Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1) Read online

An hour later, the dusk faded to night, and they reached the circle of standing stones.

  The ring of thirteen menhirs stood atop a high, stony ridge, at the very base of the Black Mountain itself. Strange, grim designs adorned the menhirs’ inner faces, carvings that made Calliande’s head hurt. The dark elves’ sense of aesthetics had not matched human standards of beauty…and the dark elves celebrated the torture and killing of lesser races.

  An altar of rough-hewn black stone lay in the center of the circle, its sides likewise carved with alien designs of strange and terrible beauty.

  “At last,” said Vlazar. “We have arrived.” He glared at Kharlacht. “No thanks to your bumbling, I might add. The Master will be wroth that your errors slew two of his followers.”

  “The Master,” said Kharlacht, “cares nothing for us. We are his tools, and nothing more.”

  His hand strayed to his cross, and Calliande understood his fear. She felt…something lurking within those stones, something that hated all that lived and breathed under the sun. The dark elves of old had built these places to channel and summon black magic, and Calliande felt the lingering echoes within the menhirs.

  “This is a mistake, Vlazar,” said Kharlacht. “We should not be here.”

  “Silence,” said Vlazar. “This is no place for the spineless followers of the human god. Only the bold sons of the blood gods may tread here.”

  Yet even he looked nervous.

  “You two,” said Vlazar, pointing. “Bring her.”

  The orcish warriors yanked away her cloak, and the cold mountain air felt like a slap against her bare skin. She cringed away from the chill, and the orcs seized her arms. Vlazar strode towards the stone circle, the warriors pulling her after.

  They yanked her within the boundaries of the circle…and it flared to life around her.

  The earth groaned beneath her feet, and the carvings upon the stones shone with a ghostly green light, painting the circle with an eerie glow. Calliande felt the dark magic stirring within the stones, felt power rising up from within the Black Mountain.

  Power rising in response to her presence.

  “What is happening?” said Kharlacht, drawing his sword. An icy wind sprang up from the altar at the center of the circle. “Why is it doing that?”

  “I…I don’t know,” said Vlazar. “I am…I am sure it is harmless.”

  “It’s not,” said Calliande, and she felt the orcs’ grip upon her arms waver. “It’s extremely dangerous.” She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she was certain of it. “And it might destroy you.”

  Vlazar looked at her, at the glowing menhirs, and then back at her.

  “Bring her,” he said.

  He strode to the altar, and the orcs wrestled Calliande upon the rough surface and spread her arms and legs. Jagged stone horns jutted from each corner of the altar, and the warriors tied her wrists and ankles to them. She lay helpless and pinned, the hard stone digging into her back and legs.

  Vlazar placed the soulstone upon her chest. The crystal felt icy cold against her breasts, and the green light gave it a sinister appearance. She felt the power pulsing within the stone, felt its magic rising in response to the dark power of the menhirs.

  If she died upon this altar, with the soulstone touching her flesh…terrible power would be unleashed.

  Vlazar strode to the altar, a dagger in hand, and began to cast a spell. Dark magic flared and burned around his fingers. He lifted the dagger, blood-colored fire flickering around the blade.

  The dagger that held her death.

  She was going to die, and she would never know why.

  Vlazar raised the dagger high.

  Chapter 8 - Iron Staff

  Ridmark hurried up the road, Caius following him.

  The orcs made it easy to follow their trail. The trees thinned out as the road moved north from the Tower of Vigilance, and soon only a few stunted bushes clung to the hillside. The lack of cover would have concerned Ridmark, but the orcish warriors were in a hurry, and did not bother to look back. Their errand had to be an urgent one.

  A dark suspicion formed in Ridmark’s mind.

  Circles of standing stones dotted the Black Mountain, places of power where the dark elves had worked black magic long ago. Qazarl had to know his small army could not destroy the High King’s realm of Andomhaim, could not even defeat the forces of the Dux of the Northerland.

  Unless Qazarl had help.

  And perhaps by killing the prisoner upon the altar, he hoped to unleash the sort of dark magic that would grant him victory.

  Yet if that was what Qazarl intended, why hadn’t he come to kill the prisoner himself? Vlazar was hardly the sort of underling one entrusted with vital tasks.

  Ridmark stopped.

  “What is it?” said Caius.

  “They’ve halted,” said Ridmark, looking at the orcish column further up the road. “Take cover. Sooner or later they’re going to start looking around.”

  He ducked behind a boulder. Caius, being shorter, did not need to duck at all. Ridmark peered around the rough stone, watching the orcs. They were having an argument, and the faint sound of their angry voices drifted to his ears.

  “Can you see anything?” said Ridmark.

  Caius shrugged. “They’re fighting over something. I think…yes, I think one of them cut the girl down.”

  “They’re letting her go?” said Ridmark, surprised.

  Caius shook his head. “No… they’re making her walk. Or they’ve decided to kill her then and there.”

  Ridmark’s right hand tightened around his staff. If the orcs decided to kill the woman, there was nothing he could do to save her.

  “I think,” said Caius, “that we…drake!”

  Fire blossomed over the orcish column, and Ridmark heard the warriors scream as the flames chewed into their flesh. Coppery scales gleamed as the drake fell out of the sky and landed amidst the orcs. He saw the pale form of the woman, saw her stumble back as the drake advanced on her.

  Then the blue-armored orc attacked, his greatsword a blur. The drake’s head jumped off its serpentine neck, and its body collapsed motionless to the ground.

  “A skilled warrior,” murmured Caius.

  Ridmark nodded.

  Vlazar and the blue-armored warrior shouted at each other for a while, and then some warriors fell in escort around the woman. The column continued its climb, leaving two dead orcs upon the road.

  And as they did, an idea came to Ridmark.

  “Come,” he said, straightening up.

  He walked to the dead orcs. The stench of charred flesh and burned hair filled his nostrils. A drake’s flame burned hotter than a blacksmith’s forge, but over a far larger area. The great dragons of high elven legend had been able to burn entire armies with their breath, and the Dragon Knight’s burning sword had laid waste to legions of the Frostborn…

  Ridmark examined the corpses. The orc on the left had been badly burned, so Ridmark went to the orc on the right. Some of the warrior’s clothes remained intact, so Ridmark pulled off his ragged cloak.

  “It is ill to profane the dead,” said Caius.

  “You’ll say a prayer for their souls?” said Ridmark. “They were Mhalekites, followers of the old blood gods. If they were still alive, they would say that the weak deserved to die.”

  “True,” said Caius, “but the Dominus Christus wishes to gather all kindreds to his side. And it is still ill to profane the dead.”

  “Even if it means we’ll save the life of that woman?” said Ridmark.

  He went to one knee besides the burned orc and drew his dagger from his belt. It was a heavy weapon, the blade serrated and sharp.

  Caius frowned. “I thought you were forbidden to carry a blade.”

  “A sword,” said Ridmark. “This isn’t a sword.”

  Or a Soulblade, more specifically.

  He examined the dead orc’s right arm for a moment, took a deep breath, and regretted the smell.

  Th
en he lifted the heavy dagger to the orc’s elbow and started sawing.

  Caius grimaced. “What are you doing?”

  “Did you notice the direction?” said Ridmark.

  “Direction of what?”

  “The drake’s attack,” said Ridmark, nodding at the headless drake. “It came down from the north. That drake isn’t a full-grown adult male. Which means we are close to the nest.” The dagger’s blade scraped against bone.

  “Interesting,” said Caius, “but that doesn’t explain why you are…mutilating that corpse.”

  “Because,” said Ridmark. He yanked, and the orc’s hand and forearm pulled loose. “Drakes feed on burned flesh. It’s like dangling raw meat in front of a starving dog.” He stood and wrapped the severed forearm inside the torn cloak, and then examined the dead drake. Its blood smelled like charred meat and overheated metal. “And the smell of their own blood drives them into a frenzy.”

  He picked up the drake’s severed head. It was still hot to the touch, and it joined the orc’s arm in the cloak.

  “So your plan,” said Caius, “is to find the drakes’ nest, whip them into a frenzy, and then lure the pack into the orcs.”

  “That is the sum of it,” said Ridmark.

  “That is stark madness,” said Caius.

  “Unquestionably.”

  “We’ll likely be killed.”

  “Most probably.”

  “So,” said Caius. “When do we start?”

  Ridmark felt himself smile. “Why, at once.” He tucked the grisly package under his arm. “This way.”

  They continued following the orcs. The pursuit continued as dusk deepened into true night. Ridmark moved quicker as it grew darker, trusting in the night and his elven cloak to shield him from the orcs’ eyes. Caius likewise moved with utter silence. For a brother of the order of mendicants, the dwarf moved with the stealth of a master thief.

  Ridmark suspected that Caius had known an interesting life before coming to the Church.

  A short time later the orcs climbed one more hill and then stopped.

  “There,” said Caius, reaching for his crucifix. “The standing stones.”

  Thirteen grim menhirs stood in a ring at the very edge of the foothills, not far from the Black Mountain itself. Strange, alien carvings marked the menhirs, glyphs that made Ridmark’s head hurt. A huge black altar stood in the center of the ring. Those stones had stood for long millennia before Malahan Pendragon had led the survivors of Britain from Old Earth, long before human eyes had ever looked upon the Black Mountain.

  Ridmark wondered how many sacrifices had died screaming upon the altar.

  “An evil place,” said Caius.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, his eyes wandering over the hill. A Magistrius had told him once that drakes were creatures of magic, that they preferred to make their nests near places of magic. He hoped the old man had been right…

  There.

  A narrow cavern entrance opened further down the hill, perhaps a dozen yards below the standing stones. The rocks near the entrance had been charred by flame, and a bush nearby had been burned to charcoal.

  The entrance to the drakes’ nest.

  “Wait here,” said Ridmark.

  “What are you going to do?” said Caius.

  He nodded towards the cavern entrance. “I’m going to annoy the drakes and lure them to the standing stones.”

  “And in the chaos, you’ll snatch the girl and run for it?” said Caius.

  “That is the plan,” said Ridmark.

  “And if the orcs organize themselves into a pursuit?” said Caius.

  “Then we’ll hide,” said Ridmark. “There is an entrance to the Deeps not far from here, perhaps a third of a mile down the hill.”

  Caius snorted. “The residents of the Deeps are hardly more welcoming than the orcs. We’re a long way away from the Three Kingdoms. And you could well get lost in the Deeps.”

  “Not if I have a dwarf with me,” said Ridmark.

  “Clever,” said Caius, “and reckless beyond measure. You are either a genius of battle or a madman. When will you need my aid?”

  “Watch, and strike when the moment is right,” said Ridmark. “I suspect you will know the time.”

  Caius nodded and bowed his head, both hands clasping his crucifix. “God of battles and Lord of hosts, we beseech you to be with your servants. We go into battle to defend the life of an innocent. Let this confrontation end in peace, but if it must not, grant strength to our arms and let our weapons strike justly.”

  “Amen,” said Ridmark.

  God, he suspected, had forsaken him the day he had killed Mhalek. But perhaps God would listen to Caius, and perhaps he wanted the woman to live.

  Time to find out.

  Ridmark pulled up the hood of his cloak and picked his way down the slope. The cave opening grew larger and larger, and he smelled burned flesh. The drakes tended to take kills to the lair, to feed their females and hatchlings.

  He wondered how many half-eaten victims he would find within the cave.

  Assuming the drakes simply didn’t kill him on sight.

  Green light flared from atop the hill, and a cold wind blew around Ridmark, tugging at his cloak. Vlazar had started his spell. If Ridmark didn’t hurry, the woman was going to die. Fortunately, the green glow drew the orcs’ eyes, keeping them from watching for foes. Ridmark abandoned all attempts at stealth and ran for the cave.

  He reached the entrance, and the hot, reeking air struck him like a blow to the face. The cave stank of charred flesh and the metallic smell of the drakes’ blood. He eased into the darkness and moved around a corner, a fiery glow touching his eyes.

  The cave opened into a large chamber beneath the hill, and to judge from the grim carvings upon the walls, the dark elves had once used it for ritual magic. Heaps of blackened bones lay everywhere, and Ridmark saw the charred, half-eaten carcasses of goats. Two dead orcs, no doubt hapless victims plucked from Qazarl’s warriors, lay upon the floor.

  A dozen adult drakes lounged along the walls, their tails twitching. From time to time one of the drakes breathed a blast of fire, bathing the others in flame. A half-dozen hatchlings occupied a nest in the corner, and as one they glared at him with baleful yellow eyes.

  A memory flickered across his mind. Aelia had hated snakes, and one day she had stumbled upon one walking through the courtyard of Castra Marcaine. Ridmark had cut off its head with his soulblade before it could strike her…

  The hatchlings shrieked, and the pleasant memory fell away.

  Two of the larger adults stirred, moving towards him. If they decided he was a threat, they would challenge him with blasts of flame, hoping to scare him away. If they decided he was prey, they would simply kill him.

  Unless he diverted their attention.

  Ridmark reached into the bundle, pulled out the burned forearm, and tossed it across the cavern. It sailed past the two drakes and struck the floor, leaving a spatter of green blood in its wake. As one both drakes faced the severed arm, as did every other adult drake.

  Ridmark reached into the bundle, his fingers coiling around the hard, leathery skin of the drake’s severed head.

  One of the larger drakes ripped a chunk from the orc’s arm. The nearest drake screeched in challenge and attacked, beating its wings and lashing its forelegs. The other adults moved into the struggle, fighting to establish dominance.

  And as they struggled, Ridmark threw the severed head into their midst. It bounced once or twice, leaving smoking blood on the floor.

  As one the drakes turned to stare at him, roaring in sudden fury.

  Ridmark sprinted for the hillside. He burst onto the hill and veered to the left, and an instant later a raging pillar of flame erupted from the cavern.

  He scrambled up the hillside, staff ready in his hands.

  A few heartbeats later a dozen angry drakes burst from the cave. Some ran after him, moving with alarming speed. Others beat their wings and took to the air,
loosing blasts of flame.

  Ridmark ran for the ring of menhirs.

  ###

  Calliande closed her eyes, the soulstone cold against her chest, and waited for death.

  Power stirred around her, currents of dark magic rising in response to Vlazar’s spell. She felt the soulstone’s power, cold and hungry, waiting to trap her…

  She tensed, a prayer to the Dominus Christus upon her lips, and braced herself for the dagger.

  Nothing happened.

  After a moment, she realized that Vlazar’s incantation had trailed off.

  “What is that?” he snapped.

  Calliande opened her eyes and turned her head.

  She saw the menhirs, shining with their eerie glow. Kharlacht stood at the other end of the altar, greatsword in his hands. The other orcs all faced south, short swords and bows in hand.

  “What is that?” repeated Vlazar. “Kharlacht?”

  “I don’t know,” said Kharlacht. “It’s too dark to see.”

  Calliande craned her neck. She saw nothing beyond the green glow. Yet the orcish warriors stood at the edge of the stone circle, peering into the darkness.

  Then she saw a gout of flame on the hill below, and another.

  “Drakes,” said Kharlacht. “Lots of them. Your spell must have riled them up.” He gestured with his greatsword. “Spread out! Quickly! Otherwise they will burn us all. Archers by the altar, swordsmen by the menhirs! Move!”

  The orcish warriors hastened to obey as another burst of flame blazed on the hill. Vlazar stood near the altar, fingering his dagger. Calliande strained against the ropes, wondering if she could get away while the orcs were distracted.

  But the ropes held fast.

  “Shoot any drake that appears,” said Kharlacht. “While they’re stunned, swordsmen are to…”

  A gray blur shot between the menhirs and came to a stop in the midst of the scattered orcs.

  For a wild moment Calliande thought the figure was a warrior of the high elves, a master of sword and spell. But the shape in the gray cloak was not a high elf but a human man. He was tall, in his late twenties or early thirties, with cold blue eyes in a hard face, his black hair close-cropped. Beneath the gray elven cloak he wore leather and wool, and carried a wooden staff capped with steel on either end.