Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife (9 page)

Something in the way he said it sent a chill down Gavin’s back. Mallen must have felt it, too. The carpenter swallowed, rubbed his beard, and gave a curt nod.

“Aye,” he said at last. “Well, the praefectus can decide what we are to do with you.” He shook a finger at Gavin. “And your father will be glad to see you.”

“No, he won’t,” muttered Gavin. 

Calliande glanced at him with a frown.

Mallen shouted something and the gate swung open with a creak. Gavin led the others through the gates and into Aranaeus. Houses of built of fieldstone lined the short street leading to the main square, their roofs made of thatch. 

“Your father, boy,” said Mallen. “He’ll be at the hall. Better go to him at once. You let the strangers wander about without seeing him first, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“From Morwen, most likely,” said Gavin. 

“Morwen?” said Ridmark. 

“My father’s wife,” said Gavin. He sighed. “My stepmother.” 

“Ah,” said Ridmark.

“Well,” said Gavin, “we should talk to my father and get it over. This way, sir.”

They walked towards the village’s square. The villagers stood on their doorsteps, speaking with each other in low voices, and cast hostile stares toward the strangers. Belatedly Gavin wondered if bringing Ridmark and the others here had been a good idea. The people of Aranaeus were frightened, and they might blame Ridmark and his companions for what had happened. 

If that happened, Gavin was more concerned about what Ridmark and his friends might do to the villagers than what the villagers might do to Ridmark.

They passed the blacksmith’s shop. A young man of about twenty stepped into the street, thick and muscular, a leather apron covering his clothes. A girl of about Gavin’s age walked with him, her hand resting on his forearm. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. 

Philip and Rosanna. 

His heart sped up when he looked at her. Rosanna saw him, and her green eyes widened in surprise.

“Gavin!” she said, and she hurried towards him and hugged him. “You’re alive! Oh, thank God. I was up all night praying for you. We both were.”

Philip moved to her side, a heavy arm going around her shoulders. “Aye.” He frowned. “Why did you run off? You made poor Rosanna think you had disappeared.” He shook his head. “You ought to have a proper craft, instead of listening to that old priest tell his outlandish tales…”

Gavin felt his temper flare. “There’s more to the world than your forge and field, and if we hide from it…”

“Don’t quarrel, you two,” said Rosanna. “I’m just glad you’re safe.” Her eyes turned to Ridmark and the others. “And these…they saved you from the beastmen?”

“This is Ridmark Arban,” said Gavin, “and the Magistria Calliande, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, and Brother Caius of the mendicants.” 

“Thank you for helping Gavin,” said Rosanna to Ridmark. “He gets…well, he gets carried away sometimes.” 

Embarrassment warmed Gavin’s face, but Ridmark remained grave. “We all do.”

“You had best speak to the praefectus, sir,” said Philip. “We of Aranaeus are not unfriendly, but you’ll understand why we’re suspicious of strangers.”

Gavin opened his mouth to protest, but Ridmark only nodded. “I cannot blame a man for caution. Lead on, Gavin.”

Gavin closed his mouth, nodded to Rosanna, and kept walking. He saw the eyes of the villagers staring from barred doors and shuttered windows, watching the strangers with suspicion. Looking at Gavin with suspicion. Why would they be afraid of him? Just because he had gone outside the village and returned?

An unsteady, crooning voice raised in song caught his attention.

An old, old woman stood on the doorstep of a house, a blue dress hanging loose around her bony frame. She was so old her face looked like skin pulled tight over a skull, her faded blue eyes hazy and unfocused. Her white hair hung in wispy disarray over her liver-spotted scalp, and her hands twitched as she sang. 

“Why,” she said, “it’s young Gavin, returned with some friends. Are you well, Gavin? They thought you had died, but I told them Gavin was too young to die.” She smiled a toothless smile. “Only the old die, alas, alas, once they’ve had many strong children.”

“Agnes,” said Gavin with a polite bow. She was the oldest woman in the village, at least a century of age if not more, and according to Bardus the innkeeper her mind had gone twenty years past. Yet Father Martel said elders were to be treated with respect, so Gavin always tried to be kind to Agnes. 

“Who are your friends, Gavin?” said Agnes, squinting at Ridmark. “Why, I remember you! You’re young John. I put my pies on the windowsill to cool them, and you would steal them.” She gave his hands a gentle smack. “You naughty boy.”

“I fear you are mistaken, mistress,” said Ridmark without the hint of a smile. “My name is Ridmark Arban, and I have not been to Aranaeus for nine years.”

But Agnes had forgotten about him. She saw Calliande, and her smile widened. “Aren’t you a pretty young thing? Too skinny, though. You need wider hips for proper birthing. When you have your first child, you’re going to scream like a pig with a nail through its hoof.”

“Ah,” said Calliande. “Thank you. I think.”

“Is she your girl, Gavin?” said Agnes. She cackled. “You’ll have handsome, vigorous children. Even with her narrow hips.”

Gavin felt his face go red.

Calliande laughed. “I fear not, mistress. I am too old for him, by several centuries.”

Centuries? What did that mean?

“Oh, pish. I am older than everyone, and I do what I like,” said Agnes. “And now I must go to the gate. Why, I need to watch for men with swords and cattle.”

She tottered off.

Gavin looked at Calliande, swallowed, and then back at Ridmark. “We should keep going.”

To his great relief, neither Calliande nor Ridmark laughed. “Of course.”  

Gavin led them to the square. A well stood in the center of the square, and the village hall and the church rose on opposite ends. Word must have run ahead of them, because Gavin’s father was already walking from the hall.

Morwen was with him. 

His father and stepmother stopped a few paces away, frowning.

“Where have you been, Gavin?” said Cornelius. He was thin and tired, his curly hair gray, dark shadows ringing his brown eyes. From time to time a slight tremor went through his hands. “You just…you cannot run off! Not now, not when people are going missing! I thought you had been killed.”

Gavin lifted his chin. “I was going to go to Castra Marcaine to get help from the Dux.”

“That was foolish,” said Morwen. She was at least twenty years younger than Cornelius, lovely and slim with long red hair and brilliant green eyes. “You ought to have remained safe in the village.”

Gavin’s temper shivered. “You are not my mother. You cannot tell me what to do.”

“Gavin!” said Cornelius. Morwen only smiled, the same condescending expression she always used. 

“It is all right, husband,” said Morwen, her expression never wavering. “The boy is simply overwrought.” 

“You will forgive my son, sir,” said Cornelius, taking a deep breath. “He is unaccustomed to comporting himself before strangers.”

Gavin opened his mouth to answer, but Ridmark spoke first.

“Actually,” said Ridmark, “he fought with great courage. I am sorry if I have caused undue disruption. My name is Ridmark Arban, and this is the Magistria Calliande, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, and Brother Caius of the mendicants.”

Cornelius frowned. Ridmark had said he had met the praefectus before, but Gavin wondered if Cornelius remembered. It had been nine years ago, and Gavin’s mother had still been alive. 

Morwen’s eyes shifted to Calliande and then back to Ridmark. 

“It seems I owe you my son’s life, sir,” said Cornelius. “Thank you.”

“Indeed,” said Morwen. “A surprise from a man branded as a coward.”

Calliande bristled, but Ridmark only shrugged. “I have dealt with the lupivirii before. Praefectus, I fear you face a greater enemy than the beastmen.”

“What do you mean?” said Cornelius. 

“The lupivir alpha I spoke with believes that you are kidnapping his females and his children,” said Ridmark.

Morwen laughed. “That is absurd. What would we do with the vile beasts?”

“Nevertheless,” said Ridmark.  “The beastmen, as you know, do not lie. It is simply not in their nature. They believe you responsible, but I think something else is to blame. Some creature or power that is preying upon both you and the beastmen.”

Morwen lifted her eyebrows, her condescending smile focusing upon Ridmark. “And what would that be, pray?” 

“The choices are many,” said Ridmark. “This is the Wilderland, and there are numerous creatures that regard both humans and lupivirii as useful prey. Pagan orcs and dark elves take beastmen and humans as slaves. Kobolds, deep orcs, or dvargir could be raiding from the Deeps. A pack of male urdmordar could be eating your people. A nest of fire or frost drakes or wyverns might be hunting you. Or,” he pointed at the pale ruins of Urd Dagaash rising over the town, “whatever lurks within those ruins could be carrying off your people. When your ancestors left the High King’s realm, I am surprised they settled in the shadow of such a place. Dark elven ruins are not to be trifled with.”

“There are evil things in Urd Dagaash,” said Cornelius. “But they do not venture out of the ruins, and are harmless if left alone.”

“The omen of blue fire twenty days ago,” said Ridmark, “might have changed their minds.” 

“We of Aranaeus,” said Morwen, “know more of our land than some wandering stranger. Might we ask your business here, sir?” 

“If you like,” said Ridmark. “I am going to Urd Morlemoch.” Cornelius’s mouth fell open, and Morwen’s smile disappeared. “The blue fire that you saw twenty days past? That is an omen of the return of the Frostborn. The Frostborn are coming back, but I need more information. So I am going to Urd Morlemoch to force the Warden to tell me his secrets.”

“That is madness,” said Morwen. “The tales I heard from my mother…no one enters the stronghold of the Warden and returns.”

“One man did,” said Cornelius. “I remember you now, sir. It was…nine, ten years ago, was it not? You said you were going to Urd Morlemoch, and you never returned. I thought you were dead.”

“I took a different route on my way home,” said Ridmark. “But I entered Urd Morlemoch and lived, and I intend to do so again.” 

“Then you are welcome to purchase supplies,” said Morwen, “and to be on your way.” She pointed. “Bardus at the White Walls Inn can supply what you need.”

“I would not leave you in peril,” said Ridmark. “I will assist you with finding whoever has taken your missing folk, if I can.”

“No,” said Cornelius at once. “That is not necessary.”

“Father,” said Gavin, “a score of people have disappeared in the last twenty days. The beastmen say the same. Surely there is some danger we both face. It…”

“Your father said no,” said Morwen, a hint of anger in her voice for the first time.

“We are grateful for the offer, sir, but there is no mystery,” said Cornelius. “The beastmen crept over our walls and took the missing people, that is plain. But we are on our guard now, and they will not surprise us again. Sooner or later the beastmen will exhaust the game available in the woods and move on.” He pointed at Ridmark. “You are welcome to stay at the inn for the night, and to purchase whatever supplies you need, but do not meddle in our troubles, sir. They will take care of themselves.” He turned toward the village hall. “Gavin, come.”

Gavin folded his arms and did not move.

Cornelius looked at him, sighed, and walked away. Morwen watched them for a moment longer, and then left without another word. 

###

“Well,” said Calliande once Cornelius and Morwen had vanished into the hall. “That was pleasant.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark.

He suspected that both Gavin’s father and his stepmother knew more, much more, than they claimed. And his suspicion that something other than the beastmen had taken the missing people had hardened into certainty. 

But what? And more importantly, did the praefectus and his wife know who was behind the disappearances? And if so, why blame the beastmen? 

“I am sorry for my father, sir,” said Gavin. His disgust was plain to see. 

“He is your father,” said Caius, “and the holy scriptures command us to honor our fathers and mothers.”

“I know. Father Martel says the same,” said Gavin. He took a deep breath. “Yet it is difficult.”

“When did your father remarry?” said Ridmark. 

“Several years ago,” said Gavin. “A few months after a fever carried off my mother, may God rest her soul.”

Ridmark nodded. “Was Morwen born in Aranaeus?”

“No,” said Gavin. “She was born in Andomhaim, in Caerdracon. The Dux of Caerdracon demanded that she become his mistress, and she refused. He hung her father in retribution, and Morwen fled the High King’s realm and came here.”

“I see,” said Ridmark. Tarrabus Carhaine, the Dux of Caerdracon, would not scruple at such a deed, but Tarrabus usually employed more subtle methods to get what he wanted. And it was exactly the sort of story calculated to rouse the sympathies of villagers whose ancestors had fled Andomhaim. But a woman who fled the High King’s realm might have any number of reasons to conceal her identity. “This priest you mentioned, Father Martel. Might I speak with him?”

“Of course,” said Gavin. “He’ll be in the church.”

Caius frowned. “Should you not attend to your father? He asked you to come.”

Gavin snorted. “If I do, he’ll shout at me because he isn’t brave enough to shout at Morwen. He’ll rant and rave, then do nothing. But he is the praefectus of Aranaeus, and it is his responsibility to look after the people here. If he won’t do it, then I will have to. This way, sir.”

Gavin led the way, and Ridmark found himself watching the boy. He was obviously rash and impulsive, and just as obviously in love with the girl betrothed to that blacksmith’s apprentice. Yet there was a nobility to Gavin’s actions, a valor beyond the usual recklessness of a fifteen-year-old boy. He wondered how a man like Cornelius had begat a son like Gavin.