Soul of Swords (Book 7) (47 page)

“Offering me hospitality,” said Ridmark, “will get you in trouble with Tarrabus Carhaine.”

“Tarrabus Carhaine can…” said Joram, and stopped himself. “I am sworn to the Dux of the Northerland, not the Dux of Caerdracon. If my liege the Dux Gareth Licinius has a problem with my actions, I am sure he will inform me in short order.”

“It might get you into trouble with your wife,” said Ridmark. “She never did like me.” 

“That concerns me more,” admitted Joram. “But a knight is supposed to be hospitable. And that duty might cause me more…difficultly, I fear.”

“Just from me?” said Ridmark. “As soon as we finish, I am returning to the Wilderland. I could very well never return.”

He had not expected to return the first time. 

“Not from you,” said Joram. “From a different, more…troublesome guest.”

“How is he a troublesome guest?” said Ridmark. 

“I lost him.”

“Ah.”

“And the Dux,” said Joram, “will be upset if I cannot get him back.”

“What kind of guest?” said Ridmark.

“A dwarf.”

Ridmark frowned. “A noble from the Three Kingdoms?”

Joram shook his head. “No. Well, he was at one time, but no longer. This dwarf insisted upon baptism. He joined the Order of Mendicants and became a friar, taking the name of Caius, after Saint Caius of old.”

Ridmark stopped eating to listen. “A peculiar story. I have been to the Three Kingdoms…”

Joram blinked. “You have?” 

Ridmark nodded. “They accept the High King, but they are devoted to the gods of the Deeps, the gods of stone and water and silence. I would not expect a dwarf to enter the Church.”

“This one has,” said Joram. “Brother Caius came here with the idea to preach to the pagan orc tribes of Vhaluusk and the Wilderland.”

“A fool notion,” said Ridmark. 

“He left the town two days ago,” said Joram, “and has not been seen since.”

“Then he is likely dead,” said Ridmark. “This part of the Northerland is relatively safe, but it is still dangerous to travel alone. And the orcs of the Wilderland pray to the blood gods, and their shamans wield black magic and blood spells. A mendicant who tries to preach the faith to them will find his head upon a spear.”

“I fear you are correct,” said Joram.

“And,” said Ridmark, “you want me to find him, don’t you?”

Joram sighed. “Am I truly so transparent? Of course, you were always the clever one.” He shook his head. “The Dux’s letter said I was to treat this Caius with all honor. And if he has gotten himself killed in the Wilderland…”

“The Dux can hardly blame you for that,” said Ridmark.

“Nevertheless, I was his host, and he was my guest,” said Joram. 

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “I will find him for you.”

Joram blinked. “That’s it? I thought you would take more convincing.”

“Why not?” said Ridmark. “The dwarf seems valiant, if foolish, and does not deserve to die alone in the Wilderland. I will either find him and bring him back to you, or tell you of his fate.”

Or die trying. 

“Will that not take time from your…other task?” said Joram. “The search for the Frostborn?”

“Haven’t you heard?” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn are extinct.” He knew better, but continued speaking. “Joram, you were always a friend to me, and you have shown me kindness now. I know you wished to persuade me…but I have been persuaded. I will find Brother Caius for you.”

And, perhaps, he would find his death. But that did not trouble him. He had ranged over the length and breadth of the Wilderland, following the long-dead urdmordar’s prophecy of the Frostborn, following the warning the undead dark elven wizard had given him…and he had defeated every foe he had faced in that time. 

But perhaps hunting for this strange dwarf would kill him.

And then, at last, he would have peace.

“Thank you,” said Joram. “You will have whatever help you require.”

“Good,” said Ridmark. “This is what I need.”

###

An hour later Ridmark walked to Dun Licinia’s northern gate, staff in his left hand, gray cloak hanging from his shoulders, and a pack of fresh supplies on his back. The men-at-arms he had confronted earlier gave him wary glances, but Ridmark ignored them. He stepped through the gate and gazed north, at the flowing River Marcaine, the cultivated fields, the tree-choked slopes, the narrow road…and the great dark mass of the Black Mountain. A mile tall, the Black Mountain stood like a dark fist thrusting from the earth. The high elves of old had considered it cursed, along with the orcs and the beastmen and the halflings and the manetaurs and every other kindred to cross through the lands that became the High King’s realm of Andomhaim. 

And Brother Caius had gone to that mountain, intending to preach the word of the Dominus Christus to the orcish tribes living in its northern foothills. 

Ridmark shook his head, half in admiration, half in annoyance, and started walking. The road lead to the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance, burned during the civil wars of the Pendragon princes fifty years past. It was a logical place for Caius to make camp, though bandits or orcs or other renegades might have taken shelter in the ruins. 

He kept walking, and the fields began to thin out, patches of bristly pine forest appearing here and there. Ridmark supposed hardly anyone took the road north. Dun Licinia was the very northern edge of the Northerland, and beyond lay the vast Wilderland, with all its unknown lands and dangerous creatures. 

Only a madman or a fool ventured into the Wilderland.

So Ridmark kept walking.

“You!” 

He stopped, left hand tightening around his staff. 

A stocky middle-aged man in the rough clothes of a freeholder climbed onto the road, his face red with anger. He carried a spear, its head worn but still sharp. The man held his weapon competently, but it would have been the easiest thing in the world for Ridmark to swing his staff and break the freeholder’s wrists.

Instead he said, “Have I wronged you in some way?”

“You’ve been taking my pigs,” said the freeholder.  

“I have not,” said Ridmark.

The freeholder sneered. “Aye, you have. I’ve seen you lurking in the woods, snatching my pigs when my back is turned. Outlaws, I knew it! Sir Joram’s constable wouldn’t listen to me. Well, they should have listened to Peter of Dun Licinia! I have captured an outlaw! You will come with me now…”

Ridmark sighed, stepped forward, and thrust his staff. It caught the spear just behind the head, and sent the weapon tumbling. Peter’s eyes went wide, and Ridmark rested the end of his staff on the freeholder’s throat.

“Or,” said Ridmark, “you could admit that I did not steal your pigs, and let me go on my way.”

“Or that,” said Peter.

Ridmark frowned. “How many pigs have been stolen?”

“Five. Prime hogs, too.”

“When did this start?” said Ridmark.

“Two days ago,” said Peter. 

Ridmark nodded. Caius had departed Dun Licinia two days ago. Had the dwarven friar gone bandit?

Or, more likely, whatever had killed and eaten Caius was now stealing and eating Peter’s hogs. 

There were far worse things than pagan orcs in the Wilderland. 

“Your pen,” said Ridmark. “Show me.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “So you can steal my hogs?”

“God and his saints,” said Ridmark. “It’s a pigpen. If I wanted to find it, I suspect I could just follow my nose. But I think I know what’s been stealing your pigs…and if it’s not stopped, it might start eating your family.”

That got Peter’s attention. “Some horror from the Wilderland? An urvaalg?” He swallowed. “An urdmordar, as the Swordbearers of old faced?”

Ridmark had faced an urdmordar ten years past. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat, but he doubted one of the great spider-devils was stealing Peter’s pigs. “Perhaps. Lead on.” 

Peter nodded and led Ridmark off the road, through a patch of pine trees, and to his farm. A low wall of field stone enclosed perhaps thirty pigs of varying size, their hides marked with a brand. A half-dozen young men, ranging from twelve years to Ridmark’s age, busied themselves with various tasks. Peter’s sons, no doubt. 

Ridmark walked in a circle around the stone pen, ignoring the ripe smell. He examined the muddy ground, noting the mosaic of footprints and hoof marks around the pen. 

Some of the tracks led away from the freehold, towards the forested hills. 

“What are you doing?” said Peter, following him. “It’s mud! Do you think…”

Ridmark lifted his staff, the length bumping against Peter’s chest.

“Hold still,” said Ridmark, still looking at the ground.

“Why?” said Peter. “You’ll…”

“If you move,” said Ridmark, “you’ll disturb the tracks.”

“But…”

“Hold still,” said Ridmark.

He followed the tracks leading away from the pen. The land was churned into wet spring mud, with hundreds of footprints, but Ridmark had spent years wandering the wilderness. Given that his meals often came from whatever he had been able to shoot with his bow, he had grown quite good at tracking.

Hunger was a marvelous teacher. 

He saw the tracks of three men and two pigs leading into the woods. To judge from the state of the tracks, he suspected the thieves had been here no earlier than midnight. Were they simply common highwaymen, raiding the local freeholds? Perhaps they had taken Caius hostage, and hoped to sell him for a ransom…

Ridmark picked up a slender thread from one of the tracks. It was a long black hair, thick and tough. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, and tossed it aside. 

“What is it?” said Peter, “What have you found?”

“You should arm yourself, master freeholder,” said Ridmark, “you and all your sons. Orcs from the Wilderland have taken your pigs.” 

“Orcs?” said Peter.

“Do exactly as I tell you,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff at the freeholder. “Arm yourselves, and keep watch over your fields. And send someone to Dun Licinia to warn Sir Joram. Do you understand?”

Peter nodded and shouted instructions to his sons, and Ridmark drew his cloak about him and walked into the woods, following the trail of the orcs and their stolen pigs.

###

 Calliande opened her eyes. 

She saw nothing but utter blackness, felt nothing but the cold stone beneath her back, its chill soaking through her robes. She took a deep breath, her throat and tongue dry and rough. Something soft and clinging covered her face and throat, and she tried to pull it off. But her shaking hands would not obey, and only after five tries did she reach her face, her fingers brushing her cheek and jaw.

She could not see anything in the blackness, but she recognized the feeling of the delicate threads she plucked from her face.

Cobwebs. She was pulling cobwebs from her jaw.

A wave of terrible exhaustion went through her, and a deeper darkness swallowed Calliande.

###

Dreams danced across her mind like foam driven across a raging sea.

She saw herself arguing with men in white robes, their voices raised in anger, their faces blurring into mist whenever she tried to look at them. 

A great battle, tens of thousands of armored men striving against a massive horde of blue-skinned orcs, great half-human, half-spider devils on their flanks, packs of beastmen savaging the knights in their armor. Tall, gaunt figures in pale armor led the horde, their eyes burning with blue flame, glittering swords in their hands. 

The sight of them filled her with terror, with certainty that they would devour the world. 

“It is the only way,” she heard herself tell the men in white robes, their faces dissolving into mist as she tried to remember their names. “This is the only way. I have to do this. Otherwise it will be forgotten, and it will all happen again. And we might not be able to stop him next time.”

She heard the distant sound of dry, mocking laughter.

A thunderous noise filled her ears, the sound of a slab of stone slamming over the entrance to a tomb. 

“It is the only way,” Calliande told the men in white robes.

“Is it?”

A shadow stood in their midst, long and dark and cold, utterly cold.

“You,” whispered Calliande. 

“Little girl,” whispered the shadow. “Little child, presuming to wield power you cannot understand. I am older than you. I am older than this world. I made the high elves dance long before your pathetic kindred ever crawled across the hills.” The shadow drew closer, devouring the men in the white robes. “You don’t know who I truly am. For if you did…you would run. You would run screaming. Or you would fall on your knees and worship me.”

“No,” said Calliande. “I stopped you once before.” 

“You did,” said the shadow. “But I have been stopped many times. Never defeated. I always return. And in your pride and folly, you have ensured that I shall be victorious.”

The shadow filled everything, and Calliande sank into darkness.

###

Her eyes shot open with a gasp, the cobwebs dancing around her lips, her heart hammering against her ribs. Again a violent spasm went through her limbs, her muscles trembling, her head pulsing with pain.

Bit by bit Calliande realized that she was ravenous, that her throat was parched with thirst.

And she was no longer in the darkness.

A faint blue glow touched her eyes. She saw a vaulted stone ceiling overhead, pale and eerie in the blue light. The air smelled musty and stale, as if it had not been breathed in a very long time. 

She pressed her hands flat at her sides, felt cold, smooth stone beneath them.

On the third try she sat up, her head spinning, her hair falling against her shoulders. 

She lay upon an altar of stone, or perhaps a sarcophagus. The altar stood in the center of a stone nave, thick pillars supporting the arched roof. The blue light came from the far end of the nave, near an archway containing a set of stairs. 

Calliande sat motionless for a moment, listening to the silence.

She had no idea how she had gotten here. Nor, for that matter, did she know where she was.