Frostborn: The Master Thief (12 page)

A bolt of white fire blasted through the door and slammed Mara against the headboard. She screamed in agony, her eyes popping wide, and the shadows around her dissipated. Jager yelled and raised a dagger, but two of the men-at-arms seized his arms and hauled him to his feet. Two others did the same for Mara, who seemed stunned from the white fire, though it had not burned her.

Jager turned his head as an olive-skinned woman in a white robe stepped through the broken door, looking at everything with distaste. It was the Magistria he had seen this morning, the Magistria who had accompanied Tarrabus Carhaine into the city.

“Well,” said the woman, her Latin clear and formal. “Isn’t this just…charming?”

Jager decided to bluff. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? I am a merchant in good standing with the city curia and the Comes, and…”

“Spare me the tiresome lies,” said the Magistria. “I know exactly who you are, Master Thief of Cintarra. The Dux’s spies are most efficient.” She stepped closer, cupped his chin in her slender fingers, and tilted his head to the right and to the left. “It is well for you that money is beneath me. Otherwise there is quite a reward for your capture in Cintarra. And Tarlion. And here, too, I imagine.”

Jager spat in her face. The woman smiled and flicked the spittle away from her cheek. She was quite lovely, with clear green eyes, long black hair hanging in ringlets, skin smooth and lustrous. Yet there was a coldness in the green eyes that unnerved him. She looked angry, despite her smile. Angry at the world, perhaps. 

And she was going to take that anger out on him. 

She nodded to one of the men-at-arms, and a fist slammed into Jager’s jaw. The blow knocked him back, and the men-at-arms let him fall. They raised their boots and brought a rain of kicks onto his unprotected skin. Jager tried to crawl away, tried to shield himself, but he could not.

“Stop!” Mara’s shout was frantic. “Stop, you’ll kill him! Stop!” 

The men-at-arms hauled Jager back to his feet, panting and bleeding, and the Magistria circled around the bed to stare at Mara.

“The dark elven half-breed,” said the Magistria. “And dressed up in the Dux’s ring, no less.” She ripped the signet ring from its cord. “Tell me, Jager. Do you always dress up your whores in stolen jewels? Or is this one special?” 

“She is not a whore,” spat Jager, “and if you call her that again I will kill you.”

“I should like to see you accomplish that,” said the Magistria. “The Dux is indeed right that the realm needs to be brought to order. A halfling that does not know his place, and a dark elven monstrosity that should have been put to death the moment she set foot upon the High King’s lands.” She shook her head. “Take them both. Let us see if they offer impudence when they are in the torture chambers of the Iron Tower.”

Jager had heard things about the Iron Tower, the last outpost of the High King’s realm on the northwestern frontier of Andomhaim, and none of them were good. The Comes of Coldinium was a direct vassal of the High King, but the Dux of Caerdracon held the Iron Tower. The Constable of the Iron Tower was supposed to guard the realm’s northwestern border, but Tarrabus used the Tower as a dumping ground for his enemies.

Anyone who went into the Iron Tower never came out again. 

Jager struggled, but it was useless. The men-at-arms tied his wrists and ankles together, stuffed a gag into his mouth, and pulled a rough hood over his head.

The last thing he saw was Mara struggling against the men that held her, her screams echoing in his ears.

###

The days passed in a haze of pain and terror.

To judge from the rough boards beneath him, and the rocking motion he felt, he was on a boat. They left him helpless and bound on the deck until he lay in his own filth. From time to time someone lifted the hood and removed the gag to pour water down his throat. He screamed questions the first time, demanding to know what had happened to Mara, until a fist to the stomach silenced him. After that they pinched his nose shut and poured the water down his throat. 

Then he felt himself carried, heard boots clicking against stone floors. Doors opened and closed, and locks rattled. The ropes were cut from his aching limbs, and heavy iron fetters clanged around his wrists and ankles, another around his neck. 

Someone pulled the hood from his head, and Jager could see again. 

He sat in a cell of ghostly white stone, the only illumination coming from a crimson crystal in the ceiling. The eerie light painted the walls the color of blood. Instruments of torture stood against the walls, saws and pliers and iron masks and spiked whips. The air stank of blood and rot, and Jager heard distant screams echoing through the hallway outside the door.

“Where am I?” he said, his voice a croak.

“The dungeons of the Iron Tower,” said one of the two men-at-arms who had carried him here. “The old dark elven dungeons beneath the Tower’s foundations.” The man grinned. “They say there are demons down here, demons that come out at night. Maybe they’ll come take you, little thief.”

“Where is Mara?” said Jager. “Where is she? Tell me, damn you!” 

A kick drove him against the wall, his chains jangling. 

“Last I saw her,” said the man-at-arms, “they were passing her around the barracks. Taking turns with her, one by one. You should hear her squeal!” He gave Jager a derisive look. “Suppose after sleeping with a halfling worm she’d want a real man.”

Jager snarled and threw himself at the guard, but the chains jerked him short.

They laughed and locked the door behind them, leaving him alone in the blood-colored gloom. 

Days passed. Jager could not have said how many. Once a day a guard came and brought him food and water, and carried away the bucket in the corner. Jager shouted questions, but the guards ignored him. At least they did not hit him again. The screams from the other cells came frequently, and he desperately wondered if he was overhearing Mara’s torment. He felt sick with fear for her. Had the guards done to her as they said? Or had the men-at-arms simply killed her? 

After eight or nine days, the door swung open, and a nightmare from Jager’s past stepped into the room.

He flinched, and then forced himself not to show fear. If he was going to die, he would not die as his father had. 

The man was a knight of Andomhaim, and wore chain mail beneath a blue surcoat adorned with the black dragon sigil of Caerdracon. His blond hair and mustache were trimmed and styled, and hard black eyes stared down at Jager. He kept opening and closing his sword hand as if it pained him, but a cold smile spread over his face.

“After all this time,” said Sir Paul Tallmane. “Little rat. I thought you would have died years ago, Jager. The way your father did, with that stupid surprised look on his face. Yes, that one you have now.” 

“Is that what this is about?” said Jager. “You want revenge for your domus? Fine. I burned it down. I set fire to it and I laughed as it went up in smoke. God knows you deserved it. So go on. Kill me already.”

He expected the big knight to fly into a rage. Paul’s temper had been legendary among the servants of Caudea and its domus, and more than one servant had gotten a black eye or a split lip simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

But Paul only smiled. “This isn’t about you at all, rat. Or the domus you burned. Much bigger things are happening, and the world is about to change.” He grinned and stepped closer, sliding a dagger from his belt. “Though I’m still going to make you regret it. Let’s start with the fingers, shall we? One by…”

Jager growled, staining against the chains, and a cold voice filled his ears.

“That is enough.”

Tarrabus Carhaine, Dux of Caerdracon, stepped into the cell. 

A guard followed and set a wooden chair upon the floor, and Tarrabus seated himself. He held out a hand, and another guard appeared with a goblet of wine. Still another left a carafe and a second goblet upon a small table.

“Leave us,” said Tarrabus. “All of you. Now.”

“But, my lord,” said Paul, “the worm…”

“Perhaps you ought to thank Imaria for healing your sword hand,” said Tarrabus, turning his cold blue eyes toward the knight. The words were innocuous, but Paul flinched, bowed, and left the cell with the other guards, leaving one of the most powerful men in the realm alone with Jager. 

They regarded each other in silence for a moment, and Jager felt himself shrinking against the wall in fear. 

There was something…off about Tarrabus, something wrong. 

Jager could not have said what it was. The Dux’s shadow seemed too dark, too sharp. From time to time his blue eyes seemed like bottomless pits into the void. Wild visions danced across Jager’s mind, and for a moment he could not shake the feeling that Tarrabus was not really human at all, that some hideous creature of darkness had killed the Dux and wore his skin like a cloak. 

“Ah,” said Tarrabus. “I was wondering if you would notice. Humans cannot, not even Magistri, but Shadowbearer said the halfling kindred might prove more sensitive.”

Jager forced moisture into his mouth. “Sensitive to what?”

“The Seventh Circle of the Enlightened,” said Tarrabus, taking a sip of his wine. 

“I don’t know what that is,” said Jager.

“I would be very irritated if you did,” said Tarrabus. He set his goblet down and poured another. “It is one of the reasons I found you, after all. Some wine?”

Jager blinked. “You had me kidnapped from my home, beaten, imprisoned in this stinking hole without a stitch of clothing, are holding captive the woman I love…and now you want to give me wine?”

“You did steal my signet ring,” said Tarrabus. “You ought to be grateful you still have a tongue with which to complain. But, come. Poisoning you would be a colossal waste of valuable time. And you will need the drink for what comes next.” 

He held out the goblet. Jager hesitated, scooted forward, and took the goblet in his bound hands. The wine burned as it went down his throat. 

“A question,” said Tarrabus. 

Jager forced a laugh. “I fear I am in no position to refuse.” 

“If I were to offer to release you with one condition,” said Tarrabus, “what would you say?”

Jager hesitated. The guards had mistreated and beaten him, but they had not broken anything. With some food and water and rest he would be fine. His abilities as a thief would be unimpaired.

Which meant Tarrabus needed something stolen…and this was a negotiation.

“That would depend upon the condition, I suppose,” said Jager. 

“The dark elven half-breed,” said Tarrabus.

“Mara,” said Jager. “Her name is Mara. Not ‘half-breed’.”

Tarrabus inclined his head. “Mara. The ancient Hebrew word for ‘bitter’, I believe. Appropriate, considering what is likely to happen to her. Now. What would you say if I offered to let you go…but only on the condition that Mara remains here?”

“No,” said Jager. “I refuse. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” said Tarrabus, raising his eyebrows. 

“Because I love her,” said Jager, “and I will not leave her in the clutches of a man like you.”

He spat it with defiance, hoping to insult Tarrabus, but the Dux only nodded.

“A good answer,” said Tarrabus. “One that I can understand.”

“You can?” said Jager.

“Yes,” said Tarrabus. “I know what it is to lose a woman you love.” His face retained his glacial calm, but his fingers tightened around the goblet, and for a moment the darkness around him seemed colder. “But to business. I know all about you, Jager. Your father Hilder’s execution. The arson at the Tallmanes’ domus. And the little burglary spree you have enjoyed in the years since. The Master Thief of Cintarra. The bards even sing songs about you.” He took a sip of wine. “You are going to steal something for me.”

“Am I?” said Jager.

“Oh, yes,” said Tarrabus. 

Negotiation. A Dux haggling with a thief was madness…and in chaos lay opportunities. Perhaps Jager could yet get himself and Mara out of this mess.

“Go on,” said Jager. 

“Do you know what a soulstone is?” said Tarrabus.

“The crystals in the Swordbearers’ Soulblades,” said Jager. “They’re magical. Give the swords their power.”

“Roughly correct,” said Tarrabus. “More specifically, the soulstone of each Soulblade contains the memory and resonance of a high elven bladeweaver, one slain during the high elves’ long wars against the dark elves and the urdmordar. Their power derives from that imprint.”

“How do you know this?” said Jager, curious despite himself. His father had cherished the tales of the Swordbearers. The archmage Ardrhythain of the high elves had given the Soulblades to the High King, as part of the Pact of the Two Orders that created the Knights of the Soulblade and the Magistri. Each Soulblade was bonded to its bearer, and only Ardrhythain knew how to create more. 

Tarrabus offered a thin smile. “One of my teachers knew the high elven archmage who first forged the Soulblades. Only the most powerful high elven wizards know the secret of creating soulstones, and they are not keen to see an empty soulstone fall into the wrong hands.”

“Why not?” said Jager.

“Because a wizard of sufficient skill,” said Tarrabus, “could fill an empty soulstone with whatever force he desired, creating a weapon of awesome power.” He smiled. “Or a key that would open any door. Even a door to another world, perhaps.” 

“And I assume,” said Jager, “that you have located such a stone, and wish me to obtain it?”

“You surmise correctly,” said Tarrabus. “Have you heard of a man named Ridmark Arban?”

His cold voice grew colder as he spoke, his shadow sharper and darker. 

“I take it you are not fond of him?” said Jager.

“Answer the question,” said Tarrabus.

“I have never met him,” said Jager. “I’ve heard the name. When the mad orc Mhalek invaded the Northerland five years ago. I heard that Ridmark defeated his army, but Mhalek slew his wife, and Ridmark went mad from grief. Cast aside his Soulblade and went into the Wilderland to die.” 

“The story is correct,” said Tarrabus, “save in one respect. Mhalek did not slay Aelia. Ridmark himself slew her in his folly and blindness. Her blood is upon his hands, and no one else’s. I trust I am clear?”