Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife (18 page)

Gavin scowled, and then nodded, and Ridmark let go of his arm.

“You’re right,” he said. “What should we do?”

“We go to the village,” said Ridmark, “and see what we can be done.” 

He did not think the attackers would have burned the villagers inside their homes. The urdmordar preferred to eat their food alive, and dead people could hardly breed new generations of food for the urdmordar. Of course, it was entirely possible a wandering band of bandits unrelated to the urdmordar had attacked Aranaeus.

Disaster always seemed to attract more disaster.

“Come,” said Ridmark. “I suspect the urdmordar’s orcish minions rounded up the villagers and burned Aranaeus behind them. Likely they will herd their captives towards Urd Dagaash. If we intercept them, perhaps we can prevail and free the villagers.”

Kharlacht frowned. “But if they had a force large enough to overpower the village, what can we five do against so many?”

Ridmark felt himself smile. “Much.”

He led the way from the ruins of Urd Dagaash.

###

Gavin resisted the urge to run.

Ridmark set a brisk pace through the trees. Yet he did not run. Gavin understood the reasoning behind it. If they ran, they would exhaust their strength, arrive at the village too tired to fight. 

But Gavin wanted to run.

He kept imaging Rosanna falling into the hands of those spiderlings, the creatures turning her into the ragged, tormented thing he had seen in the dungeons of Urd Dagaash. What would they do to Father Martel? Or Bardus the innkeeper? Or even Philip? Gavin did not think him worthy of Rosanna, but he did not deserve to die at the hands of the spiderlings. He thought of old Agnes, harmless and kindly and senile. She was too old to work or have children. Would the spiderlings simply kill her to save themselves the bother?

They crossed the creek and came to the pastures north of the village. Gavin saw no sign of the sheep and the cows that should have been grazing there. Had they fled from the fire? Or had the attackers taken the animals with them?

“That smell,” said Gavin. He smelled smoke and burning wood, but there was another odor mixed with it. “It’s like…bacon…”

“It’s not,” said Ridmark. “That’s burned flesh.”

Gavin felt his stomach turn. 

A short time later they climbed the hill and came to Aranaeus’s northern gate.

Or what was left of it.

The gate had been ripped down and lay in splintered pieces across the street. Raging flames danced inside the stone shell of the White Walls Inn, thick smoke billowing from the ruins. The houses lining the street burned as well, smoke rising into the air.

A dozen bodies lay on the street, blood pooling around them.

“My God,” said Gavin, running toward them. He heard Ridmark shout for him to stop, but he did not care. Gavin knew all the men lying in the street, spears and bows still in their hands. One had owned the mill. Another had hunted and trapped in the woods, and a third had made leather. All had been friends of his father and Morwen.

And now they were dead.

Ridmark stepped to his side, staff in hand.

“Did the spiderlings kill them?” Gavin said.

“No,” said Ridmark, pointing at the dead men. “Those are sword wounds. They haven’t been dead long. A few hours, maybe. And those fires were started recently.”

“The attackers might still be in the village,” said Kharlacht, his greatsword raised.

“Aye,” said Ridmark, examining the ground. “But I think most of them have left. See those tracks?” He pointed at what looked like a random patch of ground. “A lot of people have gone this way, recently. I think the attackers rounded up most of the villagers and took them out the northern gate. Anyone who resisted was killed,” he gestured at one of the houses, “or tied up and thrown into the flames.”

“That’s monstrous,” said Calliande.

“The followers of the urdmordar,” said Ridmark, “are not known for their mercy.” 

“I should have stayed,” said Gavin. “You were right. If I had stayed behind, I could have done something, I could have…”

“Died,” said Ridmark. “Or you’d be in chains and marching north with the others.” 

Gavin had no answer for that.

“We’ll check the church and the praefectus’s hall,” said Ridmark. “If there are any survivors, they’ll have holed up there.”

“And if there aren't any?” said Gavin.

“And if there aren't any,” said Ridmark, “we go after the captives.” 

Gavin opened his mouth, closed it again.

“Be steady,” said Caius, putting a hand on Gavin’s shoulder. “This is an hour of trial, I know. But your countrymen need you, and this is not the time to quail. Let us go forward boldly, and trust that God shall be with us.”

Gavin nodded, adjusted his grip on his club, and followed Ridmark.

They came to the village’s square. Flames danced and crackled in the charred stone shell of the praefectus’s hall, its interior a hellish mass of burning timbers. The church’s thatched roof had burned away, but looked otherwise intact. The doors stood closed, and Gavin felt a surge of hope. Perhaps Father Martel and the others had been able to take refuge in the church.

Perhaps his father had been able to do so as well. Gavin did not want his father dead, but he wanted answers. If Cornelius had heeded Ridmark’s warning, perhaps this would not have happened. Gavin also hoped Morwen was alive. As much as he disliked his stepmother, she did not deserve to die upon a sword blade or in a fire.

“The church,” said Gavin.

Ridmark nodded. “We’ll start there. I suspect there’s a crypt beneath it. If Father Martel was clever, he might have…”

Somebody laughed, and a rough voice called out words in a language Gavin did not know.

Orcs in leather and wool emerged from behind the church, swords and axes in their hands.

###

Ridmark stepped forward to confront the newcomers.

To judge from their clothing, they were orcs of Vhaluusk. Most of the learned men of Andomhaim thought Vhaluusk a unified kingdom, like the baptized orcish kingdoms of Khaluusk and Rhaluusk to the south. Ridmark, who had traveled through Vhaluusk, knew better. Vhaluusk was a patchwork of dozens of squabbling tribes, united only by their hatred of humans and baptized orcs. Some followed the blood gods of the orcs, and others worshipped the great void of the dark elves.

And some, like the orcs heading toward Ridmark, prayed to the urdmordar.

The lead orc gazed at Ridmark, a cold smile behind his tusks. He looked about fifty, his green skin weathered, his iron-gray hair cut into a warrior’s topknot. A strange scar had been carved into his face, a circle between his eyes. Eight lines radiated from the scar, two reaching for his temples, the other two coming descending his cheeks and jaw.

The eightfold scar, Ridmark realized, represented a spider. 

An urdmordar.

“More for the goddess?” rumbled the leader in orcish. “Good. Great Agrimnalazur will be most pleased.” 

“Agrimnalazur?” said Ridmark. “I assume that is the urdmordar you serve?” 

“She is the great goddess,” said the orc, gesturing with his axe, an ugly thing of dark iron. “The cold ones are returning. All with perish, save for the chosen of Agrimnalazur.” 

“Assuming she doesn’t eat you, of course,” said Ridmark.

He expected the orc to take umbrage, but the warrior grinned. “We are but gnats to Agrimnalazur. And Agrimnalazur rewards her faithful servants lavishly with wealth and power.”

“Like a chicken,” said Ridmark, “buying his freedom by betraying his brothers to the fox.”

He expected the orc to take offense, but the warrior laughed. 

“You understand!” said the orc. “We cannot resist Agrimnalazur’s power, for she is a goddess. Better to serve her and be rewarded. As you shall learn. For you are now her slaves, and you will come with us.”

Kharlacht and Caius stepped to either side of Ridmark, their weapons ready. Calliande waited behind them, hands raised as she summoned magic. Gavin stood on Kharlacht’s left, his club in hand. Ridmark thought about ordering the boy away, but realized that he would not listen. A man had the right to fight in the defense of his home and family, and by the time this was over Gavin would be a man.

Or he would be dead. 

“I am Ugrazur,” said the orcish leader, “servant of the great Agrimnalazur, and in her name I command you to lay down your weapons and submit.”

A dozen orcish warriors fanned around him, maces and axes and swords in hand. Like Ugrazur, they all bore the same spider-scar upon their faces. 

“And I am Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark, “and I will give you this one chance. Walk away, now. Or I will kill you all.”

“Ah,” said Ugrazur, the red glaze of orcish battle fury coming into his black eyes. “You are the one who slew the goddess’s sister! Agrimnalazur desires to acquire you as a servant. But since you are too defiant to bend the knee, I shall lay your head before her. Kill the men. Whoever takes the first kill may keep the woman as a concubine.” 

Ugrazur and his warriors charged forward with a yell, and Ridmark ran to meet them. One of the orcish warriors swung a mace, and Ridmark ducked around the blow. His staff blurred, cracking the orc’s wrist, and the warrior dropped the mace with a yelp. Before he could recover, Ridmark reversed his grip on the staff and whipped the weapon around, raising it over his head.

The end of the staff slammed into the orc’s temple, all of the weapon’s weight and Ridmark’s strength driving the blow. The orc went down without a sound, and two more attackers jumped to take his place, one thrusting a spear and the other swinging an axe. Ridmark knocked aside the spear with a sweep of his staff, dodged a wild swing from the axe, and jabbed the end of the staff. The butt slammed into the axe-wielding orc’s belly, and the warrior doubled over with a wheeze. The spearman thrust again, and Ridmark dodged, shifted his staff to his left hand, and grabbed the spear behind its head and yanked. The orc stumbled, and Ridmark hit him in the face with his staff. With only one hand, he could not put enough force behind the blow to kill, yet the orc’s head snapped back. The warrior stumbled, stunned, and Ridmark got both hands on his staff and swung again.

The orc fell dead to the ground. 

Around him the others struggled. Kharlacht’s greatsword opened one of the orcs from throat to navel. Caius’s mace struck with bone-crunching force over and over again. Even Gavin held his own with his club, ducking and dodging around strikes. Calliande stood back from the fight, white fire glimmering around her fingers. A Magistria could only use her magic for knowledge, communication, and defense, but never to kill or harm a mortal, but that hardly made her useless. One by one white light glimmered around each of Ridmark’s companions, a warding spell to blunt the impact of blows. Ridmark sensed the cold touch of her magic upon him, and then he felt faster, as he once had while wielding the soulblade Heartwarden in battle.  

Ugrazur roared and came at him, and Ridmark turned his whole attention to the orcish leader.

###

Gavin ducked under the swing of a heavy sword.

He faced one of the spider-scarred orcs, the sounds of clanging steel and shouted curses ringing in his ears. The orc thrust again, and Gavin got his club up in time to block the blow. The heavy iron blade tore splinters from his club, and Gavin could only imagine what it would do to him.

But he didn’t care.

He felt terror, but it seemed remote, so remote, and everything had slowed around him. He heard his heart thundering in his ears, every beat sounding like the boom of the drum, a wild, mad mixture of fear and exhilaration filling him. The world had shrunk to the battle between Gavin and the orc with the sword. 

The orc roared a curse and came at Gavin again, and he ducked, the sword blurring past his face. He felt the sharp tip graze his temple, felt the burst of pain, felt hot blood flow down his sweaty skin.

But he did not care.

He cared that the orc’s wild thrust had left him open.

Gavin swung his club with all his strength, and the heavy weapon crashed into the orc’s face. Bones shattered, teeth and black-streaked green blood flying. The orc stumbled, dropping his sword with a clang, and Gavin struck again. The orc fell to his knees, and Gavin brought his club hammering down.

The orc collapsed. Blood leaked from his smashed nose and mouth, and Gavin saw the final twitches as the life faded from the orc’s limbs.

Gavin had just killed a man. 

He stared at the dead orc, stunned. It seemed so…absurd, so unreal. How could he have done this? He…

An orcish war cry rang in his ears, and Gavin remembered the orcs were trying to kill him and his friends. 

He raised his club as another orc ran at him, brandishing a mace.

###

Ridmark swept aside a thrust, blocked another, dodged a swing.

Ugrazur was fast.

Too fast. He moved with the dangerous, powerful speed of a hunting predator, far faster than an orcish man his age should be able to move. Only the longer reach of his staff had kept Ridmark alive so far.

Ugrazur had some magic of his own. It must be something Calliande could neither sense nor dispel, otherwise she would have done so. Ugrazur’s speed gave him an advantage, but every advantage was a double-edged sword.

Every weapon could be turned against its wielder. 

Ridmark launched a flurry of short, rapid swings against Ugrazur. The orc backed away, ducking around the swings. Ridmark’s momentum played out, and he let himself fall open. Ugrazur howled and charged into the opening, moving with superhuman speed. 

Exactly as Ridmark had predicted.

The length of his staff slammed into Ugrazur’s belly with enough force to knock the weapon from Ridmark’s fingers. The staff went tumbling away, and Ugrazur doubled over, eyes bulging, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Ridmark snatched the orcish war axe from his belt, raised it high, and buried the blade in Ugrazur’s neck. The green blood of an orc gushed from the wound, but strange black streaks colored the blood.