Frostborn: The Master Thief (7 page)

He barked a command, and the gate to the palisade swung open. Ridmark led the others inside. The interior of the palisade looked even more decrepit than the exterior. A tavern and a store occupied most of the space inside the wall, along with warehouses for goods and a few small houses. A dozen wooden docks jutted into the water, fishing boats floating alongside them. A score of men moved near the docks, a mix of humans and orcs and halflings, though none of the orcs had the crimson skull tattoos of the Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk. 

“Your orc,” called Quintus. “He’s dead?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “Poisoned. Wyvern venom.”

Quintus snorted. “Then he’s as good as dead.” 

“Not yet,” said Ridmark, walking deeper into Vulmhosk. He led the others along the palisade, to a corner of the ruined stone wall where they could converse in privacy. 

“It seems we have indeed entered a den of thieves,” said Caius, watching the men working near the boats.  

“We have,” said Ridmark. “But compared to some of the perils we have faced, this is nothing. But do not lower your guard. Caius, Calliande, Azakhun. Stay here and keep watch over Kharlacht. No one in their right mind would try to start a fight with three dwarven warriors, and Calliande’s magic will aid you if necessary.”

“And where are you going?” said Morigna.

“To hire a boat,” said Ridmark. “Gavin, come with me. I’ll need you to watch my back.” It would also keep him away from potential mischief. The boy was brave and increasingly skilled, but had not dealt with men like Smiling Otto and his followers before. “Morigna, also.”

“Why?” she said.

“So we have no more little magical demonstrations to draw the eye,” said Ridmark.

She scowled. “I have dealt with places like this before, Ridmark Arban. I traded with the pagan orcs of Vhaluusk, and they would just as easily kill a human as trade with one, especially a human woman. Yet I am still unscathed.” 

“Let us hope you stay that way,” said Ridmark. “Let’s go.”

He walked towards the tavern, Gavin on his right, Morigna on his right. Gavin scowled and tried to look intimidating. Morigna merely glanced around with cool hauteur, the sigil-carved staff ready in her right hand. 

The tavern was a large building of fieldstone and timber that looked like a repurposed barn, and the smell of smoke and cheap beer filled the air. A broad porch ran the front of the tavern, holding splintered tables and worn chairs. 

A halfling man leaned against one of the pillars, staring at Ridmark.

He was about four and a half feet tall, with a mop of curly blond hair and bright amber eyes in a pale, square-jawed face. His black leather boots gleamed, and he wore a black leather vest over a stark white shirt, his trousers crisp and spotless. A short sword and a dagger hung at his belt, and both weapons looked expensive and well-maintained. 

“So,” said the halfling, his voice a deep rumble, “you are indeed real. And not a dream after all.” He spoke Latin with the accent of central Andomhaim. He was from Caerdracon, or perhaps Calvus. That gave Ridmark a moment’s pause. Tarrabus Carhaine was the Dux of Caerdracon, and he wanted Ridmark dead. Though he could not imagine Tarrabus sending a halfling assassin. Most of the nobles of Andomhaim had halflings as domestic servants, bound by ancient oaths sworn before the defeat of the urdmordar. Few nobles paid the halflings any mind at all, and regarded them as little more than beasts of burden that happened to be able to talk. 

But Ridmark knew better…and something about this halfling made him want to reach for his weapons. 

“If you are dreaming, sir,” said Ridmark, “I fear your dreams must indeed be disappointing.”

The halfling laughed. “Is that so? Well, your woman is attractive enough, I’ll warrant, though a bit tall for my taste.” Morigna drew breath to answer. “And I imagine she has a tongue that could strip the hull from a boat.”

“You would not be wrong,” said Gavin. The look Morigna gave him was just short of murderous. 

“I am real,” said Ridmark. “Why should that surprise you?”

“Because,” said the halfling, “you are such an…implausible tale.” 

“And you know of me?” said Ridmark.

“Why, all in the Wilderland know of the Gray Knight,” said the halfling. “At least those who are not howling savages and unholy abominations of dark magic. The son of a mighty Dux, a Swordbearer, the slayer of Mhalek, now an outcast and an exile wandering the wilderness in hopes of avenging his lost wife.” The halfling shook his head. “Really, if a bard sang that tale to me, I would say he had drunk too much wine and vomited forth something ridiculous.” 

“Having lived it,” said Ridmark, “I can attest to its veracity.” 

The halfling laughed. “Well, truth often gives the lie to tales, or so they say.” 

“You have business with me?” said Ridmark.

“Not at all,” said the halfling. “I merely had business here in Otto’s charming palace of delights.” He waved a gloved hand, taking in the ruined tower, the spiked palisade, the ramshackle tavern. “But I heard tale after tale of the Gray Knight of the Wilderland. Now here you are in the flesh.” 

“I am sure,” said Ridmark, “this moment is the crowning glory of your life.”

The halfling threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Indeed it is.”

“Though I am curious,” said Ridmark, “what brings a halfling from Caerdracon to the Wilderland. It is a long journey.”

“I fear you are mistaken,” said the halfling, and for the first time there was a hint of annoyance in his expression. “I am from the great city of Cintarra, the jewel of the High King’s realm.” 

“Indeed?” said Ridmark. “You must have migrated, then. You speak Latin like a man of Caerdracon.” 

“And you speak Latin like a highborn nobleman’s son,” said the halfling, “and not the ragged, gray-clad bandit you appear to be.” 

Morigna laughed. “Is that so?” She had a knack for spotting insecurities, and it seemed she had seen one in the halfling. “Are you so ashamed of coming from Caerdracon, then? What did you do, hmm? Steal a sheep and flee the realm to avoid the Dux’s wrath?”

“I romanced your mother,” said the halfling, his eyes narrowing, “and your twin sister. At the same time.”

Morigna’s laughter redoubled. “Unlikely, as my mother has been dead for fourteen years, and I have no sister.”

“Well she is clearly no noblewoman,” said the halfling, looking at Ridmark.

“I should hope not,” said Morigna.

“Then I bid you good fortune,” said the halfling. “And enjoy the amenities of Otto’s little hovel here.” 

He strode away without another words, his boots thumping against the planks of the porch.

“A friend of yours?” said Morigna.

“No,” said Ridmark. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“He wasn’t this…Smiling Otto?” said Gavin. 

“He certainly wasn’t smiling when he left,” said Morigna.

“There were some halflings in Aranaeus,” said Gavin. “They were so quiet and polite. Nothing like this man.”

“They were likely domestic servants,” said Ridmark. “Sworn to lifelong service to a noble or a monastery.”

Gavin scowled. “Morwen’s servants were halflings.”

“Then I hope she did not feed them to her mother,” said Ridmark. “Keep an eye out for our new friend. Otto might be trying to play a game with us.” 

He pushed open the door and stepped into the tavern. It was cavernous, a pair of hearths throwing wild shadows over the rough stone walls. Long benches and tables filled the space, no doubt to accommodate the crews of the smuggling boats. Right now the tavern was deserted, save for a scowling keeper standing guard over the casks of wine and ale in the back of the hall. 

Smiling Otto sat upon one of the benches, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger and staring at Ridmark. 

He was a halfling, his face gaunt, almost skull-like, his hair a tangled graying mass. He wore a ragged gray coat and trousers, his boots worn and dusty. A vicious scar went down the left side of his face, giving his eyelid a permanent droop and his lip a twisted, mocking smile.

Smiling Otto rarely smiled. 

“Well,” said Otto, his voice a gravely rasp. “I thought old Quintus had too much to drink…but here you are. The Gray Knight himself. I thought the orcs of Kothluusk would have eaten you years ago.”

“They tried,” said Ridmark. “I fear I am indigestible.” Morigna laughed.

“So it would seem,” said Otto. “Did you find the book you sought?”

“No,” said Ridmark. He had gone into the mountains of Kothluusk, seeking a monastery that had been destroyed soon after the defeat of the Frostborn. He had hoped to find a chronicle of the Frostborn in the monastery, but the monastery’s library had been destroyed long ago. “But I eventually found some of the answers I sought.”

“Oh?” said Otto. “Well, don’t keep secrets from an old man.”

“The omen of blue fire forty-four days past,” said Ridmark. “That was a sign of the return of the Frostborn. I don’t know how or why, not yet, but they will return sometime within a year and a month of the blue flame.”

“Unless you find a way to stop them, of course,” said Otto.

Gavin blinked. “How did you know that, sir?”

Otto cackled. “Sir? I am no knight, my boy…but your squire is polite, Gray Knight.” 

“Father Martel said it was proper to respect one’s elders, sir,” said Gavin.

“A wise priest, then,” said Otto. He pointed at Ridmark. “The Gray Knight. That legend started for a reason. You could never turn away from someone in need, could you?”

“Like you?” said Ridmark. “Those bandits would have killed you if I had not happened along.”

“Like me,” agreed Otto. “So you’re going to stop the Frostborn from returning, are you? Just how will you do that?”

“I am going to Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark, “and I will challenge the Warden to one of his games, defeat him, and demand the knowledge for my prize.”

Otto stared at him for a moment, the dagger flickering over his fingernails. 

“You haven’t grown any saner in the last three years, I see,” said Otto.

Morigna scowled. “You do not believe him?”

“Of course I believe him, girl,” said Otto. 

“You do?” said Gavin. “Forgive me, sir, but most people we have spoken with seem…dubious.”

“I am not most people,” said Otto. “I’m an old man. I can feel the storms coming in my bones. I felt it the moment I looked up and saw that damned blue fire in the sky. I have lived a rough life, and have endured some things and done some things I regret.” He gestured at his scar with the dagger. “But worse is coming. I’m sure of that. The orcs of Kothluusk are stirring, and I hear tales of creatures moving in the forests. Worse is coming, you mark my words.” 

“It may be,” said Ridmark, “unless my companions and I can stop the Frostborn from returning.”

“Your companions?” said Otto. “You convinced others to follow you?”

“They convinced themselves,” said Ridmark.

Otto snorted. “I suppose you saved a collection of fools who then chose to follow you?”

“You are more right than you know, old man,” said Morigna. 

Ridmark glanced at her. She was looking at him, not at Otto. And there was something in her face…admiration? Respect? 

Affection, even?  

He looked away, surprised at the guilt that flashed through him.

“I suppose you’ve come to me for help?” said Otto.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “One of my friends was brought low by a wyvern’s venom. He is unconscious for now, but without saltflower, he will die. The only place to find saltflower so far from the sea is Coldinium…”

“And you need one of my boats to take you there in haste,” said Otto.

Ridmark nodded. “I can pay.”

“You’re a fool, you know that?” said Otto. “That brand on your face means any knight or man-at-arms who sees you will try to arrest you. Or kill you. And Dux Tarrabus still has a huge price upon your head. Occasionally hunters come to Vulmhosk, seeking you.” Perhaps that explained the peculiar halfling. “In fact, Sir Paul Tallmane himself passed through a few weeks ago with a broken hand, swearing that he would add his own wealth to the price upon the head of Ridmark Arban.” Otto smirked. “I wonder why he decided to do that.”

“I broke his hand,” said Ridmark. 

“That would put a man in a foul mood,” said Otto. “If you go to Coldinium, Gray Knight, you are going to die. It is reckless even by your standards.”

“Since I am planning to go to Urd Morlemoch after I leave Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “I think I can endure the risk.” 

For a moment Otto sat in silence, tapping his dagger against the table. 

“Still the same man,” said Otto. “Still determined to save people even when it is a fool’s quest. But I cannot blame you. Not when I would be dead, if not for your folly.” He smirked again. “Besides, I am a man of business. I can hardly conduct business if the Frostborn turn the world to ice.”

“Then you will aid us?” said Ridmark. 

“One of my boats sails for Coldinium tomorrow,” said Otto, “to take on cargo to sell to the villages of the Wilderland. I will bid them to convey you to Coldinium.”

“That is unusually generous of you,” said Morigna, “for…”

“For a thief and a smuggler?” said Otto.

“You said it,” said Morigna, “not I.” 

“Your face is as transparent as it is pretty,” said Otto. “A pity you aren’t shorter. Or that I am not thirty years younger. But I owe the Gray Knight my life. And if he says the Frostborn are returning, they are returning." He stood up with a grunt, sliding his dagger into its sheath. “You can lodge here tonight. My boat sets out after sunrise for…”

The door to the tavern burst open, and Quintus ran into the room.

“Quintus?” said Otto. “What is it?”

“Orcs,” said Quintus, breathing hard.

Otto scowled. “There are always orcs here.”

“No!” said Quintus. “Mhorite orcs, out of Kothluusk.”

Ridmark gripped his staff tighter. 

“Scores of them, coming out of the woods,” said Quintus. “They’re preparing to attack the palisade.”

“Damned raiders,” said Otto. “Call out all my guards. Every man with a weapon is to get to the palisade. Tell the merchants to fight, too, if they’re not too lily-livered. Those Kothluuskan orcs get inside Vulmhosk, they’ll take our heads as an offering to Mhor.”