Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife (26 page)

“Where are the others?” said Ridmark.

“Scattered throughout the ruins,” said Philip. “When the arachar brought us here, the spiderlings questioned each of us. They sent some into the high meadow, to work in the fields. Others they sent into the tower.” He shuddered. “The spiderlings said they were going into the goddess’s larder. And those of us with special skills,” he lifted his hammer, “they put us to work. They’ve got Mallen and Richard making barrels, and they put me to work building these damned ballistae.” 

“Why?” said Ridmark. 

“The spiderlings say a great winter is coming,” said Philip. “We’re here to…feed the urdmordar, I think. Like a farmer putting away food for the winter. I think she’s going to put some of us to sleep, and have the rest of us farm and breed.”

“Like a farmer raising a herd of pigs,” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Philip. “And we are her pigs. At least Rosanna got away.” He looked up at them. “And you can get away, too. You’re disguised, right? They’ll notice if I go, but you can get away. Take Rosanna somewhere safe. You…”

“No,” said Ridmark. “I intend to get the prisoners away, all of you.”

“You can’t,” said Philip. “There’s no way to kill an urdmordar. They’re invincible. Just take Rosanna, and get away from here.”

“I don’t intend to kill the urdmordar,” said Ridmark. “I intend to create a distraction and then…”

A deep, booming bell rang out, echoing through the pale ruins of Urd Arowyn. Torches flared in the streets, and Gavin heard shouts and the tramp of boots. For a terrible instant he thought that they had been discovered, that one of the arachar had sounded the alarm.

“We’ve been found,” said Kharlacht. “We must flee at once.”

“That arachar you sent away must have realized we were imposters,” said Gavin, “and warned the others.”

But Ridmark looked only intrigued. 

“No,” said Ridmark, “no, an arachar who addressed a spiderling without invitation would get killed for his trouble. This is something else.”

“Assembly,” said Philip, putting down his hammer and straightening up. “When that bell sounds, all the slaves and the arachar must gather in the courtyard below the tower. Anyone caught lagging is killed.” 

“We should leave at once,” said Kharlacht.

Ridmark looked at the massive tower rising from the heart of the ruins.

“No,” he said. “We shouldn’t.”

Chapter 16 - Sacrifices

Ridmark walked through the streets, Kharlacht and Caius following him, Philip between them. They looked like a group of arachar taking one of the slaves to the assembly. 

Or so Ridmark hoped. 

They passed other groups of arachar and slaves, all heading to the courtyard of Urd Arowyn. Ridmark kept his pace steady, his face grim, but his eyes swept his surroundings. Urd Arowyn had the appearance of a town preparing itself for a long siege. Several of the ruined dark elven mansions had been converted to warehouses, and Ridmark saw sacks of grain and barrels of food and oil stored within. 

It seemed Agrimnalazur intended to keep herself secure in Urd Arowyn with slaves for a long time. Despite himself, Ridmark admired her cleverness. Gothalinzur had merely tried to make the village of Victrix disappear, to use the villagers as a larder. Agrimnalazur was building something more ambitious. A self-sustaining slave community, one that could support itself and even grow.

One that she could feed upon for centuries.

It was like a wolf herding sheep into a meadow so it could dine upon them at its leisure. Had she tried this in Andomhaim, the Magistri and the Swordbearers would have fought her. But here, far from the borders of the High King’s realm, there was no one with the power to stop her. 

Ridmark did not have the power to stop her. Once, he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden, and he could have used the mighty weapon to kill Agrimnalazur. But now he had no weapon capable of harming a female urdmordar.

But perhaps he could free these people. 

They entered the courtyard below the tower, a vast round space paved in gleaming white stone, the light from a score of torches glinting off the walls and ground. A dozen statues of dark elven warriors stood upon plinths, and Ridmark saw that the crude image of a spider had been marked upon their faces in red paint. Hundreds of people, most of them villagers from Aranaeus, filled the square, guarded by scowling arachar. Ridmark saw no signs of any lupivirii. Most likely the beastmen were too troublesome to make good slaves and had been put to sleep in Agrimnalazur’s larder. 

Ridmark saw many he recognized among the slaves. Bardus, the innkeeper. Mallen, who had guarded the gates when he had first arrived, along with a dozen others. He even saw old Agnes standing among the slaves, face slack as she stared into nothingness. Ridmark was surprised that the arachar hadn’t killed her on the road. Perhaps she possessed a useful skill. 

Ridmark urged the others towards the edge of the plaza. If one of the villagers recognized him, or worse, recognized Gavin, they might call out. That would be disastrous. 

“Look,” said Kharlacht, voice low. “Spiderlings.”

A flight of low, wide steps led up to the tower’s entrance. Three spiderlings, indifferent of their nudity, stood there. Like the spiderlings Ridmark had killed in Urd Dagaash, they looked gaunt, almost emaciated, with red hair and eight green eyes shining in their faces. Crimson talons rose from their fingers and toes, pincers rising from their deformed mouths. 

“Why don’t they ever wear clothes?” muttered Philip.

“Some of them do,” said Ridmark. “When they disguise themselves as humans. But the spiderlings think like the urdmordar, and the urdmordar regard clothing as an affectation, a crutch of creatures too weak to survive without it. So the spiderlings go naked to prove their superiority.” He looked at the others. “Now keep quiet, unless it is urgent. The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better.”

The others nodded, and Ridmark fell silent. The flow of slaves and arachar into the plaza slowed to a trickle, and Ridmark counted heads. There were about eight hundred slaves, he guessed, mostly human, but some orcish men and women and a few halflings. Agrimnalazur’s minions must have raided villages other than Aranaeus. He suspected there were about two hundred arachar in the square. 

The bell rang again, three more times, and the arachar and the slaves fell silent. The only sound was the sobbing a few children and the frantic efforts of their mothers to hush them. 

Two figures appeared in the entrance to the tower and descended.

The first was Cornelius. The former praefectus of Aranaeus did not look like a well man. Dark circles ringed his eyes, gray stubble covering his jaw and cheeks. A tremor went through his hands, and his brown eyes darted back and forth as if he expected foes to spring from the shadows.

Morwen walked at his side, young and beautiful in a gown of deep crimson, her red hair gleaming in the torchlight, her green eyes sweeping over the arachar…

“Oh,” said Ridmark.

So damned obvious, and yet he had missed it. How could he have been so blind? 

“What?” said Gavin, glaring at his father.

Ridmark said nothing. The boy would learn the truth soon enough. 

Morwen stepped forward. A sheathed dagger rested in a leather scabbard at her belt, its handle wrapped in an intricate guard of blue steel. She began to whisper under her breath, and black flames danced around her hands.

“What is she doing?” said Gavin.

“Casting a spell,” said Ridmark. “She knows dark magic.” He hesitated. “Many of the spiderlings do.”

Gavin looked at him, at his stepmother, and then back at Ridmark, the horrified realization spreading over his face.

“Steady,” said Ridmark, putting his hand on Gavin’s shoulder. “Don’t look away from the stairs. You’ll draw attention.”

“He knew!” Gavin’s furious whisper hissed in Ridmark’s ear. “He knew! All those years, he knew the entire time.” He shuddered again. “All those years, I lived in his house with a…with a…”

“Hear me!” said Morwen, her magic throwing her voice across the plaza. “I am Morwen, eldest daughter of the great goddess Agrimnalazur! And you,” she looked at the crowd, “you are favored beyond all other mortals! Hail great Agrimnalazur!” 

“Hail Agrimnalazur!” roared the arachar, slamming their right fists against their chests. Ridmark followed suit, hoping to keep from drawing attention.

“You are the arachar, those deemed strong enough and loyal enough to drink of the blood of Agrimnalazur,” said Morwen. Her smile was condescending as she looked at the slaves, like a teacher about to explain the benefits of her harsh discipline. “And you who serve, you are blessed above all other mortals. For Agrimnalazur has chosen you. The great cold ones are returning, and they shall cover the world in ice and darkness. All kindreds shall perish or become their slaves. But you, in exchange for your tribute of flesh and blood, you shall dwell within the walls of Urd Arowyn for the rest of your lives. Your children and your children’s children shall grow up here in service to my mother the goddess, and they shall revere her name.”

Ridmark watched the spiderling, again feeling a dark admiration for Agrimnalazur’s cleverness. It was not enough that she enslave the humans and orcs. She meant to chain their hearts, to make them into her willing servants. If she succeeded, within a generation the descendants of the slaves would revere the urdmordar as their goddess, would take her word as law.

She would enslave them more thoroughly than any chains or manacles. 

Unless Ridmark found a way to free them. 

“But some of you,” said Morwen, “have chosen to spurn the benevolence of our goddess. She offers you her protection and a life of purpose in her service, and you choose to cast aside these blessings.” She shook her head. “Such fools will pay. Cornelius.”

Her husband shuffled forward, accompanied by two spiderlings, and started to undress her. They removed her clothing, folding it neatly, until Morwen stood naked before the crowd. Like the other spiderlings, she was indifferent to her nudity. Elaborate swirling tattoos the color of blood reached up her legs and spiraled around her torso, and Ridmark saw that they flickered with a pale red glow as she moved.

Morwen stretched her neck, and her body rippled as it changed. The eight green eyes of the spiderlings appeared on her face, along with the deadly crimson pincers. Red claws sprouted from her fingertips. Morwen let out a sigh of relief and extended her right hand.

Cornelius drew the dagger from her belt and handed the weapon to her.

It was a blade of dark elven steel, its crosspiece and guard wrought in the intricate shape of a fanged spider. Some long-dead dark elven smith, enslaved to the urdmordar, had likely made the weapon. Morwen pointed the blade, the blue steel glinting, and the spider’s metal legs seemed to come to life, wrapping around her wrist. 

“Now,” she said, “bring forth the traitors, the blasphemers, those who have spurned the generosity of the goddess.”

Four arachar strode toward the stairs. Two of them dragged a sobbing woman of Aranaeus between them, while the remaining arachar each carried a child. 

“This woman,” said Morwen, “tried to flee our sanctuary, taking her children with her!”

“No!” said the woman, trying to pull away. “No, I won’t let you…”

One of the arachar backhanded her, and she fell silent, still weeping.

“The penalty,” said Morwen, “for betrayal is death.”

She whispered a spell, the blade of the dagger cracking with black fire, and drove it into the woman’s chest. The woman shuddered and went limp, dangling between the arachar, and the black fire flared and flowed up the blade and into Morwen. She closed all eight of her eyes and went rigid, the muscles standing out in her sinewy legs and arms. 

Her spell had consumed the woman’s life, using it to enhance her black magic. Ridmark wondered how many other lives she had consumed to augment her power.

Morwen stepped back, jerking her head at Cornelius. The traitorous praefectus grabbed the limp body and dragged it towards the other spiderlings. He had barely taken three steps before the daughters of Agrimnalazur fell upon the corpse like a pack of starving wolves, their pincers snapping.

The wail of the children echoed over the silent crowds.

“Take them,” said Morwen, “to the larder of the goddess. There they shall sleep the centuries until Agrimnalazur has need of them.” 

Cornelius led the two arachar with the children into the darkness of the tower, the cries fading away.

“But the goddess rewards loyal service well,” said Morwen, gesturing with her dagger. “Five men have been found worthy of partaking of her blood, of joining her service as arachar. Step forward!” 

Three orcs and two humans climbed the stairs. The humans looked like bandits, their hair and beards long and matted, their clothing stained with dirt and travel. The orcs looked like tribesmen from Vhaluusk, clad in the same fur and leather as most of the other arachar. Morwen brought forth a golden goblet brimming with a viscous black fluid that seemed to crawl and writhe like a living thing. 

The blood of an urdmordar. 

The men knelt, and one by one they swore loyalty to Agrimnalazur and drank from the goblet. One by one they fell choking and wheezing to the stairs, smoke rising from their mouths. One of the orcs did not rise again, as did one of the humans, and the spiderlings feasted on their bodies. But the survivors rose, and Morwen chanted a spell, black flames dancing around her dagger. She carved the eightfold gash into the faces of the new-made arachar, her dark magic healing the wounds and leaving the distinctive scars. 

“Now go,” said Morwen. “Go and serve the goddess. Arachar, wield your arms in her name, and let the power of her blood fill you. Slaves, labor joyfully, for Agrimnalazur has put you under her protection, and your flesh is a worthy tribute. Go and serve!”

The bell clanged again, and the arachar herded the slaves from the plaza. Gavin stared at the steps, shaking with fury.

It was time to go.

“Come,” said Ridmark in a low voice.