Frostborn: The Master Thief (17 page)

Then a column of white mist swirled around him, and Mournacht’s wards pulsed with force. Morigna gestured again, shouting with the effort of her magic. Mournacht bellowed and flung a bolt of bloody fire at her, and Morigna dodged into the wreckage of the inn, the flame withering some of the shattered timbers into smoking ash. Mournacht wheeled to face Ridmark once again, gripping the huge axe in both hands. Ridmark wondered he how he managed that with a broken arm, and realized that Mournacht’s blood magic had healed the break.

Ridmark would have to land a killing blow quickly. Else Mournacht would simply recover from any damage Ridmark dealt to him, and would need only wait until Ridmark’s strength faltered. Worse, the warriors near him recovered their feet, growling as they raised their weapons. Ridmark backed away, staff leveled before him. He might not be able to take Mournacht in a straight fight. He definitely could not take Mournacht and a dozen Mhorites in a battle. 

“He is mine!” roared Mournacht. “Deal with his companions, but the Gray Knight is mine!”

The Mhorites charged into the wreckage of the Crow’s Helm as Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin regained their feet. Ridmark turned to aid them, but Mournacht sprang at him, his black axe blurring. Ridmark jerked to the side, just missing the blades, and brought his staff down hard upon the battle axe’s shaft. Mournacht stumbled, and Ridmark hit him across the face with the length of the staff. The shaman’s head snapped back, blood flying from his mouth. The blow would have broken the neck of a weaker man, but Mournacht merely growled and shook it off.

He attacked in a storm of black steel and crimson flame, and Ridmark found himself driven back step by step as his companions fought in the wreckage.

###

Jager blinked, shook himself, and got to his feet. 

The sound of steel on steel filled his ears. He saw Kharlacht kill another Mhorite with a broad sweep of his greatsword, crimson blood spattering across his blue armor. Caius and Gavin fought back to back, surrounded by Mhorite orcs, weapons rebounding from Gavin’s increasingly battered shield. Morigna stood atop a heap of rubble, violet flame burning around her hands as she flung spells. Ridmark himself dueled Mournacht, the huge shaman driving him back step by step. 

Calliande lay motionless some distance away. She must had thrown her magic against Mournacht’s power and been overwhelmed. Giving Jager had a perfect chance to take the empty soulstone.

He shot a quick glance at the battle and hurried to Calliande. She wore a leather jerkin, a loose tunic, trousers, and leather boots. No room to conceal the thing in her clothing. There were several pouches at her belt, but none of them large enough to hold the soulstone. Tarrabus had said it was the size of a fist. 

Her room. The thing had to be in her room. It would have been secure enough – sitting the common room, she would have been able to see anyone going upstairs to the guest rooms. Of course, she hadn’t known about the Mhorites.Jager had to act now. The Kothluuskan orcs would soon overwhelm Ridmark and his companions unless the city militia arrived in time. 

By then Jager needed to be well away with the soulstone, lest he encounter too many unwelcome questions.

He turned towards the stairs, and a Mhorite orc bounded free of the melee and charged at Calliande, sword raised for the killing blow. She groaned, her eyelids fluttering, and tried to sit up, only to slump against the floorboards. 

This was perfect. If the orc killed her, Jager could make his escape.

He remembered her sitting by Kharlacht’s prone form in the hold of Otto’s boat, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

Jager sprang at the orc, driving his dagger into the Mhorite’s right leg. The orc stumbled, his red-tinted black eyes wide with shock. Likely the Mhorite had not seen him as a threat. No one feared halflings. 

The warrior before Jager knew better, now.

He ripped his dagger free, angling his sword for a stab, but the Mhorite snarled and slashed at Jager. He ducked, the edge of the sword tugging at his hair, and lashed with his dagger, opening another gash upon the orc’s leg. The Mhorite howled in fury and charged, and Jager just got out of the way. The sword hammered down in a heavy swing, and Jager blocked, his sword and dagger crossed, his arms trembling with the strain.

White light flared around Jager, and he felt magic lending his limbs strength and speed. He sprang at the orc, dodging another swing of the sword, and thrust. His shortsword opened the orc’s throat, and the Mhorite fell, gagging.

Jager finished him off with a stab to the heart.

Calliande climbed back to her feet, white fire playing around her fingers. 

“Thank you,” she said, “for my life.”

A wave of shame rolled through him. 

“Thank you for your assistance, my lady Magistria,” said Jager with a grandiose bow, using it to hide his discomfort. “It was most timely.”

“Where is Ridmark?” said Calliande.

Jager did not know, and Calliande started casting spells.

###

Ridmark was overmatched.

He landed hit after hit upon Mournacht, but the big shaman ignored the impacts, and every time Ridmark dealt damage, the Mhorite’s dark magic healed the wound. Worse, without Calliande and Morigna to distract him, Mournacht was free to bring his magic to bear in their duel, his powers raising his strength and speed to superhuman levels. If Ridmark made one mistake, Mournacht would take off his head with a single blow.

Or blast him to a withered corpse, as he had done to the Crow’s Helm.

Step by step Ridmark retreated, Mournacht forcing him away from the main battle. His friends were holding their own against the Mhorites, but they needed his help. And without the help of Calliande or Morigna, Ridmark doubted he could overcome a magically-augmented foe like Mournacht. 

‘Pathetic,” growled Mournacht. “I had heard you were a fierce warrior, worthy of respect. Perhaps you would have been, had you still carried a Soulblade. Instead you are simply a fool with a stick.”

“Then stop talking,” said Ridmark, “and send me to face your red god.”

“You shall met him soon enough,” said Mournacht, “but that pleasure is not mine to take, alas.”

Suddenly he stepped back, axe raised in guard. Ridmark turned, watching for any other attackers. Mournacht had driven him into the courtyard behind the Crow’s Helm, and he heard the shouts and clangs from the fighting.

But the courtyard was deserted.

“Heralds of Mhor!” thundered Mournacht. “Have I not done well?”

“You have,” said a raspy, deep voice.

A familiar voice. 

Four men glided from the shadows, clad in dark cloaks and cowls, swords and daggers glittering in their fists. Each man wore a cuirass of crimson leather and a mask of red steel. The masks had been worked in the shape of grinning crimson skulls. 

Ridmark had seen such masks before. 

“The Red Family of Cintarra,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff at them. “No. That’s not quite right, is it? The Red Family of Mhor. Worshippers of the old blood god of death.” 

“You speak correctly,” said the lead assassin in his raspy voice. 

“And you are the Heralds of Mhor,” said Ridmark.

The assassin inclined his skull-masked face. “The orcs of Kothluusk see us as such, at least those who worship Mhor. For Mhor is the bringer of death, the crimson skull…and we of the Red Family are devoted to his service, the heralds of Mhor’s death to those who challenge us.”

Ridmark saw that Mournacht had vanished. 

“That was the point of all this, then?” said Ridmark. “Just to drive me to you?”

“They Mhorites were to kill you,” said the lead assassin, “but if they failed, they were to drive you into our grasp…and here you are.” He beckoned with his sword, and the four assassins began to circle around Ridmark. 

“Let me guess,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus Carhaine hired you. Or Shadowbearer. Then you’ll kill me and take the soulstone for him. Isn’t that right…Rotherius?”

He had fought Rotherius before, below the Old Man’s hill, and had barely escaped. Rotherius had been deadly quick, and if Ridmark had not been able to outwit the assassins, he would not have come out of that fight alive. 

The assassin laughed and lifted his red mask. Rotherius had a narrow, lined face beneath a tangle of graying yellow hair, his pale eyes cold and dead. “You remember. Very good. But this is not about the Dux and the Enlightened of Incariel, Ridmark Arban, nor about the wizard Shadowbearer. This is about you.”

“Me?” said Ridmark. 

“You slew two of our brothers in Aranaeus,” said Rotherius, “and five more in the swamps outside of Moraime. No one defies the Red Family and lives.”

“So you are here,” said Ridmark, “to kill me for the blood of your brothers.”

“You should regard it as an honor,” said Rotherius. “Others have slain assassins of the Family before, but we have hunted them down. No one has ever slain seven of us and lived. Usually we accept payments of gold to sacrifice infidels to Mhor’s halls, but not this time. The Matriarch of the Family herself has decreed your death. Your head shall make a worthy sacrifice to Mhor when I lay it before her throne.” 

“You’ll have to take it first,” said Ridmark.

“Easily accomplished,” said Rotherius, dropping his skull mask into place. “Farewell, Ridmark Arban. You were a worthy foe…but we are the heralds of Mhor, and in his name we shall claim your death.” 

“Then come and take it,” said Ridmark.

The Red Brothers did not respond to his taunt, save to glide forward in silence, their weapons glittering in the darkness.

###

Earth magic rose at Morigna’s command, and her mind shaped it into spells of mist and stone. Yet the sheer press of the orcs drove them back, and she had to take shelter behind Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin and Jager as they battled the orcs, standing alongside Calliande as she cast spells of speed and strength.

Yet she could not see where Ridmark had gone. Mournacht had driven him around the corner of the inn and out of sight, and Morigna could tell that Ridmark had been overmatched. Without magical aid, he would fall to Mournacht’s axe. 

Then the Mhorites began to retreat. 

“What are they doing?” said Calliande, sweat tricking down her face. Close to thirty orcs lay dead upon the ground, maybe even forty, but many more filled the street. Mournacht must have found reinforcements somewhere. Certainly they had enough warriors to take the inn if they…

Trumpets rang out, and Morigna heard the clatter of steel-shod hooves against the ground.

“Arassa did it,” said Calliande, lowering her hands. “She brought help.” 

The Mhorites fled, vanishing into the darkness. Calliande hurried forward and began healing the others. She winced as she did so, gritting her teeth as her magic washed over them and closed their wounds. As much as Morigna disliked the Magistria, she had to admire Calliande’s resolve. Healing wounds meant Calliande took the pain of the wound into herself, and to do so over and over again without flinching took tremendous mental discipline. 

“We have to find Ridmark,” said Morigna.

“Aye,” said Calliande, wiping more sweat from her forehead. “He needs help against Mournacht. We…”

The horsemen came into sight. They wore gleaming chain mail beneath surcoats adorned with a stylized red dragon, the sigil of the Pendragons, the ancestral High Kings of Andomhaim. The lead rider was a short, stocky young man with a chest like a barrel, clad in the shining steel plate of a knight. He had a bushy black beard and narrowed brown eyes. A young woman in a white robe rode at his side, slender and haughty. She had black hair that fell in ringlets around her shoulders, bright green eyes, and olive-colored skin. 

A Magistria. Morigna released her magic. Only the Magistri were allowed to wield magic within Andomhaim, and if the Magistri or the Swordbearers caught her using earth magic, they would kill her. 

“Her,” said Calliande, staring at the Magistria upon the horse.

“You know her?” said Morigna. 

“No,” said Calliande. “But…her face is familiar…” She shook her head. “Brother Caius, I think you had better do the talking. We need to find Ridmark.”

Caius nodded and walked towards the knight and the Magistria. 

“Welcome!” said Caius. “My lord knights, you are most sorely welcome. Another few moments and the Mhorites would have had us. One of our friends is in peril, and…”

“Mhorites?” said the young knight. “Identify yourself.” 

“I am Caius, a brother of the mendicant order,” said Caius. 

“I am Sir Cortin Lamorus,” said the young knight. Ridmark had said that a man named Corbanic Lamorus was the Comes of Coldinium. “What has happened here? We saw fires from the walls, and heard reports of Kothluuskan orcs in the Outwall. We killed several, but the rest have fled.”

Caius told the facts of the battle, claiming that they were travelers staying in the Crow’s Helm, awakened when the Mhorites attacked. All that was technically true, though he failed to mention Ridmark or the soulstone. Morigna judged that wise. “The orcs pursued our friends behind the inn,” said Caius. “Forgive my presumption, sir knight, but we must go to their aid.”

“You are right,” said Sir Cortin. “We…”

“These men the orcs chased,” said the Magistria in a cool voice. “Did one of them wear a gray cloak and have the brand of a coward upon his cheek?”  

###

Ridmark braced himself, and the trumpets rang out.

The militia and Comes Corbanic’s men had come. 

Rotherius and the other assassins shared a glance among themselves.

“Well?” said Ridmark. “I don’t know how long I’ll last against the four of you. Shall we find out? You will kill me in the end, but I think I will last a long while. Long enough for the garrison to show up. How do you think they will react when they find four Brothers of the Red Family in the Outwall.” He waved his staff. “Or however many of you are still alive by then.” 

He stood motionless, staring at the assassins, his heart thundering in his ears. Death did not faze him. But he would prefer not to die until he had fulfilled his promise to Calliande, until he had stopped the return of the Frostborn.