Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife (31 page)

His friends crashed into the melee around him. Kharlacht’s sword wrote arcs of blue steel in the air, leaving trails of black-streaked green blood in its wake. Caius’s mace smashed bones and crushed skulls, while Gavin bashed with his shield, thrusting with his sword at off-balance orcs. Ridmark would have to correct the boy’s technique if they lived through this …

Another orc came at him, and Ridmark had no more time for thought, only for fighting and survival.

He forced his way through the orcs.

###

Gavin struck an arachar across the face with his shield. The orc roared in rage, the red light in his eyes brightening, and surged forward in a fury, swinging his sword. Gavin backed away, trying to get his blade in line to strike.

Philip’s hammer struck the side of the arachar’s head, and the orc joined the others upon the ground.

Someone screamed, and Gavin turned, green blood dripping from his sword as he braced for another attack.

But most of the orcs were dead. 

Kharlacht and Caius had carved their way through the orcs, but Ridmark had killed most of them. Gavin had seen Ridmark force Rakhaag to submit, face the spiderlings in Urd Dagaash and the male urdmordar in the tunnels, but he had never seen anyone move so quickly and fight with such precision. 

It was awe-inspiring. Even terrifying.

Another scream rang out, and Gavin turned, expecting an attack.

Instead a dozen villagers ran at him, their eyes wide with fear. Gavin knew them all, and they gaped at him in surprise.

“Run!” shouted Gavin. “Go! The gate is unguarded. Wait for the others in the valley. We’ll rejoin you when we can. Run!”

They ran for the gate. 

Gavin looked around for any other foes, but he saw none. Screams and shouts echoed through the streets, along with the occasional roar of an enraged lupivir. The raging flames spreading through the ruins reflected off the clouds overhead, filling the city with an eerie smoldering glow. 

It was like a scene out of hell.

But it was working. Gavin felt a surge of exultation. They would do it. They would defeat the arachar, they would free the captives, they…

A deathly chill passed through him.

They had almost reached the central plaza. Screaming people fled in all directions, arachar bellowing at them to stay where they were, only to fall beneath the claws and fangs of the beastmen. 

The chill deepened, and a whirling column of shadows and darkness appeared at the end of the street, a vortex of nothingness. An arachar came too close to it, and screamed as he withered and then crumbled into dust. 

Morwen had unleashed her dark magic.

The vortex surged forward with terrifying speed.

###

Calliande saw the writhing column of darkness flow towards them.

Tremendous power radiated from the whirling vortex. Spiderlings could often use dark magic, but this was the work of a skilled sorceress. Agrimnalazur had plainly entrusted Morwen with great dark magic, perhaps even the ability to tap Agrimnalazur's own power. 

Calliande was not sure she had the strength to overcome the potent spell.

The vortex touched another pair of arachar, sucking away their lives as their bodies crumbled into dust. The tornado of shadow danced along the street, moving towards a group of fleeing slaves. If the vortex reached them, it would kill them all in the space of a heartbeat.

And Calliande would not let that happen.

She summoned magic, as much power as she could hold, and unleashed it at the vortex. White fire burst from her fingertips and slashed at the vortex with a line of scintillating flame. The shadowy column shuddered, and Calliande gritted her teeth as she felt her will strain against Morwen’s. Through the strain of their competing magic, she sensed the spiderling’s insatiable hunger for living flesh, her lust for power and domination.

The impulses of an urdmordar. 

The vortex shuddered, Calliande’s magic tearing at the spell. The slaves sprinted past her, running for the gate. Another wave of arachar boiled out of the side streets, and Ridmark sprang into his motion, his staff dealing death with every blow. Kharlacht and Caius followed him, striking with their weapons, while Gavin and Philip urged more of the slaves to safety.

The vortex trembled, and Calliande sensed Morwen pouring more dark magic into the thing.

It flowed towards her, its icy radiance washing over her. Calliande felt her strength waver, felt her power start to buckle.

She heard herself growl in fury, her hands hooked into claws.

She would not allow this. Her memory only extended back a month, but too often in that short time she had seen magic abused. First Talvinius in the village of the Blue Hand, and then the Magistrius Alamur in Dun Licinia. And she could only imagine what other horrors she had seen in her previous life, horrors shrouded by the mists choking her memory.

By God, she did not want to add another memory to the collection!

Calliande thrust out her arms, drawing upon every scrap of power she could gather, and screamed.

Her magic lashed at the vortex, and there was a dazzling flash of white light, so bright that it drove away the night. A thunderclap rang out, a blast of hot air washing over Calliande. She staggered back a step, partly from the wind, partly from a wave of exhaustion. 

But the vortex of shadows unraveled into nothing.

Calliande sighed in relief, sweat dripping down her face.

###

Ridmark sought another foe, but saw none. 

Dead arachar lay scattered across the ground, their black-streaked green blood pooling around them. The vortex of shadow had collapsed, and for a moment they stood in an island of calm. 

But only for a moment. 

He heard shouts and screams coming from the rest of Urd Arowyn, the flames rising higher from the ruined mansions. People fled through the streets, men and women and children, making for the gate and freedom.

“Perhaps we should withdraw while we still can,” said Kharlacht. “Most of the villagers will have escaped by now. We can organize them and lead them back to Aranaeus.” 

Ridmark shook his head. “No. There are still villagers in the streets. And Rakhaag’s kin are trapped within the central tower, locked in the death sleep. I promised Rakhaag I would try to rescue them, and I will not break my word.”

“If we do that,” said Philip, “if we go into the tower, we risk waking Agrimnalazur. From what Morwen and the other spiderlings said, I think she spends most of her time in the tower.”

“So be it,” said Ridmark. 

“And this is not over,” said Gavin, “until we find my father.” Orc blood dripped from his sword, his face smudged with soot. He looked as if he had aged ten years in the last day. Ridmark had seen it before, in boys who had been forced to grow up by a battle. 

“No,” said Ridmark. “I suppose not.”

“Morwen will be the most dangerous foe by far,” said Calliande. “Then let us end this,” said Ridmark, and led the way to the plaza.

Chapter 20 - Father and Son

Gavin followed as Ridmark led the way into the plaza.

It was almost deserted. The torches still burned in a ring around the outer edge, but almost of the villagers had fled. Only those too old or injured to flee had been left behind. Gavin saw old Agnes slumped against the wall, muttering to herself and grabbing her knees, along with a few of the older villagers. Why hadn’t the others helped them to escape? Had they just abandoned the older men and women to die?

Perhaps the rot in Aranaeus had gone deeper than merely Cornelius.

Morwen awaited them upon the steps to the tower.

She was naked, the talons jutting from her fingers, the pincers rising from her mouth, eight green eyes gleaming on her face. The red tattoos spiraled up and down her pale body, flickering with an ominous red glow. The strange blue dagger waited in her right hand, the eightfold legs of its hilt wrapped around her wrist. Three other spiderlings waited behind her, rage and hungry lust on their faces. 

Cornelius stood beside his wife, his expression a mixture of terror and despair. He saw Gavin, and he opened his mouth, closed it, and said nothing.

Ridmark stopped a dozen yards from the stairs, the others waiting,

For a moment no one said anything. 

“Gavin,” said Cornelius. “You’re safe.”

“No thanks to you,” said Gavin. 

His face worked. “The daughters of the goddess at Urd Dagaash were supposed to kill everyone but you. They would have brought you safe to me.”

“Maybe the daughters of your goddess,” said Gavin, glaring at Morwen, “are not as strong as you think.”

Even through the pincers, Gavin saw Morwen’s familiar, condescending smile.

“It’s not too late,” said Cornelius. A tremor went through his hands. “Agrimnalazur is rewarding to those who serve her well. Come here, now. You can still be safe. You can still be…”

Gavin laughed. “Be you? Be a man who betrays his neighbors to the spider-devils?”

“I had no choice!” said Cornelius, his voice rising to a shout. “I did it all to save you.”

“What are you talking about?” said Gavin. 

“I found out about Agrimnalazur when I was elected praefectus,” said Cornelius, the words tumbling out of him. “I didn’t know about her, not really, not before that. There were always rumors. But then Morwen showed herself to me and I knew the truth. Aranaeus belonged to Agrimnalazur. Aranaeus had always belonged to Agrimnalazur. Only a few of us knew the truth, and if I did not keep the secret…they would have killed me. They would have killed you in front of me, first. I did it to save you.”

“And what about all of this?” said Gavin, waving his sword at the chaos of Urd Arowyn around them, at the screams and roars echoing through the streets. “Did you do this for me, Father? Did you sell our neighbors into slavery to save me?”

“I didn’t have any choice!” screamed Cornelius. “Agrimnalazur commanded it. She thinks the omen of blue fire means the Frostborn are coming back to destroy the world. So we had to gather the villagers and take them here.” His hands brushed the side of his shirt, wiping it over and over again. “They all would have died anyway when the Frostborn returned. I saved them, I let them…”

“You saved them?” said Gavin, incredulous. “To do what? Live as slaves to that bloated spider you worship as a goddess? To feed her hunger?”

“Yes!” said Cornelius. “That is exactly what I did. Better that than the freezing death when the Frostborn return. And I can save you, too. It’s not too late. Agrimnalazur will accept your service yet.”

Gavin felt Calliande and Ridmark and Philip looking at him, and he lifted his chin.

“Tell me one thing,” he said. “How did my mother die?” 

“A…a fever,” said Cornelius, stuttering over her words. “A fever, she died of a fever, that…”

Morwen laughed with derision. “A fever from my poison, which you put into her cup, dear husband.”

“You killed her,” said Gavin. He ought to have felt rage, he knew. 

But he felt only cold, so cold, as if the Frostborn had returned within him.

“I had no choice!” said Cornelius.

“You seem to say that,” said Caius, “quite often.”

“She wouldn’t have understood,” said Cornelius. “She was like you, Gavin. A blind fool, devoted to useless, foolish ideals! She would never have accepted the truth. She would have insisted that we fight Agrimnalazur or flee from her. So I had to kill her! Don’t you see? I had to do it to save Aranaeus. I had to do it to save you. I…”

“Enough,” said Morwen. “I tire of your constant whining, husband. Be silent until I give you permission to speak once again.”

Cornelius stopped talking, his eyes wet with tears, his hands shaking. Gavin looked at him and felt nothing but loathing. His father deserved death. Gavin would feel no guilt about killing him. 

He would feel nothing at all.

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight,” said Ridmark. 

Morwen laughed and gestured with the dagger, black flames dancing around the blue blade.

“It does not,” she said, all eight of her eyes glimmering with green light. “Lay down your weapons and submit to the will of great Agrimnalazur, and you shall be spared. You shall make fine arachar, all of you, assuming you survive drinking the goddess’s blood.”

“Or,” said Ridmark, “you could release the remaining captives to me, take your sisters, and depart.”

“Why should we do that?” said Morwen with a laugh. 

“To save your lives,” said Ridmark. 

She laughed again, so hard her pincers clacked. “You are mistaken, Gray Knight. Oh, I know who you are. The Swordbearer who slew Mhalek, but lost his sword and his wife. You have no magic of your own, and only one Magistria,” her glowing eyes turned towards Calliande, “one whose strength is barely a match for my own. The advantage is mine.” She pointed her dagger at Ridmark. “And even if you prevail, Agrimnalazur will destroy you.” She smirked. “Mother gets ever so cross about intruders.”

“Actually,” said Ridmark, “I don’t think she will lift a single one of her eight legs to save you.”

“Do you know so much about the urdmordar?” said Morwen.

“I slew Gothalinzur,” said Ridmark.

“Ten years ago,” said Morwen. “And you were a Swordbearer then.”

“True,” said Ridmark, “but Gothalinzur remains dead. Look around you, Morwen. Most of your arachar are slain or wounded, your captives are escaping, and your supplies are burning.”

“Losses that can be easily replaced,” said Morwen.

Gavin spat. “Perhaps your precious goddess is not as powerful as you thought.”

Cornelius would not meet his eyes.

“I don’t think those are losses,” said Ridmark. “I think they’re a test.”

“A test?” said Morwen. “A test of what?”

“Of you,” said Ridmark. “I know how the urdmordar think, Morwen. They value only themselves. You, her other daughters, her arachar, her slaves…they’re only tools. Tools to help her survive the Frostborn, and she wants reliable tools. And all this, Morwen…all this is a test.”