Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife (21 page)

Calliande thrust out her hands, drawing upon her magic. A shield of translucent white light flared before her as the assassin squeezed the crossbow’s trigger. The quarrel struck the shield, the power of her ward turning aside the bolt. The light faded, and the assassin sagged to the ground. She stood over him, ready to work another spell, and the assassin’s unfocused eyes turned towards her. 

“The Red Family,” said Calliande. She must have encountered them in her past life, if she could remember them now. “I thought you would have been wiped out centuries ago.”

He bared his teeth at her. “The Gray Knight’s…the Gray Knight’s whore. The Matriarch…sent us to kill him. But she would…she would have also paid well for…for…”

He went limp, and she knew he would die unless she healed him. She prepared the spell, bracing herself for the agony of the man’s wounds. She had to heal him, had to learn more.

Then she heard the sounds of fighting from inside the blacksmith’s shop.

“Ridmark,” she whispered. 

###

Ridmark landed atop a pile of charred planks and felt a dozen eruptions of pain in his back and legs. For a moment sheer agony filled him, and he could not move, could not breathe.

Paul charged at him, sword drawn back to stab, and Ridmark realized that if he did not move, he was going to die.

He might have deserved death, but he had no wish to surrender to his life to the likes of Paul Tallmane and his Enlightened of Incariel. 

Paul stabbed, and Ridmark swung his staff. He barely managed to deflect the sword point aimed at his heart, and instead the tip of the blade skidded down his ribs. Ridmark kicked, and caught Paul in the knee. The knight stumbled, and Ridmark heaved himself to his feet, pain throbbing through him. He thrust his staff, but Paul blocked the blow on his shield.  

“Pathetic,” said Paul. “The son of the Dux of Taliand fighting with a quarterstaff like a commoner. You weren’t worthy of marrying Aelia. She should have wed Dux Tarrabus. He saw how pathetic you were.”

Ridmark felt himself smile, tasting the blood on his tongue. “Do you want to know why I fight with a quarterstaff?”

Paul sneered. “Because you were a coward and stripped of your Soulblade?”

“True,” said Ridmark. “It also lets me do this.”

He charged at Paul, and the knight got his shield up. As he did, Ridmark adjusted his grip on the staff and caught the weapon behind the lip of the shield. He wrenched, pulling the startled Paul towards him. Paul tried to get his sword up, but he was too close, and Ridmark slammed his forehead into Paul’s face. Fresh pain burst through Ridmark’s head, but Paul staggered with a cry. Ridmark got both hands around his staff and brought it down with all his strength.

He heard the bones in Paul’s sword hand shatter, and Paul screamed as his sword clanged against the floor. Ridmark swung again, his staff hitting Paul across the chest, and the knight fell out the door and into the street. 

He landed with a clang of armor and tried to rise, and Ridmark rested the tip of his staff upon Paul’s throat.

“Yield,” croaked Paul. “I yield. Yield! God, you killed them all! I yield!

“You…” said Ridmark. 

Only then did he notice Calliande standing in the street, her mouth hanging open in surprise.

“Magistria,” said Ridmark. He turned his head and spat out a mouthful of blood.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande. “What happened?” 

“Sir Paul came to Aranaeus to kill me, since Dux Tarrabus has a grudge,” said Ridmark. “He also hired some brothers of the Red Family to help him. They failed.” The shock of combat had worn off, and he felt himself growing angry. “Tell me. When the arachar came, when they carried off men and women and children in chains, did you help them? Did you lift a sword in their defense?” 

“Of course not,” said Paul. “The peasant scum are not worth my time.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark.

“For what?” said Paul.

“For letting me do this with a clear conscience,” said Ridmark.

He raised his staff.

“No,” said Paul, his eyes widening. “No, don’t! Don’t!”

“Wait,” said Calliande. “Wait! You can’t just kill him in cold blood. He yielded.”

Ridmark opened his mouth to ask why not, and then stopped himself. 

“And he might know something useful about the urdmordar,” said Calliande.

“I doubt that,” said Ridmark. “He claims to be part of a group called the Enlightened of Incariel.” 

Her blue eyes went wide. “Incariel? Did you say Incariel?”

Ridmark frowned. “You know it?”

“I do,” said Calliande. She frowned. “Or, at least, I think I did. It’s a high elven word, I think. I can’t remember what it means.” For a moment she looked so frustrated that Ridmark thought that she was going to kick Paul. “I know it. I could swear I knew what it meant. But I cannot remember.”

Paul laughed. “Where did you find this one, exile? Give me a few copper coins and I could find you a brighter woman in the brothels of Coldinium…”

The back of Paul’s head bounced off the ground when the butt of Ridmark’s staff impacted with his forehead.

“The next time you insult her,” said Ridmark, “I shall break your other hand. I trust we understand each other.” 

Paul’s glare held a mixture of rage and fear. But mostly fear. 

“These Enlightened of Incariel,” said Calliande. “Who are they?”

“Those who see the truth,” said Paul, sneering at her, “that the church is merely a collection of lies to gull the credulous. The Enlightened of Incariel are stronger men, superior men, and we shall become stronger yet. We will ascend to immortal godhood, and rule this world with justice and a firm hand for all eternity.” 

“I think,” said Ridmark, “this ‘Incariel’ is merely another term for the great void the dark elves worshipped.”

“Yes,” said Calliande, nodding. “Yes, you’re right. I had forgotten that.” She looked at Paul. “Are you mad? You are worshipping the great darkness? It brought nothing but ruin and despair to the dark elves.”

Paul shook his head. “The dark elves were fools. We shall seize the power they were too feeble to take, and make ourselves into gods.”

“You are mad,” said Calliande, her voice harsh, her face stern. “You repeat the folly of Eve when she heeded the serpent. We are men, not gods, and the most terrible suffering results when we try to wield the power that rightfully belongs to God alone.” 

“Do not lecture me with your cringing morality,” said Paul. “Power belongs to those bold enough to claim it and strong enough to wield…”

“A fine argument,” said Ridmark, “coming from an armored swordsman who was defeated by a man with a stick.”

Paul fell silent.

“What are you going to do with him?” said Calliande.

Ridmark said nothing.

Fear began to replace the anger on Paul’s face.

“He should be put on trial for attempted murder,” said Calliande, “but we are outside the realm. There is no one here to judge him. And there is no one here to imprison him.” She took a deep breath. “That means…that means your only choices are to kill him or to let him go.” 

Still Ridmark said nothing.

“Wait,” said Paul. “If you let me go, I will take an oath not to do you harm…”

“An oath on what?” said Ridmark. “God? The saints? The Dominus Christus? You’ve rejected them as myths. I suppose you could swear upon Incariel, but I suspect your Incariel teaches that oaths to lesser men mean nothing. But, then, by your own creed, you deserve to die, do you not? You were weak. I am the stronger, and I have the right to do with you as I wish.”

The fear swallowed Paul’s anger.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande.

Ridmark lifted his staff, and Paul’s eyes grew wide.

He put the butt of the staff on the ground and leaned on it, his weary muscles throbbing. 

“Go,” said Ridmark. “Go to Castra Carhaine. Now.”

Paul got to his feet, his eyes wary. “Why?”

“Go to the Dux Tarrabus,” said Ridmark, “and tell him that the Frostborn are returning. That’s what the omen of the blue fire meant, Paul. It is a sign of the return of the Frostborn. Tell Tarrabus that he must prepare his people and his lands. I know he hates me, but this is more important. He must prepare.” 

“That’s it?” said Paul, holding his broken hand to his chest. “You want me to tell the Dux that…nonsense?”

“Tarrabus is many things,” said Ridmark, “but stupid is not one of them. Go.” 

“I need my supplies, my horse,” said Paul. “There are beastmen loose around the town…”

“Go,” said Ridmark. “Surely a superior man will have no trouble overcoming such trivial obstacles.” He pointed the staff. “You should have a few hours of daylight yet. No sense wasting it. Because if I ever see you again, I will kill you.”

The last hint of defiance drained from Paul’s face, and he fled through the southern gate. 

Ridmark leaned on his staff and watched him go. 

“Hold still,” said Calliande.

“Wait,” said Ridmark, the white fire glimmering around her fingers. “I’m not that badly hurt, and you should save your strength for…”

She put both hands on his head, and the freezing cold and burning heat of her magic washed through him, and he heard her scream as she took the pain of his wounds into herself. Her eyes grew wide, and she let out a long, ragged breath as the pain of his injuries faded away.

She stepped back, shook her head, and pushed the hair back from her face.

“You were hurt,” said Calliande. “Not as bad as you could have been, but you were hurt. My God, all that pain. How do you stand it?”

“I’ve had some practice,” said Ridmark. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Calliande. “You’re an idiot, you know.”

“Probably,” said Ridmark. He retrieved his axe from the dead brother of the Red Family and cleaned the blade on the dead man’s cloak.

“Why did you try to fight all five of them by yourself?” said Calliande. 

“I won, did I not?” said Ridmark, returning the axe to his belt. 

“Barely,” said Calliande. “You were trying to get yourself killed, weren’t you? For Aelia’s death, and you cannot blame…”

“I do not wish to speak of that,” said Ridmark.

“For God’s sake, Ridmark,” said Calliande. “If you cannot forgive yourself for it, then find a way to live with it. Because if Paul had been a little bit smarter or you had been a little less lucky, you would be dead now.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” said Ridmark.

“It would, yes,” said Calliande. “Because if you had thrown away your life like you wanted, then all those people at Dun Licinia would be dead. I would be dead. And if that is not enough for you, then think on this. The Frostborn are coming back, and we are the only ones who know it…and I cannot stop it by myself. I need your help. Ridmark, please.” She swallowed, the veins twitching in her temples. “Don’t throw your life away to punish yourself. Please.” 

He stared at her. Her concern touched him. He did not care what happened to him, but she did. He wished she did not…but it was heartening nonetheless. 

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “I promise not to kill myself.”

One blond eyebrow rose. “That isn’t what I asked.”

“True,” said Ridmark. “I will be more careful.” He thought it over. “At least as careful as we can be while pursuing a female urdmordar and her cult of worshippers while a vengeful Dux sends assassins to kill me.”

Calliande sighed. “It does sound unlikely when you phrase it like that, does it not? Do we even have a chance, Ridmark? Magic is the only thing that can hurt a female urdmordar, and I fear mine is not powerful enough to kill one.” 

“If we are bold and fortunate,” said Ridmark, “perhaps we can get the captives away from the cult and the arachar before the urdmordar notices. But we will not know until we make the attempt.”

“True enough,” said Calliande. “We need to gather supplies for tomorrow, and we both need rest. I assume you will want to leave at daybreak?”

Ridmark nodded, and they walked back to the church to tell the others what had happened.

Chapter 13 - Talons

The next morning Gavin left Aranaeus with Ridmark, his companions, and Rosanna and Father Martel.

Gavin wished he could have convinced them to remain behind. But Rosanna and Father Martel had insisted on accompanying them. Ridmark had acquiesced without much argument. Aranaeus had been destroyed, and was vulnerable to any scavengers or predators. One old man and one young woman would not be safe there. 

And it would be cruel to force them to remain in a burned village filled with the dead. 

So the seven of them headed north, each carrying as many supplies as they could manage. Father Martel had insisted that he could walk, but Calliande had been just as insistent that he should ride, and Calliande had won out in the end.

Gavin suspected Calliande often won arguments.

So Father Martel rode one of the surviving mules. Ridmark took the lead with Kharlacht, the two of them conferring about the terrain. Evidently Kharlacht had once lived in Vhaluusk, and was familiar with the hills, even if he had never been to Urd Arowyn. Calliande walked alongside the mule, keeping an eye on the old priest. Brother Caius brought up the back, keeping watch for any pursuers. 

Gavin and Rosanna walked in front of the dwarven friar.

Rosanna looked at Aranaeus, her eyes red and raw. Some thin plumes of smoke still rose from the ruins, stark against the blue sky. They had spent the night in the church, sleeping upon the floor, and Gavin had heard her weeping, her face muffled in her blanket to keep from waking the others. 

“We’ll get Philip back,” said Gavin.

“Are you sure?” said Rosanna, looking back at him.

Gavin thought of the things he had seen, the spiderlings in the ruins, the scar-faced arachar orcs striding through the ashes of Aranaeus.

The scarred orcs he had killed.

“No,” said Gavin. “I’m not sure of anything.”

“It’s all gone, Gavin,” said Rosanna. “My father’s house, the blacksmith’s shop, the inn, all of it. I spent my entire life there, and it’s gone.”

“I know,” said Gavin. Her father Richard had farmed outside the walls, and then made barrels during the winter. Nothing had remained of his home but ashes and burned timbers. Gavin had not even been sure if the old man’s body had been in the wreckage. Richard had always been kind to Gavin, but he had always just as firmly preferred that his daughter wed Philip.