Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1), Page 2

Joram blinked. “You have?”

  Ridmark nodded. “They accept the High King, but they are devoted to the gods of the Deeps, the gods of stone and water and silence. I would not expect a dwarf to enter the Church.”

  “This one has,” said Joram. “Brother Caius came here with the idea to preach to the pagan orc tribes of Vhaluusk and the Wilderland.”

  “A fool notion,” said Ridmark.

  “He left the town two days ago,” said Joram, “and has not been seen since.”

  “Then he is likely dead,” said Ridmark. “This part of the Northerland is relatively safe, but it is still dangerous to travel alone. And the orcs of the Wilderland pray to the blood gods, and their shamans wield black magic and blood spells. A mendicant who tries to preach the faith to them will find his head upon a spear.”

  “I fear you are correct,” said Joram.

  “And,” said Ridmark, “you want me to find him, don’t you?”

  Joram sighed. “Am I truly so transparent? Of course, you were always the clever one.” He shook his head. “The Dux’s letter said I was to treat this Caius with all honor. And if he has gotten himself killed in the Wilderland…”

  “The Dux can hardly blame you for that,” said Ridmark.

  “Nevertheless, I was his host, and he was my guest,” said Joram.

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “I will find him for you.”

  Joram blinked. “That’s it? I thought you would take more convincing.”

  “Why not?” said Ridmark. “The dwarf seems valiant, if foolish, and does not deserve to die alone in the Wilderland. I will either find him and bring him back to you, or tell you of his fate.”

  Or die trying.

  “Will that not take time from your…other task?” said Joram. “The search for the Frostborn?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn are extinct.” He knew better, but continued speaking. “Joram, you were always a friend to me, and you have shown me kindness now. I know you wished to persuade me…but I have been persuaded. I will find Brother Caius for you.”

  And, perhaps, he would find his death. But that did not trouble him. He had ranged over the length and breadth of the Wilderland, following the long-dead urdmordar’s prophecy of the Frostborn, following the warning the undead dark elven wizard had given him…and he had defeated every foe he had faced in that time.

  But perhaps hunting for this strange dwarf would kill him.

  And then, at last, he would have peace.

  “Thank you,” said Joram. “You will have whatever help you require.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “This is what I need.”

  ###

  An hour later Ridmark walked to Dun Licinia’s northern gate, staff in his left hand, gray cloak hanging from his shoulders, and a pack of fresh supplies on his back. The men-at-arms he had confronted earlier gave him wary glances, but Ridmark ignored them. He stepped through the gate and gazed north, at the flowing River Marcaine, the cultivated fields, the tree-choked slopes, the narrow road…and the great dark mass of the Black Mountain. A mile tall, the Black Mountain stood like a dark fist thrusting from the earth. The high elves of old had considered it cursed, along with the orcs and the beastmen and the halflings and the manetaurs and every other kindred to cross through the lands that became the High King’s realm of Andomhaim.

  And Brother Caius had gone to that mountain, intending to preach the word of the Dominus Christus to the orcish tribes living in its northern foothills.

  Ridmark shook his head, half in admiration, half in annoyance, and started walking. The road lead to the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance, burned during the civil wars of the Pendragon princes fifty years past. It was a logical place for Caius to make camp, though bandits or orcs or other renegades might have taken shelter in the ruins.

  He kept walking, and the fields began to thin out, patches of bristly pine forest appearing here and there. Ridmark supposed hardly anyone took the road north. Dun Licinia was the very northern edge of the Northerland, and beyond lay the vast Wilderland, with all its unknown lands and dangerous creatures.

  Only a madman or a fool ventured into the Wilderland.

  So Ridmark kept walking.

  “You!”

  He stopped, left hand tightening around his staff.

  A stocky middle-aged man in the rough clothes of a freeholder climbed onto the road, his face red with anger. He carried a spear, its head worn but still sharp. The man held his weapon competently, but it would have been the easiest thing in the world for Ridmark to swing his staff and break the freeholder’s wrists.

  Instead he said, “Have I wronged you in some way?”

  “You’ve been taking my pigs,” said the freeholder.

  “I have not,” said Ridmark.

  The freeholder sneered. “Aye, you have. I’ve seen you lurking in the woods, snatching my pigs when my back is turned. Outlaws, I knew it! Sir Joram’s constable wouldn’t listen to me. Well, they should have listened to Peter of Dun Licinia! I have captured an outlaw! You will come with me now…”

  Ridmark sighed, stepped forward, and thrust his staff. It caught the spear just behind the head, and sent the weapon tumbling. Peter’s eyes went wide, and Ridmark rested the end of his staff on the freeholder’s throat.

  “Or,” said Ridmark, “you could admit that I did not steal your pigs, and let me go on my way.”

  “Or that,” said Peter.

  Ridmark frowned. “How many pigs have been stolen?”

  “Five. Prime hogs, too.”

  “When did this start?” said Ridmark.

  “Two days ago,” said Peter.

  Ridmark nodded. Caius had departed Dun Licinia two days ago. Had the dwarven friar gone bandit?

  Or, more likely, whatever had killed and eaten Caius was now stealing and eating Peter’s hogs.

  There were far worse things than pagan orcs in the Wilderland.

  “Your pen,” said Ridmark. “Show me.”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed. “So you can steal my hogs?”

  “God and his saints,” said Ridmark. “It’s a pigpen. If I wanted to find it, I suspect I could just follow my nose. But I think I know what’s been stealing your pigs…and if it’s not stopped, it might start eating your family.”

  That got Peter’s attention. “Some horror from the Wilderland? An urvaalg?” He swallowed. “An urdmordar, as the Swordbearers of old faced?”

  Ridmark had faced an urdmordar ten years past. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat, but he doubted one of the great spider-devils was stealing Peter’s pigs. “Perhaps. Lead on.”

  Peter nodded and led Ridmark off the road, through a patch of pine trees, and to his farm. A low wall of field stone enclosed perhaps thirty pigs of varying size, their hides marked with a brand. A half-dozen young men, ranging from twelve years to Ridmark’s age, busied themselves with various tasks. Peter’s sons, no doubt.

  Ridmark walked in a circle around the stone pen, ignoring the ripe smell. He examined the muddy ground, noting the mosaic of footprints and hoof marks around the pen.

  Some of the tracks led away from the freehold, towards the forested hills.

  “What are you doing?” said Peter, following him. “It’s mud! Do you think…”

  Ridmark lifted his staff, the length bumping against Peter’s chest.

  “Hold still,” said Ridmark, still looking at the ground.

  “Why?” said Peter. “You’ll…”

  “If you move,” said Ridmark, “you’ll disturb the tracks.”

  “But…”

  “Hold still,” said Ridmark.

  He followed the tracks leading away from the pen. The land was churned into wet spring mud, with hundreds of footprints, but Ridmark had spent years wandering the wilderness. Given that his meals often came from whatever he had been able to shoot with his bow, he had grown quite good at tracking.

  Hunger was a marvelous teacher.

  He saw the tracks of three men a
nd two pigs leading into the woods. To judge from the state of the tracks, he suspected the thieves had been here no earlier than midnight. Were they simply common highwaymen, raiding the local freeholds? Perhaps they had taken Caius hostage, and hoped to sell him for a ransom…

  Ridmark picked up a slender thread from one of the tracks. It was a long black hair, thick and tough. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, and tossed it aside.

  “What is it?” said Peter, “What have you found?”

  “You should arm yourself, master freeholder,” said Ridmark, “you and all your sons. Orcs from the Wilderland have taken your pigs.”

  “Orcs?” said Peter.

  “Do exactly as I tell you,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff at the freeholder. “Arm yourselves, and keep watch over your fields. And send someone to Dun Licinia to warn Sir Joram. Do you understand?”

  Peter nodded and shouted instructions to his sons, and Ridmark drew his cloak about him and walked into the woods, following the trail of the orcs and their stolen pigs.

  Chapter 2 - The Omen

  Ridmark strode alone through the rocky hills.

  The hills of the Northerland were steep and stony, their sides mantled by tough pine trees. Pine needles scraped beneath Ridmark’s boots, and the air smelled of sap. The maze of hills created hundreds of small valleys and ravines, and caves dotted many of the slopes. The hills offered hundreds of hiding places for a band of orcs.

  And some of the caves even opened into the Deeps, the vast maze of caverns and galleries that stretched beneath the earth of Andomhaim, home to kobolds and deep orcs and dark elves and worse things.

  Hopefully none of them had come into the daylight. Some of those creatures had the power to smash the walls of Dun Licinia and kill everyone within the town.

  But Ridmark doubted he faced anything so dangerous. He suspected a band of pagan orcs had stolen the freeholder’s pigs, and most likely encountered Caius as well. Hopefully they had taken the dwarven friar captive.

  If not, Ridmark would avenge his death.

  He moved like a silent shadow through the trees, boots making no sound against the uneven ground. The trail continued north, moving towards a tall, steep hill. If the hill had any caves, it would make the ideal base for outlaws. They could see for miles in all directions. Of course, a clever outlaw would realize that the trees could mask a skillful attacker, and would post sentries to keep watch.

  Ridmark saw movement in the trees ahead.

  He stepped to the side, ducking under the branches of a tall pine, his cloak settling around him. It would help mask his presence. He had received the cloak as a gift, years ago, from the last archmage of the high elven kingdoms, and in times of peril the cloak blended with his surroundings and shielded him from unfriendly eyes.

  The branches rustled, and an orcish man stepped into sight.

  The orc had a gaunt, lean appearance from long years in the wild, his green skin creased with deep wrinkles, his thick tusks yellowing. His head had been shaved, save for a warrior’s black topknot. He wore leather and fur, a short sword at his belt and an axe slung over his shoulder. His eyes, black and hard without any trace of color, roved back and forth. In his hands he carried a short bow of horn and wood.

  A brand disfigured the orc’s forehead, a burn in the shape of a teardrop.

  Or, perhaps, a drop of blood.

  Rage burned through Ridmark at the sight of that symbol, and he wanted to step from concealment and bring his staff down upon the orc’s skull.

  The orc was a Mhalekite.

  Mhalek was dead, his claim to be a living god shattered at the Battle of Dun Licinia five years past, but many of his followers had survived. Someday the blood gods of the orcs would return, preached the Mhalekites, and they would sweep the world of the humans and the manetaurs and the halflings and the treacherous orcish kings who had accepted the High King’s authority.

  The orc walked away, and Ridmark slipped from concealment and followed, moving from tree trunk to tree trunk. The Mhalekite headed to the base of the hill, and a second orcish man came from behind a boulder. Like the first orc, the second wore leather and fur, a bow in his hands and a blood drop brand upon his forehead.

  “Did you find anything?” said the second orc, speaking the orcish tongue.

  “Nothing,” said the first orc. “We are unnoticed. The human vermin and their halfling pets suspect nothing. They will sleep until we cut their throats.”

  The second orc spat. “Then the Master spoke truly. The hour of blood is come.”

  “Is Orlacht done yet?” said the first orc.

  “Nay,” said the second orc. “He still questions the prisoner.”

  “Orlacht is an idiot,” said the first orc. “The Master’s wishes are clear. All prisoners are to go to him.”

  “After the prisoner goes to the Master,” said the second orc, “he’ll be dead. Or he will wish he was dead. Dwarves have treasure, and we’ll never learn where this one hid his gold.”

  A dwarf? Ridmark moved closer.

  The first orc laughed. “This dwarf doesn’t have any treasure. He has accepted the god of the humans. He probably gave his treasure away to orphans and widows or some such nonsense.”

  The second orc snorted. “Then Orlacht will cut off his head out of spite.”

  The first orc laughed again. “Then better to give him to the Master. He’ll suffer more.”

  Both orcs laughed, and Ridmark took the opportunity to circle around them, hoping to move past and reach the hill. It seemed clear that a group of orcs had taken Caius captive, and if Ridmark acted swiftly, he could rescue the dwarven friar. He moved from tree to tree as the orcs resumed their discussion. Another few feet, and he would be behind them…

  A bird called to his right, and both orcs looked in his direction.

  They saw him, their black eyes widening in alarm, and Ridmark exploded into motion.

  Ever since the Battle of Dun Licinia, he had been forbidden to carry a sword. To the knights of Andomhaim that was a dire sentence, for a sword was symbol of a knight’s honor and prowess. But without the symbolism, a sword was simply a tool for killing.

  And there were other tools one could use for killing.

  Ridmark sprinted at the orcs, his staff in both hands. The first orc raised his bow, but Ridmark was faster. He struck the orc in the forehead, and heard the orc’s skull crack beneath the staff’s steel-capped end. A quick sidestep, and he smashed the staff’s other end against the orc’s temple.

  The orc toppled motionless to the ground.

  The second orc got his bow up and released, and Ridmark dodged, the arrow hissing past his head. The orc threw aside his bow and drew his short sword, but Ridmark charged forward, sweeping his staff in a sideways swing. The staff hit the orc’s right knee, and again he heard the snap of shattering bone. The orc fell to his left knee with a strangled groan of pain, and Ridmark whipped the staff around.

  The heavy weapon left a crease in the orc’s right temple, and the orc fell motionless to the ground, green blood leaking from his ears.

  Ridmark looked back and forth, the staff ready in his hands.

  There were no more enemies in sight.

  The entire fight had taken less than half a minute.

  He stopped long enough to examine the dead orcs, but learned little useful. To judge from their clothes, they had come from Vhaluusk, the land of the pagan orcs on the western bank of the River Moradel, but that was no surprise. Many of Mhalek’s followers had fled to Vhaluusk after Dun Licinia.

  Best to get moving. The longer he lingered here, the more likely it was that another orc would discover the corpses.

  Staff in hand, he followed the trail along the hill’s slope, moving as fast as he could manage while remaining quiet. The trail ran back and forth, cutting around boulders and patches of pine trees, and Ridmark scanned for any sign of an ambush…

  Then voices reached his ears, and he froze.

  The sounds came from the t
op of the hill, and he nodded to himself and climbed up, ducking behind a heavy boulder. A flat hollow filled part of the hill’s top, ringed by boulders, and five figures stood in the hollow.

  The first was a dwarf in brown robes, his gray skin the color of hard granite, his black beard streaked with white. Most of the hair had receded from the top of his head, and the dwarf himself looked like a statue hewn from stone, his eyes like disks of polished blue marble.

  Four orcs stood in a semicircle facing him. Three of the orcs wore leather and fur and carried short swords. The fourth wore chain mail, a massive double-bladed axe in his right hand. His topknot was gray, but the orc still bulged with muscle and stood taller than the others. Ridmark supposed that this was Orlacht, the leader the dead orcs had mentioned.

  And that meant the dwarf in the friar’s robe was Brother Caius.

  “You cannot be serious,” said Orlacht, his lips pulling away from his tusks in a sneer.

  “I am perfectly serious,” said Caius, his voice deep and resonant. He spoke orcish well.

  “Then you expect us to renounce the blood gods?” said Orlacht.

  “Not immediately, no,” said Caius. “But in time.”

  “In time?” said Orlacht. “The blood gods respect strength and power! They reward the bold and the strong with power and might.”

  “The blood gods make you spend your lives in a bloody and futile scrabbling for glory,” said Caius. “Like throwing red meat into a pack of starving dogs. Or the sacrifices the shamans of the blood gods demand? The woman slain upon altars, or the children burned so their blood may fuel sorcery? How many orcs have perished in this useless pursuit of power?”

  “The strong do as they like,” said Orlacht, “and the weak perish. This is the way of the world.”

  “But we are all weak,” said Caius.

  Orlacht snarled and slammed a fist against his mailed chest. “I am not weak.”

  “But we are all weaker than something else,” said Caius.

  “I am not weak!” snarled Orlacht again.

  “But you are not the strongest,” said Caius. “Do you not know your own history? The dark elves brought the orcs to this world to labor as slaves. Then the dark elves summoned the urdmordar…and the urdmordar enslaved both the dark elves and the orcs alike.”