Frostborn: The First Quest (2 page)

Though if he found her alone, perhaps in a stairwell or a corridor, he would dare a kiss. And if she did not slap him, he would dare another.

The song ended, and a smattering of applause went through the hall. Ridmark and Aelia stepped apart and bowed to each other. She looked at his belt and frowned.

“What’s that?” she said.

For an excruciating moment Ridmark wondered if his body had betrayed him into embarrassment, and then realized she was talking about something else.

About his soulblade. 

Pale white light leaked from the edges of the scabbard. 

His embarrassment turned into alarm, and he slid Heartwarden a few inches from its scabbard. A soulstone had been embedded in the blade above the crosspiece. It looked like a chunk of rough white crystal, but it was the source of the blade’s magic.

“It’s glowing,” said Aelia.

Ridmark shook his head. “It only does that when I draw upon its power, or…”

Or when creatures of dark magic were near.

“My lord Dux!” shouted Ridmark, his voice cutting through the hall. 

Gareth saw his blade and rose from his chair. Ridmark saw that the other Swordbearers in attendance had drawn their soulblades, their soulstones also shining with a pale white light. 

“My lords and knights!” said Gareth. “Defend yourselves! There are foes among us.”

There was no panic. Everyone in the room had lived through kobold or orcish raids, and knew what to do. The men drew their swords or lifted maces. The women hurried to take the children and the servants in hand, leading them towards the chapel.

The doors to the great hall swung open with a groan. Torchlight blazed in the courtyard outside, but Ridmark heard no signs of alarm.

A tall figure in a long red coat stood in the doorway, his shadow falling into the hall.

Chapter 2 - The Quest

Ridmark gazed at the figure in astonishment, Heartwarden flickering with white light in his right hand.

The man, whoever he was, was not human. 

His long red coat was open in front, the sleeves and hem and collar trimmed in black. Beneath it he wore a white tunic and black trousers tucked into black boots. In his right hand he carried a black staff carved with intricate designs, the symbols shining with the same pale light as the soulblades. 

His face was alien, thinner than a human’s, the ears long and pointed. An unruly shock of night-black hair topped his head, and his eyes were like disks of glowing gold. The golden eyes swept the hall, and Ridmark was struck by a sense of weight, of heaviness.

The stranger was a high elf. 

And in his bones Ridmark knew that this man, whoever and whatever he was, was old.

Very, very old, and wise with the weight of long sadness.

The man walked into the great hall, his staff tapping against the floor. He stopped in the center of the hall, not far from Ridmark, and looked back and forth over the drawn weapons.

“Ah, a misunderstanding,” he said in flawless Latin. His voice, like his face, was alien, much deeper than any human voice, but still musical, like the long note of a war horn. “Forgive me. I did not mean to cause alarm.”

He waved his hand, and the glow faded from the soulstones. 

“You will forgive my men, sir,” said Gareth, “for their caution.”

“It is understandable,” said the stranger. “Soulblades only glow when confronted with a creature of dark magic or when their wielders draw upon their power.”

“Since none of the Swordbearers were drawing upon their swords’ power,” said Gareth, his blade still in hand, “you can see how we mistook you for a creature of dark magic. Guests are welcome in Castra Marcaine, especially on the Festival of the Resurrection, but I hope we are mistaken about your identity.”

“You are, my lord Dux,” said the stranger. “The soulblades reacted because they remembered me.”

“Remembered?” said Gareth. 

“Yes,” said the high elf. “I helped to forge them.”

“You will forgive my bluntness, sir” said Gareth, “but it is customary for the guest to introduce himself first.”

“Of course,” said the high elf with a bow and a flourish of his long coat. “My name is Ardrhythain of Cathair Solas, and I have the honor to serve as the archmage of my city. And you are Gareth of the House of the Licinii, Dux of the Northerland.” He straightened up. “I had the honor to know your ancestor Nisian Licinius, one of the first Swordbearers who rode to battle alongside Calobrand the First Swordbearer.” He paused. “You look a great deal like him, if I may say so.”

Ridmark blinked in amazement, and he heard the murmurs sweep through the hall.

Ardrhythain was a figure of legend. In the darkest hour of Andomhaim, as the urdmordar and their slave armies of orcs and dark elves besieged the walls of Tarlion, Ardrhythain had come, offering to teach the humans to draw upon the magic of the Well at Tarlion’s heart. He had founded the two Orders, the Magistri and the Swordbearers. With the magic of the Magistri and the Soulblades, the men of Andomhaim had defeated the urdmordar, shattering their empire and driving the remaining spider-devils into hiding. 

But that had been over four hundred years ago.

“Put away your swords,” commanded Gareth, and the men obeyed. The Dux bowed from the waist. “Then you do us honor, lord archmage. Great honor. Your name is still revered in the histories of Andomhaim, for you provided us with the magic to defeat both the urdmordar and the dread Frostborn.” 

“I am glad of your welcome, lord Dux,” said Ardrhythain. “You are a just and wise ruler. I fear not all of your kindred have used magic well.”

“If you speak of the Eternalist order,” said Gareth, “they were destroyed a century and a half past, and their errors have not been repeated.”

“Yet other cancers have spread through your realm,” said Ardrhythain. “If I gave your kindred the secret of magic, I knew that some among you would abuse it, would try to use the power to become like gods. Do not your own scriptures record that the first woman of Old Earth desired to be like a god and heeded the serpent? But the alternative was to allow the urdmordar to destroy you utterly, just as they destroyed my kindred and enslaved our sundered cousins. That I could not allow.” 

“We are grateful for your aid to this day,” said Gareth. “You are more than welcome to join our feast, and you would do us great honor by attending.” 

“You are kind, my lord Dux,” said Ardrhythain, “but I fear I cannot tarry. And while it would please me to attend your feast, I have less joyful matters to discuss with you.”

“What are they?” said Gareth.

“I have come,” said Ardrhythain, “to discuss the Pact.” 

“I know we have failed in our obligations,” said Gareth. “The Pact commands that the magic of the Magistri only be used for defense, for knowledge, and for communication, for the good of the realm. The Eternalists violated that precept, and other renegade Magistri have done the same, but we will…”

Ardrhythain lifted his free hand. “I make no claim, Dux, to authority over your kindred. That was the mistake of our sundered cousins, to enslave other kindreds, and countless generations have paid horribly for it. No, I speak of a different provision of the Pact of the Two Orders.”

Gareth frowned, and then understanding spread over his face. “You require the aid of a Magistrius or a Swordbearer.”

“This is so,” said Ardrhythain. “By the terms of the Pact, the high elves of Cathair Solas may demand the aid of any Magistrius or Swordbearer, and I invoke that clause now. I require the aid of a Swordbearer in a perilous task. I would prefer, my lord Dux, that you pick a Swordbearer from among your court. The men of the Northerland are battle-hardened, and you know them better than I do.” 

“Say on, then,” said Gareth. “What manner of perilous task?”

“What do you know,” said Ardrhythain, “of the dark elven citadel called Urd Morlemoch?”

Ridmark recognized that name as a place of dread and horror. Few living men of Andomhaim had ever ventured there, and fewer still had returned. It was far beyond the boundaries of the realm, beyond even the mountains of the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves. According to the tales and legends of the dwarves, an undead dark elven sorcerer called the Warden ruled over the ruins, a sorcerer so powerful that he alone among the dark elven princes had been able to defy the urdmordar. The urdmordar had been defeated, the dark elves scattered...but the Warden still lurked within the ruins of Urd Morlemoch.

And those foolish enough to enter his citadel never returned. 

“The name is known to the men of Andomhaim,” said Gareth, “though it is a tale of dark rumor.”

“As it should be,” said Ardrhythain. “The Warden is the master of that evil place, and he is without mercy or scruple. Yet some dare to enter his citadel, to claim the treasures hidden within or to win glory and renown.” 

“Some knights of Andomhaim have done so,” said Gareth. “They never returned.”

“One of my own kindred has followed in their footsteps,” said Ardrhythain. “A young woman named Rhyannis, only a century old. She is a bladeweaver, and wished to prove herself in battle.”

“A bladeweaver?” said Gareth.

“A warrior of the high elves,” said Ardrhythain. “A unique discipline, one that combines both the use of mental discipline and mastery of the blade.”

“I still find it strange,” said Gareth, “that the high elves send their women into battle alongside their men. It seems most,” he searched for a word, “unknightly.”

“Perhaps you speak true,” said Ardrhythain. “My kindred once filled this world. But so many high elves, men and women both, fell in battle against the dark elves and the urdmordar, and we cannot now replenish our numbers. But our concerns are not yours. Rhyannis entered Urd Morlemoch in hopes of stealing a book from the Warden’s library to prove her prowess. She has not returned, and the council of Cathair Solas has tasked me with rescuing her, or failing that, to ascertain her ultimate fate.”

“And so,” said Gareth, “you need a Swordbearer to aid you.”

“This is so,” said Ardrhythain.

“Forgive the question,” said Gareth, “but why do you need the aid of a Swordbearer? Your magic is great, more power than the entire Order of the Magistri could command. Certainly more than the power in a single soulblade. Why do you need help?”

“Because no elven-born wielder of magic can enter Urd Morlemoch and live,” said Ardrhythain. “The Warden has defended his home with potent magic. Should I set foot within Urd Morlemoch, I would die at once. A Swordbearer has no such limitation.”

“Why only one Swordbearer?” said Gareth. “Why not the entire Order, and all the Magistri as well? If the Warden is as powerful as you say, you will need help.”

“The Warden’s power is more than a match for the entire might of the assembled two Orders,” said Ardrhythain. “Yet for all his strength, the Warden is ancient, and not entirely sane. One Swordbearer has a chance to enter the ruins, find Rhyannis, and escape unnoticed.” 

“So I see,” said Gareth. The Dux bowed his head for a moment. “I have many worthy Swordbearers in my court, and all shall be eager to undertake such a task. Give me a day to consider, I beg, and I will answer you on the morrow.”

“Of course,” said Ardrhythain.

“I shall have my seneschal arrange rooms for you,” said Gareth, “and you are welcome to…”

“My lord!” said Ridmark.

He stepped between the archmage and the Dux, and every eye fell upon him. He saw Tarrabus’s and Imaria’s glares, saw Joram surreptitiously trying to beckon him back, saw Constantine looking at him with admiration, Aelia with surprise. 

He took a deep breath.

“Yes, Sir Ridmark?” said Gareth.

“My lord Dux,” said Ridmark, “by your leave, there is no need to spend your time in thought. I volunteer for the lord archmage’s task.”

A murmur went through the assembled court. 

“Your boldness does you credit, sir,” said Gareth with a frown. “May I ask why?” 

“I am a Knight of the Soulblade,” said Ridmark. “Our purpose is to defend mortal man from dark magic. The lord archmage’s charge has fallen into the clutches of dark magic, and I cannot stand by and do nothing.” 

And, a small part of his mind whispered, if he did this, if he succeeded, he would win great renown. Renown enough, perhaps, to put him on equal footing with Tarrabus Carhaine. 

Renown enough to win the hand of Aelia. 

“Young men are ever eager to win glory,” said Tarrabus with a frown. “Perhaps my lord Dux should choose a more experienced man.”

“Peace, Sir Tarrabus,” said Gareth. “You are barely a year older than Ridmark.” A chuckle went through the lords and ladies, and Tarrabus’s expression grew cold. “You speak truly, though. But sometimes a young man’s boldness will win through where an old man’s caution will not.”

“What is your name, Swordbearer?” said Ardrhythain.

Ridmark felt the pressure of those ancient golden eyes upon him. 

“I am Ridmark, of the House of the Arbanii,” he said. 

Ardrhythain nodded and stared at him for a long time, so long that Ridmark resisted the urge to fidget. It felt as if the golden eyes were looking right through him, scrutinizing him down to his core. 

“How old are you, Sir Ridmark?” said the archmage. 

“Nineteen, my lord,” said Ridmark. 

“Nineteen,” said Ardrhythain. He started to walk in a circle around Ridmark. “Young for a Swordbearer. And yet…” He stopped and tilted his head. “You have already done great deeds. I see the shadow of an...urdmordar? Yes, an urdmordar. I see the shadow of an urdmordar upon you. You helped slay one?”

“Sir Ridmark,” said Gareth, “slew an urdmordar in single combat.”

Ardrhythain stopped circling.

“With respect, I must disagree,” said Ridmark. “I had help. Sir Thomas. Sir Hamus. The Magistrius Richard. I did not do it alone.”

“But you were the only Swordbearer there,” said Ardrhythain, “and your soulblade dealt the killing blow.”

“Yes,” said Ridmark.

Ardrhythain moved a few paces away.

“That is...unusual,” said Ardrhythain. “Most unusual. My kindred fought the urdmordar for thousands of years, and for one man, even a man with a soulblade, to prevail against an urdmordar is remarkable.” 

“I was fortunate,” said Ridmark. “Or God chose me as the instrument through which Gothalinzur should receive punishment for her crimes.”

“Shadows,” said Ardrhythain. 

“My lord?” said Ridmark.

“Time is many things,” said Ardrhythain. “The past is like carved stone, unable to change. The present is a burning flame, changing with every heartbeat. And the future is the shadow cast by the flame. The high elves do not perceive time as you do. Your kindred say we have the gift of prophecy, but we do not. Sometimes we can merely perceive the shadows that lie before the flame of the present. And the shadows you cast, Swordbearer...the shadows you cast are long and dark indeed.”

“I am simply a man, my lord,” said Ridmark. 

The archmage turned to face him.

“If you do this,” said Ardrhythain, “if you do this thing and survive, Sir Ridmark...your destiny will be changed. Irrevocably. The shadows of your future will take a very different shape. Can you accept that?”

“No man can see his own future, my lord,” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Ardrhythain. “Perhaps you shall be grateful for that, one day.” He turned to the dais. “My lord Dux, if you consent, I choose Ridmark Arban to fulfill the terms of the Pact.” 

“Sir Ridmark,” said Gareth, voice grave. “Do you choose this freely?”

Ridmark looked at Joram, and then at the Dux, but his eyes strayed to Aelia. Her face was solemn and drawn, but she gave a tiny nod. 

Do what you must, the nod said.

“I do,” said Ridmark.

“So be it,” said Gareth.

###

The next day Ridmark gathered his possessions, equipped himself with supplies, and left Castra Marcaine. Ardrhythain had departed with his magic to attend to his duties elsewhere, promising to meet Ridmark at Urd Morlemoch.