Frostborn: The Master Thief (8 page)

“You shall have our aid as well,” said Ridmark, and Gavin nodded.

“Looks like you’ll earn that boat yet,” said Otto. 

“But it’s worse than that!” said Quintus, his fear plain. “They have a shaman with them. He’s burning with his own dark magic.” He looked at Morigna. “I suppose we’ll see how strong your magic is, witch.”

Chapter 5 - Sons of Mhor

Calliande left Kharlacht with Azakhun’s retainers and hurried up the ladder to the palisade’s rampart. A few of the mercenaries looked at her askance, but she ignored them.

They both had bigger problems upon their hands.

Scores of orcs came from the forest, clad in leather and fur. They carried spears and swords and axes, and a few of them had rough-hewn ladders. All the orcs bore the same ritual scars and tattoos Calliande had seen upon the warriors they had fought three days earlier, the scars transforming their faces into hideous crimson skulls.

Mhorite orcs.

Were they looking for Ridmark, too? 

“God and his saints,” said one of the mercenaries. “What is…is that?”

He hadn’t been asking her, but Calliande answered nonetheless. “A shaman of the orcish gods.”

The mercenary looked at her with fear on his face, and then back at the advancing orcs.

Calliande had encountered orcish shamans of the blood gods before. Vlazar had been young and arrogant, while his master Qazarl had been old and withered. This shaman was neither. He was huge, nearly seven and a half feet tall, and wore only a pair of ragged trousers. Like the others, his tusked face had been scarred and tattooed into the image of a crimson skull, bronze rings glittering in his nose and ears. Three human skulls, each one painted crimson, hung from his belt. 

In his right hand he carried an enormous double-bladed axe, the metal as black as a moonless night. Sigils of crimson flame burned upon the blades, and Calliande worked the spell to sense the presence of magic. Spells of blood and death and dark magic blazed on the weapon, and she suspected the evil thing could kill with a scratch. Likely the mighty orcish shamans of old had made the weapon, when they had still been slaves and vassals of the wizards of the dark elves. 

Or this shaman had been strong enough to create the thing himself. 

The shaman held out the axe, and another warrior scurried forward to hold it. The hulking shaman strode forward a few steps, the crimson battle rage of his orcish blood glimmering in his black eyes. He lifted his hands, the muscles in his thick arms knotting. 

Shadows and bloody fire blazed around his fingers as he started casting a spell.

Calliande recognized the spell. It was dark magic intended to summon corruption and decay. Was he going to cast it upon the men on the walls? No, he was aiming at the gate. More specifically, at the timbers of the gate. His spell would rot away the wood, leaving the palisade vulnerable.

And then the Mhorites would storm inside and kill everyone.

The shaman flung out his hands, and Calliande cast a spell of her own. White light flared around her, and one of the mercenaries shouted in alarm. Calliande gestured, and a dome of white light appeared before the gate. A burst of shadow and fire tore from the shaman’s fist and slammed into Calliande’s warding spell. She gritted her teeth and braced her mind as the shaman’s dark magic strained against her spell. She had felt stronger attacks from Coriolus and Agrimnalazur. 

But shaman still possessed considerable power. 

The shaman narrowed his eyes and stared at Calliande, his lips curling away from his teeth in a snarl.

###

Smiling Otto hurried from the tavern, carrying a loaded crossbow. Quintus followed him, and Ridmark came after, Gavin and Morigna at his side. 

The strange halfling in the black leather jerkin watched as they went past. After a moment he unfolded his arms and followed them. 

“Damn the Mhorites,” said Otto. “Damn them! If they want trouble, we’ll give it to them. We’ll give them so much trouble they’ll bloody well choke on it.”

They reached the palisade. Caius hurried over. “Gray Knight! Mhorites at the walls. We…”

“I heard,” said Ridmark. “Have the dwarves take Kharlacht to the tavern. He’ll be safe enough there. Then all of you join us on the walls. I suspect we’ll need every sword and axe before this is done.” He saw Azakhun and the other dwarves standing guard over Kharlacht. “Where’s Calliande? Did…”

There was a pulse of bloody radiance, followed by a flash of white light and a loud sizzling noise. 

“It seems she is occupied,” said Caius.

“Go,” said Ridmark. Caius ran back to the dwarves. Smiling Otto and Quintus climbed to the ramparts, and Ridmark followed him. 

“God and the apostles,” said Otto. “So damned many of them.”

There were eighty or ninety of the Kothluuskan orcs, unless further reserves skulked out of sight in the trees. A hulking giant of an orc led them, his head shaved in the manner of orcish shamans. A huge double-bladed axe rested in his right hand, the blades burning with bloody sigils. Ridmark had seen such weapons before, products of the dark magic the pagan orcs had learned from the dark elves long ago. 

Calliande stood over the gate, white light glimmering around her fingers.

“And just who the devil are you?” said Otto. 

She looked at Otto. “Calliande of the Magistri. I traveled here with Ridmark.” 

Otto snorted. “Two of them?” He looked at Ridmark. “You have two of these lovely sorceresses following you? That’s going to cause some trouble.” 

Morigna narrowed her eyes, and Calliande opened her mouth to speak.

“We have larger problems just now,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff over the palisade. 

“Aye,” said Otto. Caius and the other dwarves climbed to the rampart. The halfling in the black leather jerkin followed them, and Otto pointed at him. “You. Jager. What are you doing up here? Thought you’d be hiding in the cellar.”

Jager shrugged, his amber eyes glinting. “Why, you wound me, dear Otto. If those orcs get inside the palisade, they’ll kill us all. If I am to die, better to die fighting than waiting for a Mhorite to take my head for his dusty old god.” 

“Very well,” said Otto, his scarred lip twitching. He turned to Ridmark. “So what do you suggest, Gray Knight? Of every man here, you know the most of war…and I’m sure the magic of your lovely sorceresses will prove useful. What would you have us do?”

“For now, wait,” said Ridmark. “I assume that shaman tried a spell to open the gate?” Calliande nodded. “Then they haven’t come here to trade or talk.”

“The presence of those siege ladders would suggest as much,” said Jager.

Ridmark nodded. The strange halfling had been clever to spot them. Which made him wonder again who the halfling was and why he had come to Vulmhosk. “Aye. Which means our foe is prepared, and therefore cunning. The palisade is stout, and as long as Calliande is here he cannot use his magic to batter down the defenses. So it is up to him to take the initiative.” 

“And when he does?” said Otto. “I have thirty men here to keep order. They’re tough fighters, aye, but they’ve only seen action against bandits and raiders. These Mhorites are fanatics.”

“Your position is stronger than you think,” said Ridmark. “Calliande and Morigna can aid us with their magic. And the shaman does not have enough men to storm this place, not unless there are more lurking out of a sight. If the battle goes ill, you can retreat to your boats and flee across the lake.”

Otto scratched at his scar. “Then why are they attacking us?”

“If we wait long enough,” said Ridmark, “I suspect we shall find out.”

“It appears we shall not have to wait very long,” said Caius. 

The shaman walked from the ranks of the orcish warriors, his massive axe in hand. The men on the palisade raised their crossbows, and the shaman stopped just out of range. 

“Hear me!” roared the shaman in orcish, his voice a booming snarl. “I am Mournacht, servant of the great god Mhor! I will speak with whatever rat rules over this dung heap! Speak with me, or know my fury!” 

“I believe that is me,” said Otto. 

“I have a spell,” said Calliande, “that can amplify your voice.”

“Ah, splendid,” said Otto. “I’ve always wanted to shout threats over a wall.” 

Calliande cast the spell, and Otto climbed upon the palisade, gripping one of the stakes for balance. 

“Well?” said Otto, his voice echoing over the field. “What do you want? If you’ve come here to trade, you can do it without throwing dark magic at my walls. If you’ve come to hire whores…well, you’re so ugly they’ll have to charge triple!”

The mercenaries hooted with laughter, some of them offering rude gestures to the waiting orcs. 

“Bold words,” said Mournacht, “from a halfling rat. Your kindred are fit for the lash and nothing more.” Jager’s expression hardened, one of his hands curling into a fist. “Perhaps I’ll make you repeat those words, again and again, as I cut the fingers from your hands one by one.” 

Otto grinned. “Hard to do that from out there, isn’t it?” 

“Do you think you can withstand me?” said Mournacht. “With your walls of sticks and your men who fight for copper coins?”

“Do you think you can batter your way inside?” said Otto. He gestured at Calliande. “Seems like the Magistria already blocked your spell. Hope you brought enough food for your boys, Mournacht, because they’re going to get hungry soon.” 

“Shout defiance all you want, little halfling,” said Mournacht. “I will summon more of my people from the mountains. We shall keep you holed up in your den. Try to flee in your ships and we shall burn them. Your pet Magistria’s strength will not last forever, not against the fury of Mhor. And when your defenses have failed and I take you, I shall hang you from the tower and let the ravens feast upon you.” He pointed his axe at the palisade and swept it before him. “You will perish. Everyone last man who holds a weapon against me will suffer agony for days before I at last grant you the mercy of death!”

An uneasy murmur went through the mercenaries. These were not knights and men-at-arms of Andomhaim, sworn to fight for their lords, or even militia, fighting to defend their homes from marauders. These men were mercenaries, perhaps even former bandits, the dregs of Andomhaim come to seek their fortune in the Wilderland. If Mournacht applied the right pressure, they would flee without a fight.

“Such fine threats you are making,” said Otto. “I assume there is something you want?”

“Indeed there is, rat,” said Mournacht. “Give me what I want, and I shall leave you and your nest of vermin in peace. Refuse, and I shall kill you all.”

“And just what do you want?” said Otto.

“Ridmark Arban,” said Mournacht.

Otto frowned. “What?”

“Gray Knight!” roared Mournacht. “I know you are there. Come and face me! Or do you hide behind that withered rodent of a halfling?” 

Ridmark pulled himself up to stand beside Otto. “I am here!” He wondered why Mournacht wanted him dead. Had he wronged the shaman at some point in the past? Or was Mournacht seeking fame and glory by killing the Gray Knight?

Or had someone else instructed Mournacht to kill him?

“Surrender yourself to me, Gray Knight,” rumbled Mournacht. 

“Why?” said Ridmark. “Why do you want me dead?”

“You have offended the Heralds of Mhor twice,” said Mournacht. “No one crosses them and lives.”

“Yet I am still here,” said Ridmark.

“I shall make this simple for you,” said Mournacht, smiling. “Surrender yourself to me, and I shall depart in peace. Resist, and I shall take Vulmhosk, burn it to the ground, and kill everyone I find within its walls. Decide now.”

An angry murmur went up from the ramparts. The thoughts of the mercenaries were plain. Why not hand Ridmark over to the orcs? He saw Morigna and Calliande draw themselves up, summoning magic, saw Caius and Gavin and Azakhun prepare their weapons. If Otto and the mercenaries tried to hand over Ridmark, his companions would fight. 

And in the chaos, Mournacht could easily take Vulmhosk. 

Ridmark needed to do something, now.

So he threw back his head and laughed long and loud. 

The mercenaries stared at him in confusion, and even Mournacht looked taken back.

“You are pathetic,” said Ridmark. “You are not worthy to call yourself of a servant of Mhor. Does not Mhor praise brave warriors? And yet you expect me to surrender myself? Do you know who I am? I am Ridmark Arban! I broke Mhalek’s army below the slopes of the Black Mountain and made his warriors as dust on the threshing floor. I hunted him down and slew him for his crimes.” Again he saw the blood spreading across the floor of Castra Marcaine’s great hall. “I have twice faced female urdmordar in battle, and twice I have prevailed. I have ranged the length and breadth of the Wilderland, I have dared the Deeps, and still I live! And you, mighty warrior, you have the temerity to demand that I surrender? Pathetic! You demand my surrender because you are too weak to take my life. You are an unworthy servant of Mhor, and your warriors are fools and cravens to follow a weakling like you!” 

An angry murmur went up from the Mhorite orcs, and Mournacht roared, waving his axe before him as if it were no more than a slender branch.

“You dare to mock me, human worm?” bellowed Mournacht. “I would have slain you because the Heralds demanded it of me, but for your impudence, you will suffer! You will know agony, you will…”

“Be silent unless you have the will to act on your empty words!” said Ridmark. “Before these witnesses, before humans and orcs and halflings and dwarves, I challenge you to a duel, Mournacht, false servant of Mhor! Prove your swords with steel!” 

“So be it!” said Mournacht. “What are your terms?”

“We shall fight with weapons,” said Ridmark. “No sorcery or spells. No one shall interfere. If I am slain, your mission is accomplished and you can depart in peace. But if I slay you, your men shall depart and trouble Vulmhosk no further.” 

“So be it,” said Mournacht. “We shall fight halfway between the palisade and my warriors, accompanied by a herald of your choice. Come forth!”