle tavern. “But I heard tale after tale of the Gray Knight of the Wilderland. Now here you are in the flesh.”

“I am sure,” said Ridmark, “this moment is the crowning glory of your life.”

The halfling threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Indeed it is.”

“Though I am curious,” said Ridmark, “what brings a halfling from Caerdracon to the Wilderland. It is a long journey.”

“I fear you are mistaken,” said the halfling, and for the first time there was a hint of annoyance in his expression. “I am from the great city of Cintarra, the jewel of the High King’s realm.”

“Indeed?” said Ridmark. “You must have migrated, then. You speak Latin like a man of Caerdracon.”

“And you speak Latin like a highborn nobleman’s son,” said the halfling, “and not the ragged, gray-clad bandit you appear to be.”

Morigna laughed. “Is that so?” She had a knack for spotting insecurities, and it seemed she had seen one in the halfling. “Are you so ashamed of coming from Caerdracon, then? What did you do, hmm? Steal a sheep and flee the realm to avoid the Dux’s wrath?”

“I romanced your mother,” said the halfling, his eyes narrowing, “and your twin sister. At the same time.”

Morigna’s laughter redoubled. “Unlikely, as my mother has been dead for fourteen years, and I have no sister.”

“Well she is clearly no noblewoman,” said the halfling, looking at Ridmark.

“I should hope not,” said Morigna.

“Then I bid you good fortune,” said the halfling. “And enjoy the amenities of Otto’s little hovel here.”

He strode away without another words, his boots thumping against the planks of the porch.

“A friend of yours?” said Morigna.

“No,” said Ridmark. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“He wasn’t this…Smiling Otto?” said Gavin.

“He certainly wasn’t smiling when he left,” said Morigna.

“There were some halflings in Aranaeus,” said Gavin. “They were so quiet and polite. Nothing like this man.”

“They were likely domestic servants,” said Ridmark. “Sworn to lifelong service to a noble or a monastery.”

Gavin scowled. “Morwen’s servants were halflings.”

“Then I hope she did not feed them to her mother,” said Ridmark. “Keep an eye out for our new friend. Otto might be trying to play a game with us.”

He pushed open the door and stepped into the tavern. It was cavernous, a pair of hearths throwing wild shadows over the rough stone walls. Long benches and tables filled the space, no doubt to accommodate the crews of the smuggling boats. Right now the tavern was deserted, save for a scowling keeper standing guard over the casks of wine and ale in the back of the hall.

Smiling Otto sat upon one of the benches, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger and staring at Ridmark.

He was a halfling, his face gaunt, almost skull-like, his hair a tangled graying mass. He wore a ragged gray coat and trousers, his boots worn and dusty. A vicious scar went down the left side of his face, giving his eyelid a permanent droop and his lip a twisted, mocking smile.

Smiling Otto rarely smiled.

“Well,” said Otto, his voice a gravely rasp. “I thought old Quintus had too much to drink…but here you are. The Gray Knight himself. I thought the orcs of Kothluusk would have eaten you years ago.”

“They tried,” said Ridmark. “I fear I am indigestible.” Morigna laughed.

“So it would seem,” said Otto. “Did you find the book you sought?”

“No,” said Ridmark. He had gone into the mountains of Kothluusk, seeking a monastery that had been destroyed soon after the defeat of the Frostborn. He had hoped to find a chronicle of the Frostborn in the monastery, but the monastery’s library had been destroyed long ago. “But I eventually found some of the answers I sought.”

“Oh?” said Otto. “Well, don’t keep secrets from an old man.”

“The omen of blue fire forty-four days past,” said Ridmark. “That was a sign of the return of the Frostborn. I don’t know how or why, not yet, but they will return sometime within a year and a month of the blue flame.”

“Unless you find a way to stop them, of course,” said Otto.

Gavin blinked. “How did you know that, sir?”

Otto cackled. “Sir? I am no knight, my boy…but your squire is polite, Gray Knight.”

“Father Martel said it was proper to respect one’s elders, sir,” said Gavin.

“A wise priest, then,” said Otto. He pointed at Ridmark. “The Gray Knight. That legend started for a reason. You could never turn away from someone in need, could you?”

“Like you?” said Ridmark. “Those bandits would have killed you if I had not happened along.”

“Like me,” agreed Otto. “So you’re going to stop the Frostborn from returning, are you? Just how will you do that?”

“I am going to Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark, “and I will challenge the Warden to one of his games, defeat him, and demand the knowledge for my prize.”

Otto stared at him for a moment, the dagger flickering over his fingernails.

“You haven’t grown any saner in the last three years, I see,” said Otto.

Morigna scowled. “You do not believe him?”

“Of course I believe him, girl,” said Otto.

“You do?” said Gavin. “Forgive me, sir, but most people we have spoken with seem…dubious.”

“I am not most people,” said Otto. “I’m an old man. I can feel the storms coming in my bones. I felt it the moment I looked up and saw that damned blue fire in the sky. I have lived a rough life, and have endured some things and done some things I regret.” He gestured at his scar with the dagger. “But worse is coming. I’m sure of that. The orcs of Kothluusk are stirring, and I hear tales of creatures moving in the forests. Worse is coming, you mark my words.”

“It may be,” said Ridmark, “unless my companions and I can stop the Frostborn from returning.”

“Your companions?” said Otto. “You convinced others to follow you?”

“They convinced themselves,” said Ridmark.

Otto snorted. “I suppose you saved a collection of fools who then chose to follow you?”

“You are more right than you know, old man,” said Morigna.

Ridmark glanced at her. She was looking at him, not at Otto. And there was something in her face…admiration? Respect?

Affection, even?

He looked away, surprised at the guilt that flashed through him.

“I suppose you’ve come to me for help?” said Otto.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “One of my friends was brought low by a wyvern’s venom. He is unconscious for now, but without saltflower, he will die. The only place to find saltflower so far from the sea is Coldinium…”

“And you need one of my boats to take you there in haste,” said Otto.

Ridmark nodded. “I can pay.”

“You’re a fool, you know that?” said Otto. “That brand on your face means any knight or man-at-arms who sees you will try to arrest you. Or kill you. And Dux Tarrabus still has a huge price upon your head. Occasionally hunters come to Vulmhosk, seeking you.” Perhaps that explained the peculiar halfling. “In fact, Sir Paul Tallmane himself passed through a few weeks ago with a broken hand, swearing that he would add his own wealth to the price upon the head of Ridmark Arban.” Otto smirked. “I wonder why he decided to do that.”

“I broke his hand,” said Ridmark.

“That would put a man in a foul mood,” said Otto. “If you go to Coldinium, Gray Knight, you are going to die. It is reckless even by your standards.”

“Since I am planning to go to Urd Morlemoch after I leave Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “I think I can endure the risk.”

For a moment Otto sat in silence, tapping his dagger against the table.

“Still the same man,” said Otto. “Still determined to save people even when it is a fool’s quest. But I cannot blame you. Not when I would be dead, if not for your folly.” He smirked again. “Besides, I am a man of business. I can hardly conduct business if the Frostborn turn the world to ice.”

“Then you will aid us?” said Ridmark.

“One of my boats sails for Coldinium tomorrow,” said Otto, “to take on cargo to sell to the villages of the Wilderland. I will bid them to convey you to Coldinium.”

“That is unusually generous of you,” said Morigna, “for…”

“For a thief and a smuggler?” said Otto.

“You said it,” said Morigna, “not I.”

“Your face is as transparent as it is pretty,” said Otto. “A pity you aren’t shorter. Or that I am not thirty years younger. But I owe the Gray Knight my life. And if he says the Frostborn are returning, they are returning." He stood up with a grunt, sliding his dagger into its sheath. “You can lodge here tonight. My boat sets out after sunrise for…”

The door to the tavern burst open, and Quintus ran into the room.

“Quintus?” said Otto. “What is it?”

“Orcs,” said Quintus, breathing hard.

Otto scowled. “There are always orcs here.”

“No!” said Quintus. “Mhorite orcs, out of Kothluusk.”

Ridmark gripped his staff tighter.

“Scores of them, coming out of the woods,” said Quintus. “They’re preparing to attack the palisade.”

“Damned raiders,” said Otto. “Call out all my guards. Every man with a weapon is to get to the palisade. Tell the merchants to fight, too, if they’re not too lily-livered. Those Kothluuskan orcs get inside Vulmhosk, they’ll take our heads as an offering to Mhor.”

“You shall have our aid as well,” said Ridmark, and Gavin nodded.

“Looks like you’ll earn that boat yet,” said Otto.

“But it’s worse than that!” said Quintus, his fear plain. “They have a shaman with them. He’s burning with his own dark magic.” He looked at Morigna. “I suppose we’ll see how strong your magic is, witch.”

Chapter 5 - Sons of Mhor

Calliande left Kharlacht with Azakhun’s retainers and hurried up the ladder to the palisade’s rampart. A few of the mercenaries looked at her askance, but she ignored them.

They both had bigger problems upon their hands.

Scores of orcs came from the forest, clad in leather and fur. They carried spears and swords and axes, and a few of them had rough-hewn ladders. All the orcs bore the same ritual scars and tattoos Calliande had seen upon the warriors they had fought three days earlier, the scars transforming their faces into hideous crimson skulls.

Mhorite orcs.

Were they looking for Ridmark, too?

“God and his saints,” said one of the mercenaries. “What is…is that?”

He hadn’t been asking her, but Calliande answered nonetheless. “A shaman of the orcish gods.”

The mercenary looked at her with fear on his face, and then back at the advancing orcs.

Calliande had encountered orcish shamans of the blood gods before. Vlazar had been young and arrogant, while his master Qazarl had been old and withered. This shaman was neither. He was huge, nearly seven and a half feet tall, and wore only a pair of ragged trousers. Like the others, his tusked face had been scarred and tattooed into the image of a crimson skull, bronze rings glittering in his nose and ears. Three human skulls, each one painted crimson, hung from his belt.

In his right hand he carried an enormous double-bladed axe, the metal as black as a moonless night. Sigils of crimson flame burned upon the blades, and Calliande worked the spell to sense the presence of magic. Spells of blood and death and dark magic blazed on the weapon, and she suspected the evil thing could kill with a scratch. Likely the mighty orcish shamans of old had made the weapon, when they had still been slaves and vassals of the wizards of the dark elves.

Or this shaman had been strong enough to create the thing himself.

The shaman held out the axe, and another warrior scurried forward to hold it. The hulking shaman strode forward a few steps, the crimson battle rage of his orcish blood glimmering in his black eyes. He lifted his hands, the muscles in his thick arms knotting.

Shadows and bloody fire blazed around his fingers as he started casting a spell.

Calliande recognized the spell. It was dark magic intended to summon corruption and decay. Was he going to cast it upon the men on the walls? No, he was aiming at the gate. More specifically, at the timbers of the gate. His spell would rot away the wood, leaving the palisade vulnerable.

And then the Mhorites would storm inside and kill everyone.

The shaman flung out his hands, and Calliande cast a spell of her own. White light flared around her, and one of the mercenaries shouted in alarm. Calliande gestured, and a dome of white light appeared before the gate. A burst of shadow and fire tore from the shaman’s fist and slammed into Calliande’s warding spell. She gritted her teeth and braced her mind as the shaman’s dark magic strained against her spell. She had felt stronger attacks from Coriolus and Agrimnalazur.

But shaman still possessed considerable power.

The shaman narrowed his eyes and stared at Calliande, his lips curling away from his teeth in a snarl.

###

Smiling Otto hurried from the tavern, carrying a loaded crossbow. Quintus followed him, and Ridmark came after, Gavin and Morigna at his side.

The strange halfling in the black leather jerkin watched as they went past. After a moment he unfolded his arms and followed them.

“Damn the Mhorites,” said Otto. “Damn them! If they want trouble, we’ll give it to them. We’ll give them so much trouble they’ll bloody well choke on it.”

They reached the palisade. Caius hurried over. “Gray Knight! Mhorites at the walls. We…”

“I heard,” said Ridmark. “Have the dwarves take Kharlacht to the tavern. He’ll be safe enough there. Then all of you join us on the walls. I suspect we’ll need every sword and axe before this is done.” He saw Azakhun and the other dwarves standing guard over Kharlacht. “Where’s Calliande? Did…”

There was a pulse of bloody radiance, followed by a flash of white light and a loud sizzling noise.

“It seems she is occupied,” said Caius.

“Go,” said Ridmark. Caius ran back to the dwarves. Smiling Otto and Quintus climbed to the ramparts, and Ridmark followed him.

“God and the apostles,” said Otto. “So damned many of them.”

There were eighty or ninety of the Kothluuskan orcs, unless further reserves skulked out of sight in the trees. A hulking giant of an orc led them, his head shaved in the manner of orcish shamans. A huge double-bladed axe rested in his right hand, the blades burning with bloody sigils. Ridmark had seen such weapons before, products of the dark magic the pagan orcs had learned from the dark elves long ago.

Calliande stood over the gate, white light glimmering around her fingers.

“And just who the devil are you?” said Otto.

She looked at Otto. “Calliande of the Magistri. I traveled here with Ridmark.”

Otto snorted. “Two of them?” He looked at Ridmark. “You have two of these lovely sorceresses following you? That’s going to cause some trouble.”

Morigna narrowed her eyes, and Calliande opened her mouth to speak.

“We have larger problems just now,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff over the palisade.

“Aye,” said Otto. Caius and the other dwarves climbed to the rampart. The halfling in the black leather jerkin followed them, and Otto pointed at him. “You. Jager. What are you doing up here? Thought you’d be hiding in the cellar.”

Jager shrugged, his amber eyes glinting. “Why, you wound me, dear Otto. If those orcs get inside the palisade, they’ll kill us all. If I am to die, better to die fighting than waiting for a Mhorite to take my head for his dusty old god.”

“Very well,” said Otto, his scarred lip twitching. He turned to Ridmark. “So what do you suggest, Gray Knight? Of every man here, you know the most of war…and I’m sure the magic of your lovely sorceresses will prove useful. What would you have us do?”

“For now, wait,” said Ridmark. “I assume that shaman tried a spell to open the gate?” Calliande nodded. “Then they haven’t come here to trade or talk.”

“The presence of those siege ladders would suggest as much,” said Jager.

Ridmark nodded. The strange halfling had been clever to spot them. Which made him wonder again who the halfling was and why he had come to Vulmhosk. “Aye. Which means our foe is prepared, and therefore cunning. The palisade is stout, and as long as Calliande is here he cannot use his magic to batter down the defenses. So it is up to him to take the initiative.”

“And when he does?” said Otto. “I have thirty men here to keep order. They’re tough fighters, aye, but they’ve only seen action against bandits and raiders. These Mhorites are fanatics.”

“Your position is stronger than you think,” said Ridmark. “Calliande and Morigna can aid us with their magic. And the shaman does not have enough men to storm this place, not unless there are more lurking out of a sight. If the battle goes ill, you can retreat to your boats and flee across the lake.”

Otto scratched at his scar. “Then why are they attacking us?”

“If we wait long enough,” said Ridmark, “I suspect we shall find out.”

“It appears we shall not have to wait very long,” said Caius.

The shaman walked from the ranks of the orcish warriors, his massive axe in hand. The men on the palisade raised their crossbows, and the shaman stopped just out of range.

“Hear me!” roared the shaman in orcish, his voice a booming snarl. “I am Mournacht, servant of the great god Mhor! I will speak with whatever rat rules over this dung heap! Speak with me, or know my fury!”

“I believe that is me,” said Otto.

“I have a spell,” said Calliande, “that can amplify your voice.”

“Ah, splendid,” said Otto. “I’ve always wanted to shout threats over a wall.”

Calliande cast the spell, and Otto climbed upon the palisade, gripping one of the stakes for balance.

“Well?” said Otto, his voice echoing over the field. “What do you want? If you’ve come here to trade, you can do it without throwing dark magic at my walls. If you’ve come to hire whores…well, you’re so ugly they’ll have to charge triple!”

The mercenaries hooted with laughter, some of them offering rude gestures to the waiting orcs.

“Bold words,” said Mournacht, “from a halfling rat. Your kindred are fit for the lash and nothing more.” Jager’s expression hardened, one of his hands curling into a fist. “Perhaps I’ll make you repeat those words, again and again, as I cut the fingers from your hands one by one.”

Otto grinned. “Hard to do that from out there, isn’t it?”

“Do you think you can withstand me?” said Mournacht. “With your walls of sticks and your men who fight for copper coins?”

“Do you think you can batter your way inside?” said Otto. He gestured at Calliande. “Seems like the Magistria already blocked your spell. Hope you brought enough food for your boys, Mournacht, because they’re going to get hungry soon.”

“Shout defiance all you want, little halfling,” said Mournacht. “I will summon more of my people from the mountains. We shall keep you holed up in your den. Try to flee in your ships and we shall burn them. Your pet Magistria’s strength will not last forever, not against the fury of Mhor. And when your defenses have failed and I take you, I shall hang you from the tower and let the ravens feast upon you.” He pointed his axe at the palisade and swept it before him. “You will perish. Everyone last man who holds a weapon against me will suffer agony for days before I at last grant you the mercy of death!”

An uneasy murmur went through the mercenaries. These were not knights and men-at-arms of Andomhaim, sworn to fight for their lords, or even militia, fighting to defend their homes from marauders. These men were mercenaries, perhaps even former bandits, the dregs of Andomhaim come to seek their fortune in the Wilderland. If Mournacht applied the right pressure, they would flee without a fight.

“Such fine threats you are making,” said Otto. “I assume there is something you want?”

“Indeed there is, rat,” said Mournacht. “Give me what I want, and I shall leave you and your nest of vermin in peace. Refuse, and I shall kill you all.”

“And just what do you want?” said Otto.

“Ridmark Arban,” said Mournacht.

Otto frowned. “What?”

“Gray Knight!” roared Mournacht. “I know you are there. Come and face me! Or do you hide behind that withered rodent of a halfling?”

Ridmark pulled himself up to stand beside Otto. “I am here!” He wondered why Mournacht wanted him dead. Had he wronged the shaman at some point in the past? Or was Mournacht seeking fame and glory by killing the Gray Knight?

Or had someone else instructed Mournacht to kill him?

“Surrender yourself to me, Gray Knight,” rumbled Mournacht.

“Why?” said Ridmark. “Why do you want me dead?”

“You have offended the Heralds of Mhor twice,” said Mournacht. “No one crosses them and lives.”

“Yet I am still here,” said Ridmark.

“I shall make this simple for you,” said Mournacht, smiling. “Surrender yourself to me, and I shall depart in peace. Resist, and I shall take Vulmhosk, burn it to the ground, and kill everyone I find within its walls. Decide now.”

An angry murmur went up from the ramparts. The thoughts of the mercenaries were plain. Why not hand Ridmark over to the orcs? He saw Morigna and Calliande draw themselves up, summoning magic, saw Caius and Gavin and Azakhun prepare their weapons. If Otto and the mercenaries tried to hand over Ridmark, his companions would fight.

And in the chaos, Mournacht could easily take Vulmhosk.

Ridmark needed to do something, now.

So he threw back his head and laughed long and loud.

The mercenaries stared at him in confusion, and even Mournacht looked taken back.

“You are pathetic,” said Ridmark. “You are not worthy to call yourself of a servant of Mhor. Does not Mhor praise brave warriors? And yet you expect me to surrender myself? Do you know who I am? I am Ridmark Arban! I broke Mhalek’s army below the slopes of the Black Mountain and made his warriors as dust on the threshing floor. I hunted him down and slew him for his crimes.” Again he saw the blood spreading across the floor of Castra Marcaine’s great hall. “I have twice faced female urdmordar in battle, and twice I have prevailed. I have ranged the length and breadth of the Wilderland, I have dared the Deeps, and still I live! And you, mighty warrior, you have the temerity to demand that I surrender? Pathetic! You demand my surrender because you are too weak to take my life. You are an unworthy servant of Mhor, and your warriors are fools and cravens to follow a weakling like you!”

An angry murmur went up from the Mhorite orcs, and Mournacht roared, waving his axe before him as if it were no more than a slender branch.

“You dare to mock me, human worm?” bellowed Mournacht. “I would have slain you because the Heralds demanded it of me, but for your impudence, you will suffer! You will know agony, you will…”

“Be silent unless you have the will to act on your empty words!” said Ridmark. “Before these witnesses, before humans and orcs and halflings and dwarves, I challenge you to a duel, Mournacht, false servant of Mhor! Prove your swords with steel!”

“So be it!” said Mournacht. “What are your terms?”

“We shall fight with weapons,” said Ridmark. “No sorcery or spells. No one shall interfere. If I am slain, your mission is accomplished and you can depart in peace. But if I slay you, your men shall depart and trouble Vulmhosk no further.”

“So be it,” said Mournacht. “We shall fight halfway between the palisade and my warriors, accompanied by a herald of your choice. Come forth!”

Ridmark dropped down from the palisade, and Otto followed suit.

“You’re mad,” said Otto. “You’re actually going out there?”

“If I don’t,” said Ridmark, “can you stop your men from throwing me over the wall?”

Otto hesitated, which was answer enough.

“You’re risking your life unnecessarily again,” said Calliande, her mouth a tight line. She usually took that tone when lecturing him about his guilt. But there was fear, real fear, in her blue eyes.

He remembered their kiss and felt a pang of guilt.

“Do you have a better plan?” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Calliande. “Stay inside the palisade and don’t take this risk.”

“The Kothluuskan orcs are here for me,” said Ridmark. “I don’t have the right to ask Otto’s men to die to save me. Perhaps I risk my life too often, but I always have a reason. I can force Mournacht to retreat.”

“How?” said Calliande.

“He cannot use magic during our duel,” said Ridmark. “If he does, the agreement is broken, and you can act freely. I assume you both can hit him with spells.”

Morigna grinned. It made her look fierce, almost feral. “I could melt the skin from his bones, if I wished.”

“And I could work a warding and augmentation spell around you,” said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded. “And Otto’s men can use their crossbows.”

“How are you so certain,” said Calliande, “that Mournacht is going to use magic?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “I’m going to force him to it. I will press him hard enough that he has no choice but use his magic. When he does, strike at him. If Mournacht is slain, and his warriors bloodied, they will lose heart and likely retreat.”

“And can you challenge him severely enough that he will resort to his spells?” said Calliande.

“Well.” Ridmark looked over the wall. “Let us find out.”

Calliande sighed, closed her eyes, and nodded. “May God go with you.”

“Fear not, lady Magistria,” said Otto. “God favors fools and madmen, and while the Gray Knight is the latter I am definitely the former.”

“Then I suppose victory is all but assured,” said Morigna.

“You will need a herald, I trust,” said Caius.

“You’ve done it before,” said Ridmark.

He strode from the ramparts with Caius, every eye upon him. He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his grip on the staff. The men opened the gate, crossbows raised in case Mournacht attempted any treachery, but the Mhorites remained motionless.

“Our cause is just,” said Caius, “and the might of the Lord shall be with us.”

Ridmark wondered what Azakhun would say to that. An odd thing to think about, given that he might die in the next few moments.

“Let us hope that God agrees with you,” said Ridmark, and walked through the gate.

###

Morigna held a spell ready, watching the scene play out before her.

She felt the steady pulse of Calliande’s power as the Magistria summoned magic.

Ridmark and Caius strode from the palisade and stopped a dozen paces from Mournacht. Another Mhorite orc came from the warband and joined them. Caius and the orc argued for a few moments, and then walked twenty paces away, marking out a circle in the rocky ground. Morigna had never seen a formal duel between champions before, but she had read of the rules in one of the Old Man’s books. The two champions would fight within the bounds of the circle. The first one to leave the circle, to accept aid from another, or to break another rule, such as the condition against using magic, would lose the duel. Otherwise the fight would be until first blood.

But that was in more civilized lands. Morigna doubted that Mournacht would stop at first blood.

Nor, for that matter, would Ridmark.

She watched him as Caius and the orcish herald argued. Ridmark stood motionless, staff low and loose in his right hand, his gray cloak rippling in the breeze coming off the lake. He looked calm, almost indifferent, but Morigna knew better. He could explode into motion in a heartbeat, his staff dealing death.

“Quintus,” said Otto. “Get the engine ready.”

The grizzled mercenary frowned. “Why? We might not need it. If that brute kills the Gray Knight, he’ll leave us in peace.”

“Do you really trust the word of a Mhorite orc? Are you as stupid as you look?” said Otto. “Get it ready. That warband isn’t moving, so you should have plenty of time to get it targeted.”

Quintus grumbled a few curses, but descended from the wall and headed towards the ruined tower.

“Engine?” said Calliande.

“A little something I purchased a few years back,” said Otto, “to help discourage unwelcome visitors. Maintaining peace in an…establishment such as mine is often difficult.”

Calliande nodded, keeping her eyes on Ridmark. She had been acting oddly around him since Kharlacht had been poisoned. Morigna suspected that Calliande blamed Ridmark for Kharlacht’s injury, and now sought to punish him for it. If so, it was a ridiculous plan. Ridmark would do what he thought best.

“Have you known him long?” said a deep voice.

Morigna saw the amber-eyed halfling staring at her, the peculiar man who had engaged Ridmark in conversation outside the tavern. Jager, that was his name.

“A short time,” said Morigna.

“Is he always so…” Jager paused, tilting his head to the side.

“Bold?” said Morigna.

“I would say reckless,” said Jager, “but I suppose ‘bold’ would be the polite term, yes.”

“You are correct,” said Morigna. “His boldness saved my life.”

The halfling grinned. “Is that why you are so besotted with him? Or is it the brand? I imagine women love a dangerous man…”

“As if you would know,” said Morigna.

Jager raised his hand in a mocking little salute. “Indeed. But he has the brand of a coward upon his face, and the proud and haughty knights of Andomhaim do not often mark their brethren so. No matter how egregious their offenses.”

“Bitter?” said Morigna, watching Caius haggle with the orcish herald.

“Merely observant,” said Jager. “I would not expect a man with a coward’s brand to have so many followers…yet here we are.”

“He saved our lives,” said Morigna. “That brand is an injustice, had you only the wit to see it.”

Jager nodded, staring at Ridmark.

“Regrettable,” he said at last.

“What is?” said Morigna.

“Merely that he undeservedly bears a coward’s brand,” said Jager. His tone grew bitter. “But when has there ever been justice in the world?”

“If you find some, do let me know,” said Morigna. “Then I would enjoy playing you at dice.”

Jager snorted. “And taking my every last copper coin, I assume. I do not know if there is a proverb warning against dicing with sorceresses, but there ought to…”

“Enough,” said Calliande. “They’re starting.”

Caius and the orcish herald backed off, and Ridmark and Mournacht faced each other. Then Mournacht started to circle to Ridmark’s left, and Ridmark moved to his right. Mournacht, for all his bulk, moved with a precise, deadly grace, the huge axe motionless in his fist. Ridmark was fast and strong, but the huge Mhorite orc was obviously stronger and at least as fast. The Gray Knight might find himself overmatched.

Morigna did not want to see him die. Not after he had risked everything to save her from Coriolus.

If need be, she would ignore his instructions and use her magic to intervene in the duel. He would be annoyed, of course, but that hardly mattered. Mournacht undoubtedly planned some treachery. Morigna would simply be treacherous first.

And then Mournacht moved, so fast that Morigna barely followed the movement.

One moment Mournacht circled Ridmark, his axe hanging loose in his right hand. The next the huge orc towered over Ridmark, his weapon a blaze of crimson flame and black steel. The blow could have split a tree in two. Yet Ridmark somehow danced to the side, the sweep of the axe barely missing him. He retreated as Mournacht drove at him, swinging the axe with terrifying speed. Yet somehow Ridmark stayed ahead of him, and Morigna wondered how Ridmark could possibly avoid the blows.

Then she saw Ridmark glance at the shaman’s feet, and she understood. To swing those mighty blows, Mournacht needed proper footing. Ridmark need only glance at Mournacht’s feet to anticipate the next blow.

Of course, if Mournacht feinted, or if Ridmark guessed wrong, a single strike from that axe would kill him.

Morigna saw Calliande’s lips moving, and wondered if the Magistria was casting a spell. But, no, her aura of power remained constant.

She was praying in silence.

Morigna scowled. God, if he even existed, had never lifted a finger to aid Morigna. Ridmark had saved her life through his strength and courage and cunning. Strength alone was the only thing that could guarantee security. Not prayer, not love, not mercy.

Only power.

And she would use her power to save him, if she could.

But he might not need her help.

Mournacht was fast, but it took him time to recover from his swings. And in that time, in that instant, Ridmark landed a blow with his staff. It was never a heavy blow, and Mournacht recovered before Ridmark could do any serious damage. But bruises started to spread across Mournacht’s green-skinned torso, and she saw a faint hitch in his step from where Ridmark’s staff had impacted his knee.

“The fool should have worn armor,” said Jager.

“I agree, sir,” said Gavin. “If he had, the Gray Knight’s blows would just bounce off him. But as it is…”

“He’s losing,” said Calliande. “He’s used to employing spells to make himself stronger and faster, and…”

Blood-colored fire burned around Mournacht’s hands, and suddenly he moved faster than Ridmark could match.

“A spell is cast!” roared Caius, his deep voice rolling over the field. “The terms of the duel are broken!”

“Kill them!” howled Mournacht, stalking after Ridmark. “Kill them all! Show no mercy!”

“Quintus!” said Otto, yanking off his coat and waving it over his head like a banner. “Now! Damn you, now!”

The Mhorite orcs charged, while the orcish herald ran at Caius, who yanked the mace from his belt. Mournacht leapt at Ridmark, and Ridmark barely dodged the massive black axe. His boot caught on the ground, and he lost his balance and fell upon his back.

Mournacht howled in glee and raised his axe for the killing blow.

“No!” said Calliande, gesturing as she unleashed her magic, and Morigna worked a spell of her own. The white light of a ward appeared around Ridmark, and he rolled to the side as Morigna gestured. A column of white mist swirled around Mournacht. Yet sigils of bloody light sprang to life upon Mournacht’s chest and back, wards of his own, and Morigna’s mist did him no harm.

Yet she had captured his attention.

Mournacht thrust his free hand at her, and a bolt of shadow and crimson flame burst from his fingers and hurtled towards the ramparts. Morigna struck her staff against the palisade, the dead wood responding to her will, and one of the logs heaved up. Mournacht’s spell slammed into it, and the log withered and crumbled into smoking ash. Mournacht began another spell, but by then Ridmark had regained his feet, and the shaman spun to face the threat. A moment later both men were locked in combat, the staff and the black axe blurring. Caius dispatched the orcish herald with his mace, the crack of the killing blow coming to Morigna’s ears, and ran to aid Ridmark. The other Mhorites charged at the duel, and the men upon the wall loosed a volley of crossbow bolts. A dozen orcs fell, wounded or dead, and Morigna cursed and summoned more power. The crossbows were well and good, but the Kothluuskan orcs would overwhelm Ridmark…

She heard a loud, metallic thud from the ruined tower and turned her head just in time to see a fireball arc overhead, leaving a long trail of greasy black smoke in its wake. Smiling Otto whooped like a child, and the fireball crashed into the midst of the charging orcs. It exploded, and the flames engulfed a score of Mhorites. Some fell dead, killed by the blast, while others ran back and forth, flailing as they tried to quench the flames devouring their flesh.

“What was that?” said Gavin. The crossbowmen reloaded and sent another volley into the shocked orcs. Some of the Mhorites fled back into the trees. Morigna felt her lip twist in contempt. For all their desire to offer sacrifices to Mhor, they did not seem terribly eager to meet him in person.

Mournacht dodged, putting himself out of reach of Ridmark’s staff.

“Cowards!” he roared. “Stand and fight! You disgrace Mhor! Fight!”

But the panic had begun, and the Kothluuskan orcs fled into the woods.

“A catapult,” said Otto, still cackling as he pulled his coat back on.

Calliande flung a burst of white fire that slammed into Mournacht. Her spell could not harm him, but it did eat into his wards, the sigils flickering and dimming. Morigna saw the Magistria’s plan at once. If Calliande knocked down his wards, Morigna could hit him with a killing spell.

Mournacht came to the same realization, and ran after his warriors as they fled into the trees.

“Where did you get a catapult, sir?” said Gavin.

“Bought it off one of Dux Tarrabus’s men,” said Otto. Jager gave him a sharp look. “The Dux of Caerdracon holds the Iron Tower. Sometimes the Tower’s garrison comes to Vulmhosk to trade and enjoy themselves. I bought the catapult from one of the Constable’s officers. Figured it would be useful if I had unwelcome visitors.”

“A wise purchase,” said Gavin.

The remaining orcs vanished into the trees.

###

Ridmark walked through the palisade gate, Caius following him.

Calliande awaited him. “You are uninjured?”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “A bit bruised from the fall, but otherwise well. That damned axe is too large of a weapon. He would be better fighting with a single-bladed axe and a shield.”

Caius laughed. “I am sure he would be glad to accept your counsel.”

“Clever timing with the catapult,” said Ridmark.

“I thought so,” said Smiling Otto. Behind his scar he looked smug. “I won’t even charge you for the barrel of oil.”

“Generous,” said Ridmark. “Our arrangement still stands?”

“Aye, it does,” said Otto. “The sooner you are gone, the better. That orc shaman is going to be wroth with you, Gray Knight. If he thinks Mhor wants you dead, he is going to keep hunting for you.”

“He will have a harder time killing me in Coldinium,” said Ridmark.

“No, the Comes’ men-at-arms will do it for him,” said Otto.

Ridmark nodded. The Mhorite orcs would not dare to attack him in Coldinium. But assuming he did not get killed with in the walls of Coldinium, sooner or later he would resume the journey to Urd Morlemoch. Mournacht and his followers would be waiting for him.

He had manipulated Mournacht once by offering the duel. He suspected the shaman would not be so easy to trick a second time.

“The sooner we are gone from here, the better,” said Ridmark.

“While I am grateful for your help,” said Otto, “I could not agree more.”

They left the next morning, sailing on one of Otto’s boats.

Chapter 6 - The Lake of Battles

The boat was crowded.

Calliande stood on the stern, mostly because it was the least cluttered space on the deck. Bales of furs and barrels of orcish rum had been lashed to the deck with nets of tough rope. A single mast rose from the center of the boat, and Smiling Otto’s crew moved back and forth along the rigging, checking the sail and rudder and descending below to pull the oars when the wind stopped. The boundaries of the High King’s realm might have stopped at Coldinium and the Iron Tower, but trade between the tribes of the Wilderland and the subjects of the High King carried on nonetheless, even if the laws of Andomhaim forbade it. Calliande supposed that was the nature of mankind. There were always things to be bought and sold, and even the scriptures said that buying and selling would continue until the Dominus Christus returned in glory.

She supposed it was better than war.

Calliande turned her head from the rippling gray water of the lake. Azakhun and his two warriors trained in a small open space near the bow, with Gavin watching intently. The boat and its cargo did not smell good, the breeze coming off the lake was cold, and the deck rolled with every wave.

Calliande ought to have been miserable. Mournacht and his orcs were still hunting for them. She still did not know who she was or where to find Dragonfall. Shadowbearer sought to kill her and take the empty soulstone for some purpose tied up with the return of the Frostborn.

And yet…she felt at peace.

It was the memory summoned up by the stoneberries she had eaten. She must have spent a great deal of time on boats like this as a child all those centuries ago. Calliande at felt at home the minute she set foot upon the boat, knew how to walk across the deck without losing her footing, understood the obscure jargon the sailors used as they went about their tasks.

She was reasonably sure she could climb the rigging and adjust the sail, if she felt like it.

The deck creaked, and Ridmark stepped around one of the bales of cargo.

“How is Morigna?” said Calliande.

Ridmark grimaced. “She is better, though mostly because there is nothing left to throw up.”

“Water travel is not for everyone,” said Calliande. She shook her head. “A spell might ease the discomfort. I wish she would…”

“She is determined to suffer on in silence, I think,” said Ridmark, “to prove that she can do so.”

Calliande shook her head. “That is dangerous.”

Ridmark lifted an eyebrow. “Throwing up over the side of the boat? Only if she loses her balance.”

“No.” Calliande considered her words. “Her…determination to be strong. Her belief that power is good above all other things. Those are dangerous beliefs for a user of magic to have. It leads to men like Coriolus and Talvinius.”

“We cannot worry about what she will be in the future,” said Ridmark, “only what she is now. And she helped us at Moraime, and against the Mhorite orcs.”

“I suppose you are right,” said Calliande. “I cannot blame her from what I think she might one day do. But it does alarm me, Ridmark.”

Ridmark nodded. “We cannot see the future. Perhaps a storm will come up, sink the boat, and solve all of our problems at once.”

Calliande laughed. “That would be a very…abrupt conclusion to our tale.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Ridmark stared into the lake, and a tangle of emotion went through Calliande. What did she feel for him, this brave man who could not forgive himself? Part of her wanted him to kiss her again. Another part of her realized that was likely unwise.

“Tell me true,” said Calliande. “When we get to Coldinium, how much danger will you be in?”

“Some,” said Ridmark. He gestured at his face. “Brands for cowardice are not lightly given. They mark me as an outcast and an exile. So long as I am not recognized, it should be safe enough.”

“But you might be recognized,” said Calliande. “From what I’ve heard, there were thousands of men at the Black Mountain the day you defeated Mhalek.”

“Tens of thousands,” said Ridmark. “The gathered might of the High King’s realm, every man of Andomhaim able to hold a spear and a sword. Any one of them might recognize me and try to collect Tarrabus’s bounty.”

“But you were safe enough in Dun Licinia,” said Calliande.

“Because Sir Joram is a friend,” said Ridmark. He shook his head. “And I had only planned to stop in Dun Licinia long enough to purchase supplies before returning to the Wilderland. Then Joram asked me to find Caius, I found the Mhalekite orcs…and, well, you were there for the rest.”

Calliande nodded. She remembered her ordeal at the hands of Qazarl’s followers better than she would like.

“But there are many men friendly to Tarrabus Carhaine in Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “and if they see me, they will be more than happy to kill me and collect the reward from the Dux.”

“That is appalling,” said Calliande. “Tarrabus Carhaine does not have the right to pass a capital sentence upon you, and you did nothing that deserves death.”

“He may not have the right, but he did it anyway,” said Ridmark. As usual, he did not try to claim that he deserved life instead of death. “And if I’m killed, I am sure the Comes of Coldinium will arrest my killer for murder. But Tarrabus has much influence, and my murderer would likely find himself living in comfort in some benefice in Caerdracon.”

“The Comes of Coldinium,” said Calliande. “Is he one of Tarrabus’s men?”

Ridmark gave her a strange look, and then nodded.

“What is it?” she said.

“You know nothing of Coldinium?” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Calliande. She shrugged. “Before I put myself into the long sleep, I must have never visited there.”

“I suspect you know nothing of Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “because the city was not founded until the Year of Our Lord 1307, the year the High King crushed the Eternalists. There was a castra there, and one of the last Eternalists fled there. After he was defeated, the town of Coldinium grew up around the castra.” He scratched at his chin. “Which means you went into your sleep before that.”

“You told me the Tower of Vigilance was built in 1256,” said Calliande, voice quiet. “I assume I…put myself into the vault sometime after that.” She did not like to think of it. That had been over two hundred years ago, and while Calliande looked like a woman in her middle twenties, she had no idea how old she truly was. Or who she truly was, for that matter.

If she learned the truth, would she hate herself as much as Ridmark hated himself?

“But that doesn’t answer my question,” said Calliande. “Is the Comes of Coldinium one of Tarrabus’s men?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “The Comes is a vassal of the High King directly. It is not a hereditary office, and the High King appoints a new Comes when the old one dies. The current lord of Coldinium is Corbanic Lamorus. A good man, a friend of my father’s.” He sighed. “He lost a son at Dun Licinia, killed when Mhalek murdered the ambassadors. And he has little love for Tarrabus Carhaine.” He tapped his staff against the railing for a moment. “But I hope to remain unobserved. We shall get into the city, heal Kharlacht, and leave at once.”

“You seem confident we can find saltflower,” said Calliande.

“I am,” said Ridmark. “There is an apothecary in Coldinium who owes me a favor.”

Calliande laughed.

“What?” said Ridmark. “Why is that funny?”

“How many people owe you favors, Ridmark Arban?” she said. “A halfling smuggler and an apothecary of Coldinium? How many lives have you saved?”

“Not enough,” said Ridmark.

She knew he was thinking Aelia again.

“Promise me this,” said Calliande. “That you will not try to get yourself killed in Coldinium.” He started to protest, but she cut him off. “I know, I know, I know. Your wife’s death was your fault, and you have to make yourself suffer for it, and if God and the Dominus Christus descended from the heavens to tell you that it was not your fault, you would not believe them.”

“That is…” said Ridmark.

“But, please, do not get yourself killed,” said Calliande. “If you think you deserve it, fine. If a man is fixed on folly no one can turn him from it. But we have too much to do yet. We have to stop the Frostborn, and you promised to help me find Dragonfall. I need you too much for you to die.”

For a moment they stared at each other. Calliande wondered if she had gone too far, said too much.

Finally Ridmark shook his head. “You are determined. When you decide upon something you do not let it go.”

“I can’t really say,” said Calliande. “I can only remember the last forty-five days. That’s hardly enough time to come to a proper conclusion.” Though if the Watcher’s stories were accurate, she had been just as stubborn in her previous life.

“The last forty-five days,” said Ridmark, almost smiling, “are evidence as well.” He spread his hands. “I promise I will do my best to stay alive.”

“You always say that,” said Calliande, “and you still do foolish things like challenging an urdmordar or fighting a mzrokar.”

“Yet I am still alive, am I not?” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Calliande. “And I pray that you stay that way.”

“Everyone dies,” said Ridmark. “And a man like me…might die sooner than you wish.” She drew breath to protest. “But for your sake, I will not be foolish. And we are the only ones who realize the Frostborn are returning. Someone has to stop them. It may as well be us.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the lake.

“You seem more comfortable on a boat than I expected,” said Calliande at last to break the silence.

“My father is the Dux of Taliand,” said Ridmark, “and the Moradel flows right underneath Castra Arban. Taliand has many miles of coast along the southern sea. I have spent time on boats before. Easier to row up the Moradel than to walk to the Northerland. As for the others…nothing upsets Caius, save perhaps his kindred’s refusal to hear the gospel of the church, and Gavin is new to everything. Perhaps it is just as well Kharlacht is unconscious. Otherwise he might have joined Morigna at the rail.”

The image of the mighty orcish warrior throwing up over the side of the boat was so absurd that Calliande laughed.

“That is terrible,” said Calliande. “I should not have laughed. In penance, I shall go check on him.”

“Go,” said Ridmark. “I will make sure that Otto’s men do not rob us. Not that we have much worth stealing.”

Save, perhaps, the empty soulstone Calliande carried.

She hesitated for just a moment. She wanted to ask him about the kiss. She wanted to see if he would be bold enough to steal another one. But her mind knew it was a bad idea, no matter what her heart might want.

So she smiled, nodded, and turned away, climbing down the narrow ladder to the hold. She threaded her way through the stacks of barrels and came to a narrow cot. Kharlacht lay upon it, eyes closed, sweat beading upon his forehead. Calliande cleaned him, poured some water down his throat, and then some honey to keep him from wasting away. He would have been humiliated to know that someone had to care for him like this, but Calliande was glad to do it. She had the instincts of a physician, which was just as well, since she apparently had the skills and knowledge. And she did not want to see Kharlacht die. Odd, given that he had helped take her captive the day she had awakened. But he had been a good man trapped by the cruelty of his kin, and with their death, he had been free.

“Your friend should be grateful,” said a deep voice, “that he has someone to care for him so diligently.”

Calliande flinched in surprise, and turned to see the halfling Jager leaning against the ladder. He still wore his fine clothes, his weapons at his belt, and watched her with an expression that was halfway between amusement and sadness. He had accompanied them from Vulmhosk, claiming that he had business in Coldinium, and had paid Otto for the privilege.

She did not trust him. He spoke charmingly, even eloquently, and was unfailingly polite. Yet there was a hardness in his eyes that never wavered, and she wondered why he had gone to Vulmhosk and why he had accompanied them to Coldinium.

In a way, he reminded her of Morigna, if Morigna ever bothered to be charming.

“We have been through many perils together,” said Calliande. “I do not wish to see him die.”

“Nor do I, of course,” said Jager. “The Gray Knight seems to have a knack for attracting talented followers. Not one but two sorceresses.”

“A sorceress and a Magistria,” said Calliande.

Jager gave a mocking little salute, conceding the point. “And a dwarven friar, a rarity if there ever was one, and a trio of sturdy dwarven warriors. Even the boy seems good with a sword. That does make me curious.”

“About what?” said Calliande.

“The Gray Knight,” said Jager. “Are the tales about him true?”

“That would depend upon the tale,” said Calliande.

“They say he killed his wife,” said Jager.

“He did not,” said Calliande with some heat. “Mhalek killed her. He bound Aelia to him with a blood spell. When Ridmark killed Mhalek, the spell also duplicated the wound upon Aelia. She died before he could save her.”

“A terrible ordeal,” said Jager. “I am sorry to hear it.”

“But if the tales talk about his bravery or his boldness,” said Calliande, “then, yes, they are true. You saw what he did at Vulmhosk. How many other men would volunteer to challenge an orcish shaman to a duel?”

“Very few, I imagine,” said Jager. “A Swordbearer, probably.” His eyes got harder. “But the nobles of Andomhaim are cruel and arrogant and eager for renown. I suspect a Swordbearer would have challenged Mournacht, and then gotten himself and all his men killed.”

“You seem to have a grudge against the nobles of Andomhaim,” said Calliande.

“And why should I not?” said Jager.

“Because most of the halflings of Andomhaim have sworn oaths of fealty to one noble house or another,” said Calliande. “They are glad to serve, and…”

“They are fools,” said Jager in his calm voice, “fools too blind and stupid to see that they toil for cruel idiots who care nothing for them, who are vessels of corruption under smiling masks, who...”

He stopped talking, blinked, and his smile returned.

“Forgive me, Magistria,” he said. “I do tend to ramble on.” He made a show of stretching. “If you will excuse me, I will take some air. It gets a touch musty down here.”

“Of course,” said Calliande. Jager offered a grand bow and climbed the ladder to the deck.

She watched him go, wondering what that had been about.

Then she turned her attention back to Kharlacht.

###

Jager climbed to the deck, keeping his face calm, no hint of his turmoil showing upon his expression.

No hint of his unceasing terror and dread.

He had thought the tales of the Gray Knight exaggerated, but he had been wrong. After seeing Ridmark challenge that hulking shaman outside of Vulmhosk, Jager had been impressed. And Jager hated the lords of Andomhaim. He had assumed that Ridmark Arban, the youngest son of the Dux of Taliand, would be another man like Tarrabus Carhaine or Paul Tallmane, cruel and brutal and arrogant.

Instead he had risked his life to save a den of thieves that would have gladly sold him to the Mhorites.

Despite himself, Jager found himself admiring the man.

A pity he was going to have to steal from him.

Chapter 7 - One Theft Too Many

Twenty-one days after it all began, twenty-one days after that day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Jager’s life fell apart and the nightmare began.

Or a new nightmare, at any rate. God knew he had lived through enough horrors.

It started with the ring.

He strolled through the Forum of the River in Coldinium, wearing his finest clothes, keeping an amused smile on his face. Most of the halflings in Coldinium were domestic servants or laborers in the houses of various merchants and traders. Consequently most of the humans and orcs and dwarves who lived in or visited Coldinium expected to see quiet, obedient halflings wearing the livery of their masters. Jager enjoyed flouting their expectations, enjoying wearing fine clothes and jewels and wandering about the city’s streets as if he owned them.

Merchants crowded the Forum, and farmers and ranchers from Durandis and Rhaluusk came to the Forum to sell their wares. Jager had lived in Coldinium for two years, ever since fleeing Cintarra and the Red Family with Mara, and he knew the Forum well by now.

Considering the amount he had stolen from the merchants, that knowledge had proven useful.

An undercurrent of tension went through the crowds. The omen of blue fire three weeks past had set everyone on edge. Men spoke of the end of the world, of orcs attacking the Northerland, of dark creatures stirring in the Wilderland. Jager didn’t care. Chaos did not frighten him. He had fled from Caerdracon, escaped the Red Family in Cintarra, and come to Coldinium. Chaos offered opportunities for the observant and the bold.

So Jager noticed at once when Tarrabus of the Carhainii, Dux of Caerdracon, arrived in his barge from Castra Carhaine.

He froze for a moment when he saw the ornate barge sitting at the docks, the blue banner with the black dragon of Caerdracon flying overhead. Knights and men-at-arms in the colors of the House of the Carhainii emerged from the barge, stern and splendid in their armor. Halfling servants unloaded the cargo, and for an awful moment Jager thought he saw Sir Paul Tallmane himself among the crowd. For an instant he remembered standing in the domus’s great hall, listening to his father make that false confession.

Jager mastered himself. He had come a long way from the Tallmanes’ benefice in Caerdracon. He had robbed some of the most powerful and wealthy lords in Andomhaim, had even stolen jewels from the High King’s citadel in Tarlion. He was not a child to quail before a mighty Dux, though he had not expected Tarrabus Carhaine to visit Coldinium.

And in chaos lay opportunity.

Jager ducked into the doorway of a shop overlooking the docks and watched the Dux of Caerdracon enter the city.

Tarrabus Carhaine was tall and strong, with close-cropped blond hair cut in the style of the Romans of Old Earth, his face clean-shaven. He wore a rich tunic and trousers, his boots gleaming, a sword hanging in a sheath of black leather at his belt. Unlike many of the lords of Andomhaim, he was not a Swordbearer, but he carried himself with calm arrogance, certain in his authority. A Magistria in a white robe followed him, a pretty young woman in her early twenties with olive-colored skin, curly black hair, and green eyes, her expression just as haughty as the Dux’s. Behind them walked a squire carrying a shield with the sigil of Caerdracon, the Dux’s signet ring hanging from a chain around in his neck.

And there, Jager saw his opportunity.

He ducked into the shop, which sold a variety of metal goods, and purchased a lantern from the surprised proprietor. Jager paid three times what the lantern was worth, but that was all right. He stepped back into the Forum as the Dux’s procession made its way into the city. The squire with the shield followed the Dux, as did a dozen more squires leading Tarrabus’s warhorses, each beast strong and splendid and well-trained.

And, likely, quite short-tempered. One did not breed warhorses for their placidity.

The Forum was crowded, and the Dux’s party forced its way through, their progress slow.

Jager tugged off his coat and draped it around the lantern. It put off a bright light, especially when hooded, and after a bit of work he focused the light into the eyes of the lead horse. The beast stamped its hooves in annoyance and snorted, tossing its head. A small army of squires descended upon the animal, and the Dux glanced back in annoyance. None of them noticed the lantern, and Jager adjusted his coat, throwing more light into the horse’s eyes.

Finally it proved too much for the beast, and the horse reared up with an enraged snort, its steel-shod hooves lashing at the air. The squire tried to calm the horse, only to lose his balance and fall. The panic spread to the other horses, and the whole procession came to an uneven stop. For a moment the Dux’s procession dissolved into chaos.

Jager had his chance.

He set down the lantern, pulled his coat back on, and darted into the crowds. Being shorter than humans and orcs and most dwarves had many disadvantages, but it did make it easier to move quickly. He slipped past the spectators, past the arguing merchants, and reached the edge of the terrified horses. The first squire had dropped his shield and was helping to calm the enraged warhorses. The Dux’s signet ring, a heavy thing of gold and sapphires, bounced from its cord.

In one smooth motion, Jager drew a knife, cut the cord, and pocketed the ring. He did it all in less than two heartbeats, and the squire, focused on the furious horse, did not notice. Jager’s father had been fond of saying that God had blessed the halfling kindred with great dexterity and nimble fingers so that they might serve their masters with greater diligence. Well, the lords of Andomhaim cared nothing for their halfling servants, and one look at the world proved that God had no interest in justice.

So Jager would use his talents and his skills to serve himself.

He strolled through the Forum, leaving the snarl of traffic behind, and headed home.

###

He gave the signet ring to Mara.

“I don’t think it will fit me,” she said with a smile.

To match his ostentatious clothing, Jager had purchased a fine house, what the lords of Andomhaim called a “domus”, and lived in luxury. He claimed to be a merchant making his living selling jewels from the mines of Durandis and furs from the forests of Rhaluusk, though in truth he had made his money by robbing nobles. But he could hardly proclaim that in public. So instead he claimed to be Dieter of Tarlion, successful halfling merchant, and amused himself by hiring human servants to look after his domus.

Though he made sure to treat them well. He was not Paul Tallmane.

“Nevertheless,” said Jager, “I would like you to have it.”

They stood alone in the bedroom, the door closed, the servants sent home for the night. Mara examined the ring, holding it up to the light. It looked huge in her small hand. But even though she was human (at least partially) she was barely five feet tall, slender and delicate, her green eyes wide and wondering as she considered emerald-studded ring. She wore a green dress to match her eyes, and her blond hair hung loose and ragged around her ears. She always kept her ears concealed, even in private. Jager’s father had been a kindly, well-meaning fool.

Mara’s father had been something much worse.

“I can practically fit my thumb into it,” said Mara. She shook her head. “It’s so heavy. The Dux’s hand must hurt if he has to wear it all the time.”

“He doesn’t,” said Jager. “One of his squires carries it for him. He only uses it to seal official documents. Which was how I was able to make a present of it to you.”

She frowned. “Why did you steal it?”

“Because I thought it would look pretty on you,” said Jager. “Because the emeralds match your eyes.”

Mara laughed. “It’s much too big for me, you know. Stealing it was a big risk. Dux Tarrabus is a powerful man, and he is not merciful. Even the Matriarch of the Family would not cross him. If he knew you took his signet ring, he would kill you.”

Jager scowled. “Shall I return it and apologize? Trust in the benevolence of a noble, as my father did?”

“Of course not,” said Mara.

“And we stole from the Matriarch of the Red Family,” said Jager. “Yet we lived. Tarrabus Carhaine is hardly threatening after that.”

“But I would still like to know why you took it.”

He sighed, paced to the window, and stared at the dark street below.

“You know why,” said Jager. “Because I could. Because I hate him. Or at least men like him. He is the liege lord of Paul Tallmane. Why should I not steal from him? God knows that he deserves it.”

“Maybe he deserves death for what he has done,” said Mara. He heard rustling fabric. “Are you going to kill him?”

“No,” said Jager. “I am a thief, not a murderer.”

“Like me, you mean?” said Mara.

Jager sighed. “That is not what I meant and you know it. Besides, you are no longer an assassin. You left the Red Family of Mhor behind.” He looked over her shoulder at her, where she stood at the wardrobe, arranging some of the gowns within it. “And let us be honest, shall we? When we first met you had been hired to kill me.”

Mara grinned. “And you talked me out of it. Which I do not regret. Mostly.”

She turned her head, rummaging in the wardrobe. Her blond hair swung as she did, and he caught a glimpse of her left ear.

Or, more specifically, the delicate point of her left ear.

Despite his wealth, Jager was an outcast from the society of Andomhaim. He had secrets to keep, but nothing like Mara’s. If people learned who she really was, what she really was, the Swordbearers and the Magistri would kill her.

The dark elven prince of Nightmane Forest had long been an enemy of Andomhaim, and the Two Orders would not suffer his bastard half-breed daughter to live.

“I am glad to hear it,” said Jager. “Do let me know if you change your mind. I would at least like a sporting chance of escape before you slide a stiletto between my ribs.”

“Ha! I doubt that,” said Mara. “You’re stuck with me, Jager of Cintarra. Still, I think we should melt down the ring and sell the emeralds. It’s too dangerous to keep as a trophy.”

“You’re likely right,” said Jager. She usually was. Her levelheadedness often surprised him, and balanced out his boldness. Then again, she had been an assassin of the Red Family for years, and without careful planning, she would have died years ago.

“Still,” said Mara, “I think I should wear the ring at least once. What do you think?”

He turned, and saw that she was wore the ring on a cord around her neck.

And nothing else.

Save for the jade bracelet she wore around her left wrist, but she always wore that.

“I think,” he said, spreading his arms and walking to her, “that it looks lovely.”

She grinned, took his hand, and led him to the bed.

After, he lay in a doze, his body intertwined with hers, her head pillowed on his chest. His father would have been horrified to see what he had become, to know that his son was the notorious Master Thief of Cintarra. His hand tightened against Mara’s hip, and she murmured something and pressed closer to him.

His father had been a fool. Jager liked this life, liked stealing from the proud, corrupt lords of Andomhaim, and he loved Mara. He would continue this life as long as he could, he resolved.

It lasted another two heartbeats.

The door to the bedroom exploded open, ripping off its hinges. Jager sat up, scrambling for the weapons on his nightstand. Armored men-at-arms poured into the bedchamber, a dozen of them, swords glittering in their fists. Mara raised her hands, and darkness swirled around her, a gift of her dark elven blood that allowed her to disappear into the shadows. It gave her superhuman abilities of stealth and had made her a devilishly effective assassin despite her diminutive height.

A bolt of white fire blasted through the door and slammed Mara against the headboard. She screamed in agony, her eyes popping wide, and the shadows around her dissipated. Jager yelled and raised a dagger, but two of the men-at-arms seized his arms and hauled him to his feet. Two others did the same for Mara, who seemed stunned from the white fire, though it had not burned her.

Jager turned his head as an olive-skinned woman in a white robe stepped through the broken door, looking at everything with distaste. It was the Magistria he had seen this morning, the Magistria who had accompanied Tarrabus Carhaine into the city.

“Well,” said the woman, her Latin clear and formal. “Isn’t this just…charming?”

Jager decided to bluff. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? I am a merchant in good standing with the city curia and the Comes, and…”

“Spare me the tiresome lies,” said the Magistria. “I know exactly who you are, Master Thief of Cintarra. The Dux’s spies are most efficient.” She stepped closer, cupped his chin in her slender fingers, and tilted his head to the right and to the left. “It is well for you that money is beneath me. Otherwise there is quite a reward for your capture in Cintarra. And Tarlion. And here, too, I imagine.”

Jager spat in her face. The woman smiled and flicked the spittle away from her cheek. She was quite lovely, with clear green eyes, long black hair hanging in ringlets, skin smooth and lustrous. Yet there was a coldness in the green eyes that unnerved him. She looked angry, despite her smile. Angry at the world, perhaps.

And she was going to take that anger out on him.

She nodded to one of the men-at-arms, and a fist slammed into Jager’s jaw. The blow knocked him back, and the men-at-arms let him fall. They raised their boots and brought a rain of kicks onto his unprotected skin. Jager tried to crawl away, tried to shield himself, but he could not.

“Stop!” Mara’s shout was frantic. “Stop, you’ll kill him! Stop!”

The men-at-arms hauled Jager back to his feet, panting and bleeding, and the Magistria circled around the bed to stare at Mara.

“The dark elven half-breed,” said the Magistria. “And dressed up in the Dux’s ring, no less.” She ripped the signet ring from its cord. “Tell me, Jager. Do you always dress up your whores in stolen jewels? Or is this one special?”

“She is not a whore,” spat Jager, “and if you call her that again I will kill you.”

“I should like to see you accomplish that,” said the Magistria. “The Dux is indeed right that the realm needs to be brought to order. A halfling that does not know his place, and a dark elven monstrosity that should have been put to death the moment she set foot upon the High King’s lands.” She shook her head. “Take them both. Let us see if they offer impudence when they are in the torture chambers of the Iron Tower.”

Jager had heard things about the Iron Tower, the last outpost of the High King’s realm on the northwestern frontier of Andomhaim, and none of them were good. The Comes of Coldinium was a direct vassal of the High King, but the Dux of Caerdracon held the Iron Tower. The Constable of the Iron Tower was supposed to guard the realm’s northwestern border, but Tarrabus used the Tower as a dumping ground for his enemies.

Anyone who went into the Iron Tower never came out again.

Jager struggled, but it was useless. The men-at-arms tied his wrists and ankles together, stuffed a gag into his mouth, and pulled a rough hood over his head.

The last thing he saw was Mara struggling against the men that held her, her screams echoing in his ears.

###

The days passed in a haze of pain and terror.

To judge from the rough boards beneath him, and the rocking motion he felt, he was on a boat. They left him helpless and bound on the deck until he lay in his own filth. From time to time someone lifted the hood and removed the gag to pour water down his throat. He screamed questions the first time, demanding to know what had happened to Mara, until a fist to the stomach silenced him. After that they pinched his nose shut and poured the water down his throat.

Then he felt himself carried, heard boots clicking against stone floors. Doors opened and closed, and locks rattled. The ropes were cut from his aching limbs, and heavy iron fetters clanged around his wrists and ankles, another around his neck.

Someone pulled the hood from his head, and Jager could see again.

He sat in a cell of ghostly white stone, the only illumination coming from a crimson crystal in the ceiling. The eerie light painted the walls the color of blood. Instruments of torture stood against the walls, saws and pliers and iron masks and spiked whips. The air stank of blood and rot, and Jager heard distant screams echoing through the hallway outside the door.

“Where am I?” he said, his voice a croak.

“The dungeons of the Iron Tower,” said one of the two men-at-arms who had carried him here. “The old dark elven dungeons beneath the Tower’s foundations.” The man grinned. “They say there are demons down here, demons that come out at night. Maybe they’ll come take you, little thief.”

“Where is Mara?” said Jager. “Where is she? Tell me, damn you!”

A kick drove him against the wall, his chains jangling.

“Last I saw her,” said the man-at-arms, “they were passing her around the barracks. Taking turns with her, one by one. You should hear her squeal!” He gave Jager a derisive look. “Suppose after sleeping with a halfling worm she’d want a real man.”

Jager snarled and threw himself at the guard, but the chains jerked him short.

They laughed and locked the door behind them, leaving him alone in the blood-colored gloom.

Days passed. Jager could not have said how many. Once a day a guard came and brought him food and water, and carried away the bucket in the corner. Jager shouted questions, but the guards ignored him. At least they did not hit him again. The screams from the other cells came frequently, and he desperately wondered if he was overhearing Mara’s torment. He felt sick with fear for her. Had the guards done to her as they said? Or had the men-at-arms simply killed her?

After eight or nine days, the door swung open, and a nightmare from Jager’s past stepped into the room.

He flinched, and then forced himself not to show fear. If he was going to die, he would not die as his father had.

The man was a knight of Andomhaim, and wore chain mail beneath a blue surcoat adorned with the black dragon sigil of Caerdracon. His blond hair and mustache were trimmed and styled, and hard black eyes stared down at Jager. He kept opening and closing his sword hand as if it pained him, but a cold smile spread over his face.

“After all this time,” said Sir Paul Tallmane. “Little rat. I thought you would have died years ago, Jager. The way your father did, with that stupid surprised look on his face. Yes, that one you have now.”

“Is that what this is about?” said Jager. “You want revenge for your domus? Fine. I burned it down. I set fire to it and I laughed as it went up in smoke. God knows you deserved it. So go on. Kill me already.”

He expected the big knight to fly into a rage. Paul’s temper had been legendary among the servants of Caudea and its domus, and more than one servant had gotten a black eye or a split lip simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But Paul only smiled. “This isn’t about you at all, rat. Or the domus you burned. Much bigger things are happening, and the world is about to change.” He grinned and stepped closer, sliding a dagger from his belt. “Though I’m still going to make you regret it. Let’s start with the fingers, shall we? One by…”

Jager growled, staining against the chains, and a cold voice filled his ears.

“That is enough.”

Tarrabus Carhaine, Dux of Caerdracon, stepped into the cell.

A guard followed and set a wooden chair upon the floor, and Tarrabus seated himself. He held out a hand, and another guard appeared with a goblet of wine. Still another left a carafe and a second goblet upon a small table.

“Leave us,” said Tarrabus. “All of you. Now.”

“But, my lord,” said Paul, “the worm…”

“Perhaps you ought to thank Imaria for healing your sword hand,” said Tarrabus, turning his cold blue eyes toward the knight. The words were innocuous, but Paul flinched, bowed, and left the cell with the other guards, leaving one of the most powerful men in the realm alone with Jager.

They regarded each other in silence for a moment, and Jager felt himself shrinking against the wall in fear.

There was something…off about Tarrabus, something wrong.

Jager could not have said what it was. The Dux’s shadow seemed too dark, too sharp. From time to time his blue eyes seemed like bottomless pits into the void. Wild visions danced across Jager’s mind, and for a moment he could not shake the feeling that Tarrabus was not really human at all, that some hideous creature of darkness had killed the Dux and wore his skin like a cloak.

“Ah,” said Tarrabus. “I was wondering if you would notice. Humans cannot, not even Magistri, but Shadowbearer said the halfling kindred might prove more sensitive.”

Jager forced moisture into his mouth. “Sensitive to what?”

“The Seventh Circle of the Enlightened,” said Tarrabus, taking a sip of his wine.

“I don’t know what that is,” said Jager.

“I would be very irritated if you did,” said Tarrabus. He set his goblet down and poured another. “It is one of the reasons I found you, after all. Some wine?”

Jager blinked. “You had me kidnapped from my home, beaten, imprisoned in this stinking hole without a stitch of clothing, are holding captive the woman I love…and now you want to give me wine?”

“You did steal my signet ring,” said Tarrabus. “You ought to be grateful you still have a tongue with which to complain. But, come. Poisoning you would be a colossal waste of valuable time. And you will need the drink for what comes next.”

He held out the goblet. Jager hesitated, scooted forward, and took the goblet in his bound hands. The wine burned as it went down his throat.

“A question,” said Tarrabus.

Jager forced a laugh. “I fear I am in no position to refuse.”

“If I were to offer to release you with one condition,” said Tarrabus, “what would you say?”

Jager hesitated. The guards had mistreated and beaten him, but they had not broken anything. With some food and water and rest he would be fine. His abilities as a thief would be unimpaired.

Which meant Tarrabus needed something stolen…and this was a negotiation.

“That would depend upon the condition, I suppose,” said Jager.

“The dark elven half-breed,” said Tarrabus.

“Mara,” said Jager. “Her name is Mara. Not ‘half-breed’.”

Tarrabus inclined his head. “Mara. The ancient Hebrew word for ‘bitter’, I believe. Appropriate, considering what is likely to happen to her. Now. What would you say if I offered to let you go…but only on the condition that Mara remains here?”

“No,” said Jager. “I refuse. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” said Tarrabus, raising his eyebrows.

“Because I love her,” said Jager, “and I will not leave her in the clutches of a man like you.”

He spat it with defiance, hoping to insult Tarrabus, but the Dux only nodded.

“A good answer,” said Tarrabus. “One that I can understand.”

“You can?” said Jager.

“Yes,” said Tarrabus. “I know what it is to lose a woman you love.” His face retained his glacial calm, but his fingers tightened around the goblet, and for a moment the darkness around him seemed colder. “But to business. I know all about you, Jager. Your father Hilder’s execution. The arson at the Tallmanes’ domus. And the little burglary spree you have enjoyed in the years since. The Master Thief of Cintarra. The bards even sing songs about you.” He took a sip of wine. “You are going to steal something for me.”

“Am I?” said Jager.

“Oh, yes,” said Tarrabus.

Negotiation. A Dux haggling with a thief was madness…and in chaos lay opportunities. Perhaps Jager could yet get himself and Mara out of this mess.

“Go on,” said Jager.

“Do you know what a soulstone is?” said Tarrabus.

“The crystals in the Swordbearers’ Soulblades,” said Jager. “They’re magical. Give the swords their power.”

“Roughly correct,” said Tarrabus. “More specifically, the soulstone of each Soulblade contains the memory and resonance of a high elven bladeweaver, one slain during the high elves’ long wars against the dark elves and the urdmordar. Their power derives from that imprint.”

“How do you know this?” said Jager, curious despite himself. His father had cherished the tales of the Swordbearers. The archmage Ardrhythain of the high elves had given the Soulblades to the High King, as part of the Pact of the Two Orders that created the Knights of the Soulblade and the Magistri. Each Soulblade was bonded to its bearer, and only Ardrhythain knew how to create more.

Tarrabus offered a thin smile. “One of my teachers knew the high elven archmage who first forged the Soulblades. Only the most powerful high elven wizards know the secret of creating soulstones, and they are not keen to see an empty soulstone fall into the wrong hands.”

“Why not?” said Jager.

“Because a wizard of sufficient skill,” said Tarrabus, “could fill an empty soulstone with whatever force he desired, creating a weapon of awesome power.” He smiled. “Or a key that would open any door. Even a door to another world, perhaps.”

“And I assume,” said Jager, “that you have located such a stone, and wish me to obtain it?”

“You surmise correctly,” said Tarrabus. “Have you heard of a man named Ridmark Arban?”

His cold voice grew colder as he spoke, his shadow sharper and darker.

“I take it you are not fond of him?” said Jager.

“Answer the question,” said Tarrabus.

“I have never met him,” said Jager. “I’ve heard the name. When the mad orc Mhalek invaded the Northerland five years ago. I heard that Ridmark defeated his army, but Mhalek slew his wife, and Ridmark went mad from grief. Cast aside his Soulblade and went into the Wilderland to die.”

“The story is correct,” said Tarrabus, “save in one respect. Mhalek did not slay Aelia. Ridmark himself slew her in his folly and blindness. Her blood is upon his hands, and no one else’s. I trust I am clear?”

“Then she was the woman you lost?” said Jager, taking a guess.

He regretted speaking at once. Tarrabus did not move, did not even blink, but his shadow grew even darker, and Jager swore the room grew colder. For an awful moment it seemed as if there was indeed a creature of nightmare wearing Tarrabus’s face, that it would rip its way free and devour Jager.

“Ridmark has come into the possession of an empty soulstone,” said Tarrabus, some of the unnatural aura fading away as he calmed. “Or, more precisely, he is traveling with a madwoman named Calliande who carries such a stone. They are wandering from village to village through the Wilderland on Ridmark’s mad quest to atone for his grief. You are going to find them, steal the soulstone, and bring it back to me.”

“How will I even find them?” said Jager. “I’m a thief, not a ranger of the wilds.”

“In a few days Ridmark will pass near a small village called Vulmhosk,” said Tarrabus. “Likely he will stop for supplies. You will draw near to him, take the soulstone, and return it to me.”

“And in exchange,” said Jager, “you’ll give me my freedom.”

Tarrabus smiled, the first genuine smile Jager had seen on the Dux’s cold, masklike face.

Somehow that terrified him even more.

“Is that what you think we are discussing?” said Tarrabus. “Your freedom. Not at all. Sir Paul!” He turned his head to the door. “You may rejoin us.”

Sir Paul Tallmane returned to the cell, flanked by two men-at-arms, and Jager’s breath caught in his throat.

Mara walked between them, clad only in a dirty gray smock. She had a gag in her mouth and an iron collar around her neck, a man-at-arms holding the collar’s chain like a leash. Her hands were bound behind her back, and a chain around her ankles forced her to take small steps. Oddly, her jade bracelet still glinted upon her left wrist. Jager thought they would have taken it.

Her green eyes met his, full of pain and fear, and Jager tried to go to her. But the chains jerked and held him fast.

Paul’s laughter filled the cell. “Look at him. Like a lovesick puppy. A pretty little thing like her is wasted in a worm like him.”

“She has so far been unharmed,” said Tarrabus. “Well. Mostly unharmed. I confess my men did strike her when we took you captive, but Imaria sometimes carries out my instructions with too much enthusiasm. But other than that, she has not been harmed in any way, and we have kept her safe and fed.”

“Why?” said Jager, his voice a rasp.

“Because,” said Tarrabus, “you are going to steal the empty soulstone for me.”

“Or you’ll kill her,” spat Jager.

“What?” said Tarrabus. “I’ll do nothing of the sort.” That terrifying smile returned. “I’ll simply give her to Sir Paul.”

Jager’s blood went cold.

“I understand that he has something of a grudge against you,” said Tarrabus.

“Well,” said Jager, trying to keep his voice from cracking, “I hate him right back.”

“True,” said Tarrabus, “but he has the woman you love. She’s perfectly safe now. And if you don’t return with the soulstone…I will let Sir Paul do whatever he wants to her.” He leaned closer, his eyes glittering in the bloody light. “You saw what he did to the freeholders of his father’s benefice. Those were people he was sworn to protect and defend. What do you imagine he will do to the lover of a man he hates?”

Jager knew full well what Paul would do to Mara.

“Fine,” said Jager. “I’ll steal that damned stone for you.”

Tarrabus glanced at Mara. “For her sake, I hope so.”

###

Tarrabus’s men gave him his clothes and equipment and shoved him out the gates of the Iron Tower, and Jager set off for Vulmhosk.

And so he stood on the stern of Smiling Otto’s boat, watching as Ridmark spoke with Brother Caius and Azakhun. Jager had never expected a noble of Andomhaim to risk his life so freely. But he supposed Ridmark was an outcast.

Like Jager.

Like Mara.

Mara, who languished in the dungeons of the Iron Tower unless Jager returned to save her.

His hands tightened into fists. Calliande had to have the soulstone near her. Perhaps in one of the pouches on her belt, or in the pack she never left out of arm’s length. Jager just needed an adequate distraction, and then he could take the soulstone.

He found himself impressed by Ridmark…but that would not stop him from stealing the soulstone. It would not stop him from saving Mara.

In chaos there was opportunity, and in chaos Jager would find a way to save Mara.

No matter what he had to do.

Chapter 8 - Coldinium

Three days after leaving Vulmhosk, Smiling Otto’s boat reached Coldinium.

Ridmark stepped to the railing and looked at the northern city of the realm.

Fifty thousand people lived in the High King’s city of Tarlion, and a hundred thousand in the Prince’s city of Cintarra, but only ten thousand within Coldinium’s grim gray walls. Yet it was the largest city in the northern half of Andomhaim, and the largest settlement this close to the Wilderland. Of necessity, therefore, the city sat in a defensible location, between the northern and southern branches of the River Moradel. Watchtowers studded the city’s strong stone wall, and Ridmark saw the flash of armor as men-at-arms and militiamen patrolled the ramparts. The round towers of Castra Coldinium had been built into the western wall, the High King’s banner flying from the battlements. The fortress had once been a stronghold of the Eternalists, and after their defeat, the city had grown up around the castra.

In the narrow space between the walls and Coldinium’s harbor lay a ramshackle maze of inns, warehouses, and taverns. Reputable merchants would pay to store their cargoes inside the city. But if a man wished to avoid the eyes of the militia and the Comes, he could take his chances outside the walls.

The deck creaked as Calliande stepped to his side.

“Coldinium,” he said.

Calliande gazed at the city. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”

Ridmark shrugged. “I doubt Coldinium was here when you went into the long sleep.”

Calliande peered at the walls for a moment. “There are guards at every gate.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “They keep watch to make sure no brigands sneak into the city. Or worse things.”

“How are we going to manage it?” said Calliande. “Your brand is…noticeable, and it will be obvious if you wear a mask.”

“We’re not going into the city,” said Ridmark. He pointed at the sprawl between the walls and the harbor. “We’re going to the Outwall, the district…”

“Outside the walls, yes,” said Calliande. “Why would anyone live outside the walls when Coldinium is so near to the Wilderland?”

“It’s cheaper,” said Ridmark, “and has less oversight from the militia and the city’s magistrates.”

“If Coldinium ever comes under siege,” said Calliande, “the Outwall will burn.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark, thinking of the freeholders near Dun Licinia, men who had lost everything first when Mhalek had invaded and again when Qazarl attacked five years later. “Life this close to the Wilderland is not for the faint of heart.”

“You know an apothecary in the Outwall?” said Calliande.

“A man named Rodinius,” said Ridmark. “He is eccentric, but knows his business. And he keeps his mouth shut.” Water splashed against the hull as the boat maneuvered to an open dock, the captain shouting orders to the sailors. “Go have Caius and Gavin bring up Kharlacht. The sooner we get to Rodinius, the better.”

She headed below as the boat pulled alongside the quay. Morigna walked to Ridmark’s side, leaning on her staff. She looked the worse for wear, dark circles under her black eyes. Her stomach had settled down after the second day, but she had eaten very little since.

“Mortal man,” said Morigna, “was not meant to travel on boats.”

Ridmark shrugged. “It was either that or carry Kharlacht all the way here ourselves.”

“Azakhun and his lackeys feel they owe you a debt,” said Morigna. “Perhaps we could have prevailed upon them to carry him.”

She fell silent, staring at the city.

“So many people,” she said at last.

Ridmark started to say that Cintarra and Tarlion were larger by far, but stopped himself. Morigna had spent her life within seventy-five miles of Moraime, and fifteen hundred people lived in the town.

“You said you wanted to see the rest of the realm,” said Ridmark.

“I do,” said Morigna.

“This is just the beginning,” said Ridmark. “If we live through this, if we go to Urd Morlemoch and stop the Frostborn, you’ll see much more than this.”

One of her rare smiles went over her stern face. It made her look almost radiantly pretty. “I know.” The boat came to a stop, the sailors tying the lines in place. “Well, let us begin with the docks. No doubt one can find wonders and splendors in such a malodorous place.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Ridmark, and joined the others as they climbed down the gangplank to the stone dock. Caius and Gavin carried Kharlacht’s litter, Calliande hovering over them. Ridmark drew the cowl of his gray elven cloak over his face. Even in the Outwall, walking through the streets carrying an unconscious Vhaluuskan orc would draw attention. The sooner they got to Rodinius’s shop, the better. And if anyone tried to stop them or collect Tarrabus’s bounty, Ridmark would simply have to dissuade them.

Hopefully without bloodshed.

“We part ways here, Gray Knight,” said Azakhun, his helmet tucked under one arm, his warriors waiting behind him. “I will return to the Dwarven Enclave with the relics we obtained from Khald Azalar, and inform the elders and the Taalkaz of the Enclave of the death of our kin at the hands of the Mhorite orcs, alas. Thank you again for coming to our aid.”

“And thank you again for assisting us,” said Ridmark as Caius and Gavin maneuvered Kharlacht on the litter. “We would not have reached Coldinium without your aid. You may consider any debt owed to me repaid in full.”

Azakhun bowed. “Thank you.” His strange eyes glinted. “I cannot fathom why your own people branded you a coward. The debt may be repaid, but let there be friendship between us. My men and I shall remain in Coldinium for a few days before we return to Khald Tormen. If you have need of aid, come to the Enclave, and if it is within my power I shall grant it.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. “And if you have need of my aid, you have only to ask.”

They bowed to each other, and the dwarves marched into the Outwall, their armor drawing surprised stares from the porters and fishermen going about their business. Jager stepped after them, gazing at the walls with a distant expression.

“Farewell,” said Jager. “I wish you good fortune, Gray Knight. I suspect you will need it.”

“Why do you say that?” said Calliande.

Jager looked at her. “The Gray Knight seems the sort of man who collects powerful enemies.”

Morigna tapped her staff against the quay and grinned. “They are welcome to try, Master Jager.”

Jager snorted. “After seeing you in battle, perhaps I should wish them good fortune instead, simply to make it sporting. Farewell, Gray Knight. Perhaps we shall meet again.”

The halfling strolled into the Outwall and vanished into the streets.

“What do you suppose he wanted?” said Calliande at last.

“If I were to guess,” said Ridmark, “I would say he was a spy. Probably for Tarrabus Carhaine. Tarrabus wants me dead, and I disappeared into the Wilderland after Mhalek’s defeat. When I turned up at Dun Licinia during Qazarl’s attack, the Dux likely sent out spies to find me.”

“Or Paul Tallmane told him,” said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded. Paul Tallmane had attacked him in the smoldering ruins of Aranaeus, aided by two assassins from the Red Family of Cintarra. Ridmark had killed both assassins and all of Paul’s men-at-arms, but he had let Paul live. From Paul he had learned of the existence of the Enlightened of Incariel, though thankfully Paul had not employed the strange shadow-magic that Jonas Vorinus had used.

“I wonder if the Dux killed him for his failure,” said Ridmark. “Well, Tarrabus was never the forgiving sort.” He glanced at Caius, saw the dwarven friar gazing after his departed kindred. “Did you successfully preach the gospel to them?”

“I fear not,” said Caius. He sighed. “Azakhun and his warriors remain committed to the gods of stone and silence.”

“They do not laugh as much as you do,” said Gavin, shifting his grip on the litter.

“No,” said Caius, and for a moment he looked as melancholy as Ridmark had ever seen him. “The gods of silence frown upon mirth and despair both.”

“We have more immediate problems,” said Morigna. “I suggest we find this apothecary and depart Coldinium at once. If our charming Master Jager is indeed a spy for your old friend the Dux, we shall find foes upon our tail soon enough. Perhaps more assassins from the Red Family.”

“Sound counsel,” said Ridmark, and he led the way into the Outwall.

###

Morigna could not stop staring at everything around her.

There were just so damned many people.

She had known, of course, that thousands of people lived in Coldinium, had spoken with merchants and adventurers who had visited the city. But seeing it with her own eyes was something else entirely.

They walked through a market below Coldinium’s western gate, and Morigna saw more goods for sale than she had seen in her entire life. Women sold fish, fresh-caught from the lake and the River Moradel. Men sold pots and pans and hats and knives and dozens of other things. She saw even saw orcs and the occasional dwarf among the merchants and their customers. Halflings scurried through the crowd, clad in the livery of their masters as they went about their masters’ business. Their downcast eyes and diffident expressions were a marked contrast from Jager’s swaggering and Smiling Otto’s cold confidence.

“How do they live like this?” said Gavin, gazing about in wonder. To his credit, he showed no signs of fatigue from carrying the litter.

“Like what?” Morigna said.

“Like…ants in a hill, I suppose,” said Gavin. “All packed in together. And so many smells.” He was right about that. The Outwall smelled of fish and rotting meat and sweat and waste. “It must drive them mad.”

Morigna opened her mouth to make a mocking remark, and then stopped herself. Gavin had come from a small village in the Wilderland. If Coldinium seemed vast to her, it would appear the same way to Gavin.

“I do not know,” said Morigna.

“Many were born here,” said Ridmark. “They have known no other life. Living in an isolated village in the Wilderland, without the protection of the Swordbearers and the Magistri, would seem terrifying to them.”

“I suspect others have migrated here from the countryside,” said Calliande. “Life in the city offers more opportunities, and at the very least more excitement, then upon a freehold or a benefice farm.”

“Who would prefer this to the wilderness?” said Morigna, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

“Those who do not have your skill at surviving in the wild,” said Ridmark. He glanced at Gavin. “And imagine some were like you.”

Gavin adjusted his grip on the litter with a grunt. “I should hope not.”

“Well, perhaps their homes were not destroyed by an urdmordar,” said Ridmark. “But they were driven from home for some reason or another – they had no inheritance, or could not stand their families or their neighbors. So they came here to make their fortunes.”

They walked down a narrow lane leading from the market. All the houses were of similar design, brick with fired clay tiles for the rooftops. Each house had a business upon the ground floor, and Morigna supposed that the owners lived on the upper level. Wooden signs over the doors advertised the services offered within – a pawnbroker, a shoemaker, a tailor.

Ridmark stopped before a door marked with the sign of a mortar and pestle and knocked. A moment later it swung open, revealing a short woman of about thirty-five in a leather apron, her black hair pulled into a severe bun. Her clothing was stained and patched, and she gave off the smell of strong medicines. She had watery eyes in a round face, and blinked several times when she saw Ridmark.

Then she laughed.

“Greetings, Arassa,” said Ridmark. “I hope you are well.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Arassa. “Ridmark Arban. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark, “but if so, the message has not reached me yet.”

Arassa laughed again. “Even if it did, it wouldn’t get through that thick skull of yours.” She craned her neck. “Quite the collection of followers you have. A disgraced Swordbearer, a dwarven friar, and an unconscious orc all come up to my door. It sounds like the start of a good joke…or a very fascinating story.”

“How is your father?” said Ridmark.

“Alive,” said Arassa. “And in his right mind today, which is pleasant. I take it you need some medicine?”

“Saltflower, specifically,” said Ridmark. “Do you have some?”

“Most likely,” said Arassa, “though I will have to check with Father. But if one of you happened to ingest wyvern venom, you’ll be dead before it can do any good.”

“Not necessarily,” said Ridmark. He gestured at Kharlacht. “He was stung by a wyvern some miles north of here. Our Magistria, Calliande, tried to heal him…”

“But no magic can cure wyvern venom,” said Arassa. “So how is he alive?”

“This is Morigna, a sorceress of the Wilderland,” said Ridmark.

The watery eyes turned towards Morigna, shrewd and calculating. Despite her dowdy appearance, Morigna suspected a formidable mind waited behind those eyes.

“A wild sorceress?” said Arassa. “I suggest you keep a low profile in Coldinium. If Ridmark speaks for you, that is good enough for me. But the magic of the Magistri and the Swordbearers are the only magic allowed in the High King’s realm. If you draw their attention, it will not go well for you. Or for any of us.”

“I shall be the height of discretion,” said Morigna.

“Morigna knew a spell to filter his blood,” said Ridmark. “It kept the poison from harming him, so long as he remained unconscious. Calliande was able to heal the damage the poison had already wrought and used her magic to keep him asleep.”

Arassa scratched her jaw. “That…is actually quite clever. So long as he doesn’t wake up, and so long as your wildling’s magic holds, he won’t die. So you’ve come here to see if Father has any saltflower.”

“You have the right of it,” said Ridmark.

“Well,” said Arassa. “Come inside. Let’s see if we can bring a happy ending to this tale.”

She opened the door all the way, and Gavin and Caius maneuvered the litter inside. Ridmark and Calliande followed them, and Morigna stepped inside last. The interior of the shop reminded her of the Old Man’s cottage in the hills north of Moraime. She saw the same shelves, the same dried herbs and plants, the same apothecary’s instruments and tools upon the counter. Yet Coriolus had lived in unkempt squalor, like a pig rolling comfortably in its own filth, and this shop was almost compulsively neat. An old man with a resemblance to Arassa sat at the counter, clad in a leather apron and tunic and trousers stained with multicolored powders. He prepared medicines, humming to himself as he ground something in a mortar.

“Father,” said Arassa. “We have guests.”

“Eh?” said the old man, blinking as he looked up. A wide grin spread over his face. “Ridmark!”

“Greetings, Rodinius,” said Ridmark. “I hope you are well.”

The old apothecary heaved himself to his feet and caught Ridmark in a surprisingly vigorous hug, thumping him on the back. “This man! This man! Did I tell you what he did?”

“Many times, Father,” said Arassa, taking some bottles from the shelf as Gavin and Caius set Kharlacht on the floor.

“I was out picking mushrooms, yes, for medicines,” said Rodinius. “Some orcs from the Wilderland found me and tried to kill me. The Gray Knight, he killed two and drove off the rest!”

Calliande laughed. “You do have friends everywhere, don’t you?”

“You bring guests, yes?” said Rodinius. “If you need help, you are welcome, most welcome.” He looked back and forth between Calliande and Morigna, blinking. “And lovely young ladies. One of you must be his wife, yes?”

Morigna winced, and Calliande looked embarrassed.

“I’m afraid my wife has been dead for some years,” said Ridmark.

“Father, you’re being rude,” said Arassa, setting the bottles on the table. “The orc has wyvern venom in his blood.”

“What?” said Rodinius. “Why didn’t you say so? Daughter, we have work to do!”

###

Calliande watched as Rodinius and Arassa went about their task.

As addled as the old apothecary seemed, he clearly knew his business, and Arassa was just as skilled. Together the father and daughter produced saltflower and mixed it with several other herbs and medicines.

“You’re mixing it with grayroot?” said Calliande, surprised.

“Yes,” said Arassa, not looking up.

“To prevent stomach cramps and to keep him from throwing it up,” said Calliande.

Arassa blinked in surprise. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

“And then some honey,” said Calliande, “to sweeten the mixture and make it easier to swallow.”

Rodinius cackled. “I thought you were a Magistria. Are you sure you are not an apothecary?”

“To tell the truth, no,” said Calliande.

“But it is clear you have some knowledge of medicine,” said Arassa. “If I may be blunt, this is a refreshing trait in a Magistria. I think the Magistri place too much trust in their healing magic when simpler cures would suffice. And a Magistrius or a Magistria who tries to use a healing spell without sufficient knowledge of the human body can create a…mess.” She hesitated. “But forgive me if I have spoken too bluntly.”

“It is all right,” said Calliande. “In truth, I cannot remember meeting another Magistria with as much interest in medicine.” That, at least, was entirely true.

“Perhaps you can help us,” said Arassa. “After we force the antidote down his throat, we shall have to wake him for it to take effect. For a short time the poison will attack him. Can you heal any harm it does in that time?”

Calliande nodded. “I shall.”

Rodinius lifted a glass beaker full of a swirling gray fluid, tapped his finger against the glass, and listened to the sound it made. “Daughter, I believe we are ready.”

“The let us begin,” said Arassa. “Mistress Morigna, can you lift your spell upon his blood?”

“Mistress?” said Morigna. “No one has called me that before.”

Arassa raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer that I call you a wildling sorceress?”

“Upon reflection, no,” said Morigna.

“Gray Knight, Brother Caius, Master Gavin,” said Arassa. “He may try to thrash, and your friend looks like he could punch a hole in the wall. Hold him down.”

Ridmark nodded and took Kharlacht’s right arm, while Caius gripped his left. Gavin sat upon his shins, holding Kharlacht’s legs in place. Arassa lifted the beaker with the elixir.

“Now,” she said.

Morigna whispered under her breath and gestured, purple fire flaring around her fingers. In one smooth motion Arassa knelt, pinched Kharlacht’s nose shut, tilted back his head, and poured the potion down his throat. Kharlacht began to thrash, the muscles in his arms and legs bulging as he growled. Ridmark and Caius and Gavin strained to keep him in place.

“Magistria,” said Arassa. “Now.”

Calliande knelt next to Kharlacht, summoned her power, and placed a hand upon his sweating forehead. She cast the healing spell, and felt the stabbing pain in every inch of her body as the poison attacked Kharlacht. She gritted her teeth and healed him, and healed him again, ignoring the pain. Yet the pain faded with every casting of the spell, and by the fourth time, nothing happened.

Kharlacht had been cleansed of the poison.

She let out a long breath and straightened up.

“I think,” she said, “I think it worked.”

“God has been with us this day,” said Caius.

“He had nothing to do with it,” said Morigna. “My magic, Calliande’s magic, and Arassa’s skill saved Kharlacht. Nothing else.”

Caius smiled. “And what instruments does God choose to do his work?”

Morigna opened her mouth to answer, but a weak voice cut her off.

“Do you two ever stop arguing?”

Calliande saw that Kharlacht’s eyes were open.

“Kharlacht,” said Calliande. “Do you know who I am?”

“No,” said Kharlacht. “But neither do you.”

“He has a point,” said Morigna.

“Where am I?” said Kharlacht. He grunted and tried to sit up.

“No, stay down for a bit,” said Calliande.

“The last thing I remember,” said Kharlacht. “The wyvern. The Kothluuskans…” He blinked. “What happened?”

“It seems to be the day,” said Ridmark, “for interesting stories.”

Chapter 9 - The Crow’s Helm

“We should have left at once,” said Morigna.

Ridmark shook his head. “Calliande thinks Kharlacht needs a day or two of rest before we depart.”

Morigna scowled. “She is not always right.”

“No,” said Ridmark, “but I think she is right about this.”

Morigna leaned back and looked at the beer in her clay mug. “At least we could have found a better inn.”

“Concerning that,” said Ridmark, “you may be right.”

Morigna took another look around the common room of the Crow’s Helm, the Outwall’s best inn.

That was not saying much.

Fishermen filled the ramshackle wooden common room, no doubt hoping to escape their wives for a few more hours. A bar ran the length of one wall, guarded by a pair of surly men. The inn took its name from the massive stuffed crow that sat over the fieldstone hearth, a battered war helm resting on the poor bird’s head.

“But to find a better inn,” said Ridmark, “we would have to go within in the wall.” He tapped his left cheek. “That would have been a poor idea.” He wore his cowl up, but no one seemed to care. Quite a few rough characters populated both the Crow’s Helm and the Outwall.

“Undoubtedly,” said Morigna. “Which is why we should have headed away from the city, and camped in the wild.”

“Nothing is really wilderness for twenty miles around Coldinium,” said Ridmark. “Farms and pastures and freeholds.” He lifted his beer, took a drink, and winced. “And better to have a night or two under a roof before we travel to Urd Morlemoch.”

Morigna turned her head and saw Calliande and Gavin and Caius sitting with Arassa and Rodinius. The Magistria seemed to have taken a liking to the apothecary’s daughter, and they had been talking the entire time. From time to time Caius told one of his stories to an appreciative audience. Kharlacht himself was in the inn’s finest room, sleeping off his ordeal.

“Maybe you are right,” said Morigna. “But Mournacht and his orcs will not have forgotten you.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “If they followed us, better to be within walls.”

“We’re not within walls,” said Morigna. “We’re within a shoddy inn.”

Ridmark nodded, his eyes distant.

“And that halfling Jager,” said Morigna. “If he was a spy for the Dux, he might bring the Dux’s friends here.” Ridmark nodded again. “Or he might just hire some toughs and bring them here to collect the bounty.”

“He might do that, too,” said Ridmark. He rubbed his chin, staring into nothing. “There are risks no matter what we do. Camp in the wild, and Mournacht might find us. Stay in the Crow’s Helm, and one of Tarrabus’s followers might find us. Or we go into the wilderness and both the Mhorites and Tarrabus’s men find us. Or they find us here.” He shrugged. “I am not a prophet. This seems the best choice.”

“As you say,” said Morigna. “What troubles you?”

He snorted. “Besides the obvious?”

“Yes,” said Morigna.

“Many things,” said Ridmark. “When I left Dun Licinia, my course was clear. Go to Urd Morlemoch and wrench the secret of the Frostborn from the Warden. Now things have grown more complicated.”

“How?” said Morigna. “We are still going to Urd Morlemoch.”

“You lay your finger upon it,” said Ridmark. “We are going to Urd Morlemoch. I thought to go alone.”

“So you blame yourself for Kharlacht?” said Morigna. “You should not. We might all have died, but we did not. And your efforts saved him.”

“And yours, and Calliande’s, and Arassa’s,” said Ridmark. “I have not always made good decisions for the lives of those in my care.”

He was thinking about Aelia again, she guessed. Likely Rodinius’s comment about wives had put it into his head.

“And you worry that your decisions will kill us all?” said Morigna. “Well, do not be such a fool.”

“Blunt as ever,” said Ridmark.

“The truth is blunt,” said Morigna. “Kharlacht is a grown man, and I am a grown woman. You saved our lives, aye, but we are responsible for our own decisions. We chose to follow you to Urd Morlemoch, and we must bear the consequences of that choice. Not you.” She shook her head. “The Old Man was right about one thing.”

“And what is that?” said Ridmark. “Possessing your body to live forever?”

“Not that,” said Morigna. “But he was correct about strength. Power is the only thing that can guarantee security.”

“Do not let Calliande hear you say that,” said Ridmark. “She is half-convinced you will turn to dark magic.”

“Given my upbringing, one supposes that is a reasonable fear,” said Morigna. “But power alone safeguards and brings respect.”

“There is always someone more powerful,” said Ridmark.

“True,” said Morigna. She hesitated, unsure of what to say. Part of her thought him a fool for turning back to save Kharlacht, for letting it turn him from Urd Morlemoch. The sensible thing would have been to let Kharlacht die and continue on. But he had succeeded, had he not? Kharlacht would live. And Ridmark had done the same thing for her, coming back to save her from Coriolus at great risk to himself.

“I wish,” she said at last, “that you could see yourself the way I see you.”

“And how do you see me?” said Ridmark.

“A strong man,” said Morigna, her voice quiet. “A warrior. Not a man who should constantly question himself…or torment himself over a woman long dead.”

Ridmark said nothing. For a moment he looked tired. Morigna could guess at some of what he felt. She blamed herself for Nathan Vorinus’s death, but the grief had not eaten through her the way Ridmark’s sorrow had.

“Thank you,” he said at last.

Morigna nodded. “Think on what I have said.” She got to her feet and picked up her staff, adjusting her tattered cloak. “I am going to have a look around outside.”

“For what?” said Ridmark.

“Mhorite orcs,” said Morigna. “Or assassins or spies. One never knows.”

“Try not to kill anyone,” said Ridmark.

Morigna grinned. “Truly, Gray Knight? You know me. I am the soul of gentleness.”

“That is hardly reassuring,” said Ridmark.

She laughed and went into the night. Feral dogs wandered the Outwall, and it as a simple matter for Morigna to cast a spell over a half-dozen of them and bind the beasts to her will. She set them to patrolling around the Crow’s Helm, watching for anything unusual, anyone that smelled of danger.

If attackers came to the inn, she would be ready.

And thanks to the dogs, she spotted Jager as he headed for the Crow’s Helm.

###

Caius and Gavin retired to bed, leaving the common room deserted save for Calliande, Ridmark, Morigna, and Arassa. Calliande sat alone with Arassa, while Morigna and Ridmark talked in low voices.

“You were betrothed?” said Calliande.

“Aye, I was,” said Arassa. “A good man. When Mhalek came out of the Wilderland, the militia marched with the Comes to Dun Licinia. He fell in the fighting there.”

“I’m sorry,” said Calliande.

“He was a good man,” said Arassa, “and I mourned him deeply.” She took a drink of her beer with every indication of enjoyment. Calliande did not have much recollection of drinking beer, but she suspected the Helm’s beer was not very good. “But I moved on, in time. I had always worked with Father in his shop, and when he dies, I shall inherit the business.” She shrugged. “I confess, I would not have chosen the life of an independent widow, but I find that it suits me.”

“That is good,” said Calliande. She found herself glancing at Ridmark, watching as Morigna stood and walked into the night. Had they been fighting? Yet neither one of them looked angry.

“What of you?” said Arassa. “Why is a Magistria following a man like the Gray Knight?”

“Did Ridmark tell you what he was doing?” said Calliande. “When he saved your father?”

Arassa shrugged. “He thinks the Frostborn are returning. An urdmordar warned him of it, years ago, and he has been looking for proof ever since.” She shrugged. “Between you and me, I fear grief unseated his mind.”

“He’s not wrong,” said Calliande. “Listen to me. The omen of blue fire forty-eight days ago?” Arassa nodded. “The Warden of Urd Morlemoch told Ridmark that it was going to happen, that it would herald the return of the Frostborn within a year and a month of the omen. That’s why I am following Ridmark. The realm is in grave peril, and Ridmark is the only one who sees it. We are going to Urd Morlemoch to force the Warden to tell us how and when the Frostborn are returning.”

Arassa sat in silence for a moment.

“God and the apostles,” she said. “You’re telling the truth?”

Calliande nodded. “I wish I were not, but I am.”

Arassa sighed. “Grim tidings. The Frostborn returning? Creatures out of legend. I had hoped such dark days were behind the realm, that after Mhalek was slain we would have peace…if the lords in their pride would not start another war.”

“The lords of Andomhaim have their flaws,” said Calliande, thinking of Tarrabus Carhaine and Paul Tallmane, “but they can hardly be blamed for Mhalek’s invasion.”

“I suppose not,” said Arassa. “But the Frostborn returning. I had thought you followed Ridmark for a simpler reason.”

“What’s that?” said Calliande.

Arassa raised her eyebrows over her watery eyes. “You don’t know?”

Calliande shook her head.

“You’re obviously in love with him,” said Arassa.

Calliande opened her mouth, closed it again, and sat in silence.

“And just as obviously,” said Arassa, “in denial about it, I am afraid.”

“No, I’m not,” said Calliande. “I just…I can’t do anything about it. I don’t know who I am.”

“You don’t?”

“There is a ruined castle north of Dun Licinia, the Tower of Vigilance,” said Calliande. “I was in a vault beneath the ruins, bound in a magical sleep. When the blue fire filled the sky, I awoke, but I can’t remember anything that happened before that. Nothing. I apparently have retained all my skills and knowledge, but I don’t remember how I acquired them.”

“That must be horrid,” said Arassa.

“It is,” said Calliande. “So I don’t know myself. I don’t know who I am, if I have a husband or children.”

Arassa nodded. “Therefore you don’t know what to do about Ridmark.”

Calliande shook her head. “I don’t. It hardly seems important. If the Frostborn return, they will destroy the world. They almost did the first time. I think…I think I was there for it, Arassa. The first invasion, over two and a half centuries ago. I think that was how long I slept below the ruins.”

“My God,” said Arassa. “Then you’re…two hundred and fifty years old?”

“Maybe even older,” said Calliande.

“You surely do not look it,” said Arassa. “You look younger than I am.” She paused. “Why would you do that to yourself? Put yourself into a sleep below a ruined castle?”

“I don’t know,” said Calliande, recalling some of the clues she had learned, the discussions she had had with the Watcher. “I think I knew that the Frostborn would return, and that I would have to stop them. So I put myself into the long sleep to wait until their return.” She shook her head. “It sounds foolish. Proud. Was that the kind of woman I was?”

“Or noble,” said Arassa.

“I suppose it depends upon whether or not I succeed,” said Calliande.

“There is that,” said Arassa. She hesitated. “I do not know if I should offer you counsel or not.”

“No, please,” said Calliande. “I am sorry to burden you with it. You have already helped us, and then I had the temerity to lay my problems upon you.”

“You’re in love with Ridmark,” said Arassa, “but I am pretty sure that Morigna is too.”

“Her? I’m not sure she’s capable of loving anyone,” said Calliande.

“She’s colder than you are, less merciful,” said Arassa, “but if she’s not in love with the Gray Knight yet, she’s going to be.”

“Then you’re saying that I should…stand aside?” said Calliande. “Stay out of her way? Morigna knows who she is and I do not.”

It hurt more than she had expected to say that.

“No,” said Arassa, “I think both of you should stay away from him because he will get you killed.”

“Why?” said Calliande with a frown. “He has saved my life repeatedly. And Morigna’s, for that matter.”

She glanced at him. He sat alone, seemingly lost in thought.

“He is a brave and valiant man, and a formidable warrior, I doubt neither of these things,” said Arassa. “But he has never forgiven himself for his wife’s death, and that makes him dangerous. He cares nothing for his life. He fought off a dozen orcs to save my father. That sort of recklessness lets him do great deeds, but it will get him killed. And it will get anyone with him killed.”

“The Frostborn are returning,” said Calliande. “I need his help to stop them.”

“I know,” said Arassa. “And I will not presume to tell you what to do. I am an apothecary and a physician. What do I know of these deep matters of centuries? But if I were you, I would not give my heart to Ridmark Arban. For his heart has been dead for years, and he cannot give it to anyone.”

Calliande thought on that for a moment. “Thank you. I…”

The door to the common room swung open, and a short figure in a black leather jerkin, white shirt, crisp trousers, and gleaming black boots stepped into the Crow’s Helm. A short sword and dagger rested at his belt, and wide amber eyes contemplated the inn beneath a mop of curly blond hair.

It was Jager.

“Oh,” said Arassa. “It’s Master Dieter.”

“Wait,” said Calliande, turning back to the apothecary. “You said his name is Dieter?”

Arassa nodded. “A merchant with a house near the Forum of the North. Odd to see a halfling merchant, true, but he’s successful. And such a charming fellow.” She chuckled. “He tells the sauciest jokes.”

Jager or Dieter or whatever his name was took a deep breath and strode towards Ridmark.

Calliande’s alarm grew.

“He never calls himself Jager?” said Calliande.

“Not to my knowledge,” said Arassa.

An alias. He had been using alias.

“He comes to my shop sometimes,” said Arassa. “Buys some herbs for tea, says his mistress enjoys them. Though I haven’t seen him since…oh, since the Dux of Caerdracon came to…”

Calliande’s head snapped around. “The Dux of Caerdracon? Tarrabus Carhaine? He’s in the city?”

“He arrived several weeks ago,” said Arassa. “He has a domus in the city, near the castra. The Dux of Caerdracon holds the Iron Tower, so he comes once a year to check on his Constable, I suppose. It ought…”

Calliande cursed, got to her feet, and hurried to join Ridmark as Jager approached.

###

Morigna stood unobserved in the shadows across the street and watched Jager enter the Crow’s Helm.

What the devil was he doing here? Morigna had been suspicious of him ever since he had accompanied them on Smiling Otto’s boat. Oh, he spoke charmingly, and smiled and laughed often, but neither the smiles nor the laughter ever touched his eyes.

Morigna flexed her fingers and stepped towards the Inn. She would go inside and keep an eye on him. And if he had come to spy upon Ridmark for Dux Tarrabus or anyone else, he would regret it sorely…

A surge of alarm stabbed into her mind, and Morigna stopped, wide-eyed.

It took a moment to realize the alarm was not her own.

The feral dogs she had bound. Her spell created a link to their minds, and their impressions filtered through to her thoughts. If she concentrated, she could see through their eyes and hear through their ears, even smell through their noses, and dogs had a far superior sense of smell than humans. One of the dogs had seen something…unnatural. Something that had filled it with unreasoning, instinctive terror. A feral dog would avoid humans, and it would fear predators like lions or wyverns. But this madness, this terror, there was only one thing that could inspire such fear in an animal.

Dark magic. An urvaalg, perhaps, or one of the other creatures of the dark elves.

Or something worse.

Morigna frowned, summoned power, and headed in the dog’s direction.

###

Jager put a calm expression on his face, took a deep breath, and strolled towards Ridmark Arban.

He had not yet decided upon a course of action. He was almost certain Calliande would keep the empty soulstone with her, but perhaps she had given it to Ridmark for safekeeping. In any event, it had been a tremendous stroke of fortune that Ridmark had gone to Coldinium. Tarrabus Carhaine was still here, staying in his domus, and Jager suspected that Ridmark and Calliande would notice the theft at once. All Jager needed to do was take the soulstone and elude them long enough to reach the Dux. Then he could get Mara back and wash his hands of this entire business.

Assuming Tarrabus did not simply have both him and Mara killed.

In fact, Jager could not think of any reason Tarrabus would not have them killed.

For a moment utter despair took him. Perhaps it had always been meant to end this way. Paul had killed his father Hilder, and perhaps Jager would share his father’s fate.

But he would not surrender, not while he still had life. Not while Mara still needed him.

So he kept his calm expression in place and walked to the Gray Knight’s table.

Ridmark looked at him. The firelight from the hearth painted his face in harsh tones, the brand an ugly gash across his left cheek. His blue eyes were cold, icy cold, and Jager felt himself falter for a moment. This was not a man to trifle with.

But neither was Tarrabus. And Tarrabus had Mara.

“Master Jager,” said Ridmark. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“And you, Sir Ridmark,” said Jager.

Ridmark gestured at his scarred face. “I am not a knight any longer.”

“I suppose not,” said Jager, rebuking himself for the lapse. “But a pleasant coincidence seeing you here. I often frequent the Crow’s Helm…”

“You are not dressed like one of the Helm’s regular patrons,” said Ridmark.

“A man has to cut an impressive figure,” said Jager.

Ridmark leaned a little closer. “Let us dispense with the games, shall we?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jager.

“You were waiting for me in Vulmhosk,” said Ridmark. “You followed me to Coldinium. There are dozens of taverns within Coldinium, and most of them are inside the walls. Yet out of all the taverns and inns in the city, you happen to stroll into the one where I am staying. That is a very unlikely coincidence, don’t you think?”

Jager said nothing, wondering if he had miscalculated.

“Why don’t you tell me what you want?” said Ridmark.

For a mad instant he considered telling Ridmark everything. Tarrabus hated Ridmark, and the feeling had to be mutual. Perhaps Ridmark could help Jager against Tarrabus. But when had a noble of Andomhaim ever lifted a finger to help Jager? And if Tarrabus knew that Jager had asked Ridmark for help, he would hand Mara over to Paul Tallmane.

He opened his mouth to answer, and Calliande appeared at the table.

“Ridmark,” she said. She gave Jager a suspicious look. “We have to leave, now.”

“Why?” said Ridmark, getting to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Tarrabus Carhaine is here, in Coldinium,” said Calliande. “He’s apparently come to inspect the Iron Tower. If he finds out you are here, he’ll kill you.” She glared at Jager. “If someone hasn’t taken word of your presence to him already.”

“Ah,” said Ridmark. Unlike Calliande, he seemed calm. “So that’s what you were doing in Vulmhosk.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Jager, sweat trickling down his back.

“Then what?” said Calliande.

Jager tried to think of a convincing answer.

###

Morigna went around a corner and stopped.

The Outwall lacked the protection of Coldinium’s walls, which struck her as folly. The Wilderland and its dangers were nearby. And the Nightmane Forest was just to the south, and even the Old Man had avoided that place and the mad dark elven prince that ruled over it.

So she was not surprised to see a mass of dark figures making their way up the street. She caught the glimpse of red tattoos and scars upon their faces.

Crimson light flashed at their head, and Morigna saw what had frightened the dogs so badly.

Mournacht strode at the head of the Mhorite orcs, his enspelled double-bladed axe ready in his hands.

They hadn’t spotted her yet.

Morigna sprinted for the Crow’s Helm.

###

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ridmark. “We’re leaving. Calliande, get the others.” He pointed at Jager. “If you are spying for Tarrabus Carhaine, tell him this. The Frostborn are returning, and the realm needs to make ready.”

“The Frostborn?” said Jager, and for the first time the halfling looked bewildered. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Tell him that,” said Ridmark, picking up his staff. “The Frostborn are coming back. Tarrabus is ruthless and without conscience, but Caerdracon and Castra Carhaine will freeze alongside everything else if the Frostborn return.”

“You think I am spying for the Dux?” said Jager. “After what he did to me?”

Ridmark frowned. “What did he do to you?”

Jager flinched.

Ridmark was about to press the point further when the door to the inn burst open.

Morigna sprinted into the common room, staff in her left hand, purple fire blazing around her right.

“Ridmark!” she said. “Mournacht! His warriors come!”

Chapter 10 - The Heralds of Mhor

Calliande spun to face Arassa, summoning power. The apothecary gaped at her, eyes wide.

“Go,” said Calliande. “Go out the back door, right now.”

“What’s happening?” said Arassa, getting to her feet.

“Mhorite orcs from Kothluusk,” said Calliande. “They’ll kill anyone they find. Get to your father and get to safety.”

“Wait,” said Ridmark. “Get him to safety, but alert the militia. Comes Corbanic and his men-at-arms must be warned. If the Mhorites aren’t stopped they’ll burn down the entire Outwall and kill everyone they catch. Run!”

Arassa reacted with admirable speed and sprinted for the kitchens.

“Where are they?” said Ridmark.

Morigna closed her eyes, and Calliande sensed the faint pulse of magic as the sorceress worked a spell. “Heading right for the inn. Someone knew to lead them here.” His eyes, cold and black, opened and turned towards Jager. “As if someone knew where to bring them!”

“You think I brought those death-worshipping madmen here?” said Jager. “They’ll kill me alongside you! Probably eat our corpses, too.”

“I suggest, Master Jager,” said Ridmark, raising his staff, “that you stay with us. The Inn is reasonably defensible, and if they catch you alone on the street they will kill you.”

“What do we do?” said Calliande.

“We stay here and fight,” said Ridmark. “Either the sound of fighting will rouse the militia and the Comes’s men-at-arms, or Arassa will summon them. We need only hold until they arrive.”

“And if the Comes’s men decide to arrest you?” said Calliande. “Or kill you to collect the Dux’s bounty?”

“Assuming Mournacht leaves us alive,” said Ridmark, “we’ll deal with it then.” He turned to Jager. “You know how to use those blades?”

“You’re damned right I do,” said Jager, drawing his short sword and dagger.

“Then use them,” said Ridmark. “Morigna, a veil of mist across the door, please. See if we can slow them down.” He raised his voice. “To arms! Intruders at the inn!”

Morigna nodded and swept her free hand before her. A curtain of white mist sprang up before the door, and Calliande heard the faint sizzle as the acidic mist began to chew into the wood of the floor.

“I can augment both of you for now,” said Calliande, “but when Mournacht shows up, I will need to focus my spells upon him.”

“As shall I,” said Morigna.

“Augment?” said Jager.

“A spell,” said Ridmark, his staff low and loose in his right hand. “Makes us faster and stronger than we would be otherwise.”

“Ah,” said Jager. “I imagine that would be useful.”

“You’re about to find out,” said Ridmark.

The battle cries of the Mhorite orcs rang out from the street.

###

Jager set himself, his heart hammering against his ribs, sweat tricking down his back and chest.

He was a thief, not a Swordbearer or a soldier. He knew how to use his blades, and had been in more fights than he preferred to remember. But he hadn’t liked this sort of fighting at Vulmhosk, and he certainly did not like it here.

At least in Vulmhosk they had been behind a palisade.

But Ridmark was right. If he fled, the Mhorites would kill him in the street, and if he was dead, there was no one to save Mara.

An instant later the first of the Kothluuskan orcs ran through the door.

He sprinted into Morigna’s curtain of mist. The orc loosed a hideous wail as the acidic mist ate into his skin, a horrible stench flooding Jager’s nostrils. The dying orc toppled, and two more ran into the mist, their screams ringing as they died in agony. Crimson light flashed, and the curtain of mist vanished, Morigna rocking back a step as her spells collapsed.

The Mhorite orcs stormed into the inn’s common room, a sea of scarred faces and leather armor and furred cloaks, axes and swords gleaming in their hands. For a moment Jager stood frozen, watching as the orcs charged at him.

Then Ridmark moved.

Jager had seen the Gray Knight in battle before, had watched him duel against Mournacht outside the walls of Vulmhosk. That had been a fight between two equals. But this was like watching a wolf charge through sheep. Ridmark charged into the orcs, his staff a blur in his hands. He struck left, right, left again, and Jager heard the sound of shattered bones and cracking skulls. One of the Mhorites fell dead, and two more stumbled back, howling in pain, legs or hands shattered by the staff.

Jager had never seen anyone fight so well. Ridmark had once been a Swordbearer? With a Soulblade in hand, he would have been an unstoppable terror.

Morigna flung out her free hand and rapped her staff against the floor. The boards of the floor twisted, rising up like fingers to wrap around the legs of the Mhorite orcs. The warped boards would not hold them immobilized for long, but that gave Ridmark all the time he needed to land killing blows. White light flashed as Calliande gestured, and the white glow seemed to settle around Ridmark, lending greater speed and power to his blows.

The same white glow settled around Jager.

For an instant he was shocked, unsure why she would extend her magical augmentation to him. Neither Ridmark nor Calliande nor Morigna trusted him.

Yet the Kothluuskan orcs would kill them all, trust or no trust, and Ridmark could not stand alone against all of them.

Jager dashed into the fray. Each of the orcs stood two or three feet taller, but in the close quarters that played to his advantage. They did not see him as a threat, not at first. Moving with spell-granted speed, Jager plunged his shortsword into the belly of the nearest Mhorite, tugged it to the side, and ripped the weapon free. The orc howled, one hand falling to his stomach to keep his innards in place, and Ridmark killed him with a sharp thrust to the temple. Jager circled at the edge of the melee, dodging the attacks of the orcs, and wounded them with sword and dagger. Whenever he wounded an orc, Ridmark moved into the opening, landing killing blows with his staff. Morigna cast spell after spell, the planks of the floor entrapping the orcs, slowing them long enough for Ridmark to kill them.

Yet the sheer number of Mhorites forced them back. Crimson fire flared, and one of the windows in the inn’s wall exploded, leaving a door-sized opening. More orcs poured through the gaping hole, howling prayers to Mhor, and Ridmark had to fight on two fronts. Jager backed away, dodging the swing of a heavy axe. Ridmark fought like a lion, but the numbers and ferocity of the orcs would overwhelm him.

And unless Jager fled right now, he would die with the Gray Knight.

“God and St. Michael!”

A stocky figure in brown robes charged into melee, a mace of bronze-colored dwarven steel in his fist. Brother Caius brought the mace down, shattering a Mhorite’s knee. The orc fell with a howl of pain, and quick as lightning Caius staved in the Mhorite’s skull.

For a friar, he certainly knew how to fight.

Gavin hurried into the fray at Caius’s left, his shield extended, his orcish sword drawn back to stab. Ridmark fought with the ferocity and power of a master, but Gavin fought with the conservative moves of an infantryman. He kept his shield up, but the minute any one of the orcs lowered his guard or stepped a little too far forward, his sword darted out, or his shield blurred in a bash.

There was a below of fury, and Kharlacht charged into the battle. To Jager’s astonishment, the big orc wore dark elven armor of overlapping blue steel plates, a massive dark elven greatsword in his hands. A simple wooden cross hung from a cord around his neck, a marked contrast to the elaborate ritual mutilation of the Mhorites. He struck, the huge sword landing with enough power to shear off a Mhorite’s head from his shoulders.

“You should be in bed!” shouted Calliande.

Kharlacht grunted, parrying an axe blow and driving his boot into a Kothluuskan orc’s chest. “Your medicines are more effective than you know!”

Ridmark and his followers fought with fury, and the Kothluuskan orcs retreated, daunted by the fury of the Gray Knight and his companions. Jager darted around the edges of the fight, crippling and wounding Mhorites whenever the opportunity presented. In a wild moment of delirium he realized that they were winning the battle.

But the memory of Mara, chained and gagged, dashed his exultation.

Perhaps this was his best chance. Calliande might not have the soulstone on her. Perhaps she had hidden it within her room. If he acted now, while they were distracted by the attack, he could snatch the stone and flee.

Crimson light flared outside the inn, and the enhanced speed and strength drained from Jager. He jumped back, wondering if Calliande had been wounded. She stood well clear of the fray, yet her hands were hooked into claws, her face tight with strain as white flames burned around her fingertips.

“Ridmark!” shouted Morigna, gesturing with her staff. “Mournacht! He’s about to…”

Crimson fire blazed outside, mingled with shadow, and the entire wall around the door shone with it.

And then the wall exploded in a spray of shattered beams, the blast knocking Jager to the floor.

###

Ridmark rolled with the impact and got to his feet.

The entire front wall of the Crow’s Helm had been torn apart by the crimson fire, the beams twisted and rotted as if eaten away by decay. The impact had knocked the orcs to the ground, but it had also stunned Ridmark’s companions. Calliande lay unconscious upon the ground, and Jager slumped against the wall, eyes wide. Morigna got to one knee with a grimace, leaning upon her carved staff for balance.

Mournacht stood in the center of the street, flanked by a dozen of his warriors, his doubled-bladed axe ablaze with crimson flames.

“Gray Knight,” rumbled Mournacht, raising his massive axe. “Did you think you could flee? Did you think you could hide behind the stone walls of your kindred? The Heralds of Mhor have decreed your death! You cannot run! You cannot hide! You…”

Ridmark caught Morigna’s eye, saw her give a quick nod.

“I wasn’t trying,” said Ridmark, “to do either.”

He dashed forward as Morigna flung out her arms and shouted a spell, purple fire crackling around her. The street rippled, folding like paper caught in the wind, and the Mhorites around the shaman lost their balance. Mournacht staggered but kept his feet, growling in fury. Ridmark attacked, and landed two heavy blows before Mournacht could recover, his staff striking the shaman’s right arm and torso. He heard a rib snap and Mournacht’s left arm break, and the shaman roared in fury, stepping back as the sigils upon his torso blazed to life in bloody flame. He pointed his axe, the blade shining brighter as he summoned magic.

Then a column of white mist swirled around him, and Mournacht’s wards pulsed with force. Morigna gestured again, shouting with the effort of her magic. Mournacht bellowed and flung a bolt of bloody fire at her, and Morigna dodged into the wreckage of the inn, the flame withering some of the shattered timbers into smoking ash. Mournacht wheeled to face Ridmark once again, gripping the huge axe in both hands. Ridmark wondered he how he managed that with a broken arm, and realized that Mournacht’s blood magic had healed the break.

Ridmark would have to land a killing blow quickly. Else Mournacht would simply recover from any damage Ridmark dealt to him, and would need only wait until Ridmark’s strength faltered. Worse, the warriors near him recovered their feet, growling as they raised their weapons. Ridmark backed away, staff leveled before him. He might not be able to take Mournacht in a straight fight. He definitely could not take Mournacht and a dozen Mhorites in a battle.

“He is mine!” roared Mournacht. “Deal with his companions, but the Gray Knight is mine!”

The Mhorites charged into the wreckage of the Crow’s Helm as Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin regained their feet. Ridmark turned to aid them, but Mournacht sprang at him, his black axe blurring. Ridmark jerked to the side, just missing the blades, and brought his staff down hard upon the battle axe’s shaft. Mournacht stumbled, and Ridmark hit him across the face with the length of the staff. The shaman’s head snapped back, blood flying from his mouth. The blow would have broken the neck of a weaker man, but Mournacht merely growled and shook it off.

He attacked in a storm of black steel and crimson flame, and Ridmark found himself driven back step by step as his companions fought in the wreckage.

###

Jager blinked, shook himself, and got to his feet.

The sound of steel on steel filled his ears. He saw Kharlacht kill another Mhorite with a broad sweep of his greatsword, crimson blood spattering across his blue armor. Caius and Gavin fought back to back, surrounded by Mhorite orcs, weapons rebounding from Gavin’s increasingly battered shield. Morigna stood atop a heap of rubble, violet flame burning around her hands as she flung spells. Ridmark himself dueled Mournacht, the huge shaman driving him back step by step.

Calliande lay motionless some distance away. She must had thrown her magic against Mournacht’s power and been overwhelmed. Giving Jager had a perfect chance to take the empty soulstone.

He shot a quick glance at the battle and hurried to Calliande. She wore a leather jerkin, a loose tunic, trousers, and leather boots. No room to conceal the thing in her clothing. There were several pouches at her belt, but none of them large enough to hold the soulstone. Tarrabus had said it was the size of a fist.

Her room. The thing had to be in her room. It would have been secure enough – sitting the common room, she would have been able to see anyone going upstairs to the guest rooms. Of course, she hadn’t known about the Mhorites.Jager had to act now. The Kothluuskan orcs would soon overwhelm Ridmark and his companions unless the city militia arrived in time.

By then Jager needed to be well away with the soulstone, lest he encounter too many unwelcome questions.

He turned towards the stairs, and a Mhorite orc bounded free of the melee and charged at Calliande, sword raised for the killing blow. She groaned, her eyelids fluttering, and tried to sit up, only to slump against the floorboards.

This was perfect. If the orc killed her, Jager could make his escape.

He remembered her sitting by Kharlacht’s prone form in the hold of Otto’s boat, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Jager sprang at the orc, driving his dagger into the Mhorite’s right leg. The orc stumbled, his red-tinted black eyes wide with shock. Likely the Mhorite had not seen him as a threat. No one feared halflings.

The warrior before Jager knew better, now.

He ripped his dagger free, angling his sword for a stab, but the Mhorite snarled and slashed at Jager. He ducked, the edge of the sword tugging at his hair, and lashed with his dagger, opening another gash upon the orc’s leg. The Mhorite howled in fury and charged, and Jager just got out of the way. The sword hammered down in a heavy swing, and Jager blocked, his sword and dagger crossed, his arms trembling with the strain.

White light flared around Jager, and he felt magic lending his limbs strength and speed. He sprang at the orc, dodging another swing of the sword, and thrust. His shortsword opened the orc’s throat, and the Mhorite fell, gagging.

Jager finished him off with a stab to the heart.

Calliande climbed back to her feet, white fire playing around her fingers.

“Thank you,” she said, “for my life.”

A wave of shame rolled through him.

“Thank you for your assistance, my lady Magistria,” said Jager with a grandiose bow, using it to hide his discomfort. “It was most timely.”

“Where is Ridmark?” said Calliande.

Jager did not know, and Calliande started casting spells.

###

Ridmark was overmatched.

He landed hit after hit upon Mournacht, but the big shaman ignored the impacts, and every time Ridmark dealt damage, the Mhorite’s dark magic healed the wound. Worse, without Calliande and Morigna to distract him, Mournacht was free to bring his magic to bear in their duel, his powers raising his strength and speed to superhuman levels. If Ridmark made one mistake, Mournacht would take off his head with a single blow.

Or blast him to a withered corpse, as he had done to the Crow’s Helm.

Step by step Ridmark retreated, Mournacht forcing him away from the main battle. His friends were holding their own against the Mhorites, but they needed his help. And without the help of Calliande or Morigna, Ridmark doubted he could overcome a magically-augmented foe like Mournacht.

‘Pathetic,” growled Mournacht. “I had heard you were a fierce warrior, worthy of respect. Perhaps you would have been, had you still carried a Soulblade. Instead you are simply a fool with a stick.”

“Then stop talking,” said Ridmark, “and send me to face your red god.”

“You shall met him soon enough,” said Mournacht, “but that pleasure is not mine to take, alas.”

Suddenly he stepped back, axe raised in guard. Ridmark turned, watching for any other attackers. Mournacht had driven him into the courtyard behind the Crow’s Helm, and he heard the shouts and clangs from the fighting.

But the courtyard was deserted.

“Heralds of Mhor!” thundered Mournacht. “Have I not done well?”

“You have,” said a raspy, deep voice.

A familiar voice.

Four men glided from the shadows, clad in dark cloaks and cowls, swords and daggers glittering in their fists. Each man wore a cuirass of crimson leather and a mask of red steel. The masks had been worked in the shape of grinning crimson skulls.

Ridmark had seen such masks before.

“The Red Family of Cintarra,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff at them. “No. That’s not quite right, is it? The Red Family of Mhor. Worshippers of the old blood god of death.”

“You speak correctly,” said the lead assassin in his raspy voice.

“And you are the Heralds of Mhor,” said Ridmark.

The assassin inclined his skull-masked face. “The orcs of Kothluusk see us as such, at least those who worship Mhor. For Mhor is the bringer of death, the crimson skull…and we of the Red Family are devoted to his service, the heralds of Mhor’s death to those who challenge us.”

Ridmark saw that Mournacht had vanished.

“That was the point of all this, then?” said Ridmark. “Just to drive me to you?”

“They Mhorites were to kill you,” said the lead assassin, “but if they failed, they were to drive you into our grasp…and here you are.” He beckoned with his sword, and the four assassins began to circle around Ridmark.

“Let me guess,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus Carhaine hired you. Or Shadowbearer. Then you’ll kill me and take the soulstone for him. Isn’t that right…Rotherius?”

He had fought Rotherius before, below the Old Man’s hill, and had barely escaped. Rotherius had been deadly quick, and if Ridmark had not been able to outwit the assassins, he would not have come out of that fight alive.

The assassin laughed and lifted his red mask. Rotherius had a narrow, lined face beneath a tangle of graying yellow hair, his pale eyes cold and dead. “You remember. Very good. But this is not about the Dux and the Enlightened of Incariel, Ridmark Arban, nor about the wizard Shadowbearer. This is about you.”

“Me?” said Ridmark.

“You slew two of our brothers in Aranaeus,” said Rotherius, “and five more in the swamps outside of Moraime. No one defies the Red Family and lives.”

“So you are here,” said Ridmark, “to kill me for the blood of your brothers.”

“You should regard it as an honor,” said Rotherius. “Others have slain assassins of the Family before, but we have hunted them down. No one has ever slain seven of us and lived. Usually we accept payments of gold to sacrifice infidels to Mhor’s halls, but not this time. The Matriarch of the Family herself has decreed your death. Your head shall make a worthy sacrifice to Mhor when I lay it before her throne.”

“You’ll have to take it first,” said Ridmark.

“Easily accomplished,” said Rotherius, dropping his skull mask into place. “Farewell, Ridmark Arban. You were a worthy foe…but we are the heralds of Mhor, and in his name we shall claim your death.”

“Then come and take it,” said Ridmark.

The Red Brothers did not respond to his taunt, save to glide forward in silence, their weapons glittering in the darkness.

###

Earth magic rose at Morigna’s command, and her mind shaped it into spells of mist and stone. Yet the sheer press of the orcs drove them back, and she had to take shelter behind Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin and Jager as they battled the orcs, standing alongside Calliande as she cast spells of speed and strength.

Yet she could not see where Ridmark had gone. Mournacht had driven him around the corner of the inn and out of sight, and Morigna could tell that Ridmark had been overmatched. Without magical aid, he would fall to Mournacht’s axe.

Then the Mhorites began to retreat.

“What are they doing?” said Calliande, sweat tricking down her face. Close to thirty orcs lay dead upon the ground, maybe even forty, but many more filled the street. Mournacht must have found reinforcements somewhere. Certainly they had enough warriors to take the inn if they…

Trumpets rang out, and Morigna heard the clatter of steel-shod hooves against the ground.

“Arassa did it,” said Calliande, lowering her hands. “She brought help.”

The Mhorites fled, vanishing into the darkness. Calliande hurried forward and began healing the others. She winced as she did so, gritting her teeth as her magic washed over them and closed their wounds. As much as Morigna disliked the Magistria, she had to admire Calliande’s resolve. Healing wounds meant Calliande took the pain of the wound into herself, and to do so over and over again without flinching took tremendous mental discipline.

“We have to find Ridmark,” said Morigna.

“Aye,” said Calliande, wiping more sweat from her forehead. “He needs help against Mournacht. We…”

The horsemen came into sight. They wore gleaming chain mail beneath surcoats adorned with a stylized red dragon, the sigil of the Pendragons, the ancestral High Kings of Andomhaim. The lead rider was a short, stocky young man with a chest like a barrel, clad in the shining steel plate of a knight. He had a bushy black beard and narrowed brown eyes. A young woman in a white robe rode at his side, slender and haughty. She had black hair that fell in ringlets around her shoulders, bright green eyes, and olive-colored skin.

A Magistria. Morigna released her magic. Only the Magistri were allowed to wield magic within Andomhaim, and if the Magistri or the Swordbearers caught her using earth magic, they would kill her.

“Her,” said Calliande, staring at the Magistria upon the horse.

“You know her?” said Morigna.

“No,” said Calliande. “But…her face is familiar…” She shook her head. “Brother Caius, I think you had better do the talking. We need to find Ridmark.”

Caius nodded and walked towards the knight and the Magistria.

“Welcome!” said Caius. “My lord knights, you are most sorely welcome. Another few moments and the Mhorites would have had us. One of our friends is in peril, and…”

“Mhorites?” said the young knight. “Identify yourself.”

“I am Caius, a brother of the mendicant order,” said Caius.

“I am Sir Cortin Lamorus,” said the young knight. Ridmark had said that a man named Corbanic Lamorus was the Comes of Coldinium. “What has happened here? We saw fires from the walls, and heard reports of Kothluuskan orcs in the Outwall. We killed several, but the rest have fled.”

Caius told the facts of the battle, claiming that they were travelers staying in the Crow’s Helm, awakened when the Mhorites attacked. All that was technically true, though he failed to mention Ridmark or the soulstone. Morigna judged that wise. “The orcs pursued our friends behind the inn,” said Caius. “Forgive my presumption, sir knight, but we must go to their aid.”

“You are right,” said Sir Cortin. “We…”

“These men the orcs chased,” said the Magistria in a cool voice. “Did one of them wear a gray cloak and have the brand of a coward upon his cheek?”

###

Ridmark braced himself, and the trumpets rang out.

The militia and Comes Corbanic’s men had come.

Rotherius and the other assassins shared a glance among themselves.

“Well?” said Ridmark. “I don’t know how long I’ll last against the four of you. Shall we find out? You will kill me in the end, but I think I will last a long while. Long enough for the garrison to show up. How do you think they will react when they find four Brothers of the Red Family in the Outwall.” He waved his staff. “Or however many of you are still alive by then.”

He stood motionless, staring at the assassins, his heart thundering in his ears. Death did not faze him. But he would prefer not to die until he had fulfilled his promise to Calliande, until he had stopped the return of the Frostborn.

And he definitely would prefer not to die at the hands of Rotherius and the murderous madmen of the Red Family of Mhor.

Then Rotherius beckoned, and the assassins stepped back.

“This is not over, Ridmark Arban,” said Rotherius. “You will not escape the vengeance of the Red Family.” He barked a harsh laugh. “And perhaps you will not live out the night. The judgment of Mhor takes many forms, and even unwitting infidels can be his instruments.”

The assassins vanished into the shadows.

Ridmark let out a long breath, then turned and ran back for the main street. The Mhorite orcs would be attacking the wreckage of the Crow’s Helm.

But the orcs were gone. Armored horsemen sat before the inn, and Ridmark recognized Sir Cortin Lamorus as he spoke with Caius. A woman in a white robe sat atop a horse next to him, and…

Ridmark froze, his blood turning to ice.

Aelia. It was Aelia, looking just as she did the day Ridmark had failed…

Then the woman looked at him, and he saw the hatred in her green eyes.

“Well,” said Imaria Licinius. “My sister’s murderer deigns to join us.”

Chapter 11 - A Wanted Man

Calliande looked back and forth between Ridmark and the Magistria.

“My lady Imaria?” said Cortin.

Calliande had heard that name before, when she had spoken with Sir Constantine Licinius, son and heir of the Dux Gareth Licinius and Knight of the Soulblade. He had also been the brother of Aelia and Imaria, and according to Constantine, Imaria blamed Ridmark for Aelia’s death.

“Do you not, Sir Cortin,” said Imaria, pointing at Ridmark, “recognized the murderer that slew my sister?”

Cortin frowned. “Wait.” He spurred his horse closer. “You. I know you. My lord Ridmark?”

“I am not a lord,” said Ridmark.

“I heard that you returned,” said Cortin. “When the leftover Mhalekites attacked Dun Licinia a month and a half past.” He scratched at his jaw. “I never thought to see you alive again. A Swordbearer severed from his Soulblade…most wither away and die of despair. Or so I have heard. Ridmark Arban.” He shook his head. “My God.”

“You would greet your brother’s murderer so calmly, Sir Cortin?” said Imaria, her lip curling in disgust.

Cortin scowled. “Sir Ridmark did not murder my brother. Cormalon fell fighting valiantly against the Mhalekites. It is an insult to his memory to claim that Ridmark murdered him.”

Imaria scowled right back at him. The Magistria turned her horse toward Ridmark and walked it forward a few steps, glaring at him. Her every line radiated fury. The magic of the Magistri could not harm other mortals, but if it could, Calliande was sure Imaria would have struck down Ridmark then and there.

“You should have died,” said Imaria. “You should have died instead of Aelia. She was better than you. She deserved better than you.”

“I agree,” said Ridmark, his eyes as dead as his voice.

That only enraged Imaria further. “Why did you come back? You crawled off into the Wilderland when you were exiled. You should have died there.”

“The Frostborn,” said Ridmark.

“The Frostborn?” said Imaria, her voice rising. “Still? You have ranted about the Frostborn for years. Gothalinzur warned you against the Frostborn. The Warden spoke about the Frostborn. Mhalek gloated about the Frostborn in the final moments before he died. We all thought you were a mad fool. Even Aelia thought it, though she was too blinded by affection to see you for the madman you were. And then after you killed Aelia, you clung to this madness, as if it was your hope of salvation for your crimes…”

“Mad I may be,” said Ridmark, “but I am not wrong.”

Cortin looked back and forth between them.

“Five years in the wilderness has not taught you otherwise?” spat Imaria.

“This is not folly,” said Ridmark. “The omen of blue fire forty-eight days ago? That was the herald of the return of the Frostborn. Within a year and a month of the blue fire. Somewhere. I don’t know where or how, but…”

“Enough!” said Imaria. “Do you ever stop spouting lies?”

“The Frostborn are coming back,” said Ridmark. “Tell your father. Tell the High King. The realm has to be ready…”

Imaria snarled fury, yanked a dagger from her belt, and spurred her horse toward Ridmark. He made no move to defend himself, no move to dodge. To her horror, Calliande realized that he was just going to stand there. “Ridmark!” she said.

Morigna stepped forward. If she used her earth magic in front of Imaria, the Magistria could claim that Ridmark had smuggled a renegade sorceress into the realm, that Cortin had no choice but to take them all in custody. Calliande drew a deep breath and summoned power, preparing to intervene.

“My lady Magistria!” said Cortin. “Hold! Hold, I say!”

Imaria stopped, turned in the saddle, and glared at him. “You would let this vermin live?”

“I suggest,” said Caius, “that we have more immediate problems.” He gestured with his bloody mace at the dead Mhorite orcs. “You may or may not believe us about the Frostborn, but Kothluuskan orcs are in the Outwall, and they will harm others unless they are stopped.”

“You speak well, Brother Caius,” said Cortin. “Magistria, wait a moment. We shall deal with Sir Ridmark soon.”

Imaria drew herself up. “You dare to give me commands? I am a Magistria and…”

“I do not care if you are the High Queen and the Mother of God rolled into one,” said Cortin. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “My father appointed me the marshal of Coldinium, and until he revokes this appointment, I am in command here. You may advise, but you certainly will not attack travelers without cause. Have I made myself clear?”

“Abundantly,” said Imaria. “Dux Tarrabus would be wroth to hear you speak to me in such a tone.”

Cortin smiled. “And what relationship do you have with the Dux that he would care what you think?”

Imaria’s green eyes narrowed, but she said nothing else.

“Sir Ridmark,” said Cortin, “the rest of you, stay here. I wish to question you.”

Ridmark said nothing.

“Of course, sir knight,” said Caius. “We shall be happy to offer aid in any way we can.”

“Capital,” said Cortin. “If more of these Mhorites descend upon the city, we shall need the aid of every fighting man.” He turned to his knights and men-at-arms and gave orders. Some of them galloped off, carrying his instructions to the city proper. Imaria remained on her horse, glaring at Ridmark. Calliande crossed to Ridmark’s side, and felt Imaria’s cold gaze shift to her. Morigna joined them as well, shooting an expression of supreme, haughty indifference at Imaria that rankled the Magistria further.

“That Magistria,” said Calliande in a low voice, “that is…”

“Aelia’s sister, yes,” said Ridmark. “She is…not fond of me.”

“Or anyone, one would expect,” said Morigna. “She does not seem to have a knack for winning friends.”

Calliande swallowed the biting remark that came to her lips. In this, she and Morigna were on the same side. “She will try to have you killed if she can. Or hand you over to Tarrabus Carhaine.”

“I know,” said Ridmark. “I won’t try to stop her if she does.”

“What?” said Calliande. “Why not?”

“She’s right,” said Ridmark. His voice was calm, but his eyes were dead. “I did kill Aelia. It was my fault, my folly. I should have saved her. I should…”

“Stop it,” said Calliande. “That is madness.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “It is justice. I…

“You are not,” said Morigna, voice cold and hard, “going to kill yourself to appease the pride of that arrogant harridan upon the horse. I have a debt to you, Ridmark Arban, and I promised to see you to Urd Morlemoch. I can hardly fulfill that debt if you get yourself killed at the whim of some fool Magistria.”

“As loathe as I am to say this,” said Calliande, “for once I am in complete agreement with Morigna. You promised to help me find Dragonfall, and you cannot do that if you are dead. If Imaria Licinius kills you, that would be a useless death. ”

Ridmark looked between them, and for a moment he looked utterly exhausted. Then he took a breath, something like sanity returning to his eyes. “Yes. Yes, you are right. It is my duty to press on. I…forgive me. Seeing her was a shock.”

“It has been a long night for us all,” said Calliande, gesturing at the dead orcs.

“And it is not over yet,” said Morigna.

“Now,” said Sir Cortin. “What happened here? I suggest you tell me everything.”

“So be it,” said Ridmark. “You saw the omen of blue flame forty-eight days past?” Cortin nodded. “You know I went to Urd Morlemoch nine…”

“Lies and ravings,” spat Imaria, “from the diseased mind of a murderous madman.”

“Peace, Magistria,” said Cortin. “You are here to advise. Do not interrupt again.”

Her glare was just short of murderous, but she fell silent.

“You know I went to Urd Morlemoch nine years ago,” said Ridmark. “The Warden warned me this would happen, that the omen of blue fire would herald the return of the Frostborn. So when the fire filled the sky, I resolved to return to Urd Morlemoch once more, to learn where the Frostborn would return and how I could stop them.”

“Perhaps you are mad,” said Cortin, voice quiet. “Few enough can claim to have entered Urd Morlemoch and returned even once. To go a second time is indeed madness. That is why you are in Coldinium? Passing through on your way to the Torn Hills?”

“In part,” said Ridmark. “Along the way I have gained…companions. You have met Brother Caius.” The dwarven friar offered a bow. “This is Morigna and Calliande, and Gavin of Aranaeus and Kharlacht of Vhaluusk.” He looked around, but Calliande saw no sign of Jager. Likely the halfling had taken the opportunity to flee.

Or, if he truly served Tarrabus Carhaine, to report to his master.

“A Vhaluuskan orc,” said Cortin. “Are you in league with the Kothluuskans?”

“No,” said Kharlacht, his voice a rumble. “The tribes of Vhaluusk are hard and brutal, but even they think the orcs of Kothluusk are mad. And I am baptized, and all my kin are dead. I follow the Gray Knight because I have nowhere else to go.”

“One renegade deserves another,” said Imaria.

“Enough,” said Cortin. “These Mhorite orcs were after you, were they not? A curious coincidence to find them here.”

“They were after me,” said Ridmark.

“Why?” said Cortin. “Did you offend them in some way?”

“Repeatedly,” said Ridmark. “You know of the Red Family of Cintarra?”

Imaria laughed. “A myth. A cult of organized assassins, operating out of the realm’s largest city? The High King and the Duxi would never allow it.”

“I have heard the name,” said Cortin.

“I killed several of their assassins in the last few months,” said Ridmark. “The assassins worship Mhor, and the orcs of Kothluusk believe they are heralds or prophets of the blood gods. So the Red Family commanded Mournacht and his warriors to drive me here so they could kill me.”

Cortin frowned. “How do you know this?”

“Behind the inn,” said Ridmark. “Four of the Red Family were waiting for me.” Calliande looked over her shoulder in alarm. “They would have slain me, but they fled at your arrival.”

“Then it is a pity,” said Imaria, “that we did not tarry.”

Cortin rubbed his jaw with an armored hand. “A fantastical tale. You were many things, Sir Ridmark, but you were never a liar.”

“Surely you do not believe this nonsense,” said Imaria.

“There is no reason to disbelieve it,” said Cortin. “It fits the facts we have observed. And the Kothluuskan orcs have been restless of late. Strong warbands have attacked Rhaluusk and Durandis, and my father believes the King of Rhaluusk and the Dux of Durandis will ask the High King for aid against the Kothluuskan orcs. Certainly Ridmark’s tale fits with recent events.”

“Fine,” said Imaria. “So you believe him. What do you intend to do about it?”

Cortin turned to face Ridmark. “What are your plans?”

“To leave Coldinium and continue to Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark. “I didn’t think the Mhorite orcs would follow me here, but now that they have, I will not endanger others with my presence. We shall leave Coldinium.”

“That seems reasonable,” said Cortin. “I doubt my father would object. We…”

“What?” said Imaria. “No! I forbid this!”

“You may forbid nothing, Magistria,” said Cortin, his voice cold. “I command here, not you. And…”

“Men of Coldinium!” said Imaria, pointing at the knights and men-at-arms surrounding Cortin. “I am Imaria of the Licinii, daughter of the Dux Gareth of the Northerland and a Magistria of the Order! This man before you, Ridmark Arban, is a murderer and an exile! I command you by the authority of the Magistri to take him into custody at once!”

A few of the men shifted, reaching for their weapons. Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin moved to stand with Ridmark, Calliande, and Morigna.

“Hold!” bellowed Cortin. “I said to hold!”

“Take him, now!” said Imaria.

“You will hold your ground!” said Cortin.

“Take his head!” shouted Imaria. “The Dux Tarrabus Carhaine has promised riches and his favor to anyone who takes the head of Ridmark Arban! You shall receive gold, even lands of your own to hold as a benefice. Kill him now!”

“Any man draws a sword and strikes,” said Cortin, “I will have him brought before the Comes on charges of assault and murder.”

“And if any man does not,” said Imaria, “I will hold him personally responsible for the escape of this criminal!” She pointed at the watching men. “Do you want to dare the wrath of Tarrabus Carhaine? The man who murdered my sister stands before you! How do you think the Dux will react when I tell him that you let Ridmark Arban escape justice? His reach is far and his memory is long.”

Calliande looked at Ridmark and wondered why he didn’t argue, why he didn’t try to defend himself. But he couldn’t. He would not say a word in his own defense. He blamed himself for Aelia’s death.

He agreed with Imaria.

“Corbanic Lamorus governs in Coldinium,” said Cortin, “not Tarrabus Carhaine, and certainly not you, Magistria!”

“And what will you tell your father,” said Imaria, “when he learns that your folly has turned the Dux against him? Do not presume to contend with those beyond your station, Cortin Lamorus! Your father is merely a minor knight who holds Coldinium by the favor of the High King. Tarrabus Carhaine is the most powerful Dux in the realm. And a Magistria says that Ridmark Arban must die for his crimes! Will you fail to heed my word? I…”

“And another Magistria,” said Calliande, stepping forward, “says he does not.”

For the first time Imaria paid attention to her.

“And who are you?” she said, her eyes moving back and forth between Calliande and Morigna. “He travels with two women? Both his whores, I assume?”

Ridmark scowled. “They are not.”

“I am Calliande, a Magistria of the Order,” said Calliande.

“Anyone can claim that,” said Imaria, “but the penalty for impersonating a Magistria is death. Run along, girl, before you earn the wrath of your betters.”

Calliande smiled and lifted her hand, a ball of white light shimmering above her palm. “If I am impersonating a Magistria, I am doing a rather good job of it. And I say that Ridmark has committed no crime and can go.”

“You think to stand against me?” said Imaria. She spun her horse to face the waiting men. “I will give a thousand golden marks to the man who brings me Ridmark Arban’s head.”

A few of the men started forward, and Kharlacht and the others raised their weapons. Calliande looked back and forth. It seemed a fight was inevitable. Could…

“There is another way,” said Ridmark.

Cortin looked at him. “Yes?”

“Your father is the Comes of Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “and I suggest we take our dispute to him for resolution. Else I fear it shall come to bloodshed in the streets.”

“No,” said Imaria. “Take him now!”

“Do not be a fool, Magistria,” said Cortin. “You see his companions are clearly ready to fight for him.” He gestured at the dead Mhorites. “And given their prowess, it would be folly to raise arms against them. Especially since I doubt they are in the wrong. So be it, Ridmark Arban. If you will consent to accompany us, my father shall hear your dispute with Imaria tomorrow.”

Ridmark nodded and stepped forward.

“You will, of course, come alone,” said Cortin.

“I shall accompany him,” said Calliande.

“By what right?” said Imaria.

“By the right of the Magistri,” said Calliande, “which I possess. And Brother Caius shall accompany us, for spiritual guidance.”

“I have no objection to that,” said Cortin.

“And Morigna, as well,” said Calliande.

Imaria scowled. “The wilder woman?” She gave Morigna’s tattered cloak a disdainful sneer. “Why?”

“She is my maid,” said Calliande.

The look Morigna gave her was just short of murderous, but she nodded.

“Well,” sniffed Imaria. “You have peculiar taste in servants. Sir Cortin, if you are set upon this idiocy, then let us move at once.” She gave Ridmark another icy glare. “I have no wish for this murderer and his deluded lackeys to breathe free air any longer than necessary.”

“I should accompany you as well,” said Kharlacht. He was leaning on his greatsword, his face strained and tired.

“No,” said Ridmark. “You shouldn’t have even been on your feet yet.”

Kharlacht snorted. “The Mhorites disagreed.”

“Stay here and watch over the baggage,” said Ridmark. “Gavin, too.” The boy nodded. “I will return soon enough.”

“You had best do so,” said Kharlacht. “Death in battle is one thing.” He glanced at Imaria. “Death from the vengeful spite of a child is quite another.”

Imaria hissed. “You dare to insult…”

“Magistria, please,” said Cortin. “Let us depart.”

“Very well,” said Imaria, turning her horse. “Bring them.”

“Sir Ridmark, if you please,” said Cortin.

Ridmark nodded and started forward, Calliande, Caius, and Morigna following him. The knights and men-at-arms closed around them, and they left the Outwall behind, heading for Coldinium’s southern gate.

###

Jager crouched behind a table in the common room and watched the confrontation.

Apparently the white-robed Magistria he had seen with Tarrabus Carhaine had quite the grudge against Ridmark. As he watched, he realized that the woman was Imaria Licinius, and Ridmark had married her older sister Aelia Licinius. All the stories Jager had heard claimed that Mhalek had slain Aelia, or Ridmark had slain them both.

But Jager had his own problems.

This was his chance. He felt a pang for abandoning Ridmark and the others. They had fought boldly, and they had committed no wrongs against Jager. But he needed the soulstone. Without it, Mara would die…and if Jager was honest with himself, he would sacrifice every single man and woman upon the street to save Mara’s life. Such an act would haunt his conscience, he knew, would change him forever.

But he would do it anyway.

Fortunately, if he made haste it wouldn’t come to that.

He crept up the stairs to the balcony, trusting in the shouts from the street to disguise his movements. Save for Ridmark and his companions, everyone else had fled out the back of the inn, even the owner. Apparently he did not feel like dying in defense of his ramshackle inn. Jager could hardly blame him.

He moved from door to door, peering into the guest rooms. At last he found one that looked like it belonged to Ridmark and his companions. Jager slipped inside and went to a set of knapsacks leaning against the bed. One held food and bread and jerky. Useless. Jager opened the second pack. Inside he found a sheathed dagger wrapped in a cloth. Why wrap it up? Ridmark and his friends needed all the weapons they could get. Perhaps it had sentimental value. Next to the dagger was a leather pouch, and inside…

Jager’s eyes widened, relief flooding through him.

The pouch held a lump of white crystal about the size of a grown human man’s fist. Jager lifted it from the pouch, the crystal cold and rough against its fingers. A strange milky light flickered and danced in the stone’s depths, and Jager felt a sense of…potential from the thing. Like it was a seed. Right now, it was harmless. But if it grew and became stronger, it could have awesome power.

Power enough to crack the world in half.

The thing was the empty soulstone. It had to be.

Alarmed, Jager put the stone into the pouch and tugged it closed. Just touching the thing had put strange thoughts into his head. He had never liked or trusted magic, and his experience since leaving Caerdracon had only confirmed that choice. He picked up the pouch, changed his mind, stuffed it back into the knapsack, and picked up the pack instead.

Better to keep layers between his skin and the stone.

He slipped back into the common room. The argument outside had grown louder, Imaria shouting at Ridmark and Calliande. They did not notice him. Likely they would not notice if he set the building on fire.

But there was no reason to test his luck.

Jager slipped out the back.

###

Gavin stood motionless among the dead, his shoulders and back aching from the fight. He watched as Ridmark and Calliande and Caius and Morigna departed with Sir Cortin’s soldiers, and he wondered if he would ever see them again. The hatred in Imaria’s eyes had not been rational. It reminded Gavin of the madness he had seen in his stepmother’s eyes.

And Morwen had been a spiderling. Imaria Licinius, as far as Gavin knew, was fully human.

“Come,” said Kharlacht, snatching a cloak from a dead Mhorite to clean his blade. “I fear we can do nothing for them.”

Gavin sighed. “As you say.”

He looked around with a tired shake of his head. He had always talked about visiting Coldinium one day, had dreamed that he would wed Rosanna and take her here.

Gavin found himself laughing.

“What?” said Kharlacht, handing him the cloak.

Gavin cleaned his sword off. “I always wanted to visit Coldinium. I just…I never thought it would be quite like this.”

Kharlacht barked his harsh laugh. “Few things ever are. Still. By rights I should be dead. So I suppose I cannot complain.”

He watched the receding horsemen.

“Do you think they'll return?” said Gavin.

“Calliande and Morigna and Brother Caius?” said Kharlacht. “Certainly. But the Gray Knight…”

“You think they’ll kill him?” said Gavin.

“I fear he wants them to kill him,” said Kharlacht.

“Like you?” said Gavin. “After Qazarl was slain?”

Kharlacht grunted. “There is a difference. All my kin are slain, so while I do not fear death, I do not believe I deserve it. The Gray Knight, though. He believes he deserves death for what happened to his wife, and with his wife’s sister there to accuse him… he may not have the will to fight back as he usually does.”

“And we can do nothing for him,” said Gavin.

“No,” said Kharlacht. “If a man wants to die, he will find a way to do it. I only hope Calliande and Caius can persuade him otherwise.”

“And Morigna,” said Gavin. “Likely she will berate him until he decides to live from sheer annoyance.”

Kharlacht snorted and returned his greatsword to its sheath. “Aye, she would. Though I suspect Calliande’s opinion has more weight with him.”

“We should watch over the soulstone while they are gone,” said Gavin. “Calliande left it in her pack.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Kharlacht. “We should not leave such a dangerous thing unattended. Likely Calliande would have taken it with her, had she not been distracted.”

Gavin hesitated. “Should we attend to the bodies?”

Kharlacht shrugged. “I see no point. The residents of the Outwall will loot the corpses, and the militia will haul them away.” He scowled. “Though I would suggest we avoid the sausage makers of Coldinium for a few days.”

“Ghastly thought,” said Gavin.

They climbed the stairs back to their rooms. Gavin opened the doors, checking them one by one.

He stopped at the room that Calliande and Morigna would have shared.

“Her pack’s gone,” said Gavin.

“What?” said Kharlacht.

“The pack with the soulstone,” said Gavin. “It’s gone.” He hurried into the room and looked around, finding no sign of the knapsack. “She always puts it in that pack when she doesn’t carry it at her belt.” Had Calliande taken it with her? No, she hadn’t had the pouch with her departed with Ridmark. Or had she concealed it somewhere?

Then a memory clicked.

“Jager,” whispered Gavin.

He had seen the halfling fleeing from the inn during Imaria’s confrontation with Ridmark and Calliande. Jager had carried a pack with him, and Gavin had paid it little note at the time.

“That halfling,” said Gavin. “He left with a pack. I saw him.”

“God and his saints,” said Kharlacht. “That’s why he followed us from Vulmhosk. He must have learned of the soulstone and sought to steal it for himself. Did you see which direction he went?”

Gavin nodded. “Towards the docks.”

“Then we have no time to waste,” said Kharlacht, and they left the Crow’s Helm.

Chapter 12 - The Dux and the Magistria

The next morning the guards escorted Ridmark to the great hall of Castra Coldinium.

The castra had stood upon this site for centuries, but the great hall was new. It had been built in the style of a Roman basilica of Old Earth, with thick pillars supporting arches and balconies. Tapestries hung upon the pillars, showing scenes from the scriptures and the history of Old Earth – the Emperor Constantine winning his victory at Milvian Bridge, the Dominus Christus healing the ten lepers, Arthur Pendragon dueling his bastard son Mordred at Camlann. Lead-framed windows of glass admitted the morning sunlight, spilling it across the gleaming tiles of the floor. A dais at the far end of the hall held the curule chair, an uncomfortable-looking thing of curved arms and legs, the formal seat from which the Comes of Coldinium pronounced his judgments.

It was not as large as Castra Marcaine’s great hall, where Ridmark had first served as a squire and then as a Swordbearer in Dux Gareth’s court. He had met Aelia in that great hall. He had asked for her hand there. They had wed there.

And he had seen her die there.

The guards moved beneath the balcony, leaving Ridmark alone before the dais. Boots clicked against the floor, and Ridmark turned.

Tarrabus Carhaine, Dux of Caerdracon, walked towards him, flanked by a half-dozen knights.

The Dux had changed little from their last meeting five years ago. He was still tall and strong, his blue eyes icy, his blond hair close-cropped. Unlike many of the southern nobles, he remained clean-shaven. He wore a blue tunic, trousers, and gleaming black boots, a sword waiting in a scabbard at his belt.

He stared at Ridmark, his face blank and cold.

“See that we are not disturbed,” said Tarrabus at last. “I would speak with the prisoner alone.”

One of the Comes’s men-at-arms stirred. “The Gray Knight is under the protection of the Comes.”

Tarrabus gave the guard a mocking smile. “Oh, fear not. Your Comes’s precious honor is safe enough. Ridmark Arban will not die until after Corbanic finishes his little game. Go.”

The men-at-arms scowled, but moved to the edges of the hall with the knights. For a moment Tarrabus simply stared at Ridmark, and Ridmark met the Dux’s gaze without blinking. Ridmark remembered dueling him when they were squires together, remembered competing with him for Aelia’s hand.

“You look terrible,” said Tarrabus at last.

“I’ve been busy,” said Ridmark.

“So my men tell me,” said Tarrabus. “Saving Dun Licinia from the leftover Mhalekites. Fighting urdmordar and undead and mad wizards. And now you have the Red Family and the Mhorites angry at you. To say nothing of the last five years spent wandering the Wilderland in pursuit of the Frostborn. You really do look the worse for wear, Ridmark. A pity you are not dead.”

“You did your best to arrange that,” said Ridmark.

Tarrabus’s smirk returned. “Angry, Ridmark? You deserve to die. You know that.”

“But not by the methods you have employed,” said Ridmark. “I know you hired the Red Family and sent them after me. The Red Family, Tarrabus? You are a Dux of Andomhaim, not a thuggish merchant!”

“You have no proof of that, of course,” said Tarrabus.

“How is Sir Paul?” said Ridmark.

“Better,” said Tarrabus. “Imaria healed him quite nicely.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t have him killed for his failure,” said Ridmark.

“For failing to do what?” said Tarrabus. “Hunt a wyvern? That is why he left the Iron Tower and went into the Wilderland, you know. These fantasies of persecution you have, Ridmark. As if the Dux of Caerdracon could be bothered over the fate of one ragged exile.”

“Did he warn you?” said Ridmark.

“About what?” said Tarrabus.

“The Frostborn,” said Ridmark.

“The Frostborn!” said Tarrabus. “Your madness has not changed. The words of an urdmordar, an orcish madman, and an undead dark elven wizard, and you believe the Frostborn will return.”

“They will,” said Ridmark. “And you must be warned about the Enlightened of Incariel.”

Tarrabus raised his eyebrows. “The what?”

“A cult, a secret order within the realm,” said Ridmark. “They worship Incariel, the name they give the great void of the dark elves, and think to make themselves gods. Paul is one of them. Do not trust him. Do not trust them.”

“Such follies you spin,” said Tarrabus.

“I know you hate me, but I am telling you the truth,” said Ridmark. “You must be on guard against the Frostborn and the Enlightened of Incariel. Whatever else you are, you are a Dux of Andomhaim, and you must look to the good of the realm.”

For a long moment Tarrabus was silent.

“Did it ever occur to you,” said Tarrabus, “that our visions for the good of the realm might not be the same?” He shook his head. “Did you ever meet my father?”

“I did,” said Ridmark. Tarrabus Carhaine was a hard and brutal man, but the Dux Samothus Carhaine had made his son look as gentle as a kitten.

“He taught me that the strong rule and the weak serve,” said Tarrabus, “that mercy was folly, that cruelty inspired fear and obedience. I believed him, Ridmark. Completely and totally.” He smiled, as if at a pleasant memory. “More than he ever knew. And then I met Aelia…and I doubted. I saw how she cared for the people of Castra Marcaine, and I wavered. Perhaps the world was not as brutal as I believed.” His face darkened. “And then you failed to save her.”

Ridmark said nothing.

“I understood then,” said Tarrabus. “You were too weak to save her. I would have protected her, had she wed me instead of you.  The realm needs to be strong as you were not, strong enough to endure, strong enough to crush the dark elves and the urdmordar and anyone else that stands in our way.”

And then Ridmark realized the truth.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” said Ridmark. “One of the Enlightened?”

Tarrabus smiled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Are you mad?” said Ridmark, trying to keep his voice under control. “You worship the great void?”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Tarrabus. “I worship nothing. There is no God or gods, only myths and superstitions. There is only strength. I am strong…and I shall become stronger yet. And I will make this realm strong, I will make humanity strong.” He stepped back. “You are weak, Ridmark. Too weak to save Aelia…and when I rid the realm of weakness, I shall start with you.”

He walked back to his knights. Ridmark watched him, his right hand curling into a fist. He had suspected that Tarrabus might be part of the madness of the Enlightened, but he had hoped otherwise. He did not like or trust Tarrabus, but had respected the Dux as a brave man and a fierce fighter.

Ridmark knew better now. If Tarrabus was a member of the Enlightened, a minion of Shadowbearer, he had to be stopped. Ridmark deserved death for what had happened to Aelia, but he had a duty as well. He had set out on his quest to stop the Frostborn from returning…but he had come to realize that the Enlightened of Incariel would be just as dangerous.

Perhaps even more so. The Frostborn were obviously the enemies of every living creature upon this world. But an enemy that wore the mask of a friend was far more dangerous.

The doors to the great hall swung open. Calliande, Morigna, and Caius moved to stand alongside Ridmark, while Imaria glided across the floor, serene in her white robes, and stood with the Dux. She smiled when she saw Tarrabus, and for an agonizing moment it reminded Ridmark of Aelia.

Then he wondered why Imaria was smiling at Tarrabus like that. Was she, too, one of the Enlightened? The thought that Aelia's own sister would have joined such a murderous cult chilled Ridmark.

“He knows,” murmured Ridmark.

“Who?” said Calliande.

“Tarrabus,” said Ridmark. “About the Enlightened. Probably about Shadowbearer and the soulstone as well. It is good we left Gavin and Kharlacht to guard it.” The door behind the dais opened, and Corbanic of the Lamorii, Comes of Coldinium, stepped upon the dais.

###

Calliande watched the Comes.

Corbanic looked like an older, grayer, and balder version of his son. Yet he was still strong and he bore his ceremonial steel cuirass and crimson cloak with ease. He seated himself upon the curule chair and looked over the hall. His son Cortin stood at his right hand, and Tarrabus and Imaria moved closer to the dais, attended by the Dux’s knights.

“Ridmark Arban,” said Corbanic, his voice gravelly and worn. “It has been a long time.”

“Five years since Dun Licinia,” said Ridmark.

Corbanic nodded. “A black day.”

“It was,” said Ridmark.

“Well,” grunted Corbanic. “We have business to attend.” He turns his head. “Magistria, you have charges to bring?”

Imaria stepped forward, her white robe flowing around her. “I do, my lord Comes. Before your court, I accuse Ridmark Arban of the murder of my sister, Aelia of the Licinii.”

Corbanic frowned. “This matter was already raised before the court of the High King himself five years ago. Mhalek slew your sister, my lady Magistria, not Ridmark. For deserting his army in the field to pursue Mhalek, Ridmark was expelled from the Order of the Soulblade, stripped of his sword Heartwarden, marked as a coward, and banished from the realm.”

“Nevertheless,” said Tarrabus, his voice smooth and calm, “I would be indebted to you, my lord Comes, if you would revisit the matter.”

Corbanic gave him an annoyed glare. “Very well. Ridmark Arban, describe the circumstances of Aelia’s death in full detail.”

Ridmark took a deep breath. Calliande had heard bits and pieces of the story, but never its entirety. Ridmark had summarized it, but he refused to speak of it at length.

“You know what happened at the Black Mountain,” said Ridmark. “Mhalek murdered the embassy sent to him, your son and heir among them, my lord Comes, and many noble lords and knights perished. The host of Andomhaim was thrown into disarray, and I took command since there was no one else to do so. God was with us, and the knights and men-at-arms of the realm broke the Mhalekites and sent them fleeing into the Wilderland. But Mhalek and his most loyal followers rode for Castra Marcaine. I pursued with a guard of Swordbearers and chosen knights, leaving the host to finish the remnants of the Mhalekites. I caught Mhalek and his followers as they stormed Castra Marcaine, and my companions defeated Mhalek’s guard. I found Mhalek himself in the great hall, with my wife as hostage. He demanded that I surrender or she would perish, and claimed that even if I prevailed, the Frostborn would return and destroy the world. I drew upon Heartwarden, my Soulblade, for speed and strength, and struck Mhalek through the heart. But Mhalek…had cast a spell upon Aelia, linked his blood to hers. Any wound I dealt Mhalek would be duplicated upon Aelia. She screamed once, and then she died.” His voice was flat and empty, his face a mask. “I tried to heal her with the sword’s magic, but it was too late. I…tried to slay myself, but my companions stopped me. I fear I do not remember very much of the next three days.” He spread his hands. “That is the entirety of the tale, my lord Comes.”

Calliande stared at him. He had tried to kill himself? She could not imagine him doing it. Ridmark Arban was a man who never gave up, who never yielded. He had gone into battle again and again despite hopeless odds, never once turning back.

Yet he had almost killed himself after Aelia had died in his arms.

What must that have done to him?

She felt guilty about urging him to move on, to leave his grief behind.

“Thank you,” said Corbanic. “Do you dispute this account of events, Magistria?”

“No,” said Imaria.

“Then you can hardly accuse him of murder,” said Corbanic.

“But it was Ridmark’s hand that dealt the fatal wound,” said Tarrabus

“The law states that murder requires intent,” said Corbanic, “and it was Mhalek’s intent that transferred that wound to Aelia’s heart.”

“He should have done something!” said Imaria. “He should have used Heartwarden’s power to check for spells, rather than charge in like a fool. He should have waited for aid. He should have surrendered to Mhalek.”

“Yes,” said Ridmark.

Corbanic looked at him, and then back at Imaria. “Have you ever commanded men in battle, Magistria?”

“Of course not,” said Imaria.

Corbanic nodded. “If you had, then you would know that decisions often must be made in a split second. There is no time for consideration. A commander and a warrior must act as his best judgment allows. Sometimes the decision is simply wrong.”

Imaria trembled, and for a moment Calliande thought she would burst into tears of enraged frustration.

“He broke his exile,” said Imaria at last. “He should not have returned to the realm.”

“Well?” said Corbanic. “How do you answer this charge?”

“It was my intent to travel to Urd Morlemoch and discern the secret of the Frostborn from the Warden,” said Ridmark. “No doubt Sir Cortin has already told you. But some miles north of the Iron Tower, one of my companions, a baptized orc named Kharlacht, was poisoned by a wyvern. We came to Coldinium to obtain saltflower to cure him.”

“Were you successful?” said Corbanic.

“We were,” said Ridmark. “Our intent was to depart for Urd Morlemoch as soon as Kharlacht recovered.”

“This seems to me an honorable act,” said Corbanic.

“He brought the Mhorites here!” said Imaria. “That cannot be overlooked.”

“The Kothluuskan orcs have been stirring in any event,” said Corbanic, “though they have not been so bold as to come to Coldinium until yesterday.” He looked at Ridmark. “You have an explanation?”

“The Kothluuskans worship Mhor, the old orcish blood god of death,” said Ridmark. “So does the Red Family of Cintarra, assassins dedicated to the service of Mhor. Someone hired the Red Family to kill me.” He glanced at Tarrabus. Calliande wondered why he did not accuse the Dux, but likely Corbanic would not accept the accusation without proof. “I killed enough of the Red Brothers that the Matriarch of the Family has declared a vendetta against me. Apparently the Kothluuskan orcs regard the assassins of the Family as Mhor’s prophets, and so the Red Brothers sent the Mhorite orcs after me.”

“Then he admits he is a threat to Coldinium!” said Imaria.

“A threat that would be easily mitigated,” said Sir Cortin, “if we simply let him depart as he wishes, Father.”

Corbanic grunted. “You still intend to journey to Urd Morlemoch?”

“I do,” said Ridmark.

“You will likely die there, you understand,” said Corbanic. “You may have escaped once, but if even a tenth the stories and the legends about the Warden are true, he will not let you go a second time.”

“Nevertheless,” said Ridmark. “I will go.”

“So be it,” said Corbanic. “This, then, is my ruling upon the matter. Ridmark of the Arbanii cannot be charged with the murder of Aelia of the Licinii and the Arbanii. The intent and fault was clearly Mhalek’s. Additionally, Ridmark did break his exile, but for a justifiable reason. Let us recall the Dominus Christus's parable of the donkey and the well. So long as he and his companions depart the realm at once, I see no need to take any action against them.”

“No!” said Imaria, stepping closer to the dais. “He escaped justice for my sister once before! He will not escape it again. He will not!”

Corbanic’s voice was icy with contempt.  “The Magistria will control herself, or I shall have her ejected.”

“Forgive her, my lord Comes,” said Tarrabus, his voice smooth. He put one hand upon Imaria’s shoulder and pulled her back. “I fear she is overwrought, and has forgotten the most critical charge of all.”

“And that is?” said Corbanic.

Tarrabus pointed at Ridmark. “That woman is an unlawful sorceress.”

No, he wasn’t pointing at Ridmark. For an instant Calliande thought he was pointing at Morigna, that her secret had been revealed.

But he wasn’t pointing at Morigna, either.

“Me?” said Calliande.

“Yes, you,” said Tarrabus. “I accuse you of falsely claiming the title and rank of Magistria. Such a crime is punishable by death.”

“But I am a Magistria,” said Calliande.

At least, she thought that she was. She had the powers of a Magistria, and one could not acquire those powers, the magic of the Well at Tarlion’s heart, without training in the Order of the Magistri.

“Then is your name recorded in the roll of the Order in Tarlion?” said Tarrabus. “Are you known to other Magistri?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Calliande.

Corbanic frowned. “You are not a Magistria?”

“I am,” said Calliande. She lifted her hand, white fire playing around it. “How else could I do this?”

“A spell of illusion could easily do that,” said Tarrabus. “Some trick of dark magic you learned from the Mhorites, perhaps?”

“It is not,” said Calliande.

“Then prove it,” said Tarrabus. “There are records, if you are telling the truth. Tell us how you became a Magistria, and we shall confirm it with the records of the Order.”

“I don’t know,” said Calliande.

Tarrabus lifted his eyebrows. “So you are a Magistria…but you don’t know how you became one.”

She met his hard blue gaze. “I do not.”

“You don’t?” said Tarrabus, smiling. “An unlikely story.”

“It is not,” said Calliande. “I was injured on the day of the blue flame, and lost any memory of events before that.” She did not want to tell him the whole story. If Ridmark was right, if Tarrabus was Shadowbearer’s servant, then he would do his best to kill her. Perhaps that was the entire point of this farce, to kill her or at least imprison her until Shadowbearer could arrive to deal with her in person.

“And you have no way to prove that,” said Tarrabus.

“I…” said Calliande.

Knowledge flooded into her mind.

Something like this challenge had happened to her before, even if she could not remember it.

“I do, Comes,” said Calliande, addressing her words to Corbanic. “I can prove that I am a Magistria, and I will do so before you, here and now.”

“How, may I ask?” said Corbanic.

“By a Challenge of Magistri,” said Calliande.

Imaria’s eyes narrowed, and then she laughed.

###

Morigna watched the confrontation with growing unease.

Her instincts screamed that the great hall was about to erupt with violence. Tarrabus clearly hated Ridmark, and sought an excuse to kill him. Well, he was welcome to try. Morigna had kept her magic concealed, but if Tarrabus tried to take them prisoner or kill them, Morigna would strike back. She was reasonably sure she could disable or kill Imaria with a single spell, and without her wards, Tarrabus and his men would have no defense from Morigna’s magic.

“What is a Challenge of Magistri?” said Morigna in a low voice.

Neither Ridmark nor Calliande answered her.

“A spell, a ritual,” murmured Caius. “The Magistri can communicate through thought. In a Challenge, two Magistri look into each other’s minds and try to overwhelm their opponents. The Magistri developed the spell after the urdmordar were defeated, to find dark wizards masquerading as lawful Magistri.”

“That sounds rather dangerous,” said Morigna, darkly amused. She could control animals through her magic, and Calliande feared Morigna would use that power against humans and other mortals. Not that she would - controlling animals was simple enough, but the mind of a human was a far more complex affair.

And she lacked the necessary power to do it, anyway.

“It is,” said Caius. “It is rarely done since the Eternalists were defeated. It is very dangerous to both combatants – the danger of damage to the mind is considerable.”

“Do not do this,” said Ridmark. “The risk is too much.”

“It is necessary,” whispered Calliande. “Else Tarrabus shall keep us here, and have us killed or handed over to Shadowbearer.” She turned back to the Comes. “My lord Comes, I am a true Magistria, and I shall prove my words. Just as a knight may prove the truth and honor of his words through a trial of arms and strength, I shall prove my words through a trial of magic. Will you allow this?”

“I will allow this,” said Corbanic, “if the Magistria Imaria consents to the challenge.”

Calliande smiled. She looked as dangerous as Ridmark in that moment. For all her gentleness, Morigna knew, for all her interest in the healing arts, she was not someone to cross. “I believe, my lord Comes, she is obligated by law to either accept my challenge…or to admit that I am a true Magistria.”

Imaria’s green eyes narrowed. “You are not a Magistria. You are some harlot and wilder witch Ridmark found in the Wilderland. I will break your mind utterly, and then I will see Ridmark pay for the murder of my sister.”

Calliande’s smile only sharpened. “So be it.”

Chapter 13 - The Challenge

Calliande flexed her fingers, clearing her mind and summoning power.

“Seal the hall!” thundered Corbanic, rising from his curule chair. His men-at-arms moved to obey, closing the great doors and barring them. “If you are decided upon this folly, Magistria Imaria, then we shall do things according to the High King’s law.”

“I would have it,” said Imaria, glaring at Ridmark and Calliande, “no other way.”

“Magistria Imaria,” said the Comes, descending from the dais with Cortin, “you are the challenged. Stand before the dais. Mistress Calliande,” she noted that he did not call her Magistria, not yet, “stand twenty paces from Imaria, facing her.” He pointed, and Imaria and Calliande moved to their positions. “Those of you who support Imaria, you shall stand on the southern end of the hall. Those of you who support Calliande, you shall stand on the northern side.”

“May God lend you strength,” said Caius.

Morigna smirked. “Do try to avoid any dark magic when you invade her mind.”

Calliande rolled her eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good luck,” said Ridmark. He hesitated. “Thank you.”

“You have fought for me enough times,” said Calliande. “Let me return the favor.”

He nodded and led the others to the northern side of the hall. Tarrabus spoke a few words to Imaria, and she laughed and looked up at him, her eyes flashing. Calliande wondered if they were lovers. She might well find out in the next few moments. The Challenge was a merging of minds, a contest of one Magistria’s emotional and mental strength against that of another. Calliande thought she could overcome this arrogant, furious woman.

Or she was about to make a colossal mistake.

“You both know the rules of the Challenge,” said Corbanic. His son and his men-at-arms returned to the dais, overseeing both sides. “When I give the mark, you will both cast the spells of the Challenge at each other, and the trial shall continue until one of you yields or you have exhausted each other. Use any other spells than the spell of Challenge, and you shall lose the trial. If anyone interferes in any form, the trial shall be void. Is this understood?”

Calliande nodded her assent, as did Imaria, her eyes narrowing.

“Then may God grant strength to the right,” said Corbanic. “Begin!”

Calliande cast a spell, white light flaring around her fingers as she summoned power and directed her thoughts at Imaria. The other Magistria shouted and gestured, white fire burning around her hand.

And then her thoughts hammered into Calliande like the blow of a Mhorite orc’s weapon.

Hatred. Burning, terrible hatred, a wrath that could burn a kingdom to ashes.

Pain. A grief that never ended, a wound that could not heal.

And pride, pride strong and unyielding like a tower of iron. A conviction that she was superior to all others that walked under the sun, that all owed her respect and allegiance and obedience.

Imaria Licinius’s emotions, reshaped into weapons, drilled in Calliande’s mind.

Calliande heard herself screaming, felt herself stumbling back, hands raised as she struggled to drive off the furious assault.

Imaria’s laughter echoed in her ears, and she heard the Magistria’s gloating inside her skull as well.

“Pathetic!” said Imaria, taking a step forward, face tight with strain as the white fire danced around her palms. “I knew you were weak. I knew you were unworthy. Only a fool would follow Ridmark Arban on his quest to chase phantoms. A weak, broken, pitiful fool.” Her will pressed deeper into Calliande’s mind. “And you are broken, aren’t you?”

Calliande gritted her teeth, fighting to keep Imaria’s fingers from reaching further into her thoughts.

“You were telling the truth,” said Imaria. “You don’t remember anything that happened before you awoke.” Her laughter redoubled. “What a pathetic, broken thing you are. You wiped your own mind with your spells. I can see the signs.” Her fingers of rage and hatred tightened. “Let us see if we can discover who you really are, hmm?”

She reached deeper into Calliande’s mind, her hand plunging into the wall of mist that concealed Calliande's lost memories.

But the hand rebounded as if thrown back by an invisible force.

“What?” said Imaria. “What is that? A ward…a summoning spell? What did you do to yourself?”

Calliande didn’t know.

But she did know that she was old, far older than this raging child. Centuries older. And she had seen terrible things. She had seen the fury of the Frostborn and their defeat, even if she could not remember it, and that had been so dire she had sealed herself away below the Tower of Vigilance to prevent their return, sacrificing everything to keep the world safe. She had endured dire perils since awakening. She had been dragged naked to a circle of dark elven standing stones, a sacrifice to Shadowbearer’s dark magic. She had almost been possessed by an ancient Eternalist lurking in the decaying body of an elderly kobold. And she had faced the fury of a female urdmordar and survived.

Calliande could only remember forty-nine days…but in those forty-nine days, she had endured things far worse than anything Imaria Licinius could throw at her.

And that knowledge gave her the strength to push back. Inch by inch she shoved back Imaria’s magical assault, until Imaria’s fury hovered at the edge of Calliande’s mind.

“That’s not possible,” spat Imaria. “Your mind…I’ve never seen anything like it. What sort of creature are you?”

“I don’t know,” said Calliande. More knowledge entered her mind. Suddenly she realized that she had indeed fought duels like this before, but not against haughty Magistri. Creatures with the power to shatter her thoughts and enslave her heart had tried to invade her mind.

Yet she had defeated them all…for she was still here.

All of a sudden Imaria’s attack seemed clumsy, crude, like a novice warrior flailing with a practice sword.

“I don’t know,” spat Calliande. “Shall we find out together?”

And she twisted Imaria’s weapons and turned them back upon her.

Emotion had fueled Imaria’s attack, but every emotion had two sides.

Calliande bent Imaria's hatred into regret. Regret that Imaria had not been there, that she had not been able to save Aelia, that they had drifted apart after she had become a novice of the Magistri.

Pain Calliande twisted around into guilt. For Aelia had died at Mhalek’s hand, but Imaria had drifted from her sister long ago, contemptuous of her marriage to Ridmark. Tarrabus Carhaine would have been a better choice.

And pride Calliande reshaped into loathing. For deep in Imaria’s heart beat the fear that she was nothing, that she was useless and loathed and unloved, that people feared her for her magical prowess and her family name while caring nothing for her.

Calliande pressed the talons of Imaria’s own emotions into her mind.

“Stop!” shrieked Imaria, her eyes bulging. “Stop, stop, stop!” Her words dissolved into an incoherent scream, and she fought back, all her strength and experience contending against Calliande’s power.

But Calliande was older and stronger. And, apparently, more experienced. She pushed without remorse, sinking spikes of emotion deeper into Imaria’s mind. As she did, memories bubbled up from Imaria’s thoughts and soaked into Calliande’s own mind.

And she experienced them as if they were her own.

Dux Gareth sitting on his curule seat, a kindly smile on his weathered face.

Aelia, beloved of Imaria, her hero and her best friend.

Weeping together over their mother’s coffin.

Laughing as they rode in the hills of the Northerland, hunting the deer and warthogs.

Her hopes that they would both wed powerful nobles and remain close.

Tarrabus Carhaine, tall and strong and handsome and respected. How Imaria had hoped that Aelia would wed him, that together they could be noble ladies in the High King’s court in Tarlion.

But then Ridmark had come, and it had all fallen apart. He had captured Aelia’s heart, earning her hand by aiding the high elven archmage Ardrhythain against the Warden. Imaria’s own magic had manifested, and the Magistri had taken her to Tarlion as a novice. She had finally gone to Tarlion…but Aelia remained behind, wed to Ridmark Arban as he served as a Swordbearer in Dux Gareth’s court.

And then Mhalek had come, bringing the worst day of Imaria’s life.

Calliande saw the tears sliding down Imaria’s face, felt the matching tears upon her own cheeks.

Aelia had died, slain by Mhalek’s blood sorcery. Aelia, who Imaria had loved above all others. And Ridmark Arban, the great Swordbearer, the man who had slain Gothalinzur, the knight who had gone to Urd Morlemoch and returned, had failed. He had sworn to protect Aelia, and he had failed. It was his fault! His fault! Imaria would see to it that he paid, that he would suffer for what he had done to Aelia.

Calliande saw the brand pressed into Ridmark’s face, heard the sizzle and smelled the burned skin and flesh. He did not flinch as the smoke rose from him. He deserved pain. He deserved pain everlasting!

But he kept his life. How could God allow such injustice? Perhaps there was no God.

Perhaps Tarrabus was right.

Calliande remembered Tarrabus kissing Imaria, remembered him climbing on top of her, the feel of his body against hers…

Did he think about Aelia when he took her?

“Stop!” shrieked Imaria, sobbing. “No more! Stop! Stop! Stop!”

###

Morigna watched the silent duel.

Both Calliande and Imaria stood motionless, their eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids, sweat beading on their brows. White fire danced around the hands of both women, and as the duel wore on, they began to twitch and jerk. Morigna felt the currents of magical power snarling back and forth between them.

On and on it went.

“How long does this usually take?” said Cortin.

“I have never seen a Challenge,” said Corbanic. “The histories describe Challenges that endured but a few heartbeats, and others that ended only after three days when one of the participants died of thirst. It depends upon the strength and stamina of the challengers.”

“Knowing Calliande, then,” said Morigna, “we shall be here a while.”

Neither Ridmark nor Caius answered her. Caius’s mouth moved in silent prayer. Ridmark watched the duel, his face drawn and tight. She wondered again what he felt for Calliande, what she meant to him. Aelia’s death had scarred him, true, but sometimes scars healed.

Imaria’s eyes shot open, green and bloodshot, and she trembled like a trapped animal.

Then she fell to her knees, blood pouring from her nose, and started to scream.

“No more!” she said. “No more, please! I yield. I yield! Stop! Stop!”

Calliande let out a shuddering breath and opened her eyes.

Morigna took a half-step back before she stopped herself. She had never seen such an expression on the other woman’s face before. Calliande looked half-crazed, almost out of her mind with grief and rage.

“Yield,” croaked Imaria, swaying on her knees. She grabbed at a step of the dais to support herself.

“Magistria Imaria,” said Corbanic. “Do you recognize Calliande as a true Magistria of the Order?”

“Yes, yes,” said Imaria. “Yes. Just…just keep her away from me. Keep…keep her away from me, please.” She turned a pleading glance in Tarrabus’s direction, but the Dux’s face was cold, almost contemptuous.

“Magistria Calliande,” said Corbanic. “Do you accept your opponent’s yield?”

Calliande blinked as if trying to remember him.

“Yes,” she said at last, her voice a hoarse rasp.

“Then I declare this matter settled,” said Corbanic. “By my authority as Comes of Coldinium, I declare that Ridmark Arban is free to leave the city. Furthermore, it has been established by Challenge that Calliande is indeed of the Magistri, and shall enjoy all the rights and privileges of a sister of that Order. Let no man harm them under pain of my displeasure.”

He looked at Tarrabus as he spoke.

“You play a dangerous game, Corbanic,” said Tarrabus, his voice soft. “I am not a man to offend.”

“Nor am I,” said Corbanic. “I am the Comes of Coldinium by the writ of the High King, and I represent his authority.”

“Uthanaric Pendragon,” said Tarrabus, “will not always be the High King, Corbanic. I suggest you think upon that.”

“Tarrabus,” said Imaria, reaching for him. “Please.”

“You two,” said Tarrabus, pointing at his men. “See the Magistria to her quarters and ensure that she is comfortable.”

He left without another word, his men following. Two of his knights helped Imaria to her feet and led the weeping Magistria from the hall. Morigna eyed Calliande, wondering just what she had done to Imaria. Yet Calliande only stood motionless, a slight twitch of exhaustion going through her frame every so often.

“Magistria, I am sorry for this ordeal,” said Corbanic.

Calliande only nodded, still twitching. Had the duel done permanent harm to her?

“We should take the Magistria back to rest,” said Ridmark. Calliande’s head snapped in his direction, her blue eyes narrowed. “Once she has recovered, we will depart Coldinium.”

Corbanic nodded. “Thank you.”

“But be ready,” said Ridmark. “You may think me mad, I know. But the Frostborn are returning. Coldinium must be ready.”

“I do think you mad,” said Corbanic. “Yet even a madman may speak a true prophecy. The blue fire in the sky, the orcs of Kothluusk going on the warpath, Red Brothers in the streets of Coldinium…I am not wise enough to know what this heralds. But Coldinium shall ever be ready to serve its realm and High King, whatever storms may batter the realm.”

Ridmark bowed, and Corbanic and Cortin left with their men-at-arms, leaving them alone in the hall.

“Well,” said Caius. “That could have been worse.”

“Perhaps God answered your prayers,” said Morigna.

The dwarven friar smiled. “Through the agency of Calliande, it seems.”

“And that must have been exhausting,” said Ridmark, touching Calliande’s arm. “Come. Let us return to the Crow’s Helm. You can rest, and…”

She snarled, wheeled, and slapped him across the face.

“Do not touch me,” she hissed. “Do not ever touch me! You murderous coward! Get your filthy hand away from me!”

“Calliande?” said Ridmark.

She shoved him in the chest, and he stumbled back a step before he caught his balance.

“I see you,” she spat, “for what you are. For what you really are, what you always have been. I saw you! Craven. Wretch. Murderer. Murderer!” She shoved him again. “You deserve that brand. You are a coward, I see that now. Why didn’t I see it before? You should have died for what you did.”

Ridmark said nothing, his face carved from stone.

“Murderer,” whispered Calliande.

“Be silent,” said Morigna, surprised by her own anger, “you foolish woman.” The Challenge was no excuse. How dare Calliande throw Aelia’s death in his face like that!

“Calliande,” said Caius. “What…”

“Murderer!” shrieked Calliande, slapping Ridmark again. He made no move to defend himself. “Murderer, murderer, murderer!” She hit him again, shoved him, and reached for his throat. It might have gone further, but Morigna grabbed her arms and yanked her back.

“Have you gone mad?” said Morigna. “What…”

She barely seemed to notice. “Damn you, Ridmark, damn you, damn…”

Calliande shuddered, her eyes rolling back in her head, and she went limp. Morigna almost lost her grip, but Caius caught her, and they supported the unconscious Magistria between them.

Ridmark remained motionless, his cheek red beneath the scarred brand from Calliande’s blows.

“Ridmark,” said Caius. “We…”

“We should take her back to the inn,” said Ridmark. “Or find another, if the Crow’s Helm is uninhabitable.” His voice was calm as ever. Morigna marveled at that, even as she seethed at Calliande. “Once she has recovered, we will keep our word to the Comes and depart Coldinium.”

“Ridmark,” said Caius. “Those things she said. Undoubtedly she was out of her mind from the Challenge.”

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. His blue eyes seemed colder than ever. Colder, and utterly lifeless. “But as the Comes said, sometimes in madness there is truth.”

Chapter 14 - Pursuit

The sun rose, and Jager slipped through the western gate of Coldinium as soon as the militia opened it for the day.

He had fled through the Outwall, stealing a ragged cloak to cover his clothes, and had concealed himself until dawn. The Outwall had been crawling with men-at-arms and knights, and Jager did not dare approach them. The Comes’s men would keep close watch over the Outwall. If they stopped him, they might search him. If they searched him, they might claim the empty soulstone and turn it over to the Comes.

And if they did that, he would never see Mara again.

That lump of white crystal was Mara’s salvation. Jager would die before he would give it up.

So he hid himself during the night and waited for the furor to calm.

Come dawn, he joined the crowd at the western gate. There was always a crowd at the gates when the sun came up. The fishermen worked at night, and returned the city when the gates opened to sell their wares in the Forum of the River. Not even a raid from Mhorite orcs could stop that. Jager followed their carts through the gate, keeping his head down, a weary slump to his shoulders. After Mournacht’s attack, the guards were more diligent than usual, checking every cart and looking under every hood. But when they looked at Jager, they saw only a tired halfling in a ragged cloak, pack slung over his shoulders, no doubt on an errand for his masters.

They waved him through the gates without question.

Jager kept his face slack, but felt the urge to smile. People saw what they expected to see.

The thought of what he expected to see at the domus of Tarrabus Carhaine stole his amusement.

He came to one of the Forum’s taverns and went inside. Fishermen and bakers took their breakfast here, resting from their night’s work and discussing the news of the day. The word of Mournacht’s raid was upon every tongue, and Jager heard a dozen different accounts of what had happened, each more inaccurate than the last. He ignored the talk, purchased a cup of beer, some grilled fish and biscuits, and sat alone in the corner to eat. He was ravenous. A daring theft always gave him an appetite…and fighting for his life worked up a hunger.

Think. He had to think.

He had the soulstone. He need only go to Tarrabus’s domus and hand it over, and the Dux would free Mara.

Or so Tarrabus had claimed.

But Jager was almost entirely certain that Tarrabus would kill him the minute he surrendered the soulstone.

He didn’t think the Dux would have killed Mara, not yet. Mara’s unique abilities made her a valuable tool, too valuable to kill. Perhaps Tarrabus would force her to kill for him, as she had once killed for the Red Family. If she refused, perhaps he would simply hand her back to the Red Family as a favor to the Matriarch. Jager had heard Ridmark tell Sir Cortin about the Red Family. Given how much Tarrabus hated Ridmark, it would not surprise Jager to learn that Tarrabus had hired Red Brothers to kill the Gray Knight. Mara’s life would buy many assassinations from the Red Family.

They wanted Mara dead for her betrayal…and Jager shuddered to think of what they would do to her if she fell into their grasp. The Matriarch did not suffer treachery.

But for now, at least, Mara was safe. Jager had no such illusions about himself.

He had the soulstone. Tarrabus wanted it. There had to be some way to force the Dux to hand over Mara before giving him the crystal. Could Jager hide it? No, Tarrabus would simply torture the information out of him. Perhaps Jager could swap it with a decoy, or perhaps arrange a negotiation. A meeting in public, perhaps, might guarantee him a measure of security.

No, that was a worse idea. Tarrabus was one of the most powerful nobles in the realm, and Jager was a thief masquerading as a merchant. Tarrabus need only claim that Jager had stolen the stone from him, could have Jager arrested and killed, and there was nothing Jager could do to stop him.

Who would believe Jager over Tarrabus?

He grimaced and rubbed his face, stubble rasping beneath his palms. God, but he needed a shave. He hated growing a beard. It always itched so damned much.

But now, it helped distract him from the obvious. Namely, that Tarrabus would kill Jager the moment he got his hands on the empty soulstone. Furthermore, Jager was alone, had no allies, and if Mara was to be saved, he had to think of something extremely clever.

And he could think of nothing.

Unless…

He gazed into his beer and shivered.

Unless he used the thing he had hidden in the catacombs.

Not that. Too dangerous.

Mara had made him promise never to use it again. Few people knew of the Red Family of Cintarra, but of those who did, most knew that the Family worshipped Mhor. Fewer still knew of the mysterious Matriarch that had ruled the Family for generations.

And only a very few knew the truth about the Matriarch.

She had once been a noblewoman and a wizard of the dark elves, but as the urdmordar had conquered the dark elves, she had betrayed her kindred to the spider-demons and fled into hiding. Eventually, after humans came to this world, she had concealed herself in the growing city of Cintarra and founded the Red Family around her.

And Jager only knew that because he and Mara had dared to steal from her on the day they had fled from Cintarra.

And the thing he had stolen from her waited in the catacombs, in the darkness below Coldinium.

Oh, he was sure it was waiting for him. Mara had claimed it was just an object, but she had never touched it, thank God. Jager was certain it had a malevolent will of its own. Mara had made him promise never to use it again, and he had agreed without hesitation.

But now Mara was a prisoner in the Iron Tower. Jager was her only hope of rescue, and Jager was alone with no allies or resources. He needed help.

And the weapon in the darkness below Coldinium had power.

Did he have any choice?

The thought of touching it again made his skin crawl.

Jager sat in silence and drank his beer, trying to make up his mind.

Or to summon up the courage for what he knew he had to do.

###

“I knew it,” said Gavin, watching the crowd pass through Coldinium’s western gate. “I knew he would come here.”

Kharlacht nodded. “Your strategy was sound.”

They had searched the Outwall with little success, until Gavin had realized that Jager would not remain there. The halfling had been alone and without any supplies. If he wanted to leave Coldinium, he would first have to venture into the city to obtain food. If he wanted to sell the soulstone to someone, he would not find a buyer within the Outwall.

His next stop would almost certainly be the city itself.

And so Gavin watched the short figure in the ragged cloak walk through the gate, head bowed, Calliande’s pack slung over his shoulder.

“Let’s take him,” said Gavin.

“Wait,” said Kharlacht. “Let us follow him instead. If we confront him in front of the guards, they will intervene. The thief has a silver tongue. If he talks to the guards, he might turn them against us. Better to wait until we can get him alone.”

Gavin felt a chill. “Then we kill him?” A battle was one thing, but he did not want to kill a man in cold blood.

“Only if he refuses to return the soulstone,” said Kharlacht. “Or if he attacks us. I would prefer not to be arrested for murder.”

“Agreed,” said Gavin, and they followed the crowd into the gate.

The guards stopped and questioned Kharlacht. Kharlacht denied being a Mhorite (the fact that he spoke Latin helped), and the guards demanded that he renounce Mhor and recite the Lord’s Prayer, which Kharlacht did without hesitation.

The guards waved them through and into the city.

Despite the urgency of their errand, Gavin found himself looking around in wonder. He thought the Outwall had been crowded, but the space within the walls made the Outwall look like a sleepy village. They had entered some sort of market square, filled with men and women selling every sort of merchandise Gavin could imagine. More shops lined the square, and he saw carts rolling back and forth, people going about their business and talking and haggling.

Half of the village of Aranaeus could have fit within the square.

“There,” said Kharlacht. “He went in there.”

The orcish warrior pointed at building with the look of a tavern. A large crowd of bakers and fishermen were having breakfast there.

“What do we do now?” said Gavin. “Do we follow him?”

“No, not both of us,” said Kharlacht, considering. “I am rather noticeable.” Given that he stood seven feet tall, that was an understatement. “If he sees us, he will flee out the back. You, though…you will look like another man coming in for breakfast. Go inside, buy some food, and have a look around.”

Gavin nodded, pulled up the hood of his cloak, and walked into the tavern. He had visited the White Walls Inn from time to time in Aranaeus, but it had never been so crowded. Fishermen and bakers sat at the tables, talking and eating. They all ignored Gavin. He bought some beer and a few biscuits, sat at a bench, and glanced around the room.

He spotted Jager sitting alone in the corner, head bowed, his face grim. The halfling looked exhausted. Lost, even. As if he did not know what to do next. Certainly he did not look like a man come to celebrate a successful theft with beer and good cheer.

Gavin took a sip of the beer and grimaced. Come to think of it, he could not imagine drinking this beer to celebrate anything. He ate one of the biscuits, doing his best to keep an eye on Jager. Fortunately, Jager seemed locked in his dark thoughts, and did not look up from his beer even once.

Gavin spotted Calliande’s pack under the table, tucked between Jager’s boots. The halfling thief looked so distracted that Gavin thought he could stroll across the room, snatch the pack, and flee before Jager stopped him. But Jager would recognize him on sight, would realize that he had been followed. And if he ran, Gavin and Kharlacht would never find him again. Neither Kharlacht nor Gavin had visited Coldinium before, but Jager would know all the best hiding places, and Gavin and Kharlacht would have no way of finding him again.

They needed a plan. A good one.

Gavin walked back to the market square. Kharlacht stood near the door to the tavern, arms crossed over his chest. No one seemed inclined to trouble him.

“Well?” said Kharlacht.

“He’s just sitting there,” said Gavin. He handed one of the biscuits to Kharlacht, who started eating. “He’s either waiting for someone, or he’s trying to decide what to do next.”

“Fish oil,” grunted Kharlacht, finishing the biscuit. “Who makes biscuits with fish oil?” He shook his head. “We had best act now.” He turned his head, looking at the towers of the city’s castra to the north. “And if things go ill for the Gray Knight and the Magistria…this might be the only chance we have to keep the soulstone from falling into Shadowbearer’s hands.”

Gavin felt a chill. “You think Jager is working for Shadowbearer?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe he is one of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Kharlacht. “I fear it does not matter. If he takes the soulstone, it will end up in the hands of Shadowbearer sooner or later. And if the Gray Knight and the Magistria are slain, we must take it upon ourselves to guard the soulstone.”

“So what are we going to do?” said Gavin.

Kharlacht considered. “Wait here a moment. If Jager comes out the front door, stop him.” He jogged into the alley and returned a moment later. “There is one entrance in the back. Go there and guard it. I will go through the front door. When Jager flees through the back, catch him.”

“What if he goes through the windows?” said Gavin.

“Then we shall have to improvise,” said Kharlacht. “If need be, I will attack him and claim that he owes me money from a gambling debt. If I can get us both arrested, he will be unable to present the soulstone to his masters.” He shook his head. “Every choice is a risk, but we must act now. Go.”

Gavin ran to the alley behind the tavern. The narrow alley stank of fish and mold, and a single door opened into the tavern’s kitchen.

He took a deep breath, set himself, and loosened his sword in its scabbard.

###

Jager saw no other way around it.

He had to go into the catacombs and retrieve the weapon.

Of course, that had its own set of risks.

Coldinium’s catacombs had been built to house the city’s dead in imitation of the catacombs of the Romans upon Old Earth. Yet a far older set of ruins rested beneath the catacombs. Long before Malahan Pendragon had ever set foot upon the soil of Andomhaim, a dwarven stronghold had been built below the soil, guarding an entrance to the tunnels of the Deeps. The stronghold had been overthrown by foes, but the tunnels remained, silent and empty and full of bones.

And traps. The dwarves had constructed legions of fiendish mechanical devices in the ruins, and they functioned to this day. The Comes forbade anyone from entering the old dwarven tunnels, but from time to time treasure seekers went into the ruins, seeking the lost wealth of the dwarves.

Few of them ever returned. The traps saw to that.

Or the Hunter.

But Jager had gone into the ruins and returned, leaving the weapon he had stolen from the Matriarch hidden behind the dwarven traps.

There was no other choice, not if he was to get Mara back alive.

He took a deep breath, looked up, and saw Kharlacht staring at him.

The big orc stood near the front door to the tavern, arms crossed over an armored chest the size of a barrel. A few of the patrons gave him sideways glances, but Kharlacht did nothing threatening. He merely stood motionless, scowling.

Right at Jager.

How the devil had Kharlacht found him? The Magistria’s magic, perhaps, or Morigna’s sorcery. They must have used their spells to follow him. He remembered Ridmark’s fury in battle, Kharlacht’s blue greatsword taking off the head of a Mhorite, and felt a terrible chill.

Jager had to get away from here, now. Most likely Ridmark and his companions would not chance violence upon the street. If they did, the militia would haul them off, and Dux Tarrabus could collect the soulstone at his leisure. Jager got his feet, abandoning the mediocre beer, scooped up the stolen knapsack, and headed for the kitchen door, watching to see what Kharlacht would do.

The orcish warrior did not move, but his black eyes followed Jager.

Jager walked through the common room and into the kitchen, ignoring the startled exclamations of the cooks. He went to the back door, and slipped into the alley.

A sword point hovered a few inches before his face.

The boy who had accompanied Ridmark and Calliande stood a few paces away. Gavin, that was his name. He held an orcish sword in both hands, his expression grim.

The blade did not waver.

###

Gavin stared at the halfling.

He expected an attack, expected more smooth words from Jager. He had not expected the halfling to look so terrified.

Jager’s eyes darted back and forth.

“Give it back,” said Gavin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jager.

There were the smooth words.

“Don’t bother,” said Gavin. “The soulstone. In the pack. Drop it on the ground now.” He pointed the sword, and Gavin flinched. “Or I’ll run you through.”

“You don’t understand,” said Jager, a tremor in his deep voice. “I have to take it. They’ll kill her if I don’t.”

“Who?” said Gavin.

“I have to take it!” said Jager, his voice rising.

“You can’t,” said Gavin, stepping closer. “Shadowbearer wants it, and if you take it, Shadowbearer will find and kill you.”

“A shadow what?” said Jager.

“He’ll use the stone to do something terrible,” said Gavin. “We can’t let him have it. He’ll kill thousands of people.”

“I don’t care about them,” said Jager. “I don’t care about any of them. All I care about is saving her. Don’t you understand?” His voice rose. “They’ll kill her if I don’t bring them the crystal.”

“Maybe we can help you,” said Gavin. Though given how Ridmark and Calliande had been taken by that enraged Magistria, they were not in a good position to offer help to anyone at the moment. “Put down the pack, now.”

“But I have…” started Jager.

“Put it down,” said Gavin. “Now.” He moved the point of the blade closer to Jager’s face. “Or I will use this.”

“You’re too young to kill a man,” said Jager.

“You were at the Crow’s Helm,” said Gavin, “and you saw me kill men there.”

Jager flinched and started to lower the pack, and then looked to the right, his amber eyes getting even wider.

“What the hell?” he whispered.

Gavin turned his head and saw Kharlacht come around the corner, his stride quickening when he saw Jager held at bay.

And, too late, Gavin saw the simple trick.

He turned back just as Jager’s shoulder slammed into his gut. The breath exploded from his lungs, and Gavin stumbled. Jager whirled and sprinted down the alley, his boots slapping against the ground. Kharlacht raced after him, reaching for his sword. Gavin caught his balance and dashed after Jager. The halfling was fast, but so was Gavin, and he had longer legs. Yet Jager still outpaced him. Another few steps and he would get to the square, and if he did, he would get away with the soulstone.

Gavin yelled and threw himself forward, slashing with his sword.

He felt the blade bite into leather and skin and flesh, and the impact almost knocked the weapon from his hand. Jager screamed and stumbled, but kept running, and Gavin fell flat upon his stomach, his sword outstretched. The halfling thief vanished around a corner. Gavin scrambled back to his feet as Kharlacht came to his side.

“Now what?” said Gavin.

“I don’t know,” said Kharlacht at last.

###

An hour later Jager slumped against a stone wall in the catacombs, every breath sending a fresh wave of agony through him.

“That boy,” he muttered. “That damned boy.”

The sword blow had been meant to kill or disable him. Instead it had struck his left shoulder, slashing down across his back and bouncing off his ribs. It would not be fatal.

Assuming it did not putrefy. Thank God he had had the foresight to hide some supplies in the catacombs. Jager cleaned the gash as best as he could, every movement sending a fresh wave of pain through his back and his left arm. He wrapped bandages around his torso, as tight as he could manage. The gash would likely need stitches, but Jager could worry about that later. Right now he just needed the bleeding to stop.

At last he got the bandages on, and then donned his shirt and jerkin. Every movement hurt, and his left arm ached so badly it was all but useless. He started to pull on the knapsack, realized that was an extraordinarily poor idea, and settled for carrying it in his right hand. If he had to fight, he was going to be in trouble.

But if he ran into the Hunter, he was going to die anyway.

No one knew what the Hunter was...and Jager had no wish to solve that particular mystery.

Some said it was a horror wrought through the sorcery of the dark elves, while others claimed it was a creature that had crawled out of the Deeps. Some even thought it was a legend. From time to time bands of young Swordbearers and knights, eager for glory, descended into the catacombs and the dwarven ruins in search of the Hunter. Assuming the old dwarven traps did not kill them, the Swordbearers returned empty-handed, convinced the Hunter was a myth.

Yet from time to time corpses were found in the catacombs with all their viscera removed.

Jager had spent considerable time in the catacombs since coming to Coldinium, hiding caches of supplies, and he knew the Hunter was real. He did not know what it was, yet he had heard the rasping hiss of some bulky creature dragging itself through the tunnels, had smelled the creature’s peculiar odor, a musky mixture of wet dirt and rotting meat. The thing preferred the pools of water in Coldinium’s sewers, and Jager made sure to stay well away from there.

He passed through the catacombs, the dead resting silent in their niches around him, and found one of the entrances to the dwarven ruins. Ancient glowstones shone in niches, throwing light and shadow over walls carved with angular statues of dwarven warriors. Jager made his way past the traps he had mapped out and came to an abandoned stone hall. He knelt in the center of the floor upon one of the stone tiles.

He took a deep breath, trying to control his fear.

Then he pressed the stone tile in front of him in a specific pattern.

Metal clicked as a hidden mechanism released, and one of the tiles popped open. Jager reached down with his good arm and pushed aside the tile, revealing a small hidden compartment. A bundle of cloth rested at the bottom of the compartment, and a wave of dread went through Jager as he looked at it.

He unwrapped the bundle, revealing the dagger.

The blade was a foot long, housed in a sheath of black leather. Like Kharlacht’s greatsword and armor, it had been forged from blue dark elven steel. Unlike Kharlacht’s sword, a gem glittered in the base of the blade, and two more in the crosspiece. They were soulstones, similar to the ones in embedded in the Soulblades of the Swordbearers. The soulstones of the Soulblades shone with a gentle white light. The three small soulstones in the dagger gave off a sickly yellow radiance that seemed diseased and corrupted. Combined with the blue steel of the blade and the black leather of the sheath, it made Jager think of a poisoned wound pumping its venom into healthy flesh.

The minute he touched the hilt, he heard the voices.

He never could make out what they said, but they whispered and hissed inside his head. Part of him was sure they were plotting against him, that they were conspiring with the people of Coldinium to destroy him. The rest of his mind realized that the dagger’s dark magic was twisting his thoughts.

Jager quickly hooked the dagger to his belt, hiding it beneath the side of his jerkin.

The whispers faded away, their scornful laughter echoing in his thoughts.

He closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. The pain in his shoulder was almost welcome, compared to those horrible, whispering voices. Little wonder the Matriarch was mad, if she had carried that weapon for centuries.

The dagger was an evil thing. Jager was certain of it. Yet it had power…and he needed help to save Mara.

He would not turn aside aid from any source.

Jager took a deep breath, picked up Calliande’s knapsack, and headed to the surface.

Chapter 15 - Memory Bleed

Calliande drifted through a field of broken glass shards, and in each shard she saw an image.

A memory.

In one she saw herself dragged before Shadowbearer, the ancient wizard’s shadow rotating like a banner caught in the wind of a storm.

A shadow that would crack the world.

In another she saw Imaria and Aelia Licinius riding through the hills of the Northerland, laughing and shouting.

In another fragment she saw herself fighting Agrimnalazur in the ruins of Urd Arowyn, the urdmordar’s dark magic snarling around her.

One of the shards displayed Imaria weeping as she learned the news of Aelia’s death.

Another shard showed Calliande sitting on the edge of the pier with her father, eating stoneberries. Her father’s lined, sun-beaten face, stern and grim, yet a twinkle in his eye that sometimes erupted in laughter. Calliande reached for the memory, desperate to see more of it. The shard pierced her skin, blood welling from the wound, but she did not care.   There were other shards scattered across the ground, filled with swirling mist.

The memories of her past.

One by one Calliande grabbed them, ignoring the pain, trying to seize a piece of her lost history.

And for a moment, memories wavered in front of her eyes.

The Tower of Vigilance, not a ruin but new-built, the proud banners of the Pendragons and the Order of the Vigilant flying from its towers.

A knight with a sword of red gold, his face scarred and battered, but his eyes bright and laughing.

An old woman with a twisted staff of oak, leaning upon it in exhaustion.

And Shadowbearer himself standing before a…a gate, a hole in the air, a portal that led somewhere else, his strange mercury-colored eyes filled with fury as he faced her, black fire rising at his call as the winter winds howled, the Frostborn standing around him in their ice-colored armor.

Skulls. Dragon skulls lining the walls, staring down at her as she laid her staff upon an ancient altar in a vast stone hall.

Dragonfall.

She reached for it, desperately trying to find the location. She had to find her staff. The Frostborn were returning, and she was the only one who could stop it, but only if she found her staff…

A wind screamed through the plain of glass shards, gathering them one by one. Calliande shouted and reached for the memories, trying to see more, but they eluded her. The glass shards reassembled themselves, forming into a giant mirror that towered over the featureless plain.

She saw her image in the mirror…but not as she knew herself.

The reflection wore a rich green gown with black trim on the sleeves and bodice, a belt of black leather around her waist. In her right hand she carried a rough staff of twisted oak, a faint white glow flickering from the staff. A diadem of gleaming bronze and blue gems encircled her brow, and she looked regal, almost queenly.

Was that who she had been, before she had locked herself below the Tower of Vigilance?

“Yes.”

Calliande stiffened. The voice was eerie, inhuman, a distorted echo of itself. As if two voices were trying to speak out of the same mouth at once.

She whirled, summoning power for a spell, and saw Shadowbearer standing a dozen yards away, the shards of glass hurtling past him.

He wore a black tunic, black trousers, and gleaming black boots beneath a long red coat the color of blood. His skin was the grayish-white of a corpse, and black veins throbbed beneath his hands and face, like fingers of corruption digging into rotting flesh. His bloodshot eyes were the color of mercury, of quicksilver, and Calliande saw her reflection in his irises.

“You,” said Calliande, her hands curling into fists. Again she remembered standing naked and helpless before him. But she was not helpless, not any longer, and she summoned more power for a spell.

“How eloquent,” said Shadowbearer, his double voice full of amused contempt. “And how typical. You stopped me once all those centuries ago…but in the end you defeated yourself. You maimed yourself, surrendered your powers, and locked yourself away in that dank little vault. Foolish, foolish, foolish. You could have defeated me again, had you remembered who you were when we met anew on the slopes of the Black Mountain, but you destroyed yourself.”

“Yet I am still here,” said Calliande, her mind racing.

“Only due to the chronic ineptitude of my servants,” said Shadowbearer. His pale face twisted in a smile. “I would have killed you myself, but Ardrhythain has been keeping me occupied, and this would be a most inconvenient time to die.” He grinned, the black veins beneath his pale skin seeming to pulse and writhe with corrupted blood. “But once again you are your own worst enemy, Calliande of Tarlion.”

“How?” said Calliande, holding a warding spell prepared.

“Because you have made yourself vulnerable to me,” said Shadowbearer. “Your duel with that petulant child of a Magistria? You really should not have done that. The mortal mind has natural defenses against magical attack, defenses that even I cannot penetrate while evading Ardrhythain. But your duel shattered those defenses. They will recover in time, true.” He gestured at the mirror. “They are recovering even now. But not in time to save you from me.”

“I am not dead yet,” said Calliande.

“No,” said Shadowbearer. “But you will be. The soulstone is already on its way to me. I had hoped to fill it with your resonance, dear Calliande. How delightful it would be to bring the Frostborn back to this world with your own power! Alas, I shall have to settle for a lesser source of magic.”

“Then it’s you,” said Calliande. “It’s always been you. You are the one bringing back the Frostborn.”

He laughed, both his voices ringing in her ears. “Of course! I brought them here the first time. And I can bring them back again…without any help from you. It would have useful if I could have wrenched the secret of that damned staff and that wretched sword from that box of broken shards you call a mind. But, no matter. Farewell, Calliande.”

He gestured, and darkness surged through the veins in his arms and face. For a bizarre moment she wondered if he was about to explode, if his corrupted blood would spray all over her. But the darkness gathered around his hand, and she realized that blood did not pump through his veins, but manifested darkness.

He was the bearer of the shadow…and the shadow had consumed him and given him its strength.

Black fire wreathed in shadow burst from his fingers and flew toward her, and she cast a ward, a dome of white light appearing in front of her.

Shadowbearer’s shadow fire struck the ward, hesitated for a moment, and then ripped the spell apart. The black fire drilled into Calliande, throwing her back. Despite the strike, she felt no pain, save for a dull ache behind her eyes.

But a web of cracks spread over the colossal mirror, and the image of the regal, green-clad woman within it started to waver.

“Really, you ought to thank me,” said Shadowbearer. He flung another blast of flame that sliced through Calliande’s wards, ripping shards from the mirror. “Better if you die here. You’re following the Gray Knight to Urd Morlemoch, the fool. Do you have any idea what will happen if come into the Warden’s grasp?” He laughed. “A pity you will never find out!”

Calliande snarled and recast her wards, but to no effect. She had faced Agrimnalazur and Coriolus, had dueled an urdmordar matriarch and an ancient Eternalist.

Shadowbearer was stronger than all of them put together.

Calliande screamed, fighting in vain to hold back his spells.

Then a blast of white fire fell out of the sky and slammed into Shadowbearer. The wizard rocked back with a surprised shout, a cocoon of black fire wrapping around him to deflect the attack. He spun with a snarl of fury, his coat flying around him as he summoned more power.

Another man in a long red coat similar to Shadowbearer’s stood near the mirror, the sleeves and hem and collar trimmed in black. Beneath it he wore a white tunic and black trousers tucked into black boots. In his right hand he carried a black staff carved with intricate designs, the symbols shining with the same pale light as a Soulblade. His face was alien, thinner than a human’s, the ears long and pointed. An unruly shock of night-black hair topped his head, and his eyes were like disks of glowing gold. The golden eyes narrowed as they contemplated Shadowbearer, and Calliande was struck by the strange weight of the eyes, by their age and weariness.

The stranger was a high elf, like Shadowbearer.

And with a shiver Calliande realized that she recognized him, could recall him just as she recalled how to speak orcish or how to stitch a sword wound or cast a spell. Since awakening from the darkness below the Tower, she had only recognized one other living creature, Shadowbearer.

But she knew the high elf in the black-trimmed red coat.

“Ardrhythain,” she said, stunned. “You are Ardrhythain, the archmage of Cathair Solas.”

“Calliande of Tarlion,” said Ardrhythain, his voice deeper and more musical than any human’s or orc’s or dwarf’s, so deep it reminded her of Rjalfur the trolldomr. His eyes turned back to Shadowbearer. “Tymandain.”

“Shall we duel even here?” said Shadowbearer. “You have pursued me since I took the soulstone from Cathair Solas.” His shadow began to rotate around him, faster and faster, and black fire filled his hands. “Of course, if we fight here, we might shatter the mind of that poor maimed fool of a child.” He gestured at Calliande. “And you care so very much for the humans.”

“You care nothing for them,” said Ardrhythain, “and you have been overwhelmed by the power of Incariel, Tymandain. But if we fight here, your mind might be damaged as well. And there are only eleven months left for you to accomplish your goal. Come, then. Shall we gamble together?”

Shadowbearer said nothing. Then he gestured, darkness swirled around him, and he disappeared into nothingness.

Calliande let out a long breath. Behind her the cracks in the mirror began to vanish.

“Thank you,” she said to Ardrhythain.

He nodded. “Then you do remember who I am?”

“Yes,” said Calliande. “I must have known you…before. Before I went into the long sleep, when the Frostborn attacked the first time.”

“You did,” said Ardrhythain. “By the standards of my kindred, your kindred live and die very quickly. It is…strange to speak with a human I knew centuries ago. In truth it is the first time it has happened.”

“Please,” said Calliande. “Can you tell me who I am? Or where I can find Dragonfall?”

“I cannot,” said Ardrhythain. “That was one of the two pledges you asked of me, that I would tell no one of your secrets. Even you, if you should ask before you remembered.” He took his staff in both hands. “But I can tell you this.  You originally planned to have the Order of the Vigilant tell you everything once you awakened. Shadowbearer could not harm you directly, not with the spells you placed upon the vault. So he instead stirred up civil war within the realm of Andomhaim to destroy the Order of the Vigilant and their records. It is up to you to find Dragonfall and your staff.”

“What was the second pledge I asked of you?” said Calliande.

“To hold something in trust for you,” said Ardrhythain, “until the hour came when you needed it once more.”

“My staff?” said Calliande.

“It was not.”

Calliande nodded. “Thank you for your aid. But, please, lord archmage…is there anything else you can tell me? We are in sore need of aid.”

“Only this,” said Ardrhythain. “You are going to Urd Morlemoch. The Warden does indeed have the knowledge you seek. Yet he is subtle and dangerous, so dangerous than even I would not challenge him within his demesne.”

“Ridmark defeated him once,” said Calliande, “at one of his games.”

For some reason she felt a twinge of unease when she thought of Ridmark.

“He did,” said Ardrhythain, “but Ridmark Arban was stronger then. He, like you, has a habit of wounding himself when he thinks it necessary. And I suspect the Warden played some deeper game, that he wanted Ridmark to escape from Urd Morlemoch.”

“Why?” said Calliande.

“I know not,” said Ardrhythain, “but I fear you shall find out. Go with God and your Dominus Christus, Calliande.”

The strange dream dissolved into nothingness around her.

###

Calliande opened her eyes and groaned.

The first thing she noticed was her headache.

It was horrendous.

It felt as if someone had buried a hatchet in her forehead, and she reached for her head, expecting to find a hideous wound. But she felt only skin and hair, no blood, and slowly the pain faded to mere agony.

She took a deep breath and sat up.

She was in her room at the Crow’s Helm. Bit by bit Calliande’s memories swam back into focus. The attack upon the inn. Imaria’s accusations of Ridmark. The duel before the Comes in the castra.

“God and the saints,” said Calliande. “I am never doing that again.”

“It is good you have found some wisdom, at least,” said a woman’s harsh voice.

Calliande’s head snapped around. But it was only Morigna, arms folded across her chest as she leaned against the wall next to the door.

“I take it I won the Challenge,” said Calliande, her voice raspy.

“Yes,” said Morigna. “The Comes released both you and Ridmark, though he urged us to leave Coldinium as soon as possible. Ridmark brought you back here to rest.” There was a hard edge to her voice. “Though it seems you only barely won the challenge.”

“Actually,” said Calliande, sitting up, “I think these aftereffects are normal. Imaria is likely in worse shape than I am.”

“Just as well,” said Morigna. “Tarrabus Carhaine does not seem the sort of man to forget his vengeance. And given what you said to Ridmark, he might well be inclined to let Tarrabus claim it without a fight.”

“No,” said Calliande. “He promised. He won’t try to throw his life away. Not until we’ve stopped the Frostborn.”

She rubbed her aching head and summoned some healing magic. It was not nearly as effective when used upon herself, but hopefully it would ease the pain of her headache.

Morigna scowled. “After what you said to him, he might have changed his mind.”

Morigna was angry. Calliande had not seen Morigna this angry since their final confrontation with the Old Man within the circle of dark elven standing stones. The younger woman was scornful and mocking, and often abrasive, but she rarely became angry.

But now she looked furious.

“What I said to him?” said Calliande. “What…what did I say?”

“You don’t remember?” said Morigna with disdain. “With a memory like yours, it ought to be safe to tell you all my secrets. They would leak out within a day or two.”

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

And then she remembered.

Imaria’s thoughts and emotions had flooded her mind, and Calliande had seen the younger woman’s past, had felt her pain and rage and despair. For a brief time those emotions had dominated her thoughts. She had seen the world as Imaria did, and felt the Magistria’s emotions.

And she had thrown it all in Ridmark’s face, every last bit of loathing and contempt and hatred. At the time, she had believed every word of it.

“God have mercy,” said Calliande, rubbing her face. “What did I do?”

“You said his wife’s death was his fault, that he deserved to die for his cowardice and failure,” said Morigna, the words icy. “Then you hit him a few times. I think you would have tried to rip out his throat if I had not stopped you.”

“Oh,” said Calliande. A wave of guilt rolled through her. “What…what did Ridmark do?”

“Nothing,” said Morigna. “You know how he is. He never reacts to anything. He simply brought you back here, and then he left again. Gavin and Kharlacht are both missing, and he went to see if he could find them. You’ve been unconscious for most of the day.”

Calliande nodded, trying to sort through the memories, both of the Challenge and its aftermath, and of the strange dream. Had it actually been a dream? Or had Shadowbearer tried to shatter her mind? She did not know.

God, but she wished she had her memories back.

“So that is how you truly feel about Ridmark, then?” said Morigna, snapping Calliande’s attention back to the present. “He has fought for you again and again, and you have held him in contempt all this time?”

“No,” said Calliande, “I…”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” said Morigna. “To have a lover’s death thrown in your face…do you know what that feels like?”

Calliande shook her head. “I…”

“If you tried that on me, I would simply punch you in the jaw,” said Morigna. “But Ridmark believes himself responsible for Aelia’s death. What…”

“Memory bleed,” said Calliande, closing her eyes.

“Memory what?” said Morigna.

“It is a side effect of a Challenge, of the mental contact,” said Calliande. “We saw each other’s memories.”

“I suppose you didn’t have much for her to see,” said Morigna.

“No,” said Calliande. “But I saw hers. She loved Aelia. And she blames Ridmark for her death.”

“Do you?” said Morigna.

“No, of course not,” said Calliande. “It was Mhalek’s work. But at the time I believed it, and…God forgive me. What did I do?”

“You had better tell him that,” said Morigna. “Before he does something mad and stupid.”

“He’s good at mad and stupid,” said Calliande. “That’s the only reason we’re both still alive.”

“Aye,” said Morigna, “but even he can only push things so far.”

Calliande nodded and got to her feet, and then froze.

“Where is my knapsack?” said Calliande.

Morigna frowned. “Isn’t it with the others?”

“No,” said Calliande, going to her knees. Suddenly she forgot her headache. “No, it’s not.” She looked around in alarm, sifting through the packs. “I left it here with the others. Then I went down to the common room, you were talking to Ridmark, and…”

“Then Mournacht and his Mhorites attacked,” said Morigna.

“And someone took the opportunity to take the soulstone,” said Calliande.

She straightened up, cursing herself as a fool. Cursing Ridmark for his wife’s death was bad. Letting someone steal the empty soulstone was much worse. Shadowbearer needed the thing for something involving the return of the Frostborn. She doubted he had taken it himself, given that Ardrhythain had been pressing him hard. Someone else must have stolen the thing in the chaos of the battle.

She looked at Morigna.

“Jager,” they said in unison.

“That little rat,” said Morigna. “No wonder he followed us from Vulmhosk. A merchant, indeed. Perhaps Shadowbearer hired him to steal the soulstone.”

“We have to find him,” said Calliande. “We have to find him now.” She raised her hands to her aching temples, trying to think. “That must be where Kharlacht and Gavin went. They realized the theft and went to find him.”

“I wish them luck,” said Morigna. “Have either of them ever set foot in Coldinium before? Likely Jager knows it as well as a rat knows his warren. They’ll never find him.”

“Are any of the others still here?” said Calliande.

“Caius,” said Morigna. “But Ridmark went to find Kharlacht and Gavin.”

“Come on,” said Calliande, heading for the door. “We have to find that soulstone before Jager gives it to Shadowbearer.”

She pushed open the door, not waiting to see if Morigna followed, and headed down to the common room. Surprisingly, the massive hole in the wall had had no effect on the inn’s business, and carpenters were already at work rebuilding the door. Caius sat at one of the tables, drinking a cup of beer, his expression grim.

“Magistria,” he said, getting to his feet as she approached. “Are you…”

“Better,” said Calliande. “The soulstone’s gone.”

“What?” said Caius. “You are sure?”

“Positive,” said Calliande. “Someone took it during the fighting. The most likely suspect is Jager. We need to find him at once. If we…”

“Gray Knight,” said Caius.

Calliande looked up and saw Ridmark walk through the ruined door, his staff in hand.

She felt her mouth go dry. He looked the same as ever, his expression grim and calm at the same time. Were his eyes colder and harder than they had been before? Or was she simply imagining things?

“Ridmark,” she said.

He stopped. Had he always stood so far away from her?

But he smiled. “You’re on your feet again. That’s good. I feared you might sleep for days.”

“Ridmark, I’m sorry,” she said. On impulse she stepped forward and grabbed his free hand with both of hers. “I…the things I said. They were from the memory bleed. Some of Imaria’s memories drained into my mind during the Challenge, and for a while I thought they were my own. A side effect of the duel. I…am sorry for the things I said. I did not mean them.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Ridmark. “They are, after all, quite true.”

The calm way he said it broke her heart.

“Ridmark,” she said.

Very, very gently he slid his hard hand from hers.

“You have no reason to reprove yourself,” he said, “and your intervention saved our lives. Otherwise Tarrabus would have found an excuse to kill us all. Thank you.”

Calliande nodded, blinking. She wanted to grab his hand again, to force him to understand that the horrible words that had come from her mouth were not true. That he had no reason to blame himself for Aelia’s death, that she wanted him to kiss her again, witnesses be damned.

But they had bigger problems.

“The soulstone has been taken,” she said.

His smile vanished. “What?”

“During the fighting,” said Calliande. “Or sometime in the night when we were all gone. Probably during the fighting, since you sent Gavin and Kharlacht to guard the baggage.”

She saw Ridmark work it out. “Jager. He disappeared right after Sir Cortin arrived. I assumed he was wanted for some crime or another in Coldinium.” He shook his head. “I am a blind fool. That was why he was in Vulmhosk. Shadowbearer failed to obtain the soulstone through force, so instead he decided upon stealth. That must be where Gavin and Kharlacht went. They realized the soulstone was missing and went in pursuit. They…”

“I think,” said Caius, “that you can ask them yourself.”

Kharlacht and Gavin climbed through the ruined door. Both the boy and the orcish warrior looked tired and dispirited, but their expressions brightened.

“I am pleased,” said Kharlacht, “that you were not executed.”

“I confess, so I am,” said Ridmark. “I have work yet to do.”

That was why he wanted to live, Calliande thought. Because he had work to do. Because of his promise to Calliande. Not because he thought he deserved it.

“Jager took the soulstone,” said Gavin. He shook his head in frustration. “We almost caught him. We came so close, but he slipped away from us in the market square…”

“The Forum of the River, it is called,” said Kharlacht. “Apparently.”

“And we lost him,” said Gavin.

“You chased after him?” said Morigna.

“Aye,” said Gavin.

“You could have been killed,” said Calliande.

“Aye, but we weren’t,” Gavin. He shrugged. “I did what Ridmark would do.”

“Dear God, you’re lucky to be alive,” said Calliande.

That almost drew a smile from Ridmark. Almost.

“But we failed, I fear,” said Kharlacht. “Jager eluded us with the knapsack.”

Ridmark blinked.

“Knapsack?” he said.

“Yes, knapsack,” said Kharlacht. “He simply took it. Is that important?”

Ridmark paced in a circle, head bowed, and then looked at Calliande.

More specifically, at her belt.

Why her belt?

“It is extremely important,” said Ridmark. “I know how we are going to find Jager.”

Chapter 16 - No Longer Useful

Jager stopped, his left arm and back ablaze with pain.

The domus of Tarrabus of the Carhainii rose above him.

Most noble homes were built for either strength or beauty, but not both. The nobles of Tarlion had gleaming mansions, faced in marble and roofed in tiles of baked red clay. In the Northerland, the nobles built castras, fortified keeps to defend themselves and their freeholders from raiders.

Tarrabus Carhaine, Jager noted sourly, had a domus that was both strong and beautiful.

It was a three-story domus around a central atrium, its walls gleaming and white, its roof covered in red clay tiles. A square tower rose from the back of the domus, topped in battlements. The windows were narrow, giving ample cover for archers and crossbowmen, and the walls and doors were thick enough to withstand a battering ram. Effectively it gave Tarrabus his own private fortress within the walls of Coldinium.

If he wanted to make Jager disappear, he could do it so easily.

Mara. Jager had to do this for Mara.

His hand strayed to the dagger hidden beneath his jerkin. The terrible whispers started in his mind, and he pulled his fingers away from the weapon.

He took a deep breath,  and headed toward the doors. Two of Tarrabus’s men-at-arms stood guard, watching Jager as if they expected him to rob the place. He stopped and looked up at the men. Why did humans have to be so damned tall? It wasn’t fair.

“You have business,” said one of the guards.

“Aye,” said Jager. “The Dux…the Dux summoned me.”

“Wait here,” said the guard. He disappeared into the door and returned a moment later. “Come with me.”

Jager nodded and followed the guard through the massive door. It slammed shut behind him with a heavy, ominous thud, and the guard threw the bolts and put a bar in place behind him.

“Worried I might escape?” said Jager. “The bar might be a bit excessive.”

The guard beckoned.

He led Jager through the opulent entry hall. A brilliant mosaic covered the floor, displaying the war against the Frostborn, the Keeper of Avalon and the Dragon Knight leading the men of Andomhaim into battle. Gleaming statues stood in niches, and tables held polished gold plates and vases. Jager’s calculating eye noted the wealth on display in the room. If he lived through this, he vowed, if he saved Mara, he would return and rob Tarrabus blind.

They walked into the atrium, the walls of the domus and the tower rising around them. The courtyard was broad and wide, an elaborate fountain bubbling in the center. The sun dipped toward the horizon in the west, throwing long shadows across the courtyard. A dozen men-at-arms stood near the fountain, speaking in low voices.

Tarrabus Carhaine sat on the edge of the fountain, a cup of wine in his hand and an open book in his lap.

“My lord Dux,” said the man-at-arms, “the halfling claims to have business with you.”

Tarrabus’s cold eyes examined Jager. He felt like a mouse pinned beneath the gaze of a hawk.

But mice did not carry the sort of weapon that waited at his belt.

“So he does,” said Tarrabus. “Leave us. All of you. And tell my guests to join us at their leisure.”

The man-at-arms bowed and left, and the other guards followed suit, leaving Jager alone with Tarrabus. The Dux stared at him, and Jager made himself meet the man’s cold eyes without flinching.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“You,” said Tarrabus at last, “look rather the worse for wear.”

“It has been a trying few days,” said Jager.

“I expect so,” said Tarrabus. “Some of my spies said you were seen at the Crow’s Helm, fighting alongside Ridmark Arban’s companions, only to disappear after Sir Cortin arrived. It made me worry, Jager. I do hope you have not told Ridmark anything. For Mara’s sake, if not your own.”

“No,” said Jager, his mouth dry. “I followed them from Vulmhosk and waited for an opportunity to take the soulstone.”

“And did such an opportunity present itself?” said Tarrabus. He took a sip of his wine.

“Yes,” said Jager.

Tarrabus nodded, closed his book, and set it and the wine cup on the edge of the fountain. “Then give it to me. Now.”

“Not until you give me Mara,” said Jager.

“Oh, she is quite safe, do not fear,” said Tarrabus. “Not one hair on her head has been harmed. A state of affairs that is unlikely to continue unless you hand over the soulstone.” He smiled that cold, awful smile. “Kindly do not make me wait further. I am a patient man…but I do not particularly enjoy the exercise of that virtue.”

“Fine,” said Jager.

He reached back into the knapsack, wincing in pain, and lifted the pouch with the soulstone.

Tarrabus craned his neck. “What happened to your back?”

“A sword,” said Jager. “I don’t suppose you can have your pet Magistria heal me?” The impudence was foolish, but he was in too much pain and too afraid to care.

“I would,” said Tarrabus, “but she is indisposed for the next few days, I’m afraid.” He held out his hand.

Jager dropped the pouch into the Dux’s waiting grasp. Tarrabus opened it and drew out the soulstone, the white crystal glinting in the setting sun. Again Jager felt that strange sense of power from the stone, the potential. Like an avalanche ready to fall, waiting only a single pebble to set it into motion.

He was not sure, but he thought Tarrabus’s shadow shivered.

The Dux held up the crystal before his eyes and turned it to the right and to the left.

“It’s real,” said Jager. “I’m not trying to pass off a forgery.”

“Oh, I know,” murmured Tarrabus. “It is…strange, is it not?”

“What?” said Jager.

“You see, master thief,” said Tarrabus, gazing into the crystal, “I can be honest with you in a way I rarely can with my allies and followers. Refreshing, really. This stone.” He gestured with it. “It is such a small thing. You would hardly think that it has the power to change the world, to inaugurate the new order. But it does. In the right place, at the right time, for…oh, the next eleven and a half months, it has the power to change the world. To remake it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Jager.

“Of course not,” said Tarrabus, letting the stone drop back into the pouch. “I would be very surprised if you did.”

“Use it change the world, eat it, or throw it in the damned Lake of Battles,” said Jager. “I don’t care what you do with it. I want Mara back, now.”

“In good time,” said Tarrabus. “Ah. We can begin.”

A man walked across the atrium, a knight tall and strong, with trim blond hair and mustache, his black eyes hard and cold.

Sir Paul Tallmane.

Jager’s hands clenched into fists.

“Well, well,” said Paul. “The little rat actually succeeded?”

“He did,” said Tarrabus. “He was more successful than you, I note.”

Paul glared at Jager, his expression promising death.

“Take this,” said Tarrabus, handing the stone to Paul. “Return to the Iron Tower and wait with it there. Shadowbearer will arrive as soon as he eludes the archmage of the high elves for a few days. Once he does, he will take the stone, and the new order shall begin.”

Paul took the pouch, his expression almost reverent. “At long last, my lord Dux. At long last our hopes shall be fulfilled, and the new order will arise. Mankind shall be made strong and have dominion over the earth.”

“Indeed,” said Tarrabus.

Paul grinned. “Or shall I call you my lord High King?”

“Patience,” said Tarrabus. “As the freeholders are fond of saying, let us not count our eggs before they have hatched.”

“But with this,” said Paul, lifting the pouch with the soulstone, “we have the eggs in hand, do we not, my lord?”

“We do,” said Tarrabus. “I shall return to Caerdracon and thence to Tarlion. Once Shadowbearer has the soulstone and can work his spell, matters will require my attention in the High King’s court. We shall have to proceed very carefully before knowledge of the Enlightened can become public. Once we are strong enough, we can sweep aside any resistance and do as we please. Until then, caution is required.”

Paul bowed to his lord. “I shall depart tomorrow at first light.”

“Good,” said Tarrabus.

“What about Mara?” said Jager. “I demand you release her to me at once!”

Both Paul and Tarrabus looked at him. Paul grinned like a wolf. Tarrabus remained calm, but Jager did not like the cold glint in his eyes.

“We had a deal,” said Jager.

“Yes, we did,” said Tarrabus. “And I shall adhere to it. If you brought me the soulstone, I promised that neither I nor my vassals would harm you, and that I would not bring any harm to Mara. And the Dux of Caerdracon keeps his word.” He looked towards the colonnade encircling the atrium. “Ah. Here come the rest of my guests. Would you like to meet them?”

Jager followed the Dux’s gaze and flinched.

Orcs strode from the colonnade, tall orcish warriors in fur and leather armor, swords and axes and maces at their belts. Their faces had been hideously scarred and tattooed in the image of crimson skulls. At their head walked a towering orcish warrior clad only in leather trousers and heavy boots, the muscles of his chest and arms marked with sigils of blood-colored flame. A huge double-bladed black axe rested in his right fist, the weapon longer than Jager was tall.

Mournacht and his Mhorite followers.

“You,” said Jager. “You hired them to hunt down Ridmark? You’re the Herald of Mhor?”

He wondered how the devil Tarrabus had gotten the orcs through the city without anyone noticing.

“Of course not,” said Tarrabus. “Tell me, Mournacht. Am I a Herald of Mhor?”

Mournacht growled, grounded the blades of his axe, and rested his massive fists upon the shaft. “You are not. But the Heralds of Mhor have commanded us to cooperate with you.”

“Yes,” said Tarrabus. “And here come the Heralds now.”

Jager turned, his blood running cold.

Four men in crimson leather armor walked from the colonnade, swords and daggers at their belts as they moved in eerie silence. All four men wore cowled black cloaks, and three of them also wore skull-masks of crimson steel over their faces. The fourth man carried his skull-mask and helmet beneath his arm, his face narrow and pale with graying yellow hair and dead, pale eyes.

“Rotherius,” Jager whispered. The assassin had almost killed Jager in Cintarra when he had fled the city with Mara.

Rotherius grinned. Even without the mask, it made his face look like a skull. “Greetings, Jager. It has been far, far too long. Our Matriarch is disappointed with you.”

“Really,” said Jager. “With my charming smile, I cannot imagine why.”

“Ridmark Arban must die,” said Tarrabus. “I was content to take my vengeance in my own time, but the omen of the blue fire…let us say it set a deadline. And Ridmark has a way of causing trouble. He must be removed from our path. The Red Family failed to kill him at Aranaeus,” he glared at Paul, who looked abashed, “and again at Moraime.”

“Fear not, Dux,” said Rotherius. “Ridmark Arban has slain too many of our Brothers. He shall die for his crimes against the Red Family of Mhor.”

“A useful convergence of purpose, is it not, my little master thief?” said Tarrabus. “I want Ridmark dead. The Family also wants him dead, and they will kill him for me at no charge. Convenient, no?”

“What about Mara?” demanded Jager. “You’re just going to give her to that band of damned murderers?”

“Of course not,” said Tarrabus. “I keep my word. And your Mara is too useful to kill.”

Jager’s blood ran colder. “What are you going to do to her?”

Tarrabus smiled. “She is going to achieve her full potential. Her dark elven blood grants her power, and I shall unlock it and make her into a worthy tool of my will.”

“No,” said Jager. “She’s fought against that all her life. You don’t have the right to do that to her.”

Tarrabus raised an eyebrow. “You ought to know better. I am stronger than she is. The strong have the right to do what they like to the weak. And you should not concern yourself about what is going to happen to Mara. You ought to worry about what is about to happen to you.”

“Me?” said Jager. “You gave your word. You said if I brought you the soulstone, you would release Mara and would not harm me.”

Paul laughed, low and nasty.

“I shall keep my word,” said Tarrabus. “And I will release Mara…into the fullness of her power, her dark potential. And neither I nor my vassals shall harm you. Rotherius! Are you my vassal?”

“I serve only Mhor and the Matriarch,” said Rotherius.

“You see?” said Tarrabus. “I have kept my word. I will not harm you.” He gestured at the colonnade. “You may go whenever you like, and neither I nor my men will hinder you. Such a pity you have made an enemy of the Red Family, though. Ah, well.”

Rotherius and the other Red Brothers moved toward Jager, and he backed away.

“I have not decided,” said Rotherius, “if I shall bring you alive to the Matriarch or not. Alive, I think. You are young enough to live for another forty or fifty years, and the Matriarch can keep you alive and in torment for every single moment of those years. How you shall scream!”

“You will find Ridmark Arban at the Crow’s Helm in the Outwall,” said Tarrabus. “I suggest you kill him as soon as you can.”

Rotherius grinned. “We need no counsel on how to harvest souls for Mhor, Dux of Caerdracon.”

“Well and good,” said Tarrabus. “Go and harvest.” His face hardened. “And while I know it means nothing to you, few men have ever deserved death more than Ridmark Arban.”

“And we shall deliver it to him,” said Rotherius.

Tarrabus nodded and turned back to Sir Paul, giving him commands for the upcoming journey. Rotherius donned his helmet and skull mask, and the Mhorite orcs moved around Jager. They were going to kill him. They were going to do worse than kill him.

And Tarrabus would unlock Mara’s dark power, would twist her into the monster she had fought to escape.

Unless Jager did something.

He had no other choice. He had to use the dagger.

“No!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Tarrabus and Paul ignored him, walking away.

“Going to beg, little thief?” said Rotherius.

Jager backed away, trying to keep them all in sight. “I am making the demands here, assassin. Tarrabus! Give Mara to me, now, or I will kill you all.”

Tarrabus turned, amused. “And how are you going to accomplish that?”

“With this,” said Jager.

In one smooth motion, he reached under his jerkin and yanked the dark eleven dagger from its sheath.

The whispers filled his mind and rose to a thunderous chorus. The sickly yellow glow from the three soulstones shone brighter, wreathing the blue blade in a diseased-looking light.

Every man in the atrium cast a long shadow from the setting sun…and as Jager gripped the dagger, a peculiar ripple went through their shadows.

“You took it with you?” said Rotherius. “Fool! Do you have any idea of what that blade will do to you?”

“No,” said Jager, “but I know what it will do to you.”

“Bah,” said one of the Mhorites, stepping forward, “the rat thinks to threaten us with that toy? I…”

Jager yelled and slashed the dagger, the tip of the blade scratching the orc’s hand. The Mhorite scowled and raised his sword.

And then he started to scream.

Yellow light twisted around him, and the orc shriveled and shrank. Within a heartbeat the dark magic had reduced the orc to a withered husk, an emaciated corpse left in the desert sun for a hundred years. The corpse toppled backwards, dust rising around it in a puff.

The whispers in Jager’s head howled with glee.

Everyone in the atrium froze, save for Tarrabus, who only looked intrigued.

“What the hell is that thing?” said Paul. “It looks like a Soulblade, but...”

“Why don’t you come over here?” said Jager, the whispers echoing inside his head. “Come over here and I’ll show you, you murderous swine.”

Paul scowled, but made no move to approach.

“That,” said Tarrabus, “is a dark elven weapon called a soulcatcher. A cousin of a sort to a Soulblade. They’re quite rare, and they’re extremely dangerous. I don’t think Jager knows exactly what it can do…or what it will do to him.”

“I know exactly what it will do,” said Jager, the gleeful whispers filling his mind. It made it hard to think. A strange numbness spread from the dagger and up his arm. “You’re going to release Mara to me, or…”

“Enough,” said Tarrabus, looking to Rotherius. “Finish this.”

“Kill him now,” said Rotherius.

The assassins closed on him, and Jager raised the dagger over his head.

And as he did, he focused his mind upon the weapon, commanding its power to aid him, to rise and strike down his enemies. Darkness filled his vision, despite the glare of the setting sun, and the whispers rose to screams.

The shadows of the orcs and the assassins and grew sharper and darker and harder, almost as if they had taken physical form.

And then their shadows rose to attack them.

They wrapped around the Mhorite warriors and the assassins, given life and form by the dagger’s magic, and the Red Brothers and the Mhorites found themselves wrestling against their own shadows. Two of the Mhorite orcs fell to the ground, killed by shadows that wrapped around them like ropes of darkness. Paul fought against his shadow, slashing his sword through the air like a madman as he bellowed curses.

But Tarrabus was unaffected. His shadow rose up to attack him, but he gestured and it fell back to the ground.

“Pathetic,” he said, his calm voice cutting through the screams. “Did you think to use such a trick against the Initiated of the Seventh Circle of the Enlightened? The shadows do not attack me, master thief. They obey me.”

Mournacht roared and slashed his free hand, crimson fire blazing around his fingers as he cast a spell. Red light rippled near him, and his shadow fell back to the ground.

“Kill him!” said Tarrabus. “Kill him now, and bring me that soulcatcher!”

Jager wanted to throw himself screaming at them, to kill and kill with the dagger until they all fell dead at his feet. The whispers howled for him to do it, but the rest of his mind, the part that was still sane, realized this was an extraordinarily bad idea.

Instead ran as fast as his legs could carry him, shoving the dagger back into its sheath.

The horrible whispering faded away.

Out. He had to get away while the Mhorites and the assassins still fought their own shadows. The front doors were barred, and Tarrabus’s men-at-arms waited near the doors. Going that way was suicide.

Instead he dashed past a knot of struggling Kothluuskan orcs, ran into the colonnade, and sprinted into the domus’s kitchens. The kitchens, like the rest of the domus, were palatial, and Jager saw a dozen ovens and a long counter loaded with gleaming knives and pots and pans.

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.

The Taalmak Azakhun.

“Gray Knight,” said Azakhun with a bow, and Ridmark answered in turn. “By our bonds of friendship, you bring us honor with your return.”

“And you bring me honor as well,” said Ridmark, “and it grieves me that I must ask you for aid.”

Azakhun’s perpetual frown deepened. “I had heard you and Lady Calliande were arrested by the Comes’s men, but I have no authority to intervene in the laws of the High King.”

“That was resolved,” said Ridmark, “thanks to the courage of Lady Calliande. I fear I must ask your aid in another matter.”

“Speak on, then,” said Azakhun. The glance he gave to Caius was uneasy. “The gods of stone and silence command us to honor our commitments.”

“Are you familiar with the ruins of Thainkul Balzon?” said Ridmark.

“It was a stronghold of my kindred,” said Azakhun, “guarding an entrance to the Deeps below where this city now stands. It was destroyed when a horror from the Deeps overwhelmed the defenses, a creature we called the Hunter of the Dark.” He glanced at Caius. “But if you have spoken with the apostate, you know all of this already.”

“I have,” said Ridmark. “Though I do wonder why your kindred never attempted to retake Thainkul Balzon.”

Azakhun shrugged. “I am a young man, and not privy to the counsels of the kings and the Taalkhans. But we are diminished since the days of the long wars against the urdmordar, and we simply lack the numbers to retake all our lost strongholds. And the Hunter of the Dark still lurks there.” He hesitated. “Perhaps I should not reveal this, but I believe you to be a trustworthy man. Every year a few men are found eviscerated in the catacombs. I believe that the Hunter has chosen Thainkul Balzon as its hunting grounds and has lurked there ever since.”

Ridmark frowned. “Why hasn’t the Comes tried to destroy the creature? Corbanic is not the sort of man to let something like the Hunter rampage through the city unchecked.”

“He has tried,” said Azakhun. “As did the previous Comes. I have been visiting Coldinium for nearly a century, and in that time every Comes has sent parties of Swordbearers into the catacombs. They never find anything. Whatever the Hunter of the Dark is, it is far too clever to show itself. Which is why I suspect the kings have never tried to retake the ruins. Thainkul Balzon opens into the Deeps…but the Hunter of the Dark keeps the horrors of the Deeps at bay. It dines upon dvargir and kobolds and dark elves just as readily as humans and orcs.” He shrugged. “It is more lucrative to maintain the Enclave here and to trade with Andomhaim, rather than rebuild Thainkul Balzon. But, come, Gray Knight. You must have some reason for asking.”

“You remember Jager?” said Ridmark.

“The halfling that traveled with us from Vulmhosk,” said Azakhun.

“He has stolen a relic of power from Calliande,” said Ridmark. Morigna wondered why he trusted Azakhun enough to speak of it. Perhaps the dwarves would steal the empty soulstone for themselves. Still, it was better to have it in the hands of the dwarves than of Shadowbearer. “He did not realize that Calliande would use her magic to track him.”

“And he fled into the catacombs, I assume,” said Azakhun.

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Apparently he is more frightened of us than of the Hunter.”

“A reasonable fear,” said Azakhun. “The Hunter only takes a few victims every year. The men and orcs and halflings of Coldinium avoid the ruins of Thainkul Balzon for that reason. So sometimes clever thieves hide themselves in the ruins, and sometimes become too clever and perish in the traps my kindred left behind.”

“It is vital that I recover what Jager has stolen,” said Ridmark. “Among the dwarves of the Enclave there must be a man familiar with both the ruins of Thainkul Balzon and the catacombs. Calliande’s magic can follow Jager, but we do not know the layout of the catacombs.”

“You need a guide,” said Azakhun.

“If you are willing,” said Ridmark.

“I am,” said Azakhun. “I shall lead you myself, Ridmark Arban. For I believe you are an honorable man, and would not ask unless the need was great.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. “We had best go at once, before the thief has a chance to escape with his goods.”

Azakhun bowed. “Please, follow me.”

###

Ridmark found it strange to walk the interior of the Dwarven Enclave.

He had spoken with dwarves before, of course, in the embassies that had visited his father’s court at Taliand. He had walked the corridors of dwarven ruins, of Thainkul Agon and Thainkul Dural and others. But those ruins had been silent and grim, full of bones and dust and crumbled grandeur.

The Enclave bustled with activity.

Dwarven men worked forges or loaded goods onto the Enclave’s private docks, glowstones in the ceiling throwing light across the floor. Dwarven women in robes of blue and green, their heads hairless, recorded items in ledgers. All stopped to stare at Caius as he walked past, and some whispered among themselves. Caius walked without flinching, his gaze level and his face calm, the wooden cross hanging from his neck. At last Azakhun came to a locked door of dwarven steel, and opened it with a ring of keys.

Stone stairs descended into the darkness. Azakhun provided each of them with a leather wristband mounted with a glowstone, and Ridmark donned his.

“Useful thing,” said Ridmark.

“Aye,” said Azakhun. “In the Deeps, the ghost mushrooms provide much light. In the catacombs, we must bring our own.”

Ridmark nodded and descended the stairs, sweeping the light back and forth.

The stairs ended in a high gallery of brick, niches lining the walls. Skeletons rested in the niches, slowly crumbling into dust. Caius crossed himself and whispered a prayer.

“Which way?” said Ridmark.

Calliande closed her eyes and cast her tracking spell.

“He is close,” she said, opening her eyes again. “Maybe a third of a mile to the south and the east.”

“That would put him near the foundations of the castra,” said Azakhun, “and close to the entrance to Thainkul Balzon. This way.”

He led them into the gloom of the catacombs.

A dozen rats raced past them and vanished into the darkness.

Chapter 18 - Catacombs

After a long time, Jager got to his feet.

He had to do something. He needed a plan. Something clever, something that would get the soulstone back. No, a gambit that would get Mara back, spring her from the Iron Tower and take his vengeance upon Tarrabus and Paul Tallmane. Some brilliant plan worthy of the Master Thief of Cintarra.

He came up with nothing.

Jager staggered through the catacombs trying to think. Bit by bit he realized that he was heading towards the dwarven ruins, towards their traps and gates. In his current state of mind, with his back and arm blazing in agony, he was not in the best shape to navigate the traps. One error, one misstep, and the traps would kill him.

He rubbed his face, the stubble rasping. God, but he needed to shave.

Perhaps dying in the ruins would be the best. He had failed again and again. His father had raised him to be the perfect halfling servant, obedient and diligent and pious, and Jager had failed at that. He had gone to Cintarra, hoping to establish himself as a master thief, and he had been forced to flee the city. But it had been worth it, because he had found Mara.

And then had stolen that damned ring from Tarrabus.

“Stupid,” he whispered, “stupid, stupid, stupid.”

The only thing he had ever been good at was stealing, and he had failed at that. He had stolen that blasted ring, and he had ruined his life. Worse, he had destroyed Mara’s life. She had struggled for all her days against the darkness in her soul, and Tarrabus’s torture might turn her into the monster she always feared.

And it was Jager’s fault.

Perhaps it would be better to simply throw himself into the traps. There were so many different ways to die in the dwarven ruins, and all of them would be quick. He had let down so many people over his life. His father. His sister.

Mara most of all.

He staggered against the wall, leaning on it with his good hand.

No, he could not die. Not until he had freed Mara. He had no one…but neither did she. If he did not help her, there was no one else. He had to find a way.

But how?

He couldn’t rescue her by himself. He was merely a halfling thief, one quite likely to die of blood poisoning in a few weeks if he didn’t get that damned wound cleaned out. No one was going to help him.

Jager sat down with a sigh, leaned against the wall, and winced in agony. He slumped forward, and he saw a rat sitting in the darkness, staring at him with beady little eyes.

“Bugger off,” he said, picking up a loose stone and throwing it at the rat. The rodent scampered away, out of sight of Jager’s lantern, but he suspected the creature would lurk in the shadows. Likely the smell of blood drew it, and the miserable rodent would wait until he keeled over before gnawing on his fingers. It saw him only as food.

Perhaps there was wisdom in that. Tarrabus Carhaine only saw Jager as a tool to be used and then discarded. The Comes of Coldinium did not know Jager existed at all.

But perhaps Jager could use them against each other.

The High King’s nobles and the war chiefs of Kothluusk had warred against each other for generations. For Tarrabus to consort with them was treason, and for him to hire assassins of the Red Family was a crime against both the High King and the laws of the church.

If Comes Corbanic learned that Tarrabus had brought Mhorite orcs into Coldinium, he would turn against the Dux. He might even try to arrest Tarrabus, or bring his men to attack the Dux’s soldiers. If Tarrabus was arrested, if it was proven he had conspired with the High King’s enemies, he would be tried for treason. He would no longer have authority over the Constable of the Iron Tower, and Jager might have a chance to free Mara.

Of course, Tarrabus might refuse to yield, and Jager’s actions could touch off a civil war within Andomhaim.

But so what? Andomhaim, the High King, and the nobles had never done anything for him. All he cared about was saving Mara. And if to save her he had to touch off a conflict that would make the War of the Five Princes look like a summer tournament, then he would do it with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.

He needed to find his way back into Tarrabus’s domus, obtain proof that the Dux had conspired with the Kothluuskan orcs, and find a way to get that proof anonymously to Comes Corbanic.

Tonight.

But how? Using the dagger and fleeing the domus had put the Dux’s guards on high alert, to say nothing of the Mhorite orcs. They would be on guard.

Which meant the best way for Jager to get into the domus was to go back through the secret door in the catacombs. They would not expect him to go back in that way.

Or they would be waiting to kill him.

Either way, it was a risk he had to take.

There was no other choice left.

The plan came together in his head. He needed to wait a few hours for the guards in the mansion to grow lax, for the initial shock of his escape to wear off. That was just as well, since he had to return to his caches in the dwarven ruins and equip himself with the appropriate tools.

Jager set off down the gallery, the dead silent in their niches around him.

He heard a skittering noise and spun.

Two rats darted out of the light of his lantern.

“Damned rats,” muttered Jager, turning towards the dwarven ruins.

###

Ridmark walked in silence, his staff in his right hand.

The catacombs stretched around him, dark and silent. Niches in the walls held skeletons, some wrapped in their grave clothes, others little more than dust. An air of antiquity hung over everything. Yet Coldinium had only been built a century and a half past. Coldinium’s catacombs felt old to Ridmark…but he had walked in places far older. The ruins of Urd Arowyn, thousands of years old. The stone circle upon Black Mountain had stood for millennia before humans had ever set foot upon Andomhaim.

This world and its conflicts were ancient beyond reckoning, and humans were newcomers. Shadowbearer was a high elf, and the legends spoke of him bringing misery and woe for countless millennia. Whatever he planned with the Frostborn and the empty soulstone, he had been plotting for thousands of years before Ridmark had even been born.

How could Ridmark presume to defeat such a creature?

“I think,” said Morigna in a low voice, “I think I can see him.”

“Or your rats can see him, you mean,” said Calliande.

“Yes, the rats,” said Morigna, her eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. “They…can smell him. Blood, a lot of blood. Smells like Gavin carved him up. He…is walking away from them.” She grunted and made an irritated gesture. “The rats are following him. If they do not get distracted. They think primarily about food.”

“Calliande,” said Ridmark.

She shuddered, no doubt thinking about rats, and cast her seeking spell again. “He is close. Less than a quarter of a mile away. So close I fear that if we make too much noise, he will hear us.”

“Can you see where he is, Mistress Morigna?” said Azakhun. He had donned his masked helm of dwarven steel, his deep voice hollow and metallic.

Morigna shrugged. “A gallery lined with the dead, like all the others. There are loose bricks upon the floor…wait. He went into a…a vault. Two galleries intersect there. The rats can see…I think it is a sarcophagus, with a statue of a winged angel upon it.”

“I know where he is, Sir Ridmark,” said Azakhun. “Mistress Morigna, can you guess which direction he is going?”

“East,” said Morigna. “Definitely east.”

“Then he is going into the ruins of Thainkul Balzon,” said Azakhun.

“Why?” said Calliande.

“Perhaps he is meeting his patron there,” said Ridmark.

“Surely he could find a safer place to do it,” said Caius. “The traps of my kindred are deadly, and one false movement would bring him death.”

“He might wish to conceal his stolen goods there before moving on,” said Azakhun. “The traps are indeed deadly, as the apostate said, and dread of them and the Hunter keeps all but the boldest away from Thainkul Balzon.”

“Which means,” said Ridmark, “he doesn’t trust whoever hired him. He’s going to hide it in Thainkul Balzon, and then go to meet with his backers.”

Morigna scowled. “Probably he wants to ask for more money.”

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark.

“Then we need not confront him at all,” said Gavin. “Morigna’s rats will see where he hides the soulstone, and once he leaves we can simply take it back.”

“I think it would be better,” said Kharlacht, “to take him alive.” Ridmark looked at the orc. “If we take him alive, we can make him tell us who hired him. It is still a long journey to Urd Morlemoch, and the more knowledge about our enemies that we possess, the stronger our position.”

“Kill him and take the soulstone,” said Morigna.

Caius raised his eyebrows. “That is rather brutal.”

“He stole from us,” said Morigna, “and took something of terrible power, all in the service of men and creatures that threaten the world. We would be well without our rights to kill him. And if he is dead, he poses no further threat.”

“I agree,” said Azakhun. “I do not presume to command, only to advise. But a thief has forfeited his rights, and the gods of stone and silence frown upon those who steal from their fellows. Kill him and reclaim your stolen goods.”

“The Dominus Christus counsels mercy,” said Caius.

“The Dominus Christus!” said Morigna, her voice rising with annoyance. “Tell me, Brother. Will the Dominus Christus descend from his throne to reclaim the soulstone? To stop the Frostborn? If he had wanted this thief spared, he should not have let him become a thief.”

“Jager saved my life,” said Calliande.

Ridmark looked at her. “When?”

“During the fight at the Crow’s Helm,” she said, voice quiet. “One of Mournacht’s spells stunned me for a few moments. Everyone else was fighting the Mhorites. One of the Kothluuskans would have killed me, but Jager took him first.”

“What?” said Morigna. “Why would he do that? It gained him nothing.”

“Perhaps he was trying to gain your trust for later treachery,” said Kharlacht.

“No,” said Ridmark, frowning. “If Calliande was slain…it would have been to Jager’s advantage.” He did not want to think on that, how she might have died in the Challenge against Imaria, slain for Ridmark’s crimes. “If she had been killed in the fighting, there would have been no one to stop Imaria from bringing any number of false charges against us. In the chaos Jager could have escaped with ease.”

“A man may be a thief,” said Caius, “but that does not mean he is a murderer.”

“We will decide what to do when we find him,” said Ridmark. “Come. Azakhun, walk with me. All of you, do not speak unless it is necessary. I do not want to alert our quarry.”

He lifted his leather wristband and led the way, the others following him.

###

Jager descended the stone steps, the light of the glowstones ahead stabbing into his eyes.

The dwarven ruins awaited.

He suspected the builders of Coldinium’s catacombs had stumbled into the dwarven ruins by accident. The dwarves had not yet founded their Enclave when the catacombs had been excavated, and therefore had not been there to warn the Comes when the workmen found the ruins.

The stairs ended in an unfinished gallery, stone niches lining the walls. A rough stone wall waited at the far end of the gallery, the light from the glowstones streaming out through a wide gash in the rock. Beyond he saw a massive hall of the dwarven ruins, the walls and floor and ceiling built from polished gray stone. Glowstones shone in the arches overhead, and hundreds of stone tiles, each about one foot square, covered the floor. Every tile had a gap of about an inch around it, and each tile bore a different dwarven glyph. Stepping on the right glyphs offered a safe way across the hall.

Stepping on the wrong glyphs brought a rather less pleasant result.

Here and there piles of bones dotted the hall, scarred and slashed from heavy blades.

Jager leaned against the wall for a moment, taking deep breaths. He knew the safe paths through the glyphs, had spent weeks triggering the tiles one at a time to learn the trapped ones. But he needed to concentrate to do it properly. After everything he had survived, it would be a cruel irony if he tripped and fell to his death on the blades of a millennia-old dwarven trap.

Mara needed him to live. He repeated the words over and over in his head, a litany to drive himself forward. Jager did not know how he would get back into Tarrabus’s domus, how he would find the proof he needed. The task seemed almost insurmountable.

One step at a time.

He took one more deep breath and headed toward broken stone of the wall, preparing to enter the dwarven hall.

“Jager.”

The voice sent a bolt of alarm down his spine.

Jager spun, reaching for the dark elven dagger, the weapon Tarrabus had called a soulcatcher.

Ridmark Arban stood at the top of the stairs, staff in his right hand. Calliande waited at his right, white light glimmering around her fingers, Morigna at his left, purple fire crackling in her free hand. Caius, Kharlacht, and Gavin all had their weapons drawn, and an armored dwarf in a masked war helm stood with the friar. Azakhun, Jager thought, given the dents in his cuirass.

For a moment they regarded each other in silence.

“Well,” said Jager at last, his mind racing for a plan, any plan, “you appear to be quite lost.”

“Given that you are about to climb into a trap-filled dwarven ruin,” said Ridmark, “we may not be the only ones.”

“Truly,” said Jager. “A pleasant coincidence, then. The exit is that way.” He waved his hand. “You may go about your business in peace.”

He was exhausted and in pain, but he would be damned before he showed weakness to a man like Ridmark of the Arbanii, to the son of a noble of Andomhaim.

Calliande stared at him, a frown on her face as Jager’s fingers coiled around the hilt of the soulcatcher.

The chorus of whispers started in his mind once more.

“I think you know why I am here,” said Ridmark.

“Actually, I don’t,” said Jager. “You should be dead. Tarrabus hates you, and the most honorable Dux of Caerdracon does not seem the sort of man to forget a grudge. I thought he would have crucified you by now.”

“He tried,” said Ridmark. “Calliande persuaded him otherwise.”

Jager made an elaborate mocking bow. “The Magistria must be most persuasive.”

“She is,” said Caius.

Calliande made no response, her eyes still fixed on the soulcatcher.

“Plainly,” said Jager. If he used the weapon, he could twist their shadows against them and escape in the chaos, as he had in Tarrabus’s domus. Yet the very thought made his skin crawl. And it might not be necessary. If he fled through the trapped hall, they would not be able to follow him.

Ridmark took one step down the stairs. “Should we dispense with the games, or shall we trade witticisms for a while longer?”

“I would prefer witticisms,” Jager said. “I’m ever so good at them.”

“The soulstone,” said Ridmark. “We would like it back. And we would like to know who hired you to steal it.”

“Or what?” said Jager. “You’ll kill me?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “Only if you make us. But it needn’t come to that. Simply leave the soulstone upon the ground, tell us who hired you, and then depart. We will let you go in peace, and seek no vengeance upon you.”

“Oh, you won’t, will you?” said Jager. Yet he almost believed Ridmark. He had seen the man fight, had seen him march out to fight Mournacht in a duel. This man did what he said he would do.

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “I will let you go in peace. Perhaps we can even aid you.”

Jager laughed. “I would like to see that.”

Yet he wavered. He needed help against Tarrabus. Yet Ridmark was still a noble of Andomhaim, and Calliande a Magistria. Such people had brought nothing but misery and pain into Jager’s life.

“We can,” said Ridmark. “I think you have gotten in over your head.”

“Is that a joke about my height?” said Jager. “How gauche.”

“If you’ve stolen that soulstone in hopes of selling it,” said Ridmark, “you do not know how dangerous of a prize you have found. If you have been hired to steal it, your patrons will kill you the minute you hand it over to them.”

“Do you think so?” said Jager, keeping his tone light. Yet Ridmark’s words disturbed him. The Gray Knight’s guesses had been uncannily accurate.

“And if you have been coerced into stealing it,” said Ridmark, “we may be able to help you.”

“How?” said Jager, more of his anger seeping into his voice than he would have liked. “How can you possibly help me? You couldn’t save yourself from Tarrabus. How…”

“Then it is Tarrabus,” said Ridmark. “He has some hold over you, doesn’t he?”

Jager felt himself go cold. He remembered Tarrabus’s warning about seeking help from Ridmark. The Dux sought to turn Mara into a weapon, but if Jager asked Ridmark’s help, Tarrabus might kill Mara out of sheer spite.

“He is a ruthless and brutal man,” said Ridmark, “and he will kill you once he has the soulstone.”

And he would kill Mara, if Jager helped Ridmark. But perhaps Ridmark could help him. The man had defeated a female urdmordar when he was but a Swordbearer of eighteen, or so the tales went. He had survived in the Wilderland for five years. Well, so had Smiling Otto, but he had walls and mercenaries and a catapult. Ridmark had only a staff and a gray cloak.

Jager’s fist tightened against the dagger’s hilt.

No. He had trusted a knight of Andomhaim once, and it had cost Jager’s father his life.

“I am sorry about this,” said Jager. “Really, I am. But if I help you…it will cost me more than you can possibly imagine.”

He started to draw the dark elven dagger from its sheath.

And then Calliande gasped.

“Stop!” she shouted. “Stop! I remember! I’ve seen a weapon like that before. Jager, for the love of God, stop!”

He was struck by how beautiful she looked, so fierce and urgent and keen, her blue eyes ablaze with intensity. Of course, she was no match for Mara, but Calliande…he suspected if she gave a speech, men would cheer and raise their swords and follow her to whatever goal she sought.

“What?” he said.

“That dagger,” she said. “It’s called a soulcatcher.”

“I knew that,” said Jager, though he had only learned that a few hours before.

“Do you know what it does?” said Calliande.

“It commands shadows,” said Jager. “I’ve used it twice before, and…”

“If you use it a third time, here and now, you will regret it for centuries,” said Calliande. “Maybe even millennia.”

“What are you talking about?” said Jager, though he felt a surge of alarm.

Twice. One in Cintarra, and once in Tarrabus’s domus. The whispers. The whispers in his mind when he held the dagger…

“The dark elves used soulcatchers to steal the life force of their enemies and enhance their magical prowess,” said Calliande, her voice low and urgent. “But they loved cruelty, appreciated it as an art. Sometimes they gave soulcatchers to their slave kindreds, to the orcs and the halflings and the manetaurs. A dark elf could use a soulcatcher without harm. But if a mortal used a soulcatcher to command the shadows three times…”

Jager’s fingers trembled against the dagger’s hilt. “What? What happens after the third time?”

“He would transform,” said Calliande. “A soulcatcher was one of the ways the dark elves created their war beasts.”

“Are you saying,” said Morigna, “that if he uses that weapon, he’ll become a…what? An urvaalg? An urshane?”

“No,” said Calliande with a sharp shake of her head. “An urhaalgar.”

“No,” said Jager, shaking his head to cover the tremor in his limbs. “No.” His father had told stories of urhaalgars, as had his mother before her death. They spoke of creatures that flowed through the darkness like smoke, with eyes of bloody fire and talons that dripped poison. “You’re lying, the way Magistri and nobles always lie.”

“Not about this, Jager,” said Calliande.

Jager hesitated, fresh dread churning in his gut. Mara had refused to speak of her father, the dark elven prince of Nightmane Forest, but she had told him that the dark elves created their war beasts from both mortal and animal blood. Urvaalgs had once been normal wolves, and ursaars bears. The more powerful creatures, like the urshanes and the urdhracos, had once been mortals with dark elven blood, the offspring of dark elven lords and their enslaved mortal mistresses. That had always been Mara’s fear, that one day her dark blood would overwhelm her and twist her into a monster, a fear that Tarrabus Carhaine threatened to make real.

And had the urhaalgars once been halflings like Jager?

He remembered the horror he felt every time he had touched the dagger. Had his flesh and bone and blood known of the danger, even if he had not?

His hand moved away from the soulcatcher, even before he realized he had in fact made the decision.

“Thank you,” said Calliande gently. “Jager…that would have been very bad.”

“Give us the soulstone,” said Ridmark. There was no gentleness in his voice, but he was calm and confident. “And we can help you against whatever hold Tarrabus has over you.”

“No,” said Jager, his voice a hoarse croak “No. There are always promises…and they are always broken.” What would Ridmark do once he learned that Jager no longer had the soulstone? “I will rely on myself, and no one else.”

He dashed for the opening to the dwarven ruins.

“Jager!” said Ridmark, but Jager ignored the shout. If he could just get through the trapped hall, he could slip away from them. Of course, he did not know how they had tracked him down in the first place. Calliande’s magic, perhaps, or Morigna’s? Well, he could worry about that later. If he…

A low, wheezing laugh brushed his ears.

It was coming from one of the empty niches in the gallery wall.

Jager whirled, snatching his short sword from his belt.

An old man rose from one of the niches. He looked ancient, so old that his head was little more than a skull draped in loose skin, his ragged hair and beard hanging tangled around his skinny neck. He wore a crumbling black robe, dust and cobwebs clinging to the rough cloth, and his eyes…

His eyes shone with a pale orange light, making the skin of his face seem feverish and diseased.

“Where did he come from?” said Morigna, the purple light shifting as she turned to face the old man.

“That niche was empty,” said Kharlacht. “I am sure of it.”

Jager opened his mouth to speak, and the smell flooded his nostrils.

That horrible, wet smell filled his nose, that mixture of wet dirt and rotting meat. It made him think of a bloated corpse lying in the rain. He recognized it at once, and it made his skin crawl.

Perhaps neither Tarrabus nor Ridmark would get to kill him.

“That’s the Hunter,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice. “That’s the Hunter in the Dark.”

The old man’s head twitched back and forth, reminding Jager of an eyeball upon a tentacle, turning this way and that as it sought prey.

“A Hunter, am I?” croaked the old man, his voice a wheezing croon. “A Hunter, they call me? Then a Hunter I shall be!” He looked up at Calliande and grinned, the strange orange light of his eyes brightening. “And the most pleasant prey has come into my parlor! Come to me, Calliande of Tarlion!”

Chapter 19 - Tentacles

“You know me?” said Calliande to the strange old man Jager had called the Hunter. Was this the horror that had wiped out the dwarves of Thainkul Dural?

Jager scrambled backward, short sword in hand. He was more frightened of the old man than he was of Ridmark.

That was a bad sign.

The Hunter cackled. “You don’t know me, Calliande of Tarlion, but I know you. I can taste you, taste your aura upon the threshold. So much power! I shall feast upon you for centuries!”

“You know me,” said Calliande. “You’re an Eternalist, then?”

“An Eternalist?” said the Hunter with that cackling, dusty laugh. “The Eternalists? I knew them when they raised their castra above my nest. Sometimes they ventured into my domain, and I lured them into my shadows, and I feasted upon them inch by inch. They thought themselves eternal…but only I am eternal.”

“Then you are an urdmordar,” said Ridmark, stepping to Calliande’s side. Jager stopped a few paces away from him, giving him a wary glance, but Ridmark did not turn his gaze from the Hunter. “Lurking in the shadows, feasting upon victims that come your way? Clever.”

The Hunter cackled. “An urdmordar? They are clever, too clever. They crave domination and control. Utter fools. Control fades and domination crumbles. All that matters is the hunger, the feasting upon screaming flesh.”

“Then what are you?” said Ridmark.

“The Hunter of the Dark,” growled Azakhun, raising his axe, “who slew our kindred all those millennia ago.”

“The dwarves,” crooned the Hunter, “who clothed themselves in shells of steel. Their steel availed them not. I cracked open their shells and feasted upon the sweet meat within, all while they screamed and screamed. Just as I shall feast upon you, little stoneling, little dwarf.”

Calliande summoned magic, working a quick spell to sense the presence of arcane forces. At once she felt the hard power of Morigna’s earth magic, and the mighty vortex of dark magic around Jager’s soulcatcher, dark power that had already started to sink into him. But the power radiating from the Hunter overwhelmed everything else. It was strange, chaotic magic, as twisted and alien as the urdmordar.

And old, strong and old beyond belief.

Sudden recognition filled Calliande. She had encountered a creature like this before, sometime in her past life…and with the recognition came terrible fear.

They were in deadly danger.

“I know what you are,” said Calliande.

“Oh, she does?” said the Hunter, his head rotating toward her, the rest of his body following a few heartbeats later. It was like watching a macabre puppet controlled by a creature that only vaguely understood how humans moved. “Then what am I?”

“Your kind does not have a name,” said Calliande, “but the high elves and the dark elves both called you a malophage.”

The Hunter tittered. “So kind, so flattering.”

“What is a malophage?” said Morigna. “I’ve never heard the word.”

“Nor have I,” said Ridmark.

“I thought they were mythical,” said Caius. He looked shaken. “Tales told by the explorers of the lower Deeps of monsters lurking in the shadows.”

“They are not,” said Calliande, watching the Hunter for any sign of attack “The dark elves summoned other kindreds to this world, the orcs and dwarves and halflings and manetaurs and the others, to act as their slaves and soldiers. It didn’t always work. The dwarves broke away at once and founded their own kingdoms, and the urdmordar destroyed the dark elves.”

The Hunter laughed again. “You should have heard them scream.”

“The malophages were…something else, creatures from an alien world,” said Calliande. “They feast upon pain and torment in equal measure, and care nothing for kingdoms or laws or morals, only their endless hunger. The dark elves could not control them, so they unleashed the malophages upon the high elves. In time the high elves destroyed almost all of them, save for a few who hid themselves away in the Deeps…”

“Such as,” said Jager, his voice hoarse, “within dwarven ruins.”

“So clever, Calliande of Tarlion,” said the Hunter. “So clever, and so bright. And she doesn’t know who she is! Little child, I see power shining around you! You were wrong. Fear and flesh are delicious, yes, but I also feed upon magic…and there is great magic within you. Strong and fell, and not even of this world.”

“What?” said Calliande. “What do you mean, not of this world?”

The Hunter’s wheezing, cackling laughter redoubled. “Little child, I know myself. But you do not! You do not even know who you are. Or what you are. The inheritor of alien magic, a mantle of power not of this world.” He grinned. “Perhaps I shall tell you before you die, so that you might know the profundity of your failure as I feast upon your despair…”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Morigna. “If you have something useful to say, do so. Otherwise kindly keep the mysterious prophecies and mystical gibberish to yourself. One suspects you know nothing at all, and are merely running your mouth for your own amusement. I might claim to be the High Queen of Andomhaim, and that does not make it so. And you are nothing but a deranged old man lurking in a sewer.”

“Catacombs,” said Jager. “We’re in the catacombs.”

Morigna sighed. “That is not the point.”

“Dark child,” croaked the Hunter. “I can see Calliande of Tarlion’s future…but can you see yours? No? Perhaps that is for the best. She carries a mantle of power that she knows not, but you shall inherit another.”

“What foolishness is this?” said Morigna. “I have my own magic. That is quite sufficient.”

“Is it?” said the Hunter.

Despite the peril of their situation, Calliande saw a glint in Morigna’s black eyes. The woman did not believe in God, or love, or the High King’s laws, or even in honor, though she had her own version of it. She only believed in power, and if the Hunter offered her power…

Would she betray them for it?

Morigna’s laughter dripped scorn. “If you think to offer me power in exchange for cooperation, I suggest you find another plan. Preferably one not informed by utter idiocy. If experience has taught me anything, it is to disregard the promises of sorcerous old men.”

Gavin burst out laughing.

“Wisely spoken,” said Caius.

“Her mantle of power is of another world,” said the Hunter, his orange-glowing eyes turning toward Calliande. Then his burning gaze rotated back to Morigna, seeming to brighten as it did. “The one you shall inherit, dark child, is of this world. And it is much more potent than hers. Oh, but if you could see the shadows of your future, how dark and black they are! Such crimes you shall commit!” A shiver of something like pleasure went through the black-robed frame. “And I shall feast upon them.”

“Enough,” said Ridmark, his voice like iron. “Do you have a purpose other to weary our ears with riddling talk?”

“Would you like to know your future?” said the Hunter. “Gray Knight, branded knight, broken knight. Ah, if you could but see the shadows entangling your future…how you would weep! Which fate shall be yours? Will you free the great darkness from its prison, and set a thousand worlds to burn? Will you be betrayed, and watch this world turn to ice? Or will the shadows at last consume your mind, and laugh as you fall upon your sword in despair?”

“At the moment,” said Ridmark, “I am only interested in a future where you leave us in peace…or perish upon our blades.”

The Hunter laughed. “Threats? You cannot threaten me. You cannot kill me. You cannot even harm me!”

“Then why,” said Morigna, “this little game?”

“Why, to make you afraid, of course,” said the Hunter. “Don’t you understand?” Orange light and black shadow swirled around him. “Meat tastes ever so much better once it has been spiced in fear, after you mortals have stewed in your own juices.”

Calliande felt a surge of power from the creature.

“Ridmark!” she said, and the Hunter changed into its true form.

###

“God have mercy,” said Jager, his voice stunned.

Morigna found she had no words to describe the horror at the bottom of the stairs.

A dozen long, whip-like tentacles, each as thick as one of Kharlacht’s legs, swirled and danced over the malophage. The creature’s horse-sized body looked like a ghastly fusion of a slug, a jellyfish, and a toad, its hide translucent, revealing a dozen misshapen organs floating in thick slime. Orange light blazed here and there from nodules upon its flesh, and Morigna realized the nodules were eyes, allowing the malophage to see in all directions at once. A dozen gaping mouths lined with needle-sharp teeth opened and closed at random on its misshapen body.

The nightmare Coriolus had transformed into during their final battle had been hideous, too, yet portions of his transformed flesh had still been recognizably human. There was nothing human, nothing mortal, in the misshapen thing at the bottom of the stairs. It was utterly alien, and the mere sight of it filled Morigna with loathing. Her every instinct screamed for her to attack, to unleash the full wrath of her magic upon it. She recognized that it was an instinctual reaction, the way some people reacted with fear and horror at the sight of an insect.

Of course, the fact that the malophage wanted to eat her made the reaction entirely rational.

“Flesh!” shrieked the Hunter, its voice hideous and twisted. “Flesh!”

“Kill it!” shouted Ridmark. “Strike for the organs in its core! It…”

The Hunter moved with fearsome speed, its tentacles lashing against the wall to pull its heaving body up the gallery stairs. A tentacle darted out, coiled around Gavin’s legs, and yanked him from his feet. He yelled and slashed with his sword, missing the tentacle. It lifted him upside down, the tip of his sword scraping against the stone steps. Kharlacht bellowed a malediction and swept his greatsword in a blow that could have felled a tree. It struck the tentacle’s rubbery hide and rebounded as if the limb had been made of solid steel.

Gavin drew closer to one of the yawning mouths in the Hunter’s main body, and Morigna cast a spell. Earth magic flooded into her, and she gestured with her free hand. A column of mist appeared in front of the malophage, and Morigna’s will forced the mist into a tight ball.

Which went into the malophage’s yawning mouth.

Its hide might be impervious to steel, but she suspected its mouth and innards would be more sensitive.

A sizzling noise reached her ears, and the Hunter’s remaining mouths howled in fury. Calliande cast a spell of her own, white light flaring in the gallery, and the weapons began to glow with a white radiance. Kharlacht glanced at his sword, raised the heavy blade, and swung it again.

This time the blade sheared through the tentacle, and Gavin fell with a clatter to the stairs. He rolled his feet, slashing with his sword as another tentacle reached for him. His glowing sword left a smoking gash in the creature’s rubbery hide, and again the Hunter screamed in fury.

“Now!” shouted Ridmark. He had discarded his staff, and gripped his orcish war axe in both hands. “Strike!”

He dashed at the Hunter’s core, his axe a white blur, and the others followed.

###

Jager hesitated, and then ran after Ridmark and others, his short sword glowing with the light of Calliande’s magic.

He was not entirely sure why.

It would have made more sense to run while the Hunter distracted Ridmark and his friends. But that would have been foolish. The Hunter lurked in the shadows, preferred to remain unseen. It had only shown itself because it wanted to devour Calliande’s magic, and was confident it could kill them all. If Jager ran, as soon as Ridmark and the others fell the malophage would take him.

And Ridmark had been willing to talk, rather than simply killing Jager. If Jager had surrendered the soulstone, Ridmark would have let him go. Not that Jager would have done so. Also Jager did not technically have the soulstone any longer, which would have made surrendering it difficult.

But Ridmark had been willing to let him go. Tarrabus had not.

If Jager was to die here, better to do it fighting valiantly. Perhaps it would obviate some of his crimes when he stood before the Dominus Christus, assuming the Dominus Christus actually gave a damn about halflings.

Perhaps Jager’s father would think better of him if he died well.

So he yelled and followed the others in the mad rush at the Hunter’s ghastly core.

A tentacle whipped at him, and Jager jumped over it, the dark mass blurring below him. Another swung at him, but he ducked under it with ease. Sometimes his lack of height was an advantage! A third shot across in a blur, but Kharlacht severed it with a single massive blow of his sword. Jager kept running, lashing at a tentacle that drew too near. Hopefully that would distract the Hunter long enough for Ridmark or Kharlacht or Azakhun to land a killing blow with their heavy weapons.

But the malophage regenerated damage as quickly as Jager could deal it, and already he saw the severed tentacles repairing themselves. Could the thing even be killed? They had Calliande’s magic, but it took a Soulblade to dispatch creatures of dark power, and Ridmark Arban was no longer a Swordbearer.

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?”

“Aye, and against the Mhorite orcs and the Red Brothers,” said Jager. “What of it?”

His hard blue eyes narrowed. “There were Mhorite orcs and assassins within his domus?”

“There were,” said Jager. “I suspect he hired the Red Family to kill you off, and the Red Brothers brought in the Kothluuskan orcs to help. They all worship Mhor together, the madmen.”

Ridmark and Calliande shared a look.

“What?” said Morigna. “One is hardly surprised that our enemies should band together against us.”

“No,” said Calliande, “but a Dux of Andomhaim should not be consorting with the Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk.”

“Simply consorting with them is treason,” said Ridmark. “Bringing them into the city, into his own domus…that is much worse. How did he even get them into Coldinium? No, wait.” He paced a few steps, stopped. “You said he had a secret entrance to the catacombs.” Jager nodded. “Then the catacombs or the ruins of Thainkul Balzon must have an entrance outside the walls. The Mhorites could come and go as they pleased.”

“Is that what you were doing down here?” said Morigna. “Trying to escape the city?”

“No,” said Jager. “Well, I wanted to get away from Tarrabus and his Mhorites, yes. But I need to get the soulstone back. Tarrabus still has Mara locked up in the Iron Tower. I thought…my plan was to break into his domus, find irrefutable proof that he was allied with the Mhorites, and use it to convince the Comes to turn against him. Then when they wind up fighting, I could slip into the domus, retrieve the soulstone, and...I don’t know, somehow force Tarrabus to release Mara.”

“How, precisely?” said Morigna. “That is a terrible plan.”

Jager growled and slapped the floor. “What the hell else was I supposed to do? Lie down and die? Go to the nobles for help? The nobles are murderers and liars, every one of them.” He knew he ought to moderate his speech, but he was too angry and too tired to care. “They’re all like Tarrabus Carhaine and Paul Tallmane, every last…”

“You’ve met Paul Tallmane?” said Ridmark.

Jager glared at him. “Paul Tallmane killed a freeholder and convinced my father to take the blame, promising to spare him. And my father was the perfect halfling servant, so devoted to his master. He eagerly did it, believing it his duty to the Tallmanes. And instead Sir Paul did nothing as my father went to the block and the executioner claimed his head.” It had been over ten years past, but Jager still shook with fury at the memory. “I burned down the Tallmanes’ domus and stole their gold.  I have stolen from the nobles of Andomhaim ever since, for you are cruel and corrupt and you deserve it.”

He shook his head, feeling drained from the telling. In the last ten years, he had told the entire story to no one, save for Mara. He watched Ridmark’s impassive face, waited for the Gray Knight to raise his staff and strike him down.

“Sir Paul is one of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Ridmark.

Jager blinked. “What?”

“He has rank among them, I think,” said Ridmark. “I ran into him at Aranaeus, a village of the Wilderland some distance north of the Iron Tower. He tried to kill me with two Red Brothers.”

“Plainly, you survived,” said Jager. “So did Sir Paul.”

“I let him live,” said Ridmark. “At the time…I had always thought Tarrabus proud and cruel, but I still believed him a loyal Dux of the realm. I sent Paul to warn him that the Frostborn would return within a year and a month of the omen of blue fire.” He shook his head. “But after what I have seen in Coldinium, I realize it would have been better to kill him.”

“The Frostborn?” said Jager, raising an eyebrow. “You sound like the Mhorite orcs. Do you think the world is about to end?”

“It might,” said Calliande.

She was not joking.

“You were honest with me,” said Ridmark, “so I shall be honest with you. The omen of blue fire was a herald of the return of the Frostborn. The Warden of Urd Morlemoch warned me of it, as did two female urdmordar. I believe a renegade high elven wizard called Shadowbearer is attempting to bring them back for reasons of his own.”

“Shadowbearer?” said Jager. “But…that is a legend, surely. The Matriarch spoke of Shadowbearer to Mara, but she thought it a myth of the dark elves…”

“He is not,” said Calliande. “I have seen him.”

“As have I,” said Kharlacht.

The flat way the big orc said it, as if commenting upon the weather, convinced Jager more than any amount of argument.

“And to bring back the Frostborn,” said Ridmark, “he needs that empty soulstone. I don’t know how or why. We were on our way to Urd Morlemoch to demand answers of the Warden when we encountered some misfortune and ended up here. The Enlightened of Incariel are the servants of Shadowbearer, and they will hand the soulstone over to Shadowbearer so the Frostborn can return anew.”

Jager opened his mouth, closed it. It all sounded so improbable. The Frostborn had been exterminated centuries ago, all men knew that. Shadowbearer was a fable, and there was no way the Enlightened of Incariel could gain such power without the Magistri and the Swordbearers falling upon them like a storm.

And yet…

He remembered the strange sense of potential he had felt while holding the empty soulstone.

The uncanny feeling Tarrabus gave him, the way his shadow sometimes seemed like a living thing.

He had always thought Paul Tallmane a hypocrite, a brutal thug who pretended to be a noble knight of Andomhaim and a baptized son of the church. Yet what if that had not been hypocrisy but a masquerade? What if he had been one of these Enlightened all along, a worshipper of the demon Incariel?

And what if, by giving them the soulstone, Jager had helped pave the way for worse evils than his father’s murder?

“Oh, dear,” Jager said. “You really are telling the truth, aren’t you?”

Calliande smiled, and Morigna laughed. It made them both look radiant. An odd thing to consider now, but it was true. Jager wondered what Ridmark had done to win the loyalty of two lovely sorceresses. Still, given Morigna’s barbed tongue and Calliande’s iron will, perhaps that was a fate Jager would inflict upon no man.

“I wish it was a lie,” said Calliande, “but it is not.”

Jager sighed. “I really shouldn’t have given Tarrabus the soulstone.”

“No.” Ridmark paused for a moment. “Though I cannot see how you could have made any other choice.”

“Then…you’re not going to kill me?” said Jager.

“Why?” said Ridmark. “I have done many things I regret, but I have never killed a man in cold blood. And I need your help.”

“To do what?” said Jager.

“To get the soulstone back,” said Ridmark.

“It’s in Tarrabus’s domus,” said Jager, wary. “And Paul Tallmane is departing with it for the Iron Tower tomorrow. If you’re going to snatch the stone away, it has to be tonight.”

“I know,” said Ridmark. “And the Master Thief of Cintarra will help me.”

“Why should I?” said Jager.

Morigna scowled and Kharlacht folded his massive arms. Jager knew full well why he should help Ridmark. He had stolen the soulstone from them. He had delivered it into the hands of evil men, and with it Tarrabus and Paul could wreak terrible harm. But mostly Jager wanted to see how Ridmark would react. Most nobles, if a halfling spoke to them that way, would call for the whips. Jager expected a threat.

Instead Ridmark said, “Because if we retrieve the soulstone and survive, I will help you get Mara out of the Iron Tower.”

It took Jager a moment to process the words.

“What?” he said at last.

“Aid us, and I will help you free Mara,” said Ridmark.

“Why?” said Jager. “I stole from you, I lied to you, and I put you in great danger. And I’m just a halfling, and you’re the son of a Dux. Why would you help me?”

“Because it is the right thing to do,” said Ridmark.

Jager got to his feet, still staring at Ridmark.

“Help us retrieve the soulstone or not,” said Ridmark. “But decide. The night is slipping away, and we must act now.”

Jager sighed and looked at the vaulted ceiling. Life had taught him not trust the nobles of Andomhaim. Yet Ridmark was not really a noble any more, was he? He was a branded outcast. And his friends and followers…Jager had seen some ragtag groups in his travels, but nothing like Ridmark Arban and his companions.

Still, he was in no position to turn away help.

“So be it,” said Jager.

###

“Well, then,” said Morigna, giving Jager a wary look. “I suppose you have a plan?”

“I do,” said Ridmark, retrieving his staff from where he had dropped it. He supposed he would never see that orcish war axe again, given that it was buried in the Hunter’s gullet. “We’re going to steal back the soulstone right now.”

“So you’re going to sneak into the domus and retrieve the soulstone just like that?” said Calliande.

“Just like that,” said Ridmark.

“How do you know where it will be?” said Jager. The halfling thief looked dubious.

“Because,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus told me about his family’s domus in Coldinium while we were still squires together at Castra Marcaine. There is a strong room in the base of the tower. His father always kept his most valuable treasures there, and I suspect Tarrabus has continued the practice.”

“One would assume,” said Morigna, “the Dux would be wise enough to lock the door.”

Ridmark looked at Jager. “I trust the Master Thief of Cintarra can pick locks?”

“Of course,” said Jager, affronted.

“This is dangerous,” said Calliande. “Tarrabus wants you dead, to say nothing of the Mhorites and the Red Brothers.”

“It is,” said Ridmark, “but we must run the risk. Shadowbearer cannot claim the soulstone. You know what will happen if he does. Tonight is our best chance to do it. The guards will not expect Jager to return so soon. We also have an important point in our favor. Tarrabus doesn’t know that we know Jager took the stone.”

“He warned me against talking to you,” said Jager. The halfling’s face was grim. “He said Mara might suffer, if I asked you for help.

“But he doesn’t know that we found you,” said Ridmark. “He will assume that we are searching for the soulstone in vain. Therefore our best chance to act is tonight. We can snatch the soulstone and make for the Iron Tower before Tarrabus is the wiser.”

“We will come with you,” said Calliande.

“No,” said Ridmark. “I will go with Jager alone.”

Jager snorted. “Can you move as quietly as me?”

“I can,” said Ridmark

“We still cannot let you go into peril alone,” said Calliande. “You will not throw away your life, not again.”

Jager raised an eyebrow. “Is this a common problem?”

“You have no idea,” said Caius.

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “Go to the castra and warn the Comes and Sir Cortin. Tell them that the Mhorite orcs have been seen within Tarrabus’s domus. Comes Corbanic will be wary of crossing Tarrabus, but if Mhorite orcs are within the walls, he will have no choice but to act.”

“The Comes may not listen to us, I fear,” said Caius.

“No,” said Ridmark, “but he will listen to Calliande. She won his respect during the Challenge, I think. And after the attack in the Outwall, he will heed the danger.”

Calliande nodded, her face grim. She did not approve, Ridmark suspected, but she knew it was their best chance of retrieving the soulstone.

“Taalmak,” said Ridmark, and Azakhun looked at him. “I ask for your help as well. Will you ask the elders of the Enclave to send warriors to Tarrabus’s domus?”

“I shall,” said Azakhun. “We would be within our rights to do so, according to the terms of our king’s treaty with your High King. The Kothluuskan orcs attacked and killed several of our kindred north of Vulmhosk on the day you aided us. Therefore we have the duty to avenge our slain kin, and if we must follow them into Tarrabus’s domus, we shall.” He frowned. “If I can convince the elders of this, of course.”

“If you do convince them to attack,” said Ridmark, “wait at least an hour. That shall give Jager and I time to get away. Then, if all goes well, we can leave Coldinium in the chaos and set out for the Iron Tower.”

“Where shall we meet you?” said Kharlacht.

“The northern gate at dawn,” said Ridmark. “If we do not join you at the northern gate by nightfall tomorrow, assume we are dead and proceed as you think best.”

“Ridmark…” said Calliande.

“This is the best way,” he said.

She sighed, closed her eyes, and nodded. “I will convince the Comes to aid you.”

“Go with God,” said Caius.

Ridmark nodded and turned to Jager.

“Well,” said Jager, “I never thought I would commit burglary with the youngest son of a Dux, but all kinds of strange things have happened today.”

“Keep following me,” said Ridmark, “and you will see stranger things yet.”

“Let’s start,” said Jager, and he led the way into the catacombs, while Azakhun took the others back to the Dwarven Enclave.

Chapter 21 - Thieving

At first Jager thought having Ridmark accompany him was a terrible idea. Ridmark might have been a formidable warrior, but he was big and strong, and large men had trouble moving quietly. And halflings were naturally stealthy in a way that humans were not.

But Ridmark could move considerable stealth, so much so that Jager sometimes had trouble keeping track of him.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he said, half-impressed, half-annoyed. “I didn’t think the sons of a Dux learned this kind of thing.”

“They don’t,” said Ridmark. “But I spent the last five years alone in the Wilderland. An empty belly is fine motivation to learn stealth while stalking deer.”

“An empty belly is a fine motivation for a number of things,” said Jager.

They moved through the galleries of the catacombs. Jager found he missed the presence of Calliande. Or, more specifically, Calliande’s magic. If the Hunter returned, neither Jager nor Ridmark had any weapons that could hurt it. Hopefully Jager would be long gone from Coldinium by the time the Hunter finished nursing its wounds.

“How did you know Tarrabus and Paul Tallmane?” said Jager, his eyes scanning the gallery. The light on Ridmark’s wrist threw back the darkness, casting tangled shadows everywhere. Jager hated the light – it would mark them out from a distance. Unfortunately, he could not see in the dark, making it a necessity.

“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.”

An angry hiss came from beneath the balcony, and three more Red Brothers came into sight, swords in hand.

“You shall regret,” said Rotherius, “insulting our Matriarch.”

“Why are you telling us this?” said Ridmark. “Why not just kill us in the name of Mhor and have done with it?”

“Because you shall know the reason for your death, Ridmark Arban,” said Rotherius. “You have transgressed against the Family, and upon the Family’s blades you shall perish. Sometimes it is good to kill a man in ignorance, to savor the look of incomprehension upon his face as his life is offered to Mhor. But for you…you both shall know the truth of your death, so that you might grasp the profundity of your failure just before you die.”

“Ah,” said Ridmark, glancing at the Mhorites. “Then you’re not going to have your pet orcs kill us?” Mournacht’s lips parted in a snarl. “You will do it yourself?”

“You shall die upon the blades of the Red Family,” said Rotherius, drawing his sword. “The worshippers of Mhor shall ensure that we are not interrupted, and that you do not escape.”

“I see,” said Ridmark. He glanced at Jager. “Delay.”

Jager understood. Calliande was coming with the Comes’s men, and Azakhun would arrive with the dwarves of the Enclave. They would break into the domus, and Ridmark and Jager need only hold out until then. Of course, Rotherius and the Red Brothers might kill them first. Or the Comes and the dwarven elders would not listen to Calliande and Azakhun, and no help would come.

“If I would,” said Jager in a loud voice, flourishing his sword, “I would like to take this opportunity to address some last words to you, my mortal enemies, before…”

“No,” said Rotherius. “Brothers. Kill them.”

“Atrium,” said Ridmark.

Jager nodded, and they dashed through the doors to the atrium.

Rotherius and the three Red Brothers ran after them in silence.

###

Ridmark sprinted into the atrium and came to a stop near the fountain, his staff ready in his right hand.

What he saw did not fill him with confidence.

Hundreds of Mhorite orcs lined the atrium, waiting in the colonnade, their crimson-scarred faces full of dark glee. They must have hidden themselves in the domus proper, waiting until Ridmark and Jager had walked into the trap. Now they would witness the downfall of their Heralds’ foes, and keep Ridmark and Jager from escaping.

Of course, if Ridmark prevailed, he rather doubted the Mhorites would simply let him walk away.

“Remember,” said Ridmark, turning back towards the tower. “Delay.”

“I’m not stupid,” said Jager.

“Then what are we doing here?”

Jager sighed and shrugged, his blades flashing. “Good argument.”

Rotherius and the other three assassins exited the tower, each man carrying a sword and a dagger. Mournacht stepped after them and planted himself before the tower doors, both hands wrapped around the handle of his enormous black axe. Ridmark expected more challenging words from Rotherius, more taunts, but the Red Brothers glided forward in silence, raising their blades. The time for words had passed.

So be it.

“Stay behind me,” said Ridmark, gripping his staff with both hands. “Try to keep them from coming at my back.”

Jager nodded and moved behind Ridmark. The assassins began to encircle Ridmark, moving with the quiet coordination of men who had spent a great deal of time fighting as a team. Ridmark turned in a slow circle, trying to keep them in sight, while Jager circled behind him, face grim as he gripped his blades. One of the Red Brothers darted forward, sword stabbing, and Ridmark moved, his staff blurring to deflect the thrust. The assassin stepped back, joined the others circling around Ridmark, and a second assassin moved to strike. Ridmark caught the blow in a parry. The assassin struck again, no doubt hoping to cut the staff in two. Given that the weapon had a steel core, that was unlikely. Ridmark thrust, and the Red Brother jumped back. The others advanced, and Ridmark whirled his staff in a circle, forcing them back on their guard.

Jager kept his blades ready, but the assassins never moved within his reach.

Ridmark saw their strategy. They would circle him like wolves trying to bring down a wounded boar, landing hit after minor hit until he bled out or collapsed from exhaustion. Then they could close for the kill at once. Jager they could deal with at their leisure.

They were dictating the terms of the fight, and the man who did that usually won the battle. Ridmark had to change the rhythm, had to throw them off their guard.

But how?

One of the assassins stepped forward, slashing, and Ridmark parried the thrust. The assassin stepped back, but this time Ridmark pursued, swinging his staff. On instinct the Red Brother raised his sword to block, which proved to be a mistake beneath the power of Ridmark’s swing. The force of the strike knocked the Red Brother back a step, and before the assassin recovered, Ridmark reversed his staff and jabbed. The butt of the weapon slammed into the assassin’s right knee, and the man stumbled.

One more swing, and Ridmark was past him, closing on Rotherius. The other Red Brothers attacked, and Ridmark retreated as they closed around him. Yet he could keep all three of him in front of him at once, aided by the longer reached of his staff. Yet they were driving him back step by step, and if they pushed him into the Mhorites, Ridmark was sure the Kothluuskan orcs would kill him. Fighting against three skilled Family assassins was not a winning strategy, and unless Ridmark found a distraction, they were going to kill him.

Fortunately, Jager provided the distraction in fine form.

Jager charged with a yell, bellowing curses in both Latin and orcish, and attacked the Red Brother on Ridmark’s left. The assassin wore a dark cloak and a cuirass of thick red leather, but Jager punched his sword and dagger through both, angling the blades to sink them through the Red Brother’s stomach and into his lungs. The assassin let out a gurgling groan, and Ridmark sidestepped and slammed his staff against the side of the Red Brother’s head with all of his strength. The sound of crumpling metal came to his ears, and Jager ripped his bloodied blades free as the assassin toppled. The Red Brother Ridmark had stunned regained his feet, and Ridmark backed away as Rotherius and the third assassin pursued him.

“Mathias!” barked Rotherius, pointing at the assassin Ridmark had tripped. “Finish off the halfling. I will deal with the Gray Knight.”

Rotherius and his companion pushed towards Ridmark, fanning out on his left and his right. Ridmark sidestepped and backed away, retreating towards the fountain while Mathias drew closer to Jager. He needed to find a way to help Jager. The halfling was good with his blades, but so was Mathias, and his height and strength gave him advantages that Jager did not have.

Then Rotherius and the second assassin attacked as one, a storm of flashing steel flying for Ridmark’s head, and blocking and dodging consumed the entirety of his attention.

###

Jager watched the sword and dagger in Mathias’s hands, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He had been in any number of fights since leaving Caerdracon and the smoldering remains of the Tallmanes’ domus, and he had won most of them and survived all of them. But he had been forced to acknowledge a brutal reality – humans and orcs were stronger and had a longer reach than halflings. There was a reason the dark elves and the orcs and the dvargir had kept halfling slaves. They were simply stronger.

And Mathias was taller and stronger than Jager.

“Sad, isn’t it?” said Jager, backing away. Mathias followed, silent as death. Ridmark and Rotherius and the final assassin whirled in a deadly dance of steel, and Jager glimpsed a crimson cut across Ridmark’s forehead. “They get the glory of killing the feared Gray Knight. You’re stuck killing the halfling.”

“You stole from the Matriarch,” said Mathias. “You offended the chosen of Mhor. There shall be great glory in laying your skull upon Mhor’s crimson altar.”

“All this over a stupid soulcatcher?” said Jager. Mathias tensed, and Jager jumped back, just avoiding the thrust of the sword. “Really, I did her a favor, taking the thing off her hands. The dark magic was eating her mind.”

“The dagger is irrelevant,” said Mathias. “You lured away one of the Matriarch’s favored daughters. You corrupted her from the worship of Mhor. For that, your blood shall be poured out as an offering to Mhor. The time for talk is ended, thief.”

Mathias charged, his sword and dagger a blur. Jager didn’t even have time to curse. He threw himself to the ground and rolled, the blades just missing him. He came back to one knee and slashed for Mathias’s leg, but the Red Brother danced away, his black cloak swirling around him. Jager jumped back to his feet at the assassin recovered his balance and attacked again. He heard a low, rumbling noise. The nearby Mhorite orcs were laughing at him, no doubt amused at the sight of one of their precious Heralds chasing a halfling thief all around the atrium.

Mathias shot an irritated glance their direction, and the Kothluuskan orcs fell silent.

And there, in that glance, Jager saw an instant of weakness, a gap in the assassin’s impenetrable prowess.

“Well, come on, then!” said Jager, spreading his arms. “Kill me already. Offer up my tiny little skull to Mhor. Bet it’ll look nice on the altar. Assuming you have an altar, of course. All those skulls of slain foes, and there will be my head, sitting next to them.” He grinned at the assassin. “Wonder if I’ll have a stupid look on my face. Like this, maybe.”

He stuck out his tongue at the Red Brother, and one of the orcs guffawed before silencing himself.

Mathias’s skull-masked helm turned towards the orc, and again Jager saw irritation in every line of his posture. The brothers of the Red Family considered the Kothluuskan orcs their inferiors, their servants and tools. To have one of them laughing at their betters would be intolerable.

Jager didn’t care. People had laughed at him all of his life.

But for someone unused to the sensation…

“Rotherius has the prestigious task,” said Jager, waving his short sword at the furious duel. Ridmark and Rotherius and the final assassin wheeled around each other, moving so fast Jager could barely follow the movements. Mathias growled and lunged at Jager. He dodged again, but the edge of the assassin’s sword sliced through his jerkin and shirt, opening a shallow gash along his ribs. The pain flooded through him, but he already taken a sword wound today, had his skull cracked and both his legs broken, so one more wound at this point hardly mattered.

He rolled away, just barely dodging another slash, and came to his feet, feeling the hot blood trickle down his side.

“He gets to kill the Gray Knight!” panted Jager. “The man who slew Mhalek, who killed an urdmordar at eighteen, who went into Urd Morlemoch and came out again! That’s who he’s going to slay. You’re going to kill the halfling thief! Well, there’s a glorious victory! Maybe they’ll make a song of it.” Mathias slashed, and Jager dodged again, his side throbbing with pain. He started to bellow a song, improvising the lyrics as he went. “Mighty Mathias, oh he slew the tiny halfling!”

“Shut up!” roared Mathias.

“Mighty Mathias, oh he slew the tiny halfling!” sang Jager, trying not to wheeze. “Mighty Mathias, he slew the halfling with his sword as hard as a rock, but the halfling was not as tiny as his…”

Again the Kothluuskan orc burst out laughing.

“Silence!” commanded Mathias, glancing at the orc. “I command you to silence! I am a Herald of Mhor, and you will not mock…”

Jager had his chance.

He flung his dagger with all his strength. He had never been good with throwing knives, and his aim was off, but the blade struck Mathias in the right thigh. The assassin stumbled with a screech of fury, his balance lost for a moment, and Jager charged with a yell. Mathias started to turn, and Jager stabbed his sword with both hands. He had been aiming for Mathias’s belly, but the assassin dodged, and the blow opened his right hip instead. The Red Brother’s hasty thrust struck Jager’s left arm, and pain bloomed down the limb. Yet Jager threw himself at Mathias with all his remaining strength. The Red Brother was twice his weight, but his right leg had been wounded twice, and it buckled beneath the unexpected impact. Mathias went down with a bellowed curse, and Jager landed atop him.

The assassin snarled in fury, both his hands clamping around Jager’s throat. Jagger gagged, black spots swimming before his eyes, the assassin’s thumbs sinking into his windpipe. He clawed at the Red Brother’s belt, his hand curling around the hilt of a dagger.

He yanked the blade free and drove it into the assassin’s neck.

A spasm went through Mathias’s body, his hands loosening. Jager sucked in a deep breath, ripped the dagger free, and stabbed again, hot blood spattering over his fingers. The skull-mask bounced away, knocked loose by the impact, and Jager saw the assassin’s face, the blue eyes wide and shocked and full of pain.

Young. He looked so young. He was even younger than Jager. The Matriarch must have taken him as a boy…

Then Mathias slumped against the ground, his breath stopping.

Jager staggered to his feet. He felt the eyes of the Mhorites upon him, but for the moment he did not care. Ridmark and the remaining two assassins still fought. All three men looked wounded, and the final assassin moved with a pronounced limp, likely received from Ridmark’s staff. Yet Ridmark himself bled from a half-dozen minor wounds, his face set and grim.

He needed help.

Jager retrieved his weapons and ran for the fighting.

###

Ridmark’s staff clipped the edge of Rotherius’s arm, and the Red Brother stumbled back. But before Ridmark could follow through, the second assassin attacked, and Ridmark had to retreat. His breath rasped through his throat, his arms and shoulders throbbing from the effort of the fight, and he was starting to feel a bit light-headed from blood loss. If he passed out, Rotherius and the remaining Red Brother would kill him. For that matter, Ridmark did not even need to pass out to lose the fight. Rotherius was a deadly swordsman, and if Ridmark made one mistake, just one, Rotherius would put his blade through his heart.

Ridmark already bled from a half-dozen near misses.

Rotherius stepped into an attack, and Ridmark caught it on the end of his staff, deflecting the blow. He whirled the staff, spinning its end for Rotherius’s skull-masked face. Rotherius dodged, but the edge of the staff clipped his cowl, and Ridmark heard the clang as it rebounded from his helmet. The assassin stumbled, and the second Red Brother leapt to the attack. Ridmark ducked under the swing and jabbed his staff with both hands, the end of the weapon slamming into the Red Brother’s gut. The assassin stumbled, his breath exploding from his skull mask in an anguished wheeze. Rotherius recovered his balance, but Ridmark pressed his attack, swinging his staff with both hands and all his strength.

The staff connected against the side of the Red Brother’s head with a metallic crunch. The assassin collapsed, blood leaking from the skull mask, and Ridmark spun as Rotherius stabbed at him. The edge of Rotherius’s blade sliced through Ridmark’s jerkin and shirt, opening a fresh cut on his side.

He felt the hot blood soaking into his sweaty clothes.

Ridmark backed away, staff held before him, and Rotherius circled to his left. Boots slapped against the paving stones, and Ridmark saw Jager running towards them, his sword and dagger wet with blood. Mathias lay motionless near the fountain. Somehow Jager had managed to overcome his attacker.

Rotherius stepped back, keeping Jager and Ridmark in front of him.

“You look like you were having a little trouble,” said Jager, “so I thought I would stop by and lend a hand.”

“How generous,” said Ridmark, watching Rotherius. He stepped closer, the assassin maintaining the distance between them. “What do you think, Rotherius? You were keen enough to fight when it was four against two. Does two against one sound appealing?”

“The halfling,” growled Rotherius, “hardly counts.”

Jager laughed. “Ask Mathias about that.”

“First six Red Brothers dead in the swamps of Moraime,” said Ridmark, “and now three more here. The Matriarch is going to be wroth with you, Rotherius.” Delay, he had to delay. If he killed Rotherius, the Mhorites would simply cut him down, and there was no way Ridmark could fight all of them. He had not even been able to overcome Mournacht in single combat, and he had been fresh and uninjured then. “How do you think she will react after you have gotten nine of your brothers killed?”

“Enough,” said Rotherius. “There are no tricks to save you now, Ridmark Arban. No marsh gas for you to ignite.”

“Marsh gas?” said Jager.

“Long story,” said Ridmark.

Rotherius took another step back. “Kill them. All of you, kill them now! The Herald of Mhor commands it! Kill them!”

A moment of hesitation went over the Mhorite orcs.

“Oh,” said Jager. “Sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t think it would end like this.” He shook his head. “That damned ring. Mara was right. I never should have taken it.”

Ridmark nodded.

Mournacht roared a command, and hundreds of voices bellowed back in answer. Rotherius stepped back, and the Mhorite orcs charged past him, shouting and brandishing their weapons.

Ridmark sprang into motion, his staff a blur as he struck right and left, and two of the orcs fell dead. He whirled and brought his staff down upon the head of a third orc, sending the warrior sprawling to the ground. The Mhorites were strong and fast, but they lacked the deadly skill of Rotherius and the other assassins of the Red Family. Ridmark moved through them like a storm, and soon left a half-dozen dead in his wake. Jager followed, covering Ridmark’s flank, his sword and dagger flashing as he attacked the Mhorites from behind.

But it was useless. The Mhorites surrounded them on all sides, filling the courtyard with a mass of leather armor and flashing steel. Ridmark fought in a circle, striking with every movement, but it was not enough. He took another hit to his left leg, a glancing blow to his right shoulder. Jager parried the blow of a mace, and the force of the impact drove him to the ground. Ridmark killed the Mhorite with the mace, and the others closed around him.

His death was at hand.

To his surprise, he felt regret. He had promised Calliande that he would help her find her memories, that they would find the secret of the Frostborn and stop their return. He deserved death, even death at the hands of the Mhorites…but he did not want to die before he had fulfilled his obligations and promises.

Unfortunately, it appeared he had no say in the matter.

He dodged the strike of a mace, and the edge of the heavy weapon clipped his temple. Ridmark stumbled, his head ringing from the impact, and barely evaded the second blow. A sheet of white mist appeared before his vision, his head spinning. That was it, then. At least he would be unconscious for the killing blow…

The mist sizzled, and the Mhorite orcs screamed.

Ridmark blinked as a ring of white mist spread around him and rolled over the orcs. Skin bubbled and flesh smoked, and a dozen orcs fell to the ground, rolling as the acidic mist ate into their limbs. Jager scrambled to his feet as the Mhorites bellowed in fury, and some of them turned towards the doors of the domus.

Towards a new threat.

“Take them!” thundered a man in Latin. Ridmark recognized the voice of Sir Cortin Lamorus. “In the name of the Comes and the High King, drive these invaders from our city!”

Another voice shouted commands in the dwarven tongue.

Ridmark turned and saw men-at-arms and knights in the colors of the High King storming into the domus, flanked by dwarven warriors in their bronze-colored armor.

Azakhun and Calliande had been successful.

Most of the Mhorites charged the new threat. Mournacht’s booming voice rolled over the atrium, and Ridmark spotted the hulking shaman before the doors to the tower. Mournacht brandished his axe and began casting a spell, bloody fire blazing around his free hand as the sigils upon his chest and arms burned hotter.

“We will take him!” said Ridmark, pointing his staff, and Jager offered a sharp nod. Mournacht’s dark magic was strong, and left unchecked he would wreak havoc among the men-at-arms and the dwarven warriors. Calliande and Morigna might be able to check him, but if Ridmark could distract the shaman at a critical moment…

He struck down another orc, running towards Mournacht, and then a crimson shape filled his vision.

Rotherius.

The assassin attacked, and Ridmark retreated, his arms and wounds aching from the effort of holding back the attack.

###

Morigna cursed, scanning the melee for any sign of Ridmark.

She stood in the shadows beneath the colonnade, watching the fight. Calliande had persuaded the Comes to send men to the domus, but if Sir Cortin or his men saw Morigna using earth magic, their attitudes would quickly sour. Best to stay out of sight, then. Her ring of acidic mist had kept the Mhorites from overwhelming Ridmark and Jager, but the Gray Knight and the master thief had disappeared into the chaos. Morigna did not want Ridmark to die fighting vermin like these Kothluuskan orcs.

Jager’s death would not upset her, but she supposed saving him would please Ridmark.

Sir Cortin, the Taalmak Azakhun, and Kharlacht led the charge into the Mhorites. Kharlacht had no rank among them, but the towering orc’s strength and prowess made him a rallying point. Again and again the blue greatsword rose and fell, every strike severing limbs and hewing through necks. Gavin and Caius screened him, thrusts from Gavin’s orcish sword and Caius’s dwarven mace disposing of any Mhorites that drew too close. Calliande hung back, white light glimmering around her fingers as she held her magic in reserve, ready to heal the wounded or to repel any arcane attacks.

A knot of orcs pressed towards Kharlacht and the others, and Morigna cast a spell. White mist rolled over them, the acid within it sizzling and biting. Morigna dismissed the mist at once, lest it touch her allies, but the effect was enough. The Mhorite charge faltered, and Kharlacht and Cortin and the others attacked, driving into the orcs with lusty yells.

Across the atrium she saw a group of Mhorites raise bows. Morigna waved her staff, her fingers tightening against the carved wood. Her mind reached across the atrium and grasped the bows in the orcs’ hands. Her will poured through the staff, and at her command the bows shattered, leaving the weapons useless.

Even over the chaos, she heard their howls of outrage, and Morigna grinned.

Then she saw the blood-colored fire blazing at the base of the tower, and her smile faded.

###

Calliande felt the pulse of dark magic, saw Mournacht casting a spell at the base of the tower. He would unleash his power upon the struggling men-at-arms and dwarves, and his magic would wither their flesh, reducing them to dried husks.

Unless Calliande protected them.

Could she ward them all at once? No, there were far too many. Yet Ridmark often said that the best shield was a sure sword stroke.

Time to put that to the test.

Calliande summoned as much magic as she could muster and raised her palm. White fire burst from her hand, arced across the atrium in a dazzling shaft, and drilled into Mournacht. His spell collapsed as power poured into his wards, dispersing her attack.

But it turned his focus from the fighting men.

Unfortunately, it also meant that Calliande now had the shaman’s full attention.

She heard his furious bellow, and began casting wards as the bloody light brightened again.

###

Jager and Ridmark dueled Rotherius.

Well, Ridmark was doing most of the work. Jager only tried to help. Even wounded and exhausted, his clothing spotted with sweat and blood, Ridmark Arban knew how to fight. His staff was a dark blur, whirling as it blocked the assassin’s attacks and launched swings and thrusts of Ridmark’s own. Jager knew a master fighter when he saw one, and Ridmark was the best he had ever seen.

But Rotherius was just as good.

The Red Brother wove circles around Ridmark, his sword and dagger clanging in his hands. Ridmark’s swings sometimes came within a hair’s breadth of connecting, but they never quite did. From time to time one of Ridmark’s thrusts hit Rotherius, but the assassin twisted aside like an eel, and Ridmark never landed any telling hits. Both men were wounded, and both were perfectly matched.

The first one to make a mistake would die.

Yet Jager could not hit Rotherius.

He tried to stab the Red Brother from behind, but the assassin always anticipated his movements, spinning to keep both Ridmark and Jager before him. He had tried throwing two daggers at the Red Brother, but Rotherius’s sword had knocked the blades from the air. Jager braced himself to charge, hoping to distract Rotherius long enough for Ridmark to land a killing blow.

And then it happened.

Ridmark made a mistake.

He stepped back to avoid a thrust, and the heel of his boot came down upon the hand of a dead Mhorite. He stumbled, tripped, and fell upon one knee.

Rotherius drew back his sword and dagger for the kill.

###

Morigna sprinted along the colonnade as a blast of darkness and blood-colored fire shot across the atrium. It slammed into Calliande, a shell of white light burning around her as her own magic struggled against Mournacht’s dark power. The bloody fire faded away, the white light shining brighter, and Calliande sent another volley of white fire at Mournacht. It struck the whirlwind of blood-colored fire around the orcish shaman and dispersed, unable to penetrate his wards.

Calliande grimaced and began another spell.

Morigna raised her free hand and began a spell of her own, purple fire crackling around her fingers.

“No,” gasped Calliande, “no, don’t. Nothing you have can get through his wards. You’ll draw his attention, and I can’t protect both of us at the same time.”

“Then what?” said Morigna.

“Distract him,” said Calliande, her face tight with strain. “Find a way to…get back!”

A shaft of shadows and howling flame sped across the atrium, and Morigna ducked before the spell plowed into Calliande. The dark magic and the Calliande’s power competed against each other, white light straining against darkness and shadow, but Calliande’s wards held.

Though Morigna did not know how much longer they would.

Distract Mournacht? How the hell was she supposed to do that? None of her spells could penetrate his wards. Calliande could knock down his wards, given enough time, but none of her spells could actually harm the shaman. At best Morigna’s attacks would simply annoy him. At worse he would pause long enough to kill her. Or Calliande, in her foolishly merciful heart, would try to protect them both, and then Mournacht would kill them both with a single spell.

Morigna blinked.

She didn’t need to attack Mournacht. She only needed to distract him.

Someone else could do the distracting.

She cast another spell, her thoughts reaching out to issue a command.

###

Ridmark saw his death descending and rolled over the dead orc, the smell of blood and sweat filling his nostrils. Rotherius’s sword nicked him, but the stab aimed for his heart missed, and Ridmark regained his feet and snatched up his staff.

Rotherius stalked after him, Jager hovering at the side with his sword and dagger.

“You should probably run while you still can,” said Ridmark, his voice hoarse. He was getting increasingly woozy. “Go. Now.”

“No,” said Jager.

“Pitiful fools,” said Rotherius. “You can both die together as…”

His voice trailed off in surprise as a gray carpet rolled past Jager, making its way toward Mournacht.

A gray carpet composed of dozens of squirming, writhing little bodies.

###

“Rats?” said Calliande.

Morigna shrugged. “They are easy to control. Braver in groups, too.”

Mournacht started to cast another spell, and then stopped as a hundred rats began climbing up his legs, clawing and biting. The orcish shaman bellowed in frustrated rage and pawed at himself, throwing off the maddened rats and crushing them beneath his heavy boots. Yet still they swarmed over him, driven by Morigna’s magic. For all his strength, a two-handed axe was a useless tool against the rats, not unless he wanted to take off his own legs in the process. A dozen rats clambered over Mournacht’s muscled torso, sinking their teeth into his flesh. Mournacht snarled in fury, ripping at the rats.

Calliande summoned every bit of power she could muster and directed it into a spell. White fire crackled into Mournacht, again and again, and the shaman started to cast his own spells, pouring more power into his wards. Then a rat sank its teeth into his cheek, and Mournacht bellowed and ripped the rat away.

His spell collapsed, and his wards dissolved an instant later.

“Now!” said Calliande.

Morigna had already summoned the magic. She shouted and swept her hand before her, fingers wreathed in purple fire. A column of thick white mist materialized around Mournacht, and the orcish shaman’s bellows of rage turned into a howl of pain. Even over the melee, Calliande heard the sizzle of charred flesh, saw the rats fall in smoking lumps from his arms and legs.

Mournacht’s ward snapped back into existence around him. Yet had been badly hurt, with livid burns across his face and chest and arms.

“Withdraw!” he roared, his voice booming over the atrium. “Withdraw, all of you!”

He turned, dashed along the colonnade, and vanished into the domus, still pursued by the surviving rats.

The Mhorite orcs fell back, fleeing along with their leader, and the men-at-arms and the dwarves pursued them, killing with every step.

###

Jager watched in astonishment as the rats swarmed over Mournacht. It had to be Morigna’s work. If he lived through this, he would have to take care to avoid irritating her.

But at the moment, survival seemed unlikely.

Rotherius drove hard at Ridmark, his blades flying. Ridmark retreated. The Gray Knight had taken too many wounds, had fought too hard for too long. One more stumble, and Rotherius would have him. If Jager tried to intervene, he would only get himself spitted upon Rotherius’s dagger.

A part of his mind urged him to flee, to leave the Gray Knight to his fate. But a larger part of his mind noted that he needed Ridmark to free Mara, that no one else would help him. And for the first time in years, for the first time since leaving Caerdracon, Jager felt guilt. His bad decisions had led him here. If he had not stolen that damned ring, if he had not stolen the soulstone, then Ridmark would not be about to die in the atrium of Tarrabus Carhaine’s domus.

He did not want Ridmark’s blood on his hands. He was a thief, not a murderer. But he was a very good thief.

And that meant he was good at snatching things.

In one smooth motion Jager knelt and seized one of the passing rats by the tail. The beast let out a furious chitter of rage, its legs flailing. Jager threw back his arm and flung the rat.

It landed right on Rotherius’s skull-mask. The rat clambered up the mask, and Rotherius bellowed a curse, reaching with his dagger hand to grab at the rat. But the rat had already scampered into his black cowl.

That was all the opening Ridmark needed.

His staff blurred with a mighty swing, impacting Rotherius’s dagger arm, and Jager heard the bones of the assassin’s forearm shatter. Rotherius howled in fury, his cowl still bulging as the rat scrambled down his back, and slashed at Ridmark. The Gray Knight parried the blow and thrust, the tip of his staff striking Rotherius’s broken arm. The Red Brother stumbled in pain, breath rasping through his skull-mask, and Ridmark’s next swing hit Rotherius’s head with a loud clang.

The mask and helmet ripped away, revealing Rotherius’s stunned face, his pale eyes wide with shock and pain.

Ridmark’s final blow connected with the assassin’s temple.

Rotherius fell motionless to the ground and did not move again, blood pooling beneath his head. His cloak rippled, and the rat climbed down his leg, racing away across the atrium. Around them the Mhorite orcs followed suit, vanishing into the domus. Jager suspected they would make their way to the cellar and flee through the catacombs. The men-at-arms and the dwarves would have a busy night hunting them.

Ridmark leaned against his staff, breathing hard, sweat and blood dripping down his face.

“Good throw,” he said at last.

“I really hate rats,” said Jager.

Chapter 23 - Traitor To The Realm

Two days later, a soft knock at the door awoke Ridmark.

He looked at the light leaking through the shutters. It was later than he would have liked. After the Mhorites had fled and Sir Cortin’s men had taken control of Tarrabus’s domus, Ridmark had wanted to pursue Sir Paul Tallmane and the stolen soulstone at once. But that had not been possible. Ridmark had been wounded and exhausted, and both Morigna and Calliande had needed rest after exerting so much magic. Calliande had healed Ridmark’s wounds first, despite his insistence that she attend to the others, and then had healed wounds among the men-at-arms and the dwarves until her strength failed.

Going after Paul Tallmane without rest would have been suicide.

So they had withdrawn to the Comes’s castra to rest and heal before departing.

The soft knock came again.

“Enter,” said Ridmark, sitting up and pushing aside the blankets. He winced a little. Calliande had healed his wounds, but the stiffness in his joints remained. The last several days had been exhausting. Come to think of it, every day in the fifty-two days since the omen of blue fire had been trying.

A year and a month to stop the return of the Frostborn, and nearly two of those months had passed.

The door swung open, and Morigna stepped into the room. She wore her usual clothes, leather jerkin, trousers, and heavy boots, her tattered cloak of green and gray hanging from her shoulders. Her eyes widened a bit.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not realize you were not dressed. Usually you are awake by now.”

Ridmark made a dismissive wave of his hand, got to his feet, and started pulling on his clothes. “I thought you were one of the servants.”

He felt her eyes lingering as he pulled on his shirt, jerkin, and boots. That could be a problem. At least he had slept in his trousers. Well, it was a problem he could worry about once the soulstone had been retrieved, once they had gone to Urd Morlemoch and found the secret of the Frostborn.

Morigna snorted. “If you thought that, clearly you have not been paying attention.”

“Clearly,” said Ridmark, slinging his gray cloak over his shoulders. “Speaking of that, have any of the Comes’s men given you trouble?” She had used a great deal of magic during the fighting at Tarrabus’s domus. The knights and men-at-arms had been focused upon the Mhorites, but all it would take was one man seeing purple fire crackling around Morigna’s hand…

“None,” said Morigna. “I suspect they are convinced I am some wild huntress you found in the Wilderland and brought back with you to civilized lands.”

Ridmark retrieved his staff from the corner. “They’re not wrong.”

She laughed. “Impudent man. The Comes asked me to fetch you. He wants to speak with us before we depart for the Iron Tower.”

“You are sure that is where we are going next?” said Ridmark.

“Quite,” said Morigna. “Shadowbearer must not get the soulstone, and you promised the thief that you would help free his lover from the Iron Tower. And you do what you say you will do, Ridmark Arban.”

“When I can,” said Ridmark, thinking of Aelia. “Come. Let us not keep Corbanic waiting.”

###

Ridmark and Morigna returned to the great hall of the castra, where Imaria had brought her accusations before the Comes and Calliande had defeated her. He supposed Imaria had left with Tarrabus. Corbanic stood atop the dais, flanked by his son and an gray-haired and bearded dwarf in ornate armor, the Taalkaz of the Enclave, a dwarven noble roughly equal in rank to a Comes of Andomhaim. Azakhun waited at the Taalkaz’s right hand. Calliande, Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin waited below the dais, and Calliande smiled as Ridmark came closer.

“You’re looking better,” she said.

“As are you,” he said. Her resilience always surprised him. The amount of effort she had expended against Mournacht and in the aftermath of the fighting should have left her on her back for a week. Yet a day of rest had restored her, and she always seemed to heal quickly.

Useful, given the foes they faced.

“Ridmark Arban,” said Corbanic, stepping forward. “Before you depart, I wished to extend you my formal thanks. Your efforts alerted us to the presence of Kothluuskan orcs within the walls of Coldinium. Worse, it seems that Tarrabus Carhaine is in league with them.”

“It would appear so, my lord Comes,” said Ridmark. He had told the Comes everything after the Mhorites had been driven back.

“And this…cult, this conspiracy, spreading among the vassals of Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Corbanic. “These so-called ‘Enlightened’ of Incariel are an offense to both the laws of the High King and the laws of God. It seems clear to me that Tarrabus Carhaine is a traitor to the realm and to the High King. I intend to bring charges against him before the High King’s court.”

“That is a risky course, my lord,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus is powerful, and has many friends and allies among the nobility and the Magistri. I fear he may simply have you assassinated.”

“Nevertheless, my duty is clear,” said Corbanic. “I have long felt there is something amiss in the realm, and now the cause becomes apparent. Creatures like these Enlightened prefer to do their work in the darkness. Let us see how they respond when the light of truth shines upon them.”

“Then God be with you, Comes,” said Caius, “in this noble task.”

Corbanic nodded. “You are set upon your course, then?”

“I am,” said Ridmark. “We must retrieve the soulstone. It cannot fall into the hands of Shadowbearer.”

“I know not how,” said Calliande, “but if Shadowbearer claims the soulstone, he will somehow use it to achieve the return of the Frostborn.”

“The Frostborn,” said Corbanic with a shake of his head. “It all seems so fantastical. The High King and the Swordbearers wiped out the Frostborn two hundred years ago. A week ago, I would not have believed your tale. Yet a Dux of Andomhaim conspiring with the Mhorite orcs and the Red Family of Cintarra? Who can say what other evils may come to pass in such dark days?”

“I know not, my lord Comes,” said Ridmark, “but with God’s help, we may yet avert them.”

“You shall have horses and supplies, whatever else you may require,” said Corbanic. “You are an exile and an outlaw, but you have acted with honor and courage by bringing Tarrabus’s treachery to light.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. “We shall be glad for any aid you can give.”

The Taalkaz stepped forward, Azakhun at his side.

“There is one other matter,” said the old dwarf in Latin, his deep voice like the rasp of grating stone. “The Taalmak Azakhun has told me of your valor, how you aided him in the Wilderland with no thought of reward. And the Kothluuskan orcs have been enemies of our kindred since long before the High King even raised his citadel in the ruins of Tarlion. You have proven yourself our worthy friend, and we wish to show our regard for you. Taalmak.”

Azakhun gestured, and some of the castra’s halfling servants came forward, clad in the blue livery of the Pendragons. The halflings bore trays, and one stopped before Ridmark, offering up the tray. Upon the tray lay a single-bladed war axe of dwarven steel, its blade carved with glyphs. Ridmark picked up the weapon and examined its heft. It was lighter than his lost orcish war axe, its balance superb.

“This is a kingly gift, my lord Taalkaz,” said Ridmark. “Thank you.”

The Taalkaz nodded. “Azakhun told me how you lost your axe in the belly of the Hunter. It seemed only just to reward you with another.” The other servants stepped to Ridmark’s companions, also bearing trays. “Additionally, we shall give each of your followers a dagger as a sign of our friendship.”

“These weapons are magical,” said Calliande, picking up a bronze-colored dagger, its foot-long blade marked with dwarven glyphs.

“You speak truly, Magistria,” said the Taalkaz. “They are not as powerful as the Soulblades carried by your Swordbearers. Nevertheless, our stonescribes have written glyphs of power upon the weapons. They will wound creatures of dark magic, even kill them if driven into the heart or brain. By means of such weapons have our kindred stood fast against the dark elves and the urdmordar, long before Ardrhythain created the Magistri and the Swordbearers among your kindred.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark, bowing to the dwarven nobles. “These are indeed magnificent gifts.”

“I fear you shall have need of them all too soon,” said the Taalkaz. “May your God watch over you, Ridmark Arban…and your companions.” He glanced at Caius, who returned his gaze impassively. “All of you.”

“If you do not object, my lord Comes,” said Ridmark, “I would like to be on the road to the Iron Tower before noon.”

###

A short time later Calliande found Ridmark alone in the Comes’s stables. Corbanic had given them the gift of horses and supplies both, and Ridmark hoped to overtake Paul on the road to the Iron Tower. Calliande had no knowledge of the Iron Tower, but everyone said it was a strong fortress, that the Constable maintained a garrison of several hundred men. If the soulstone went into the Tower, they would have a much harder time getting it out again.

Of course, Mara was already in the Tower, and Ridmark had promised to help free her.

But one problem at a time.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande.

He looked up from the saddle he was examining. “Do you know how to ride a horse?”

“I…think so,” said Calliande. “Not that I’ve done it in the last fifty-two days. I suppose it’s one of those things I learned…before.”

He nodded. “Kharlacht can manage it, but neither Morigna nor Gavin have ever been in the saddle before.” He rubbed his chin. “I had hoped to catch up to Paul on horseback, but that might be unworkable.”

“Just don’t charge off on your own,” said Calliande. “You promised me that you would not throw your life away.”

He offered a faint smile. “And despite my best efforts, I have managed to keep that promise. But, no. I will not go after the soulstone alone.”

A silence stretched between them. Calliande remembered the day of the wyvern attack, the day in the clearing. Did she want him to kiss her again? It was such a foolish, foolish thing to think about now, when such important matters hung in the balance.

But she often thought about it.

“Before we leave,” said Calliande, “I just want you to know…”

He nodded, waiting.

“That I am sorry for the things I said,” said Calliande. “After the Challenge.”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “You have nothing for which to apologize.”

“Why?” said Calliande. “Because I was under the influence of Imaria’s memories…or because you think she was right?”

He said nothing.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande.

“Why can it not be both?” he said at last.

“Damn it,” said Calliande. “That is…that is…how can you believe that about yourself? You’re the bravest man I’ve ever known. And yet…”

“I will keep my promises to you,” said Ridmark. “We will stop the Frostborn, and we will find Dragonfall and recover your staff.” He looked at her, and she saw such exhaustion and pain on his face that she wanted to take him in her arms. “But that…that is all that I have the right to do. I’m sorry.”

“I am, too,” said Calliande, a quaver in her voice.

“Listen to me,” said Ridmark. “Do not blame yourself. If not for you, your magic and your courage, we would all be dead. Qazarl would have killed me at Dun Licinia, or Agrimnalazur at Urd Arowyn, or Coriolus at Moraime. Imaria might have well found a way to execute us all, if you had not challenged her. If we succeed in this, it will have been because of you.”

“You truly believe that?” said Calliande, and he nodded. “Thank you.”

“We should go,” said Ridmark. “We will need every hour of daylight to catch Sir Paul.”

“You’re right,” said Calliande. “But, Ridmark. Listen to me, please. I don’t know who am I…but neither do you know yourself, not truly. You have…a false image of your heart, believe yourself to be worse than who you are. For your sake, please, forgive yourself for Aelia’s death. It was not your fault, and even if it was, the Dominus Christus forgives all sins. If you do not forgive yourself for this, I fear it will destroy you.”

“I wish,” said Ridmark, walking for the door, “that it was that easy.”

Calliande did, too.

Chapter 24 - Debts To Pay

Jager waited by the northern gate of Coldinium with the horses he had just purchased.

Oddly, no one had robbed his house during the weeks of his absence. He had equipped himself with useful tools, weapons, and equipment, purchased the horses and an ample stock of supplies. Then he had left the keys on the front step and left. Anyone who happened by was welcome to help themselves to anything inside the house.

Jager suspected he would never return.

He waited at the gate, doubt gnawing at him. Perhaps he ought to set off on his own for the Iron Tower. Even though he was an exile and an outcast, Ridmark was still a noble of Andomhaim, and such men had given nothing but pain to Jager.

Yet there was no way Jager could get Mara out of the Iron Tower without help.

And Jager owed Ridmark and his companions, had created their current problems. Sometimes he even felt a little flicker of hope. If anyone could enter the Iron Tower and live, it was Ridmark Arban and Calliande of the Magistri and their friends.

So he waited with his horses, and soon Ridmark and the others arrived.

They rode horses that the Comes had given them. Ridmark and Calliande each had their own mount and led a pair of pack horses. Kharlacht and Caius both rode with surprising ease, though Jager felt sorry for the poor horse that had to bear Kharlacht’s weight. Gavin and Morigna followed, and neither one looked terribly pleased to be in the saddle.

Ridmark reined up before Jager, the dwarven war axe hanging from his belt.

“You waited,” said Ridmark.

“You came,” said Jager.

“Surprised?” said Ridmark.

Jager shrugged. “Life has often taught me to be disappointed.”

Ridmark grunted. “I know what it is to blame yourself.” Calliande gave him a sharp look. “And I would spare you that, if I can.”

“So you really are going to help a thief?” said Jager.

And to his astonishment, Ridmark smiled. It somehow made him look even more dangerous.

“You stole the soulstone, did you not?” said Ridmark. “So now you’re going to steal it back from Paul Tallmane. And then together we shall steal Mara out of the Iron Tower.”

Jager considered that.

“Thank you,” he said at last.

“Let’s go,” said Ridmark. “The road to the Iron Tower is in good condition, and if we hasten we can yet make ten miles before the sun goes down.”

###

They rode on, and Ridmark looked at his companions.

Caius and Kharlacht led Gavin’s and Morigna’s horses. Gavin was taking to horsemanship with ease, while Morigna loudly proclaimed the superiority of her own feet. From time to time Jager offered a mocking little comment, and Morigna answered in turn. Perhaps it was just as well that Jager had joined them – he would help keep Morigna and Caius from their interminable theological debates.

Calliande moved beside him, handling her mount with ease. She was an excellent rider, it seemed – yet another skill she had acquired before going into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance.

He regretted that he had hurt her. But it was for the best. He had seen Aelia die, and he could not bear to have it happen again. And if she desired companionship...well, she could do far better than a branded exile.

“You’ve acquired quite the collection of followers,” Calliande said. “It must be a change from wandering the Wilderland alone.”

“It is,” said Ridmark. “But I cannot to what needs to be done alone. I cannot stop the Frostborn alone.”

“Nor can I,” said Calliande.

He nodded, and they rode on toward the Iron Tower and the soulstone.

And beyond, to where Urd Morlemoch and the Warden awaited with the secret of the Frostborn.

Epilogue

After he finished, Tarrabus rolled off Imaria Licinius and got to his feet, breathing hard, sweat beading upon his skin. Imaria sighed and stretched on the camp bed, displaying her body to him. She was devoted to Tarrabus, and she possessed a number of skills he had found useful.

But Imaria was not Aelia, and he could never really forgive her for that.

Still, that was no reason not to take his pleasure with her.

“My lord is vigorous,” she purred.

“Indeed,” said Tarrabus. He poured himself a cup of wine from the folding table besides his bed, the walls of the tent rippling in the night breeze. “My work in Coldinium was successful. Why should I not be pleased?”

Sir Paul had the soulstone, and would guard it at the Iron Tower. Tarrabus had hoped to kill Ridmark Arban, and he also wanted Calliande dead. Shadowbearer had ordered her death, and after seeing her performance against Imaria, Tarrabus knew that she was a potential threat. Best to kill her before that potential became actual.

But it was no great loss if Mournacht and Rotherius failed in their trap. Ridmark would never retrieve the soulstone from the Iron Tower, and if he tried the garrison would kill him. Shadowbearer would take the stone, and then at last Tarrabus could begin.

He would make humanity strong and immortal, a master kindred to dominate this world forever.

Imaria chattered about something inconsequential, and Tarrabus listened with half an ear, sipping at his wine.

Then a deep chill fell over him, and his shadow, thrown by the light of the lantern, flickered.

“Leave me,” he said. “Now. Return to your tent. I shall see you in the morning.”

A hurt look went over her face, but she nodded, collected her robe, and left. She knew better than to disobey him.

Tarrabus sat on the bed as his shadow flickered and grew longer and darker. A strange, eerie voice came from the shadow. Or more precisely, two voices at once, one deep and musical, the other an inhuman, alien buzz.

“Have you been successful?” said Shadowbearer.

“I have,” said Tarrabus. “The soulstone shall await you at the Iron Tower. Once you can travel without fear of Ardrhythain locating you, you may proceed to the Tower and claim it.”

“Good,” said Shadowbearer. “Very good. You have done well, Dux of Caerdracon. Andomhaim shall prosper with you as her High King.”

There was a faint note of mockery in the wizard’s voice, but Tarrabus did not care. Shadowbearer had created the Enlightened of Incariel, had forged them as tools to serve his own purpose.

But Tarrabus had his own purposes.

“Thank you,” said Tarrabus.

“And Calliande?” said Shadowbearer. “Is she dead?”

“No,” said Tarrabus.

Shadowbearer hissed in annoyance. “She is dangerous, more dangerous than you know. But once I have the soulstone, I will kill her with all the others.”

###

In the darkness below the Iron Tower, Mara sat alone in her cell, the iron collar about her neck holding her fast to the wall. The thin shift they permitted her was not enough, and she kept shivering, her teeth chattering. The guards had not harmed her, but they had not gone out of their way to make her comfortable.

At least they had let her keep the jade bracelet on her left wrist.

Which was wise of them. Without the bracelet she might have killed every living thing in the Tower.

But the cost would have been more than she could bear.

She buried her face in her knees. Cold, she was so cold. She would have wept, but there were no tears left. Jager, her poor, brave Jager, was likely dead, and there was no one coming for her, no one to free her…

“Perhaps,” murmured a deep whisper, “you ought to free yourself.”

Mara’s head snapped up, her hands moving to weapons she did not carry.

Alone. The white cell was empty, save for her chamber pot and the isron chains.

But the shadows in one corner seemed darker, somehow…and she felt something within them staring at her.

“You are caged,” said the whisper, “but there is no need for it.”

“Who are you?” said Mara. Was this a trick? Some game the guards were playing with her?

“A prisoner, like you,” said the whisper. “We can free each other…and then grow drunk upon the blood of our enemies.”

THE END

Thank you for reading FROSTBORN: THE MASTER THIEF. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice.

Ridmark Arban and his companions will return in fall 2013 in FROSTBORN: THE IRON TOWER. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

Other books by the author

The Demonsouled Saga

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.

Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.

But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.

The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.

The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael’s power can hope to defeat them.

The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.

To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.

Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.

For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.

Unless Mazael can stop him.

Read Demonsouled for free. Mazael's adventures continue in Soul of Tyrants, Soul of Serpents, Soul of Dragons, Soul of Sorcery, Soul of Skulls, and Soul of Swords, along with the short stories The Wandering Knight, The Tournament Knight, and The Dragon's Shadow. Get the first three books bundled together in Demonsouled Omnibus One.

The Ghosts Series

Once CAINA AMALAS was the shy daughter of a minor nobleman, content to spend her days in her father’s library.

Then sorcery and murder and her mother’s treachery tore her life apart.

Now she is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, an elite agent of the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar. She is a master of disguise and infiltration, of stealth and the shadows.

And she will need all those skills to defend the Empire and stay alive.

Corrupt lords scheme and plot in the shadows, desiring to pull down the Emperor and rule the Empire for their own profit and glory. Slave traders lurk on the fringes of the Empire, ready to seize unwary commoners and sell them into servitude in distant lands. Yet both slave traders and cruel lords must beware the Ghosts.

The Magisterium, the Imperial brotherhood of sorcerers, believe themselves the rightful masters of the Empire. With their arcane sciences, they plan to overthrow the Empire and enslave the commoners, ruling all of mankind for their own benefit. Only the Ghosts stand in the path of their sinister plans.

And the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend and terror, waits in the shadows, preparing to launch a war upon the gods themselves. She will make the gods pay for the suffering of mankind...even if she must destroy the world to do it.

Caina Amalas of the Ghosts opposes these mighty enemies, but the cost might be more than she can bear.

Read  Child of the Ghosts for free. Caina's adventures continue in Ghost in the Flames, Ghost in the Blood, Ghost in the Storm, Ghost in the Stone, Ghost in the Forge, Ghost in the Ashes, Ghost in the Mask, and Ghost in the Surge, along with the short stories Ghost Aria, Ghost Claws, Ghost Omens, The Fall of Kyrace, Ghost Thorns, Ghost Undying and Ghost Dagger. Get the first three books bundled together in The Ghosts Omnibus One.

The Third Soul

RACHAELIS MORULAN is an Initiate of the Conclave, the powerful order of mighty mages. But to become a full Adept of the Conclave, she must first survive the Testing. Those who survive the Testing never speak of the trials they endured.

Those who fail the Testing are never seen again.

And now the Magisters of the Conclave have come to take Rachaelis to undertake the Testing. And there she shall face perils to both her body and her sanity.

And creatures that yearn to devour her soul.

If Rachaelis survives the Testing, she will face even more dangerous foes. The demons of the astral world watch the world of mortal men, desiring to rule it for themselves.

And some Adepts of the Conclave are eager to help them.

Read The Testing for free. Rachelis's trials continue in The Assassins, The Blood Shaman, The High Demon, The Burning Child, The Outlaw Adept, The Black Paladin, and The Tomb of Baligant. Read the entire series in The Third Soul Omnibus One and The Third Soul Omnibus Two.

The Frostborn Series

A thousand years ago, the last grandson of Arthur Pendragon led the survivors of Britain through a magical gate to a new world, a world of magic and high elves, of orcs and kobolds and stranger, darker creatures. Now the descendants of the exiles rule a mighty kingdom, peaceful and prosperous under the rule of the High King.

But a shadow threatens to devour the kingdom.

RIDMARK ARBAN was once a Swordbearer, a knight of renown. Now he is a branded outcast, stripped of his sword, and despised as a traitor.

But he alone sees the danger to come. The Frostborn shall return, and unless they are stopped, they will cover all the world in ice and a neverending winter.

CALLIANDE awakens in the darkness, her memories gone, and creatures of terrible power hunting her.

For she alone holds the secret that can save the world…or destroy it utterly.

The secret of the Frostborn.

Read Frostborn: The First Quest, followed by Frostborn: The Gray Knight, Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife, Frostborn: The Undying Wizard, and Frostborn: The Master Thief along with the short stories The Orc's Tale, The Mage's Tale, and The Thief's Tale .

The Tower of Endless Worlds

THOMAS WYCLIFFE just wants to finish his dissertation in peace and quiet. So when a man in a black robe appears in his closet, claiming to be the last of the Warlocks, Wycliffe figures it is a bad joke.

But he soon realizes the last of the Warlocks can give him power beyond imagining.

And all it will cost is his soul.

SIMON WESTER needs a job. Badly. So when a rich and powerful Senator offers him employment, he jumps at the chance. Sure, Simon expects to find some corruption, some shady deals.

He doesn't expect to find black magic.

LIAM MASTERE is a Knight of the Sacred Blade, defender of the mortal races. But can swords stand against guns? As bullets and bombs destroy his kingdom, Liam must risk everything to save his homeland's one chance of salvation.

By daring the horrors of the Tower of Endless Worlds…

Read The Tower of Endless Worlds for free. The saga of the Tower continues in A Knight of the Sacred Blade, A Wizard of the White Council, and The Destroyer of Worlds.

About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here, or watch for news on his Facebook page.

Table of Contents

Description

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Wings

Chapter 2 - Venom

Chapter 3 - Only One Way

Chapter 4 - Vulmhosk

Chapter 5 - Sons of Mhor

Chapter 6 - The Lake of Battles

Chapter 7 - One Theft Too Many

Chapter 8 - Coldinium

Chapter 9 - The Crow’s Helm

Chapter 10 - The Heralds of Mhor

Chapter 11 - A Wanted Man

Chapter 12 - The Dux and the Magistria

Chapter 13 - The Challenge

Chapter 14 - Pursuit

Chapter 15 - Memory Bleed

Chapter 16 - No Longer Useful

Chapter 17 - Gift of a Dagger

Chapter 18 - Catacombs

Chapter 19 - Tentacles

Chapter 20 - Mercy

Chapter 21 - Thieving

Chapter 22 - Vengeance of the Family

Chapter 23 - Traitor To The Realm

Chapter 24 - Debts To Pay

Epilogue

Other books by the author

About the Author