Frostborn: The Master Thief (23 page)

Gavin nodded, pulled up the hood of his cloak, and walked into the tavern. He had visited the White Walls Inn from time to time in Aranaeus, but it had never been so crowded. Fishermen and bakers sat at the tables, talking and eating. They all ignored Gavin. He bought some beer and a few biscuits, sat at a bench, and glanced around the room.

He spotted Jager sitting alone in the corner, head bowed, his face grim. The halfling looked exhausted. Lost, even. As if he did not know what to do next. Certainly he did not look like a man come to celebrate a successful theft with beer and good cheer.

Gavin took a sip of the beer and grimaced. Come to think of it, he could not imagine drinking this beer to celebrate anything. He ate one of the biscuits, doing his best to keep an eye on Jager. Fortunately, Jager seemed locked in his dark thoughts, and did not look up from his beer even once.

Gavin spotted Calliande’s pack under the table, tucked between Jager’s boots. The halfling thief looked so distracted that Gavin thought he could stroll across the room, snatch the pack, and flee before Jager stopped him. But Jager would recognize him on sight, would realize that he had been followed. And if he ran, Gavin and Kharlacht would never find him again. Neither Kharlacht nor Gavin had visited Coldinium before, but Jager would know all the best hiding places, and Gavin and Kharlacht would have no way of finding him again.

They needed a plan. A good one. 

Gavin walked back to the market square. Kharlacht stood near the door to the tavern, arms crossed over his chest. No one seemed inclined to trouble him.

“Well?” said Kharlacht.

“He’s just sitting there,” said Gavin. He handed one of the biscuits to Kharlacht, who started eating. “He’s either waiting for someone, or he’s trying to decide what to do next.” 

“Fish oil,” grunted Kharlacht, finishing the biscuit. “Who makes biscuits with fish oil?” He shook his head. “We had best act now.” He turned his head, looking at the towers of the city’s castra to the north. “And if things go ill for the Gray Knight and the Magistria…this might be the only chance we have to keep the soulstone from falling into Shadowbearer’s hands.”

Gavin felt a chill. “You think Jager is working for Shadowbearer?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe he is one of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Kharlacht. “I fear it does not matter. If he takes the soulstone, it will end up in the hands of Shadowbearer sooner or later. And if the Gray Knight and the Magistria are slain, we must take it upon ourselves to guard the soulstone.” 

“So what are we going to do?” said Gavin.

Kharlacht considered. “Wait here a moment. If Jager comes out the front door, stop him.” He jogged into the alley and returned a moment later. “There is one entrance in the back. Go there and guard it. I will go through the front door. When Jager flees through the back, catch him.”

“What if he goes through the windows?” said Gavin.

“Then we shall have to improvise,” said Kharlacht. “If need be, I will attack him and claim that he owes me money from a gambling debt. If I can get us both arrested, he will be unable to present the soulstone to his masters.” He shook his head. “Every choice is a risk, but we must act now. Go.”

Gavin ran to the alley behind the tavern. The narrow alley stank of fish and mold, and a single door opened into the tavern’s kitchen.

He took a deep breath, set himself, and loosened his sword in its scabbard.

###

Jager saw no other way around it.

He had to go into the catacombs and retrieve the weapon. 

Of course, that had its own set of risks. 

Coldinium’s catacombs had been built to house the city’s dead in imitation of the catacombs of the Romans upon Old Earth. Yet a far older set of ruins rested beneath the catacombs. Long before Malahan Pendragon had ever set foot upon the soil of Andomhaim, a dwarven stronghold had been built below the soil, guarding an entrance to the tunnels of the Deeps. The stronghold had been overthrown by foes, but the tunnels remained, silent and empty and full of bones.

And traps. The dwarves had constructed legions of fiendish mechanical devices in the ruins, and they functioned to this day. The Comes forbade anyone from entering the old dwarven tunnels, but from time to time treasure seekers went into the ruins, seeking the lost wealth of the dwarves. 

Few of them ever returned. The traps saw to that.

Or the Hunter. 

But Jager had gone into the ruins and returned, leaving the weapon he had stolen from the Matriarch hidden behind the dwarven traps. 

There was no other choice, not if he was to get Mara back alive.

He took a deep breath, looked up, and saw Kharlacht staring at him.

The big orc stood near the front door to the tavern, arms crossed over an armored chest the size of a barrel. A few of the patrons gave him sideways glances, but Kharlacht did nothing threatening. He merely stood motionless, scowling.

Right at Jager.

How the devil had Kharlacht found him? The Magistria’s magic, perhaps, or Morigna’s sorcery. They must have used their spells to follow him. He remembered Ridmark’s fury in battle, Kharlacht’s blue greatsword taking off the head of a Mhorite, and felt a terrible chill. 

Jager had to get away from here, now. Most likely Ridmark and his companions would not chance violence upon the street. If they did, the militia would haul them off, and Dux Tarrabus could collect the soulstone at his leisure. Jager got his feet, abandoning the mediocre beer, scooped up the stolen knapsack, and headed for the kitchen door, watching to see what Kharlacht would do.

The orcish warrior did not move, but his black eyes followed Jager. 

Jager walked through the common room and into the kitchen, ignoring the startled exclamations of the cooks. He went to the back door, and slipped into the alley.

A sword point hovered a few inches before his face.

The boy who had accompanied Ridmark and Calliande stood a few paces away. Gavin, that was his name. He held an orcish sword in both hands, his expression grim.

The blade did not waver.

###

Gavin stared at the halfling.

He expected an attack, expected more smooth words from Jager. He had not expected the halfling to look so terrified.

Jager’s eyes darted back and forth.

“Give it back,” said Gavin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jager.

There were the smooth words.

“Don’t bother,” said Gavin. “The soulstone. In the pack. Drop it on the ground now.” He pointed the sword, and Gavin flinched. “Or I’ll run you through.”

“You don’t understand,” said Jager, a tremor in his deep voice. “I have to take it. They’ll kill her if I don’t.”  

“Who?” said Gavin.

“I have to take it!” said Jager, his voice rising.

“You can’t,” said Gavin, stepping closer. “Shadowbearer wants it, and if you take it, Shadowbearer will find and kill you.”

“A shadow what?” said Jager.

“He’ll use the stone to do something terrible,” said Gavin. “We can’t let him have it. He’ll kill thousands of people.”

“I don’t care about them,” said Jager. “I don’t care about any of them. All I care about is saving her. Don’t you understand?” His voice rose. “They’ll kill her if I don’t bring them the crystal.” 

“Maybe we can help you,” said Gavin. Though given how Ridmark and Calliande had been taken by that enraged Magistria, they were not in a good position to offer help to anyone at the moment. “Put down the pack, now.” 

“But I have…” started Jager.

“Put it down,” said Gavin. “Now.” He moved the point of the blade closer to Jager’s face. “Or I will use this.” 

“You’re too young to kill a man,” said Jager.

“You were at the Crow’s Helm,” said Gavin, “and you saw me kill men there.” 

Jager flinched and started to lower the pack, and then looked to the right, his amber eyes getting even wider. 

“What the hell?” he whispered.

Gavin turned his head and saw Kharlacht come around the corner, his stride quickening when he saw Jager held at bay. 

And, too late, Gavin saw the simple trick.

He turned back just as Jager’s shoulder slammed into his gut. The breath exploded from his lungs, and Gavin stumbled. Jager whirled and sprinted down the alley, his boots slapping against the ground. Kharlacht raced after him, reaching for his sword. Gavin caught his balance and dashed after Jager. The halfling was fast, but so was Gavin, and he had longer legs. Yet Jager still outpaced him. Another few steps and he would get to the square, and if he did, he would get away with the soulstone. 

Gavin yelled and threw himself forward, slashing with his sword.

He felt the blade bite into leather and skin and flesh, and the impact almost knocked the weapon from his hand. Jager screamed and stumbled, but kept running, and Gavin fell flat upon his stomach, his sword outstretched. The halfling thief vanished around a corner. Gavin scrambled back to his feet as Kharlacht came to his side.

“Now what?” said Gavin.

“I don’t know,” said Kharlacht at last.

###

An hour later Jager slumped against a stone wall in the catacombs, every breath sending a fresh wave of agony through him.

“That boy,” he muttered. “That damned boy.” 

The sword blow had been meant to kill or disable him. Instead it had struck his left shoulder, slashing down across his back and bouncing off his ribs. It would not be fatal.

Assuming it did not putrefy. Thank God he had had the foresight to hide some supplies in the catacombs. Jager cleaned the gash as best as he could, every movement sending a fresh wave of pain through his back and his left arm. He wrapped bandages around his torso, as tight as he could manage. The gash would likely need stitches, but Jager could worry about that later. Right now he just needed the bleeding to stop. 

At last he got the bandages on, and then donned his shirt and jerkin. Every movement hurt, and his left arm ached so badly it was all but useless. He started to pull on the knapsack, realized that was an extraordinarily poor idea, and settled for carrying it in his right hand. If he had to fight, he was going to be in trouble. 

But if he ran into the Hunter, he was going to die anyway.

No one knew what the Hunter was...and Jager had no wish to solve that particular mystery.  

Some said it was a horror wrought through the sorcery of the dark elves, while others claimed it was a creature that had crawled out of the Deeps. Some even thought it was a legend. From time to time bands of young Swordbearers and knights, eager for glory, descended into the catacombs and the dwarven ruins in search of the Hunter. Assuming the old dwarven traps did not kill them, the Swordbearers returned empty-handed, convinced the Hunter was a myth.

Yet from time to time corpses were found in the catacombs with all their viscera removed.

Jager had spent considerable time in the catacombs since coming to Coldinium, hiding caches of supplies, and he knew the Hunter was real. He did not know what it was, yet he had heard the rasping hiss of some bulky creature dragging itself through the tunnels, had smelled the creature’s peculiar odor, a musky mixture of wet dirt and rotting meat. The thing preferred the pools of water in Coldinium’s sewers, and Jager made sure to stay well away from there.

He passed through the catacombs, the dead resting silent in their niches around him, and found one of the entrances to the dwarven ruins. Ancient glowstones shone in niches, throwing light and shadow over walls carved with angular statues of dwarven warriors. Jager made his way past the traps he had mapped out and came to an abandoned stone hall. He knelt in the center of the floor upon one of the stone tiles.

He took a deep breath, trying to control his fear.

Then he pressed the stone tile in front of him in a specific pattern. 

Metal clicked as a hidden mechanism released, and one of the tiles popped open. Jager reached down with his good arm and pushed aside the tile, revealing a small hidden compartment. A bundle of cloth rested at the bottom of the compartment, and a wave of dread went through Jager as he looked at it. 

He unwrapped the bundle, revealing the dagger. 

The blade was a foot long, housed in a sheath of black leather. Like Kharlacht’s greatsword and armor, it had been forged from blue dark elven steel. Unlike Kharlacht’s sword, a gem glittered in the base of the blade, and two more in the crosspiece. They were soulstones, similar to the ones in embedded in the Soulblades of the Swordbearers. The soulstones of the Soulblades shone with a gentle white light. The three small soulstones in the dagger gave off a sickly yellow radiance that seemed diseased and corrupted. Combined with the blue steel of the blade and the black leather of the sheath, it made Jager think of a poisoned wound pumping its venom into healthy flesh.

The minute he touched the hilt, he heard the voices. 

He never could make out what they said, but they whispered and hissed inside his head. Part of him was sure they were plotting against him, that they were conspiring with the people of Coldinium to destroy him. The rest of his mind realized that the dagger’s dark magic was twisting his thoughts. 

Jager quickly hooked the dagger to his belt, hiding it beneath the side of his jerkin.

The whispers faded away, their scornful laughter echoing in his thoughts. 

He closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. The pain in his shoulder was almost welcome, compared to those horrible, whispering voices. Little wonder the Matriarch was mad, if she had carried that weapon for centuries. 

The dagger was an evil thing. Jager was certain of it. Yet it had power…and he needed help to save Mara.

He would not turn aside aid from any source.

Jager took a deep breath, picked up Calliande’s knapsack, and headed to the surface.

Chapter 15 - Memory Bleed

Calliande drifted through a field of broken glass shards, and in each shard she saw an image.

A memory. 

In one she saw herself dragged before Shadowbearer, the ancient wizard’s shadow rotating like a banner caught in the wind of a storm.