Frostborn: The First Quest (7 page)

Ridmark frowned. “Why?”

“Because it means another man has fallen into Ardrhythain’s trap,” spat Lancelus. 

“Trap?” said Ridmark. “What trap is that?”

“Let me guess what has befallen you,” said Lancelus. “I suspect one day Ardrhythain showed up in the Dux’s court, cited the Pact, and demanded the service of a Swordbearer to rescue an elven bladeweaver from the ruins of Urd Morlemoch?”

Ridmark nodded.

“And you volunteered, I assume?” said Lancelus.

“Aye,” said Ridmark.

Lancelus grimaced. “Better that you had not. Much the same happened to me. Four weeks past, Ardrhythain presented himself in the court of the Comes of Coldinium, and made the same demand. The Comes chose me, and I traveled north to Urd Morlemoch. I have been trapped here ever since.”

“The archmage did not say he sent other Swordbearers into the ruins,” said Ridmark.

“Nor did he tell me,” said Lancelus. “If my reckoning is correct, I think you are the eighth Swordbearer that deceitful swindler has sent into this hell.”

“Eighth?” said Ridmark, aghast. “How do you know this?”

“I have seen their corpses, found their soulblades,” said Lancelus. “Some survived long enough to aid me, but were cut down in the end.” He shook his head. “And a few fell victim to the ghastly traps in the catacombs below. I fear the Warden’s cunning is matched only by his love of cruelty.” He sighed. “I was the only surviving Swordbearer…and I grieve that Ardrhythain has sent another innocent into this deathtrap.”

“But why?” said Ridmark. “Why would he send eight of us?”

“Because he can,” said Lancelus, his voice full of bitterness, “and because we mean nothing to him.” He spat. “The lives of the elves are beyond us, Sir Ridmark. They live a thousand years, and an archmage like Ardrhythain can live for thousands more. We must be like flies to them, born in the morning and slain in the afternoon. The life of one bladeweaver matters more to Ardrhythain than every man, woman, and child in the High King’s realm…and he will not hesitate to sacrifice as many Swordbearers as necessary to rescue the wretched elven girl.” He shrugged. “When we are slain, Ardrhythain will simply send another, and another, and another, until either his precious bladeweaver is rescued, or he has slain every last Knight of the Soulblade in Andomhaim.” 

“I see,” said Ridmark at last. The high elven archmage had warned him more than once about the dangers he would face within the walls of Urd Morlemoch, had given him every chance to turn back. Yet Sir Lancelus’s words also rang true. The high elves lived for millennia. What did the lives of mere humans matter to them?

But Ardrhythain had given magic to the humans, rather than allow the urdmordar to destroy them. Yet perhaps that was because he realized the knights of Andomhaim would make effective weapons against the urdmordar, caring nothing for the fate of the High King’s realm…

Ridmark shook his head. Such speculations were useless, and he had more immediate problems. 

“How do you suggest we proceed from here?” said Ridmark.

“We escape from this madness,” said the older knight. “You came up from the catacombs?” Ridmark nodded. “Then the way is clear, at least for now. Sooner or later the Warden’s vile creatures will find their way into the tunnels, but we should be long gone by then.”

“You intend to leave?” said Ridmark.

“I do,” said Lancelus, his hard eyes narrowed. “Ardrhythain led us astray and sent us here to die. I see no reason to honor my word to him.” 

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “I will escort you to the secret entrance. From there you can make your way back to Coldinium…”

“And you can go back to Castra Marcaine,” said Lancelus.

“No,” said Ridmark. “I will venture back into the ruins and continue searching for Rhyannis, or at least for knowledge of her fate.”

Lancelus tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowing further. Ridmark felt the older man weighing him.

“Are you utterly mad, boy?” he said at last.

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “But I gave my word to find Rhyannis or learn of her fate, and I have done neither as yet. I am a Knight of the Soulblade, and I will not break my given word.”

And he had no wish to go back to Castra Marcaine, and to Aelia, empty-handed. 

“Ardrhythain lied to you, boy,” said Lancelus, angry now, “and you are still going to do his bidding?”

“He didn’t lie,” said Ridmark. “He simply did not share the entire truth.”

“A lie by omission is still a lie,” said Lancelus. His hands had curled into fists, and Ridmark wondered if the older knight was going to attack him, if he had been driven mad by the horrors of this place. 

“True,” said Ridmark, “but he did not lie about the vital matters. Rhyannis is in danger, and he needs the aid of a Swordbearer to retrieve her. I intend to be that Swordbearer, and to escape here alive with Rhyannis.”

“You will perish,” said Lancelus.

“All men die,” said Ridmark. “Better to perish in pursuit of some great deed, I think, instead of cringing fearfully in the corner.”

For a moment he thought he had said too much, but Lancelus did not move. “You would truly do it? You would take me to the exit, let me escape from here, and then return to face all the horrors alone?”

Ridmark shrugged. “If I must. I would prefer help, though I have no right to command you.” He thought of the bones, the trap, and the urshane wearing Aelia’s face. “And after the horrors I have already seen…no, I could not blame you or any man for fleeing.”

To his surprise, Lancelus threw back his head and roared with laughter. 

“You surprise me, Ridmark Arban,” said Lancelus, all trace of his anger gone. “Such boldness. Could you do it? Yes, I very much think you could. How surprising!”

“Sir Lancelus?” said Ridmark. Again he wondered at the older Swordbearer’s sanity.

The levity vanished at once. “You have shamed me, Sir Ridmark. Your determination to press on with your quest, your valor…ah, but they are worthy. Forgive my bitterness, I beg, and let me aid you.”

“I will gladly accept any aid, sir,” said Ridmark. “Two swords have a better chance of success than just one.”

“Truly,” said Lancelus. “And now that you are here perhaps we take a great risk. Dare we?”

“Dare we risk what?” said Ridmark. 

“I think that Rhyannis is still alive,” said Lancelus, “and I know where she is.”

“Where?” said Ridmark.

“This way,” said Lancelus. “But keep your eyes open for foes. From time to time the mutated orcs come into the ruins, and the Warden’s damned urvaalgs wander freely.”

He led Ridmark to the edge of the courtyard. They passed through an archway and stood on the edge of a wide street. Ruined mansions lined the street, broken domes and crumbling towers rising out of the white walls.

“There,” said Lancelus, pointing.

The massive white tower, the stronghold of the Warden, rose from the heart of Urd Morlemoch. The tower filled half the black sky, rising like the bone of some long-dead, colossal beast jutting from the earth. Ridmark saw hundreds of statues lining the tower’s sides, statues of dark elven warriors and wizards, of urvaalgs and ursaars and urvuuls, of stranger creatures he could not recognize. 

And three ribbons of ghostly blue flame danced and writhed around the tower, rippling in the air overhead like banners caught in the wind.

“She’s in there,” said Lancelus.

Ridmark grunted. “I suspected as much.”

Lancelus grinned, his teeth flashing in his graying black beard. “You think that I am stating the obvious. The tower is huge, no? But I know exactly where the Warden is keeping Rhyannis.”

“Where?” said Ridmark.

“A room called the Chamber of Stone, on the tower’s thirty-ninth level,” said Lancelus. “I overhead some of the mutated orcs discussing it. Apparently they caught her trying to enter the library in the tower’s highest levels, and she slew many of them. But they overpowered her in the end, and are holding her prisoner until their master awakens.”

“Awakens?” said Ridmark, puzzled. “Then the Warden is…sleeping?”

“I suspected hibernating is a better word for it,” said Lancelus. 

“Ardrhythain said that the Warden is undead,” said Ridmark, ignoring the scowl that crossed the older man’s face at the mention of the archmage. “Surely such a creature would have no need for rest.”

“But the Warden, if that wretched Ardrhythain did not lie, is over fifteen thousand years old,” said Lancelus. “Such a span of years must be a heavy burden to bear. I cannot prove it, but from what the mutated orcs have said, I suspect the Warden sometimes falls into a…stupor. A waking dream, like a monk mediating and falling into a trance. And he appears to be in one of those trances now.”

“Then this is our best chance to enter the tower and rescue Rhyannis,” said Ridmark.

“I thought as much,” said Lancelus. “Unless you have reconsidered, and wish to take the course of wisdom and flee this place before the urvaalgs return to the catacombs.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “My mind is made up.”

Again Lancelus threw back his head and barked that mad, wild laugh. The time in Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark suspected, had not been kind to the older Swordbearer’s sanity. 

“So be it!” said Lancelus. “Two knights storming the tower to free the fair maiden from the evil sorcerer’s clutches, eh? How gallant! Perhaps if we live, those wretched elves will make a song of it, one of their interminable epic poems. Or maybe the bards of our High King’s realm shall make a ballad of it? The two Swordbearers, the tower, and the maiden? Certainly I would give a golden coin to the bard who sang such a song for me.”

“Perhaps we should rescue Rhyannis and escape before we concern ourselves with the songs,” said Ridmark, uneasy. He did not know how Sir Lancelus would react in battle. Still, the Swordbearer could obviously handle himself in a fight. No novice with the sword could face so many urvaalgs and live.

“Yes, quite right,” said Lancelus. “Follow me, Sir Ridmark. The main gates to the tower are layered with many potent wards, but there is a side entrance for the Warden’s servants. We shall use that…and may God have mercy on any who stand in our way!”

He led the way through the dark streets, the white stones gleaming eerily around them, and Ridmark followed.

Chapter 7 - Dragon Blood

Utter silence reigned in the halls of the Warden’s tower.

Ridmark followed Sir Lancelus through the gloomy corridors of white stone, high arches rising over their heads. More crystals gleamed in the ceiling, as in the catacombs, but these crystals radiated a pale silver light. The eerie glow seemed to transform the walls into sheets of silver glass, the shadows like ghosts trapped within the glass. 

After everything else he had seen, it would not have surprised Ridmark if murderous ghosts did indeed burst from the walls. 

“Do you know where you’re going?” whispered Ridmark.

“Not really,” said Sir Lancelus, his soulblade shining in his right first. The aura of dark magic surrounding the Warden’s tower was so strong both their soulblades shone like torches. Ridmark considered sheathing his blade to conceal the light from the eyes of any guardians, but discarded the idea. God only knew what kind of horrors walked the halls, and Ridmark might need his weapon at an instant’s notice. 

“That could be a problem,” said Ridmark.

Lancelus grinned at him, his face ghostly in the silver light. “Problems, Sir Ridmark? Why, we are on a fool’s quest. It is a little late to worry about problems. But Rhyannis is on the thirty-ninth level of the tower, in the Chamber of Stone. We need only keep going up until we’ve reached the thirty-ninth floor. Twelve down, twenty-seven to go.”

Ridmark could think of no better plan, so he nodded and followed Lancelus deeper into the massive tower. 

The corridor circled the edge of the tower, tall, pointed windows looking down on the ruins of Urd Morlemoch below. Already they stood higher than most of the ruined mansions and all but a few of the crumbling towers. Beyond the walls Ridmark saw the rocky, spell-haunted wilderness of the Torn Hills and the rippling, steel-gray sheet of the western sea. What would the view be like from the top of the tower? 

He might well find out. The thirty-ninth level, if his calculations were right, would be at least two-thirds of the way up, if not even higher. From there he might be able to see all the way to Castra Marcaine. 

They went up another flight of stairs, and then another, climbing ever higher. Still utter silence reined around them. Ridmark found it odd that it had been so easy to enter the tower. He would have expected more guards, more wards, perhaps packs of urvaalgs prowling every level and mutated orcs standing guard at every door.

Lancelus came to a stop halfway up a flight of stairs, his soulblade coming up in guard.

“What is it?” hissed Ridmark.

“Someone’s coming,” said Lancelus. 

He gestured, and Ridmark nodded, pressing himself against the wall on the right while Lancelus moved to the left. The stairs ended in a pointed archway a dozen yards ahead, and Ridmark heard the slow, steady tap of boots. One of the mutated orcs, perhaps? Ridmark took a deep breath, preparing himself for battle.

A moment later an orc appeared at the top of the stairs, the blue veins in his arms and temples pulsing.

The blue glow also filled the orc’s black eyes.

And, Ridmark realized the orc was dead. He was not breathing, not moving, not even so much as twitching. The Warden’s dark magic animated the corpse, a spell of necromancy driving the creature forward.

The orc started down the stairs with a slow, steady step, and Ridmark lifted his sword, drawing on Heartwarden for strength…

“Wait!” hissed Lancelus. “Do not move. Do not attack the creature.”

Ridmark gave him an incredulous look.

“Do not move!” said Lancelus. “Our lives depend upon it.” 

Ridmark remained motionless, the undead orc walking towards him. He tensed, preparing to strike if the creature attacked. The orc drew nearer, and Ridmark readied himself…

But the orc kept walking. He did not turn his head, did not even glance at either Ridmark or Lancelus. Ridmark watched as the creature descended the stairs, and the undead orc soon vanished around the curve of the wall.

“Why didn’t it attack us?” said Ridmark.

“Because,” said Lancelus, “it’s not terribly clever. Forgive me. I should have warned you. The tower is filled with the Warden’s undead servants.” His smile had a hard, cold edge. “The orcish fools that worship him as a god regard Urd Morlemoch as a sacred place. They make pilgrimages here to pray to him and offer sacrifices. And when they die…”

Ridmark nodded, understanding. “They wish to buried here. As pilgrims hope to be buried below the cathedral of Tarlion.”

“The bishop of Tarlion,” said Lancelus, “does not raise the corpses interred in his crypt as undead servants. But the Warden does.”

“Why didn’t it fight us?”

“Ah, I haven’t answered your question,” said Lancelus. “Forgive me. I suspect the creatures are merely automatons with no free will of their own. If the Warden or one of his servants commands them, they will attack. But left alone, they will not attack us unless we strike at them first.”

“If we ignore them, they’ll ignore us,” said Ridmark.

Lancelus nodded. 

“A poor choice in guards, then,” said Ridmark. “But Ardrhythain did say the Warden was insane.”

“Perhaps not,” said Lancelus. “If I had not stopped you, you would have attacked the creature, the spells on it would have raised the alarm, and you would soon face hundreds of them. And if not for our soulblades, we would never have defeated the urvaalgs.” 

“If the Warden has made mistakes in his defenses,” said Ridmark, “then let us use them to our advantage before he realizes his error.”

“A sound plan,” said Lancelus, and they resumed climbing the stairs. On and on the tower went, an endless maze of corridors and stairs, and Ridmark counted the levels. 

On the thirtieth level, Lancelus stopped at the entrance to another corridor.

“We may have a problem,” said Lancelus.

Ridmark looked past him and saw the danger at once.

The corridor beyond the archway looked much the same as the others he had seen, with a high, arched ceiling and niches lining the walls. In the other corridors, statues had stood in the niches.

But here, undead orcs stood motionless upon the pedestals. Dozens of them waited without moving, their unblinking eyes shining with eerie blue light, their veins pulsing with the same glow. Ridmark wondered how many generations of orcs had brought their dead here to lie with their false god, only for their corpses to rise again as the Warden’s guardians. 

“If we walk down this corridor,” said Ridmark, “will they wake and attack us?”

“I don’t know,” said Lancelus. “I would assume so. Or perhaps this corridor is the…servants’ quarters, as it were, and they wait here until summoned.” He looked at Ridmark. “I don’t think there’s another way up.”

“Then we go through,” said Ridmark.

“It’s still not too late to turn back,” said Lancelus. “Let the elves look after their own.”

“No,” said Ridmark.

He expected Lancelus to argue, but the older knight only grinned. “Sir Ridmark, I daresay that you are as mad as the Warden himself.”

Ridmark shrugged. Was Lancelus right? Perhaps leaving Urd Morlemoch would be the most sensible course of action, especially if Ardrhythain had indeed deceived them. Yet Ridmark did not want to go back to Castra Marcaine without having accomplished anything.

What would he tell Aelia?

“I gave my word,” said Ridmark at last.

“I respect that,” said Lancelus, lifting his soulblade. “Shall we?”

Ridmark nodded and they started down the corridor, soulblades in hand. The orcs remained motionless, their unblinking, glowing eyes staring at nothing. Heartwarden glowed with white light in Ridmark’s fist, and he kept the weapon raised, his eyes sweeping the undead orcs. The archway waited on the far end of the corridor, more stairs climbing into the heights of the tower. 

They passed the halfway point. Still the orcs did not move. Ridmark started to breathe a little easier. If the orcs were going to attack, they likely would have done so by now.

He took another step, and then Lancelus tripped with a curse.

The older knight lost his balance and fell into one of the motionless orcs, knocking the creature to the floor.

And as one, every one of the undead orcs turned to look at them.

“Oh,” said Lancelus, clawing back to his feet. The orc he had struck rose, the glowing eyes turning to face him. “Damn it.”

As one, the orcs stepped from their pedestals and attacked, reaching for them with cold, dead hands.

Ridmark moved.

He drew on Heartwarden’s magic, calling on the sword to fill him with strength and speed. An orc reached for him, and Ridmark cut off its hands with a single swipe of Heartwarden’s glowing blade. No blood leaked from the wound, only a blue glow. Still the orc advanced, and Ridmark took off its head with a two-handed blow.

The corpse crumpled motionless to the gleaming floor.

“The heads!” shouted Ridmark. “Strike at their heads!” 

Lancelus growled and beheaded one of the orcs. 

The two Swordbearers fought back to back, soulblades rising and falling. An orc lunged at Ridmark and he ducked, allowing Lancelus to whirl and take off the undead creature’s head. Another orc reached for Lancelus, and Ridmark slashed at the orc’s leg, forcing the animated corpse to stumble. The opening gave him more than enough time to bring Heartwarden around and decapitate the creature. 

Step by step they fought, forcing their way through the press of undead flesh. The orcs were strong, unnaturally strong, and impervious to pain, but the soulblades gave the two knights superhuman strength to match. Ridmark took down another orc and turned, looking for more foes to fight.

But there were none left. 

Three dozen orcish corpses lay strewn around them, crumbling into dust, the magic upon the undead flesh broken. Ridmark let out a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow, Heartwarden dangling from his right fist. Lancelus looked back and forth, leaning upon his glowing soulblade. The older man looked on the verge of exhaustion, his eyes ringed in dark circles. He had been fighting alone in the ruins of Urd Morlemoch for days, trying to avoid the mutated orcs and the urvaalgs. Ridmark wondered when the other Swordbearer had last slept the night.

“Forgive me,” said Lancelus. “That was my fault. Yet you fought magnificently. Just as I thought you would.” He smiled. “You are…you are as formidable as I thought you would be.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. For some reason the words made him uneasy, and for a brief moment he wondered if Lancelus was about to attack him. But Ridmark pushed aside his fears. Lancelus had undergone grave trials and survived, and had followed Ridmark deeper into Urd Morlemoch even though he had no obligation to do so. 

“Come,” said Lancelus, pointing with his glowing sword. “Let us continue.”

The climbed higher into the tower.

###

They encountered no other enemies, and soon came to the thirty-ninth level.

“And that, I suspect,” said Lancelus, “is the Chamber of Stone.”

A pillared arcade led away from the main tower, leading to a domed turret that jutted from the tower’s side. A cold wind blew through the pillars, tugging at Ridmark’s gray cloak, and he saw Urd Morlemoch below him, the sea spreading away to the west and the rocky hills to the east. The arcade ended in a set of double doors, a pair of statues standing on either side of the arch.

But they were different from all the other statues Ridmark had seen in the ruins.

They were fashioned of gray stone, not white, and had been carved in the shape of two orcish women. Their faces were twisted with terror, their eyes bulging, their hands raised as if to ward off a blow. 

“The dark elves have grotesque taste in art,” said Ridmark.

“I suspect,” said Lancelus, voice grim, “that they were not originally statues.”

Ridmark frowned. “The dark elves…their sorcery can turn living flesh to stone?”

“Who knows what their black powers can do?” said Lancelus. “Be on your guard.” 

They strode to the double doors, and Lancelus pushed them open. The blue steel hinges rotated without a sound, and revealed an empty domed chamber, similar to the one where Ridmark had fought the urshanes. The eerie blue light from the ribbons of flame streamed through the through the high windows. The chamber was deserted, save for two more of the gray statues flanking a door on the other side of the room.

“Through there, I think,” said Lancelus. 

“No guardian,” said Ridmark, looking around for mutated orcs or undead or urvaalgs. Or God knew what else. “If a high elven bladeweaver is so dangerous, would not the Warden assign a powerful guard to keep watch over her?”

“That is logical,” said Lancelus. “I…” He stopped and stared at the ceiling.

Ridmark followed his gaze.

A woman hung upside down from the apex of the dome, wrapped in a black cloak, her black hair hanging from her head like a banner. The woman looked elven, her face lean and alien and her ears pointed, and for a moment Ridmark wondered if this was Rhyannis, if the Warden had used his magic to suspend her from the ceiling.

Then she opened her eyes. 

A chill went through Ridmark. The woman’s eyes were like pits into a bottomless void, a place of nothingness and freezing darkness without life. 

“Oh,” said Lancelus. “A powerful guard, yes.”

The woman smiled at them, her teeth sharp and white.

“What is she?” said Ridmark. 

“The most powerful creatures of the dark elves,” said Lancelus, “are created from their own blood. This woman is an urdhracos. Half of her ancestry is dark elven.”

“What is the other half?” said Ridmark.

The black cloak around her stirred, and Ridmark realized it wasn’t a cloak at all.

It was a pair of leathery wings.

“Dragon,” said Lancelus. 

The wings unfurled, and beneath them she wore black steel armor over her slender body. The woman stretched, as if awakening from a long nap, and dropped from the ceiling. Her wings rose behind her, slowing her fall, and she touched down on the center of the floor. Steel gauntlets covered her hands, ending in long, razor-sharp talons. Her bottomless black eyes considered Ridmark for a moment, and then shifted back to Lancelus.