 
FROSTBORN OMNIBUS ONE

Jonathan Moeller

***
Frostborn Omnibus One

Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover designs by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published February 2015.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

***

## Frostborn Omnibus One Description

Combined for the first time in one volume are the first three books of the internationally bestselling FROSTBORN saga \- FROSTBORN: THE GRAY KNIGHT, FROSTBORN: THE EIGHTFOLD KNIFE, FROSTBORN: THE UNDYING WIZARD, and the prequel novel FROSTBORN: THE FIRST QUEST.

RIDMARK ARBAN was once a Swordbearer, a knight of renown. Now he is a branded outcast, stripped of his sword, and despised as a traitor.

But he alone sees the danger to come, and undertakes the dangerous quest to stop the return of the Frostborn.

***

## Frostborn: The First Quest Description

A thousand years ago, the last grandson of Arthur Pendragon led the survivors of Britain through a magical gate to a new world, a world of magic and high elves, of orcs and kobolds and stranger, darker creatures. Now the descendants of the exiles rule a mighty kingdom, peaceful and prosperous under the rule of the High King.

But dangers stir that the realm is not ready to face.

RIDMARK ARBAN is a new-made knight and Swordbearer of the realm. When the archmage of the high elves asks for aid against the dread Warden of Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark volunteers for the quest, eager to prove himself and win glory and renown.

But terrible evil awaits in Urd Morlemoch, and those who enter the Warden's clutches rarely escape them...

***

## Prologue

In the Year of Our Lord 538, the bastard son of the High King Arthur Pendragon led his knights and followers through a gate to another world, a world far from the reach of the pagan Saxons. Here he founded the realm of Andomhaim, and was crowned as the High King Malahan Pendragon.

For centuries Malahan's realm grew as his heirs fought the strange kindreds that inhabited this new world, the orcs and the beastmen, the dvargir and the manetaurs, and the wizards of their dark elves with their fell sorcery. Yet the knights of Andomhaim were valiant, and by God's grace prevailed against every foe they faced.

And then, in the Year of Our Lord 953, the urdmordar came.

Against these spider-devils there was no defense, for only magic could harm them. The dark elves and the orcs worshipped them as goddesses, and marched in their armies. The urdmordar and their slaves overthrew the realm of Andomhaim, and laid siege to the High King's citadel of Tarlion, and all hope was lost.

But the great archmage of the high elves, Ardrhythain himself, came to Tarlion and made a pact with the High King. With the teachings of Ardrhythain, the men of Andomhaim had magic of their own to wield against the urdmordar. Two Orders were founded - the Order of the Magistri, who wielded the power of their spells, and the Order of the Soulblade, who carried enchanted Soulblades into battle.

And with the two Orders, the High King overthrew the urdmordar and cast their dark empire into ruin. The urdmordar fled into the caverns of the Deeps and the lonely places of the world, and after a terrible war of fifty years, the realm was restored once more.

But the Pact of the Two Orders contained a promise. Ardrhythain could request the aid of a Knight of the Soulblade, and the Order would have to furnish it. Years turned into decades, and then into centuries, and soon the promise of the Pact became distant history.

But the lives and memories of the high elves are far longer than the lives of men.

_-From the Chronicles of the High Kings of Andomhaim._

***

## Chapter 1 - The Archmage

In the Year of Our Lord 1469, the court of the Dux Gareth Licinius celebrated the Festival of the Resurrection in the great hall of Castra Marcaine.

Ridmark Arban walked across the hall, his boots clicking against the black and white tiles of the floor. He wore his finest tunic and mantle, both crimson with gold trim. A sword belt of black leather encircled his waist, the soulblade Heartwarden resting in its scabbard there. He felt the sword's magic, his link to its power. He had felt it ever since he had become a Swordbearer, ever since he had spent the night in vigil in the Chamber of the Well within High King's citadel of Tarlion.

But now the sword's magic was quiet.

For today was not a day of battle, but a day of celebration.

The gates of the Castra had been thrown wide, and townsmen and freeholders from the nearby farms filled the courtyards, feasting and drinking in honor of the Dominus Christus's resurrection and the Dux's generosity. Ridmark thought it a curious custom, but found that he approved. He had grown up in the south, in the court of Castra Arban, in the great cities of Tarlion and Cintarra. There the high nobles, the Comites and the Duxi, kept themselves aloof from the townsmen and the freeholders.

But here in the Northerland, life was harder and more dangerous. The southern reaches of Andomhaim had been cleansed of creatures of dark magic since the defeat of the urdmordar and the Frostborn, but the Northerland was far more dangerous. Urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things haunted the hills. Pagan orcs raided out of the Wilderland, and kobolds dragged victims into the darkness of the Deeps.

Rich and poor, lords and commoners, often had to fight side by side.

And so they feasted together to celebrate the end of winter and the end of Lent.

Ridmark joined a man and a boy who stood together near one of the pillars. The man was short and stocky, with curly red hair and green eyes, while the boy was tall and lean, with olive-colored skin and black hair. The man was nineteen years old, Ridmark's age, while the boy was still sixteen, but neither one of them were Swordbearers.

Few men carried a soulblade at the age of nineteen.

But, then, few men had slain an urdmordar at the age of eighteen.

Ridmark pushed aside the thought. He had earned great renown for that victory, but he did not want to think about Gothalinzur now.

Nor of the disturbing things she had told him.

"Sir Ridmark," said Sir Joram Agramore, the shorter of the two men. "A blessed day to you." He was already slightly unsteady on his feet, no doubt from his fondness for wine. "A pity the tournament is not today."

The boy, Constantine Licinius, frowned. "Today is a holy day, Sir Joram, and it is proper that we do not fight, but dwell in peace."

"Yes, true enough," said Joram, "but we must be vigilant. The pagan orcs and the dark elves do not respect holy days, and we must be ready to fight. Did not the Frostborn come out of the north on the day of the Festival of the Nativity? A knight of Andomhaim must ever be ready for battle!"

Ridmark laughed. "So we must fight in the tournament to prepare for battle?"

"Exactly!" said Joram. "You understand, sir. Indeed, you understand better than most. A Swordbearer at eighteen? Ha!" He slapped Ridmark upon the shoulder. "You'll have your pick of the ladies, I'm sure."

"Sir Ridmark's father the Dux of Taliand will likely pick his wife," said Constantine.

Joram grinned. "Sir Ridmark's father the Dux of Taliand has four older sons. Likely he will let the Hero of Victrix pick his own wife."

"Don't call me that," said Ridmark.

"Anyway, I think," said Joram, "that the man who earnestly claims not to be the Hero of Victrix already has his mind made up."

He looked across the hall, and Ridmark followed his gaze.

The Dux of the Northerland, Gareth Licinius, stood upon the dais, clad simply in a red tunic and mantle. Like Constantine, he had olive-colored skin, though his black hair had long ago turned gray. His family claimed descent from Septimius Severus, one of the Emperors of the Romans from Old Earth, and Gareth indeed looked like an emperor, stern and commanding. His older sons, all knights and Swordbearers and Comites of renown, stood near him.

Aelia stood next to the Dux, watching her father as he spoke.

She resembled both her father and her brothers, with the same curly black hair and green eyes. Yet she was beautiful, radiantly so, and Ridmark felt a little jolt whenever he looked at her. He had learned to distrust beauty after he had learned how the urdmordar and their daughters could shapeshift into forms of stunning loveliness.

Yet Aelia did not have a malicious bone in her body. She had taken over much of the household management of Castra Marcaine after her mother had died. And she saw to it that no one in Castra Marcaine or its town when hungry, that the sick and orphans and widows were cared for in the town's church.

She saw him looking, smiled, and then looked down. Her younger sister Imaria caught him looking and scowled.

"Ha!" said Joram, slapping Ridmark on the shoulder again. "The Lady Aelia likes you, my friend."

Ridmark expected Constantine to protest, but the squire only nodded. "Indeed, Sir Ridmark. I think you would make a worthy husband for my sister. Certainly better than some of her other suitors."

Joram snorted. "And who might you mean by that?"

"It would be uncouth and unbecoming to say, sir," said Constantine, and then fell silent.

The man Constantine meant walked towards them, his followers trailing after.

Ridmark stepped forward, resisting the urge to reach for Heartwarden. Another knight approached him, a tall, lean man about Ridmark's own age with close-cropped blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and blue eyes like disks of ice. Several other knights followed him, like wolves trailing the leader of the pack.

They stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak.

"Sir Ridmark," said Tarrabus Carhaine at last.

"Sir Tarrabus," said Ridmark.

They had never gotten along, from the day both had arrived at Castra Marcaine to serve as squires. Later Ridmark had tried to put their rivalry behind him. Tarrabus was the eldest son of the Dux of Caerdracon, would one day be the Dux himself. If he was arrogant and proud, that was no different from the children of many other lords and knights, and perhaps Tarrabus would grow out of it.

But while he could not deny Tarrabus's courage or skill with a blade, Ridmark's dislike of the man had only grown. He was brutal and merciless to anyone in his way. If a freeholder or a townsman annoyed him, he sent his followers to harass and torment the unfortunate man. Once, when they had gotten drunk together with the other squires, he had told Ridmark that he thought of the peasants as cattle, as beasts to be shaped and used as their lords wished.

Ridmark had given up trying to make peace with Tarrabus after that, and would have preferred to ignore him.

But Tarrabus wanted to wed Aelia, and Tarrabus would one day be the Dux of Caerdracon.

"A blessed Festival of the Resurrection to you, Swordbearer," said Tarrabus. He was always polite. Ridmark had heard that Tarrabus had once killed a man, and then bid his children a pleasant day before departing.

"And you, sir knight," said Ridmark. "I did not see you at the mass this morning."

The knights behind him laughed, but Tarrabus lifted a hand and they fell silent at once.

"I attended private masses in the chapel at dawn," said Tarrabus, "as is proper for a man of noble birth, rather than attending the church of the ignorant rabble in the town. I sometimes think the teachings of the church are useful for the commoners, to teach them how best to spend their insignificant lives, but are useless for men of power and rank."

"That borders upon blasphemy," said Constantine.

Tarrabus spread his hands. "Have I denied God or his Dominus Christus? I have not. God has given us, the lords of Andomhaim, power over lesser men. We must use it as we see fit."

"We must use it for the defense and welfare of the realm," said Ridmark, "not to glorify ourselves."

Tarrabus almost smiled. "You shall quote the Pact of the Two Orders at me next, sir."

"It speaks wisdom," said Ridmark. "The Magistri are only to use their magic for defense, for knowledge, and for healing. Never to harm another mortal. It is a wise provision. Else we shall be like the dark elves, ruled by cruel sorcerers of power, or like the pagan orcs, beholden to shamans of blood spells."

"Perhaps we are not wise," said Tarrabus. "Perhaps it would be better if we used our magic as a weapon. The dark elves can live for millennia, and the urdmordar are immortal. We live but a short span of years, and face foes of tremendous power. Perhaps if we used magic to elevate ourselves, to ascend..."

"As Eve ate of the tree to ascend to the knowledge of good and evil?" said Ridmark.

Tarrabus offered a short, hard smile. "Let us leave theological speculation to the priests. There is news of more immediate interest. It seems that the Dux wishes for his daughter to wed soon."

Constantine frowned. "It is unseemly to gossip about my sister, sir."

One of Tarrabus's knights, a scowling man named Paul Tallmane, glared at Constantine. "You should keep a respectful tongue in your mouth, boy. You are addressing the future Dux of Caerdracon."

Again Tarrabus lifted a hand, and Paul stopped talking. "What gossip is there, boy? I merely repeat common knowledge. The Dux is fond of his grandchildren, and he would like more. And Aelia is a noblewoman both fair in face and character, ripe to be wed."

Ridmark shrugged. "I am sure the Dux will choose a worthy husband for her."

"A man of high noble birth, set to rise higher," said Tarrabus.

"Or," said Joram, "a knight of renown, who has made a name with great deeds. A Swordbearer, perhaps." He shrugged. "Though I am sure I cannot think of such a man."

Tarrabus started to answer, then the Dux cleared his throat, the hall falling silent.

"My friends," said Dux Gareth Licinius in his deep voice, "I bid you welcome to my hall, on this joyous day of Our Lord's resurrection. We have faced many challenges this winter, with raids from both the orcs of the Wilderland and from the Deep." He nodded in Ridmark's direction. "And an urdmordar even sought to enslave one of our villages. But by God's mercy and the valor of our knights, we have survived, and both Lent and the winter are over. Let us then give thanks to God, and make merry with food and drink and dancing." A page hurried over with a goblet of wine, and Gareth took a drink and lifted the goblet.

"To the Northerland and the High King!" he shouted.

"To the Northerland and the High King!" the guests roared back.

A cheer went through the hall, and the musicians upon the balconies started playing a lively song. The lords and the knights went to the ladies and started to pair up, dancing over the black and white tiles of the floor.

"Pardon me, sirs," said Ridmark, with a bow to both Tarrabus and Joram.

Tarrabus opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Ridmark strode away and approached the Dux's dais.

Gareth looked at him, an amused look on his face. "Sir Ridmark."

"My lord Dux," said Ridmark. "I hope you are well."

"I am," said Gareth, "for a man of my age. Ah, but these northern winters get harder to endure every year."

"I wish to ask something of you, my lord," said Ridmark.

"Certainly. You did a great service to my lands and people when you slew the urdmordar Gothalinzur."

"I ask for the honor of the first dance of the evening with Lady Aelia," said Ridmark.

Gareth chuckled. "Well, that is hardly mine to give." He looked at his daughter.

Aelia smiled. "If I must, father, I shall bear up under this dreadful burden." She grinned, holding out a hand, and Ridmark took it. His hand went on her left hip, their right hands twining together, and he led her upon the floor of the hall, moving in time to the music.

"Shall we go faster?" said Ridmark.

Her smile widened. "Only if you think you can keep up, sir knight."

Ridmark laughed, their heels clicking against the floor.

"Poor Tarrabus," said Aelia. "He looks like he wants to rip off someone's head."

Ridmark opened his mouth, and then closed it. He was only nineteen, but he still knew enough of women to realize that pointing out his rival's flaws would not be productive.

"Well," he said. "If he wanted the first dance, he should have been faster. Fortune does favor the bold, my lady."

"How flattering," she murmured. "The sons of two Duxi, racing to dance with me. And I will not even inherit my father's lands and titles."

"They come with much responsibility," said Ridmark. "Your father labors endlessly to bear his burdens."

"You aided him with that," said Aelia, "when you slew Gothalinzur." Ridmark grimaced. "I know you do not like to be reminded of what you did at Victrix, but it was a great deed."

"It was necessary," said Ridmark. "And I had help. I could not have done it alone."

"So have said all the great heroes of history," said Aelia.

"I have no wish to be a hero," said Ridmark. "Merely to discharge my responsibilities with honor."

"As do I," said Aelia. "Like my father, I must do what is best for the people of the Northerland."

Which, Ridmark wondered, meant wedding Tarrabus Carhaine?

"You look so grim," said Aelia.

"I always look grim," said Ridmark. "I'm smiling now. See?"

He kept his expression the same.

Aelia laughed. "If you look like that when you are happy, I dread to think of what you must look like in a fury."

"I think we are talking too much," said Ridmark. "We should dance instead."

Her eyes lit up. "If we must."

They moved across the floor, revolving around each other. In the southern courts, the dances were slower, more solemn. Here in the north, they were faster and wilder, and he saw a sheen of sweat appear upon Aelia's brow. Again and again they bumped into each other, sometimes by accident, sometimes not, and every touch sent a thrill through Ridmark. He wanted to pull her close and kiss her more than he had ever wanted anything, but he would not dishonor her and her father.

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.

Perhaps even 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.

Ridmark consulted a map in the Dux's library before he departed. He would travel northwest across the Northerland, and then through the expanse of the Wilderland and the pagan orc tribes of Vhaluusk, across the swamps of Moraime and the rough land of the Torn Hills.

If he survived the perils of those wild lands, he would come to the Warden's stronghold of Urd Morlemoch, where the true challenge would begin.

***

## Chapter 3 - Urd Morlemoch

For six weeks of spring and early summer, Ridmark traveled far beyond the boundaries of the High King's realm.

He passed the keep of Dun Licinia, the outpost that marked the border of Dux Gareth's lands. The Dux hoped to settle freeholders in the valley and grow Dun Licinia's stone keep into a town, but Ridmark had his doubts. The Black Mountain, a place sacred to both the pagan orcs and the dark elves, loomed to the north. Ridmark couldn't imagine anyone wanting to live in the shadow of such a place.

But he passed Dun Licinia, and left both the Dux's domain and the High King's realm behind, and entered the vast reaches of the unexplored Wilderland.

Bold adventurers had entered the Wilderland before. Some had returned, but most had not. The High King's realm had stood for a thousand years, ever since Malahan Pendragon had led the survivors of Camelot from Old Earth, but this new world was far older. The high elves and the dark elves had warred with each other for tens of thousands of years. In that time, other kindreds had come to this world - the orcs and the halflings, the dwarves and the dvargir, the beastmen and the trolls, the manetaur and the urdmordar, and had fought with the elves and each other.

The wreckage of those wars littered the Wilderland, ruins haunted by ancient magic and dark creatures and worse things.

There were human villages here and there throughout the Wilderland, the descendants of exiles who had fled the realm for one reason or another, mostly rebels and heretics and worshippers of the orcish blood gods. Ridmark kept his identity concealed and stopped only long enough to purchase supplies. He doubted the residents would welcome a Knight of the Soulblade passing through their homes.

He pressed further northwest, and after three weeks reached the swamps surrounding Moraime. He spent a night in the town of Moraime, enjoying the hospitality of the monks of St. Cassian. Inspired by their founder, who had preached the gospel to the pagan orcs of Khaluusk, the monks had built a monastery far from the boundaries of the realm.

Still Ridmark traveled northwest, and passed through the haunted lands of the Torn Hills. Terrible battles had been fought here long before humans had ever set foot upon this world, dark elven and high elven wizards unleashing mighty spells at each other, and the dead walked the hills. Again and again Ridmark had to fight his way through packs of walking corpses, or savage orcs that worshipped the dark spirits of the hills.

But he was young and strong and skilled, his prowess further enhanced by the magic of Heartwarden, and he won his way through.

After six weeks of traveling, he saw the towering, snow-capped shapes of the mountains of the Three Kingdoms, where the dwarves and the orcs of Kothluusk remained locked in eternal warfare, and the rippling gray expanse of the western sea.

Step by step, the sky darkened, even though it was still day. Night came and Ridmark made camp, but the night looked no different than the day.

And the day after that, he came at last to Urd Morlemoch.

The foothills of the mountains ended in a cliff that plunged a thousand feet to the churning waters of the sea. The cliff overlooked a wide bay, the waters smashing endlessly against the boulders below. At the apex of the bay, overlooking the cliffs, rose a tall, rocky hill.

Atop that hill sat the ruins of Urd Morlemoch.

Ridmark stared at them in wonder and fear.

Built of gleaming white stone, the ruins were the size of a small town. A wall, reinforced with towers and ramparts, encircled the entire hill. The hill had been cut into terraces, and crumbling mansions and towers covered their sides. A massive white tower, rising nearly five hundred feet tall, rose from the crown of the hill.

Looking at the ruins gave Ridmark a headache.

The angles were...wrong, the layout strange. The dark elves had a sense of aesthetics foreign to human eyes, and the ruins of Urd Morlemoch proved it. They looked alien and cold, as if constructed by a mind utterly incomprehensible to human thought.

Ribbons of cold blue fire flickered and danced around the high tower, spreading like crooked fingers across the sky. Ridmark's hand closed around Heartwarden's hilt, and he drew upon the sword's power to sense the presence of dark magic.

He took a step back.

Tremendous dark magic radiated from Urd Morlemoch. Spells and wards layered the ruined fortress, each more potent than the last. Ardrhythain had not exaggerated the strength of the Warden's magic. There was power enough here to lay all of Andomhaim waste.

Ridmark shivered. It was summer, but it felt cold, deadly cold. Ardrhythain had told him to wait within sight of Urd Morlemoch, but Ridmark did not want to spend any longer in the shadow of the ruins than necessary.

White light flashed and the archmage appeared out of the air.

Ardrhythain took a step forward, gazing at the ruins, and nodded.

"Sir Ridmark," he said in his deep voice. "Thank you for coming."

"I gave my word," said Ridmark. He frowned. "Did you use magic to travel here?"

Ardrhythain nodded, still gazing at the ruins.

"Could you not have taken me with you?" said Ridmark. It had been a long journey from Castra Marcaine.

"Yes," said the archmage, looking away from the tower. "But I fear the experience would have left you a drooling idiot. To travel in such a way requires the elven understanding of time, and...well, it would have done you lasting harm. Better to have you make your own way here."

"And if I could not survive the journey," said Ridmark, scratching at the beard he had grown, "then obviously I would not survive in Urd Morlemoch."

"You see clearly for one so young," said Ardrhythain. "Come. I can accompany you a little farther, but then you must go alone."

They walked closer to the distant ruins, a cold wind rising from the booming sea below, the ribbons of blue fire dancing overhead. They cast an eerie glow over the rippling grass covering the sides of the hills. Ridmark wondered how the grass could grow if the sun never showed itself in this accursed place.

"Those lights," said Ridmark. "What are they? Do they blot out the sun?"

"They do," said Ardrhythain. "When the urdmordar came and conquered the dark elves, the Warden fled here, and worked magic of such surpassing potency that all who came against him were destroyed. The lights," he waved his staff overhead, "are part of his defensive spells. Any elven-born user of magic who comes too close to Urd Morlemoch dies. No spells of far-seeing function within its walls, guarding him from observation. Any spell cast at him is reflected back upon its caster."

"I assume that is why you cannot use magic to travel within the walls, free Rhyannis, and then return?" said Ridmark.

"No one has ever tried to use magic to travel within Urd Morlemoch," said Ardrhythain. "No one would ever dare."

They walked in silence for a moment.

"The Warden," said Ridmark. "His magic is stronger than yours?"

"Much," said Ardrhythain.

"If he has such power," said Ridmark, "why does he not rule the world?"

"No one knows," said Ardrhythain. "Perhaps he simply wishes to be left alone."

"Or," said Ridmark, "whatever spell makes him secure in his fortress has also trapped him there. Like an anchorite walling himself away to ward off the wickedness of the world. He is safe against his foes, but can never leave."

For the first time, Ardrhythain smiled. "You surprise me, Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii."

"Why is that?" said Ridmark.

"Because your surmise matches my own," said Ardrhythain. "I also suspect the Warden's stronghold has become his prison. He is trapped by his own dark magic. It is just as well. Were he free, he would be a terrible force for evil in the world."

They climbed to the crest of another hill and stopped. A black standing stone rose from the hill, its sides carved with images showing armor-clad dark elves torturing and murdering orcish and halfling slaves. Clearly the dark elves' taste for art was just as disturbing as their sense of aesthetics.

"I can go no further," said Ardrhythain. "If I do, the Warden's spell will kill me. Or, worse, he would sense my presence."

Ridmark frowned. "You mean that it would be better to die than to have the Warden find you?"

"Yes," said Ardrhythain without hesitation.

"I see," said Ridmark. Ardrhythain was centuries old, wielding magic beyond Ridmark's ability to comprehend. Ridmark was only a knight, a Swordbearer. If Ardrhythain feared to enter the Warden's fortress, what chance to Ridmark have?

But it was too late to turn back now.

"You will await me here?" said Ridmark.

"I shall," said Ardrhythain.

Ridmark nodded and turned his face towards Urd Morlemoch.

"Wait a moment," said Ardrhythain. "I can give you some small aid."

Ridmark paused.

"First, do not use the main gates," said Ardrhythain. "There is a secret entrance to the ruins that passes through the Deeps, and it shall likely be less guarded."

Ridmark frowned. "How do you know about it?"

"The dark elven princes were fearful," said Ardrhythain, "and always built their strongholds with a secret exit, lest they be trapped by their foes." He pointed. "Do you see the stream that flows past the ruins?"

Ridmark nodded. A small stream, white with froth, flowed down from the foothills and past the hill of Urd Morlemoch. It poured over the cliff and fell in a white spray into the sea below.

"The secret entrance will be there, behind the waterfall," said Ardrhythain. "The dark elves often concealed their secret entrances behind waterfalls. I have seen it in their other strongholds. Urd Arowyn, for one, and Urd Talekaan and Urd Vordamn."

"That will be useful," said Ridmark, "if the main gates are guarded."

"They are," said Ardrhythain. "A tribe of orcs lives within the ruins and worships the Warden as a god. He ignores them, for the most part, but he has...mutated them, twisting their flesh and mind to make them more useful servants when he requires their services."

"Mutated them?" said Ridmark. "How?"

"The orcish kindred are vulnerable to magical alteration of their flesh, especially over successive generations," said Ardrhythain. "The Warden's spells have made them faster and stronger. Some of them he has imbued with the ability to use minor magic. There may be other guardians within the ruins as well. The dark elves used their black sorcery to alter other kindreds, fusing them with animals and dark power to create monsters."

"Urvaalgs," said Ridmark, "and ursaars, and urshanes, and worse things."

"Almost certainly such creatures will be within the walls of Urd Morlemoch," said Ardrhythain. "The Warden was the greatest of the dark elven wizards, and he likely knows secrets remembered by no other living creature."

Ridmark nodded. "I shall be careful. It seems speed and stealth must be my allies."

"Yes," said the archmage. "If Rhyannis still lives, likely she is a prisoner in the central tower. If she is dead, I advise you to flee as quickly as possible. And if you encounter the Warden..."

"I am dead," said Ridmark. "If you cannot face such a creature, I have no hope."

"No," said Ardrhythain. "You must challenge him."

Ridmark blinked. "To what? A duel? Will he not just laugh and blast me to cinders?"

"He will not," said Ardrhythain. He gazed at the ruins for a moment. "The mind of a dark elf is difficult to express in your tongue. Latin simply does not have the proper vocabulary. But the dark elves enjoy...games, let us say. They enjoy enslaving those weaker than themselves, yes. But there must be a challenge to it. Simply crushing you would bring the Warden no pleasure. But if you challenge him, devises a game that allows him to compete with you on your level, he would be unable to resist it."

"Perhaps I will challenge him to throw dice, then," said Ridmark. "Have you anything else to tell me?"

"No," said Ardrhythain. "But I have something that might aid you."

He reached into his crimson coat and drew out a folded square of gray cloth. He shook it, and it unfolded into a flowing cloak. Ridmark found that he had a hard time focusing on it. His eye kept mistaking it for the gray grasses around them, as if Ardrhythain had somehow picked up a sheet of the turf.

"This is the cloak of a high elven bladeweaver," said Ardrhythain, "and it shall aid you. Take it."

"Is it magical?" said Ridmark, lifting the cloak. He slung it over his shoulders and fastened the clasp. The cloak felt warm and thick, yet weighed nothing at all. If he was not careful, he might forget it was there.

"No," said Ardrhythain. "It is, however, woven using a method unknown to the other kindreds of this world. While wearing the cloak it will be harder for unfriendly eyes to see you."

"That must be quite a method," said Ridmark.

"It is," said Ardrhythain, a note of sadness in his resonant voice. "Your kind only knows us as the high elves of Cathair Solas, a remnant huddled within our island fastness. But at the height of our glory, this world was a paradise. You know us for our magic, but that was not the only art practiced among us. Our sciences and engineering were deep and broad, and we crafted wonders with them." He sighed. "But all things pass away. Even us."

Ridmark could not think of anything to say to that.

"But our time has passed. Perhaps the time of the humans will come," said Ardrhythain. "Go with God, Sir Ridmark Arban, Knight of the Order of the Soulblade. You go into great peril, more peril than you can imagine, yet you do so without flinching. Were all the lords of Andomhaim men like you, I would have no second thoughts about giving your people the power of magic. You go into grave danger to save the life of a woman not of your kindred, a woman you have never met."

Ridmark shrugged. "You are too kind, lord archmage." He decided to be honest. "I volunteered to win enough renown to wed the Dux's oldest daughter."

For the second time, Ardrhythain smiled. "I thought as much. Yet a man can do a noble deed for many reasons. And cheer yourself with this thought, Ridmark Arban. Aelia of the House of the Licinii, too, casts shadows upon the future, and I saw you in many of her shadows. But only if you return alive from Urd Morlemoch."

"Then I shall endeavor to do so," said Ridmark, and he descended the hill without another word.

Urd Morlemoch drew closer as he made his way through the low, rolling hills. Ridmark watched the ruins, but nothing moved within them, save for the rippling fingers of ghostly blue flame. Perhaps all the orcs and creatures of dark magic lurked underground, in the catacombs below the ruins. Or perhaps the mutated orcs only visited Urd Morlemoch a few times a year, the way other pagan orcs visited their sacred places on holy days.

That was a hopeful thought.

Yet here and there, Ridmark spotted footprints in the dirt.

He made for the junction of the stream and the cliff, trying to keep the hills between him and the walls of Urd Morlemoch. Bit by bit the top of the waterfall drew closer. Ridmark hoped the dark elves of old had left a path to their secret entrance. He had a rope in his pack, thought that might prove...

The rasp of a boot upon earth caught his attention.

He turned as three orcs unlike any he had ever seen came around the base of a hill.

They had green skin, tusked jaws, and black hair and eyes like every other orc he had ever met, but something was wrong with these orcs. They were bigger, more muscular, so muscular they looked grotesque. Their tusks were longer and sharper than usual. Blue light, the same color as the light that danced overhead, glimmered in their eyes, and the web of veins covering their arms and temples pulsed with the same glow.

One of the orcs had a great tumor-like mass bulging from his right temple, a mass that likewise had its own blue glow.

"What is this?" rasped the orc with the strange growth. "A stranger come into the master's realm?"

Ridmark spread his hands. "I am merely a traveler," he said in the orcish tongue. "I am passing through, and mean no harm. I shall go on my way and never trouble you again."

The orc laughed. "No, you will not. The master has commanded that all strangers be brought before him. Take him!"

The other two orcs rushed forward, drawing swords from their belt. The first orc stepped back and began muttering to himself, blue fire crackling around his fingers, and the mass upon his head glowed brighter.

He was casting a spell.

Ridmark drew Heartwarden from its scabbard, the crystal embedded in the blade flaring with light. He concentrated upon his link with the soulblade and drew on its power, strength flooding through him in a torrent.

The orcs charged him, and Ridmark moved.

He dodged to the left, Heartwarden lending him speed, and slashed with the blade. The soulblade sheared through the nearest orc's sword arm, and the orc fell to his knees with a howl of pain. Ridmark sidestepped, whipping Heartwarden around, and took off the orc's head in a burst of blue-glowing blood. The second orc slashed at him, and Ridmark dodged the first blow and parried the second. Steel clanged on steel, and Heartwarden's crystal burned brighter. Ridmark shoved, his strength competing against the mutated orc's, and found that he could not maintain his parry.

So he didn't try.

He fell back, letting his legs buckle, and dropped to one knee. The hulking orc overbalanced, his sword falling past Ridmark's shoulder. Ridmark stabbed, driving Heartwarden into the orc's ribs, and the warrior screamed. Heartwarden blazed with white fire in Ridmark's hands, and he ripped the blade free and plunged it again into the orc.

The orc collapsed, his blue-glowing blood smoking on Heartwarden's blade, and Ridmark turned just as the final orc finished his spell.

Dark power flared, and black flames erupted from the orc's hands. Ridmark raised Heartwarden in guard, calling upon the sword's power to defend him. The shadow fire slammed into the blade, and Ridmark stumbled back, straining to hold against the torrent of power. But the sword's protection held, and Ridmark forced his way forward, the dark fire raging around him, its touch turning the grasses into dust. The orc snarled in fury, his arms trembling with exertion.

Then the flames winked out. The orc started to cast another spell, but Ridmark surged forward. The mutated orc raised his hands in guard, but Heartwarden sank into his chest, Ridmark's blow driven by the power of the sword's magic. The orc screamed, blue and black fire mixing around his fingers. Ridmark stepped back, yanked the sword free, and swung with both hands.

The orc's head rolled away across the dead grass, body slumping to join the others.

Ridmark let out a long breath and lowered his sword, looking around the hills for any more orcs. But these three seemed to have been alone, and he saw no movement upon the gleaming white walls of Urd Morlemoch.

The place was as motionless as a tomb.

Ridmark cleaned Heartwarden upon the grasses, sheathed the sword, and kept going. The sooner he was gone from the hills, the better. Sooner or later the dead orcs would be missed or found, and then the orcs would know that an intruder had entered Urd Morlemoch.

Or, worse, they would tell the Warden.

Ridmark kept moving, making for the stream.

***

## Chapter 4 - Bones

The stream leapt off the edge of the world.

Ridmark stood at the edge of the cliff and gazed at the sea.

It was a long way down, at least a thousand feet of grim, weather-beaten rock. The water of the stream fell in a widening white spray until it struck the heaped boulders far below. By then, Ridmark supposed, the waterfall was little more than a gentle fall of mist.

He squinted at the waterfall, trying to see any hint of an entrance behind the water. Finding nothing, he moved further north along the edge of the cliff, taking care to keep his balance. It would be a poor joke, he supposed, to come all this way only to trip over his own feet and plunge his death.

He crossed over the stream to stand at the very foot of Urd Morlemoch's hill. The white ruins towered over him, the ribbons of blue flame painting the walls with a ghostly light. Still he saw no sign of any guards. Ridmark moved carefully along the edge of the cliff, the salt-scented breeze tugging at his hair and elven cloak, and spotted the entrance.

A dark cave yawned behind the white spray of the waterfall, perhaps thirty yards below the edge of the cliff. Ridmark scrutinized the cave, wondering how to get down there, and then spotted the stairs. Narrow, rough-hewn steps had been carved from the rock, descending to a slender ledge behind the waterfall.

The steps were weathered, the ledge itself damp with spray. One false step would send him tumbling to his death.

Ridmark shrugged, took a deep breath to steady himself, and started down the stairs.

He moved carefully, testing each step before he put his weight upon it, his left hand braced against the cold stone, the wind moaning around him. He glanced at the boulders and the surf far below, decided that looking down was a very bad idea, and kept going.

Inch by inch he descended the stairs. At last he reached the narrow ledge, and he started forward. He felt the cold spray of the waterfall against his face, and...

His boot slipped.

His weight went out from under him, and Ridmark grabbed at the rock wall for support. He landed hard upon his rump, and for an awful moment he teetered on the edge of the path. His left hand kept its grip upon the rough stone, and he managed to pull himself back.

He took a moment to catch his breath, his heart pounding. He would almost rather face a dozen more of the mutated orcs than this damnable path. Yet lying here would accomplish nothing. Ridmark regained his feet and moved carefully along the wet stone.

At last he ducked under the waterfall, noting with surprise that the gray fabric of the elven cloak repelled water as if it had been oiled. Useful, that. Another few steps, and he pulled himself into the mouth of the cave, damp sand gritting beneath his boots.

He moved forward a few steps and leaned against the wall, taking a moment to recover his balance. He had no particular fear of heights, but he would rather not do that again.

After a moment he moved deeper into the cave.

The cave was not large, and an arch of the same white stone as Urd Morlemoch's walls dominated the far wall. A flight of stairs rose beyond the arch, climbing into the rock. He expected the cavern to be dark, but a faint red glow gleamed in the distance.

Was the cavern beyond inhabited? Ardrhythain had said it was a secret entrance, but the mutated orcs or worse things might have found their way down here. Or perhaps the Warden had left a guard to watch over the hidden entrance into his citadel.

It didn't matter. Ridmark could hardly march up to the main gates and knock.

He drew Heartwarden and climbed the white stone stairs, moving one slow, silent step at a time. The stairs spiraled up, and Ridmark spotted the source of the red light. Crystals, no doubt enchanted, had been embedded in the ceiling at regular intervals. Ridmark wondered how long they had been glowing here, forgotten beneath the earth, and shivered. Men had lived in Andomhaim for almost a thousand years, and that seemed like a tremendous gulf of time.

The tens of thousands of years the dark elves and the high elves had spent in warfare was almost too much for him to grasp.

Ridmark pushed aside the thought. This was no time for idle speculation. If his attention wavered at the wrong moment, it would mean his life. He would never return to Castra Marcaine, would never see Aelia again, or his father or his brothers.

He kept climbing, the sword ready in his hand.

At last the stairs ended, and Ridmark found himself in a rough-hewn natural cavern. Only a few of the red crystals threw back the gloom, and massive clusters of glowing blue mushrooms dotted the floor. Ghost mushrooms, they were called, and they grew thick and wild in the gloomy caverns of the Deeps.

Ardrhythain had said that the tunnels beneath Urd Morlemoch opened into the Deeps. The vast maze of caverns and galleries was dangerous, and any number of dangerous creatures dwelled within. Which meant any number of those creatures could have found their way up here.

Ridmark took a cautious step forward, and something rattled against his foot.

A bone rested against his boot. It looked like a thigh bone, perhaps from an orc or a large human, and deep grooves scored its length. Fang marks, most likely, left from a creature with large teeth.

Ridmark reached into his pack, pulled out a torch, and ignited it. If something was down here, the light would draw unwelcome attention. Yet he needed the light. If some dark elven creature was creeping on him, he needed to see it.

He lifted the torch in his left hand, Heartwarden in his right, and saw the bones.

Thousands of bones covered the cavern floor. He saw the tusked skulls of orcs lying strewn against the stalagmites, and the skulls of humans grinned at him from the floor and corners. The gray, stone-like bones of dwarves lay in heaps, while the smaller skulls of halflings seemed like white rocks. Ridmark saw the bones of every kindred he recognized and some he had never seen before.

Every last one of the bones bore the marks of fangs and claws.

And some of the bones looked as if they had not been here that long.

Walking through the front gates no longer seemed like such a bad idea.

Ridmark moved forward, careful to keep from making noise, sweeping the torch back and forth. The cavern was a large gallery, and he saw another, narrower tunnel on the far end. He made for it, moving around the heaped bones and the clusters of ghost mushrooms and stalagmites. A gleam of metal caught his eye, and Ridmark lowered the torch.

A dwarven skeleton in full plate armor rested near the mouth of the tunnel, empty eye sockets gazing up at Ridmark. The armor was a peculiar bronze-colored metal, and despite its obvious age, showed no signs of rust or wear. It was dwarven steel, far stronger to anything the men of Andomhaim or even dark elves themselves could forge.

A single-handed war axe of dwarven steel lay near the armored skeleton, its crescent blade carved with the blocky glyphs of the dwarven language. Ridmark sheathed Heartwarden and picked up the axe, marveling at its balance. The weapon looked as if it should have weighed twenty pounds, but it was no heavier than Heartwarden.

Ridmark tucked the axe into his belt, turning it so the blade would not slice into his leg, and drew Heartwarden once more.

"Forgive me for this," he told the dead warrior. "If I come this way again, I will return your weapon. But perhaps I shall have the chance to use it against whoever slew you."

The dead dwarf made no response. Ridmark said a brief prayer for the repose of the warrior's soul, and then made his way into the tunnel. It curled back and forth, his torch throwing mad shadows over the wall. Here and there a cluster of ghost mushrooms gave off a pale glow. Ridmark felt a breeze against his face, a breeze that grew stronger with every step.

One final turn, and the tunnel opened into a large cavern, easily four times the size of the great hall in Castra Marcaine. Heavy stalactites, as thick as the pillars of the great cathedrals of Tarlion and Cintarra, hung from the ceiling. A lake, as smooth as a mirror and so clear that Ridmark saw strange eyeless fish darting through the waters, filled the central third of the floor. A thick ring of ghost mushrooms ringed the lake, their glow turning the water the color of blood.

And more bones carpeted the floor.

Ridmark lifted his torch. Many of the bones looked as if they had been disturbed, and recently. The cavern's floor was sandy and he saw a great many tracks into the dirt.

They looked like wolf prints, albeit prints from a wolf far larger than any Ridmark had ever seen.

He took a cautious step forward. He had only traveled in the Deeps once, a few years before he had become a knight and a Swordbearer. A band of kobolds had been raiding the eastern edges of the Northerland, carrying off villagers into the Deeps, and the Dux had ridden at the head of a party of knights and men-at-arms to defeat the raiders. The veteran men-at-arms in the party had warned Ridmark about the lakes in the Deeps. Drinkable water was rare in the underground caverns, and predators preferred to remain near a source of water.

The lake in front of Ridmark would provide ample water for any predators.

Or, more likely, a convenient ambush for any predators waiting for prey to come and drink.

He remained motionless for another few moments, but nothing moved in the gloom.

At last Ridmark shrugged and started in a slow, steady walk around the edge of the lake and its mushrooms, keeping his eyes open for any sign of attackers.

Still nothing.

Something splashed, and Ridmark whirled. Ripples spread over the surface of the lake, and he saw one of the deformed, eyeless fish jump from the water and land with a splash. Ridmark shook his head in annoyance. He was reasonably sure the fish were harmless, but he wasn't about to jump into the lake to prove it.

As he shook his head, he saw the ripples in the water extend from the lake and over the mushrooms.

He blinked, sure that his eyes were playing tricks on him.

But, no. He saw it now. A patch of air over the mushrooms was rippling.

Ridmark raised Heartwarden, and the sword's soulstone began to glow.

He knew what made those ripples. The dark elves had created many war beasts with their sorcery, using dark magic to mutate and alter living creatures, just as the blue-veined orcs above had been twisted. One of their creations had been a creature called an urvaalg, and urvaalgs had the ability to blend with their surroundings. Even worse, only magic could harm them.

And when they hunted in packs, one of the beasts often created a distraction while the others circled around to attack from behind...

Ridmark cursed himself for a fool and threw himself to the side.

It was just in time. He heard a ravening snarl, and a blurred shape shot over him and landed a few yards away, sending a dozen loose bones rattling into the lake. Ridmark rolled, barely avoiding the swipe of blurred claws, and sprang to his feet, Heartwarden in both hands, the torch burning on the ground.

The three blurred forms stepped forward, their camouflage fading away, and Ridmark saw the urvaalgs.

They looked like some ghastly hybrid of ape and wolf, their eyes glowing with crimson light, their black, matted fur hanging off their lean frames in ropy strings. Two of them prowled towards him in all fours, while the third reared up on its hind legs.

Ridmark backed away, Heartwarden glowing in his hands. At least he did not need to worry about the light. With their glowing eyes he could see the urvaalgs even in deep darkness. The two creatures on all fours prowled towards him, while the one standing on its hind legs hung back, watching him with its crimson eyes. One urvaalg circled to his left, while the other moved to his right.

They were trying to flank him, force him to focus his attention upon one so the other could strike. Ridmark backed away, Heartwarden held out before him to ward off any attacks. He would have to strike soon. Yet why hadn't the urvaalgs attacked? If they came at him in a rush, they would overwhelm him quickly.

Unless...

Again Ridmark cursed himself as a fool.

Unless they were simply trying to distract him once more.

Ridmark whirled, swinging his soulblade with both hands, and met the blurred shape that was coming up behind him. Heartwarden blazed with white light, throwing back the urvaalg's camouflage, and the blade sheared through the creature's shoulder and chest. The urvaalg screamed, its cry echoing inside both Ridmark's ears and thoughts, and he ripped Heartwarden free and swung again, beheading the creature with a single sharp blow. Malodorous black ichor spurted from the stump of its neck, and the furred, gaunt corpse collapsed in a heap to the floor.

Ridmark spun as the remaining three urvaalgs converged. He jumped back, drawing upon Heartwarden for speed, and the creatures sprang. Ridmark ducked under the first, lashing with Heartwarden, and managed to open a gash upon its flank. The urvaalg rolled to the side, snarling, and darted back. The second raked at him, its black claws scraping across his chest. The chain mail he wore beneath his jerkin stopped the claws from reaching his flesh, but the claws parted the thick leather of his jerkin like paper. Even the glancing blow sent him stumbling back, and the final urvaalg sprang at him.

Ridmark just had time to thrust out Heartwarden, and the urvaalg speared itself upon the blade. The creature screamed, jaws yawning wide as the sword found its heart. Ridmark fell with the dying urvaalg still on top of him, its rotting breath filling his nostrils, drool falling from its fangs to splash against his face. The urvaalg shuddered, trying to bite his head, and Ridmark twisted Heartwarden.

The creature shuddered once more and then went still.

Ridmark heard the rasp of claws upon stone as the other urvaalgs charged.

He drew on Heartwarden's power, as much as he could manage, and filled his muscles with strength. He heaved, shoving with his legs and his arms. The urvaalg's corpse flew backward, and Ridmark ripped Heartwarden free.

He gained his feet just in time for the remaining two urvaalgs to reach him. He dodged as a clawed limb raked for his face and instead struck his left arm, opening a line of blood down his forearm. Ridmark stabbed Heartwarden into the urvaalg's side, and the creature screamed. He ducked the slash from the second creature and yanked his sword free, managing to whip the blade around to open the urvaalg's throat. The creature stumbled, choking in the black ichor that filled its veins, and Ridmark drove Heartwarden into the chest of the urvaalg he had wounded. The creature perished, and Ridmark kicked it off his sword, turned, and beheaded the dying urvaalg.

It fell over with a thump, its corpse emitting a low gurgle as black slime pumped from its neck.

Silence fell over the cavern, save for the occasional splash of water from the eyeless fish.

Ridmark looked back and forth, breathing hard, but saw no other signs of movement. He wiped the sweat from his brow, cleaned the ichor from his blade as best as he could on the urvaalgs' fur, and headed for the far wall. The gash upon his left forearm burned, and he felt a cold numbness spreading from it. Likely the urvaalgs' claws had been poisoned.

Ridmark sat with his back to the wall, put both hands around Heartwarden's hilt, and drew upon the sword's power.

Its healing magic washed through him in warm waves. Bit by bit the pain from his bruises faded, and the numbness from the urvaalgs' poison drowned in the warmth of the sword's magic. Slowly the gash upon his forearm started to shrink. After about an hour, it had faded down to a pink scar, the numbness disappearing entirely.

Ridmark stood, ignoring a wave of fatigue, and stretched. He could use the sword's magic to heal others quickly, but it only worked slowly on him. The Magistri had the same limitation. A pity he didn't have a Magistrius with him. They were often arrogant and pompous, but the spells of a Magistrius would have been useful.

He looked around the cavern. No other foes had shown themselves while he had rested. Hopefully that meant he had killed all the urvaalgs.

Yet something about their attack troubled him.

The urvaalgs were cunning and brutal, and even one of them could wipe out a village that did not have the protection of a Swordbearer or a Magistrius, but they were not terribly intelligent. They had good instincts, but they could not plot and scheme. Ridmark would have expected the ploy the first three urvaalgs had tried.

But he would not have expected the second tactic, the three urvaalgs distracting him while a fourth crept up from behind.

Someone or something had been controlling the urvaalgs.

Some of the dark elves' more powerful creatures were intelligent, could issue commands to their masters' lesser minions. And the dark elves themselves, of course, could control their creatures. Had the Warden left the urvaalgs down here with instructions to kill any intruders?

Or had something else been controlling the creatures?

Ridmark did not know, but he suspected he was going to find out.

He started across the cavern, Heartwarden's hilt grasped in both hands, and made for the tunnel on the far side of the lake.

***

## Chapter 5 - Masks

The tunnel ended in a corridor of worked white stone, more of the red crystals glowing in the ceiling.

Ridmark moved forward. The corridor's vaulted ceiling rose high overhead, crystals shining in the apex of the arches. Intricate reliefs of carved stone covered the walls, showing scenes of dark elven warriors and wizards leading their armies to victory over the high elves, or torturing and killing orcs and halflings and dwarves and lupivirii. The dark elves had grisly tastes in art, and the reliefs reveled in their power, showing the dark elven lords ruling over an empire of terrified, helpless slaves.

At least until the urdmordar had enslaved the dark elves in turn.

Ridmark thought of Gothalinzur, and wondered if the urdmordar made artwork celebrating their triumphs.

Though he suspected the urdmordar simply devoured their slaves without the pretense of artistic embellishment.

At least there were no bones on the floor here.

The corridor ended in another flight of spiral stairs. Ridmark ascended, his ears straining for any sounds. But the corridors were silent as a tomb.

Perhaps Urd Morlemoch was a tomb.

The stairs ended, and Ridmark found himself in a lofty hall of white stone, crimson light coming from more crystals in the ceiling. Twin balconies ran the length of the hall, and dusty wreckage covered the floor. He saw the pieces of a long-smashed wooden table, and quite a few bones. Some of the skulls had the thick tusks of orcs, while others were thinner and sharper, no doubt dark elves. Here and there Ridmark saw pieces of dark elven armor, the blue steel almost black in the red glow.

There had been fighting here, long ago.

A pair of double doors, built of dark wood and blue steel, stood half open at the far end of the hall. Ridmark saw another flight of stairs ascending beyond them. Stairs also climbed to each of the balconies, leading to further doors.

Where to go next?

Ridmark stopped for a moment to consider it. The archways on the balconies seemed to lead to further corridors, while the stairs climbed higher into the ruins. The stairs beyond the double doors seemed like the better choice. God knew what other horrors might wander these ruins, and the sooner he found Rhyannis, the better.

He wished he knew how Rhyannis had entered the ruins. Most likely she had used the secret tunnel, just as Ridmark had, and he had no doubt an elven bladeweaver could have defeated the urvaalgs. But where had she gone after that? She wanted to steal a book from the Warden's library, Ardrhythain had said, and the Warden likely kept his library in the central tower.

That meant Ridmark had to go up.

He took a step forward, and saw a child staring at him.

A delicate latticework of white stone provided the railing for the left balcony, its swirling angles odd and alien, and the dirty face of a human child stared at Ridmark through one of the gaps. The girl looked no more than seven or eight, and wore only a ragged shift of rough cloth, her eyes bright and glittering in her emaciated face.

For a moment he was so surprised that he did not move. The child watched him with unblinking eyes. Her pale skin looked as if it had never seen the sun.

Had she spent her life down here? A slave to the mutated orcs, perhaps?

"Greetings," said Ridmark in Latin. "I mean you no harm."

The girl gave no response. If she had spent her life down here, perhaps she had never heard Latin.

"Greetings," said Ridmark again, switching to orcish. "I intend you no ill."

The girl pushed away from the railing and fled through one of the archways.

Ridmark hurried after her. The thought of ignoring her and continuing with his task never crossed his mind. He was a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, sworn to defend the people of the realm from the powers of dark magic. And if that child had spent her life in this dark place, she needed defending more than most.

He climbed the stairs to the balcony and saw the child standing in the entrance to a corridor, still staring at him.

"I mean you no ill," said Ridmark. Her eyes shifted to his sword, and he realized that perhaps he had frightened her. He slid Heartwarden into its scabbard and spread his hands. "If you are a captive here, I can take you away from this place."

The girl ran down the corridor, her bare feet making no sound against the cold stone floor.

Ridmark started to run after her, and stopped himself.

Running blindly after her, without his sword, was a very bad idea. The girl might run into the lair of more creatures like the urvaalgs.

A darker thought occurred to him.

Perhaps she was acting as bait, gladly carrying out the will of her masters. Someone or something had been controlling those urvaalgs. Ridmark drew Heartwarden from its scabbard with a steely rasp, the soulstone flickering with pale white light. Dark magic was near – though Urd Morlemoch was saturated with it.

He strode down the corridor, sword ready.

The sound of splashing water filled his ears, and the corridor ended in a small hall dominated by a long rectangular pool. A statue of a nude dark elven woman rose from the water. Ridmark wondered how the dark elves had managed to pump water down here, and then decided that magic must have been involved.

There was no sign of the girl.

She couldn't have vanished. Two archways stood on either end of the hall. Perhaps she had run into one of them. Ridmark examined the floor for a moment, saw no sign of a trail, and then picked the archway on the left.

"Ridmark!"

Ridmark whirled, facing the archway on the right, and his eyes widened in shock.

"Joram?" he said.

Sir Joram Agramore stood in the archway, stocky no more, his limbs gaunt and withered, his face covered with a bushy, gray-streaked beard. The man looked as if he had aged twenty years, all of them filled with torment. Yet Ridmark had only been gone from Castra Marcaine for six weeks! Surely Joram could not have wasted away in that time.

"Ridmark," said Joram, his voice a low sob. "Help me, please, help me, they come for me, they torment me, Ridmark..."

Ridmark stepped forward, and Joram jerked backwards, vanishing into the archway.

As if something had pulled him back.

Ridmark hurried around the pool and through the archway. A gloomy corridor spread before him, and he turned the corner.

Joram huddled against the wall, clad only in rags, shivering.

"Ridmark," said Joram. "It has been...it has been years..."

"That's impossible," said Ridmark. "I left the Northerland a month and a half ago."

Joram cackled. "The dark magic of this place. It...it distorts time. Ridmark, you've been gone ten years."

"No," said Ridmark. "That's not possible."

"The Dux sent his best knights and Swordbearers to rescue you," said Joram. "The demons of this place hunted us down one by one. Now I am all that is left." He started to weep. "Why did you come here? Why didn't you stay in Castra Marcaine? Aelia...oh, God, Aelia..."

"Aelia?" said Ridmark. "What happened to her? Joram, you're not well. You..."

Joram screamed and sprinted further down the corridor.

Ridmark cursed and followed him. He saw Joram vanish around yet another corner, and Ridmark ran faster, hoping to catch him...

Then he stopped, forcing himself to think.

How the devil could Joram have gotten here? Ridmark had left six weeks ago, and only just arrived at Urd Morlemoch. Joram and the Dux's rescue party would have had to have left immediately after.

Or perhaps, a dark voice in his mind whispered, perhaps Joram had told the truth, and the Warden's black sorcery had distorted time. Perhaps he really had been wandering the dungeons of Urd Morlemoch for years while Joram and the others suffered.

That was absurd. Ridmark had never heard of magic that could do such a thing.

A scream rang out from the corridor ahead, and it cut through Ridmark's thoughts in a single burst of fear and horror.

Aelia. That was Aelia's voice. He would know it anywhere.

Ridmark sprinted toward the scream, Heartwarden gleaming in his fist, the corridor stretching before him. The scream rang out again, shriller and sharper than before, filled with despair and agony. How had Aelia come to this terrible place? Even if the Dux had sent a rescue party after Ridmark, surely Aelia would not have accompanied them.

He turned one final corner and stopped, horror freezing his limbs.

The corridor ended in an oval-shaped chamber. More scenes of torture and conquest decorated the walls, the reliefs still sharp and clear after so many millennia. A stone column rose from the center of the room, chains dangling from its sides.

Aelia Licinius hung naked in those chains, her wrists in shackles, her head bowed.

He had dreamed about seeing her unclad, more than once, but this was an obscenity. Hunger had wasted her limbs to thin sticks, her ribs sharp against her skin. Streaks of white marked her brittle black hair, and her skin bore the signs of frequent torture, scabs and burns and bruises and half-healed gashes.

"No," said Ridmark. "This isn't...this isn't..."

She twitched, groaning, and lifted her head. Her face looked like a skull sheathed in dry skin, and her green eyes glittered with madness and pain. Her lips twitched, her tongue rubbing against her teeth as she tried to speak.

"Ridmark," she rasped. "No. This is...another dream. A fever. The dark elves, their magic is twisting my mind, making me see...see the most horrible things...horrible things..."

She shuddered, the chains clinking, and began to weep.

"This isn't possible," said Ridmark, his mouth dry. "You can't be here."

Yet she hung there, her wrists and ankles bloody and swollen from the shackles.

"This is your fault," whispered Aelia, tears falling down her gaunt cheeks. "You did this to me."

"No," said Ridmark. "You're safe in Castra Marcaine. You have to be."

He wanted to run to her, to rip away those chains and take her away from this evil place, Ardrhythain and Rhyannis be damned. Yet something held him back, some tiny piece of caution. Aelia could not be here. It was simply not possible.

Yet she hung there nonetheless.

"I waited for you," she said. "For years I waited! Tarrabus kept pushing, but I loved you and I waited. Then Father sent his knights to find you and bring you back. He forbade me from coming with them, but I disguised myself as a man-at-arms and vowed to bring you back. I would rip down the walls of hell itself to bring you back to me, my love. And then...and then..."

"What happened?" said Ridmark.

"We came here," she said, spitting out the last word as a venomous hiss. "The Warden...Ridmark, we were fools. So proud, so arrogant, so foolish. We thought we could defeat the Warden and free you. Instead the Warden destroyed us all. His magic killed most of us. He locked the rest of us down here and sent his creatures to torment us. They took me...they do things to me, Ridmark. Every night," she began to sob, her thin limbs twitching, "every night they come to me and they hurt me, over and over again..."

He could not bear it any longer. He stepped forward, intending to break her free of the shackles and take her to safety.

"Yes," said Aelia, "please, help me, take from this place, set me free..."

Footsteps shuffled against the stone floor, and Ridmark whirled. Sir Joram limped into the chamber, his bloody feet slapping against the white stone.

"Joram," said Ridmark.

Something stirred in the back of his mind.

"Free us," said Joram, weeping. "Set us free and take us from this horrible place." He tried to scowl, shuddered, and started weeping once more. "It is your fault that we are here."

"Why didn't you get her out of those chains?" said Ridmark. "I haven't seen any of the Warden's creatures in these corridors, neither the mutated orcs nor more urvaalgs. How could you let her hang there?"

"The Warden forbade it," said Joram, shivering. "No one questions the Warden"

"Ridmark, please," said Aelia, sobbing. "Let me go. Take me home. Please!"

Ridmark wanted to release Aelia from her chains and take her home with all his heart. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to act, to take her from this place of torment, and rebuked him for each second of inaction.

Yet everything about this seemed wrong. Both Aelia and Joram had aged decades. And Ridmark knew Joram. His friend was boisterous and prone to talking too much, but he was a true knight at heart. He would never let a woman hang helpless in chains when he had the capacity to help her, and certainly not the Dux's daughter. Ridmark would not believe that even the Warden's torments could change Joram that much.

Heartwarden's soulstone was still glowing with white light. Dark magic was near.

Perhaps right in front of Ridmark's face.

He took a quick step sideways and half-turned, putting his back to the wall and keeping his sword between him and the others.

"What is going on here?" he said.

"Ridmark," said Aelia with a groan. "I love you. Don't leave me here. Don't leave me here!"

"We came to save you," said Joram. "This is your fault."

"No," said Ridmark. "It's not. I've only been gone six weeks. Not nearly enough time for the Dux to have sent a rescue party after me. And I don't believe this story about time-warping magic. I haven't been wandering these dungeons for decades. I've only been here a few hours. And both of you look as if you have endured years of torment."

Neither Aelia nor Joram said anything.

"Which means," said Ridmark, "that neither of you are really Joram Agramore or Aelia Licinius. What are you? A trick? Some illusion of the Warden's magic?"

Still they remained silent.

"Very well, then," said Ridmark. "I shall go on my way."

He took a step towards the corridor.

Joram spun, faster than Ridmark had yet seen him move, and blocked the archway. The despair and the horror drained from his dirty, bearded face, and a mocking smile spread over his lips.

He looked....hungry.

"Then it is safe for me to assume," said Ridmark, lifting Heartwarden, "that you are not in fact Sir Joram Agramore?"

Joram laughed at him.

"And you," said Ridmark, "are not Aelia Licinius?"

Aelia grinned, her green eyes flashing with something like lust. "Did you just now realize that, human fool? We have been watching you. A human wielding a blade forged of high elven magic? It has long since we have seen such a sight." She swung back and forth in the shackles, grinning like a madwoman. "And you slew our pet urvaalgs. Pity. The master shall be ever so disappointed."

"The master cares not," said Joram. "New urvaalgs are easy to create."

"True enough," said Aelia.

"What do you want?" said Ridmark. "All this mummery has a purpose. What is it?"

Joram laughed. "Why, to enjoy ourselves."

"Yes," said Aelia. "The master commands us to guard his dungeons from intruders. But he does not care how we do it. And fun is ever so hard to find." She laughed. "You should have come to me, human fool. I would have shown you pleasure beyond the ability of your puny mind to comprehend ere I devoured your heart."

She made an intricate gesture with her bound right hand, and the chains holding her vanished in smoke. She landed with a flex of her emaciated legs, that manic grin still on her face.

"Do you know what we are, human?" said Joram. "Do you know how you are about to die?"

"You're urshanes, both of you," said Ridmark. "Another of the dark elves' creatures. They made the urvaalgs and the ursaars to act as war beasts, the urvuuls as living siege engines. But the urshanes were scouts. Spies. Infiltrators. They could read the minds of their victims and take the form of someone he trusted. Just as you took the forms of Joram and Aelia to fool me."

Aelia and Joram laughed at him, and their bodies blurred and rippled.

When the rippling faded, they had both changed. Now they looked like some bizarre combination of human, serpent, and hairless cat. Gleaming black scales covered their lean bodies like armor, and hooked black claws tipped their fingers and toes. Their faces were feline, with long fangs and yellow eyes split with a vertical black pupil. A segmented tail rose over each of their shoulders, swaying back and forth like a serpent, tipped with a barbed and poisoned stinger.

"Do you know how we have decided that you shall die?" hissed the urshane that at masqueraded as Joram.

"No," said Ridmark, "but I know how you will."

He charged, Heartwarden's magic filling him with speed. The urshanes reacted as he suspected they would, jumping back and squatting, their long tails darting over their shoulders to stab at him.

Ridmark hit the floor and rolled, sweeping Heartwarden over him in a blur of white light. The blade sheared through the urshanes' tails, their poisoned stingers dropping to the ground on either side of him. Both creatures reared back with screams of agony, their claws raking at the air. Ridmark rolled to his feet, hoping to strike before the urshanes recovered, but the creatures circled him, hissing and snapping. Ridmark turned, trying to keep both of them in sight at once.

"You will suffer for that," spat one of the urshanes. Ridmark could not tell if it was the creature that had been impersonating Joram or Aelia. "We shall cut off your fingers one by one and make..."

Ridmark feinted towards the creature, bringing Heartwarden around in a quick slash. As he expected, the urshane jumped back, giving Ridmark the opening he needed to strike. He pulled out of the feint, swinging the sword with both hands, and brought the blade down upon the second urshane's right elbow. The sword sheared through the arm, the clawed fingers falling to floor. The urshane screamed, rearing back in shock as black slime dribbled from the stump of its arm, and Ridmark struck again.

Heartwarden tore open half the urshane's neck, and the creature fell, its remaining hand clutching at the ghastly wound.

Ridmark spun just in time to avoid the attack of the second urshane, ducking under the claws. He thrust Heartwarden, opening a gash on the urshane's hip, and the creature hissed in fury. He drew back his sword to stab again, but the creature spun, cracking its wounded tail like a whip. The tail coiled around Ridmark's left foot, and he lost his balance and fell upon his back. The urshane pounced, and Ridmark thrust up with all his strength.

Heartwarden punched through the urshane's chest and erupted from its back. The urshane screamed and raked at Ridmark, but its strength drained away, and the creature went limp.

Then it blurred and changed.

Aelia stared down at Ridmark, suspended upon his blade. She no longer looked gaunt or tortured, but instead had the full ripeness of her beauty. Her green eyes widened, and she gazed down at him with shock and pain.

"Why, Ridmark?" she whispered. "Why...why..."

He knew it was an illusion, but Ridmark could not look away.

Aelia closed her eyes, the life draining from her face. Then her body rippled and changed again, reverting to the form of the urshane.

Ridmark grunted and pushed the urshane off him, Heartwarden sliding from its corpse with a wet sucking sound. He cleaned the slime from his blade, and then drew on Heartwarden's magic until he had healed himself.

Then he slumped against the wall for a moment to rest. The fighting had taken more out of him than he would have liked, and drawing on Heartwarden's magic always came with a cost to his stamina.

Seeing Aelia die like that, looking into her eyes as the life faded from them...that had disturbed him. It had only been an illusion, he knew, a trick of the urshane's power.

It had seemed so real, so horribly real.

He pulled some food and water from his pack and ate and drank. Then he rested for a while, drifting off to sleep. When awoke, he was alone, save for the corpses of the urshane. Perhaps they were the only guardians the Warden had left to defend the secret entrance into his fortress.

Or, more likely, other creatures awaited.

Ridmark got to his feet and walked back to the hall with the balconies, intending to take the stairs leading higher up.

***

## Chapter 6 - The Swordbearer

Ridmark moved through a silent corridor, Heartwarden ready in his fist.

Stone statues stood in niches lining the corridor, showing dark elven warriors in elaborate armor or wizards in ornate robes, their alien expressions so lifelike that Ridmark almost felt the arrogance and contempt pouring off them. After everything else he had seen in this evil place, he half-expected the statues to come to life and attack him. Who knew what terrors the black sorcery of the dark elves could unleash?

Certainly it would explain the bones and broken armor that littered the floor of the corridor. Ridmark saw more orcish bones, the fanged skulls of beastmen, the delicate skulls of dark elves, and bones he did not even recognize. There had been a great deal of violence in the dungeons of Urd Morlemoch.

But the statues remained motionless as he passed them.

Ridmark kept walking.

He had twice fought and defeated urvaalgs after leaving the urshanes' lair. So far he had seen none of the mutated blue orcs in the tunnels. Perhaps they only lurked on the surface and never entered the dungeons.

Which made sense, given that the urvaalgs and the urshanes would likely kill them.

The corridor opened into another hall, and Ridmark paused. Both times he had fought the urvaalgs, they had been lurking in halls like this, no doubt to use their superior speed and agility in the larger space.

This hall looked different from the others.

It bore no decorations, no reliefs, no statues. No balconies, even, and the ceiling was not vaulted. The walls were two slabs of unadorned white stone, rough and unpolished. Ridmark saw another archway in the far wall, more stairs climbing up. Two plates of blue dark elven steel stood affixed to the wall on either side of the archway.

Bones littered the floor, along with crushed pieces of armor and twisted weapons.

The bones bore no sign of claw or tooth marks. Instead they looked as if they had been crushed, as if some hulking giant had squeezed his foes to a pulp with his bare hands.

That was a disturbing thought. Some of the dark elves' creations had the kind of strength.

Ridmark took another step forward, and the stone tile beneath his foot sank a few inches into the ground.

He heard a loud, metallic click, followed by the grinding sound of stone upon stone.

And before he could react, a slab of white stone slid across the far archway, sealing it off. He spun, hoping to retreat through the archway he had used to enter the hall, but another slab fell over it.

He had walked right into a mechanical trap. The dark elves had filled their strongholds with such things. Given their love of cruelty, the dark elves had delighted in a particularly well-constructed trap, watching as their victims died a slow death in the grasp of unfeeling machinery.

Ridmark turned again, Heartwarden raised in guard. Would the trap keep him sealed in here until he died of thirst? That seemed like the sort of torment the dark elves would enjoy. But that did not explain how those broken bones had ended up on the floor. Had the trap sealed him in here with a deadly creature, one that had the ability to turn invisible? Ridmark's eyes scanned the room. He saw no trace of the telltale rippling that indicated the presence of an urvaalg. He looked at the flat ceiling, wondering if something lurked up there, but saw only empty stone.

Then he heard another metallic click.

A shudder went through the floor, and the walls on either side of Ridmark began to slide towards him.

He looked at the bones, at the walls, and then back at the bones, and suddenly knew exactly how those skulls had been crushed.

A surge of sheer panic went through him. Heartwarden's magic gave him superhuman strength to match the power of an urvaalg, but not even a soulblade could give him strength enough to rip open those stone doors. It certainly could not give him the strength to stop those massive blocks.

He looked back and forth, his heart racing. The walls were not moving quickly, but the room was already two or three feet smaller. In another few minutes, he would not have enough room to move, and then he was going to die quite painfully.

It might have been better to let the urshanes or the urvaalgs kill him.

Ridmark looked for something, anything, that would let him find a way to escape. He did not know much about machines, about gears and levers and screws. The Dux's engineers and blacksmiths attended to that, men with faces dark from soot and grease as they labored to repair and maintain the catapults and ballistae upon the walls of Castra Marcaine.

Maintenance...

His eyes fixed on the plates of blue dark elven steel on either side of the far archway.

The rest of the room was built of white stone. Why hang those plates on the wall there, without any artwork upon them?

Unless the dark elves had needed a way to maintain the guts of the machine powering the trap.

Ridmark raced across the chamber, drew on Heartwarden's power, and wrenched at the blue plate. The metal groaned, and then pulled away from the wall with a shriek. Behind it Ridmark saw a set of whirling gears of black metal, clicking and clanking. Each of the gears looked as if they weighed as much as Ridmark. If he stuck his hand in there, it would be torn to pulp. If he tried to stab the gears with Heartwarden, they would rip the sword from his grasp.

He struck his fist against his side in frustration, and felt the weight of the dwarven axe in his belt. It had hung forgotten during his fight with the urvaalgs and the urshanes. But dwarven steel was the finest metal in the world, harder and lighter and stronger than anything else.

Ridmark rammed Heartwarden back into its scabbard and drew the dwarven axe, taking the haft in both hands. The walls shuddered closer, the grinding growing louder.

He had to act now.

Ridmark swung the axe with all his strength into the gears.

The blade sank into one of the gears and got stuck. The turning motion of the gear wrenched the weapon from his hand. The gear continued to rotate against its neighbor, and the axe got pulled into the teeth. The gears stopped with a horrible metallic screech, shivering like a rope under too much tension.

And ropes under tension broke.

Ridmark ducked into the meager shelter of the archway.

An instant later the gears exploded out of the open panel. One bounced off the floor with a tremendous clang and stopped against the base of the moving wall. Another shattered into a dozen jagged pieces. The walls stopped, shuddered a few times, and then stopped again.

The slab of stone next to Ridmark slid back into the ceiling with a low rasp. Ridmark grunted, got to his feet, and looked into the opened panel. The smashed gears quivered, the axe trembling in their midst. The machinery looked like it was still under stress.

And if the axe gave out, Ridmark suspected bad things would happen.

He hastened away from the panel and up the stairs, leaving the chamber of the trap behind.

###

Ridmark stopped, sniffing at the air.

"Saltwater," he muttered.

He must be getting close to the surface.

He stood in a long gallery, pillars supporting its vaulted ceiling. More statues lined the walls, waiting in niches. Here and there bones dotted the floor, but not as many as in the lower levels of the dungeons.

Perhaps fewer intruders ever made it this far.

He kept walking, and then stopped as a new smell flooded the air. A rank odor touched his nostrils, one more familiar than he would have liked.

The corrupt blood of an urvaalg.

It smelled as if it had been spilled recently.

Ridmark kept walking, Heartwarden ready in his fist.

The gallery ended in a flight of stairs that spiraled upwards. Ridmark started climbing, his eyes scanning the red-lit gloom for any foes, his ears straining for any sound of battle.

He turned the first circuit of the stairs and stopped.

An urvaalg crouched there, ready to spring.

Ridmark braced himself, Heartwarden raised in guard.

But the urvaalg remained motionless, and after a moment Ridmark realized the creature was dead. Someone had carved deep wounds in its chest and back, black slime dripping upon the white stairs. A sword wound, then, one delivered with enough force to pierce hide and muscle and bone.

And a magical sword, if it had killed an urvaalg.

Had Rhyannis killed it? Ardrhythain had not mentioned if the bladeweavers carried magical swords, but it seemed likely. Or did more dark elves than the Warden dwell in Urd Morlemoch? Perhaps the urvaalg had gone berserk and attacked its masters.

He climbed the stairs, and found three more dead urvaalgs upon the steps. Two had been killed with a single powerful sword thrust through the heart, and one had been beheaded entirely, black slime spattered across the walls.

Someone had fought three urvaalgs at once and prevailed. If it was Rhyannis, if she was free within Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark could rescue her, and they could retreat through the dungeons before the Warden even noticed them.

He took another step and heard sounds echoing down the stairwell.

Growls and snarls...and a man's voice raised in challenge.

A man's voice speaking Latin.

Ridmark raced up the stairs.

If another man of Andomhaim was in this horrid place, Ridmark would not leave him to fight alone. He remembered what the urshanes had said about the Dux sending a rescue mission. Had there been an element of truth of to their lies?

Ridmark felt the cold, salt-scented wind upon his face as the stairs opened into a wide courtyard lined with columns. The strange, unnatural black sky stretched overhead, the ribbons of blue fire dancing across it. A half-dozen dead urvaalgs lay scattered across the courtyard, and a half-dozen more moved in a wide circle, growling and snarling.

A knight stood in the center of the circle, clad in chain mail and plate, a soulblade shining in his right fist.

Ridmark had never seen him before. The Swordbearer was middle-aged, with gray-streaked black hair and a close-cropped gray beard. Blood marked the left side of his face, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl. He looked like a man who had been fighting for days without rest, his blue eyes wide and bloodshot with fury and exhaustion.

"Come on, then!" he roared, lifting his soulblade, its soulstone flashing with white light. "Come on, dogs, come and face me!"

One of the urvaalgs lunged at him, and the Swordbearer reacted with lightning speed. The white-glowing blade licked out and opened a gash on the urvaalg's shoulder, and the creature slunk back with an angry growl. Another urvaalg lunged, and the knight just managed to dodge the strike. He struck another urvaalg, forcing the creature to reel back, but the others closed around him.

They would rush him and kill him.

Ridmark charged forward.

"For God and the High King!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs, hoping to draw the attention of the urvaalgs. "For God and the Dux!"

The Swordbearer saw him, his eyes growing wide, and some of the urvaalgs spun to face Ridmark. The older knight took the opportunity to strike, and his soulblade plunged into the back of an urvaalg. The beast roared, went rigid, and collapsed to the ground. The other urvaalgs hesitated, trying to decide if Ridmark or the other Swordbearer was the greater threat.

Ridmark crashed into them, calling upon Heartwarden to lend him strength and speed. Before the nearest urvaalg could get its balance, he slashed his sword in a two-handed blow, taking off the creature's head in a fountain of black slime. The other knight took advantage of the confusion, his soulblade blurring and taking off an urvaalg's arm. The creature screamed in pain and fury, and the Swordbearer opened its throat with a quick thrust.

Another urvaalg lunged at Ridmark, but with Heartwarden's speed, he avoided the blow. The urvaalg lost its balance, and Ridmark swung his sword and severed the creature's hamstrings. The urvaalg toppled backwards, slashing and snarling. Ridmark stabbed down, driving his sword through the creature's heart. He whirled and caught his balance as the other Swordbearer slew another urvaalg.

Only two of the creatures were left, and both of them charged at the older Swordbearer, roaring with rage and madness. Ridmark stabbed one of them in the back, and the Swordbearer slew the second with a swift thrust. The dead urvaalgs toppled to the white flagstones of the courtyard, and silence fell over the ruins of Urd Morlemoch.

Ridmark and the Swordbearer stared at each other.

"What is this?" said the Swordbearer at last. "Another delusion of the Warden's magic? A phantasm? Or are you another of the damned urshanes, come to fool me?" He shook his head. "No...no, I've never seen you before, and the urshanes steal a man's memories to weave their lies. You are a Knight of the Soulblade?"

Ridmark nodded. "I am."

"Blast and damnation," said the Swordbearer. "Then has another fool stumbled into the lies and webs of Ardrhythain?"

"What do you mean?" said Ridmark.

The Swordbearer grunted, cleaned his blade on a dead urvaalg's fur, and returned it to his scabbard. "What is your name, sir knight?"

"Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii," said Ridmark. "I am a Knight of the Soulblade, in service in the court of the Dux of the Northerland."

"Ridmark Arban?" said the knight with a grunt. "I know your father. Good man, solid man. My name is Lancelus Tyriar, a Knight of the Soulblade in service to the Comes of Coldinium."

"I have never visited Coldinium," said Ridmark, "and I fear I have never heard your name before. But it is always an honor to meet another Swordbearer." He looked around at the bleeding carcasses of the urvaalgs. "Especially one who can survive in such a grim place."

"Likewise it is an honor to meet you, sir," said Lancelus, "and I am grateful for your aid. But I grieve to see you here. I would rather have fallen beneath the claws of the urvaalgs than have seen you in battle."

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.

"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. "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. "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. 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."

"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 meditating 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. 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. "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."

They 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 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.

"So here you are," said the urdhracos in Latin, her voice melodious and eerie. "This is the game we are to play, then?"

"You guard the elven bladeweaver Rhyannis?" said Lancelus, pointing his soulblade at her.

The urdhracos laughed, her wings flexing behind her. "You know well what I guard."

"Release her to us," said Lancelus, "and this need not end in bloodshed."

Again the urdhracos laughed, mingled glee and rage filling her voice. "Is that so? Shall you demand that I stop the thirteen moons in their courses, perhaps, or reach into the heavens, pluck down the sun, and present it to you on a platter of silver?"

"Nothing so dramatic," said Lancelus. "Release the bladeweaver to us, and we shall go on our way. If not, then we will fight."

The woman grinned, her fangs long and sharp. "Then we fight."

She opened her mouth and took a deep breath.

"Move!" shouted Lancelus, shoving Ridmark to the side.

Ridmark realized what was happening.

Dragons breathed fire.

He flung himself to the floor as the woman breathed out a blast of searing yellow-orange flame. The fire billowed across the chamber, and Ridmark felt the terrible heat of it washing over his face and hands. But fire could not burn upon white stone, and it winked out a moment later. Ridmark rolled back to his feet and charged the urdhracos, Heartwarden fueling his speed.

The woman laughed and jumped, her wings beating at the air. Ridmark slashed at her, but his sword missed the bottom of her feet by a few inches. She soared to the top of the dome and hovered there, wings beating, one hand braced against the apex of the dome.

Her other hand pointed at Ridmark, and ghostly blue fires began crackling around the steel talons.

Like the mutated orcs, she could use magic.

The blue flames turned black, and she thrust her hand. Ridmark raised Heartwarden, calling upon the sword's power to ward him. A blast of shadow fire burst from the clawed fingers and slammed into Ridmark. He staggered back with a grunt of pain, the black fire raging against Heartwarden's light, frost forming in a circle around him as the dark fire sucked the warmth from the air. The urdhracos was strong, much stronger than the magic-using orc Ridmark had fought outside the ruins, but Heartwarden held against her power.

The spell ended, the flames vanishing, and Ridmark considered his next move.

He could try throwing the dagger at his belt, but normal steel would not harm an urvaalg, and the urdhracos was far more powerful. Any missile weapon he found to use against her would have the same limitation. He had to close and land a blow, but with her wings and magic, she could stay ahead of him.

Unless Ridmark found a way to distract her.

Ridmark realized he was standing too close to Lancelus. One good blast of flame could kill them both. Ridmark dashed to the center of the chamber, and the urdhracos turned to follow him. She grimaced, pushed away from the dome, and swooped to the far wall, her black wings folding behind her. Ridmark turned, watching her for any signs of flame or magic.

Why hadn't she stayed hovering? She could have rained fire and spells down upon them with impunity. Perhaps hovering simply took too much effort. Even supernatural strength had its limitations.

She began to advance, one step at a time, her clawed hands held low and ready at her sides.

"I'll take the right," said Ridmark. "You take the left. Stay far apart so she cannot strike us both with her fire at once."

Lancelus gave a curt nod and did as Ridmark asked, moving to the left. Ridmark advanced towards her, Heartwarden ready in his clenched fists. The urdhracos looked back and forth, pale lips pulled back from her fangs in a snarl. He did not know how long it would take before she could breathe fire again. Part of him wanted to charge and strike before she reacted. But she would be fast, at least as fast as the urvaalgs, and she might well intercept his attack.

"What a pathetic game this is," said the urdhracos. "A pitiful farce, unworthy of my time." Her dark eyes turned to Ridmark. "Better to lie down and die, foolish boy. It is better than the fate that awaits you here." She laughed. "Bathe in the light of my fire, and you shall never know pain again."

"A gracious offer," said Ridmark, "but I fear I must decline."

"Then your fate is upon your own head," she said.

Lancelus sprinted forward, soulblade raised, and the urdhracos's head snapped around to stare at him. Ridmark took the opening and charged, Heartwarden augmenting his speed. At the last minute the urdhracos saw the threat and spun to meet him, her steel talons rising to deflect his swing. She was slender, and Ridmark stood a foot tall than her, but she blocked his strike without difficulty.

The urdhracos roared in fury, orange-white light flaring to life inside her mouth.

Ridmark sidestepped and swung Heartwarden down, aiming for her legs. The urdhracos saw the blow coming and dodged, her mouth opening as she prepared to spit fire upon him. Ridmark pivoted, and brought his boot down onto the back of her knee. Superhuman strength or not, the urdhracos stumbled, and Ridmark tripped her.

She landed upon her back, the fire blasting from her mouth to lash at the domed ceiling overhead. The terrible heat of it forced Ridmark back, the glare stinging his eyes. The fire winked out, and Ridmark lunged, hoping to land a blow before the urdhracos recovered her balance. Lancelus attacked with a shout as the urdhracos regained her feet, and she ducked under his swing with the sinuous grace of a serpent. Her backhand caught him in the belly with enough force to throw him to the floor.

She started to turn, but Ridmark was already moving. Heartwarden came down and sliced deep into her left wing. The urdhracos screamed in fury and pain, and Ridmark tried to rip his sword free. The creature proved faster, her fist slamming into his chest. The power of the blow threw him backward, Heartwarden still clenched in his grasp. He caught his balance as the urdhracos thrust out her hands, dark fire crackling to life around her fingers.

He called upon Heartwarden, catching the black flame upon the sword's glowing blade. The force of it hammered at him, yet Ridmark drove himself forward, moving closer to the creature. She snarled, fingers hooked, and poured more power at him. Heartwarden shuddered in Ridmark's grasp, the sheer strength of the urdhracos's magic threatening to tear the blade from his hand.

He kept moving, and the creature's spell ended.

Ridmark threw himself forward, Heartwarden blurring. The blade bit into the urdhracos's slender neck and took off her head in a burst of black blood. The body twitched, jerked, and collapsed atop its wings.

Silence fell over the domed chamber.

Ridmark let out a long breath, fighting a wave of exhaustion that passed through him, and hurried to Sir Lancelus's side. He feared the older knight had been slain. Lancelus coughed and sat up, blinking as he wiped blood from his mouth.

"God!" he said. "She hit hard. I thought I was done for." He blinked, and took the hand Ridmark offered to help him stand. "You...you killed her. You actually killed her. I thought urdhracos were only legends, but...my God, you killed her." He shook his head. "You have deprived the Warden of a valuable servant this day."

Ridmark shrugged. "She was trying to kill us."

"Her wings," said Lancelus. "How did you know to strike at her wings?"

Ridmark shrugged again. "It seemed the wisest choice when fighting a creature with the power of flight. And I suspected..."

"Suspected what?" said Lancelus, staring at the corpse.

"She relied overmuch upon her flight," said Ridmark. "It is a common fallacy. The Magistri rely too much on their magic, I think, and neglect to keep themselves fit. A swordsman will rely too much upon his blade, and forget to train himself with other weapons. If I kept her upon the ground, I thought, she would make a mistake and I could defeat her."

"And you were right," said Lancelus. The older Swordbearer grinned and laughed loud and long again. "What a warrior you are, Sir Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii! You ought to have perished a dozen times since you set foot within the ruins. Yet here you are, storming the tower of the Warden. What a tale you shall have to tell, if you live to return!" He rubbed his beard. "A most remarkable destiny must await you. Yes. I am sure of it."

Ridmark frowned, uneasy at the older man's sudden mood swing. Still, men reacted in many different ways when faced with death, and the urdhracos had almost killed them both. "We have not been victorious yet. It is a foolish commander who claims a triumph before the knights have even saddled their horses."

"Yes, yes, quite right," said Lancelus. All trace of levity vanished from him, and he was grim once more. "Yes. One more test awaits us. One more. Shall we face it?"

Ridmark nodded, and they walked to the door on the far side of the domed chamber.

***

## Chapter 8 - An Eye of Stone

The door swung open, and Ridmark and Lancelus stepped into a domed chamber filled with statues of gray stone.

Ridmark saw more of the strange, gray statutes, the statues that Lancelus suspected had once been living men. There were orcs, men and women both, their expressions full of fear and horror. He also saw halflings, their eyes bulging with terror. There were dwarves and beastmen, manetaurs and trolls, dwarves and kobolds, hundreds of statues standing in successive rings.

"This is ghastly," said Ridmark.

"Aye," said Lancelus. "The Warden seems like the sort of man to enjoy making an example of his enemies."

"It's worse than that," said Ridmark. "Kill a man to make an example of him. But this...this is monstrous. To keep these people imprisoned forever as statues...that is an appetite for cruelty beyond anything human. I have never seen a dark elf, but both our histories and Ardrhythain said they delighted in cruelty. It seems they were right."

"Perhaps," said Lancelus, looking at a statue of an orc.

Ridmark moved through the statues with caution, watching for any sign of attackers. More urvaalgs or urshanes might wait among the statues. If Lancelus's suspicions were right, if the statues had originally been men and women of flesh and blood, whatever creature had turned them to stone might lurk here. Ridmark had never heard of such a creature, but there were legends in the books of Old Earth, tales of the Medusa and the Gorgons, and he had heard that both the halflings and the dwarves told tales of similar creatures.

Then he heard the voice.

A woman's voice, one of otherworldly beauty. Was it another urdhracos? The urdhracos's voice had been full of amused contempt and cold hunger.

Fear and terror filled this voice.

"I heard you!" said the voice, speaking in Latin. "You must...you must be men of Andomhaim, yes? Humans? Or another trick of the Warden's magic? Another one of his games?" She started to weep. "God, God, I don't know. Please, if you're real, please don't leave me here, please, please..."

Ridmark hurried through the statues and came to the center of the chamber.

A round dais rose there, topped by a stone throne. The gray statues surrounded the dais like supplicants approaching the seat of a king. A young woman, clad in only a shift of thin white cloth, sat upon the stone throne, chains binding her wrists and ankles. She had the alien features and glimmering golden eyes of the high elves.

She looked at Ridmark and Lancelus in wonder.

"Who are you?" said the high elven woman. "Are you a dream? If you are one of the Warden's phantasms, you are strange, for I have never seen men such as you before."

Lancelus snorted. "Such high praise."

"We are real, I assure you," said Ridmark. "I am Ridmark Arban, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, and this is Sir Lancelus Tyriar, a knight of the same Order." He paused. "And I assume that you are Rhyannis, a bladeweaver of the high elven city of Cathair Solas?"

The woman blinked, tears in her golden eyes. "Yes. I...I am. But how do you know me?"

"The archmage Ardrhythain sent us to rescue you," said Ridmark.

Rhyannis started to weep. "I was a fool. Such a fool. I should never have come here. I should have listened. I should..."

"My lady, you can rebuke yourself later," said Ridmark. "First, we must escape while we still can. We..."

He stepped towards the dais, intending to cut her free.

"Stop!" said Rhyannis. "Don't come any closer!"

Ridmark froze. "You are guarded by a spell?"

"No," said Rhyannis. "Something worse. One of the Warden's fell creatures."

"Ridmark," said Lancelus. "Look. There. Around the top of the dais."

Ridmark stopped, frowning. He saw a faint blur, a ripple, around the top step of the dais, and he wondered if an urvaalg waited there. But the blur was too long and too slender for an urvaalg. It wrapped around the entirety of the round step. A magical trap? Heartwarden might have the power to pierce it. Ridmark moved to the side, hoping to get a better look...

Then, all at once, he saw it.

A massive serpent lay coiled around the top step of the dais, its scales blurring and rippling to match its surroundings. The thing was as thick as Ridmark's thigh, and as motionless as one of the undead orcs. He saw its unblinking yellow eyes watching him.

"What is it?" said Ridmark.

"The creature is called a sthanos," said Rhyannis. "The dark elves brought them to this world long ago. Most were wiped out in the war with my kindred, but some of the creatures yet remain, and the Warden keeps a few as pets. The serpent's bite turns its victims into stone."

"Hence all of this," said Ridmark, waving at the gray statues.

"Yes," said Rhyannis. "Sometimes when men and women of the lesser kindreds dare to enter Urd Morlemoch, the Warden amuses himself by having his sthanos turn the trespassers to stone." She looked at one of the statues and shuddered. "The Warden has dwelled within Urd Morlemoch for a very long time."

"Then let us slay the serpent," said Ridmark, lifting Heartwarden, "and be on our way."

"No!" said Lancelus and Rhyannis in unison.

Ridmark frowned.

"Do not," said Rhyannis. "I beg of you, do not. The creature is faster than you can imagine, faster that you can move. Only a single scratch from its fangs is enough to turn you to stone."

"Then why has it not already struck?" said Ridmark.

"Because it does not think for itself," said Rhyannis.

"Like the undead orcs," said Lancelus.

"Aye, sir knight, you say it true," said Rhyannis. "The sthanos is a mindless beast, and acts only as the Warden's spells compel it. If you try to free me, it will strike. If you attack it with a drawn weapon, it will strike." She shook her head. "Do you have any magic? Other than in the swords you carry?"

"None," said Ridmark. "We are not Magistri."

"Then you cannot free me," said Rhyannis. "Go, quickly, before the Warden discovers you are here."

"No," said Ridmark.

"Perhaps she speaks sense," said Lancelus. "We cannot free her. Better that we escape than that all three of us die here."

"Heed your elder's wisdom, I beg of you," said Rhyannis. "Let my folly bring punishment upon my own head. Do not compound it by staining my hands with your blood."

"If we die, the blood will be upon the hands of the Warden, not you," said Ridmark. He stepped away from the dais, trying to think. "And I will not leave anyone in this foul place. Not when I can still save them."

"You cannot save me," said Rhyannis.

She had a point.

But to have come so far, to have defeated so many obstacles, only to turn back within sight of the woman he had come to rescue? Ridmark could not allow that.

Lancelus laughed again, high and wild, and Rhyannis gave him an odd look.

"What now?" said Ridmark.

"You truly are inexorable, Sir Ridmark," said Lancelus. "You set your mind to free this woman, and you will not turn from your course, though all the hosts of hell should bar the way."

"I am a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade," said Ridmark, "and I told Ardrhythain that I would rescue Rhyannis from Urd Morlemoch or learn of her fate. A Swordbearer should keep his word."

"And you have learned of her fate," said Lancelus. "It is time to withdraw."

"No," said Ridmark. "Go if you want, but I shall remain."

Lancelus scowled. "Do what? Try to think of something clever and join these other statues? Stand here until the Warden comes and kills us all?"

"Hopefully," said Ridmark, "neither."

"Young fool," said Lancelus with a shake of his head. "So certain of your invincibility, so certain that you will find a way."

"Every man dies," said Ridmark.

"Yes, but you do not believe it," said Lancelus. "Not in your bones. Not yet."

Ridmark scowled. "Unless you have something useful to say, be silent and let me think."

Lancelus snorted, but stopped talking.

"Please," said Rhyannis, "you must..."

"No," said Ridmark. "Let me think."

He stepped away from the dais, looking over the hundreds of statues of orcs and dwarves and manetaurs in armor, weapons in hand. He stepped closer a the statue of an orcish warrior holding a massive double-bladed axe over his head, frozen in mid-swing, the warrior's mouth yawning in a silent, eternal battle cry. Odd that both the warrior's armor and weapons had been transmuted to stone along with him. Perhaps the sthanos's power extended to everything its victim touched, creating these eerie, lifelike statues.

Lifelike...

Some of these statues must have been here for centuries. Yet they did not look even the slightest bit eroded. He saw every line and wrinkle in their faces, the bulge of veins in their temples and hands, the individual rings of chain mail.

And the edge of the weapons.

Ridmark frowned, returned to the statue of the orc with the double-bladed axe, and brushed a finger against the weapon's edge.

It was still razor-sharp.

Ridmark looked at the sthanos, and then back at the axe, and an idea came to him.

"Sir Lancelus," said Ridmark, sliding Heartwarden into its sheath. "Help me move this statue."

Lancelus grunted. "Why?"

"Because," said Ridmark, grasping one of the statue's arms. "I'm going to tip it over onto the sthanos and kill it with that axe."

"That won't work," said Lancelus. He blinked, rubbing his beard. "Will that work?"

"I...I do not know," said Rhyannis.

"If I stand behind the statue and push it so the axe lands upon the sthanos," said Ridmark, "the serpent will not see it as an attack. Or if it does, it will try to bite the orc..."

"And since the orc is already stone," said Rhyannis, her golden eyes widening, "the sthanos cannot harm him further. I don't know if it will work, I..."

"Let's find out," said Ridmark.

"This is folly," said Lancelus. "We..."

"Just help me move the damned statue," said Ridmark, tired of arguing with the older knight. "I can push it over by myself, but I can't move it. Once I get it in position, you can stand back and I will push it. If the sthanos turns me to a statue, you can tell me that you were right."

"Little pleasure that will bring me," said Lancelus, "since you will spend eternity as a statue and cannot hear me." He sighed and stepped forward. "If you are set upon this, I will not gainsay it."

Lancelus slid his soulblade into its scabbard and helped Ridmark wrestle the statue forward. At last they stopped about nine feet from the dais, the serpent rippling atop the step. Ridmark looked at the motionless sthanos, at the head of the battle axe, and gauged the distance. If he shoved the statue over, the axe ought to land right behind the snake's head.

Or so he thought.

It was time to find out.

"Stand back," said Ridmark.

Lancelus took several hasty steps back.

"Sir Ridmark," said Rhyannis, trembling. "I thank you for this. You are putting yourself in grave peril upon my behalf."

"Don't thank me," said Ridmark, gripping Heartwarden's hilt, "until we see if this works or not."

He took a deep breath, drew on Heartwarden for strength, and then shoved his hands against the small of the statue's back, his arms and legs straining.

For a moment the statue did not move. Then it started to tip forward, slowly at first. Ridmark strained, gritting his teeth.

Then the statue fell.

It happened so fast he barely saw it. One moment the statue was wavering. Then it struck the floor with a mighty crash, the axe slamming into the dais. The entire coiled body of the sthanos snapped like a cord under pressure, and its head tumbled through the air, yellow eyes still staring.

The head vanished into the forest of statues, and the long body stopped its thrashing.

Ridmark let out a long breath.

"My God," said Lancelus, stunned. "It worked. It really worked." He laughed his wild laugh. "Truly, you are a worthy warrior, far worthier than I expected."

"The sthanos must not have seen the falling statue as an attack," said Ridmark, still surprised. He shook his head. "The Warden must have failed to foresee the possibility."

Lancelus frowned. "Not even the Warden can foresee everything."

"You did it," said Rhyannis. She rose from the stone throne, as beautiful and as graceful as a queen despite her simple shift. "You did it, Sir Ridmark. You saved me. Oh, come and take me from this terrible place."

She looked beautiful, so beautiful. The lines of her face and pointed ears were alien, yet they had an otherworldly beauty. Ridmark felt his heart beat faster, his pulse rushing through his ears. He took a step towards the dais, and Rhyannis smiled and spread her arms, inviting him to embrace her. He wondered what her lean body would feel like in his arms, what her lips would feel like against his.

"What happened to the chains?" he said instead.

"Chains?" said Rhyannis, her golden eyes blinking. "What chains?"

"You were chained to that throne, wrist and ankle," said Ridmark. "But they've vanished."

"They must have been part of the spell," said Rhyannis. "They vanished when you slew the sthanos."

"Why would they be part of the spell upon the sthanos?" said Ridmark. "That doesn't make any sense. For that matter, why chain you to the throne at all? You couldn't have gotten past the snake. And how long have you been here? What have you eaten? Where did you relieve yourself?"

"For God's sake, boy!" said Lancelus. "You rescued the damned elven girl! Now take her and let us escape before the Warden realizes that we are here!"

"Take me," said Rhyannis. "I am yours, my knight. Take me from this evil place, and I will serve you for the rest of your days."

"Very well," said Ridmark. "Come to me and we shall depart."

Rhyannis hesitated. "Please, sir knight. Take me from here. Please."

Ridmark drew Heartwarden.

"What are you doing?" said Lancelus. "Have you gone mad? All this effort to rescue her, and you are going to strike her down?"

"No," said Ridmark. "There's something wrong. I shall find out what it is."

He drew on Heartwarden's power, intending to use the sword's magic to break a spell with a touch. The sword flared with white light, and he started towards Rhyannis, planning to tap her with the sword and break whatever spell was upon her.

Before he could reach the top of the dais, she and the throne vanished.

In her place stood a pedestal of white stone, a fist-sized sphere of yellow crystal sitting upon it. The sphere had a black center, and it looked like a baleful eye.

"What is that?" said Ridmark.

"That," said Lancelus, "is the eye of a basilisk. A close relative to the sthanos. They came from the same world, I believe, though I cannot say for certain. The bite of a sthanos turns its victim to stone. The basilisk, I fear, is rather more potent. Merely looking into its eyes is enough. Fortunately for you, the effect is less potent when the basilisk is dead. Then you would have to physically touch the eye to fall under its power."

Ridmark turned, Heartwarden still in his fist.

Lancelus stood watching him, a faint smile on his face.

"How do you know that?" said Ridmark.

"Had you touched the illusion of Rhyannis covering the eye," said Lancelus, "we would not be having this conversation."

"How," said Ridmark, pointing his sword at the older knight, "how do you know all this?"

Lancelus smiled. "What do you think, Sir Ridmark of the Order of the Soulblade?"

"I think the reason you survived," said Ridmark, "when all the other Swordbearers perished is that you made a pact with the Warden. I think you have been working with him. I think this is all part of the Warden's games. Your life in exchange for...this."

"Well," said Lancelus. "You are half-right. I am afraid I have lied to you, Sir Ridmark. There were no other Swordbearers."

"Just you, then?" said Ridmark.

"No," said Lancelus. "You were the only one Ardrhythain sent. I must say I was impressed. I did not think Ardrhythain would find a warrior of such quality among the humans."

"If you are not a Swordbearer," said Ridmark, his mouth dry, "then who are you?"

"Why, you have not figured it out already?" said Lancelus. "No? Let me enlighten you."

He snapped his fingers and disappeared.

In his place stood a tall, gaunt figure, clad in a long blue coat with black trim upon the sleeves over black trousers and a tunic. The figure's head was hairless and bone white, elven ears rising alongside the long, lean face, a diadem of blue steel encircling the brow. The eyes were utterly black and empty, colder and darker than the eyes of the urdhracos. Rings of blue dark elven steel glittered upon the long, bony fingers.

"Who are you?" said Ridmark.

"I think you know," said the dark elf. His voice had grown deeper, far deeper and more melodious than any human voice.

"The Warden," said Ridmark. "You're the Warden. What did you do with Sir Lancelus?"

The Warden's thin lips twitched.

"No," said Ridmark, "there never was a Sir Lancelus, was there? He was only a fiction, a disguise you created."

"Very good," said the Warden.

"Why?" said Ridmark. The dark elven sorcerer stood a mere dozen paces away. If Ridmark struck at once, perhaps he could land a blow before the Warden cast a spell. "Some sick game for your amusement?"

"Indeed," said Warden, "but I have a greater purpose. A far greater purpose. I have been looking for someone like you for a long time, Ridmark Arban, and..."

Ridmark charged, drawing as much of Heartwarden's power as he could manage.

The Warden snapped his fingers again.

And the domed chamber erupted with black fire. A horrible chill ripped through Ridmark, and he screamed in pain.

The darkness swallowed him, and everything went black.

***

## Chapter 9 - The Warden

Ridmark opened his eyes.

Dull white light filled his vision, and a searing bolt of pain pulsed through his head. Ridmark grunted, his hand closing around Heartwarden's hilt, and drew upon the sword's power. Healing energy filled him, and after a few moments the throbbing agony in his skull subsided to merely a sharp pain.

He opened his eyes again and sat up.

To his surprise, he found he was in a library.

It was the largest library he had ever seen. A floor of gleaming blue marble lay beneath him, and all around him rose shelves of dull black wood, built with the same peculiar arches and angles as Urd Morlemoch. Books filled the shelves to overflowing, books and scrolls beyond count, most of them written in high elven or dark elven. But Ridmark saw books in Latin, copies of the histories of Old Earth, and even a few stone tablets carved with the blocky glyphs of the dwarves.

Ridmark stood and saw the Warden.

The dark elven sorcerer sat a table a few paces away, scrutinizing a massive book open upon a wooden stand. Elaborate astronomical charts covered the pages of the book, alongside notations in dark elven characters. The Warden seemed absorbed in the book, one long, bony finger tracing the circles of a star chart. Ridmark's fingers tightened around Heartwarden's hilt. If he could strike before...

"No," said the Warden, not looking up from his book, "no, do not bother. If you do, the backlash from my warding spells will kill you." He looked up, his bottomless black eyes digging into Ridmark. "Then we shall have both wasted a great deal of time."

Ridmark said nothing, and the Warden rose from his chair. The sorcerer moved in eerie silence around the table, seeming to glide over the smooth marble floor.

"Look at you," said the Warden. "You stand at the crux of great events. An axle of history, of destiny itself, if there is such a thing. And you do not even see it. Perhaps you are too young. Or perhaps that is simply the nature of your kind. You cannot see your fate until it is too late to escape."

He stopped a few paces from Ridmark and stood motionless. Completely motionless, in fact. He did not breathe, did not blink. Ardrhythain had said that the Warden was undead.

But he was far more powerful than the orcish undead Ridmark and Lancelus had fought in the corridors below.

No. Lancelus hadn't fought alongside Ridmark. Sir Lancelus Tyriar had never existed, had been only an illusion summoned from the Warden's magic. Which meant that everything that had happened since Ridmark had met the false Swordbearer had been orchestrated by the Warden.

Perhaps everything since Ridmark had set foot inside Urd Morlemoch.

"You haven't killed me," said Ridmark.

"Plainly," said the Warden. "Else the next world is rather different than what your Dominus Christus promised his followers."

"No," said Ridmark. "I'm still alive. You could have killed me with your magic at any time. You could have cut my throat while I was unconscious. You did none of those things."

The Warden said nothing, his alien face a cold mask.

"Why?" said Ridmark.

"You are unusually clever," said the Warden. "Especially for a human. Your kindred...you seem little more than fast-breeding savages. You eat, you sleep, you spawn, you fight, and you die. Like rabbits, but more violent. That summarizes the entirety of human history. And yet...you saw through the illusion. You did not touch the eye of the basilisk. That intrigues me. So. Intrigue me further. Why have I not yet killed you?"

Ridmark thought for a moment. Part of him demanded that he attack, that he drive Heartwarden through the Warden's ancient black heart. But the rest of him knew it was futile. The Warden could crush him at any time.

So why hadn't he?

Ridmark remembered what Ardrhythain had said about the Warden's twisted games, about the dark elves' love of cruelty.

"The reason you have not killed me," said Ridmark, meeting the creature's eyes, "is because you are called the Warden."

The Warden said nothing, but a corner of his thin lip curled.

"Why call you the Warden?" said Ridmark. "Of all the titles to give you, why that? A warden is a jailer, a keeper of prisoners."

"Ah," said the Warden. He sounded disappointed. "So because I keep prisoners in stone, because I keep slaves to serve me and defend my home, that is why I am called the Warden?"

"Or because you play cruel games with them?" said Ridmark. "Like your ruse with Lancelus? Did you steal the face of a man you slew, or did you simply invent him?"

"I invented him, of course," said the Warden. "Though Swordbearers have dared Urd Morlemoch in the past, seeking glory and adventure. I based our phantasmal Sir Lancelus off them. Though they, alas, did not prove quite as perceptive as you." He stepped closer, smiling. "Then that is why I am called the Warden? Because I keep prisoners and amuse myself with them?"

"No," said Ridmark, refusing to flinch before the Warden's inhuman gaze. "You are called the Warden because you are your own jailer."

The Warden's smile vanished.

"You're undead," said Ridmark. "Ardrhythain said you fled here to avoid the urdmordar and cast a spell to make Urd Morlemoch impervious to attack. Whatever you did worked. The dark elves are a scattered remnant and the empire of the urdmordar has been thrown down, but you are still here. I don't think you can leave. You have power enough to rebuild an empire for the dark elves, but you don't."

The Warden still remained silent, but shadow fire began to crackle around his fingertips, and his eyes seemed to grow blacker and deeper.

"Whatever spell you cast made Urd Morlemoch impregnable," said Ridmark, "but it imprisoned you here. That is why you are called the Warden. The title is not one of fear or respect, but of mockery. You are your own jailer. So the high elves call you the Warden...and the men of Andomhaim know you by that name."

The black fire around the Warden's hands intensified, and Ridmark wondered if the sorcerer would strike him down.

Then the Warden threw back his head and laughed the same wild, mad laugh Lancelus had used, but this time Ridmark felt the pressure of the Warden's crazed amusement against the inside of his head.

"Where did Ardrhythain find you?" said the Warden, his laughter subsiding.

"So am I correct?" said Ridmark.

The Warden's humor vanished. "Yes. I was once an archmage of the elven people. When the urdmordar came, matters grew grave. I withdrew to Urd Morlemoch and worked spells to keep them at bay. Alas, my magic succeeded far beyond my anticipations. The urdmordar could not assail me, but neither could I leave." He lifted one thin finger and tapped his lips for a moment. "Very good, Sir Ridmark. That does not explain why I have kept you alive."

"The obvious answer," said Ridmark, "would be that you are cruel, and this is all a game."

"It is a game, is it not?" said the Warden. "A game with words as the playing pieces."

"Aye," said Ridmark, "but I suspect your usual games are a bit more...pointed. With flesh and blood as the game pieces. The basilisk's eye. The illusion of Sir Lancelus. Those seem more to your taste. This is...something else."

"Is it?" said the Warden. "A game can be more than one thing."

"Such as a test?" said Ridmark. "Is that what Sir Lancelus and the illusion of Rhyannis were? Tests?"

The Warden nodded, the light glinting off his blue diadem.

"Tests of what?" said Ridmark.

"Of your worthiness," said the Warden. "You slew the urdhracos. You realized that Rhyannis was a trap. And you grasped that Sir Lancelus was not what he seemed to be." He clapped his hands, the mad humor returning to the gaunt, dead face. "I expected you to fail at every turn, but you confounded me."

"Since you went to all that effort," said Ridmark, "that suggests you have a purpose beyond mere games."

"Do I?" said the Warden. "I have been imprisoned here for fifteen thousand years. I have offered princely rewards to any of my servants who brought me copies of the books your forebears brought over from Old Earth, and I have read them all. Your historians speak of the ancient kingdoms of the Greeks and the Romans, the Egyptians and the Babylonians, marveling at their antiquity. Yet I am older than them all, and when your distant ancestors first started making scratches in the mud and calling it writing, I had already been imprisoned here for millennia."

"An impressive speech," said Ridmark, though the thought of those vast gulfs of time chilled him, "though I fail to see what it has to do with me."

"I have vanquished all my enemies save boredom," said the Warden, "and amusements are rare here. The arrival of your kindred a thousand years past was the first new thing to happen upon this world in millennia. The advent of the Frostborn two and a half centuries ago, of course. It shall be amusing to see how your realm deals with their return."

Ridmark kept his expression calm. The Frostborn had been destroyed centuries ago, defeated by the High King and the Dragon Knight and the last Keeper of Avalon. But the urdmordar Gothalinzur had predicted their return, a thought that had weighed upon his mind ever since he had left the village of Victrix.

Now the Warden, the most powerful and knowledgeable wizard Ridmark had ever encountered, had said the same.

But right now Ridmark had more immediate concerns.

Such as escaping whatever game the Warden had in mind.

"But," said the Warden, "you still have not fully answered my question. Why have I not killed you?"

"Not for mercy," said Ridmark, "and not for amusement. No. You have not slain me because you need me for something. You have a use for me."

The Warden sighed. It sounded contented. Like a man resting at last from a long journey.

"Remarkable," murmured the Warden, and he started to walk in a circle around Ridmark. "Remarkable indeed. Out of curiosity, did Ardrhythain chance to explain the nature of time to you?"

"He said the past was stone, carved and unchangeable," said Ridmark. "The present was a raging fire, and the future the dancing shadows cast by those flames."

"Dancing shadows," said the Warden, still walking in a circle. Ridmark turned to keep the dark elven sorcerer in sight. "How poetic. And not strictly accurate. But close enough, yes. Dancing shadows. And you should see, Ridmark Arban, you should see the shadows dancing before you." He laughed his mad laugh. "So many shadows! Perhaps it is just as well that you cannot see them. You might go mad."

"You have a use for me. What is it?" said Ridmark.

"You slew a female urdmordar," said the Warden. "I can see that written in your past. You, alone, slew an urdmordar."

"I was not alone," said Ridmark. "I had aid. The men of Victrix..."

"Were irrelevant," said the Warden. "They had no weapons that could hurt the urdmordar. You did, and you used it. Remarkable indeed. The urdmordar were a challenge even for the elven people, and you slew one in single combat."

"As I recall," said Ridmark, "the urdmordar destroyed the dark elven kingdoms and enslaved them."

The Warden stopped, his empty black eyes glaring into Ridmark.

"All of them," he hissed, "save for me."

Ridmark said nothing.

"That also is irrelevant," said the Warden. "You slew an urdmordar, and you are too humble to see how remarkable of a feat that was." His mad laugh returned. "I have been looking for someone like you for a very long time, Ridmark Arban. Longer than you know. Longer than your kindred have walked the face of this world." He looked towards the ceiling of the library. "After all this time...the stars will soon be in alignment. The way will be opened, the threshold ready, and I shall pass over it. Neither the archmage nor the bearer of shadows will be able to stop me."

"No," said Ridmark.

"Oh?" said the Warden.

"I will not help you to escape," said Ridmark. "God only knows what evil you would wreak if you could walk free. I will not help you escape."

"You could not help me escape if you wanted to," said the Warden. "You lack the necessary magic. No, I have another use for you."

"And what is that?" said Ridmark.

"A game," said the Warden, spreading his thin hands, "a test."

"I refuse," said Ridmark, a plan occurring to him. It was a desperate gamble, but he had little choice.

"I could force you," said the Warden.

"You could also kill me before I finish this sentence," said Ridmark, "but you won't."

"And why not?" said the Warden.

"Because you're bored," said Ridmark. "And killing me or forcing me to obey you would be equally boring. And games are useless without wagers. Without stakes."

The Warden leaned forward. "And you have appropriate stakes in mind?"

"Yes," said Ridmark. "If I win your game, you will give me Rhyannis, unharmed, and allow us both to depart Urd Morlemoch."

The Warden threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Will I? You play for great stakes on the precipice of disaster. Ah, but your boldness pleases me. Of course, if you lose, I will simply kill you."

"All men die," said Ridmark.

"You may find that out sooner than you wish," said the Warden. "I agree to your terms, Ridmark Arban. Let us take a short journey, shall we?"

He lifted his right hand and snapped his fingers.

Black fire erupted from everything and swallowed Ridmark, pain screaming through him.

When the fire cleared he found himself lying upon his back, fresh agony burning through his head and chest. He groped for Heartwarden's hilt, found it, and tapped the sword's magic for healing power. After a few moments he felt better, and managed to stand.

The Warden waited a few paces away, his blue coat rippling in the wind.

They stood at the top of the world.

Ridmark found himself standing on the crown of Urd Morlemoch's central tower, the cold, salt-scented wind blowing past him, the ruins spread out below. In the center of the tower's turret waited a ring of black standing stones, their sides carved with dark elven symbols. A few of the standing stones had lintels, creating crude doorways. A stone altar stood in the center of the circle, a blue glow shining from a crystal atop its rough surface.

"Your magic transported us here," said Ridmark, rubbing his aching head.

"Indeed," said the Warden.

Ridmark frowned. "I thought a human would go mad if transported by magic."

"Oh, you would," said the Warden. "But the effect is lessened by distance. If I sent you to Castra Marcaine through magic, your mind would shatter like glass. But a journey of a few hundred yards is usually safe enough." He grinned, the darkness in his eyes deepening. "Why do you think your head hurts so much? Though if you had gone mad from such a short trip, well...you would be of no use to me after all. Come."

Ridmark scowled, wishing he could face the Warden in fair combat, but followed the sorcerer to the standing stones. The designs upon them were as disturbing and alien as the rest of Urd Morlemoch. The crystal atop the altar glowed brighter as the Warden approached, blue fire dancing in its facets.

Blue fire, Ridmark realized, that flared and shimmered in time to the ribbons of fire dancing overhead.

A dozen smaller white crystals, each the size of a man's fist, lay around the larger crystal.

"Soulstones," said the Warden in response to Ridmark's unspoken question. "Empty ones, too. Unlike the crystal in your sword, which is filled with the resonance of a warrior of minor skill." His hand lingered over the large, glowing crystal for a moment. "But that is not our concern for the moment. Let us begin our game, shall we?"

He walked away from the altar and towards one of the stone doorways.

"These circles of stone," said the Warden, "were used to focus and augment spells of power, drawing magic from the earth itself."

"What will it do now?" said Ridmark.

"Why, it shall provide the field for our game," said the Warden, "for your final test, to see if you are worthy or not."

He lifted his right hand, whispering in the dark elven tongue, and blue fire flared around his long fingers. Wind tugged at Ridmark's cloak, a low moaning noise filling his ears, while the air crackled with magical power, the floor trembling beneath his boots. The Warden made a lifting gesture, and the blue fire jumped from his hand and struck the doorway.

A sheet of crackling blue light filled the stone arch, dancing between the menhirs. Yet through the light Ridmark had a glimpse of something else. He thought he could see a mist-choked forest through the light, as if the Warden's magic had transformed the arch into a portal.

"Go," said the Warden.

"What is that?" said Ridmark.

"Your test," said the Warden. "Our game. You must face your past, your present, and your future, and overcome them all. Appropriate, is it not? Given the tremendous shadows that lie upon your future."

Ridmark stared into the glowing archway, frowning.

"Where does it go?" he said.

"It is quite safe, fear not," said the Warden. "If I wanted to kill you, I would simply throw you off the top of the tower. The gate does not leave this world, alas. That requires a soulstone filled with a resonance of tremendous magical power. Instead it goes to the threshold of this world, a nameless place of spirits and mist. There you can face your past, present, and future. The gate itself is quite safe." He grinned, the wind tugging at his long coat. "What awaits beyond will likely kill you."

"So be it," said Ridmark.

He raised Heartwarden, took a deep breath, and strode through the arch and into the rippling blue light.

***

## Chapter 10 - Past and Present

Mist and blue fire swallowed Ridmark.

When they cleared he found himself walking a barren path through a dead, mist-choked forest. The trees were silent, the only sound the crunch of his boots against the earth. He felt the dampness of the mist against his face, the cold chill of the wind flickering through the dead trunks.

The forest vanished, the mist blurring through images and vistas of far-away places.

And Ridmark realized he was looking at the past.

A long line of men and women walked along a shore, the sea on their left, a forest on their right. The men wore worn armor and bore swords, while the women carried children in their arms. A procession of carts and cattle followed them, all the worldly goods of a people fleeing their home. One of the men at the head of the column carried a great banner showing a sigil of a massive red dragon, its claws and fangs bared in defiance.

The banner of the Pendragons, the High Kings of Andomhaim.

With a shock Ridmark realized he was looking at his ancestors, the followers of Malahan Pendragon who had traveled through the gate from Old Earth to a new world. He watched as Malahan led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon's realm to the hill at the mouth of the River Moradel, to the high elven ruin that would become the High King's citadel of Tarlion, the seat of the realm of Andomhaim.

The history of Andomhaim unrolled before Ridmark's eyes like a scroll.

He saw Tarlion grow, saw the knights of Andomhaim wage war against the pagan orcs and the manetaurs, the dark elves and the dvargirs. He watched as his distant ancestor Sir Arban founded Taliand and became the first Dux sworn to the High King. Centuries flew before his eyes, and he saw missionaries going among the orcs of Khaluusk and Mhorluusk and Rhaluusk, their kings and tribes entering the church and swearing fealty to the High King. The last of the dark elven kings, the King of Shadows, rose against Andomhaim and was defeated. The realm spread north, growing stronger, and the urdmordar came south in a tide of blood and black sorcery, overthrowing the realm and laying siege to Tarlion. Ardrhythain appeared and gave magic to the Two Orders, and the urdmordar were defeated, their dark empire shattered. The realm flourished anew, growing stronger.

Then the Frostborn came out of the north.

The world froze in their wake, forests dying, lakes turning to glaciers. Ridmark saw them march south, pale figures with crystalline skin in armor the color of old ice, their eyes burning with blue flames. In their wake they left a frozen, dead world, their grim citadels of stone and ice rising from the ground like the fangs of a long-dead beast. Ridmark watched as they marched south, driving for Tarlion and the gathered armies of Andomhaim.

And then he saw one of the Frostborn looking up at him.

The world blurred, and Ridmark found himself standing on the frozen plain, the cold wind howling around him.

The Frostborn stepped closer. The creature stood at least eight feet tall, maybe nine, and wore gray steel armor adorned with elaborate reliefs. Blue eyes burned behind its spiked helm, glimmering in the angular, crystalline surface of its skin, and in its hands it carried a massive greatsword of the same gray steel. Waves of horrible cold radiated from it, colder than the coldest winter in the hills of the Northerland, and Ridmark began to shiver.

He raised Heartwarden and set himself.

"Submit," said the Frostborn in Latin, its voice like rocks cracking together, "and take your proper place as a slave, and you shall be spared."

"No," said Ridmark.

"Then perish," said the Frostborn with indifference, and it attacked.

The creature stepped forward, the massive greatsword sweeping for Ridmark's head. He drew on Heartwarden's power for speed and jumped back, avoiding the blade. The Frostborn recovered its balanced and struck again, and Ridmark dodged once more. The Frostborn was not fast. But it was tremendously strong, and its enormous weapon and long arms gave it a formidable reach. Even with his enhanced speed, Ridmark could not draw close enough to strike before the Frostborn cut him down.

He would freeze to death first.

The horrible cold radiating from the Frostborn sank into his bones. It was like standing naked in the blast of a winter wind. His arms and legs were trembling, his teeth chattering. Soon the shivering would grow severe enough that he could not control his blows, and then he would stumble and the Frostborn would take off his head.

The towering creature launched another swing, and Ridmark jumped back, just avoiding the razor-edged blade. If he did not think of something soon, he was going to die. He did not know if the Frostborn was real, if it was an illusion of the Warden's magic.

Illusion or not, he was quite sure that it could kill him.

Ridmark backed away, and the horrible cold faded a little. The Frostborn pursued him, its armored boots pushing through the snow and ice with ease. The cold sharpened again, and Ridmark tried to stay ahead of the Frostborn's gray sword. How could a creature become so cold and live? Was the Frostborn an undead thing? Or...

Or the cold was magical in nature.

If it was a magical attack, then Heartwarden might have the power to shield him from it.

Ridmark released his supernatural speed and called on Heartwarden to protect him from magical assaults.

At once the terrible cold vanished, as if he had stepped from a winter storm into a warm room.

Ridmark did not hesitate, but attacked at once, dodging the Frostborn's thrust and swinging Heartwarden with both hands. The soulblade bit into the Frostborn's arm, and the creature snarled in fury. The Frostborn raised its weapon for another swing, but Ridmark saw the move coming and got out of the way.

With Heartwarden shielding him from magic, he could not use the sword to enhance his strength and speed. But for all its strength, the Frostborn was slower than Ridmark.

And Ridmark knew how to use his weapon.

He dodged the heavy sword's blows, landing hit after minor hit in the gaps between the Frostborn's armor. At last Heartwarden crunched into the Frostborn's knee, and the creature stumbled with a below of fury, its sword digging a furrow in the icy ground.

Ridmark chopped Heartwarden into the Frostborn's neck, once, twice, three times, and severed the head. The spiked-crowned helmet rolled a way, a freezing white mist rising from the stump of the neck. The armored body fell to the icy ground with a clang and did not move again.

Ridmark let out a long breath.

"Well done."

The Warden's deep voice came from nowhere and everywhere.

"You have faced the past," said the Warden. "Now can you prevail against the present?"

The world fell away around Ridmark, and again he saw the entire realm spinning before him, saw the High King and the Dragon Knight and the Keeper wipe out the Frostborn. Andomhaim grew and became prosperous, people filling its lands and building villages and farms in lands left empty by the Frostborn and the urdmordar.

A cancer gnawed at the realm, a growing darkness.

Ridmark saw the order of the Eternalists arise, rebel Magistri who sought to use their magic to attain immortality and rule over men as gods. They were defeated, but only after a bloody war. The High King died, and his five sons split the realm in civil war for fifty years until a victor claimed the throne.

A darkness spread through Andomhaim, gathering in secret corners and dungeons, a darkness led by a laughing shadow.

The world blurred around Ridmark again, and he found himself standing in the great hall of Castra Marcaine.

He turned, his boots clicking against the black and white tiles. The hall was deserted, pale moonlight leaking through the high windows, tangled shadows thrown across the floor.

No. Not deserted. A man in armor strode from the dais, a sword in his hand.

Tarrabus Carhaine.

"Sir Tarrabus?" said Ridmark. "What is this?"

"Inevitable," said Tarrabus in his mocking voice, his eyes as cold as the Frostborn as he lifted his sword.

"We are both knights of Andomhaim, baptized sons of the church," said Ridmark. "Why are you fighting me?"

"Because you are a weak fool," said Tarrabus. "I have seen the truth. The strong rule. The strong survive. The weak suffer and perish. I am stronger than you. And I shall be stronger yet."

"This is madness," said Ridmark.

"And Aelia," said Tarrabus, pointing his sword at him, "shall be mine."

"No," said Ridmark.

"Then kill me and take her for yourself," said Tarrabus.

Ridmark hesitated. "No. We are not pagan orcs, we are not dark elven princes butchering each other for power and prestige. We..."

"Silence," said Tarrabus. "Either fight me, or lie down and die."

He ran at Ridmark, his sword a steely blur.

Ridmark raised Heartwarden, caught Tarrabus's first thrust, sidestepped around the second, and took two quick steps back, keeping his sword raised in guard. Tarrabus stalked after him, moving with the slow, steady grace of a predator. Ridmark hesitated, trying to think of a plan. He had killed men in battle before, pagan orc raiders and human bandits, and had no qualms about defending himself. But he was a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, sworn to defend the realm from the powers of dark magic.

A Swordbearer's purpose was to defend, not to kill.

Certainly not to kill a man who had gone mad. He did not like Tarrabus, but Ridmark would not kill him out of hand.

Tarrabus growled and lunged at Ridmark.

"Tarrabus!" said Ridmark, parrying the thrust. "This is madness! We are both knights of Andomhaim, we..."

Tarrabus laughed. "Knights? What a fool you are. The Orders, the church, our vows of knighthood...it's a lie, all of it, a false and pretty lie to lull us to sleep, to blind us to the truth of the world."

He struck again, and Ridmark blocked.

"What truth is that?" Ridmark said.

"That there are only predators and prey," said Tarrabus. "The lies of the church only make us weaker, Ridmark. They make us into prey." His face twisted with contempt. "And you have embraced those lies. You could have been a wolf, but instead you have chosen to make yourself into a sheep."

"Mercy is not a weakness," said Ridmark.

"You shall soon see otherwise," said Tarrabus.

He attacked again.

Ridmark drew upon the power of Heartwarden, using the sword's magic to make himself faster and stronger. Tarrabus was a supremely gifted swordsman, but he was not a Swordbearer. In a straight fight, sooner or later Ridmark could overpower him. He blocked one more thrust, then went on the attack, launching a flurry of blows at Tarrabus's chest and arms. Tarrabus cursed and retreated, his sword clanging as he deflected Ridmark's attacks.

"Fool!" he shouted. "Do you not understand? The world is changing...and you have no place in it!"

He stepped out of Ridmark's reach...and shadows gathered around him. They flowed over Tarrabus, armoring him in darkness, sheathing his sword in swirling shadow. Ridmark took a cautious step back. He had never seen magic like this, if it was magic.

"The darkness will elevate us," spat Tarrabus, "make us into living gods. And you are too weak to see it!"

He charged at Ridmark, moving with supernatural strength and speed. Ridmark got Heartwarden up in time to block a slash that would have taken off his head. He and Tarrabus spun around each other, trading blows, their swords clanging. Heartwarden shone with white light, but Tarrabus's blade crawled with darkness.

They were too evenly matched. The strange shadows gave Tarrabus the strength and speed to match Heartwarden's magic. The first man to make a mistake in their duel would die, unless Ridmark thought of something clever. He parried another slash, and Tarrabus jerked to the side, dodging past Ridmark's countering blow.

And as he did, Ridmark saw the cord.

A cord of shadows seemed to rise from Tarrabus's back, stretching off into the distance. It pulsed and throbbed like a vein, pouring fresh power into the shadows armoring Tarrabus. Ridmark blocked Tarrabus's next swing and shoved with all his strength. Tarrabus stumbled, and Ridmark sidestepped and swung Heartwarden.

Tarrabus raised his blade to block, but Ridmark had not been aiming for him.

Heartwarden sheared through the cord of shadows, and Tarrabus screamed in agony. The shadows pulled back from him, and he stumbled to his knees. Ridmark drew back Heartwarden to strike, but stayed his hand. Tarrabus fell upon the black and white tiles, his eyes empty and staring.

The loss of the shadows had slain him.

Ridmark looked up and saw the shadows slithering into the darkness. He felt them staring at him, as if marking him for the future.

"Well done!" The Warden's voice thundered out of the walls and floor. "You have proved capable of facing the present, even if you do not understand what is happening. But are you strong enough to endure the shadows of your future? Let us find out."

Gray mist exploded through the hall and swallowed Ridmark.

***

## Chapter 11 - The Frostborn

The mist cleared, and Ridmark found himself standing in a forest.

It was a warm summer's day, the sun shining through the leafy branches of the trees overhead. A gentle breeze set the leaves to whispering, and Ridmark heard birds singing. It was a beautiful day, the sort of day meant for hunting or riding or both.

Was this the future? What had the Warden meant?

Ridmark heard someone moving through the brush, and he turned.

A man in a gray cloak came into sight, a wooden staff in his right hand, his features concealed beneath the cloak's cowl. He wore leather and wool of gray and black, dirty and worn from long travel in the forest.

The man stopped, and Ridmark caught the glint of eyes beneath the cowl.

"Greetings," said Ridmark. "I mean no ill."

The man drew back his cowl.

His face was hard and lean, with close-cropped black hair and dead, grim blue eyes. A brand marked the man's left cheek, the sigil of a broken sword. It was the symbol of a coward, a craven who fled the field of battle.

And the face...

It was Ridmark's face.

It was older, thinner, harder, the lines deeper. It was his face in ten years, perhaps, hardened by years spent wandering the wilderness.

It was his face.

The face of his future self.

"Who are you?" said Ridmark, stunned.

"You," said the gray-cloaked man, his voice filled with loathing. "Do you not realize? I am you. I am what you shall become."

"No," said Ridmark. "A coward's brand? No!"

"I remember," said the gray-cloaked man. It was the same cloak, Ridmark realized, that he wore even now. "The day I went into Urd Morlemoch, the day the Warden showed me the future. Would that I had heeded him! Then perhaps I might have averted so much evil."

"This isn't real," said Ridmark. "This cannot possibly be real. You are only a shadow of the future and nothing more."

"No," said the gray-cloaked man with a snarl. "I am your future. I am what you will become. It is inevitable. You have already taken the first steps upon the path that will transform you into me."

"I would never do anything to earn a coward's brand!" said Ridmark, hot with anger at the thought.

The gray-cloaked man barked a harsh laugh. "Do you truly think so, foolish boy?" He pointed at the scar upon his cheek. "Do you think I received this unjustly? That I was falsely accused of some heinous crime? No! I deserved this. I deserved all of this! They branded me a coward, expelled me from the Order, took Heartwarden from me, and banished me to wander the wilderness until I died!" His eyes glittering with despair and madness. "And I deserved every last bit of it. I deserved to die for what I did!"

"What did you do?" said Ridmark. He could not imagine himself fleeing a field of battle. He had faced an urdmordar without flinching, certain that he would go to his death. Why had his nerve failed in the future? Or had he committed some other heinous crime?

"It was your fault," spat the gray-cloaked man.

"I have done nothing!" said Ridmark.

"But you will," said the gray-cloaked man. "I remember what it was like to be you. So arrogant, so confident! Facing an urdmordar? Jaunting into Urd Morlemoch? Nothing! It cost you nothing. But it will." He stepped closer, shaking with anger. "It will cost you everything!"

"I don't understand," said Ridmark.

"You will," whispered the gray-cloaked man. "I tried...I tried to save them all. Why not? I had done it before. I thought...I thought I could save them. And it cost me everything. Everything!"

"What happened?" said Ridmark. "For God's sake, stop babbling and tell me what will happen!"

"Your fault," whispered the gray-cloaked man. "Your choices led me to it. The blood is upon your hands."

"What blood?" said Ridmark. "Who did I kill?"

The gray-cloaked man's eyes met his. It was like looking into a mirror, albeit a mirror that showed him an older, half-crazed reflection.

"You haven't killed anyone yet," whispered the older Ridmark. "I have. But you will." He raised the staff, gripping it with both hands. Steel capped both of the staff's ends, and likely the weapon had a metal core. It could strike with terrific force in the hands of a skilled user, hard enough to crush skulls and deal death.

Ridmark knew how to fight with a quarterstaff. His father had made sure of that.

"You will," said the gray-cloaked man. "The blood will be on your hands. Our hands. But you haven't done it yet, have you? Yet if I kill you now...that means it will never happen." A desperate hope covered his face. "It never will have happened..."

"But if you kill me," said Ridmark, "you'll never exist."

The hope on the gray-cloaked man's face hardened.

"Good," he said. "I do not deserve to live for what I did. And if my death means it will never happen...that is a small price to pay."

He ran at Ridmark, swinging the staff with both hands.

Ridmark parried the blow on reflex, and almost lost the fight. The staff struck Heartwarden's blade with terrific force, jerking the sword to the side and nearly tearing the hilt from Ridmark's hands. Ridmark stumbled, and the gray-cloaked man reversed the staff and jabbed the butt into Ridmark's stomach. The breath exploded from his lungs, and Ridmark lost his footing and landed upon his back.

The gray-cloaked man raised the staff, preparing to bring the butt hammering down upon Ridmark's temple.

Ridmark slashed Heartwarden, the sword's magic filling him with strength, and the tip of the blade cut across the gray-cloaked man's right thigh. The older man hissed in pain and stumbled, and the butt of the staff slammed into the ground a few inches from Ridmark's head. Ridmark kicked, catching the gray-cloaked man in the wounded leg, and his future self staggered back.

Ridmark rolled to his feet, holding Heartwarden before him.

"Idiot!" raged the gray-cloaked man. "Stop fighting! Do you know what will happen if we live? The things we will do? It would have been better if we had never been born at all!"

"Then stop fighting and tell me!" said Ridmark, watching his other self. "If I know what will happen, then I can avoid it, I can avert it."

"No," said the older Ridmark with a shake of his head. "You will walk into the trap as you always do, thinking that your wits and courage will snatch victory from defeat. Just as you walked into Urd Morlemoch. But your choices will bring ruin and death upon so many people. Better to die now." He lifted the staff. "I will pay for my crimes. I will make sure they never even happen!"

He sprinted at Ridmark, ignoring his wounded leg, and they fought. Ridmark had Heartwarden, had the sword's magical strength and speed. But the gray-cloaked man's staff had a long reach, and the older man wielded the weapon with expert precision. Ridmark was one of the best swordsmen of his generation, but he had the capacity to grow and reach new heights.

The man before him had ten years' worth of additional experience, and a skilled man with a quarterstaff could often defeat a swordsman.

They danced around each other, the staff a blur in the gray-cloaked man's hands, Heartwarden glinting in the sunlight. Ridmark landed minor blows upon his future self's right arm and another upon his right left, but the older man hardly seemed to feel them. His expression was a mask of rage, his lips peeled back from his face in a furious snarl.

He would kill his younger self die trying.

A thrust from the staff clipped Ridmark's chest, staggering him, and it was only with Heartwarden's magic was that he was able to avoid the older man's following swing. He drew on Heartwarden's power again and swung, darting past the gray-cloaked man's guard and opening another gash across his ribs. The older man stumbled, cursing, but did not stop attacking.

He did not even slow. Blood loss should have slowed him down by now, but the gray-cloaked man struck with speed and vigor, a storm of swings and thrusts flying towards Ridmark. He just barely managed to keep ahead of the staff, praying that his boots would not find a root and send him sprawling to the ground.

The older man might bleed out, but it was far more likely that Ridmark would trip first, and then the gray-cloaked man would have him.

He remembered his early training as a squire, his father's insistence that he learn to fight with a quarterstaff. There was only one good way for a swordsman to defeat a skilled fighter with a staff. It was dangerous, but Ridmark could think of nothing better.

The gray-cloaked man swung, and Ridmark threw himself forward.

The older man recovered at once, his staff smashing against the side of Ridmark's chest with terrific force. Pain exploded through Ridmark, and heard the sound of his ribs snapping. The staff's powerful blow knocked him to the side, but not far enough, and Heartwarden plunged into the gray-cloaked man's belly.

The older man stumbled, eyes growing wide, and Ridmark drove the blade deeper into the wound. The older man sagged, and Ridmark ripped Heartwarden free. The front of the gray-cloaked man's jerkin turned shiny with blood, and Ridmark realized his soulblade must have struck a vein. Enraged or not, determined or not, not even the best fighter could survive losing that much blood at once.

Ridmark stepped back as the older man fell to his knees. His every breath burned, and he tasted blood upon his tongue. The broken ribs must have scratched or even pierced one of his lungs. He drew on Heartwarden's magic for healing, and bit by bit the terrible pain lessened.

"Listen to me," whispered the older man. "You have...you have...Aelia..."

"Aelia?" said Ridmark. "What about Aelia? What happens to Aelia?"

The gray-cloaked man collapsed, his face gray, his clothing wet with blood.

"What happens to Aelia?" shouted Ridmark. "Damn it, tell me!"

The older man did not answer, and Ridmark realized that he had stopped breathing.

He hurried forward with a curse and knelt. He released Heartwarden's power, trying to ignore the flood of agony in his side, and prepared to use the sword's magic to heal his older self.

As he did, the world dissolved into mist.

When the mist cleared, Ridmark found himself standing in the circle of black menhirs atop Urd Morlemoch, the ribbons of blue fire dancing across the black vault of the sky. The Warden stood on the other side of the altar, motionless as a statue, his blue coat rippling in the wind.

"You prevailed," said the Warden, "and..."

"The future," demanded Ridmark. He drew on Heartwarden's magic, using it to heal the pain in his chest, but he hardly noticed. "The future I saw. Is it inevitable? Is it destiny? Or can I change it?"

The Warden shrugged. The gesture seemed eerie on his alien form. "Who can say? The future is a shadow cast by the fire of the past, that was the metaphor Ardrhythain used with you? Then it can be changed." He grinned. "But fire can be ever so dangerous."

Ridmark nodded. If something had happened to Aelia, something that was his fault, he saw how he could become the grim, scarred man he had fought. He would have to make sure that nothing happened to Aelia, that no one dared to harm her.

Whatever the cost.

"You prevailed fairly," said the Warden, turning Ridmark's attention to his more immediate problems, "and so I will abide by the rules of our game."

Ridmark blinked. "You will release Rhyannis to me? Without any further tricks?"

The Warden almost looked affronted. "I am a man of my word. Observe."

He snapped his fingers. Black fire flashed next to him, and when it cleared a high elven woman stood next to him, clad in only a shift, her wrists and neck bound with chains of blue dark elven steel. She had the same features and golden eyes as the illusion Ridmark had seen in the Chamber of Stone. The Warden gestured again, and the chains vanished into black smoke. The woman looked up, blinking in fear.

She said something in a liquid, musical language.

"Speak Latin," said the Warden. "Our guest does not know our tongue, alas."

"Who are you?" said the woman. "I see you bear one of the swords Ardrhythain created for the humans, but..."

"My name is Ridmark Arban," said Ridmark, "and I am a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade. I assume I am addressing the bladeweaver Rhyannis?" The woman nodded. "The archmage sent me to rescue you from this place."

"He...he did?" said Rhyannis, blinking. She looked at the Warden and cringed. Ridmark wondered what torments the undead sorcerer had inflicted upon her. "But why?"

"Because," said Ridmark. "I won his game."

The Warden grinned, making his face look even more skull-like. "But she did not, alas. Yet you have won fairly, Sir Ridmark, and provided me with an afternoon of amusement. I cannot begrudge you that. Take this foolish child and depart from Urd Morlemoch in peace. She has lived a century...but it seem you, a stripling of nineteen, have far more wisdom than she."

"My lady," said Ridmark, trying to ignore the pain in his side. "Come quickly. We must be gone from here." He did not know how long the Warden's magnanimity would last, and he did not care to find out. "The lord archmage awaits us beyond the bounds of the Warden's...demesne. We should hurry."

Rhyannis hesitated, looking at the Warden as if she feared a trick. The Warden remained motionless, and at last Rhyannis hurried over and stood by Ridmark, shivering in her thin shift. He thought about asking the Warden for her clothing back, and then decided that would be unwise.

"This way," said Ridmark. He saw a stairwell at the edge of the turret, sinking into the depths of the tower. He intended to take Rhyannis down through the tower, into the catacombs, and out through the secret exit. She looked exhausted and malnourished, but he suspected terror would give her the necessary strength. Ridmark walked for the stairwell, Rhyannis at his side. He resisted the urge to run, and felt an itching between his shoulder blades as if an unseen archer was taking aim...

"Sir Ridmark."

He stopped and took a deep breath, wincing at the sharp pain in the side of his chest.

Then he turned and looked at the Warden, his hand tightening against Heartwarden's hilt. "Yes?"

The Warden's face showed no expression. "Our game was most enjoyable."

"You're welcome," said Ridmark.

"And in gratitude, I'm going to give you a boon," said the Warden. "Two, in fact."

Ridmark mouth's dried up. "There's no need."

The Warden smiled. "I insist. The first boon is information. A secret known only to a very few."

"And what secret is that?" said Ridmark.

"The Frostborn are returning," said the Warden.

Ridmark said nothing. The urdmordar Gothalinzur had claimed that the Frostborn were turning, that she had been kidnapping the villagers to stock her larder for the eternal winter the Frostborn would bring.

You know this already, don't you?" said the Warden. "You slew an urdmordar, and the urdmordar hate to show themselves. They prefer to stay in the shadows. The only thing that could make an urdmordar show herself is the return of the Frostborn. They are coming back, Sir Ridmark."

"They can't," said Ridmark. "The High King and the Dragon Knight and Keeper destroyed them utterly."

"They did," said the Warden. "Utterly. But they will return nonetheless."

"I already knew that," said Ridmark.

"Yet no one believes you," said the Warden. "And they will not believe you until it is far too late."

"I already knew that," said Ridmark. "That hardly counts as a boon."

"Then I will tell you something no other mortal creature upon this world knows," said the Warden. "I know when the Frostborn will return."

"When?" said Ridmark.

"Soon," said the Warden. "Not even I can pinpoint the exact day with any accuracy. It will be soon. Within your lifetime, assuming you do not die within the next hour. No more than another twenty years. I cannot pinpoint when, but I know which day it will be."

"Which day is that?" said Ridmark.

"The day of the omen," said the Warden. "The day blue fire fills the sky from horizon to horizon in broad daylight. When you see that sign, Swordbearer, you will know that the time has come. The return of the Frostborn will be imminent...and they shall destroy this world and everything in it."

"The two Orders and the High King defeated the Frostborn once before," said Ridmark. "We can do so again."

"No," said the Warden. "You will not. Your realm of Andomhaim is like a dead tree. It still stands, but corruption has eaten up its heart. One strong wind will blow it over."

Ridmark remembered the shadow he had seen behind Tarrabus Carhaine, the shadow the phantasm of Tarrabus had claimed to worship, and said nothing.

"No matter," said the Warden. "You shall see the truth for yourself, and far sooner than you might like."

"Thank you for the boon," said Ridmark. "We'll be leaving now."

"One more boon," said the Warden, his smile widening.

"Oh?" said Ridmark. Rhyannis's shivering got worse.

"One," said the Warden.

"One?" said Ridmark. "One what?"

"One half hour," said the Warden, "until I send every urvaalg, ursaar, urshane, urvuul, and urdhracos in Urd Morlemoch to kill you both."

"You said you would let us go if I won your little game," said Ridmark.

"Indeed I did," said the Warden, "and indeed I am. I am letting you both go. Then, after one half-hour, I am sending every one of my war beasts to hunt you down and kill you. Do you not see? It is a new game. One final test of your prowess, Ridmark Arban. I suggest you start running. Time is slipping away."

He threw back his head and laughed his wild, mad laugh.

"We should run," said Ridmark, and they sprinted for the stairs, the Warden's laughter ringing in his ears.

***

## Chapter 12 - Fire and Fury

"Almost there," said Ridmark.

He helped Rhyannis up the narrow, slippery stone steps, the spray of the waterfall hissing past them. A moment later he led her to the grassy edge of the cliff, the creek rushing past them, Urd Morlemoch rising on its hill above them.

He did not know how much time had passed. They had gone on a mad run down the stairs of the tower, back into the catacombs, and through the narrow passages to the secret entrance. They had encountered none of the Warden's servants. No doubt the Warden had held his creatures back, waiting until the half-hour had passed.

It gave him all the more time to enjoy his mad little game.

"We cannot," said Rhyannis, breathing hard, "we cannot possibly outrun so many urvaalgs." Even through her exhaustion and pain, she still retained the alien beauty of the high elves. Yet she was utterly exhausted, and had no weapons. If it came to a fight, Ridmark would have to defend her.

"No," said Ridmark. "But if the lord archmage is waiting for us, we won't have to fight anything."

Assuming, of course, Ardrhythain's magic could defeat so many creatures.

"This way," said Ridmark, leading her over the creek. He ran at a light jog, all that Rhyannis could manage, though his instincts screamed for them to go faster. Though he was not sure if he could have gone faster. Heartwarden's healing magic trickled through him, easing the pain in his chest, but every breath hurt badly. It was starting to make him lightheaded.

They ran past a hill, and Ridmark saw three mutated orcs lying upon the earth. He raised Heartwarden, but the orcs remained motionless. Then his brain caught up to his reflexes, and he remembered that he had killed the orcs this morning.

It had been less than a day, but it felt far longer than that.

"Keep going," said Ridmark. "It's not much farther now."

Rhyannis said nothing as she stumbled at his side, her golden hair hanging like a veil around her face. She did not look as if she could go much further. Ridmark would carry her if necessary, but he preferred to avoid that.

He needed his arms free to fight.

A standing stone rose from a nearby hill, similar to the menhirs Ridmark had seen atop Urd Morlemoch. He had seen the stone this morning, and led Rhyannis around the slope. A little farther, he thought, a little farther, and they would be out of the Warden's reach...

The ground trembled beneath Ridmark's boots.

He looked back at Urd Morlemoch, the fate of Lot's wife flashing through his mind, and saw the central tower blazing with ghostly blue-green fire. A dark mass poured from the gates of Urd Morlemoch, illuminated in the eerie glow.

Creatures.

Thousands upon thousands of creatures.

A vast tide of urvaalgs and ursaars raced from the gates, vanishing as they blended with the dead gray hills. The huge, armored forms of urvuuls, a ghastly cross between insect and squid, lumbered through the press, moving with terrifying speed despite their bulk. Dark shapes soared overhead, wings spread wide. A score of urdhracos, beginning their hunt.

The Warden had indeed been playing a game with Ridmark. He could have killed both Ridmark and Rhyannis at any moment he chose. Now the games were over.

Or perhaps this was the final game, and there was only one way to win.

"Run!" said Ridmark. "This is our last chance! Run!"

Rhyannis started running, her feet bloody from the rough ground, and Ridmark sprinted at her side. His chest burned with every breath he took, and Rhyannis stumbled and staggered. Ridmark spotted the hill with the standing stone where he had stood with Ardrhythain, though there was no sign of the archmage.

"Climb that hill!" said Ridmark. "Quickly!"

They scrambled up the slope, and Ridmark grabbed Rhyannis's wrist to keep her from stumbling. A moment later they reached the top of the hill. Rhyannis took one more step and fell, landing hard upon her stomach, a tremor going through her limbs.

"I can't..." she groaned. "I can't...I can't go any..."

Ridmark turned towards Urd Morlemoch. The horde of rippling shapes rushed towards him, the dark figure of an urdhracos circling overhead. Part of his mind pointed out that if he left Rhyannis and ran, he could get away. He had done his part. He had taken her out of Urd Morlemoch.

Instead he took Heartwarden in both hands and faced the horde. The ground vibrated from the paws and talons of a thousand charging creatures. The air around him rippled, and Ridmark spotted a pack of three urvaalgs charging at him.

Rather than wait for their attack, Ridmark moved, Heartwarden giving him a burst of speed. The glowing sword blurred and ripped out an urvaalg's throat. The creature toppled to the grass with a gurgling snarl, its black blood spilling into the dry earth. Ridmark killed a second, and then a third, the dead urvaalgs rolling away down the sides of the hill.

He turned, seeking more foes, and saw a dozen ursaars lumbering towards him. The creatures looked like the twisted spawn of an ape and a bear, their hunched bodies corded with heavy muscle, their fur standing in jagged spikes. Their fangs and claws were like serrated daggers, and each one had the strength of ten men.

Ridmark realized that he was about to die.

Perhaps he could gain time for Rhyannis to escape, but that seemed unlikely. The high elven woman did not have the strength to stand, let alone run. Well, Ridmark would make a good accounting of himself before the end, would ring the hill with the carcasses of urvaalgs and ursaars.

He only wished he could have seen Aelia one last time.

Then a dark shape slammed into him.

Ridmark hit the ground, a fresh wave of agony rolling through his chest. An urdhracos stood over him, her beautiful, inhuman face alight with glee, her steel claws drawn back to rip him open. Ridmark tried to raise his sword to block, but he knew that it was too late.

White light filled his vision, followed an instant later by a thunderclap.

When the light cleared the urdhracos's head and most of her chest had vanished, smoke rising from the charred crater of her neck. The body swayed and fell backward, the wings collapsing in a limp heap. Ridmark scrambled to his feet as the tide of ursaars and urvaalgs surged up the hill.

A figure in a red coat stepped to his side, a black staff shining with white fire in his hand.

"Stand behind me," said Ardrhythain.

Ridmark obeyed, and Ardrhythain lifted his staff over his head.

And Ridmark saw the wrath of an archmage of the high elves.

White fire erupted from the earth in towering pillars, slashing through the charging packs of urvaalgs. The flames ripped through them, leaving only ashes and charred bones behind. Lightning crackled through the air, each blast tearing an urdhracos from the sky. They screamed as they fell into the burning chaos below, flames devouring their wings. Ardrhythain swept his staff over his head, and the ground shook and heaved, throwing the creatures from their feet and paws. A few managed to climb the slope of the hill, howling with madness and terror, and Ridmark tensed, preparing to defend the archmage.

There was no need. Ardrhythain leveled his free hand, and short, precise bursts of white fire jumped from his palm, each blast reducing an urvaalg to cinders. The air screamed with the power of the spells, and for a moment Ridmark thought they would all die, that the magic the archmage had unleashed would kill them all.

Then it was over.

The fire faded away, and the surviving creatures fled for Urd Morlemoch. Ridmark watched as they vanished through the gates, the ruins falling silent once again.

Ardrhythain lowered his staff with a sigh, the light fading away.

"Thank you," said Ridmark.

"No, thank you, Sir Ridmark," said Ardrhythain. "You exposed yourself to far more danger than I. Once you and Rhyannis had cleared the boundaries of the Warden's defensive spells, I was free to act."

Ridmark opened his mouth, closed it. With that kind of power, why did Ardrhythain fear the Warden? Yet the archmage had said that the Warden was the stronger wizard. And if Ardrhythain had entered Urd Morlemoch, the Warden's defensive spells would have killed him.

Apparently the Warden only played games with those who could not possibly threaten him.

"She's hurt," said Ridmark at last.

"Yes, of course," said Ardrhythain, taking one final glance at Urd Morlemoch. He crossed to Rhyannis, knelt beside her, and laid his hand upon her sweating forehead. White light pulsed from his fingers, and her wounds vanished, her eyes opening. When she stood, she looked like the image of high elven beauty, serene and otherworldly.

The fact that she wore only a ragged shift did somewhat ruin the effect, though.

Ardrhythain healed Ridmark next, his broken ribs knitting back together, the cuts and scrapes from the fighting fading away. The sharp, tearing pain from his breathing vanished, and Ridmark felt hale once more.

"You have my gratitude, Sir Ridmark Arban of the Order of the Soulblade," said Ardrhythain. "You have fulfilled the terms of the Pact between our two kindreds most admirably. I wish to reward your valor. Ask me for a boon, and if it is within my power I shall grant it."

"Nothing," said Ridmark. "I wish for no reward. I did my duty, and that was all."

"Very well," said Ardrhythain. "Nevertheless, if you ask a boon of me when our paths cross again, I shall be glad to grant it."

"When our paths cross again?" said Ridmark. "You seem certain of it."

"I am," said Ardrhythain. "In all the possible shadows of your future that I see...it is most likely that we shall meet again."

Ridmark hesitated. "The future...the Warden told me things. Showed me things..."

"You should judge his words with a great deal of doubt," said Ardrhythain. "The Warden is an accomplished liar. Anything he told you was likely part of his game."

"The Frostborn," said Ridmark. "He said the Frostborn are returning. Was that part true?"

Ardrhythain was silent for a long moment.

"I do not know," he said at last. "Understand this, Sir Ridmark. The dark elves and the high elves struggled against each other for millennia beyond count. The dark elves summoned kindreds from other worlds to fight, orcs and dwarves and manetaur and others. All the kindreds upon this world arrived in that fashion, kidnapped as slaves for the dark elves. Save for your kindred...and the Frostborn. How you arrived here, I do not know. And how the Frostborn arrived, or even what they are, I do not know."

Ridmark nodded.

"I must return to Cathair Solas," said Ardrhythain. "I would transport you to Castra Marcaine, but I fear the effects would be deleterious."

"Fear not," said Ridmark. "The Warden transported me a short distance within Urd Morlemoch. I have no desire to repeat the experience."

"Farewell, Swordbearer," said Rhyannis. "Thank you for your aid. Without it, I would have stayed in that terrible place for the rest of my days. You have my gratitude for all of your days...and the days of your children, and your children, and their children, for as long as I shall live."

"Thank you, my lady," said Ridmark.

"Farewell, Ridmark Arban," said Ardrhythain, "until we meet again."

He rapped his staff against the ground, and both he and Rhyannis vanished in a flash of light.

Ridmark let out a long breath, and then turned and started for home.

***

## Chapter 13 - The Future

Six weeks after leaving Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark Arban stood before the seat of the Dux of the Northerland in the great hall of Castra Marcaine.

Ardrhythain had sent word of his success, and Dux Gareth had thrown a grand feast to celebrate Ridmark's return. There had been a tournament and a feast, the freeholders and commoners invited in the Castra's courtyards to eat and drink from the Dux's stores. Now Ridmark stood before the Dux's seat, wearing his finest mantle and cloak, Heartwarden belted at his waist.

Dux Gareth stood, and the hall went silent. His children waited at his side. Constantine looked as solemn as a squire his age could manage. Imaria, as ever, scowled at Ridmark. But Aelia looked radiant. She wore a gown of green that matched her eyes, her hair bound into an elaborate crown. She smiled as she looked at Ridmark, and she had wept with joy when he returned to Castra Marcaine.

"My lords and knights," said the Dux, "one of the Swordbearers in our service has returned from a quest of tremendous peril. Alone, Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii braved the ruins of Urd Morlemoch, and defeated the dread Warden in a game of wits. He has returned from grave danger, and we are glad to welcome him to our hall once more. Sir Ridmark, if you have anything you wish to ask of me, you may do so."

"I do, my lord," said Ridmark. He took a deep breath.

"What is it?" said Gareth.

"By your grace," said Ridmark, "I wish to ask for the hand of your eldest daughter Aelia in marriage."

A stunned silence fell over the hall.

Gareth's expression did not change, but Ridmark saw the tiniest corner of his mouth twitch upward, briefly.

"A bold request," said Gareth, "and one that merits much consideration. I must consult with my advisors, to see if my daughter would consent to such a request." He turned his head and looked at Aelia. "Well, daughter, advise your father. Do you think my eldest daughter would consent to such a request?"

"With all her heart, father," said Aelia, her eyes fixed on Ridmark's.

"That was easy enough," said Gareth. "Ridmark Arban, my daughter has given her consent freely, and so you shall be wed, as..."

Aelia dashed across the dais, threw herself into Ridmark's arms, and kissed him upon the lips.

A burst of laughter went up from the hall, followed by applause and cheers. Aelia broke away from him, still grinning, and Ridmark's arm went around her waist. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, the blood rushing through his veins.

He saw Tarrabus Carhaine standing at the far end of the hall, glaring at him.

Ridmark remembered the visions he had seen in Urd Morlemoch, the shadows surrounding Tarrabus.

Of his own future, a desperate, ragged man in a gray cloak, a coward's brand upon his cheek.

"Ridmark?" said Aelia.

He pushed aside the dark visions and smiled at her.

"I love you," he said.

Her smile seemed to shine. "I love you, too."

In that moment, Ridmark thought, his life was complete. He would make sure his vision of the future never came to pass. He would ensure that Aelia remained safe and loved for the rest of her life.

No matter what he had to do.

***

## Epilogue

A few months later, the Warden stood atop the highest tower of Urd Morlemoch, gazing into one of the stone arches.

Light flickered within the arch, the spell within it showing a far-off place. The Warden watched as Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii wed Aelia of the House of the Licinii in the great hall of Castra Marcaine.

He felt no joy at the scene, of course. He had left behind such petty emotions long, long ago.

But he did feel...anticipation.

Glee, even.

Because, after so very long, his freedom was at hand. The return of the Frostborn was imminent, and they would destroy this world and everything in it.

And everyone.

But not the Warden.

His smile widened as Ridmark kissed his bride.

In that moment, the shadows of Ridmark's future changed and altered, irrevocably shifting their course.

To a path that would, slowly and inevitably, bring him back to the walls of Urd Morlemoch.

"You see," the Warden said to the image, "you are going to come back, Ridmark Arban. Soon. You will come back...and you are going to set me free."

He dismissed the image and strode into his library to prepare. This world was doomed, and nothing could save it from the Frostborn.

There were other worlds.

And thanks to Ridmark, the Warden would soon rule them.

THE END

***

## Frostborn: The Gray Knight Description

From the author of DEMONSOULED and THE GHOSTS, here is a new epic fantasy of high adventure, heroism, and daring deeds.

_A thousand years ago, the last grandson of Arthur Pendragon led the survivors of Britain through a magical gate to a new world, a world of magic and high elves, of orcs and kobolds and stranger, darker creatures. Now the descendants of the exiles rule a mighty kingdom, peaceful and prosperous under the rule of the High King._

_But a shadow threatens to devour the kingdom._

_RIDMARK ARBAN was once a Swordbearer, a knight of renown. Now he is a branded outcast, stripped of his sword, and despised as a traitor._

_But he alone sees the danger to come._

_CALLIANDE awakens in the darkness, her memories gone, and creatures of terrible power hunting her._

For she alone holds the secret that can save the world...or destroy it utterly.

_The secret of the Frostborn._

***

## Chapter 1 - The Knight and the Friar

The day it all began, the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when the blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban returned to the town of Dun Licinia.

He gazed at the town huddled behind its walls of gray stone, his left hand gripped tight around a long wooden staff. He had not been here in over five years, not since the great battle against Mhalek and his horde of orcs, and then Dun Licinia had been little more than a square keep ringed by a wooden wall, an outpost named in honor of the Dux of the Northerland.

Now it was a prosperous town of four thousand people, fortified by a wall of stone. Ridmark saw the towers of a small keep within the town, alongside the twin bell towers of a stone church and the round tower of a Magistrius. Cultivated fields and pastures ringed the town on three sides, and the River Marcaine flowed south past its western wall, making its way through the wooded hills of the Northerland to the River Moradel in the south.

Ridmark's father had always said there was good mining and logging to be had on the edges of the Northerland, if men were bold enough to live within reach of the orc tribes and dark creatures that lurked in the Wilderland.

And in the shadow of the black mountain that rose behind Ridmark.

He walked for the town's northern gate, swinging his staff in his left hand, his gray cloak hanging loose around him. When he had last stood in this valley, the slain orcs of Mhalek's horde had carpeted the ground as far as he could see, the stench of blood and death filling his nostrils. It pleased him to see that something had grown here, a place of prosperity and plenty.

Perhaps no one would recognize him.

Freeholders and the freeholders' sons toiled in the fields, breaking up the soil in preparation for the spring planting. The men cast him wary looks, looks that lingered long after he had passed. He could not blame them. A man wrapped in a gray cloak and hood, a wooden staff in his left hand and a bow slung over his shoulder, made for a dangerous-looking figure.

Especially since he kept his hood up.

But if he kept his hood up, they would not see the brand that marred the left side of his face.

He came to Dun Licinia's northern gate. The wall itself stood fifteen feet high, and two octagonal towers of thirty feet stood on either side of the gate itself. A pair of men-at-arms in chain mail stood at the gate, keeping watch on the road and the wooded hills ringing the valley. He recognized the colors upon their tabards. They belonged to Sir Joram Agramore, a knight Ridmark had known. They had been friends, once.

Before Mhalek and his horde.

"Hold," said one of the men-at-arms, a middle-aged man with the hard-bitten look of a veteran. "State your business."

Ridmark met the man's gaze. "I wish to enter the town, purchase supplies, and depart before sundown."

"Aye?" said the man-at-arms, eyes narrowing. "Sleep in the hills, do you?"

"I do," said Ridmark. "It's comfortable, if you know how."

"Who are you, then?" said the man-at-arms. He jerked his head at the other soldier, and the man disappeared into the gatehouse. "Robber? Outlaw?"

"Perhaps I'm an anchorite," said Ridmark.

The man-at-arms snorted. "Holy hermits don't carry weapons. They trust in the Dominus Christus to protect them from harm. You look like the sort to place his trust in steel."

He wasn't wrong about that.

Ridmark spread his arms. "Upon my oath, I simply wish to purchase supplies and leave without causing any harm. I will swear this upon the name of God and whatever saints you wish to invoke."

Three more men-at-arms emerged from the gatehouse.

"What's your name?" said the first man-at-arms.

"Some call me the Gray Knight," said Ridmark.

The first man frowned, but the youngest of the men-at-arms stepped forward.

"I've heard of you!" said the younger man. "When my mother journeyed south on pilgrimage to Tarlion, beastmen attacked her caravan. You drove them off! I..."

"Hold," said the first man, scowling. "Show your face. Honest men have no reason to hide their faces."

"Very well," said Ridmark. He would not lie. Not even about this.

He drew back his cowl, exposing the brand of the broken sword upon his left cheek and jaw.

A ripple of surprise went through the men.

"You're..." said the first man. He lifted his spear. "What is your name?"

"My name," said Ridmark, "is Ridmark Arban."

The men-at-arms looked at each other, and Ridmark rebuked himself. Coming here had been foolish. Better to have purchased supplies from the outlying farms or a smaller village, rather than coming to Dun Licinia.

He had not expected the town to grow so large.

"Ridmark Arban," said the older man-at-arms. He looked at one of the other men. "You. Go to the castle, and find Sir Joram." One of the men ran off, chain mail flashing in the sunlight.

"Are you arresting me?" said Ridmark. Perhaps it would be better to simply leave.

The first man opened his mouth again, closed it.

"You think he made the friar disappear?" said the younger man, the one who had mentioned his mother. "But he's the Gray Knight! They..."

"The Gray Knight is a legend," said the first man, "and you, Sir..." He scowled and started over. "And you, Ridmark Arban, should speak with Sir Joram. That is that."

"So be it," said Ridmark.

A dark thought flitted across his mind. If he attacked them, he might well overpower them. Their comrades would pursue him. Perhaps they would kill him.

And he could rest at last...

Ridmark shook off the notion and waited.

A short time later two men approached and spoke in low voices to the first man-at-arms.

"You will accompany us," he said.

Ridmark nodded and walked through the gates of Dun Licinia, the men-at-arms escorting him. Most of the houses were built of brick, roofed with sturdy clay tiles, making it harder for an attacker to set the town ablaze. Ridmark saw men at work in their shops, making shoes and hats and aprons to sell to the nearby freeholders.

A memory shivered through him. The last time he had stood here, he had been wearing plate and chain mail, the sword Heartwarden blazing with white fire in his fist, the ground carpeted with slain men and orcs and halflings and manetaurs.

He pushed aside the memory and kept walking, his staff tapping against the cobblestones.

The men-at-arms led him to the main square, fronted on either side by the sturdy stone church and the small castle. They walked through the castle's gates, across the dusty courtyard, and into the keep's great hall. It had changed little since his last visit five years ago.

Though this time dying and wounded men did not lie on rows upon the flagstones of the floor.

The men-at-arms instructed him to wait and left.

Ridmark rolled his shoulders and walked towards the dais, his staff a comfortable, familiar weight in his left hand. A few motes of dust danced in the beams of light leaking through the windows. Tapestries on the wall showed scenes from the court of the first High King on Old Earth, of Lancelot and Galahad questing for the cup that had held the Dominus Christus's blood. Others showed more recent wars, the High King Arthurain fighting against the urdmordar, or the Dragon Knight leading the armies of the High King against the Frostborn.

Idly Ridmark wondered what would happen if he simply tried to walk out of the keep.

Perhaps the men-at-arms would kill him.

The doors opened, and Sir Joram Agramore entered the hall.

He had always been heavyset, but now he verged towards the plump. Peace, it seemed, agreed with him. He had curly red hair and bright green eyes, and wore a long tunic and a mantle, a sword and dagger at his belt.

He stared at Ridmark in silence for a moment.

"Ridmark Arban," he said at last. "God and all his saints. I was sure you had died five years ago."

Ridmark shrugged. "Perhaps God still has work for me."

"He must," said Joram. "But I was sure...the Magistri always say that Swordbearer severed from his Soulblade wastes away. Or kills himself. It just..."

"If grief," said Ridmark, "could kill a man, I would have died long ago."

His left hand tightened against his staff, and he glanced at his hand before he could stop himself. A ring glinted on his finger, the gold still bright despite the five years he had spent wandering the Wilderland. Memories burned through him at the sight of it, good memories, happy memories.

But those memories ended in death.

"Indeed," said Joram. "Forgive me, I did not mean to...I wish..." He sighed and shook his head. "I am not sure what to say to you."

"A knight strives to be courteous to all men," said Ridmark, "and there is no protocol for greeting a disowned exile and former Swordbearer."

"Alas," said Joram, "no."

Ridmark felt a twinge of pity for his old friend. Joram had always been a solid knight, but not man to take the lead in a crisis. "Then tell me of yourself. You are the Comes of Dun Licinia now?"

"No, just a caretaker, I fear," said Joram. "The old Comes died in the winter without any heirs, and the Dux sent me north to oversee the comarchate until he appoints a new man." He shrugged. "It is quiet enough. The occasional band of pagan orcs or beastmen, but nothing like the days of Mhalek."

"You are wed?" said Ridmark. He did not want to talk about Mhalek.

Joram grinned. "How did you...oh, yes, the ring. Yes, four years. You remember Lady Lydia?"

Ridmark laughed. "You talked her around at last?"

"Well, I imagine my new lands helped sway her father, at least," said Joram. "But, aye, we are happy. Two children, so far. God, but they can fill a castle with their wailing!"

Ridmark nodded.

Joram took a deep breath. "If you will allow me to say so...I am glad to see you, Ridmark. What happened to you was unjust, and I think Tarrabus Carhaine forced the Master to expel you from the Order. It was unjust, especially after what happened to Aelia..."

"What is done is done," said Ridmark. He did not wish to discuss Aelia, either.

"Indeed," said Joram. "Ridmark, I must ask. Why have you come here? You were disowned and banished from the Order, not exiled from the High King's realm...but you must know that the Dux Tarrabus still has a price on your head."

"Only the High King," said Ridmark, "can pronounce a sentence of death."

"I think Dux Tarrabus disagrees," said Joram.

"He can think whatever he likes," said Ridmark. "I simply wish to purchase supplies and be on my way."

"Back into the Wilderland?" said Joram.

Ridmark nodded.

A hint of pity went over Joram's face. "Still seeking prophecies of the Frostborn?"

"Aye," said Ridmark.

"Well," said Joram, "at least let me resupply you from my own pantry."

Ridmark lifted an eyebrow. "Dux Licinius might not approve."

"He has forgiven you," said Joram. "He never blamed you for what happened to Aelia."

Ridmark said nothing.

"If you like," said Joram, "think of it as repayment. For not beating me black and blue when we were squires, the way Tarrabus and his lot used to do."

Ridmark bowed. "If you must."

"I insist," said Joram, clapping his hands. The servants' door by the dais opened, and a pair of halfling women wearing Joram's colors entered the hall, carrying a tray of food and drink. They set the tray on the table and bowed. One of the halfling women glanced at Ridmark for a moment, her eyes like disks of amber in her face, and then left with the other servant. He was always struck by how alien and ethereal the halflings looked.

"Please," said Joram, "sit, sit. You're as lean as a starving wolf." He grinned. "Though I fear I indulge too much at the table, and must confess to gluttony every week."

"There are worse things," said Ridmark, sitting across from Joram, "than gluttony. One never knows if there will be food tomorrow."

"A wise man," said Joram.

Ridmark ate. Joram did set a good table. There was bread with honey, dried fruit, and even a few pieces of leathery ham. He listened to Joram discuss his children and the various problems of governing Dun Licinia.

"Offering me hospitality," said Ridmark, "will get you in trouble with Tarrabus Carhaine."

"Tarrabus Carhaine can..." said Joram, and stopped himself. "I am sworn to the Dux of the Northerland, not the Dux of Caerdracon. If my liege the Dux Gareth Licinius has a problem with my actions, I am sure he will inform me in short order."

"It might get you into trouble with your wife," said Ridmark. "She never did like me."

"That concerns me more," admitted Joram. "But a knight is supposed to be hospitable. That duty might cause me more...difficultly, I fear."

"Just from me?" said Ridmark. "As soon as we finish, I am returning to the Wilderland. I could very well never return."

He had not expected to return the first time.

"Not from you," said Joram. "From a different, more...troublesome guest."

"How is he a troublesome guest?" said Ridmark.

"I lost him."

"Ah."

"And the Dux," said Joram, "will be upset if I cannot get him back."

"What kind of guest?" said Ridmark.

"A dwarf."

Ridmark frowned. "A noble from the Three Kingdoms?"

Joram shook his head. "No. Well, he was at one time, but no longer. This dwarf insisted upon baptism. He joined the Order of Mendicants and became a friar, taking the name of Caius, after Saint Caius of old."

Ridmark stopped eating to listen. "A peculiar story. I have been to the Three Kingdoms..."

Joram blinked. "You have?"

Ridmark nodded. "They accept the High King, but they are devoted to the gods of the Deeps, the gods of stone and water and silence. I would not expect a dwarf to enter the Church."

"This one has," said Joram. "Brother Caius came here with the idea to preach to the pagan orc tribes of Vhaluusk and the Wilderland."

"A fool notion," said Ridmark.

"He left the town two days ago," said Joram, "and has not been seen since."

"Then he is likely dead," said Ridmark. "This part of the Northerland is relatively safe, but it is still dangerous to travel alone. The orcs of the Wilderland pray to the blood gods, and their shamans wield black magic and blood spells. A mendicant who tries to preach the faith to them will find his head upon a spear."

"I fear you are correct," said Joram.

"And," said Ridmark, "you want me to find him, don't you?"

Joram sighed. "Am I truly so transparent? Of course, you were always the clever one." He shook his head. "The Dux's letter said I was to treat this Caius with all honor. If he has gotten himself killed in the Wilderland..."

"The Dux can hardly blame you for that," said Ridmark.

"Nevertheless, I was his host, and he was my guest," said Joram.

"Very well," said Ridmark. "I will find him for you."

Joram blinked. "That's it? I thought you would take more convincing."

"Why not?" said Ridmark. "The dwarf seems valiant, if foolish, and does not deserve to die alone in the Wilderland. I will either find him and bring him back to you, or tell you of his fate."

Or die trying.

"Will that not take time from your...other task?" said Joram. "The search for the Frostborn?"

"Haven't you heard?" said Ridmark. "The Frostborn are extinct." He knew better, but continued speaking. "Joram, you were always a friend to me, and you have shown me kindness now. I know you wished to persuade me...but I have been persuaded. I will find Brother Caius for you."

Perhpas he would find his death. But that did not trouble him. He had ranged over the length and breadth of the Wilderland, following the long-dead urdmordar's prophecy of the Frostborn, following the warning the undead dark elven wizard had given him...and he had defeated every foe he had faced in that time.

But perhaps hunting for this strange dwarf would kill him.

Then, at last, he would have peace.

"Thank you," said Joram. "You will have whatever help you require."

"Good," said Ridmark. "This is what I need."

###

An hour later Ridmark walked to Dun Licinia's northern gate, staff in his left hand, gray cloak hanging from his shoulders, and a pack of fresh supplies on his back. The men-at-arms he had confronted earlier gave him wary glances, but Ridmark ignored them. He stepped through the gate and gazed north, at the flowing River Marcaine, the cultivated fields, the tree-choked slopes, the narrow road...and the great dark mass of the Black Mountain. A mile tall, the Black Mountain stood like a dark fist thrusting from the earth. The high elves of old had considered it cursed, along with the orcs and the beastmen and the halflings and the manetaurs and every other kindred to cross through the lands that became the High King's realm of Andomhaim.

Brother Caius had gone to that mountain, intending to preach the word of the Dominus Christus to the orcish tribes living in its northern foothills.

Ridmark shook his head, half in admiration, half in annoyance, and started walking. The road lead to the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance, burned during the civil wars of the Pendragon princes fifty years past. It was a logical place for Caius to make camp, though bandits or orcs or other renegades might have taken shelter in the ruins.

He kept walking, and the fields began to thin out, patches of bristly pine forest appearing here and there. Ridmark supposed hardly anyone took the road north. Dun Licinia was the very northern edge of the Northerland, and beyond lay the vast Wilderland, with all its unknown lands and dangerous creatures.

Only a madman or a fool ventured into the Wilderland.

So Ridmark kept walking.

"You!"

He stopped, left hand tightening around his staff.

A stocky middle-aged man in the rough clothes of a freeholder climbed onto the road, his face red with anger. He carried a spear, its head worn but still sharp. The man held his weapon competently, but it would have been the easiest thing in the world for Ridmark to swing his staff and break the freeholder's wrists.

Instead he said, "Have I wronged you in some way?"

"You've been taking my pigs," said the freeholder.

"I have not," said Ridmark.

The freeholder sneered. "Aye, you have. I've seen you lurking in the woods, snatching my pigs when my back is turned. Outlaws, I knew it! Sir Joram's constable wouldn't listen to me. Well, they should have listened to Peter of Dun Licinia! I have captured an outlaw! You will come with me now..."

Ridmark sighed, stepped forward, and thrust his staff. It caught the spear just behind the head, and sent the weapon tumbling. Peter's eyes went wide, and Ridmark rested the end of his staff on the freeholder's throat.

"Or," said Ridmark, "you could admit that I did not steal your pigs, and let me go on my way."

"Or that," said Peter.

Ridmark frowned. "How many pigs have been stolen?"

"Five. Prime hogs, too."

"When did this start?" said Ridmark.

"Two days ago," said Peter.

Ridmark nodded. Caius had departed Dun Licinia two days ago. Had the dwarven friar gone bandit?

More likely whatever had killed and eaten Caius was now stealing and eating Peter's hogs.

There were far worse things than pagan orcs in the Wilderland.

"Your pen," said Ridmark. "Show me."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "So you can steal my hogs?"

"God and his saints," said Ridmark. "It's a pigpen. If I wanted to find it, I suspect I could just follow my nose. But I think I know what's been stealing your pigs...and if it's not stopped, it might start eating your family."

That got Peter's attention. "Some horror from the Wilderland? An urvaalg?" He swallowed. "An urdmordar, as the Swordbearers of old faced?"

Ridmark had faced an urdmordar ten years past. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat, but he doubted one of the great spider-devils was stealing Peter's pigs. "Perhaps. Lead on."

Peter nodded and led Ridmark off the road, through a patch of pine trees, and to his farm. A low wall of field stone enclosed perhaps thirty pigs of varying size, their hides marked with a brand. A half-dozen young men, ranging from twelve years to Ridmark's age, busied themselves with various tasks. Peter's sons, no doubt.

Ridmark walked in a circle around the stone pen, ignoring the ripe smell. He examined the muddy ground, noting the mosaic of footprints and hoof marks around the pen.

Some of the tracks led away from the freehold, towards the forested hills.

"What are you doing?" said Peter, following him. "It's mud! Do you think..."

Ridmark lifted his staff, the length bumping against Peter's chest.

"Hold still," said Ridmark, still looking at the ground.

"Why?" said Peter. "You'll..."

"If you move," said Ridmark, "you'll disturb the tracks."

"But..."

"Hold still," said Ridmark.

He followed the tracks leading away from the pen. The land was churned into wet spring mud, with hundreds of footprints, but Ridmark had spent years wandering the wilderness. Given that his meals often came from whatever he had been able to shoot with his bow, he had grown quite good at tracking.

Hunger was a marvelous teacher.

He saw the tracks of three men and two pigs leading into the woods. To judge from the state of the tracks, he suspected the thieves had been here no earlier than midnight. Were they simply common highwaymen, raiding the local freeholds? Perhaps they had taken Caius hostage, and hoped to sell him for a ransom...

Ridmark picked up a slender thread from one of the tracks. It was a long black hair, thick and tough. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, and tossed it aside.

"What is it?" said Peter, "What have you found?"

"You should arm yourself, master freeholder," said Ridmark, "you and all your sons. Orcs from the Wilderland have taken your pigs."

"Orcs?" said Peter.

"Do exactly as I tell you," said Ridmark, pointing his staff at the freeholder. "Arm yourselves, and keep watch over your fields. And send someone to Dun Licinia to warn Sir Joram. Do you understand?"

Peter nodded and shouted instructions to his sons, and Ridmark drew his cloak about him and walked into the woods, following the trail of the orcs and their stolen pigs.

***

## Chapter 2 - The Omen

Ridmark strode alone through the rocky hills.

The hills of the Northerland were steep and stony, their sides mantled by tough pine trees. Pine needles scraped beneath Ridmark's boots, and the air smelled of sap. The maze of hills created hundreds of small valleys and ravines, and caves dotted many of the slopes. The hills offered hundreds of hiding places for a band of orcs.

And some of the caves even opened into the Deeps, the vast maze of caverns and galleries that stretched beneath the earth of Andomhaim, home to kobolds and deep orcs and dark elves and worse things.

Hopefully none of them had come into the daylight. Some of those creatures had the power to smash the walls of Dun Licinia and kill everyone within the town.

Ridmark doubted he faced anything so dangerous. He suspected a band of pagan orcs had stolen the freeholder's pigs, and most likely encountered Caius as well. Hopefully they had taken the dwarven friar captive.

If not, Ridmark would avenge his death.

He moved like a silent shadow through the trees, boots making no sound against the uneven ground. The trail continued north, moving towards a tall, steep hill. If the hill had any caves, it would make the ideal base for outlaws. They could see for miles in all directions. Of course, a clever outlaw would realize that the trees could mask a skillful attacker, and would post sentries to keep watch.

Ridmark saw movement in the trees ahead.

He stepped to the side, ducking under the branches of a tall pine, his cloak settling around him. It would help mask his presence. He had received the cloak as a gift, years ago, from the last archmage of the high elven kingdoms, and in times of peril the cloak blended with his surroundings and shielded him from unfriendly eyes.

The branches rustled, and an orcish man stepped into sight.

The orc had a gaunt, lean appearance from long years in the wild, his green skin creased with deep wrinkles, his thick tusks yellowing. His head had been shaved, save for a warrior's black topknot. He wore leather and fur, a short sword at his belt and an axe slung over his shoulder. His eyes, black and hard without any trace of color, roved back and forth. In his hands he carried a short bow of horn and wood.

A brand disfigured the orc's forehead, a burn in the shape of a teardrop or perhaps, a drop of blood.

Rage burned through Ridmark at the sight of that symbol, and he wanted to step from concealment and bring his staff down upon the orc's skull.

The orc was a Mhalekite.

Mhalek was dead, his claim to be a living god shattered at the Battle of Dun Licinia five years past, but many of his followers had survived. Someday the blood gods of the orcs would return, preached the Mhalekites, and they would sweep the world of the humans and the manetaurs and the halflings and the treacherous orcish kings who had accepted the High King's authority.

The orc walked away, and Ridmark slipped from concealment and followed, moving from tree trunk to tree trunk. The Mhalekite headed to the base of the hill, and a second orcish man came from behind a boulder. Like the first orc, the second wore leather and fur, a bow in his hands and a blood drop brand upon his forehead.

"Did you find anything?" said the second orc, speaking the orcish tongue.

"Nothing," said the first orc. "We are unnoticed. The human vermin and their halfling pets suspect nothing. They will sleep until we cut their throats."

The second orc spat. "Then the Master spoke truly. The hour of blood is come."

"Is Orlacht done yet?" said the first orc.

"Nay," said the second orc. "He still questions the prisoner."

"Orlacht is an idiot," said the first orc. "The Master's wishes are clear. All prisoners are to go to him."

"After the prisoner goes to the Master," said the second orc, "he'll be dead. Or he will wish he was dead. Dwarves have treasure, and we'll never learn where this one hid his gold."

A dwarf? Ridmark moved closer.

The first orc laughed. "This dwarf doesn't have any treasure. He has accepted the god of the humans. He probably gave his treasure away to orphans and widows or some such nonsense."

The second orc snorted. "Then Orlacht will cut off his head out of spite."

The first orc laughed again. "Better to give him to the Master. He'll suffer more."

Both orcs laughed, and Ridmark took the opportunity to circle around them, hoping to move past and reach the hill. It seemed clear that a group of orcs had taken Caius captive, and if Ridmark acted swiftly, he could rescue the dwarven friar. He moved from tree to tree as the orcs resumed their discussion. Another few feet, and he would be behind them...

A bird called to his right, and both orcs looked in his direction.

They saw him, their black eyes widening in alarm, and Ridmark exploded into motion.

Ever since the Battle of Dun Licinia, he had been forbidden to carry a sword. To the knights of Andomhaim that was a dire sentence, for a sword was symbol of a knight's honor and prowess. But without the symbolism, a sword was simply a tool for killing.

And there were other tools one could use for killing.

Ridmark sprinted at the orcs, his staff in both hands. The first orc raised his bow, but Ridmark was faster. He struck the orc in the forehead, and heard the orc's skull crack beneath the staff's steel-capped end. A quick sidestep, and he smashed the staff's other end against the orc's temple.

The orc toppled motionless to the ground.

The second orc got his bow up and released, and Ridmark dodged, the arrow hissing past his head. His foe threw aside his bow and drew a short sword, but Ridmark charged forward, sweeping his staff in a sideways swing. Wood blurred, and the staff hit the orc's right knee, and again he heard the snap of shattering bone. The warrior fell to his left knee with a strangled groan of pain, and Ridmark whipped the staff around.

The heavy weapon left a crease in the orc's right temple, and the orc fell motionless to the ground, green blood leaking from his ears.

Ridmark looked back and forth, the staff ready in his hands.

There were no more enemies in sight.

The entire fight had taken less than half a minute.

He stopped long enough to examine the dead orcs, but learned little useful. To judge from their clothes, they had come from Vhaluusk, the land of the pagan orcs on the western bank of the River Moradel, but that was no surprise. Many of Mhalek's followers had fled to Vhaluusk after Dun Licinia.

Best to get moving. The longer he lingered here, the more likely it was that another orc would discover the corpses.

Staff in hand, he followed the trail along the hill's slope, moving as fast as he could manage while remaining quiet. The trail ran back and forth, cutting around boulders and patches of pine trees, and Ridmark scanned for any sign of an ambush...

Then voices reached his ears, and he froze.

The sounds came from the top of the hill, and he nodded to himself and climbed up, ducking behind a heavy boulder. A flat hollow filled part of the hill's top, ringed by boulders, and five figures stood in the hollow.

The first was a dwarf in brown robes, his gray skin the color of hard granite, his black beard streaked with white. Most of the hair had receded from the top of his head. The dwarf himself looked like a statue hewn from stone, his eyes like disks of polished blue marble.

Four orcs stood in a semicircle facing him. Three of the orcs wore leather and fur and carried short swords. The fourth wore chain mail, a massive double-bladed axe in his right hand. His topknot was gray, but the orc still bulged with muscle and stood taller than the others. Ridmark supposed that this was Orlacht, the leader the dead orcs had mentioned.

That meant the dwarf in the friar's robe was Brother Caius.

"You cannot be serious," said Orlacht, his lips pulling away from his tusks in a sneer.

"I am perfectly serious," said Caius, his voice deep and resonant. He spoke orcish well.

"Then you expect us to renounce the blood gods?" said Orlacht.

"Not immediately, no," said Caius. "But in time."

"In time?" said Orlacht. "The blood gods respect strength and power! They reward the bold and the strong with power and might."

"The blood gods make you spend your lives in a bloody and futile scrabbling for glory," said Caius. "Like throwing red meat into a pack of starving dogs. Or the sacrifices the shamans of the blood gods demand? The woman slain upon altars, or the children burned so their blood may fuel sorcery? How many orcs have perished in this useless pursuit of power?"

"The strong do as they like," said Orlacht, "and the weak perish. This is the way of the world."

"We are all weak," said Caius.

Orlacht snarled and slammed a fist against his mailed chest. "I am not weak."

"But we are all weaker than something else," said Caius.

"I am not weak!" snarled Orlacht again.

"You are not the strongest," said Caius. "Do you not know your own history? The dark elves brought the orcs to this world to labor as slaves. Then the dark elves summoned the urdmordar...and the urdmordar enslaved both the dark elves and the orcs alike."

"The sons of Mhalek are a free people," spat Orlacht, "and neither the urdmordar nor the dark elves rule over us now."

"That is only because the High King and his Swordbearers and his Magistri smashed the urdmordar centuries ago," said Caius. "You did not free yourselves. The blood gods love only the strong...but the Dominus Christus accepts all, whether strong or weak."

Ridmark contemplated his next move. The dwarf friar might think to armor himself in his faith, but Ridmark doubted he would sway the Mhalekite orcs. Sooner or later Orlacht would kill Caius, or would haul the dwarf before his mysterious master. Ridmark considered letting the orcs leave and following them, learning more about their master, but decided against it. Orlacht's master, whoever he was, likely commanded many warriors, and if Caius went into their midst, he would never come out again.

Ridmark reached over his shoulder for his bow.

Orlacht spat, but Caius remained glacially calm. "Then you would have us yoke ourselves with the weak, dwarf? Shall we find cripples and cowards and women and treat them as our equals?"

"If you understood me," said Caius, "then you would wish to do it. For you would understand that we are all weak, we are all mortal, and that all strength ends in death. The blood gods offer nothing but misery and shadows beyond death. But the Dominus..."

"Enough!" roared Orlacht. "I will not listen to any more of this preaching. We depart to join the Master at the Tower. Bind the dwarf." He laughed. "Let us see if his preaching will touch the ears of the Master. And gag him! If I hear a word from him, I shall be wroth. Do not fret, dwarf. It will give you time for prayer. If the god of the humans loves you so much, perhaps he will come and save..."

Ridmark raised his bow and released, and an arrow sprouted from the neck of the nearest orc. Green blood flowed over the wound, and the orc gagged and fell to his knees. The remaining orcs whirled, and Orlacht brandished his huge axe and bellowed a curse.

"We are attacked!" he screamed. "Archers in the trees. Take them! Take them!"

The two remaining orcs raced forward, short swords in hand. Ridmark dropped his bow, gripped his staff in one hand and the boulder in the other, and heaved himself around it. The first orc just had time to raise his sword, and then Ridmark caught him across the belly with a blow from the staff. It was not a hard blow, but it was enough to rock the orc, and Ridmark reversed his staff and caught the orc across the knees. The orc stumbled and fell to the rocky ground, and the remaining orc and Orlacht charged at Ridmark.

He dodged to the left, the orc stabbing with his short sword. Ridmark brought his staff around in a two-handed blow, slapping against the flat of the orc's sword. The power of his strike wrenched the weapon from the orc's hands. The orc reached for a dagger at his belt, but Ridmark swung the staff against the orc's throat with all his strength.

The orc fell, windpipe crushed, and Orlacht struck at Ridmark, wielding his double-bladed axe two hands. Ridmark jumped back, the axe blurring before his face, and thrust with the staff, hoping to knock Orlacht off balance. The big orc kept his swing controlled, moving out of Ridmark's reach. The orc Ridmark had stunned earlier scrambled back to his feet, growling as he waved his short sword.

Ridmark launched a feint at Orlacht's head, and the orc stepped back, axe raised. Ridmark dashed past Orlacht and struck at the second orc. The butt of his staff plunged into the orc's stomach. The orc staggered, the breath knocked from his lungs, and Ridmark spun the staff in a looping blow, smashing it against the orc's temple.

The orc fell, and Ridmark faced Orlacht alone.

"You think," snarled Orlacht, his black eyes narrowed with rage, "you can defeat me with that little stick?" A crimson light glimmered in his eyes. It was the orcish battle rage, the gift of his blood to make him stronger and faster in battle.

"Yes," said Ridmark, and attacked. Orlacht lifted his axe to block, but Ridmark raised the staff, hooking it behind the blades of the axe, and tugged. Orlacht stumbled forward, and Ridmark slammed his right hand into the orc's face.

The big orc howled in fury, and Ridmark brought the heavy staff down once, twice, three times onto the crown of his head.

Orlacht fell, dying.

Ridmark looked around, seeking any more foes. Caius stood rooted on the spot, gaping at him, but all the orcs were down...

He saw a blur of green in the corner of his eye.

Ridmark whirled and saw the orc he had struck across the temple. He had thought the blow enough to render the orc unconscious, maybe even kill him...but plainly he had been wrong. Ridmark jumped back, just avoiding the tip of a short sword that blurred before his face. He thrust with the staff, driving the orc back, hoping to use his weapon's longer reach to keep his foe at bay.

Caius darted forward, a heavy mace appearing from beneath his robes, and swung. The mace impacted with the back of the orc's right knee. A hideous crunching sound filled Ridmark's ears, and the orc fell with a yelp.

A strike to the top of the orc's head and throat ended the fight.

The orc fell, and Ridmark found himself facing Caius. The dwarf's mace had the peculiar bronze sheen common to dwarven-forged steel.

"Was it really necessary," said Caius in perfect Latin, "to kill them?"

"Perhaps not," said Ridmark, "but they would have done their best to kill me. And once they had killed me, they would have taken you back to their master, whoever he is. I suspect he would not have given you a clean death."

Caius lifted his bearded chin. With his gray skin and gleaming blue eyes, the dwarf looked like a statue, at least until he moved. "It would be an honor to die spreading the word of the Dominus Christus."

"True," said Ridmark, "but would you really want to?"

Caius grimaced. "Not unless I had no other choice. The flesh is weak, I fear, even the flesh of dwarves." He turned. "But do not think me churlish. I am grateful your aid, sir knight."

"I am no knight," said Ridmark.

"I see," said Caius. "Might I know your name, then?"

"Ridmark Arban," said Ridmark.

"Ah," said Caius. If he recognized the name, he gave no sign. "And I am Brother Caius, a priest and a brother of the Order of Mendicants."

"A baptized dwarf," said Ridmark.

"Yes," said Caius, his white teeth flashing in his gray face. "The first of my kindred, I believe."

"If you are a mendicant," said Ridmark, "why do you have a mace?"

Caius shrugged. "It was...harder to give up my old life than I thought. And a son of the Church should not seek out war, but that does not mean we cannot defend ourselves." The dwarf grinned. "And you raised arms in my defense. It would be ill-mannered not to aid you."

"Your aid was well-timed," said Ridmark. "Come. Sir Joram sent me to find you, and you're found."

Caius shook his head. "I desire to continue my journey north."

Ridmark frowned. "Why?"

"I wish to bring the word of the Dominus Christus to the pagan orcs of the north," said Caius, "and that has not changed."

"It has," said Ridmark. "These are Mhalekite orcs, and there are more of them nearby."

"Then they need to hear word of the faith all the more," said Caius.

"They will kill you," said Ridmark. A low wind whipped up around the hilltop, cold and icy.

"I know the risks," said Caius. He sighed. "And I am not a fool, whatever you might think. When I joined the Order of Mendicants, I hoped to meet devout sons and daughters of the Church. But there are few enough among the lords of Andomhaim. I fear your nobles have grown corrupt and complacent, as have the commanders of the Order of Swordbearers and the Magistri."

Perhaps Caius had met Tarrabus Carhaine and his supporters. "That may or may not be, but we need to go to Dun Licinia." The icy wind grew stronger. "Those Mhalekite orcs will move south, and they will attack Dun Licinia. They people must be warned." He had told Peter to send warning, but Sir Joram might not believe the truculent freeholder.

Caius nodded. "Yes, you are right. I should have thought of it sooner. We must warn Sir Joram Agramore at once." He scowled and looked at the sky. "Though perhaps this snow shall stop the orcs. We never had such weather in the Deeps."

"There is no weather at all in the in the Deeps," said Ridmark, looking at the sky. "But it can't be snowing. There are not enough clouds. It..."

The cold wind became a gale, and thunder rang overhead.

The sky filled with blue fire.

Ridmark stared at the sky, stunned, as the sheets of blue fire painted the landscape with an azure glow. He heard Caius repeating a prayer, heard the wind howling around him, but he barely noticed.

"An omen," he heard himself say.

Both dread and a sense of finality settled in him.

"The omen," he said.

He had been warned about that omen ten years ago, fighting the urdmordar that had terrorized the village of Victrix. A year after that, he had undertaken a quest at the behest of the high elves, entering the cursed ruins of Urd Morlemoch. The undead sorcerer that lurked at its heart, the creature that called itself the Warden, had confirmed the urdmordar's mocking prophecy, telling him of the omen, the day blue fire would burst from the slopes of the Black Mountain.

The omen that foretold the return of the Frostborn.

***

## Chapter 3 - Awakening

Calliande opened her eyes.

She saw nothing but utter blackness, felt nothing but the cold stone beneath her back, its chill soaking through her robes. She took a deep breath, her throat and tongue dry and rough. Something soft and clinging covered her face and throat, and she tried to pull it off. But her shaking hands would not obey, and only after five tries did she reach her face, her fingers brushing her cheek and jaw.

She could not see anything in the blackness, but she recognized the feeling of the delicate threads she plucked from her face.

Cobwebs. She was pulling cobwebs from her jaw.

A wave of terrible exhaustion went through her, and a deeper darkness swallowed Calliande.

###

Dreams danced across her mind like foam driven across a raging sea.

She saw herself arguing with men in white robes, their voices raised in anger, their faces blurring into mist whenever she tried to look at them.

A great battle, tens of thousands of armored men striving against a massive horde of blue-skinned orcs, great half-human, half-spider devils on their flanks, packs of beastmen savaging the knights in their armor. Tall, gaunt figures in pale armor led the horde, their eyes burning with blue flame, glittering swords in their hands.

The sight of them filled her with terror, with certainty that they would devour the world.

"It is the only way," she heard herself tell the men in white robes, their faces dissolving into mist as she tried to remember their names. "This is the only way. I have to do this. Otherwise it will be forgotten, and it will all happen again. And we might not be able to stop him next time."

She heard the distant sound of dry, mocking laughter.

A slab of stone slammed over the entrance to a tomb, the thunderous noise filling her ears.

"It is the only way," Calliande told the men in white robes.

"Is it?"

A shadow stood in their midst, long and dark and cold, utterly cold.

"You," whispered Calliande.

"Little girl," whispered the shadow. "Little child, presuming to wield power you cannot understand. I am older than you. I am older than this world. I made the high elves dance long before your pathetic kindred ever crawled across the hills." The shadow drew closer, devouring the men in the white robes. "You don't know who I truly am. For if you did...you would run. You would run screaming. Or you would fall on your knees and worship me."

"No," said Calliande. "I stopped you once before."

"You did," said the shadow. "But I have been stopped many times. Never defeated. I always return. And in your pride and folly, you have ensured that I shall be victorious."

The shadow filled everything, and Calliande sank into darkness.

###

Her eyes shot open with a gasp, the cobwebs dancing around her lips, her heart hammering against her ribs. Again a violent spasm went through her limbs, her muscles trembling, her head pulsing with pain.

Bit by bit Calliande realized that she was ravenous, her throat parched with thirst.

She was no longer in the darkness.

A faint blue glow touched her eyes. She saw a vaulted stone ceiling overhead, pale and eerie in the blue light. The air smelled musty and stale, as if it had not been breathed in a very long time.

She pressed her hands flat at her sides, felt cold, smooth stone beneath them.

On the third try she sat up, her head spinning, her hair falling against her shoulders.

She lay upon an altar of stone, or perhaps a sarcophagus. The altar stood in the center of a stone nave, thick pillars supporting the arched roof. The blue light came from the far end of the nave, near an archway containing a set of stairs.

Calliande sat motionless for a moment, listening to the silence.

She had no idea how she had gotten here. Nor, for that matter, did she know where she was.

And, with a growing sense of panic, she realized she could not remember who she was.

Calliande, her name was Calliande. She knew that much. But the details of her past turned to mist even as she tried to recall them. Shattered, broken images danced through her mind. Men in white robes, warriors with eyes of blue flame, armies of blue-skinned orcs...but all of it slithered away from her grasp.

Something, she realized, had gone terribly wrong.

"They were supposed to be here," she whispered, her voice cracked and rasping. "They were supposed to wait here."

But who?

She didn't know.

Her panic grew, her hands scrabbling over the altar's stone surface. After a moment she realized that she was looking for something. A...staff? Yes, that was it. A staff.

Why?

Calliande looked around in desperation, her panic growing.

"They were supposed to be here," she said again.

Through her fear, her mind noted some practical problems. She was alone in a strange place, her stomach was clenching with hunger, and she was so thirsty her head was spinning. Despite whatever had happened to her, she could not remain here and wait for someone to find her.

Calliande took a deep breath, braced herself on the edge of the altar, and stood. Her boots clicked against the stone floor, and her legs felt as if they had been made of wet string. Yet she did not fall, and after a moment she took a step forward.

Something brushed her left arm and fell to the floor.

She looked down at herself and saw that she wore a robe of green trimmed with gold upon the sleeves and hems, and the left sleeve had fallen off, exposing the pale skin of her arm. Once it must have been a magnificent garment, but now it was worn and brittle, the seams disintegrating. The leather of her belt and boots was dry and crumbling, and the few steps she had taken had already split her right boot open.

The clothes looked centuries old.

The fear redoubled. Was she dead? Had she been buried alive?

Another part of her mind, the cold part that had urged her to find food and water, pointed out that a dead woman would not feel nearly as hungry as she did. Had not the Dominus Christus eaten food in front of his disciples to prove that he was not a spirit?

Whatever had happened to Calliande, she was still alive.

But she needed to take action to stay that way.

She crossed the nave, her boots crumbling further with every step. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, and she glimpsed more cobwebs stretched between the heavy pillars supporting the ceiling. No other footprints marked the dust. It was clear that no one had entered this chamber in a long time. Soot stained the pillars, and here and there Calliande saw piles of burned wood that had once been furniture.

Had this place caught fire?

She saw the first bones after that.

Three skeletons lay in the dust nearby, clad in rusted armor, swords and maces lying near their bony hands. She saw the marks of violence upon their bones. Plainly a battle had been fought here, long ago, and it had been followed by a fire.

How long had she been lying in this place of death?

Calliande reached the archway at the far end of the nave. A skeleton lay slumped against the stairs, clad in the ragged remnants of a robe.

A white robe.

She remembered the image from her dream, and reached to touch the bones.

As she did, the blue light brightened, and a specter appeared on the stairs.

Calliande took a step back in alarm, but the specter made no move to harm her. It looked like an old man in white robes, his head encircled by a tangled mane of gray hair, his eyes deep and heavy and sad.

"Forgive me, mistress," said the specter.

"You can see me?" said Calliande. "Who are you?"

"Forgive me, for we have failed in our sacred charge," said the specter. "The Tower of Vigilance is overrun. The warring sons of the old king brought their foolish quarrel here, and the Tower is taken. I wished us to remain neutral, but the others thought differently...and our Order has paid for it."

"Answer me!" said Calliande. "Who are you? Why am I here?"

The specter kept talking, and Calliande realized it wasn't really there. Or, rather, it was not a spirit or a ghost. Rather, it was a spell, a final message to her.

Left by the man whose bones now lay moldering at her feet.

"I have no doubt they would kill you simply out of spite," said the old man, "and I have my suspicions of the darker forces behind the strife. But I have activated the defenses of the vault. Sealed it from the inside." He took a deep breath. "Only you can open it."

"But that means..." said Calliande.

That meant the old man had sealed himself inside the vault.

To judge from the skeleton, he never left.

"Do not mourn for me," said the old man, "for my course is run. I am wounded unto death." She saw the spreading crimson stain across his white robes, and realized that he had been wounded. "You will be safe here until you awaken."

He closed his eyes and shuddered with pain.

"Mistress, listen to me," said the old man. "You were right. You were always right, and I should have listened to you as a young man. This war between the Pendragon princes...no, it did not occur on its own. They were manipulated into it. Mistress, beware." His voice grew thicker, his breathing harsher. "The bearer...the bearer of the shadow. You were right about him, too. This was his doing. Everything has been his doing...and he has been laboring in the darkness for centuries before Malahan Pendragon raised the first stone of Tarlion itself. Mistress, please, beware...he will come for you...he..."

The specter vanished into nothingness.

The blue glow faded.

With a surge of alarm Calliande realized the glow had been part of the spell. And now that the spell's message had been delivered, the light would fade away.

Leaving her alone in the darkness.

"No!" she said, her voice echoing off the walls.

The blue light faded away a moment later, leaving her in utter blackness.

Calliande waved her hands in front of her face, but she saw nothing. For a panicked instant she thought the skeletons would rise around her, rusted weapons gripped in bony hands, but she pushed aside the terror. The cold part of her mind recalled the specter's words, remembered the words about the magical defenses of the vault. If the old man had been correct, her touch ought to open the door.

If he was wrong, she would die of thirst in the darkness.

Calliande started forward, hands held out before her, and put her foot upon the first step. She started to climb, and felt her left boot crumble beneath her. The ruined leather felt like dust between her toes. She kicked it away, lost her balance, and fell, landing hard upon her palms.

The stone stairs were uneven. Perhaps it was safer to crawl.

She worked her way up the stairs step by step. Her robe bunched against her knees, and she tugged it up, only to feel a large chunk of it fall apart in her grasp. The dank, musty air of the vault felt icy against her exposed legs. She kept crawling, her heart pulsing in her ears. Perhaps the stairs would never end. Or maybe this vault had been sealed so well that she would breathe all the air and asphyxiate in the darkness.

Surely that would be quicker than dying from thirst.

She kept climbing, the stone rough against her palms. Step by step she went, sweat trickling down her face and back despite the chill, and then...

Her hand brushed smooth stone. She knelt, waving her hands before her, and felt a wall of smooth stone sealing off the end of the stairs. Was this the door the specter had mentioned? Calliande got to her feet, more pieces of her crumbling robe falling away. The stone felt icy cold beneath her touch, and damp with condensation.

She pushed at the door and nothing happened.

"Open," she said.

Still nothing happened.

"Open!" Calliande shouted, her voice ringing with desperation.

Nothing happened...and then she felt the door shiver beneath her fingers, as if the stone had pushed again her mind.

A low grinding noise filled her ears, and a crack of brilliant white light appeared in the center of the stone slab. Calliande stepped back, one hand raised to shield her eyes, and the slab split in half, its sides retracting into the walls.

Something cold and wet slammed into her feet and shins. She saw water pouring through the crack in the opening door, and realized that the chamber beyond was flooded.

An instant later a waist-high wall of water slammed into her and knocked her over. Calliande tumbled back down the stone stairs, sputtering and thrashing, desperately trying to stop her fall. At last she hit the floor of the vault, the flow of water slackening as it poured down the stairs. She staggered to her feet, the remnants of her robe sodden against her. A desperate chill filled her chest, her body shaking with cold.

If she did not get out of this water, she was going to die.

Calliande hauled herself back up the stairs, grabbing at the wall for support against the cascading water. In the light from the opened doors, she saw that the stairs did not climb more than sixty feet or so.

In the darkness it had seemed so much farther.

Step by step she struggled up the stairs, her limbs quaking from the cold. She saw that the stairs opened into the base of a ruined square tower, its cellar flooded, though the water was draining into the vault. Calliande saw the tower's walls rising nearly six stories over the cellar, its interior long vanished. Pale sunlight leaked through the windows, and she saw heavy clouds streaking the blue sky.

Sunlight.

For a moment a wave of joy washed through her. She had never thought to see sunlight again.

Then the cold struck her. She waded across the cellar to a flight of stone stairs along the wall and heaved herself out of the water. As she did, the sodden remnants of her crumbling robes split apart, leaving only a few rags stuck to her wet skin. Getting out of the cold water helped with the chill, but not very much.

A heavy dread gripped her. The tower around her had obviously been destroyed and abandoned long ago. She was alone and starving, and if she did not find some food soon, she would be in trouble. More urgently, she was nearly naked, and she had to obtain shelter at once. She did not think it was winter, but it was cold, and Calliande feared that she would freeze if she did not find shelter.

But she would find neither clothing nor food in this ruined tower.

Calliande climbed the stairs, her bare feet slipping against the wet stone, one hand braced against the rough wall. The stairs ended in a narrow doorway, and Calliande stepped into a courtyard.

Her confusion increased.

The tower was part of a larger castle, and the castle was abandoned. Once it must have been a magnificent fortress, proud and strong. Now it lay in ruin, the outer curtain wall crumbling, the inner towers empty stone shells. Tough brown weeds covered the courtyard, and here and there a pine tree had thrust its way up through the earth. Calliande saw that the castle's barbican and gate lay in smashed ruin. The fortress had been sacked, burned, and abandoned long ago.

Her shivering worsened, and not just from the cold.

What had happened to her? How had she awakened in the darkness beneath a long-abandoned castle?

She could worry about it later. Right now she needed to focus on survival. Calliande doubted she would find any clothing in the ruined castle, but perhaps she could find some means of making fire. The brown weeds would burn once she pulled them up. Once she had warmed herself, perhaps she could think more clearly, find a solution to her dilemma.

She turned towards the inner keep, and saw the dark mountain looming overhead.

It rose at least a mile high, a solid mass of black stone rising from the earth like an armored fist. No snow covered its slopes, and Calliande saw the distant shape of ruins atop the mountain.

That mountain was dangerous. She knew it in her bones.

"The Black Mountain," she whispered.

All at once she knew where she was.

The Black Mountain stood on the northernmost edge of the High King's realm of Andomhaim, on the northern border of the lands sworn to the Dux of the Northerland in Castra Marcaine. Castra Marcaine was only a few days' ride from the Black Mountain, and if Calliande could find some garments, she could walk there and subsist on wild plants during the journey.

And if she could remember where she was, then perhaps more of her memories would return.

Like how she had wound up sealed in a vault beneath a ruined castle.

Calliande turned, and saw an orcish man staring at her.

The orc stood in the doorway to one of the ruined towers, clad in fur and leather, a short bow in his hands. Battle scars marked his face and arms, and his black hair had been cut in a warrior's topknot. A strange brand had been burned onto the orc's forehead, like stylized teardrop.

The orc was watching her like a wolf looking at a wounded deer.

Calliande remembered that she was naked.

She took a step back, trying to cover herself with her hands.

The orc grinned, tusks twitching against his cheeks, and climbed down from the tower's doorway.

"You," said the orc in the orcish tongue, "look cold."

She understood him. Apparently she knew orcish.

"Yes," said Calliande. "If you could bring me some clothing, I would...I would be most grateful."

The orc laughed. "I thought the Master was mad, when he said we would find you in this cursed place. But here you are. And I shall get the reward for laying you at the Master's feet."

Calliande turned to run.

She sprinted across the courtyard, the orc in pursuit. The ground was uneven and rocky, and Calliande was barefoot. She managed to make it twenty yards before she slipped and landed hard upon her hip. Pain flooded through her, and she managed to roll to one knee.

The orc's hands closed about her shoulders.

Calliande tried to strike him, but she had no strength in her arms, and the orc hauled her to the feet without much effort. He spun her around, jerked her arms behind her back, and tied her wrists together.

"You're fortunate," said the orc. "You're a pretty thing, and I could have some fun with you. But the Master wants you intact and untouched, and I am not fool enough to defy the Master." He laughed. "By the blood gods, once the Master is done with you, you'll wish I had made you my chattel."

The orc strode across the courtyard, dragging her after, his hand like an iron shackle around her arm.

***

## Chapter 4 - The Tower of Vigilance

Ridmark stared at the blue flames rolling across the sky.

He heard Caius muttering a prayer in Latin, but he did not care.

Fear filled him, and a growing sense of finality. In the last five years, he had hunted for clues, searching for evidence that the prophecies he had received from the urdmordar Gothalinzur and the Warden were false. He knew his former brothers of the Order of the Soulblade thought him a coward and an outcast, wandering the Wilderland in search of phantom foes that might grant redemption. Sometimes he wondered if they were right.

Sometimes he hoped they were right.

But he knew what he had seen.

Now the proof blazed overhead.

The blue flames pulsed once more, and then faded away, seeming to pull towards the Black Mountain to the north. The sky returned to normal, the sun shining through bands of heavy gray clouds.

"God save us," said Caius. "What was that?"

"An omen," said Ridmark. "A sign of their return."

"Return of who?" said Caius.

"The Frostborn," said Ridmark.

It was hard to judge expressions on the dwarf's gray-skinned face, but Ridmark thought he saw a hint of pity there. "The Frostborn are extinct. Your own High King wiped them out two hundred years ago. My kindred marched in that war, and my own father and brother fought alongside High King Ardraine himself. The Frostborn are no more."

"I know what I saw," said Ridmark, looking at the Black Mountain.

"As do I," said Caius, "but I think it was a conjunction of the moons. My kindred have long known that the conjunction of the thirteen moons can produce powerful magical effects. I think this was one of them."

"Perhaps," said Ridmark, "but that is not important. It is a sign, Brother Caius. I was warned against it." He thought for a moment. "The fire seemed to come from the Black Mountain."

"That is an ill place," said Caius. "Many great battles between the dark elves and the high elves were fought here, and then between the urdmordar and the high elves. And between the Frostborn and the High King."

"The Mhalekite orcs at Dun Licinia, too," said Ridmark. He looked back at the dwarf. "I promised Sir Joram I would see you safe back to Dun Licinia. The way is clear to the town. Go, now, and you should make it back safely."

"And where are you going, Gray Knight?" said Caius.

Ah. So he had heard of Ridmark after all. "I am going to the Black Mountain. The blue flame seemed to come from there."

"That is folly," said Caius.

"Perhaps," said Ridmark, "but the Frostborn are returning. The lords and knights of Andomhaim must be warned. They will not believe me without proof."

"So you're off to find proof?" said Caius.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "And a strange coincidence, is it not, that the Mhalekite orcs appear in the woods soon before the omen fills the skies?"

"It is troubling," said Caius.

"I am going to Black Mountain," said Ridmark. "You, Brother Caius, are going to Dun Licinia, to warn Sir Joram about the Mhalekites."

"No," said Caius. "I shall accompany you to the mountain."

Ridmark shook his head. "I fight better alone."

"That is true of neither man nor dwarf," said Caius. "I have taken the vows of a mendicant, but I fought against the dark elves and the deep orcs and the kobolds for decades as a warrior of the Three Kingdoms. I know how to wield a mace." He smiled. "Even the famed Gray Knight himself might benefit from my aid."

"I am not a knight," said Ridmark. He remembered the searing pain of the brand digging into his face. "Not any longer."

Caius shrugged. "As you said, Mhalekite orcs might lurk around the Black Mountain. But Sir Joram seems a phlegmatic sort of fellow, and he might not call to Dux Gareth Licinius for aid without proof. And if both of us go, the odds are better that one of us will survive to warn Dun Licinia."

"You are determined to go with me," said Ridmark, "aren't you?"

"You did save my life," said Caius. "While I look forward to joining the Dominus Christus in glory, I suspect he still has work for me in the mortal world."

"Stubborn," said Ridmark.

Caius grinned. "I understand humans often attribute stubbornness to my kindred."

"If God wants you to live, who am I to argue?" said Ridmark. "Very well. Come if you like. But you will do as I say, understand?"

"You are a captain and knight of renown," said Caius, "or at least you were, and I believe you know what you are doing. Lead on, Gray Knight."

"We'll make for the Tower of Vigilance," said Ridmark. "From there, we'll be able to see all the foothills on the southern side of the mountain."

"If whoever commands the Mhalekites has any brains at all," said Caius, "he'll have seized the ruins of the Tower already. That is a strong fortress, and the High King should never have let it fall into ruin after the war of the princes."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "If Mhalek had thought to seize it, we would not be having this conversation."

But perhaps Aelia would still be alive...

He pushed down that thought at once. Now was not the time to dwell upon it.

"Come," said Ridmark, lifting his staff. "Let us find some answers."

He led the way down the hill, setting a rapid pace.

Caius had no trouble keeping up.

###

The ground grew rockier as they drew north, the foothills steeper and the trees smaller. Soon Ridmark found the remnants of a road climbing into the hills, cutting its way back and forth over the slopes. Once it had led to the Tower of Vigilance itself. Taking the road would save time and make for an easier ascent.

On the other hand, if a Mhalekite chieftain had taken control of the Tower's ruins, he would have set patrols along the road. The orcs would watch for enemy patrols from Dun Licinia, not a ragged wanderer with a staff and a dwarf in a monk's robe.

"That," said Caius, "is a curious weapon you bear."

"It has its uses," said Ridmark, watching the trees. He thought about urging the dwarf to silence, but decided against it. Any sentinels in the trees would see them coming long before they came within earshot.

"I thought," said Caius, "that the sigil upon your face meant you could not bear arms within the realm of Andomhaim."

"Almost," said Ridmark. "It means I cannot carry a sword within the realm of Andomhaim. Other weapons are perfectly acceptable."

"The staff is considered a most unknightly weapon," said Caius.

"It is," said Ridmark, "but I suspect my former brothers of the Order of the Soulblade were wrong. They consider the quarterstaff a weapon for freeholders, for peasants and yeomen. Yet it takes a very skilled swordsman to overcome a capable man with a quarterstaff."

"Indeed," said Caius. "A sword is romantic, but sometimes practical things are better. I am surprised you can hit hard enough with a staff to kill, though."

Ridmark glanced back at him. Caius showed no hint of exertion from the climb, his bronze-colored mace in his right hand. "You are full of questions."

Caius laughed. "Indeed I am. Asking questions is what brought me to the Church, after all. For God is truth, and by seeking truth, we are seeking him."

"Poetic."

"So," said Caius, "how do you hit hard enough to kill?"

Ridmark laughed in exasperation and turned. "Catch."

He threw the staff at the dwarf, perhaps a little harder than he had intended. Caius's free hand snapped up to catch the staff, and the dwarf rocked beneath the weight.

"Heavier than it looks," he mused, and then his peculiar blue eyes widened. "It's made of steel!"

"Aye," said Ridmark. "Wood over a steel core. A blacksmith owed me a favor."

"A potent weapon," said Caius, handing the staff back, "in the hands of a strong man. A weapon much like its owner."

"Oh?" said Ridmark, resuming his climb.

"More than it appears," said Caius. "So you are truly the Gray Knight?"

Again Ridmark laughed in annoyance. "God and his saints. You do not weary of questions. So you have heard the tales about the Gray Knight?"

"I didn't leave the Deeps yesterday," said Caius. "I have spent nearly twenty years in Andomhaim. And ever since the fall of Mhalek, I have heard the stories. A warrior clad in a cloak of elven-gray, a warrior who haunts the wilderness of the Northerland and Durandis and Coldinium. A man who wields a staff, saves travelers from bandits and pagan orcs and worse creatures, and then vanishes as quickly as he appeared."

"A man must do something to keep himself occupied," said Ridmark.

"Indeed," said Caius. "Though I wonder what would drive such a man. But now that I know you are Ridmark Arban, the victor of Dun Licinia and..."

"And what?" said Ridmark, looking back at Caius. "Ridmark the traitor? Ridmark who fled the field? Ridmark who slew..." He looked back at the road.

"I was going to say," said Caius, "a bold and skilled warrior. Orlacht and his lot were capable fighters, and you overcame them single-handedly."

"You helped."

"Minimally," said Caius. "So what drives a man to haunt the Wilderland for five years?"

"Answers," said Ridmark.

The road rounded a hill, working its way along a steep stone slope. Soon, if Ridmark remembered correctly, the Tower of Vigilance itself would come into sight.

"What kind of answers?" said Caius.

"I told you already," said Ridmark. Yet, perhaps prodded by the dwarf's unending questions, he kept speaking. "A long time ago, I slew an urdmordar, a creature who called herself Gothalinzur. She told me that the Frostborn were returning. A year after that, I overcame an undead wizard of the dark elves in the ruins of Urd Morlemoch. He, too, claimed the Frostborn were returning."

"Lies," said Caius, a touch of sympathy in his tone. "Deceits to poison your mind in defeat. The Frostborn were exterminated."

"I thought so, too," said Ridmark. "Then Mhalek said the same thing, before..."

He remembered the scream, remembered the blood pooling on the floor, the pain filling his chest.

Pain that would never leave him.

"Before he died," he finished. "So I decided to find out the truth of it." He turned and look back at Caius. "And both the Warden and Mhalek claimed that blue fire would fill the sky to herald the return of the Frostborn."

"So here we are," said Caius.

"Here we are," said Ridmark. "If you'd prefer not to travel any further in the company of a madman, you are welcome to return to Dun Licinia."

"No," said Caius. "I don't think you are mad. No, I think you are...something else."

"What, then?" said Ridmark, climbing up the road.

Caius did not answer.

Ridmark took another step, and then stopped.

"What is it?" said Caius.

"Keep your voice down," said Ridmark, lowering his staff so it tapped against the dwarf's burly chest. "Up ahead. See those boulders, just around the curve of the hill?"

Caius nodded. "A perfect place for a sentry."

"Exactly," said Ridmark. "Another few feet, and he'll be able to see us." He looked around, scowling. He supposed they could go around the hill, but that would take hours, and night would fall long before they reached the Tower of Vigilance. Ridmark could scramble up the slope and reach the pile of boulders from behind, but it would be obvious. One mistake, and any sentries would see him.

"A distraction," said Ridmark.

"What did you have in mind?" said Caius.

"You," said Ridmark.

"Me?"

"Keep walking along the road," said Ridmark. "Draw attention to yourself. Sing a hymn or something. While the sentry is watching you, he won't notice me, and I can deal with him."

"I don't like this plan," said Caius.

"You said you like to talk," said Ridmark. "It plays to your strengths."

The dwarf snorted. "I like to ask questions. But very well. I assume you know what you're doing."

Ridmark nodded and climbed the hill, and Caius marched along the world. He began to sing, his deep, rolling voice echoing off the hillside. Ridmark scrambled over the stones, moving from pine tree to pine tree with as much as much silence as he could manage. Caius kept walking, looking for all the world like a friar relieving the tedium of his journey with a hymn.

An orcish man stepped into sight from around the boulders, a short bow in hand, forehead branded with the Mhalekites' blood drop sigil. The orc lifted his bow, taking aim at Caius, and Ridmark charged forward.

At the last minute the orc saw him coming, but it was too late. The first swing of Ridmark's staff ripped the bow from the orc's hand. The second caught the orc behind the knees and sent him sprawling to the stony ground. The orc landed with a grunt of pain and tried to rise, only to find the butt of Ridmark's staff resting on his throat.

"Don't move," said Ridmark in orcish.

The orc growled. "What do you want?"

Caius scrambled up the hillside, mace in hand.

"You were going to shoot my friend," said Ridmark.

"You should not be here," said the orc. "These lands belong to the sons of Mhalek."

"Mhalek is dead," said Ridmark.

The orc growled again. "Betrayed and murdered by the cowardly Ridmark of Andomhaim...though the wretched human paid for his folly."

"Indeed," said Ridmark. "That does not explain why you are here."

"The omen came," said the orc, "just as the Master promised. Mhalek is slain, but the blood gods will come again. We will drive the humans and the halflings from these lands. We will butcher those of our kindred who pray to the weakling god of the humans."

"That is unlikely," said Ridmark.

"Many thousands of us have gathered," said the orc. "And the Master has promised a second sign, a force of warriors that shall make us invincible. Soon the lands of the humans and the faithless shall drip with blood."

"I think not," said Ridmark.

He lifted his staff.

"Are you going to kill him?" said Caius. "He is a prisoner."

"No," said Ridmark. "I'm going to let him go."

He stepped back, staff in hand. The orc climbed to his feet, black eyes narrowed.

"You will let me go? Why?" said the orc.

"Tell your master," said Ridmark, "that we know about his plans. That the men of Dun Licinia are ready for him. Tell your master to turn aside from his folly while he still can. Go."

The orc spat and turned.

Ridmark stretched, tightening his fingers against his staff.

"Ridmark!" shouted Caius.

The orc whirled, short sword in hand, and sprang at Ridmark.

Ridmark had anticipated the treachery, and met the orc's attack with one of his own. He sidestepped the stab, swinging his staff, and the heavy weapon slammed into the orc's forehead with a crack of bone. The orc toppled, and Ridmark stabbed the end of the staff onto the orc's throat.

The orc died a few heartbeats after that.

"Did you really intend to let him go?" said Caius.

"If he had left without attacking us, then yes," said Ridmark. "I would have let him go. But as you said, a man has a right to defend himself."

"He would have warned the other Mhalekites," said Caius.

"I know," said Ridmark. "I will not murder a prisoner."

He beckoned, and they worked their way back to the road.

"Your mercy does you credit," said Caius.

"Thank you," said Ridmark.

"But I do not think," said Caius, "that was your real reason."

"Oh?" said Ridmark. "Enlighten me, then."

"The Gray Knight," said Caius. "The man seeking the Frostborn, saving travelers and freeholders from bandits and the creatures of the Wilderland. A man who has no trouble risking his life."

"God and his saints!" said Ridmark. "It is just as well that you became a friar, Brother Caius, for you are enamored with the sound of your own voice."

Caius smiled. "Thank you." The smile faded. "I think, Ridmark Arban...I think you are a man who very badly wants to die, but hasn't yet found anyone capable of killing him."

"All mortals die," said Ridmark.

He remembered the blood pooling on the floor of Castra Marcaine's great hall, remembered that last scream.

"Even those," he said, "who do not deserve it. I suggest we remain quiet now. There may be more scouts in the hills."

Caius gave him a long look, nodded, and Ridmark continued on the road.

***

## Chapter 5 - Shadowbearer

Calliande fought against the orc's grasp.

But the orc was too strong, and whatever had caused Calliande to wake up in a vault below the ruined castle had left her weak and exhausted. The orc pulled her along, her feet slipping and skidding on the rough ground, and she had no choice but to follow.

He pulled her towards the crumbling shell of a tower in the outer curtain wall.

"Kharlacht!" called the orc. "I've found her!"

A second orc emerged from within the tower.

He was huge, nearly seven feet tall, his topknot bound with a gleaming bronze ring. He was young, no more than twenty-five at the most, yet the middle-aged orc seemed frightened of him. The orc wore peculiar armor fashioned from overlapping plates of gleaming blue steel, and after a moment Calliande realized that the armor was of dark elven make, as was the hilt of the greatsword rising over his right shoulder.

Apparently that was something else she knew.

Kharlacht looked her up and down and grunted.

"She is far too young, Ulazur," said Kharlacht, his voice a stern growl. "You've found some lost human wench. The Master will be wroth if you bring her before him."

He turned away. A leather cord encircled his thick neck, and Calliande saw that it held a small wooden cross.

The orc was baptized? Unlike Ulazur, he did not have that peculiar brand upon his forehead.

"I am sure of it," said Ulazur. "That flooded tower in the inner castle. She came out of the water in the cellar."

Kharlacht turned back.

"She appeared right after the great sign," said Ulazur. "After the blue fire. It happened just as the Master said it would. She is the one, Kharlacht."

Kharlacht stooped over her, his huge, hard hand engulfing her chin, and tilted her face up to examine it. His black eyes were like disks of stone, and held not a hint of pity or mercy.

"You will tell me your name," he said.

"Calliande," she said, her teeth chattering.

"Calliande," repeated Kharlacht. "How did you come here?"

"I...I don't know!" said Calliande. "I can't remember." She suspected telling the orcs anything would prove unwise.

"She speaks our tongue," said Ulazur. "Unusual for a common peasant. The Master said she might call herself Calliande."

"Indeed," said Kharlacht. "Very well. We shall speak to Qazarl."

"Do not think to claim the reward, Kharlacht," said Ulazur with a scowl. "You might be Qazarl's kin, but I found her."

"I will not claim the reward," said Kharlacht. Ulazur grinned. "But if she is not the one the Master seeks...then you will answer to the Master for it."

That made Ulazur's smile vanish.

"Come, girl," said Ulazur, yanking on Calliande's arm. "Let us see what the Master thinks of you."

"Where am I?" said Calliande. "Where you taking me?"

"Silence," said Ulazur, raising his hand to strike her.

"The Master wished," said Kharlacht, "for her to remain undamaged."

Ulazur lowered his hand.

"This place is called the Tower of Vigilance in the human tongue," said Kharlacht. The name clicked in Calliande's mind, and she knew he spoke the truth. "Once it was a mighty fortress. It burned when the High King's sons made war upon each other, and now it is a ruin."

"No," said Calliande, "no, that's not right. The Vigilant keep watch here, in case...in case..."

She could not remember why the Vigilant kept watch.

"As for where we are taking you," said Kharlacht. He looked away. Did she see guilt on his face? "You will see what the Master wants from you soon enough. Bring her."

Kharlacht strode across the courtyard of the ruined castle, Ulazur dragging Calliande after him. They circled the castle's curtain wall, coming at last to the wreckage of the southern gate. Memories flickered within Calliande's mind as she looked at the ruins. She saw the walls standing tall and strong, unmarked by weather and violence. Banners flew from the towers, men in gleaming armor standing atop the ramparts.

The details dissolved into mist whenever she tried to focus on them.

She was certain she had seen this castle, the Tower of Vigilance, at the height of its splendor. But to judge from the state of the ruins, it had been abandoned for a century, if not longer.

What had happened to her?

As she felt Ulazur's fingers dig into her arm, Calliande realized that she ought to be more concerned about what was going to happen to her.

Kharlacht marched up the stairs to the outer wall. A wide turret stretched next to the barbican, offering a splendid view of the foothills below the Black Mountain. A half-dozen orcish men stood there, scowling, and Calliande felt the weight of their gaze fall upon her.

She desperately wanted to cover herself.

At the edge of the turret, gazing down at the foothills, stood a tall figure in a long coat the color of blood. The black-trimmed coat rippled in the icy wind coming down from the mountains. All Calliande saw of the figure in the coat was a shock of dark hair rising over the collar. The wizards of the high elves often wore such coats, indicating their rank and magical prowess.

Evidently that was another fact she had known before...whatever had happened to her.

Though she had no idea what a high elf would be doing among these orcs.

"Qazarl," said Kharlacht.

One of the orcish men stepped forward. He was the oldest orc Calliande had seen so far, his hair and ragged beard white. Unlike the others, he wore neither a warrior's topknot nor armor, but only trousers and a ragged vest. Elaborate tattoos and ritual scars marked his arms and chest.

She recognized the symbols. The orc was a shaman, a priest of the orcish blood gods...and a wielder of dark magic.

"Cousin Kharlacht," said Qazarl, his voice a thin hiss. "You have something?"

"Aye," said Kharlacht. "Ulazur believes he found her."

Qazarl's black eyes shifted to the warrior.

"Yes, great shaman," said Ulazur. "This is her."

He shoved Calliande towards the shaman.

"Her?" A second, younger orc stepped to Qazarl's side. Like Qazarl, his chest and arms were marked with scars and tattoos, though not as many as the older orc. That meant he was still an acolyte, not a full shaman of the blood gods...though he was still powerful and dangerous.

Again she wondered how she knew that.

Ulazur growled at the acolyte, lips pulling back from his teeth. "You doubt me, Vlazar?"

"This...girl is supposed to be the one the Master seeks?" said Vlazar. "He bade us to find a woman of power and strength. Instead you bring us this...huddling peasant girl." He stepped forward, glaring down at Calliande. "What is your name?"

Calliande said nothing, trying not to show any of her fear.

Vlazar backhanded her across the face. The power of the blow knocked her from her feet, and Calliande landed upon the rough stone floor with a cry.

"Enough," said Kharlacht. "This accomplishes nothing."

Vlazar spat. "More crying for mercy, Kharlacht? Why don't you pray to the sheep god of the humans and see if he will save the girl? Or perhaps you can put on lambskin and have Qazarl's wives put you to bed at night?"

The other orcs laughed, even Qazarl.

"Say that again, wizardling," said Kharlacht, his voice deepening and his eyes glowing as rage took hold. Orcs could fly into a murderous fury that made them stronger and faster than all but the most puissant human warriors.

"Do not threaten me," said Vlazar. "I have the favor of the blood gods, and unlike your god, they have power..."

Kharlacht reached for his sword hilt. "We shall see. It..."

"Enough."

The deep voice was calm and resonant, and yet carried a strange echo.

Almost as if it was two voices speaking at once.

Vlazar fell silent at once, and Kharlacht dropped his hand.

The orcs turned to look at the figure in the long red coat.

Calliande felt a shiver of fear. There was something wrong about that figure, something off...

She realized what it was. The gray clouds blocked out much of the sun, but a long black shadow streamed behind the man in the blood-colored coat.

A shadow pointing in the wrong direction.

"Master?" said Qazarl.

"Control your kinsman and your acolyte," said the strange voice. "I need her alive. If you harm her unduly, I fear I shall be...disappointed."

The figure in the blood-colored coat turned, and Calliande found herself looking at a high elf

There was indeed something wrong with him.

He wore a black tunic, black trousers, and gleaming black boots beneath the red coat. His skin was the grayish-white of a corpse, and black veins throbbed beneath his hands and face, like fingers of corruption digging into rotting flesh. His bloodshot eyes were the color of mercury, of quicksilver, and Calliande realized she could see her reflection in his irises.

"You found her, Ulazur?" said the high elf.

Ulazur made a quick, jerky nod. "Yes, Master."

"Good. Pay him whatever reward was promised, Qazarl," said the high elf. He took several steps forward, and as he did, the orcs backed away. His shadow swept before him like a thrown cloak, and Calliande was desperately afraid that it would touch her bare skin.

He stopped a few paces away, his strange shadow waving back and forth across the ground like an angry serpent.

"It has been a long time," he said, "hasn't it?"

"Stay away from me," said Calliande.

"Oh, not that long, not really," said the high elf, as if she had not spoken. "Not in the greater scheme of things. Your kindred has walked the face of the world for...what? A thousand years? The blink of an eye." He tilted his head to the side. "Though from your perspective, I suppose that is nearly an eternity."

Despite all the strange things that had befallen Calliande, somehow this strange, gaunt creature frightened her more than all of them together.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

The high elf blinked. "You don't remember me? At all?" He laughed. "Ah. That is delightful. Better than I could have imagined. I have often tried to make mortals forget me. It makes my work so much easier. And you did it to yourself!"

"So you are afraid to tell me who you are?" said Calliande, trying to muster a show of defiance.

The high elf grinned, pale lips exposing yellow teeth. "If I told you my real name, it would make blood pour out of your ears, I am afraid. And we can't have that. I have been called many things, but you used to know me as Shadowbearer."

A shiver of icy recognition went down Calliande's spine, though she could recall no details. Yet she remembered what the specter in the vault had told her. He had warned her to beware the bearer of the shadow.

Had he meant this strange creature?

"What do you want with me?" said Calliande.

"Your blood, your heart, and your power," said Shadowbearer. "In that order, precisely." He grinned again. "I see the frustration in your face. You see, I just told you exactly what I intend to do. In your prime, you would have understood at once. Now it's as if I'm speaking gibberish. How pathetic you have become." He leaned closer, his strange shadow inching closer to her, and Calliande tried not to flinch or look away. "And the most amusing part of all is that you did it to yourself."

"If you know who I am," said Calliande, "then tell me. Otherwise do not weary my ears with your riddling nonsense."

She heard Vlazar's breath hiss through his teeth. Apparently one did not speak in such a manner to Shadowbearer.

The high elf laughed. "Bravely spoken. If you had your memory, my words would be clear as day. Alas, you maimed yourself in pride, and blinded yourself to wisdom." He clapped his hands together. "We had best get started, hmm? A year and a month. That is how long I have, starting from the great sign. Thirteen months, and I cannot waste a moment of them. Before our work begins, I have two questions for you. First." He leaned closer, and Calliande shuddered. "Where is the staff?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Calliande. She had looked for a staff when she had first awoken, but could remember nothing of it.

Shadowbearer nodded. "I see. Then where is the sword?"

"Sword?" said Calliande. "What sword? I haven't seen any swords."

"I do believe," said Shadowbearer, straightening up, "that you are telling the truth. Let us make certain." He snapped his fingers. "Get her on her feet."

Two of the orcs seized Calliande's arms and jerked her upright. Shadowbearer moved closer, and she saw her distorted reflection in the quicksilver irises of the high elf's bloodshot eyes. Her skin crawled with revulsion as he drew nearer, the red coat hanging around him like a bloody shroud.

"Now," said Shadowbearer, "let us have the truth, shall we? Hold her still. She will likely scream."

His shadow rotated to fall upon her, wrapping around her like icy fingers.

Calliande screamed.

The shadow had neither weight nor presence. Yet she felt it touching her, felt it sinking into every nook and cranny of her being.

"Now," said Shadowbearer, and she heard his strange voice thundering inside her head. "The staff. Where is the staff?"

"I don't know!" said Calliande. "I don't know anything about a staff."

"Indeed," said Shadowbearer, and made a twisting motion with his right hand.

Pain exploded through her, and Calliande went rigid, screaming. If not for the orcs' grasp, she would have collapsed to the ground. She felt the shadow drilling into her mind and sifting through her thoughts, felt cold, clammy fingers sorting through her memories.

She tried to think of a staff...but she remembered nothing but swirling mist.

"Ah," murmured Shadowbearer. "Clever. Another question. Where is the sword?"

"I...I don't know," said Calliande, shuddering. "The only swords I've seen are with your orcs."

Shadowbearer nodded. "I thought so. Now let us see if you are telling the truth."

Again he made that twisting motion, and agony stabbed through Calliande. She screamed again, her eyes bulging with pain, and felt the talons of his shadow sink into her head. The questing fingers rummaged through her thoughts, seeking for any mention of a sword.

But again, they found only mist.

"So," said Shadowbearer, his shadow sliding away from her. "I am impressed." He turned to the rampart. "You didn't simply erase your memory. That can be undone, after all, with the proper spells. No, you removed it entirely." He laughed. "I cannot view what I cannot find."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Calliande.

"Of course you don't," said Shadowbearer. "That is the entire point. I admire your forethought, really. You knew this might happen. You knew I would not stop. So you prepared. All this," he waved his hand at the ruined Tower of Vigilance, "and the game with the memories. Very, very clever." He grinned, the expression making his face all the more skull-like. "Very clever...but I have been doing this for a long time, dear Calliande. Longer that you have. I burned the Tower...and I was waiting for you."

"I don't know what any of this is about," said Calliande. "I've never seen you before and I don't know where I am. Please, let me go. Please."

His gaunt face curled in a sneer. "Begging? You are begging for your life?" He laughed, as did the orcs, though Kharlacht remained silent. "How thoroughly you have defeated yourself. Once armies marched at the sound of your voice. Now you are reduced to groveling like a slave girl. You understood the nature of your enemy, but you were too weak to do what was necessary to defeat me. And now even that knowledge has been taken from you."

"I don't understand," said Calliande.

"No matter," said Shadowbearer. "Your understanding is not required. Merely your death. Qazarl!"

"Master," said the shaman with a bow, moving to the red-coated wizard's side.

"We must act at once," said Shadowbearer. "You are prepared?"

"Yes, Master," said Qazarl. "Four thousand of my kin have assembled from Vhaluusk, and they wait outside the walls of this fortress. Food and fodder have been gathered, and we are ready to bring blood and death into the lands of the humans."

"Good," said Shadowbearer. "You are a strong disciple of the blood gods, and you shall succeed where Mhalek failed."

Qazarl nodded, his eyes alight with eagerness, as did the other orcs. Could they not see the faint sneer of contempt of Shadowbearer's face? This wizard, this creature, whatever he was, was not Qazarl's ally.

Kharlacht looked troubled. Perhaps he saw it.

"I have one task for you first," said Shadowbearer. "A ritual, one that will guarantee victory for your forces."

"What is it, Master?" said Qazarl.

"This," said Shadowbearer, reaching into his coat.

He lifted his hand, and Calliande felt the power of the object in his fingers. Both Qazarl and Vlazar took a step back, and Kharlacht reached for the hilt of his greatsword. Shadowbearer held a lump of white crystal about the size of a grown man's fist, a pale white glow gleaming in its milky depths. The mist in her mind shivered at the sight of the crystal, and suddenly she knew what it was.

"A soulstone," she whispered.

The orcs looked at her, and Shadowbearer grinned.

"Ah," he said. "Your memory returns, does it? Well, not entirely. Otherwise you would know just how much danger you are in."

"Is it true, Master?" said Qazarl. "That is a soulstone?"

"It is," said Shadowbearer, still grinning. "An empty one. Fresh-grown, in fact. Snatched from the caves of Cathair Solas to the north."

"Then," said Kharlacht, "will not the high elves come in wrath to reclaim it? Such a stone is dangerous."

Shadowbearer looked at the hulking orc and said nothing.

"Do not question the Master!" snarled Qazarl, and Vlazar glared at Kharlacht, flexing his fingers as if to cast a spell. "I put up with your peculiar infatuation with the human god because you are blood kin and a skilled warrior. Do not ever presume to question the Master, Kharlacht, for..."

"Actually," said Shadowbearer, "he is entirely correct. The archmage of the high elves is most wroth, and he is coming in fury to destroy me." He smiled. "Not that he could, of course. He has tried ever since the urdmordar ground the high elven kingdoms into bloody dust. Yet I am still here. Nevertheless, he is coming for me."

"Then what shall we do?" said Ulazur. "We cannot fight high elven sorcery."

"No need," said Shadowbearer. "I will deal with the archmage. You, Qazarl, will seize Dun Licinia and kill every man of fighting age within the walls. Keep the women and children as slaves, or kill them as it pleases you." He held out the soulstone, and Calliande felt its power wash over her. "You, Vlazar, will take this."

"Me?" said the younger shaman, black eyes widening.

"Are you deaf?" said Shadowbearer. "Yes, you."

Vlazar swallowed and took the soulstone from Shadowbearer's hands. "What am I to do with it, Master?"

"Select a suitable escort of warriors," said Shadowbearer. "Twenty or thirty ought to suffice. Take the soulstone and our prisoner," he gestured at Calliande, "and proceed to the circle of standing stones further up the foothills. Do you know it?"

"Yes, Master," said Vlazar. "The dark elves of old once built such places, when they still ruled the orcish kindred as slaves...and they worked mighty sorcery there."

"Splendid. How good to meet a man who knows his own history," said Shadowbearer. "Take the prisoner to the standing stones, unharmed and untouched. When you arrive bind her upon the altar, place the soulstone upon her chest, and kill her. The soulstone will...transform, rather suddenly, after that. Once it does, return here and give me the soulstone."

"I would prefer," said Vlazar, "to join Qazarl and assail Dun Licinia, and spill the blood of the humans!"

"Oh, you will," said Shadowbearer. "Once you return to me with the activated soulstone, you will spill human blood. I promise you that we shall spill more blood than this world has ever seen."

His words echoed in Calliande's head, and another bit of memory floated out of the mist in her head.

"You're...you're going to trap my soul in that crystal," said Calliande. "Why?"

"For power, of course," said Shadowbearer. "Power enough to crack worlds...or, more accurately, to join them." He looked at the sky, his shadow rotating around him, and nodded. "Yes. Begin at once."

"In the name of the blood gods," said Qazarl, "we shall turn Dun Licinia to ashes."

"I shall do as you command, Master," said Vlazar.

"Good," said Shadowbearer. "Oh, and Vlazar? Make certain the girl reaches the altar untouched. She is a pretty young thing, or at least looks like one, and perhaps you wish for some fun before you kill her, hmm?"

Vlazar grinned, and Calliande shuddered at his expression.

"Resist that impulse," said Shadowbearer. "For the magic to work, she needs to reach the standing stones untouched. A little bastard half-orc in her belly would upset the spell. So." His strange shadow rotated to point at Vlazar, and the shaman took an alarmed step back. "Do exactly as I say. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Master," said Vlazar. "All things will be as you command."

"Good," said Shadowbearer. "I shall return. Begin now."

The high elf turned, his shadow rippling and distorting around him, and vanished into nothingness.

For a moment the orcs said nothing.

"This is madness, Qazarl," said Kharlacht. "We might take Dun Licinia, aye, but the Dux of the Northerland will come for us, along with the Swordbearers and the Magistri. We..."

"Silence," said Qazarl, glaring at the young warrior. "You shall see the power of the blood gods revealed, fool. Perhaps that will at last shame you into forsaking the superstitions of the humans." He made a dismissive gesture. "You will command Vlazar's escort. Select thirty warriors of appropriate strength."

"I do not wish that fool in my company," said Vlazar, glaring at Kharlacht.

"I care nothing for your wishes," said Qazarl. "Kharlacht might pray to the god of sheep, but he is still our strongest warrior, and the Black Mountain is dangerous. The Master will be displeased if the kobolds of the Deeps carry off the woman for their dinner. Stop talking and go."

Vlazar growled, looking back and forth between Kharlacht and Qazarl, and for a moment Calliande thought the rage in his orcish blood would drive him to attack. At last he shivered, and made a harsh nod. "As you say. Kharlacht, select your warriors. We will leave at once."

"Make haste to fulfill the Master's bidding," said Qazarl. "I will await you at Dun Licinia."

"You two," said Kharlacht, pointing at the orcs holding Calliande. "Bind her. Gently."

Calliande tried to run, but she was still too weak, and Shadowbearer's magical intrusion had left her further weakened. The orcs tied her wrists and ankles together, and then produced a long wooden pole and bound her to it. Two of the orcs hefted the pole and carried it on their shoulders, and she swung from it like a deer trussed up from the hunt.

Or like a goat tied up for the slaughter.

Kharlacht and Vlazar strode from the curtain wall, their warriors carrying Calliande between them.

From outside the wall, Calliande heard the sound of drums and shouts, the noise of an orcish host preparing itself for battle.

***

## Chapter 6 - Pursuit

"I think," said Caius in a quiet voice, "that we are in over our heads."

Ridmark could not disagree.

He crouched behind a mossy boulder, the dwarf friar at his side, and looked at the stone bulk of the Tower of Vigilance.

The ruined castle crowned one of the largest of the foothills. Once its massive curtain wall had encircled the hill's entire crest, the towers of its inner keep rising high against the dark shadow of the Black Mountain. Now the castle was a crumbling ruin, its towers stone shells, its gates broken.

A ruin that provided shelter for thousands of orcs camped outside the wall.

"Three thousand of them, at least," muttered Ridmark, counting the lines of tents. He saw orcish warriors walking everywhere, sharpening weapons and repairing armor. "Maybe even four."

"Aye," said Caius, examining the ruined castle. "They're getting ready to move."

Ridmark nodded, thinking. "They must be preparing to attack Dun Licinia. This isn't merely a warband or a raid. This is an army, as large of one as Mhalek's old followers can muster."

"I head Mhalek raised a great horde," said Caius.

"He did," said Ridmark. "Fifty thousand strong, and they marched out of Vhaluusk and the Wilderland like a storm. They will...wait, stop talking."

He ducked behind the boulder, and Caius followed suit. A moment later four orcish scouts marched up the road, each carrying a short bow, their forehead marked with the teardrop sigil of the Mhalekites. Ridmark remained motionless, wrapped in his elven cloak, his hands tightening around his staff.

The orcs did not see them, and continued climbing the road to the Tower's southern gate.

"Fifty thousand strong," said Ridmark, straightening up, "and they would have burned a trail of cinders and blood from Dun Licinia to Tarlion itself, if Mhalek had worked his will."

"If you hadn't stopped him," said Caius.

Ridmark grimaced. "I was hardly alone." He stared at the castle. "One of Mhalek's remaining disciples must have delusions of grandeur, or found some old dark elven relic of power. They won't penetrate far into the realm, not with only four thousand warriors. But they will burn Dun Licinia to the ground, and kill God knows how many people."

"Then our course is clear," said Caius. "We must return to Dun Licinia and warn Sir Joram." He shrugged. "At the very least one of us must go, if you are so determined to find the truth behind this omen of the Frostborn."

"Even you must think it an odd coincidence," said Ridmark, glancing at Caius. "The blue fire fills the sky...and then an orcish host gathers at the Tower of Vigilance."

"What is this place, anyway?" said Caius.

"The Tower of Vigilance," repeated Ridmark.

Caius snorted. "I know the name, but not its history."

"Fair enough," said Ridmark. He saw hundreds of green-skinned figures moving back and forth below the Tower's outer wall. "Two hundred years ago, after the High King Arthurain the Fifth and the Dragon Knight and the Magistri and the Swordbearers destroyed the Frostborn, some feared the Frostborn they might return. So the Order of the Vigilant was founded, and they built the Tower of Vigilance to watch for the Frostborn. The decades passed, and the Order became an anachronism. Finally, during the War of the Five Princes, the Master of the Vigilant picked the wrong side. The current High King's father seized the Tower of the Vigilant, burned it, and slew the Order. The castle has been abandoned ever since."

"Now here you are," said Caius, "hunting signs of the return of the Frostborn. Who are extinct."

"I've found orcs instead," said Ridmark. "God has a sense of humor."

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," said Caius, "his wonders to perform. And while I do not presume to know the mind of God, I hope his plan does not involve you dying in the heart of those ruins. Which you will, if we go any further. I suggest we return to Dun Licinia at once. Sir Joram must be warned...and if the outlying freeholders do not fall back behind the town's walls, they shall be slaughtered."

The dwarven friar was right. The omen Ridmark had sought for five years had filled the sky, and Ridmark knew the answers were somewhere on the Black Mountain. Yet a small army of orcs stood between Ridmark and the Mountain. He did not fear death, and after Mhalek's defeat, he had courted death without hesitation. Yet as weary as he was of life, he was not ready to kill himself...and if he marched into the Tower of Vigilance, that was exactly what he would do.

Besides, he was sure those Mhalekite orcs were somehow connected to the omen.

"Very well," said Ridmark. "We'll make our way back to town. If we start now we should arrive by midnight." He looked at the dwarf. "I assume you have no trouble journeying in the dark?"

Caius smiled, his odd blue eyes glinting in his gray face. "I was a son of Khald Tormen, and I did not see the sun until my twentieth birthday. Your moonlit nights are to me as a cloudless summer day is to you."

Ridmark frowned. "So what is a cloudless summer day to you, then?"

Caius considered it for a moment. "Very bright."

"Indeed," said Ridmark, glancing at the sky. It was not a cloudless summer noon but a late spring afternoon, and the sky was a patchwork of clear blue and harsh gray clouds. "Best we move. Even with your eyes, I wouldn't enjoy finding my way through the hills back to the valley in the..."

A shadow passed overhead, and Ridmark caught a glimpse of sunlight reflecting off something coppery.

"Down!" he hissed.

He pushed Caius against the boulder, and a drake landed a half-dozen yards away.

The serpentine creature was the size of a large dog, through its bat-like wings stretched for a dozen feet in either direction from its slender body. Gleaming copper-colored scales covered the creature from its head to its pointed tail, and talons the color of sooty iron jutted from its paws. Its narrow head rotated back and forth on the end of its long neck, and its gleaming yellow eyes regarded Ridmark with an unblinking stare.

Caius frowned. "Is that a..."

"Drake. A fire drake, yes," said Ridmark. "Spread out your hands. Make yourself look bigger, and start moving to the side." He spread his arms, staff in his right hand, and moved to the left while Caius moved to the right. "For God's sake don't run at it."

"Small little devil," said Caius, and his deep voice turned the drake's attention toward him. "One good blow from my mace should crush its skull."

"Aye," said Ridmark, "and if you miss, you won't get a second blow, because your head will be on fire."

"Do you think the orcs enspelled it," said Caius, "and sent the beast to scout?"

"Perhaps," said Ridmark. The Magistri of the High Kingdom used their magic for defense, for knowledge, and for far-speaking, but the shamans of the pagan orcs possessed many strange powers. "There are nests of the drakes upon the Black Mountain. Occasionally bold knights will decide to make a name for themselves by slaying a few of the drakes...and usually they wind up cooked within their armor."

The drake had still not moved, its head rotating back and forth between Caius and Ridmark.

"What is it doing?" said Caius. "Why hasn't it attacked?"

"Because," said Ridmark, "drakes aren't afraid of humans, but I doubt this one has ever smelled a dwarf before. It doesn't know what to make of you."

"So he's trying to decide," said Caius, "whether or not to eat us."

"Yes," said Ridmark. "Keep making yourself look larger, and back away around the boulder. If it decides we're too much trouble, it will fly off. Probably try to kill one of the Mhalekites. If it decides to eat us, we'll have to fight it, and it will breathe fire."

"That would be bad," said Caius.

"Obviously," said Ridmark. He squatted, scooped up a stone with his free hand, and kept backing away. "And if it misses, it will set those pine needles on fire. If it does, the orcs in the Tower will see the fire..."

"And come to kill us," said Caius. "So what do we do?"

"Keep backing away," said Ridmark. "If we can get behind the boulder, it..."

The drake scuttled forward, its jaws yawning.

"Down!" said Ridmark.

Caius threw himself to the side, and the drake spat a jet of swirling yellow-orange flame. The fire splashed against the side of the boulder, and a patch of pine needles burst into flame, thick black smoke rising into the sky. Caius sprinted at the drake, mace in hand, and the beast opened its jaws for another blast of flame.

Ridmark flung the stone in his left hand. It slammed into the drake's head. The drake snarled and rotated to face him, and Ridmark surged forward. He swung his staff with all his strength, and the shaft struck with enough force to knock two fangs from the drake's jaw. The creature staggered with a scream of pain, and Caius's heavy mace slammed into the joint of its left foreleg. Ridmark heard the bones crunch beneath heavy dwarven steel, and again the drake screamed.

The creature had had enough. It flung itself into the air, wings unfurling, and flew away towards the Black Mountain.

The smoke from the burning pine needles followed it.

Ridmark ducked behind another boulder, as did Caius, and saw the commotion atop the hill. The orcs were moving. They had seen the fire, and they would send at least a single patrol to investigate.

"We had best move," said Ridmark.

"Sound counsel," said Caius.

Ridmark beckoned, pulling up the cowl of his cloak, and led Caius further away from the road, higher up the slope of the hill towards the Tower. He looked at the burning pine needles and muttered a curse. Despite his best efforts, they had left tracks near the boulder. If the Mhalekites had any skilled trackers among their numbers, the orcs would find their trail in short order.

They needed to disappear.

Fortunately, the sun was going down, and the ground grew rockier near the Tower of Vigilance itself.

"This way," said Ridmark. "Step only where I step."

He hurried across the stony hillside as fast as he dared, moving from boulder to boulder and stone to stone. Caius hopped after him, mace in one hand. With any luck, they would not leave tracks for the orcs to follow. Given that the Mhalekites clearly planned to attack Dun Licinia as soon as possible, Ridmark hoped they could lie low until the orcs departed. Then they could slip past their column and head for Dun Licinia.

"There," said Ridmark. They were getting closer to the Tower than he would like, and would need cover soon. "Follow me."

A pair of stubby pine trees jutted from a massive cracked boulder. Ridmark ducked under the trees, the fallen needles gritting beneath his boots, and Caius followed suit. From here, they had a fine view of both the hillside and the road leading to the Tower's southern gate. If any orcs came towards their hiding place, Ridmark would see them long before they saw him.

"A good hiding place," said Caius. He squinted at the curtain wall. "Though if they're clever, I suppose they could mount a siege machine upon the wall and shoot us from a distance."

"If they have any siege machines," said Ridmark, "they're taking them to Dun Licinia. We'd best wait here until we see how they react to the fire." He sat down with a sigh and pulled off his pack. "Do you have any food?"

"Of course," said Caius, lifting his own pack. "Hard biscuits and cheese. I wouldn't venture into the Wilderland without supplies. And you stopped the orcs before they robbed me."

"I don't suppose you have any wine," said Ridmark, reaching for his waterskin.

"I do," said Caius, "but it is reserved for communion."

Ridmark retrieved some jerky from his pack and began to eat.

"How long do you intend to remain here?" said Caius.

"Until nightfall," said Ridmark. "Once it's dark, we can make our way back down the hill and back to Dun Licinia."

"That's another four hours, at least," said Caius.

Ridmark nodded. "Then I suggest that you make yourself comfortable."

Caius grimaced. "Small chance of that, I fear."

"Is not hardship good for the soul?"

"True," said Caius, "though, alas, the flesh is never as willing to..."

A war horn rang out, and for an instant Ridmark thought that they had been discovered. But a second horn rang out, and then another, until dozens of blasts thundered over the foothills of the Black Mountain. Drums boomed from the Tower of Vigilance, and Ridmark heard thousands of orcs shouting.

"Quite the racket," said Caius.

Ridmark peered up at the ruined castle. Orcs hurried along the base of the walls, gathering at the southern gate. In their midst he saw wagons pulled by mules, wagons laden with weapons and supplies.

"They're moving out," he said. "I would wager they are heading right for Dun Licinia."

"We must go at once," said Caius.

"We can't," said Ridmark. "If we leave now, we'll get caught. Not even I can elude that many orcs in one place. We'll wait until dark, or until enough of them leave." He thought for a moment. "Then we can cut through the Tower of Vigilance itself and exit through its northern gate. Another road circles the base of the hill, and we can use it to reach Dun Licinia."

"Just in time to see the town besieged," said Caius.

"Perhaps," said Ridmark. "The Mhalekites might take their time looting the countryside. If the town falls under siege, we'll head for Castra Marcaine. Dux Licinius needs to be warned, and he can call his Comites and knights to smash the Mhalekites."

He did not look forward to seeing Dux Gareth Licinius again, not at all, and he never wanted to return to Castra Marcaine. Yet the Dux of the Northerland had to be warned of what was happening in his lands.

"I can think of nothing better to do," said Caius.

"Pity," said Ridmark. "I was hoping you had a better plan."

They sat in silence. Ridmark watched the orcs moving around the base of the castle. A long column wound its way down the road, thousands of orcish warriors marching in a ragged line. The orcs lacked the discipline and the formations Ridmark had seen in the High King's armies, or the baptized orcs allied with the High King. Yet the rage in the orcs' blood let them strike harder and faster than a human man. Discipline always conquered individual valor and boldness, yet the orcs' battle rage was unmatched...

"How do you happen to know this countryside so well?" said Caius, cutting into Ridmark's musings.

He looked away from the marching column. "When Mhalek came, the Master of my...the Master of the Swordbearers sent out scouts. He wanted the countryside mapped thoroughly, didn't want Mhalek to use the terrain against us."

"The Master of the Order at the battle?" said Caius. "That was old Armus Galearus, wasn't it?"

"Aye," said Ridmark, remembering the fierce old man with his bristling white beard. He had been the image of a chivalric Swordbearer, devoted to his code...right up until Mhalek's treachery killed him.

"I suppose you benefited from the maps," said Caius.

"I did," said Ridmark. He shook his head. "They said I won the Battle of Dun Licinia, but as I told you, I was hardly alone. I had a great deal of help."

"Up until the end, at any rate," said Caius.

"Yes," said Ridmark.

He did not want to talk about what had happened after the battle.

They lapsed into silence. Caius lifted his crucifix and began to pray in silence, his bearded lips moving through the words. Ridmark settled against a tree's trunk, held his bow and an arrow ready in his hands, and watched the orcish army march. He wondered why the Mhalekites had occupied the ruined castle. Mhalek himself had avoided it, claiming that dark magic even he could not control lurked within the ruins. Old Galearus had used Mhalek's fear to keep the orcs from flanking the army of Andomhaim, and after Galearus had been killed, the battle had begun far south from the castle.

So why occupy it now? Why abandon it so easily? With a little work, the orcs could have made the place impregnable.

Ridmark sat and waited.

After about two hours he got to his feet. The sun had sunk far to the west, filling the foothills with thick shadows.

"Caius," said Ridmark, and the dwarf looked up from his prayers. "They've moved on." A long column of orcs and wagons moved down the road, and Ridmark had not seen anyone issue from the Tower of Vigilance for a while.

"Foolish of them," said Caius, standing with a grunt. "They could have held the castle. At the very least, they could have waited until dawn to march. Now they'll have to camp in the open."

"Perhaps they plan to steal supplies from the freeholders near the town," said Ridmark. "Perhaps their commander is simply an idiot."

"One can hope," said Caius. "If we must have enemies, let them be fools."

"We are rarely that fortunate," said Ridmark. He watched the column for another moment, and then nodded. "Let's go."

"Now?" said Caius. "There are still orcs on the road."

"Not as many," said Ridmark, "and they're all heading south. If we slip into the Tower and head for the north gate, we can make for Dun Licinia from the northwest."

He stepped out from the trees, staff in hand, Caius following. His heart pounded within his ribs, and he felt unseen eyes gazing at him. Every instinct screamed that the orcs were going to fall upon him, that the Mhalekites would attack.

But the orcs had abandoned the ruins of the Tower, and their warriors marched south.

"This way," said Ridmark.

He picked his way up the slope, keeping a wary eye on the road and the curtain wall, pausing every so often to let Caius catch up. But the orcs continued their march, and he saw no sign of movement within the ruined castle. By the time he reached the top of the hill, the orcish column had vanished around the road.

Heading for Dun Licinia and for the unprotected freeholders near the town.

Ridmark could do nothing for them now. The sooner he crossed through the Tower of Vigilance, the sooner he could return to Dun Licinia and warn Sir Joram. Or travel to Castra Marcaine to warn Gareth Licinius of the threat to his lands.

Or to rouse Dux Licinius to avenge the people of Dun Licinia.

"Shall we walk to the gate?" said Caius, breathing hard.

"No need," said Ridmark, circling around the exterior of the curtain wall.

The wall was thirty feet high, but it had crumbled into ruin in several locations. Ridmark scrambled up a rubble heap, the broken stones providing easy handholds. He pulled himself to the rampart, helped up Caius, and looked over the ruined Tower of Vigilance. Once a half-dozen tall towers had stood in the center of the courtyard, connected by their own wall. Now only empty stone shells remained, and weeds and even small trees had pushed their way up through the flagstones.

"This was a strong place," said Caius.

"Aye, but no longer," said Ridmark. "Come. Another gate opens in the northern wall. From there we can..."

He fell silent as a flicker of motion caught his eye.

A party of orcs moved around the base of a ruined keep.

"Go," hissed Ridmark, gesturing at one of the towers in the outer wall. "Take cover, now."

Caius hurried into the tower. The door had rotted away long ago, the hinges leaving orange rust stains upon the stone. The tower's interior had collapsed in a pile of moldering timber and broken stone, but the stairs still encircled the wall, and Ridmark braced himself upon the steps, near one of the narrow windows overlooking the courtyard. From here, no one in the yard could see him, but he could see the group of orcs.

Soon the orcs came into sight. An orcish man wearing ragged trousers and a vest led them, his arms and chest tattooed with ritual symbols. At his side walked a tall orcish warrior, almost seven feet high, clad in armor of odd blue steel plates, the hilt of a greatsword rising over his shoulder.

"That's dark elven steel," muttered Caius.

Ridmark nodded. "He must have looted it from some ruin."

"Or slain a dark elven warrior and claimed his armor," said Caius.

That was a worrying thought. A dark elf could live for a millennia, could hone his skills with a sword to unmatched heights. An orc capable of slaying a dark elven warrior would be a dangerous foe.

If the shaman and the warrior cooperated in battle, they would make for deadly enemies.

"Thirty of them, I think," said Caius.

"Odd they're not leaving with the rest of the host," said Ridmark.

"I know," said Caius. "I think that..." His eyes widened. "Look."

Two of the orcs carried a wooden pole, and a woman dangled from the pole, her wrists and ankles bound with heavy rope. She was naked, her face hidden behind long blond hair, and for a moment Ridmark thought she was dead, that the orcs had turned her into a macabre trophy. Then he saw her struggling against the ropes, saw her chest rising and falling as she drew breath.

"A prisoner," said Caius.

Ridmark nodded. The High King's law banned slavery in the realm of Andomhaim, but the pagan orcs often kept slaves, whether orcs from defeated tribes, halflings, or humans captured on raids. If the Mhalekites took Dun Licinia, any survivors would likely find themselves enslaved...or butchered in an orgy of sacrifice to the blood gods. Mhalek had done much the same.

Likely the orcs' prisoner had a similar fate awaiting her.

"There's just one," said Caius. "Strange."

"It is," said Ridmark, watching the woman's pale form as she struggled. Why didn't the orcs have more prisoners? For that matter, why did they have even one? No one lived near the Black Mountain. There had been villages here, but Mhalek had wiped them out. Had some renegades or outlaws made their nest in the foothills, only to fall afoul of the Mhalekites? That made the most sense, but Ridmark had seen no other prisoners. If the orcs had captured slaves, they would have either taken them along to battle or butchered them before abandoning the Tower of Vigilance.

One lone woman did not make sense.

"Something is wrong here," said Ridmark.

"Obviously," said Caius. "No doubt they have a dreadful fate planned for the girl."

"No doubt," said Ridmark, "but why only one prisoner? What was a lone woman doing in the foothills, let along the Tower of Vigilance? There's something deeper happening here."

An odd thought occurred to him. Might the woman know more about the blue fire? The orcs stopped, the blue-armored warrior and the shaman arguing. The shaman glared towards the curtain wall, and for an instant Ridmark feared that they had been discovered. The shaman stalked away from the warrior, dark eyes glimmering with the crimson light of the orcish battle rage. As he turned, Ridmark saw the shaman's profile.

"God and his saints," said Ridmark. "I know him."

"You do?" said Caius. "How?"

"His name's Vlazar," said Ridmark. "He was Qazarl's student, and Qazarl was one of Mhalek's disciples. I thought them both slain after the battle, but we never did find the bodies of all the disciples." Tens of thousands of orcs had fallen like wheat, their bodies rent by blade and lance, their features churned into pulp by the stamping hooves of war horses. "And if Vlazar is here, Qazarl must be commanding the Mhalekites."

"Perhaps Vlazar has a following of his own," said Caius.

Ridmark snorted. "Vlazar is a toad. The Mhalekite orcs respect strength and charisma, and Vlazar is lacking in both. No, Qazarl is commanding the Mhalekites, I'm sure of it."

Though that did not explain what Vlazar was doing here.

After a moment Vlazar and the blue-armored warrior came to an agreement. The group of warriors continued around the courtyard, still carrying the woman tied to the pole. Ridmark watched as they circled around the inner towers, vanishing to the north.

"They're going to the northern gate," said Caius.

"Aye," said Ridmark, rubbing his chin. Black stubble rasped beneath his callused fingers. "Why not join the others? Qazarl marches for Dun Licinia, that is plain. Why not simply..."

The answer came to him.

"They're going to sacrifice the woman," said Ridmark.

"How do you know?" said Caius.

"There are circles of standing stones higher up," said Ridmark. "The dark elves reared them. They believed whatever demon they worshipped was imprisoned within the Black Mountain, and they performed bloody rites upon the high altars. Vlazar is a toad, but he does have magic. He's going to kill the woman upon the standing stones and use her blood to work a spell."

"God and his archangels preserve us," said Caius. "I fear you are right. We must aid her! But we are only two, and even the Gray Knight cannot prevail against thirty orcs and a shaman."

"Master Galearus once told me," said Ridmark, "that a knight is guided by chivalry, but his mind and his will are his weapons. His sword is merely the instrument of his will. Come, Brother Caius. Let us put our minds and wills to the test."

He led the way from the tower, Caius following, and set in pursuit of the orcs and their prisoner.

He hoped his mind and his will would produce a plan.

After all, Master Galearus's cunning had failed in the end, and Mhalek's treachery had killed him.

***

## Chapter 7 -The High Altar

Every step filled Calliande with fresh pain.

The orcs departed through the Tower of Vigilance's northern gate and started the steep climb into the highest foothills, just below the Black Mountain proper. Stark shadows fell across the ravines and the hills as the sun dipped to the western horizon. The orcs continued climbing, Vlazar walking in front and barking orders to the warriors every few yards.

The warriors ignored him and looked to Kharlacht for their instructions. The tall orc walked back and forth up the column, speaking in a low voice to his men. Perhaps he planned violence against Vlazar. Or, more likely, he was concerned about the dangers of the mountain. Fire drakes kept nests upon the Black Mountain's slopes, and other creatures, horrors wrought by the black magic of the dark elves, sometimes emerged from secret nests to carry off victims. And tribes of kobolds lurked in the tunnels of the Deeps, and they had no love for orcs.

God only knew what they would do to Calliande.

She swung from the pole. The ropes bit into the skin of her wrists and ankles. Every step sent a burst of pain up her arms and legs. Despite the chill, sweat dripped down her body as her muscles clenched, trying to support her weight. Calliande gritted her teeth, trying to ignore the pain even as she swung back and forth. She would not cry out. She would not cry out. She...

The orc carrying the front of the pole stumbled, and Calliande bounced.

Pain roared through her shoulders and hips, and a strangled scream came from her lips. The orcish warriors holding the pole glanced at her and kept walking.

Calliande closed her eyes, biting her lip. Bad enough that she had begged Shadowbearer to spare her. She would not show weakness again. She...

Another bounce, and another scream.

"What is this?"

Kharlacht's deep voice filled her ears, and she opened her eyes.

The tall warrior stood nearby, scowling at the orcs carrying her poles.

"We are carrying her as Qazarl commanded," said one of the orcs. "As the Master commanded."

"You are causing her," said Kharlacht, his face impassive, "unnecessary pain."

The orc shrugged. "So?"

"If you wrench her shoulders from their sockets, fool," said Kharlacht, "she could tear a blood vessel. If she hemorrhages to death before we reach the standing stones, it will be hard to sacrifice her upon the altar, will it not?"

"Perhaps," said the orc.

"Cut her down," said Kharlacht.

The orc warrior bristled. "She will escape."

"To where?" said Kharlacht. "Cut her down, or answer to me for it."

The orc shrugged, shifted the pole to one shoulder, and turned. A dagger flashed in his hands, and the blade cut through the rope binding Calliande's ankles. Her legs fell in a tangled heap to the road, her weight sagging against the ropes upon her wrists. Another flash of the dagger, and Calliande fell to the ground. Pain throbbed through her limbs, her muscles clenching, even as the chill of the sweat upon her skin made her shiver.

She tasted blood on her lip from where she had bitten it.

A hand curled around her shoulder, strong and hard, and lifted her to her feet. Calliande found herself looking up at Kharlacht, his face without expression.

"You," he said, pointing at one of the orcs. "Your cloak."

The orc obeyed without hesitation. Kharlacht took the heavy cloak and swirled it around Calliande's shoulders. The thing smelled vile, the leather and wool scratchy against her skin, but it was blessedly warm.

"Keep that closed," said Kharlacht, "until we reach the end."

"Then," said Calliande, "I will never suffer again, is that it?"

Kharlacht opened his mouth to answer, and Vlazar stormed towards them.

"What is this delay?" snarled the shaman. His eyes seemed to burn like coals in their sockets as the battle fury started to come on him. "The Master commanded us to take the human bitch to the altar at once."

"The Master," said Kharlacht, "commanded us to bring her alive and untouched to the standing circle. If she develops a chill or bleeds to death before we even reach the standing stones, you will hardly be able to kill her and work the magic. What do you think the Master will say then?"

"I am a representative of the blood gods!" roared Vlazar. "You will obey me!"

"I care nothing for your wretched blood gods," said Kharlacht, "and I obey Qazarl because he is my blood kin. Your authority means nothing to me."

"Then perish!" roared Vlazar. His eyes blazed with crimson light, and he shoved Kharlacht in the chest. The bigger orc stumbled, and Vlazar lifted his hands and chanted a spell. Fiery light blazed around his fingers, and Calliande sensed malevolent forces coming at the shaman's call.

Kharlacht moved so fast she could barely see it.

She heard the sound a fist striking flesh, and then Kharlacht stood with his foot upon Vlazar's chest, his greatsword of dark elven steel in his hand. The tip rested upon Vlazar's neck, pressing gently into the skin of his throat.

"Strike me again, Vlazar," said Kharlacht.

"Get off me!" snarled Vlazar. He grabbed at Kharlacht's leg and shoved, but even with the aid of his battle rage, Kharlacht was too strong to move.

"Strike me again, Vlazar," repeated Kharlacht, "and you will see what happens."

A hint of fear appeared on Vlazar's face.

"Get off me," said Vlazar. "I am a shaman of the blood gods. Qazarl will be furious with you."

"He will," said Kharlacht, "but he doesn't like you."

Vlazar sneered. "He detests you."

"True," said Kharlacht, "but I am blood kin. He just doesn't like you. If you get the prisoner killed before we even reach the standing stones, he will like you even less."

He stepped back, the dark elven greatsword in his right hand. Vlazar staggered to his feet, glaring, as if challenging any of the warriors to say anything.

None did.

"Fine," spat Vlazar. "Take the prisoner in hand. See to it that she reaches the standing stones unharmed." He shook a finger at Kharlacht. "If any harm comes to her, it is upon your head!"

He stalked back to the head of the column, snarling commands at anyone in sight.

"Thank you," said Calliande, huddled within her cloak.

Kharlacht looked at her for a moment, and then nodded.

"I do not care for needless cruelty," he said in Latin.

Calliande answered him in the same language. "You are baptized?"

His free hand started to stray to the simple wooden cross hanging from his neck, but he stopped himself. "I am. My mother introduced me to the god of the humans, the Dominus Christus. I cared little for gods when I was younger, whether the gods of my fathers or the god of the Church."

"What changed your mind?" said Calliande.

"Loss," said Kharlacht.

"Why are you doing this?" said Calliande. "You are not a follower of the blood gods. Why bring me to my death?"

Kharlacht shrugged. "My home was lost to me, when I took this weapon and armor from the dark elven ruin." He raised the greatsword and slid it back into its sheath. "All that is left to me is my blood kin."

"Qazarl," said Calliande. "A brutal and cruel man."

"He is," said Kharlacht with a sigh. "I deny it not. When I was young, I dreamed of becoming a warrior of my clan, of defending my people and village from the beasts and devils of the forest. Instead I carry out the errands of a power-mad shaman who leads his people to destruction at the word of a horror out of legend."

"Shadowbearer," said Calliande.

Speaking the name sent a shiver down her back, even beneath the heavy cloak.

"Shadowbearer," repeated Kharlacht. "He cares nothing for the followers of Mhalek, or for my cousin's people. Yet Qazarl is blinded by his lust and ambition. He will do Shadowbearer's bidding...until the wizard no longer finds us useful and casts us aside."

"You need not do this," said Calliande.

Kharlacht said nothing.

Calliande took a shaky breath, her arms and legs still aching. "You are not a fool. You are baptized, and you know the Dominus Christus commands his followers to offer sacrifices to no other gods, to only kill in defense of life."

"I know this," said Kharlacht. "Vlazar will murder you. But Qazarl is my kin. I must honor my obligation to him. Even when his will is turned to folly. I am sorry that I must do this."

"Kharlacht!" snarled Vlazar in orcish. "We do not have time to tarry." He turned and grinned, his expression mocking. "If you have such a fire in your blood for human women, there shall be plenty behind the walls of Dun Licinia."

"I am sorry," said Kharlacht again, ignoring Vlazar's taunts. "We must go."

Calliande felt her heart sink. She had come so close to persuading him. But there was no escape. She was going to climb that mountain, and she was going to die upon an altar with that soulstone upon her breast.

And she would never know why.

"Move!" said Vlazar, turning towards the road. "We have delayed long enough."

Kharlacht opened his mouth to answer...and then closed it, his grim face hardening into a frown.

Calliande followed his gaze. She saw nothing but the dimming sky overhead, the clouds lit by the rays of the setting sun. Kharlacht turned west, shading his eyes. As he did, Calliande saw a metallic gleam overhead, like sunlight reflecting off copper.

Copper? That seemed odd. Why did...

"Down!" snapped Kharlacht, and he shoved her to the ground.

Calliande struck the road just as a lance of snarling flame shot over her head. The blast slammed into two of the orcish warriors, and both men went up in flames with a scream, the horrible stench of burning flesh filling Calliande's nostrils. She rolled to her knees and saw a scaly creature the size of a large dog drop from the sky, copper-colored wings spread behind it, its talons digging into dying, burning orcs.

Recognition welled out of the mists choking her memory.

A fire drake.

The drake turned to face her as Calliande scrambled to her feet. It scuttled over the burning corpses of the orcs as the other warriors shouted. Vlazar fell back, fear on his face, and began to cast a spell. Yet the drake came at Calliande, its unblinking yellow eyes fixed on her.

She did not know if being burned alive would be less painful than dying upon the stone altar, but she was about to find out.

The drake's mouth yawned wide, a harsh yellow-orange light flaring to life behind its black fangs.

A gleaming blue blur struck the drake's neck, and its head jumped off its shoulders. Kharlacht took another step, the drake's blood smoking on the blue steel of his sword, and kicked with a heavy boot. The drake's thrashing body toppled over, smoking blood spraying from its neck to sizzle against the road.

Bit by bit its thrashing stopped.

"Is it dead?" said Vlazar, his voice shrill.

"It is dead, Vlazar," said Kharlacht, wiping the drake's blood from his blade. "You can stop hiding now."

A mutter of nervous laughter went up from the orcish warriors.

"Yes. Yes, of course," said Vlazar, staring at the headless drake. "You fought valiantly." Calliande felt her lip curl in disgust. This craven, cringing coward of a shaman was going to kill her? The indignity of it rankled, even as she recognized the absurdity of the feeling. "You fought almost as fiercely a follower of the blood gods."

"Enough talk," said Kharlacht. "Drakes often hunt in packs. Draw your weapons. You, you, you, and you. Guard the prisoner. You and you and you. Keep your bows out, and have an arrow ready. If anything moves in the sky over us, shoot it, along with any sign of flame. Anything wielding fire in these hills, or above them, is unlikely to be friendly."

The warriors hastened to obey Kharlacht's commands.

"Do as he says," said Vlazar, the sound of clanking armor and rattling weapons drowning out his voice. "I command you to do as he says."

Kharlacht waited until the orcs had arrayed themselves, and then nodded. "Let's get this over with. Proceed slowly. The prisoner is injured, and the Master will be angry if she perishes."

Before she reached the standing stones, anyway.

The orcish warriors resumed their march, Calliande's escorts falling around her.

And to her surprise, she felt somewhat better.

She rubbed her fingers over her mouth and looked at them. She had bitten her lip in her pain, had felt the blood drip down her chin. Yet there was no trace of the cut now. For that matter, the scrapes and cuts on her hands had vanished. The ache in her hips and shoulders from the ropes had faded.

Her body was healing itself faster than it should.

She felt grateful for the lessened pain, but nonetheless alarmed.

Just who was she? Why did Shadowbearer want to kill her upon that altar?

It seemed she would never learn the truth.

Calliande considered running, but knew she would never get away before the orcs caught her.

She kept walking.

###

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.

Then 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. "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."

"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. 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. 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.

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

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.

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. 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.

A brand of a broken sword marred his left cheek and jaw.

The orcs gaped at him, and the man raised his staff crosswise before him.

"Who are you?" said Kharlacht, pointing his sword at the newcomer. "Name yourself!"

Vlazar snarled a curse.

"You!" he spat.

"Vlazar," said the man, stepping to the side. "So you remember me?"

"You know him?" said Kharlacht.

"Fool!" said Vlazar. "Do you not recognize the bane of our kindred, the man who betrayed great Mhalek to his doom? That is Ridmark Arban, the fallen Swordbearer!"

The orcs edged away from him.

"You remember me, I see," said Ridmark.

Vlazar sneered. "Do you think I would have forgotten? You wrought great harm upon us, but Mhalek repaid you in kind, did he not? Your soulblade was taken from you. You were cast out from your precious High Kingdom." He grinned. "You lost that which was most precious to you in the world."

Ridmark said nothing, the staff motionless in his hand.

"Kill him!" said Vlazar. "Kill the man who slew great Mhalek!"

Five orcs charged him, swords drawn back.

Ridmark moved.

The staff blurred in his hands, the crack of shattered bone filled Calliande's ears, and two orcs fell limp and motionless to the ground. Another orc stabbed at him, and Ridmark dodged, the staff spinning, and the orc dropped his short sword with a scream of pain. Ridmark's staff slammed into the orc's temple, and the warrior collapsed to the ground.

Calliande watched, stunned, as Ridmark fought his way through the orcs. The battle rage made the orcish warriors stronger and faster, but it didn't matter. Ridmark struck and moved with perfect precision, their stabs and slashes just missing him, his swings and thrusts landing to crack limbs and shatter wrists. The staff must have been heavy, to judge from the force of its impacts, yet Ridmark wielded the weapon as if it were no more than a light branch.

He was the most gifted warrior she had ever seen, with natural talent augmented by years of experience. Not that she remembered any other warriors. Even if the fog lifted from her memory, she doubted she could recall any more skillful warriors.

But he was still going to die.

A half-dozen orcs lay dead around him, but more rushed to face him. Kharlacht stalked forward, greatsword in both hands, and Vlazar lifted his free hand and began to mutter a spell. Ridmark might take half of the orcs with him in death.

They were still going to kill him.

Then something gleaming and slender flew overhead, and fire erupted across the stone circle.

###

Ridmark killed another orc, and the drakes attacked.

All of the adults had taken to the air, and they swooped over the stone circle, unleashing their fiery breath. Ridmark threw himself backwards, and a jet of flame slammed into the nearest orc. The warrior shrieked in agony as his clothes and skin went up in flame, and fell thrashing and howling to the ground.

"Arrows!" said the big orc in dark eleven armor. "Arrows! Now!"

The orcs with bows raised them, arrows hissing into the darkness. Two of the drakes fell to the ground, yet more fire poured from the sky. The stone circle dissolved into screaming, burning chaos as some orcs fled, while others tried to fight the maddened drakes.

Which gave Ridmark his chance.

He raced through the mayhem, jumped over a burning orc, and came to the altar. The woman lay upon it, her blue eyes wide with fear and surprise, her blond hair pooled around her head. An odd, fist-sized white stone lay on her chest, nestled between her breasts.

In less dire circumstances, Ridmark suspected he would have found her attractive.

Right now he was more concerned about staying alive.

Especially since Vlazar stood on the other side of the altar, crimson fire burning around his fingers as he cast a spell.

Ridmark raced around the altar, hoping to land a blow, but Vlazar was faster. The orcish shaman thrust out his hand, darkness and flame mixing before him, and a wall of agonizing pain slammed into Ridmark. He stopped with a strangled cry. It felt as if razors had sunk into every inch of his skin, as if his clothes had caught fire.

It was not real. Vlazar's spell was touching his mind, not his body.

Vlazar shrieked a laugh, his tusks reflecting the harsh glow of his spell. "Feel the wrath of the blood gods!"

"The same blood gods," rasped Ridmark, taking another step, "that failed to save Mhalek. Those blood gods?" He groaned and forced himself to take another step.

Vlazar gestured, and the pain redoubled. "Mhalek took your heart and your soulblade from you! I shall take your life. Perish! Perish..."

A deep voice rang out, calling to God for strength, and Ridmark saw an orcish warrior collapse. A shape in a brown robe raced across the stone circle, and Ridmark saw Caius throw himself into the fray, his mace rising and falling.

"A dwarf?" said Vlazar, shocked. "Here? Kharlacht!"

As he flinched, his concentration wavered...and the pain digging into Ridmark lessened.

He surged forward, the staff whistling before him. Vlazar realized his mistake and refocused his spell, but it was too late. Pain surged through Ridmark, but not before his staff slammed into Vlazar's left knee. The shaman fell with a howl, and the pain vanished.

"No!" said Vlazar. "The blood gods will save me! I am strong! I am..."

Ridmark hammered the staff against Vlazar's temple with both hands.

He stepped over the shaman's corpse, yanking the dagger from his belt, and cut the woman's bonds as Caius hurried to his side.

"Good timing, Brother Caius," said Ridmark.

"Thank you," said Caius. "Madam, are you able to walk? We shall have to flee quickly."

The woman grimaced. "I will run until my feet are bloody, if you can get me away from here." She spoke Latin with an odd, formal stateliness. For a brief instant her voice reminded Ridmark of his grandmother's accent.

"We must go," said Ridmark. The drakes would keep the remaining orcs occupied, but not for much longer. Or the drakes would kill the orcs, and then come after Ridmark.

"Thank you," said the woman. "Ridmark Arban. That is your name? Vlazar called you that. My name is Calliande. I don't know for sure." She gazed at his face, a deep confusion in her blue eyes. "You have the brand of a coward and a traitor...but you have saved me..."

The orc in blue armor, the one Vlazar had called Kharlacht, swept the head from a drake with a single massive blow, his hard black eyes falling upon Ridmark.

"I haven't saved you yet," said Ridmark. "Run!"

***

## Chapter 9 - The Ursaar

Every step sent pain shooting up Calliande's legs, the rough ground tearing at her feet, but she ran as fast as she could anyway.

She heard the orcs in pursuit. She didn't know how Ridmark had gotten the drakes to attack the orcs, but his gambit had succeeded brilliantly. Yet it seemed that Kharlacht and the survivors had cut their way free.

Belatedly she wondered if Ridmark had a plan beyond the drakes.

"Where are we going?" she shouted.

"Yes, where?" said the odd dwarf Ridmark had called Brother Caius. The dwarf wore a friar's robe, and a crucifix hung from a leather cord around his thick neck. She had never heard of a dwarf joining the Church and turning away from the gods of stone and silence,

But with the fog filling her memories, how would she know? For all she knew, dwarves filled every church in Andomhaim, harmoniously singing all one hundred and fifty Psalms in their native tongue.

"The Deeps!" said Ridmark. "We can slip into the caverns, hide ourselves, and escape once the orcs give up pursuit."

Calliande suspected the orcs would not give up. Shadowbearer did not seem the sort to forgive failure.

She still had the soulstone clutched in her left fist.

She did not want to touch the thing. The power stirring in its crystalline depths made her uneasy, and she wanted to throw it away. Yet she dared not leave it behind. She knew it was a thing that not should fall into Qazarl's hands.

Or, worse, Shadowbearer's.

So she held the stone and ran as fast as she could.

###

Ridmark spun around a boulder, caught his balance, and kept running. A narrow path wound its way over the hill, and his boots gripped the stony surface. He shot a glance over his shoulder, saw Caius and Calliande running after him. He was surprised Calliande could keep up – the rough path would tear her feet to shreds.

But if the orcs caught them, they would do far worse.

The path sloped downward, the trees getting thicker further away from the mountain proper. According to the maps Master Galearus had commissioned, the entrance to the Deeps was near. If they gained entrance to the maze of caverns and galleries beneath Andomhaim's surface, they could elude the surviving orcs.

Assuming the orcs did not catch them first.

And if they did not encouter greater dangers in the Deeps. The tribes of deep orcs were far more vicious and violent than their surface brethren. Kobolds lurked in the darkness, preying upon both the deep orcs and human settlements upon the surface. There were other horrors in the deep darkness. The creatures the dark elves had created with their sorcery lurked in the underworld. The urdmordar themselves, the great spider-devils that had once ruled most of Andomhaim, still spun their webs in the Deeps.

The path dipped into a valley. Ridmark's heart lifted at the sight. The entrance to the Deeps was at the end of the valley, nestled between two wooded hills. Just a little further, and they could reach the cavern.

But the orcs would overtake them first.

Ridmark scanned the path, and saw that it cut between two massive boulders, each larger than the menhirs encircling the black altar atop the hill.

He came to a stop, staff in hand.

"Why have you stopped?" said Caius. Calliande halted next to him, breathing hard.

"Keep going," said Ridmark. "The cavern to the Deeps is at the end of the path, at the bottom of the valley. Wait for me there. I will slow down our pursuers."

"That is madness," said Calliande. "You cannot overcome them alone."

Ridmark shrugged. "I wasn't planning to overcome them, merely to delay them. Stop talking and go."

"You might yearn for your death," said Caius, "but there is no reason to throw away your life so lightly."

"I'm not," said Ridmark, "and if you don't shut up and run, we'll all die anyway. Go!"

Caius sighed, nodded, and urged Calliande along.

They darted between the boulders and vanished into the valley.

Ridmark hurried into the trees off the path. He wrapped his cloak around himself, went to one knee, drew his bow, and waited.

He did not wait long.

A band of orcish warriors raced along the path, weapons in hand. Of the thirty or so orcs that had occupied the stone circle, about half of them had survived the drakes' rampage. That was good. The fewer orcs who survived, the better chance Ridmark had of getting Calliande away and stopping whatever black magic Qazarl intended.

The orcs approached the boulders, and Ridmark had no more time for idle thought.

He raised the bow and released. It was dark, and he had never been more than a mediocre archer, but the arrow slammed into the thigh the lead warrior. The orc roared and fell upon his face, and the other warriors spun and raised their weapons, seeking for their foes.

Ridmark loosed a second arrow. This time his aim was better, and the arrow took an orc in the throat. The big orc in the blue armor, the one Vlazar had called Kharlacht, pointed his greatsword at Ridmark.

"There!" he boomed. "In the trees. Flush out the archer!"

Ridmark moved to the side, walking as silently as he could, the gray cloak hanging around him. Five orcs stormed into the pine trees, making no effort to conceal their footfalls. But Ridmark had spent years living in the wild, surviving by the game he could hunt, and he knew how to move silently. He ducked behind a pine tree, trusting the elven cloak to turn aside the eyes of his enemies, and waited.

The orcs charged past him, likely charging the nest of enemy archers before they could loose more shafts. Ridmark sprang from behind the tree, swinging his staff. The heavy weapon cracked into the back of an orc's head with enough force to shatter bone, and the warrior collapsed without a sound. A second orc turned, only to have Ridmark's staff shatter his jaw and break one of his tusks. The orc fell with a burbling scream, and Ridmark killed him with a single sharp thrust to the neck. He danced past the thrust of another orc's sword and raced for the path, intending to rejoin the others...

"Take him!" Kharlacht's voice boomed, and then the huge orc stood before Ridmark, his dark elven armor gleaming blue in the moonlight. His greatsword came up, and Ridmark knew that massive blade might well tear right through his staff's wood and steel. He struck first, his staff impacting the flat of Kharlacht's blade, forcing Kharlacht's swing away from Ridmark. He reversed his staff and drove the butt for Kharlacht's knee. But the orcish warrior dodged, bringing his greatsword around in a massive sideways swing. Ridmark hammered his staff down with both hands, driving Kharlacht's sword into the ground. He raised his staff, but Kharlacht acted first. The orc raised his right hand from the greatsword's hilt and punched, and Ridmark dodged. Kharlacht's fist missed his face but slammed into his shoulder, and the power of the blow sent him stumbling.

Facing Kharlacht alone would have been a challenge. Facing Kharlacht and a dozen other orcs meant certain death. Ridmark might have welcomed death, to join Aelia at last, but he would not court it without cause.

He had delayed the enemy. It was time to go.

He launched a flurry of swings and thrusts, forcing Kharlacht on the defensive. Battle cries rang out as the other orcs drew near, and Ridmark turned and sprinted into the trees.

The darkened woods swallowed him, and he heard the orcs in pursuit. Ridmark doubled back, his cloak pulled close to mask his movements. He slowed, though every instinct screamed for him to run, and kept his footfalls silent. The ruse worked, and he saw the orcs running to the path. Ridmark hastened past the boulders and into the valley as fast as he dared.

For a moment he thought he might get away. Kharlacht and his warriors might not know of the entrance to the Deeps ...

"There!"

Ridmark glanced over his shoulder and saw Kharlacht standing on the edge of the valley, pointing his greatsword.

He abandoned stealth and ran down the slope.

###

"I think that is it," said Caius, pointing at the hillside.

Calliande followed his thick finger. The narrow valley ended in a steep cliff face of dark rock, tough trees clinging here and there to the stone. In the center of the cliff face stood a yawning cavern, half-hidden by dangling roots. Beyond Calliande saw a stone tunnel sinking into the earth.

The entrance into the Deeps.

"Come," said Caius. The sound of fighting rang from the edge of the valley. "I do not think Ridmark will buy us much time. We must be out of sight by the time the orcs overpower him."

"You do not think he will prevail?" said Calliande.

"Not against so many foes," said Caius, "and I pray he will escape. If he does fall, let us ensure his sacrifice was not in vain."

Calliande nodded and followed the dwarven friar to the cavern entrance.

As she did, she felt a chill. That hardly should have surprised her, given her lack of clothing.

Yet it was not a physical chill coming from the cavern. She felt it against her thoughts, rather than her flesh. It reminded her of the chill she had felt from the menhirs within the stone circle.

Of the soulstone that still waited in her left hand.

Was the cavern also a place of black magic?

Yet Kharlacht and his orcs would kill her far more quickly than whatever waited inside the cavern, so she followed Caius into the gloom.

"Here," said Caius, stopping just inside the entrance. The floor felt cold and gritty beneath Calliande's feet. "We'll wait here until Ridmark joins us...or until we learn his fate."

They stood in silence. Calliande heard the distant sounds of battle, of orcish voices raised in fury.

"Have you known him long?" said Calliande.

"Ridmark?" said Caius. "No. In fact, I met him just this afternoon."

"I am grateful for the rescue," said Calliande, "though I am curious how you found me."

Did Ridmark and Caius know her? Perhaps they knew who she really was...and they might know how she had been sealed in that cold vault below the Tower of Vigilance.

"Pure chance, I am afraid," said Caius, "or the guidance of the Lord, if you do not believe in chance. I came to the Northerland to bring the word of the Dominus Christus to the pagan orcs of the Wilderland. Ridmark came on some strange errand of his own. We saw the blue fire filling the sky and followed it to its source, and saw Vlazar leading you away from the Tower of Vigilance. Neither Ridmark nor I would leave you to such a fate, so here we are."

"Blue fire?"

"Aye," said Caius. "The blue fire that filled the sky around noon. It must have been visible for miles. Surely you saw it?"

"No," said Calliande. "I didn't." Had the fire filled the sky at the same moment she had awakened below the Tower? "I think...I think I was underground at the time."

"I see," said Caius. "You were a prisoner of the Mhalekites, then?"

"I don't know," said Calliande. "I...I don't remember anything. I woke up in the darkness below the Tower of Vigilance a few hours ago. Before that I can't remember anything."

The lines in the dwarf's gray-skinned face deepened. "I see."

"Do you know who I am?" said Calliande.

"I fear not," said Caius. "I have never seen you before, nor have I heard your name. I shall ask Ridmark when he returns."

"If he returns," said Calliande. She had watched him fight against the orcs, but even he could not prevail against so many.

"I think he will, with God's grace," said Caius. "He is not what I expected. I had heard the name, of course. Ridmark Arban, the coward who fled the field against Mhalek. But I think that was a slander. A calumny raised by his enemies. I have rarely seen a human so bold, and I think the hand of God may be upon him. If he..."

Ridmark sprinted through the cavern entrance.

"You're alive," said Caius. To Calliande's astonishment, he had not even been wounded.

"Not for much longer," said Ridmark, "if we don't keep moving. Go!"

Calliande looked into the cavern. "I'm not sure that is a good idea. There's some magic here, I think, like the stone circle."

"If we stay here, Kharlacht will kill us," said Ridmark.

He started forward, and Calliande followed him with Caius.

"Won't we need a lantern?" said Calliande.

"No need, madam," said Caius. "The upper levels of the Deeps tend to provide their own illumination, as it were."

The darkness of the cavern closed around them, but Calliande saw a pale blue glow ahead. The tunnel twisted, turned, and then opened into a high gallery of stone. Stalactites dangled from the ceiling overhead, wet and glistening in the blue glow. The light came from hundreds of enormous mushrooms scattered around the floor, each about the size of a child. The blue glow shone from beneath the mushrooms' veined, translucent caps, transforming them into strange lanterns.

"What are those things?" said Calliande.

"Ghost mushrooms," said Ridmark. "But the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms call them..."

"Lukhaldenmorr," said Caius. He chuckled. "Which translates, in Latin, to 'spirit mushroom', more or less."

Ridmark crossed the gallery, walking around the clusters of glowing mushrooms. A pool of clear water glimmered in the center of the floor, and rough rock ledges rose along the walls. On the far end of the cavern, Calliande saw a narrow tunnel sinking deeper into the earth.

Into the maze of the Deeps themselves.

"Here," said Ridmark, gesturing towards the far opening. "Through here, quickly. If the tunnels beyond branch off, we can hide until Kharlacht gives up. If he doesn't, we can hold off the orcs here easily enough."

"Perhaps we can make this Kharlacht see reason," said Caius.

"He won't stop," said Calliande. "Qazarl is all the kin he has left, and his sense of obligation to his blood drives him."

"Then it can drive him to his grave," said Ridmark.

She followed Ridmark and Caius across the gallery, the floor cold and wet. Her feet ached horribly from the barefoot run across the hills, yet already she felt better, the pain fading with every step, the ache draining from her calves and hips. She lifted one foot, expecting to see a mess of bloody cuts, but the skin of her heel was unmarked.

She was healing, and she did not know how.

But that was a distant concern.

Something about the cavern felt horribly wrong. She sensed the presence of eyes upon her flesh. The orcs staring at her had been bad enough. This was worse. She felt as if something malevolent was watching her, something that wanted to rip her to shreds and watch as she screamed.

Then she heard voices.

"Get behind me," said Ridmark, standing before the tunnel. "We're out of time." Caius raised his mace, and Calliande stepped behind them.

The clatter of armor rang through the cavern, and Kharlacht strode into the gallery, seven orcs following him. He looked back and forth, his greatsword in both hands, and nodded when he saw Ridmark.

"So," he said. "The Gray Knight. I had heard my kin speak of a gray ghost that haunted the wilderness, a gray ghost that did deeds of daring. It seemed their tales hold true."

Ridmark nodded. "I am pleased you think so."

"You fought well," said Kharlacht, "but the chase is over. You cannot prevail against all of us, worthy though you are. Hand over the woman and return the soulstone, and we shall let you live."

Ridmark barked a harsh laugh. "Do you think I will accept that?"

"No," said Kharlacht. "Which is why I shall simply shoot you."

Ridmark gestured at the tunnel. "We can take cover easily enough. If you come after us, you will have to fight us one by one. You've already lost many of your warriors. Do you want to lose the rest?"

"If I must, then I must," said Kharlacht. "All men die. Better to do so in service of our obligations, rather than of old age in bed."

The chill against Calliande's skin deepened. A violent shiver went through her, and she had to grab at the cavern wall for support. Caius glanced at her, but she shook her head.

As she did, she saw the rippling before the pool.

The waters were utterly still, yet a patch of air rippled over them. The ripples moved, heading right towards Kharlacht and his warriors. Calliande wondered if exhaustion and pain had caused her to see things, and then a memory rose up from the mist choking her mind.

Before they had been enslaved by the urdmordar, the dark elves had used their black magic to create hideous, mutated beasts, ghastly fusions of animals and the various slave kindreds under their control. Such creatures were stronger and faster than normal animals, and usually impervious to all weapons, save for magic and flame.

And sometimes they had the ability to blend with their surroundings.

"Ridmark! Kharlacht!" shouted Calliande, pointing. "Look!"

She pointed, and both Ridmark and the orcs looked.

As they did, the blur faded away to reveal a hideous, misshapen creature. The beast looked like a ghastly, deformed hybrid of a bear and an ape, its long limbs and narrow body corded with heavy muscle, its ragged fur standing in greasy spikes, its eyes glowing like sullen coals.

Its claws and fangs were like daggers.

The dark elves called the creatures ursaars, and had once fielded vast armies of them. After the urdmordar had enslaved the dark elves, and the High King and the Magistri and the Swordbearers had smashed the urdmordar, the surviving creatures of the dark elves had scattered to the lonely places of the world.

All that flashed through her mind in an instant.

She realized they were going to die. They had neither magic nor enough fire to harm the ursaar, and one of the beasts had the strength of a dozen men.

The ursaar loosed a terrible howl and charged at the orcs, and two of the warriors died in a heartbeat, their heads ripped from their shoulders.

###

A dozen plans flashed through Ridmark's head.

Part of him wanted to take Caius and Calliande and flee into the Deeps. Perhaps Kharlacht and the orcs would distract the ursaar long enough for them to escape. But he knew the ursaar would not let them go. After it finished with the orcs, it would follow them.

They had no weapon that could harm it.

Once Ridmark had been a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Soulblade, and he had carried the ancient soulblade Heartwarden. With that sword, he had struck down the creatures of the dark elves, had even slain an urdmordar. With Heartwarden, he could have dispatched the ursaar with a single blow.

But he had failed Aelia, and Heartwarden had been taken from him in disgrace. Now all he had was a staff of wood and steel, useless against an ursaar.

Unless he did something clever.

"Get through the tunnel," he said. "Now!"

The ursaar bellowed and killed another orc.

Caius lifted his mace. "But..."

"Go!" said Ridmark, shoving him towards Calliande. Caius was heavier than he looked, and barely stumbled, but he nodded and urged Calliande to motion, and the two of them vanished down the tunnel.

Ridmark raced into the gallery as Kharlacht dueled the ursaar. The weapons of the other warriors did not slow the ursaar, but Kharlacht's blue greatsword caused the hulking creature some discomfort. Perhaps there was enough of the dark elves' power in the weapon to wound the ursaar. The creature killed another orc, and Kharlacht struck, tearing a gash down the ursaar's flank. Black slime oozed from the cut, and the ursaar whirled, striking with a paw. The blow caught Kharlacht across the chest. His armor turned aside the claws, but the power of the strike drove him to the ground.

The ursaar loomed over him for the kill, the three surviving orcs launching futile attacks.

Ridmark slammed his staff across the ursaar's muzzle with all his strength. The creature flinched from the blow, and Ridmark landed two more hits in rapid succession. The ursaar roared and turned to face him, and Ridmark jumped back as Kharlacht scrambled to his feet. He saw the muscles in the ursaar's legs tense, saw it prepare to leap.

He threw himself to the side as the ursaar threw itself forward in a dark blur. It hit the wall with terrific force, so hard that the floor shook beneath Ridmark's boots, a few pieces of stone falling from the ceiling.

Ridmark looked at the narrow entrance to the tunnels, and a wild idea filled his mind.

"Kharlacht!" he yelled. The big orc looked at him, his black eyes glowing with orcish battle rage. "Get in the tunnel!"

The ursaar shook itself and regained its feet.

Kharlacht turned towards the ursaar, raising his sword.

"Go!" said Ridmark. "You can't kill it. Stay here and die, or follow me and live."

The ursaar wheeled, its claws a blur, and tore the head from another orcish warrior. Of the thirty that had gone to the stone circle, only Kharlacht and two others remained.

Kharlacht hesitated, and then nodded. "You heard him! Move!"

The two warriors ran for the tunnel, followed by Kharlacht. Ridmark struck the ursaar across the neck, and the beast roared and turned to face him. Ridmark swung his staff with both hands, slamming the weapon into the creature's knee. His staff could not harm the ursaar, but the impact of the weapon forced the creature's leg to buckle. The ursaar loosed a hideous shriek, and Ridmark sprinted for the far wall.

He stopped next to the entrance of the tunnel.

The ursaar growled, eyes blazing in its hideous, misshapen face.

Ridmark braced himself, sweat dripping down his jaw, his heart hammering against his ribs. For an absurd moment he wanted to laugh defiance at the ursaar. He had danced with death hundreds of times in the five years since Mhalek's defeat.

But he had never thought he would die quite like this.

Then the ursaar threw itself forward in a dark blur, and Ridmark dodged to the left.

He was just fast enough.

He stumbled into the tunnel as the ursaar rammed into the wall with the force of a catapult's missile. The wall creaked and groaned, and he heard the crack of splintering stone overhead.

The tunnel began to collapse around him.

He saw the orcs staring at him in shock, and a piece of stone landed upon one of the orcish warriors, turning his head to mush.

"Run, damn it!" said Ridmark.

Kharlacht and the remaining orc sprinted forward, more stones falling around them. A piece of rock clipped Ridmark's jaw, and another struck his shoulder, dust falling into his face. But he kept running. He saw another gallery ahead, saw Caius and Calliande standing in the mushrooms' pale blue glow. Just a little further...

Ridmark threw himself forward as the ceiling gave way.

He stumbled and fell into the gallery, Kharlacht at his side, and the tunnel collapsed behind them.

They had gotten away from the ursaar.

But they were trapped in the Deeps.

***

## Chapter 10 - A Pact

Ridmark sat up.

Calliande was at his side a moment later, helping him to his feet. He was surprised that she was still conscious, that she hadn't collapsed from a combination of dehydration, exhaustion, and exposure. Or simple blood loss, if she had cut her foot on a particularly sharp rock.

Yet her grip was steady. Dust caked her face, and droplets of sweat cut paths through the grime.

"You're alive," she said, releasing him.

"Surprisingly," he said.

"Indeed," said Caius. "You are as mad and bold as the tales claim, Gray Knight."

"There are tales about you?" said Calliande.

"Exaggerated stories told by drunken freeholders," said Ridmark, turning towards the collapsed tunnel.

Towards Kharlacht.

Kharlacht was on one knee next to the second orc. A splinter of stone had pierced the orcish warrior's neck, killing him at once. Kharlacht stared for a moment, then shook his head and stood.

"Farewell, Ulazur," he said. "I suppose you will not get that reward after all."

He turned to face Ridmark, greatsword in hand.

"Well," said Ridmark, lifting his staff. "Shall we finish this?"

"It appears we must," said Kharlacht. "You have fought boldly." He shook his head, tusks gleaming in the pale blue glow. "Thirty of us, and I am the only one left. Little wonder you threw down Mhalek. But I cannot relent." He took a deep breath. "I must...you must hand over the woman to me."

"So you can butcher her upon that altar?" said Ridmark.

"So Vlazar can," said Kharlacht.

"Vlazar's dead," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht shrugged. "Then I must return her to Qazarl."

Ridmark looked at the pile of rubble blocking the tunnel. "That will be quite a feat."

Kharlacht shrugged. "The hills below the Black Mountain are riddled with entrances to the Deeps. I shall find another."

"Assuming you don't wander until you starve or die of thirst," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht growled. "The difficulties do not matter. I am bound to blood by Qazarl." He drew himself up. "You will surrender the woman to me, or I will kill you and take her by force."

"Try," said Ridmark, raising his staff.

Kharlacht started forward, and Ridmark moved to meet his attack, but Calliande stepped between them.

"Stop!" she said. "Both of you! Stop!"

Kharlacht froze, as did Ridmark.

"You do realize," said Caius, "that the orc intends to take you back to the standing stones."

"How, exactly?" said Calliande. She pointed at the collapsed tunnel. "He can't dig through those stones with his greatsword. You're right – if he travels the Deeps alone, with me as a prisoner, we'll wander until we starve. Or we'll wander until something kills us."

"So what do you suggest?" said Ridmark.

"A truce," said Calliande, looking from him to Kharlacht and back again. "We set aside our differences until we return to the surface. Then we go our separate ways."

Ridmark frowned. "You'll go with Kharlacht?"

"No," said Calliande. She looked at the tall orc. "If you object, I'm sure Ridmark and Caius would disagree."

Kharlacht said nothing, his face expressionless. Ridmark wondered how the orc would react. Would he agree to a truce? Or would he risk everything on a fight?

Or would he agree to a truce...and then betray them later?

"It seems," said Kharlacht at last, "that I have been defeated." His mouth twisted, and he gave a sharp shake of his head. "Vlazar was a fool. I warned Qazarl...but he would not listen."

"Then you will agree to a truce?" said Calliande. "At least until we escape our current danger?"

"I will," said Kharlacht.

"Before I agree," said Ridmark, "I have some questions."

"Very well," said Kharlacht.

"A moment, Gray Knight," said Caius. "I have a question first."

Ridmark nodded, and the dwarf stepped forward, returning his mace to its loop on his belt.

"You wear a cross," said Caius. "Are you baptized, or is that a trophy taken from a slain victim?"

"No," said Kharlacht. "I am baptized. Does that puzzle you? I am told there are entire kingdoms of orcs loyal to the Church and the High King in the south."

"Aye, there are," said Caius, "and I have traveled through them. But baptized orcs are rare this far north."

"Though not as rare are baptized dwarves," said Kharlacht, pointing at Caius's crucifix.

"Indeed," said Caius, "but we are not talking about me. You say you are baptized, but one of our Lord's commands is to have no other gods before him. Yet you were willing to help Vlazar sacrifice an innocent woman to the blood gods of the orcs. Why?"

Ridmark had to admire Caius's cleverness. Perhaps could learn Kharlacht's intentions...and, more importantly, what Qazarl planned to do.

"I am bound by ties of blood," said Kharlacht.

"Explain," said Calliande. "If I was to have been slain, I would like to know the reason why."

"That is only fair," said Kharlacht. "Qazarl is my kin, my cousin. My father was a follower of the blood gods, but my mother was baptized. She tried to impress her faith upon me, and I had little interest until...until I suffered some losses. Qazarl is more than a follower of the blood gods. He believed Mhalek was a god incarnate...and even his death at your hands failed to dissuade him."

"Hard to believe a Mhalekite would accept a baptized orc in his service," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht shrugged. "Qazarl and I are the only kin the other has. I am not unskilled with a sword. If I were weak or cowardly, Qazarl would have had me killed long ago."

"Why take service with him?" said Ridmark.

"Because I have nowhere else to go," said Kharlacht.

"It's a large world," said Ridmark.

"Not for me," said Kharlacht. "For an orc of Vhaluusk, ties of blood and honor are everything."

"What happened to you," said Calliande, "to drive you to Qazarl?"

Kharlacht looked at her, and then sighed.

"Why should you not know?" said Kharlacht. "I was born in a village far to the north, on the edge of Vhaluusk. I was betrothed to Lujena, the daughter of the village's shaman. He did not approve, and when the time came to make my initiation to the fraternity of warriors, he sent me into a ruin of the dark elves to claim a sword." He lifted his greatsword and slid the massive blade back into its sheath. "It was a trap. The shaman bound a demon of the dark elves to hunt me. I managed to overcome the demon...but not before it killed Lujena." His voice was flat, his eyes like sheets of black stone.

"I am sorry," said Ridmark.

He knew what that felt like.

"The elders of the village blamed the deaths upon me," said Kharlacht, "and I was made outcast. I wandered for a time, seeking a new place in the world...or perhaps I was simply seeking death, and did not find it. I found my way to Qazarl. Now I am here."

"I see," said Ridmark. "Will you tell us of Qazarl's plan?"

Kharlacht shrugged. "Why not? His plan is folly, and you shall learn of it soon enough."

"Indeed it is folly," said Ridmark. "Qazarl cannot have much more than three thousand warriors."

"Almost four thousand, in truth," said Kharlacht, "but you are right."

"He'll take Dun Licinia, if he wants," said Ridmark, "but that will cost him, and he will go no further. Dux Licinius will gather his knights and smash Qazarl's host to pieces. I suspected that the spell at the standing stones would give Qazarl some weapon of black magic, some advantage that might grant him victory."

"Perhaps it would," said Kharlacht. "I do not know what the sacrifice was intended to accomplish. Only that Qazarl said it would somehow...trap Calliande's life and power in that soulstone." He gestured at the pale stone Calliande still carried and shrugged. "But the sacrifice, this entire plan, is Shadowbearer's idea."

Silence answered him.

"Pardon," said Caius, "but sometimes my Latin is not as fluent as I might wish. Did you say Shadowbearer?"

"I did," said Kharlacht.

"You know who he is?" said Calliande.

Ridmark and Caius shared a look.

"According the history of my people," said Caius, "when we first migrated to this world and settled in what would become the Nine Kingdoms, a creature we called the bringer of the deeper darkness appeared to us. He caused the sundering in our kindred, and lured away those who chose to worship the darkness. They became the dvargir, our mortal enemies. But that was fifteen thousand years ago, or so our histories say."

"The high elves have a similar story," said Ridmark. "They lived in peace for uncounted ages, until a creature calling itself the bearer of the shadow appeared among them a hundred thousand years ago." He found it strange to speak of such vast gulfs of time. Malahan Pendragon had escaped from Old Earth and founded the realm of Andomhaim a thousand years ago, and even that seem liked a great reach of centuries. "Those who followed the bearer of the shadow became the dark elves, while those who stayed true to the task that God had given them, to act as the caretakers of this world, remained the high elves. They have warred against each other to this day, even while the urdmordar consumed the dark elves."

"It seems unlikely that Qazarl's Shadowbearer is the same creature from the legends," said Caius. "Perhaps he is merely a renegade wielder of magic who has taken the name of Shadowbearer to frighten his foes. As a rebel against the High King might call himself Arthur Pendragon, to claim legitimacy."

"Perhaps," said Kharlacht. "But the wizard has power. Qazarl feared him...and Qazarl fears nothing."

"What did he look like?" said Ridmark.

"He is a high elf," said Calliande. Her arms were wrapped tight about herself. Not to conceal her nudity, Ridmark realized, but because the memory of Shadowbearer chilled her. "There's something wrong with him. I don't know what. His veins have turned black, and his eyes are like quicksilver. His shadow points in the wrong direction. He could reach into my mind and hear my thoughts. I don't know what he wants with me." She shook her head, blond hair sliding against her dusty shoulders. "I don't even know who I am."

Ridmark wondered what she meant by that. But there would be time to figure it out later.

"Whether or not this high elf wizard is actually the Shadowbearer of legend is unimportant," said Ridmark. "Qazarl believes that he is...and Qazarl is going to attack Andomhaim at Shadowbearer's command."

"You speak truly, Gray Knight," said Kharlacht. "Shadowbearer has promised Qazarl power and glory beyond anything Mhalek ever knew." He growled. "Yet it is folly. I think Qazarl and his men are the wizard's tools and nothing more. Once Shadowbearer has achieved his purpose, he will leave Qazarl and his warriors to be smashed by the Swordbearers and the Magistri."

"Then why do you follow him?" said Calliande. "If you are certain destruction awaits?"

Kharlacht shrugged. His expression was...resigned. Like a man who had made his peace with a fatal illness. "He is my blood. I cannot abandon him."

"That is madness," said Ridmark.

"Nevertheless," said Kharlacht. "I do what I must. So." He set himself, tension coming back into his limbs. "Do we have a truce? Or must we kill each other?"

"We have a truce. Until we return to the surface," said Ridmark. "Once we reach the surface, we shall go our separate ways. And you will not try to abduct Calliande. If Qazarl wants to try again, that is his own affair. But you will not turn on us once we reach the surface."

Kharlacht nodded, his topknot bobbing in the mushrooms' eerie blue glow. "I agree. I will swear on the name of the Dominus Christus not raise my hand against you and to defend you and the others in all things until we reach the surface, if you will likewise swear."

"Very well. I, Ridmark Arban, swear in the name of the Dominus Christus not to raise my hand against you and defend you in all things, if you do the same, until we reach the surface. I so swear," said Ridmark.

"And I, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, swear in the name of the Dominus Christus not to raise my hand against you and defend you in all things, if you do the same, until we reach the surface. I so swear."

"Well, then," said Caius. "I suppose we are all friends now."

"We can have a feast celebrating our amity later," said Ridmark. He looked at Calliande. He wanted to know who she was. Her experiences should have left her exhausted and broken, too shocked and horrified to move, let alone run. Yet she seemed to have recovered, and she had kept him and Kharlacht from killing each other.

They had to move. Standing around talking in the Deeps was a bad idea. It was nothing short of a miracle that their voices had not already drawn attention.

Perhaps the ursaar had claimed these tunnels as its territory, and none of the other denizens of the Deeps dared to trespass.

"We must turn our attention to survival," said Caius.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "First, food and water. I have some supplies, as does Caius, but I doubt you have any."

Kharlacht shook his head. "I fear not."

"And I know," said Ridmark to Calliande, "that you don't have any food."

She gave him an arch little smirk. "Where would I hide it?"

Again her poise in the face of her trials surprised him.

"Food and water," said Ridmark. "We can stretch what we have between us for a few days, though it will be tight. I hope to reach the surface long before that. If need be, we can subsist on some of the mushrooms, and I can hunt some of the creatures that dwell in the Deeps for meat."

"That assumes," rumbled Kharlacht, "that you know how to get out of the Deeps."

"I don't," said Ridmark. "But we have some advantages."

"For one," said Caius, "I am a native of the Deeps. I know how to survive here."

"And," said Ridmark, "the entrance the ursaar just sealed off was the highest one in the Black Mountain's foothills. We need only to take tunnels sloping downward. Sooner or later we will find one that opens to the surface."

Or so he hoped. Master Galearus's scouts had charted a half-dozen entrances to the Deeps scattered around the Black Mountain. Ridmark thought he could find one of them, assuming the creatures of the Deeps did not kill them first.

Assuming that more ursaars, or worse things, had not set up lairs in the entrances.

"One other thing," said Ridmark. "We need to find you clothing. I don't think you want to walk through the Deeps unclad."

"I already ran through the hills unclad," said Calliande. "But, yes, some clothing would be welcome."

"Ulazur," said Ridmark, "isn't using his."

Calliande blinked, looked at the dead orc, and then back at him.

"I suppose," she said, "that beggars cannot be choosers."

###

Ulazur smelled unpleasant, and was twice Calliande's size, but she was grateful to claim his clothing. She was desperately tired of being naked in front of so many men. Ulazur's leather armor was too large and too heavy for her, but she pulled on his trousers and his worn tunic and his boots, pulling the straps tight to compensate for their size.

"Will it suffice?" said Ridmark.

She took a few cautious steps in the heavy boots and nodded. "I would gratefully accept rags. They will suffice."

"Good," said Ridmark. "It is well past sundown by now, but I want to find a different place before we rest. The sound of the cave-in will have made noise." He shook his head. "Between the collapse and our argument, it's a miracle we have not drawn attention already."

"Perhaps this section of the Deeps is deserted," said Kharlacht.

"Perhaps," said Ridmark, but Calliande heard the doubt in his tone.

"What manner of creatures are we likely to encounter?" she said.

"Kobolds," said Ridmark. "There are tribes of them, preying on each other and any humans and orcs and halflings they capture. More creatures of dark elven magic like the ursaar, perhaps. And spitfangs - lizards with a poisonous bite. They can grow as large as wolves, and twice as mean. Come." He lifted his staff and stepped forward. "Follow me. Do not speak unless absolutely necessary. Sound travels a long way in these caverns."

Caius fell in at his side, and Calliande followed them both. Kharlacht brought up the rear, and he moved with surprising silence. They walked through the gallery of stone, past the fields of glowing mushrooms, and into maze of narrow tunnels. Patches of glowing lichen, perhaps related to the mushrooms, provided light here and there, though Calliande often had to take careful steps and feel with her hands to keep from falling. From time to time Ridmark and Caius stopped and conferred in whispers, discussing the way ahead.

At last Calliande heard a faint rustling sound. As they moved deeper into the tunnels, the sound grew louder, and she realized it was the noise of splashing water. The tunnel widened into a large cavern with a rocky floor. A narrow stream of water fell from a gash in the ceiling and poured across the sloping floor to vanish in another tunnel. Dense banks of glowing mushrooms lined the stream's banks, and Calliande saw misshapen, eyeless fish darting back and forth in the clear waters.

"Here," said Ridmark. "We'll stop here for the night."

"Is it safe?" said Calliande.

"Not particularly," he said, "but safer than the rest of the Deeps. The stream will help mask our sounds." He pointed to a broad ledge against one wall. "That is as defensible as a location as we are likely to find, and we can camp there."

They climbed to the ledge. Ridmark paced in a circle, and nodded to himself, satisfied.

"We'll camp here," he said. "I'll take the first watch."

Ridmark and Caius shared out some dried meat and slices of bread. Calliande found that she was ravenous, and ate the food with a will. She settled against the rock wall, trying to sit as comfortably as she could manage.

A bed would have been nice, but it was still more comfortable than that black altar.

Had she ever slept in a bed? She didn't know. Perhaps she would die in these tunnels, as she had almost died in that black vault below the Tower of Vigilance.

The grim thoughts chased each other around her mind until she fell asleep.

***

## Chapter 11 - Lost Memories

Ridmark stood motionless upon the ledge, both hands upon his staff.

He wore his elven cloak wrapped around him, the cowl pulled up. He did not know if it would fool the sensitive eyes of the Deeps' denizens, but he would not cast aside any potential advantage. Still, the cavern remained quiet, save for the constant murmur of the water. He saw no sign of any creatures, and none of the blurring ripples that marked the presence of an ursaar or an urvaalg, or worse, an urvuul.

Odd that it had been so quiet.

He remembered the first time he had entered the Deeps, over nine years ago. The high elven archmage Ardrhythain himself, the archmage who had taught the knights of Andomhaim to wield Soulblades as Swordbearers and magic as Magistri, had come to Dux Licinius's court at Castra Marcaine. Ardrhythain had asked for a Swordbearer to perform a dangerous task, and Ridmark had volunteered. In pursuit of that task, he had traversed the Deeps and entered the ruins of Urd Morlemoch.

And there he had met the dark elven wizard who had warned him of the Frostborn, the undead creature called the Warden, confirming the prophecy from the urdmordar Ridmark had slain...

He shook aside the recollections. This was hardly the time to dwell upon the past.

Still, he remembered the Deeps holding far more dangerous creatures than this.

Perhaps Calliande was right, and they had entered a deserted region.

He looked at the woman where she lay sleeping against the stone wall, wrapped in the orc's clothes. There was indeed something strange about her. He had hoped to question her, once they stopped, but she had drifted off to sleep at once. No doubt her ordeals had exhausted her, and he could only image the tortures the Mhalekites had inflicted upon her.

As if she felt the weight of his attention, her blue eyes opened. She climbed to her feet, making little noise despite her heavy boots, and joined him.

"You cannot sleep?" said Ridmark.

"Actually," said Calliande, "I feel quite refreshed. Should we not be silent?"

"The water will mask the sound of our voices," said Ridmark. "You could not have been asleep more than three hours."

She shrugged. "I cannot explain it. I heal quickly. Too quickly. I should have bled to death or torn my feet to shreds. But I'm still alive, and I can stand."

"Who are you?" said Ridmark.

She sighed. "I hoped you knew."

"You don't know who you are?" said Ridmark.

"I fear not," said Calliande.

He waited.

"I don't remember anything that happened before this morning," said Calliande.

"You took a blow to the head?" said Ridmark.

"Maybe. I don't know," said Calliande. "I woke up in a vault below the Tower of Vigilance. I was alone, and it was dark. There was a spell, an image, that warned me against Shadowbearer. I managed to find my way out of the vault. I was wearing a robe, but it was ancient, and it fell apart. I climbed my way out of the cellar, naked and freezing, and Kharlacht and his friends found me."

"I see," said Ridmark.

She gave him a hard look. "You don't believe me?"

"No," said Ridmark. "I believe you. You have no reason to lie about it."

Yet it was a most peculiar tale.

"The Tower of Vigilance burned," said Ridmark.

"I noticed," said Calliande. "What happened? It must have been a strong castle once."

"It was," said Ridmark. "The Order of the Vigilant founded it to keep watch for the Frostborn. Yet it became clear the Frostborn were extinct, and the Order dwindled. A century ago the sons of the High King fought each other for the throne of Andomhaim in the War of the Five Princes. The Master of the Vigilant backed the wrong Pendragon, and the current High King's father burned the Tower. It has been abandoned ever since."

A flicker of fear went over her face. "His father? Then...how long ago did the castle burn?"

"Ninety years ago," said Ridmark.

The fear sharpened. "Ninety years?" she whispered. "You mean I might have been lying down there for ninety years?" She looked at him. "When was the Tower of Vigilance built?"

"The year of our Lord 1256," said Ridmark. "The year the Dragon Knight and the High King destroyed the Frostborn."

"What year is it now?"

"1478," said Ridmark.

"God have mercy," said Calliande. "I might...I might have been lying in that vault for two hundred years?"

"Perhaps," said Ridmark. "But for a two hundred year old woman, you're looking remarkably hale."

She tried to smile. "Thank you. But a spell of some kind could have sustained me...left me in sort of a hibernation."

Ridmark shrugged. "It is possible. Though I do not know enough about magic to say for certain. I am no Magistrius."

"But if it is possible," said Calliande, "if I slept in that vault for two hundred years, then everyone I ever knew is dead. My father and mother. My brothers and sisters. My husband and children, if I even had them." She rubbed her face for a moment. "An entire life, lost to me and with my memory gone, I would never know it."

"It is," said Ridmark, "a peculiar sort of memory loss."

"What do you mean?"

"When I was a boy, I knew a man who lost his memory," said Ridmark. "A horse kicked him in the head, and he forgot his own name. He also forgot how to talk, to feed himself, how to do anything else, and eventually died of his injuries. But you remember your name."

"Calliande," she said. "At least, I think that is my name."

"You can remember how to walk and dress yourself," said Ridmark. "You remember how to speak...in fact, you speak in both Latin and orcish."

"That is odd," said Calliande, her brow furrowing. "I wonder if I know any other languages."

"You are enduring this situation with remarkable calm," said Ridmark. "You have more steel in you than I would have expected. I know men and women who would hide weeping in a corner, had they endured what you have endured."

"I cannot say that prospect has no appeal," said Calliande, "but if I surrender I die, and I have no wish to die. Not yet."

Ridmark could not say the same.

"I suspect the damage to your memory was caused by a spell," said Ridmark. "If we seek out a Magistrius, he may be able to reverse the spell."

"Assuming we get out of the Deeps alive," said Calliande.

"There is that," said Ridmark.

They stood in silence for a moment. Ridmark watched her profile as she gazed at the waterfall. She claimed to have awakened in a vault below the Tower of Vigilance. The Order of the Vigilant had been founded to guard against the potential return of the Frostborn, until the Magistri and the nobles of Andomhaim had decided that the Frostborn were extinct. Ridmark had once thought that, too.

Then he had heard both Gothalinzur and the Warden speak of the future...

"Do you know anything about the Frostborn?" said Ridmark.

Calliande frowned. "The Frostborn?" She thought for a moment. "No. I cannot recall anything. They tried to destroy Andomhaim, did they not? And the High King and the Dragon Knight destroyed them, wiped them out. Beyond that, all I know is what I've heard since I've awakened."

"You were sleeping below the Tower of Vigilance," said Ridmark. "I would make sense that you would know about them."

"Perhaps," said Calliande, "but if I do, I can remember nothing of it. Why do you want to know?"

"Ten years ago," said Ridmark, "I fought and slew an urdmordar named Gothalinzur. She claimed that the Frostborn would soon return, and she was kidnapping freeholders to use as a larder once they arrived. The year after that, I undertook a quest into the ruins of Urd Morlemoch. The dark elven sorcerer imprisoned within that evil place claimed he saw the return of the Frostborn in the heavens, in the position of the thirteen moons. Five years ago, I fought Mhalek, and he claimed that the shape of the world was changing, that the Frostborn would arise again."

"But if the Frostborn are extinct," said Calliande, "how can they return?"

"I have spent the last five years," said Ridmark, "trying to find the answer to that question."

They lapsed into silence.

"Mhalek," said Calliande. "Who is he?"

"You don't know?" said Ridmark.

Calliande shook her head. "Qazarl mentioned him...but I cannot recall the name."

Ridmark considered that. It seemed that certain facts jogged Calliande's memory, dug the recollections out of her mind. That meant she had most likely never heard Mhalek's name before.

And that meant she had been sealed in that vault for five years, if not longer.

"Mhalek was an orcish shaman, a powerful one," said Ridmark. "He was once a subject of the king of Khaluusk, a baptized son of the Church. He left the Church and turned to black magic, and started worshipping the old orcish blood gods. In time he came to believe that he was a blood god, incarnated in mortal flesh, and went north to raise an army from the pagan orcs of Vhaluusk. He invaded the Northerland, but was defeated at Dun Licinia."

"What happened to him?" said Calliande.

"I killed him," said Ridmark.

He remembered the final confrontation with Mhalek, remembered the screams, the blood upon the floor of Castra Marcaine...

Calliande took a deep breath. "You said...you said you slew an urdmordar."

"I did," said Ridmark. "Gothalinzur. At the village of Victrix, ten years ago."

"Urdmordar are mighty foes," said Calliande, "and can only be slain with magic."

"I was once a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Soulblade," said Ridmark, "and I carried the soulblade Heartwarden. I killed the urdmordar with that sword."

"You were expelled from the Order," said Calliande. "The brand on your left cheek."

Ridmark nodded.

"Can...can I ask why?" said Calliande.

What could he tell her? That his arrogance and misjudgment had cost him everything? That he deserved his punishment and worse? That the forgiveness Dux Gareth Licinius and Sir Constantine Licinius had offered had only made his guilt worse?

"I made an error," said Ridmark, staring at the waterfall.

"Thank you for my life," said Calliande.

He blinked in surprise and looked back at her.

"Whoever you are or whatever you might have done, you saved my life," said Calliande. "At great risk. You didn't even know who I was. You still don't. But you rescued me nonetheless."

"I know what the Mhalekites are like," said Ridmark. "I would not leave anyone to their cruelties."

"Thank you," said Calliande. She hesitated, and touched his arm. "Once this is all over, once we've escaped...I will try to help you find the Frostborn. If I can be of any use."

Ridmark inclined his head. "I will help you find your memory. If I can."

She smiled at him once more and went back to lie down. A moment later Ridmark saw that she had fallen back asleep. Apparently her strange vigor had at least some limits.

An hour later Caius awoke with a grunt. The dwarf looked at the sleeping Kharlacht, nodded, and walked into a patch of tall mushrooms, no doubt to relieve himself. A moment later he returned to the ledge and knelt in silent prayer for a time.

Then he joined Ridmark.

"Anything?" he said in a low voice.

"Nothing," said Ridmark. "If anyone is watching us, they are skilled at stealth."

Caius nodded. "Calliande is...rather comely, is she not?"

"God, the archangels, and all his saints!" said Ridmark. "The tales claim that all friars are meddling matchmakers, but I had not thought that impulse would extend to a member of the dwarven kindred."

Caius grinned. With his gray skin and marble-like blue eyes, he seemed at home in the gloom of the Deeps in a way that Ridmark and the others did not. "Well. I have grown sentimental in my old age." His smile faded. "What did she say?"

"She doesn't remember anything before waking up in a vault below the Tower of Vigilance yesterday afternoon," said Ridmark.

"So she woke at the same time," said Caius, "the blue fire filled the sky."

"I thought as much," said Ridmark.

"Do you think she is telling the truth?" said Caius.

"If she is a liar," said Ridmark, "then she should choose a less implausible story. I believe she is telling the truth." He scratched his chin, the stubble rasping beneath his thumb. "My guess is that someone in the Order of the Vigilant left her beneath the castle, bound with a spell. When the Order was destroyed, their records burned with the castle...and all knowledge of Calliande was lost."

"That seems reasonable," said Caius. "Though why bind her like that?"

"I have no idea," said Ridmark.

"You believe the Frostborn will return," said Caius. "Perhaps she knows something of it?"

"I thought that, as well," said Ridmark.

"Or perhaps she will be the means of their return?" said Caius.

Ridmark shook his head. "I don't see how. She is a strange woman, true, but not malicious."

"She might not remember to be malicious," said Caius.

"Maybe," said Ridmark. "I doubt the lack of memory would change her basic virtue."

Caius shrugged. "Are we not all shaped by our experiences? Are we not the sum of our memories? The sages of the dwarves say that just as the thousand blows of a hammer shape a blade, so to do the thousand experiences of a man shape him."

Ridmark grunted. "If you want to debate philosophy, Brother Caius, wait until we return to the sunlight."

Caius grinned. "I shall remember that! That stone she carries, the one Vlazar had. Do you think it is truly a soulstone?"

"I do," said Ridmark. "It looks like the ones bound to the blades of the Order's Soulblades. But larger. Much larger. I wonder if that means it is more powerful."

"It may," said Caius. "I know little of soulstones."

"I know that the high elves alone know the secret of their making," said Ridmark, "and so far have only shared finished stones with the Order of the Soulblade."

"I fear that is all I know, as well," said Caius.

"That soulstone has power," said Ridmark. "We'll keep it away from Qazarl. And this Shadowbearer, whether he is truly the figure of legend or some renegade with delusions of grandeur."

Caius tugged at his gray-streaked beard. "Do you think Vlazar altered Calliande's memory?"

Ridmark snorted. "Vlazar? No. If he had tried, he would have either failed utterly or reduced her to a drooling imbecile. He couldn't have managed such a precise spell."

"A Magistrius would have the skill," said Caius. "But from what I understand, your Magistri are forbidden the use of such a spell."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "The Order of the Magistri may only use magic for defense, for knowledge, and for communication. Any other use is forbidden." He shook his head. "Well, we have many mysteries. What is one more?"

"I can take the next watch," said Caius, "if you wish some rest."

"I do," said Ridmark. "Keep an eye on Kharlacht."

"I shall," said Caius.

Ridmark crossed to the wall, placed himself between Kharlacht and Calliande, and sat down. He propped his staff against the wall, loosened his dagger in its sheath, and rested against the rock. Both Kharlacht and Calliande remained motionless. Ridmark watched Kharlacht for any sign of treachery, but his eyes kept straying to Calliande.

The questions gnawed at him. Who was she, and why had she awakened without her memory?

And what did she have to do with the Frostborn?

He drifted to sleep.

###

Morning came, or at least whatever passed for morning in the sunless world of the Deeps.

Calliande awoke to see Ridmark distributing food. Neither sleep nor exhaustion seemed to have left their mark on him. Black stubble shaded the hard line of his jaw, and his eyes were like blue shadows. The brand was a harsh scar upon his cheek.

What had he done to earn it? He was fearless and clever in battle, the exemplar of a Knight of the Soulblade. What could he have done to earn expulsion from the Order?

Perhaps his crime had made him that way, had left him uncaring of his life and eager to risk it.

Still, Calliande owed him her life. If he did not wish to speak of it, she would not press him.

But the curiosity would not leave her.

"I think," said Caius, "that our best option is to follow the stream for as long as possible. We are high in the foothills, and water flows downhill."

Kharlacht grunted. "When Qazarl led his folk down from Vhaluusk, we passed a stream flowing from a cave mouth, not far from here. Perhaps this is the same stream."

"We may hope so," said Caius. "Unfortunately, it is just as likely that it flows into one of the great underground seas. Not even my kindred have mapped them all."

"It is in the hands of God," said Kharlacht.

"We could always take the other cavern," said Calliande, "near the waterfall." Another tunnel yawned there, one that sloped higher into the hills. "Perhaps it will circle down."

"It might just as easily keep going up," said Ridmark. "And I do not think we should enter the Deeps below the Black Mountain itself. A place the dark elves regard as sacred is no place to linger. If the stream proves impassable, we will double back."

No one argued. His plan was sound, Calliande thought. And Ridmark Arban had a mantle of command about him, a cloak of authority. This wanderer was a man accustomed to giving orders. She expected Kharlacht to argue, but the orcish warrior only nodded.

"Caius, walk with me," said Ridmark. "Kharlacht, take the rear, watch for anyone following us. Calliande, keep your eyes open."

She nodded, getting to her feet, and stifled a laugh of admiration. Of the four of them, she was the least useful, and she knew it. She had no weapons, and would not know how to use them if she did. Yet Ridmark still gave her a task, still made her feel like a part of a larger whole.

Why had the Order of the Soulblade expelled such a man?

They gathered their possessions, left the stone ledge, and entered the stream's tunnel. At first Calliande feared they would have to wade through the icy water, but the stream only occupied perhaps a third of the floor. They walked in silence, the only sound the splashing of the water, the only light coming from the patches of glowing lichen and the occasional ghost mushroom. From time to time Calliande saw light within the stream, and she wondered if spirits frolicked beneath the water.

Or perhaps the souls of those who had died here, wandering forever in search of an exit.

She realized the light only came from strange, luminescent fish.

The cavern widened, patches of mushrooms providing additional light. Finally it opened into another gallery. The stream rushed ahead into another tunnel, and six more passages opened off from the gallery. Heaps of rounded objects lay scattered across the floor, and an odd, musky smell filled the air.

Bones. The rounded objects were bones.

Kharlacht drew his sword with a steely hiss, and Ridmark walked to one of the piles and picked up a bone with his free hand.

"Murrag," said Caius, squinting at the bone.

The word sparked no recollection in Calliande. "What is a murrag?"

"They're somewhat like sheep," said Ridmark, "but with thick scales in lieu of fur, and large eyes to see in the gloom down here."

"Think of a fat, lazy lizard with a surly disposition," said Caius.

Calliande looked at the scattered bones. "Quite a lot of fat, lazy lizards."

"Aye," said Kharlacht. "I know little of the Deeps, but we have entered the lair of a predator, I am sure of it."

"What manner of predator?" said Ridmark.

"I don't know," said Caius. "That smell...I think it's dung."

"Dung?" said Ridmark. "Yes, I know it. It's spitfang dung. I've smelled it before. We..."

Calliande saw the wall ripple.

For an alarmed moment she thought it was another ursaar. But these ripples looked as if the colors of the stone wall were flowing together. With a shock she realized that a shape on the wall was changing colors, altering itself to match the hue of the wall.

Then she could see the creature.

It was the lizard the size of a dog, with webbed feet and an ornate crest around its neck. Huge fangs jutted from both its upper and lower jaws, and its eyes gleamed like faceted jewels.

The lizard scuttled forward, its jaw yawning wide.

"Ridmark!" shouted Calliande.

Ridmark spun.

"Spitfang!" he said. "Down!"

Calliande ducked, and just in time. The lizard spat a gobbet of yellow slime. It arced over her head to spatter against the floor, and she heard it hissing and sizzling. The spitfang surged at her with an angry hiss, and Calliande backed away.

Then Ridmark was before her, his staff whirling, and the heavy wood cracked against the side of the lizard's head. The spitfang hissed again, and its long tail cracked like a whip. Ridmark caught the tail on his staff, and it coiled around the length of wood. He wrenched the weapon back with enough force to knock the spitfire off balance, its claws raking against the floor.

The spitfang hissed, the glands on the side of its neck bulging as it prepared to spit again.

Blue steel streaked before Calliande's eyes, and the blade of Kharlacht's greatsword sheared through the spitfang's neck. Its head rolled across the floor, dribbling yellow slime, while its body went into a thrashing dance. A few heartbeats later its tail uncoiled from Ridmark's staff, and the body went limp.

Ridmark yanked his staff free, and Calliande let out a long breath.

"Good timing," said Ridmark.

"Ugly thing," said Kharlacht, shaking the lizard's blood from his dark elven blade. With its death, the spitfang's strange camouflage faded, revealing mottled scales of gray and brown. "So ugly I can see why they disguise themselves."

"The disguise helps capture prey, too," said Caius. "The dark elves use them as war beasts."

Calliande stiffened. "Then we're near a stronghold of the dark elves?"

"Possibly," said Ridmark. "Kobolds also use them as war beasts. They're unreliable, though. The scent of a certain kind of ghost mushroom can drive them berserk. Wild packs sometimes wander the tunnels."

"Packs?" said Calliande. One of these things was bad enough. She did not want to see a dozen of them.

"If there was a pack," said Caius, "we would be fighting them already. There was just the one, and we stumbled into its lair."

"A lone spitfang," said Ridmark, turning the corpse over with his boot, "means an escaped war beast."

An elaborate rune had been branded upon the lizard's neck.

"Kobolds," said Caius. "That is kobold script."

Kharlacht grunted. "Tunnel rats."

"Yes, but dangerous ones," said Ridmark. "We'll need to avoid them."

"And if we can't?" said Calliande.

"Then we fight," said Ridmark.

He led the way further into the Deeps, and Calliande and the others followed.

***

## Chapter 12 - Raiders

The next day Ridmark saw the carved arch.

The stream flowed through a winding, wide tunnel, its floor dotted with pale clusters of ghost mushrooms. Most of the mushrooms shone with a blue glow, but from time to time he saw one that emitted a bloody red light. He made sure to avoid those. The red ghost mushrooms were highly poisonous, and their smell drove spitfangs into a berserk frenzy.

He saw no more spitfangs. From time to time he saw a murrag. The fat lizards were the size of sheep, their leathery scales hanging in loose folds around their bodies as they grazed among the mushrooms. The beasts were harmless unless provoked, but they could kick with enough force to shatter bone.

"Some murrag steaks," said Caius, "would be most welcome."

Calliande frowned. "You eat those things?"

"Of course!" said Caius. "Murrag meat is a delicacy among the nobles of the Three Kingdoms."

"Indeed," said Ridmark, "but we have no way to cook it, and I doubt it would be pleasant raw."

"Alas, no," said Caius with a sigh, and they kept walking.

Ridmark's stomach rumbled. He was used to traveling on light rations, but sooner or later he would need to eat enough to recover his strength. If they did not reach the surface soon, they would have to start hunting.

He was considering how to cook the murrag when he looked up and saw the archway.

It had been carved out of the rock of the tunnel. Writing covered its surface, and Ridmark squinted at the characters.

"Dwarven glyphs," he said.

"Aye," said Caius.

"Can you read them?"

Caius snorted. "Of course I can. The language is archaic, but...ah. It says that this arch marks the outer boundary of the stronghold of Thainkul Agon."

"I didn't know the Three Kingdoms extended this far east," said Ridmark.

"They don't," said Caius. "The Three Kingdoms were once the Nine Kingdoms, but my people took bitter losses in the long wars with the dvargir and the dark elves and the urdmordar. Three kingdoms remain of the original nine...and I think this was an outpost of one of the lost six kingdoms."

"A ruin, then," said Ridmark.

"Aye," said Caius. "And a good place for a stronghold. The stream would provide water. Harder to starve out in a siege."

"A ruin," said Ridmark, "where anyone or anything could have settled in the last thousand years."

"I fear so," said Caius.

"Perhaps it is abandoned," said Kharlacht. "We have seen no one else."

"Someone branded that spitfang," said Calliande.

"It might be dangerous to enter," said Caius.

Ridmark thought it over.

"No," he said at last. "No, we'll keep going. If we have to double back, we'll lose another day. More, if the tunnels near the waterfall and the spitfang's lair are dead ends. Perhaps this ruin will be as abandoned. If not, we'll try to sneak past or negotiate with any residents."

"Assuming the creatures within," said Kharlacht, "are even capable of negotiation."

Ridmark offered the orc a tight smile. "If not, you'll get to put that greatsword to use. Let's go."

He walked under the arch, the others following.

The cavern beyond showed signs of long-ago habitation. Its floor had been smoothed, and the stream's channel straightened. The light grew brighter, not from the clusters of ghost mushrooms, but from glowing stones set in niches upon the walls.

"Glowstones," said Caius, pointing.

"Are they things of magic?" said Kharlacht.

"Nay," said Caius. "We make them with chemicals, by bathing a prepared stone in a solution of salts mined from the lower tunnels of the Deeps."

"Your kindred are skilled with stonework," said Ridmark. "Changing the channel of the stream must have been a tremendous effort."

"We are," said Caius. "Among my kindred, it is said that the gods of the deep places created stone to house us, iron to serve us, and gold to feed us."

"Yet you left your gods for the Church," said Calliande.

"I did," said Caius. "Our gods offer neither joy nor hope. They have made my kindred stern and humorless and cruel, and we spend our lives futilely striving for power, looking forward only to an eternity of oblivion as we sleep in the darkness. I find the word of the Dominus Christus much more joyful. But come! We can have such a discussion later." The melancholy faded from his voice. "If you think this stonework is impressive, wait until you see the ruin proper."

The tunnel sloped downward. From time to time they passed steles carved with dwarven glyphs. Caius said they were milestones, showing the distance to the Stone Heart in the Three Kingdoms, the place where the dwarven kindred first entered the world.

Then the tunnel ended in a gate.

Or, at least, it had been a gate. Once the massive gates of dwarven steel would have presented an impregnable barrier to any intruders. Now they lay broken and twisted upon the floor, their bronze edges glimmering in the light of the glowstones. Beyond Ridmark saw a tall hall of worked stone, its ceiling supported by thick pillars carved in the likeness of armored dwarven warriors.

"Thainkul Agon," said Caius. "Or what is left of it."

"I wonder what happened here," said Calliande.

Caius shrugged. "The dvargir attacked. Or the urdmordar. Or perhaps the dark elves. Dwarven steel is strong...but an urdmordar's strength could rip it, or dark elven magic could twist it."

"I hope the attackers did not linger," said Calliande.

"No," said Caius. "No, this happened long ago. My fear is that whoever has taken up residence in the ruins since will prove unfriendly."

"Let's find out," said Ridmark.

He led the way into Thainkul Agon, his staff ready. The stream flowed through the center of the pillared chamber, disappearing into another opening in the far wall. Carvings of the dwarven warriors armor stared down from the columns, grim and silent. The only noise came from the splash of the stream in its channel. Clusters of ghost mushrooms grew at the edges of the water, and glowstones shone in the ceiling overhead.

In places Ridmark saw signs of violence. Cracks on the pillars from where axe and mace blows had struck. Gouges on the floor from the fall of armored warriors. Bones lying scattered in the corners. Yet the signs were old. Time had weathered the gouges on the floor, and the bones were crumbling.

"I suspect," said Ridmark, "that this place has been deserted for a long time."

"It feels that way," said Caius. "I wonder why? It is a defensible place, with ample water."

Kharlacht kept his sword in hand. "Perhaps a dangerous creature has taken up residence here, one strong enough to frighten away any rivals."

"Perhaps," said Ridmark.

The stream entered an archway, the tunnel beyond sloping down at a steep angle. Stone stairs ran along either side of the stream, and Ridmark descended, the wet stone gritting beneath his boots. He saw a hazy glow at the end of the stairs. Ridmark kept walking, and stepped onto a stone balcony overlooking an empty space. The others came to a stop around him, and he heard Calliande's startled inhalation of breath.

"My God," she said.

The tunnel opened into a vast natural cavern. The stream fell from the balcony in a waterfall, glittering in the light of glowstones overhead. A thick forest of ghost mushrooms, some as tall as trees, filled the cavern's floor, their red and blue spores glowing in the air. Stone houses stood on terraces lining the cavern's walls, their facades carved with elaborate glyphs and reliefs.

A dozen smaller tunnels broke off from the larger cavern, the stream vanishing into an elaborate carved arch.

"It's beautiful," said Calliande.

"Aye," said Ridmark, "and I can see why no one else has settled here."

"Why?" she said.

Kharlacht answered. "The tunnels there and there, my lady. Do you see? The gates of dwarven steel have been smashed, as in the outer hall. This cavern might have water and food, but it is not defensible."

Ridmark nodded. He saw that Caius had moved further down the balcony, gazing at the wall. Hundreds of dwarven glyphs marked the stone, along with an odd, stylized diagram that looked like...

A map?

"You've found something?" said Ridmark.

"I believe so," said Caius. "This inscription records the founding of Thainkul Agon." He snorted and ran his hand over the glyphs. "I have never understood why humans leave records in paper. Stone is so much more durable."

"Indeed," said Ridmark, "but what does the inscription say?"

"This was a border stronghold of the kingdom of Khald Rigis, founded ten thousand years ago to ward away the dark elven kingdoms under what is now the northern Wilderland." He gave a sad shake of his head. "It was overrun, and Khald Rigis fell to the urdmordar long ago. Now it is just another empty ruin." His gloomy expression brightened. "But there is a map. See?" He pointed at the diagram. "Our guess was right, Gray Knight. That stream flows to the surface. Assuming the tunnel hasn't been blocked, we need only follow it."

"How far?" said Ridmark.

"Less than half a day," said Caius. "If we start now, we may depart the Deeps before nightfall."

"Good," said Ridmark. "Then if we hasten, we might reach Dun Licinia before Qazarl."

Or, if the town had already fallen under siege, they could go to Castra Marcaine and summon aid from Dux Licinius.

"This way," said Caius. "There are some stairs here."

The dwarf led the way to a narrow switchback stair that cut its way along the wall to the cavern floor. Ridmark kept one hand on the stone wall for balance on the narrow, damp steps. They reached the cavern floor, and the wet, musky smell of the ghost mushrooms filled Ridmark's nostrils.

Along with the faint smell of rotting meat.

He looked around and spotted the skeleton slumped against the wall.

He first thought it was the corpse of a human, perhaps of a child. But human children did not have fingers that ended in claws or long snouts filled with fangs. Nor did they have gray-scaled skin.

"What is that?" said Calliande.

Ridmark prodded the bones with his staff, the scraps of scaly skin rattling. "Kobold." He noted the cracked ribs, the craters in the elongated skull. "Someone cudgeled him to death. About a year ago, I'd guess."

"Qazarl said tribes of kobolds live in the Deeps near the Black Mountain," said Kharlacht, scanning the mushrooms.

The mushrooms were large enough to provide cover for an ambush.

"Let's not wait around to meet them," said Ridmark.

He took a step towards the stream, and a gray shape appeared from behind the stalk of a mushroom.

The creature was the size of a large child, albeit a child with scaly gray skin, long black claws, a slender waving tail, and the elongated head and unblinking yellow eyes of a lizard. An elaborate crest of red scales rose from its neck and the top of its head, twitching as the creature drew breath. It wore amulets and bracelets of polished bone and stone, and carried a short bow in its clawed hands.

A kobold.

"Greetings," rasped the kobold in orcish.

Kharlacht and Caius lifted their weapons, Calliande stepping behind them. Ridmark raised a hand to stop them.

"Greetings to you," said Ridmark in orcish.

"I am Crotaph," said the kobold, "speaker for the clan of the Blue Hand." Ridmark saw that a four-fingered kobold hand, completed with claws, had been inked in blue paint across the scales of the kobold's thin chest. "You are trespassing upon the tunnels of the Blue Hand."

"That was not our intent," said Ridmark. He glimpsed movement in the shadows of the mushrooms, and knew that other kobolds lurked just out of sight. "We fled our foes upon the surface, and the entrance collapsed behind us. We wish to return to the surface, and then will never trouble you again."

"Our shaman had a vision," said Crotaph. "The spirits spoke to him, and told him of four strange travelers from the sunlight lands. A human, an orc, and a dwarf, and a woman who burns like the fire at the heart of the earth."

"Perhaps the shaman ingested the wrong kind of mushrooms," said Caius in Latin.

Fortunately, Crotaph did not understand. "The shaman said you would enter into the ruins, and here you are. Great is his power, and the spirits heed his will."

"Good for him," said Ridmark. "What do you want with us?"

"You trespass upon our territory," said Crotaph, "but the shaman and the Warchief will allow you to pass. But you must pay a tribute."

"What manner of tribute?" said Ridmark. "Gold? Food? I imagine food is more valuable than gold down here."

The kobold trilled, his crest expanding as he showed his fangs, and Ridmark realized that was the kobold equivalent of a grin. "Many things have value, gray warrior. Many things. But you have one thing of great value." A clawed hand pointed at Calliande. "The woman, and the white stone she carries. You will surrender them to us, and we shall allow you and the dwarf and the orc to leave our lands in peace."

Calliande stiffened, her hand falling to the pouch where she kept the soulstone.

"What does your shaman want with me?" she said.

"The shaman has great power," said Crotaph, "but your power is greater. He will take your power, and lead the Blue Hand to glory and strength."

"Absolutely not," said Ridmark.

Crotaph's head turned towards Ridmark, his forked tongue flickering over his fangs. "You spurn the Blue Hand's generous offer? Think carefully before you make such a rash choice."

"An offer, is it?" said Ridmark. "Then I will make you an offer of my own, Crotaph of the Blue Hand. We will pass through your tunnels and never return, and you will not hinder us."

"And in exchange?" said Crotaph.

"I will leave you in peace," said Ridmark. "And if you try to oppose me, I will bring ruin upon you."

Crotaph hissed, bearing his fangs, his claws flexing against his bow. "You are one man with a stick."

"Last chance," said Ridmark, glancing at the nearby mushrooms. There were five concealed kobold archers, he thought. Maybe six.

"Impudence," said Crotaph. "We will teach you humility."

"Get ready to duck on my word," said Ridmark in Latin to the others.

Kharlacht raised his greatsword, Caius hefted his gleaming mace, and Calliande tensed.

"Kill them!" shouted Crotaph. "Leave the woman alive!"

A half-dozen kobolds appeared in the surrounding ghost mushrooms, bows drawn and aimed.

"Now!" shouted Ridmark.

He threw himself to the stone floor as the others fell, arrows hissing past them. He saw one arrow slam into Kharlacht, only to shatter against the blue steel of the orc's armor. Ridmark rolled, came to his feet, and charged the nearest kobold archer. The kobold shrieked a war cry and started to draw another arrow, but Ridmark was too fast. His first swing knocked the bow from the kobold's hands, and he reversed the staff.

The length of the staff slammed against the side of the kobold's head with bone-shattering force, and the archer fell limp to the ground.

Ridmark sprinted along the edge of the mushroom cluster, catching the second archer. The kobold tried to turn, aiming at Ridmark at the last moment, but Ridmark's staff smashed into his face.

The kobold fell in a limp heap to the ground.

"Kill them!" screeched Crotaph. "Take the woman! The shaman commands it!"

Ridmark darted around the stalk of a towering mushroom and killed a third archer. To his left he saw Kharlacht cutting down another kobold, while Caius stood guard over Calliande, mace in hand. Kobolds were dangerous opponents, but preferred to attack from ambush, using arrows fired from a distance. They hated to fight hand-to-hand, and often fled if faced with strong opposition. If Ridmark and Kharlacht and Caius put up a stiff enough resistance, perhaps the kobolds would flee.

Though that depended on whether or not they found their shaman more frightening than Ridmark and Kharlacht.

"Take them!" shouted Crotaph. Ridmark turned towards him. If Ridmark struck down their leader...

"Ridmark!"

Ridmark saw a score of kobolds emerge from the mushrooms. The kobolds wielded clubs and axes with stone heads, their crests flaring as they hissed and shrieked battle cries. Kharlacht hurried to stand alongside Caius, his blade running red with kobold blood.

Ridmark joined them, and they met the kobold charge.

###

Calliande backed against the stone wall, her eyes fixed on the fighting. The screams filled her ears, the grunts and shrieks and the sounds of cracking bone and splitting flesh. The chaos swirled before her eyes, the bodies falling to the ground, the blood splashing over the stone.

All the blood came from the kobolds.

She watched with a detached, horrified fascination as Ridmark and Kharlacht cut their way through the kobold mass. Kharlacht fought with brutal power, his massive arms driving his greatsword with such force that he often cut a kobold in half. Those few kobolds who got close enough to strike found that his dark elven armor turned their blows, giving Kharlacht all the time he needed to slay his attackers.

Ridmark was faster.

He moved through the kobolds like a wolf among sheep, his staff a blur in his hands. She had seen firsthand how heavy the thing was, yet he swung and thrust the weapon as if it were no more than a light branch. Every blow either disabled or slew a kobold, and their strikes came close to touching him, so close, but they never seemed to connect.

He and Kharlacht were warriors without peer.

Caius stood before her, striking any kobold that drew too close, but few ever did. Ridmark and Kharlacht were simply too skilled for the kobolds. Calliande suspected that they would prove more than a match for their opponents.

Even so, she wished she could help them. She hated feeling so useless, so helpless.

So weak.

For some reason it felt like a foreign sensation, something she had not often experienced. Though she had felt nothing but weak and helpless since awakening in that vault.

Something arched over the melee. For a moment Calliande thought it was another arrow, but it was moving too slowly.

It landed at her feet with a crack. It was a clay sphere, wisps of smoke rising from its broken edges.

"Calliande!" said Caius. "Get..."

The sphere exploded with a brilliant light, and then everything went black.

###

The blast from the smoke bomb erupted in a flash of white light and a thick ring of gray haze. It was disorienting, but it surprised the kobolds as much as Ridmark, and Ridmark did not hesitate. He tore through the stunned kobolds, striking right and left with his staff. Ridmark heard Kharlacht bellow a war cry, smelled the hot tang of kobold blood filling the air. Ridmark struck down another kobold, and looked for more opponents to fight.

But there were no opponents left.

He spun, seeking through the haze, but saw the kobolds fleeing in all directions. The battle was over...

"Ridmark!" Caius began to cough. "Ridmark!"

He hurried through the haze and found Caius on his hands and knees at the base of the cliff, coughing.

"You're wounded," said Ridmark.

"No," said Caius with another cough. He snatched his mace and staggered to his feet. "No. Smoke bomb. Kobold trick. Thought they'd kill me. But they..."

"Where's Calliande?" said Ridmark.

"They took her," said Caius, "along with the soulstone. I'm sorry."

Ridmark cursed and turned as the smoke thinned, but the cavern was deserted.

The kobolds were gone, as was Calliande.

***

## Chapter 13 - The Shaman

Calliande swayed back and forth.

Dreams floated through her mind as she swayed.

She saw a field of cold gray ice beneath a sky the color of hard iron, haunted by creatures with eyes of blue fire.

A great army gathered, the banners of the Pendragons flying overhead, Swordbearers in the van, swords of white light burning in their fists.

A bitter argument with an old man, her oldest friend and closest advisor.

A staff of twisted oak and a sword of red gold.

Fog swallowing her mind.

Cold stone closing around her, darkness swallowing her.

Then a gaunt high elf in a long red coat, his eyes like quicksilver, laughing at her as his shadow fell upon her like an avalanche.

Calliande screamed, realizing that she had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but it was too late, and the shadow laughed at her...

###

Her eyes shot open.

"No! I will not allow it!" she shouted in the high elven language. "You will not open another gate, Incariel! I know you brought them here! I know who you really are! I know what you are! And I will not allow you to summon them again."

For a moment, the fog in her memory wavered, and she could see the shape of her life, like mountains visible through looming mist...

She reached for them, and the fog swallowed them once more.

Calliande screamed in raw frustration. She had been close, so close. But bit by bit, facts started to penetrate her rage.

She was in an uncomfortable position. Her legs were mashed against her chest, her face pressed against her knees, the rough wool of her trousers scratching against her chin. Her arms were pinned against her chest, and she kept swaying back and forth.

She was in a net.

Calliande managed to turn her head, and then almost wished she hadn't.

A kobold warrior walked alongside her, tail waving, an obsidian-tipped spear in his clawed hands. His head rotated to face her, his tongue flickering over his fangs.

"So," hissed the kobold in orcish. "You are awake."

"Where are you taking me?" said Calliande. "I demand you let me go at once!"

"We have not raided the surface for too long," said the kobold warrior. "Mushrooms and murrag meat are not fit food for a warrior. Flesh, human flesh, is succulent." He clicked his fangs. "And then the flesh of young human females is the most succulent of all." His clawed hands reached into the net, closing around her right wrist. "The shaman wants you alive...but you do not need your hand. Yes..."

His claws tightened against her skin, and Calliande screamed and tried to pull away. Her efforts only made the net sway more rapidly. The kobold loosed a rasping laugh, and Calliande felt the razor-sharp claws bite into her skin...

A spear's butt slammed into the kobold's head, and the warrior sprawled to the floor of the cavern.

"Fool!" snarled Crotaph, his crimson crest flaring with his anger. "The shaman commanded that the human woman come alive. Alive, and untouched! Do you wish to explain to the shaman that we failed because you could not control your damned belly?"

"But..." started the warrior, and Crotaph hit him again.

The warrior did not get up again.

"I am understood?" said Crotaph, his head turning back and forth. "The human female is to be unharmed! Or you shall answer to the Warchief...and pray that he does not hand you over to the shaman for punishment."

A rasping grumble of assent went up from a dozen kobold throats. Calliande saw that her net hung from a pair of poles carried by four kobolds. Other kobolds screened their flanks, guarding the narrow tunnel.

She saw no sign of Ridmark or the others. Had they been killed?

"Where are you taking me?" said Calliande.

She did not expect an answer, but Crotaph turned towards her nonetheless.

"To the village of the Blue Hand," said the kobold, his strange yellow eyes regarding her. Calliande wondered if this was how a mouse felt as a snake slithered closer.

"Where are the others?" said Calliande.

Crotaph's crest flattened, his tail coiling, and something in Calliande's mind informed her that it was the kobold equivalent of a shrug. "Still in the ruins of the dwarves, most likely. The shaman commanded that we bring you before him. He said nothing of your companions, and they are puissant warriors."

Calliande felt a surge of hope. Ridmark and the others were still alive.

"They will come for me," said Calliande. "Your warriors cannot stop them. If they catch up to us, you will all die. Let me go, and I will make sure we never trouble you again."

"If they catch us," said Crotaph, "we will likely perish. But we are almost to our village. And once you enter the village of the Blue Hand, you shall never leave." He hissed, forked tongue darting back and forth. "Our village is strong, and your companions will never force their way past our defenses. If they enter by stealth, the shaman's magic is strong. They cannot stand against his spells."

"Many others have said the same," said Calliande, "and they are now slain. Have you heard the stories of the Gray Knight?"

"I have," rasped one of the kobolds carrying the poles. "Years ago, we raided a village on the surface. We would have taken the women and children back as food, but the Gray Knight intervened, and many of us were slain. Perhaps you ought to warn the shaman, Crotaph, if the female's companion is truly the Gray Knight."

"Silence," said Crotaph. "You speak of fables. The Gray Knight? Perhaps you think the Dragon Knight will descend into the Deeps to slay us, or that Saint Michael will use his god's magic against us. Now stop talking and move! The longer we tarry, the quicker our foes will come upon us."

Crotaph moved at a loping run along the tunnel. The kobolds dropped to all fours while running, their tails stiffening for balance, while the kobolds carrying Calliande remained upon two feet, but still moved at an impressive speed. The jouncing ride reminded Calliande unpleasantly of hanging from Vlazar's pole.

Still, at least she had clothes this time.

And she had to find a way to delay. Ridmark and the others would come for her. If she could just find a way to slow down the kobolds long enough for Ridmark to catch up to them.

Of course, it was hard to do anything at all, trapped as she was. All she could do was swing back and forth, the constant rocking making her grateful that she hadn't eaten very much today.

Perhaps she could use that to her advantage.

The kobolds turned a corner, the tunnel growing wider, stalagmites jutting from the floor like the teeth of some half-buried beast. Calliande saw a large stalagmite approaching, its sides glistening with moisture. She threw herself to the right as hard as she could. The net held her fast, but as kobolds passed the stalagmite, she slammed into the cold stone.

That rather hurt.

The force of the impact wrenched the poles from the hands of the kobolds, and they fell in a heap. Calliande clawed at the net, trying to untangle herself. Her hands found the top, and she yanked it open. She staggered to her feet, a wild hope flaring in her chest. She could break free, run down the tunnel and escape before the kobolds...

A half-dozen obsidian spear points came to rest against her chest. The top of the kobolds' heads only reached her stomach, but she had no doubt the creatures could drive their weapons through her flesh.

"Do not move," said Crotaph.

"You won't strike me," said Calliande. "Your precious shaman wants me alive and unharmed."

"True," said Crotaph, "but alive and untouched can also mean alive and unconscious. Fight us again, and I will have you drugged. You won't enjoy that."

"Fine," said Calliande.

"We should bind her, Crotaph," said one of the warriors.

"Why bother? We have almost reached the village," said Crotaph. "If she runs, drug her. Come."

The kobolds prodded her with their spears, and Calliande had no choice but to follow them. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and the dusty odor of the kobolds' scales, and Calliande realized they were almost to the village of the Blue Hand.

"Your shaman must be very powerful," said Calliande, "if you fear him so. The gods of the kobolds must be with him."

She did not expect an answer, but Crotaph said, "The shaman is a god."

"A god?" said Calliande. "He claims to be a god?"

"He is a god," said Crotaph.

She made herself laugh. "Mhalek of the orcs claimed to be a god as well, and the Gray Knight slew him."

Crotaph hissed. "The orcs are fools, and their blood gods are shadows. Our shaman has power. A century ago he came among us, and he has protected us ever since. Not even the dark elves dare to cross his magic. The world will fall at his feet, and the kobolds of the Blue Hand shall make slaves of all other kindreds."

"Mhalek," said Calliande, "said the same."

At least, she assumed so.

Crotaph growled, and said no more. A flickering light danced on the walls of the cavern, and Calliande realized it was firelight. The tunnel widened, and opened into a large gallery, larger than the great cavern of Thainkul Agon.

The kobold village filled most of the space.

A stockade of piled stones surrounded it, with a gate made from lacquered mushroom planks. Herds of murrags grazed in the mushroom fields outside the walls, guarded by kobolds with short bows. A dozen kobolds prowled the ramparts, bows in hand. The gate opened, and Crotaph led her inside. Beyond she saw dozens of ramshackle houses built of loose stone and mushroom caps. Tunnels cored the cavern walls, no doubt leading to additional houses and storerooms.

In the village she saw kobolds, hundreds of kobolds. The kobold females were almost identical to the males, thought smaller and with intricate patterns of striped scales on their sides instead of crests upon their heads. Everywhere she saw kobolds going about their business, making weapons or tools, tanning hides, cooking, or simply talking.

As one, they fell silent as she entered and stared at her with unblinking yellow eyes.

The biggest kobold Calliande had yet seen forced his way through the press. He was tall enough to reach her shoulder, and wore an elaborate mantle fashioned of bones and polished stones. He was fat, his belly and limbs swollen so badly that the scales had cracked in places. Unlike the others, he carried a short sword of actual steel in his belt.

"Warchief," said Crotaph, bowing and lowering his crest.

"Crotaph," growled the Warchief, glaring at Calliande. "You have lost many warriors."

"A dozen, at least," said Crotaph. "Some may yet return. But we have been successful." He gestured at Calliande. "The shaman's visions were true, and we have found the woman."

"So I see," said the Warchief. "A useless skinny little thing. If we butchered her here and now, she wouldn't give more than a mouthful to a score of warriors. Human females provide the best meat when they are plump."

Calliande shuddered.

"The shaman wants her," said Crotaph.

The Warchief's crest deflated.

"Yes," said the Warchief. "What the shaman of the Blue Hand desires, the shaman of the Blue Hand gets. You have done well, Crotaph, and you have my gratitude." He pointed at the other warriors. "You. Follow me. Bring the human."

Again the warriors jabbed her with their spears, and Calliande followed.

The Warchief lumbered across the village to the cavern wall, and climbed a rough set of steps hewn into the rock. As they climbed, Calliande saw the village spread out beneath her. A large enclosed pen occupied the space below the stockade wall. Scores of spitfangs filled the pen, some sleeping, some pacing, a few fighting. Bones carpeted the ground beneath them, and Calliande wondered how many victims had met their end beneath the spitfangs' claws and venom.

She saw quite a few kobold skulls among the bones. Perhaps those who angered the Warchief and the shaman went to the spitfangs.

The stairs ended before a yawning cavern mouth. A dozen human skulls hung over the entrance, yellowed and ancient. From within Calliande saw the flickering glow of a fire, and smelled the stench of rotting meat.

"Inside," said the Warchief. "The shaman of the Blue Hand awaits you."

Calliande did not want to go into that reeking cave, and the very thought of taking another step filled her with terror. The Warchief and a dozen kobold warriors blocked the way back.

She took a deep breath, wincing at the smell. She had to delay. She had to find a way to buy time until Ridmark found her.

Assuming Ridmark could find a way past so many kobolds...

Calliande turned away from the Warchief and took a cautious step into the cavern.

The smell of rotting meat grew stronger. She walked deeper into the cave, the fiery glow growing brighter. Designs had been chalked into the wall, elaborate sigils and interlocking circles, and felt something stir in her mind. She recognized at least some of those designs.

The cave opened into a small, round chamber. A firepit had been dug into the center of the floor, and the glowing coals within it filled the chamber with a bloody glow. Several tables lined the walls, holding books and scrolls written in Latin, high elven, and dark elven. A couch of dried mushroom planks sat on the other side of the firepit, piled high with cushions.

Upon the cushions slouched an ancient kobold wrapped in a worn robe of murrag leather. Deep wrinkles scored his face and neck, his scales cracked and dull. The yellow eyes that turned towards Calliande were filmy, and the kobold had lost half his fangs. She heard the steady whistling rasp of breath through his nostrils.

She felt magical power radiating off him like the heat from the firepit.

His clawed hands were blue. At first Calliande thought they had been painted or tattooed, but then she realized that they were glowing with a pale blue light. Some part of her fog-choked memory realized that meant the shaman had tremendous power over the magical element of water. He could freeze or boil any liquid with a thought, including the blood in an enemy's veins, and could conjure water elementals of tremendous power.

Little wonder the kobolds worshiped him as a god.

For a moment Calliande and the shaman stared at each other.

"Calliande," rasped the ancient kobold.

Something about his tone, his accent, sounded familiar.

"You know me?" she said in orcish.

The shaman sighed. "Do not weary my ears with that barbarous and uncouth tongue," he said in perfect Latin. "Use the speech of the High Kingdom. It has been far too long since I have heard it."

"Very well," said Calliande in Latin, surprised. "Then I will repeat my question. You know me?"

"Indeed," said the shaman. "I know you very well, Calliande." The kobold tilted his head to the side. "A more urgent question is whether or not you recognize me."

"No," said Calliande. "I've never seen you before."

"Ah." The shaman sounded disappointed. "I would have assumed you would see past appearances, beyond the mere flesh. But I was wrong. To think I used to admire you. Now I see that you are as weak as all the others."

Two realizations came to her.

The first was that this kobold knew who she was.

The second was that he didn't realize that she had lost her memory.

Which meant if she handled him carefully, she might be able to obtain some useful information. She needed to play for time...and perhaps she could get the shaman to tell her who she was.

"Indeed?" said Calliande. "Do not presume to lecture me on weakness. I will not tolerate such nonsense from a petty wielder of simple magic crouching in his hole."

"Your threats are meaningless," said the shaman. "I know your powers have not returned, at least not in full strength. Otherwise the Warchief's pet thugs would not have been able to capture you so easily."

Calliande raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I permitted myself to be captured. Perhaps I simply wanted to see you for myself."

The shaman shrank back into the cushions. Who had Calliande been that she could cause fear like that?

"No," said the shaman at last. "No, if you wanted me dead, you would have done it already."

"I don't recognize you," said Calliande. "Why would I wish you dead?"

"If you knew who I truly was," said the shaman, "then you would attack me at once."

"Then who are you?" said Calliande.

The kobold shaman hissed and drew himself up. "You knew me as Talvinius."

Calliande could not remember if she had heard that name before. Yet Talvinius was certain that he knew her.

And Talvinius was not a kobold name.

"You've changed," she said, trying to think of something to say.

Talvinius wheezed with laughter. "Changed? Yes, I would think so." His tongue flickered over the broken fangs. "The centuries have not been kind to me, no?"

Centuries? He had known Calliande centuries ago?

"They have not," said Calliande, hoping to lure him into telling her more.

Talvinius croaked his laugh. "I once lusted for you, you know. I thought to lure you into my bed. You were always too focused upon your duty, so concerned with your great and holy cause."

"You are mad," said Calliande, "if you think I would willingly take a kobold into my bed."

Talvinius sneered. "I was not always a kobold."

"No?" said Calliande. "You claim you were once human? That you are not merely a mad kobold claiming to be a man I once knew?"

Again Talvinius laughed. "Is that what you think, dear Calliande? That I am merely a mad kobold? Oh, but this is delightful. I was once human, a Magistrius of the Order."

"Human?" said Calliande. "And then you accidentally transformed yourself into a kobold? A likely tale."

"Do not mock me," growled Talvinius. "Not after what I have endured. But...ah, I understand now. You slept for too long. You know nothing of the Eternalists. That is modern history, too new for an ancient hag like you."

"First you lust for me, and now you call me a hag," said Calliande. "Amazing that your honeyed tongue never lured me into your bed. But your fables intrigue me. Just what is an Eternalist?"

"There were those among the Magistri," said Talvinius, "who came to question the restrictions placed upon our Order. Defense, knowledge, and communication. The three uses of magic permitted by the law of the High King and the Church, the three uses ordained by our treaty with Ardrhythain. Practically speaking, this narrowed us to spells of warding, healing, divination, and telepathy. But magic...magic could be used for so much more. For far greater purposes."

"Humans are not to be trusted with power," said Calliande. "We are a fallen race, and our hearts turn towards cruelty and tyranny. We must shepherd the power of magic well, and guard is closely. The Magistri are to be the servants of humanity, not its rulers."

Those words had felt so familiar, as if she had spoken them a thousand times before.

"The same trite sermons as always," said Talvinius. "Two hundred years and you have not changed. You slept...but some of us dreamed of more. Some of us had the vision and courage to realize that the Church's scriptures and histories are merely fables, that such places as Rome and Jerusalem and Athens never existed. Perhaps even Malahan Pendragon himself was but a legend, a lie concocted by the clerics who feared the power of the Magistri. Magic possesses the power to change humanity, Calliande, to make us as strong as the urdmordar, as powerful as the dark elves...and as long-lived as the high elves."

"Eat of this tree," said Calliande, "and you surely shall not die."

"That is a misquotation and you know it," said Talvinius. "Humanity is at a disadvantage, Calliande. The dwarves can live for five hundred years, the dark elves for a thousand, and the high elves even longer. The urdmordar are effectively immortal. If humanity is to survive, it must be guided...and who better to guide it than Magistri gifted with immortality?"

"These Eternalists of yours," said Calliande, "were Magistri who tried to find a way to live forever using magic."

"Yes," said Talvinius. "Great strides were made. But in time word of our experiments leaked out, and the High King, the Church, and the Masters of the Magistri turned against us. Most of the Eternalists were killed, the rest scattered. I fled here to the Deeps, and in time, my body grew old. I had no choice left..."

"So you turned yourself into a kobold?" said Calliande. Then the answer came to her. "No, you expelled your spirit from your flesh and possessed a living kobold." She frowned. "Why a kobold?"

"Because," said Talvinius, his voice sour, "a kobold was all I could manage. Expelling one's spirit and seizing control of another body is a rather arduous process, to say the least. Had I more time to prepare...but my final illness came quickly, and so I seized a kobold's body for my own."

Calliande felt her lip curl in disgust.

"That is why the Magistri and the High King turned against you," she said. "You were trying to possess other people in your experiments."

"They were only peasants," said Talvinius. "Dumb brutes, ignorant and savage and unlettered. They exist only to serve their betters. And if their betters chose to spend their blood in pursuit of immortality..."

"That's monstrous," said Calliande. "They are living men with hearts and souls, and you had no right to steal their lives to extend your own."

"I had every right!" said Talvinius, pounding one arm of his couch with a clawed fist. "And I did it." He cackled. "Two hundred years, Calliande, two hundred years after you hid yourself in that vault in pursuit of your phantoms, and I am still alive. All my contemporaries died long ago. Yet I am still here."

"In such a glorious form, too," said Calliande. "How long have you lived in that kobold's body? When was the last time you were able to rise from that couch?"

"The kobolds worship me as a god," said Talvinius. "They provide whatever I require."

"You're pathetic," said Calliande, "and you've made yourself into a monster. I don't know whether you are more pitiable or contemptible."

"Then destroy me," said Talvinius. "Strike me down, and send my rotted soul screaming down to hell...assuming such a place is not just another fable of the Church. Do it, Calliande. Do it now."

Calliande hesitated.

"I thought not," said Talvinius. "I suspected your powers had not returned. And I now know your memories have not come back to you. Very well played, I might add. I was not sure, and you learned quite a bit from me, I suppose. But if you have come into my lair without your powers, then I know you have not regained your memories."

Calliande felt her mouth go dry. "How?"

"Because," said Talvinius, "if you had your memory, you would not have come here, because you would know how much danger you are in now."

"You're going to kill me?" said Calliande.

"Kill you?" laughed Talvinius. "I suppose this body wants to kill you. Two hundred years, Calliande ...and you are just as lovely as the day you buried yourself alive. I suppose I should desire you. I wear the flesh of a kobold now, and I want to feast on you, not ravish you. I wonder how your flesh and blood would taste against my tongue. But I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to take you."

"Take me?" said Calliande. "How..."

But then she understood, and she turned to run.

It was too late. Talvinius crooked a finger, and white mist swirled around Calliande's feet. A heartbeat later a block of thick ice encased her feet and shins. The thick boots kept the chill at bay, but Calliande could not move. She pulled at her legs, but the ice held them fast.

"It will be demeaning, I suppose," said Talvinius, "to wear the flesh of a woman."

"I thought you could only claim the flesh of a kobold," said Calliande, trying to wrench free of the ice.

"That was a century ago. I have practiced since then," said Talvinius. "I shall have the aid of the empty soulstone you carry. Did you think I would not sense an item of such power? Ah, but you lost your memory. With the aid of that soulstone, I shall leave this decrepit carcass behind and claim your body for my own...and then all your power shall be mine. What wonders and terrors I shall wreak upon the High Kingdom!"

Calliande struggled to free herself, and Talvinius began casting a spell.

***

## Chapter 14 - Fangs

Ridmark turned, the remaining smoke thinning.

"What are you doing?" said Caius.

Ridmark ignored him for the moment. There was a great deal of sand and dry silt on the floor of the cavern, no doubt left from the occasional flood of the stream.

That meant anyone passing through the cavern would leave footprints.

He paused at the base of the cliff and examined the marks upon the ground.

The answers came to him easily enough. Calliande had been standing there when the smoke bomb had gone off. The fumes had stunned her, and the kobolds had dragged her across the cavern as Ridmark and Kharlacht struggled against the remaining warriors.

Caius walked to his side, Kharlacht following. "What are you..."

"Quiet," said Ridmark, holding out his staff to block their path. "And hold still. You'll foul the trail."

He worked his way across the cavern. There was less sand further away from the stream, but there were enough mushroom spores and silt upon the floor that he could follow the kobolds' trail. If he read the signs right, he suspect they had carried away Calliande in a net.

The trail ended at a narrow cavern entrance, the tunnel beyond sloping upward.

Ridmark stopped, grimaced, and beckoned the others forward.

"What happened to Calliande?" said Caius. "The smoke bomb overpowered me, and when I awoke..."

"The kobolds took her," said Ridmark, "this way. Clever of them. They distracted us, and then snatched her while we were fighting."

"But why?" said Caius.

Kharlacht shrugged. "Perhaps the same reason Shadowbearer commanded Qazarl to slay her upon the altar."

"You are going after her?" said Caius.

"I am," said Ridmark. "No lectures about how I wish to throw my life away, Brother Caius. I told Calliande I would help her." He hesitated. "There is no need for you to accompany me. Follow the stream to the surface, and go warn Sir Joram of Qazarl's attack."

"By now Sir Joram likely knows more about Qazarl's attack than we do," said Caius. "I shall not abandon a comrade in arms and a woman in need."

Ridmark nodded. "I would be glad of your aid." He looked at Kharlacht. "You have no need to accompany us. Return to the surface and rejoin your kin."

Kharlacht shook his head. "I will follow you."

"Why?" said Ridmark. "You have no obligation to do so. Once you leave the Deeps, you are released of your oath to aid us."

"I have no wish to see Calliande fall into the hands of the kobolds," said Kharlacht.

"You would prefer to hand her over to Qazarl yourself?" said Ridmark.

He expected anger, but Kharlacht only shook his head. "I do not wish her ill. I am bound by my word. I swore I would see you returned to the surface, that I would not harm Calliande, and if I let her remain in the hands of the kobolds, I would bring her harm."

"That would be the kobolds' doing, not yours," said Ridmark.

"The responsibility would be mine," said Kharlacht. He looked at Caius. "As in the Dominus Christus's parable of the traveler beset by brigands."

"Very well," said Ridmark. "Then let us waste no more time in talk."

He led the way into the tunnel, Caius and Kharlacht following. The cavern floor sloped up, lit by patches of ghost mushrooms clinging to the floors and walls, and Ridmark saw signs of the kobolds' passage, the scratches of claws upon stone, the occasional fallen scale.

After a third of a mile he saw signs of a scuffle, droplets of blood upon the ground. Ridmark dropped to one knee and sniffed.

"Kobold," he said. "Not human."

"Perhaps Crotaph suffers from dissension in the ranks," said Caius.

"Indeed," said Kharlacht. "Among the clans of Vhaluusk, a chieftain is often hard-pressed to keep his authority, especially when there are desirable captives available."

"Given that kobolds eat humans," said Ridmark, "I think we had best hurry."

He saw no sign of any human blood. If the kobolds had come to blows over Calliande, they had not harmed her.

Nor had she been able to escape in the chaos.

The tunnel widened around them, the ceiling getting higher. A faint breeze brushed Ridmark's face, and he smelled the dusty odor of kobold scales in the air.

A lot of kobold scales.

Ahead he saw the glow of firelight in the distance.

"Wait here," he said. "I think the village of the Blue Hand is just ahead."

"Risky to go alone," said Caius.

"Of course it is," said Ridmark. "We have done nothing but take risks for the last three days. But it is less of a risk for me than it is for either of you. I can move with greater stealth than you or Kharlacht." He tugged at his gray elven cloak. "And I have this. If I'm careful, I can get close enough to scout the village and return."

Caius sighed. "Your plan is madness, but it is sound, as always. We shall wait here for your return."

"If I don't return by the end of the day," said Ridmark, "assume that I am dead, and return to Dun Licinia to warn Sir Joram. And to warn the Magistri and the Swordbearers about that soulstone. Such a thing is far too dangerous to remain in the hands of a kobold shaman. Shadowbearer may try to claim it."

"Go with God," said Caius.

Ridmark nodded, drew his cloak around him, and hurried forward.

The tunnel opened into a vast cavern, larger than the chamber of the waterfall in Thainkul Agon.

The village of the Blue Hand occupied most of the cavern.

A stockade wall of rough stone encircled the village, kobold sentries standing guard upon the rampart. Beyond the wall Ridmark saw houses and workshops of loose stone, roofed by dried mushroom caps. Hundreds of tunnels marked the cavern walls beyond the stockade, and Ridmark realized the kobolds had tunneled into the stone like ants.

Finding Calliande would prove a challenge.

For some reason, his mind flashed back to the desperate days before the Battle of Dun Licinia. Master Galearus and the other chief nobles and Magistri were dead, slain at parley by Mhalek's treachery. Ridmark had taken command of the host because there was no one else left to do so. His men had been badly outnumbered and demoralized, but he had turned the tables and defeated the Mhalekite horde.

He had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat by turning his foe's weaknesses against him.

Perhaps the kobolds had a similar weakness.

Of course, his victory against Mhalek had cost him everything.

What might a victory here cost?

Ridmark ignored the thought and moved closer to the village, creeping from stalagmite to stalagmite. Murrags grazed among the mushrooms, tended by kobolds armed with bows. Ridmark avoided them and came to the intersection of the cavern wall and the stockade. It was the obvious place for anyone to scale the wall, but the kobolds had posted no guards there.

A weakness.

Ridmark climbed the rough wall and pulled himself up to the ramparts.

At once he saw why the kobolds needed no guards on this corner of the wall.

A fenced pen sat below the stockade, holding at least one hundred and fifty spitfangs. Most of the creatures were sleeping, their scales blended to match the gray stone around them. Others were awake and prowling, and a few snapped at each other.

None of them had seen Ridmark yet.

He climbed back down the wall. Had he delayed any longer, the spitfangs would have detected his scent. The resultant noise would alert the kobolds.

He leaned against the wall, wrapped in his cloak and watched the village.

Where would they have taken Calliande? The largest building within the stockade looked like a long hall, no doubt the seat of whatever chieftain ruled the village. Yet the shaman had sent Crotaph to kidnap Calliande, not the chieftain, and Ridmark suspected the shaman ruled the kobolds of the Blue Hand. The kobolds worshipped an odd smattering of gods – the orcish blood gods, the great darkness of the dark elves, and some offered sacrifices to the urdmordar.

Was the shaman of the Blue Hand in fact a priest of an urdmordar? That was a worrying thought. Few creatures were as dangerous as an urdmordar matriarch in her full might, and only magic could harm an urdmordar.

Ridmark had no such magic at hand.

His eyes fell on a large cavern entrance, higher than the others. Human skulls hung from the entrance, and he saw strange symbols carved into the wall nearby. A dim glow of firelight came from within that cave, visible through the pale radiance of the ghost mushrooms.

The shaman's chambers. Ridmark was sure of it.

A plan formed in his mind. It was bold, and could well work. It was also reckless, and might get him killed.

But that would be no great loss. If he had died the day he had faced Mhalek, then Aelia would still live.

Ridmark slipped from the cavern and returned to the tunnel leading back to Thainkul Agon. Kharlacht and Caius awaited him, weapons in hand. To his satisfaction, neither the orc nor the dwarf noticed him until he was only a few feet away.

Kharlacht growled. "Do not startle me like that. I almost cut off your head."

"Then pay better attention," said Ridmark.

"Did you find her?" said Caius.

"I believe so," said Ridmark. He examined the wall, and then walked towards a cluster of red-glowing mushrooms. "She's likely in the shaman's cave, which overlooks the village proper."

"How many kobolds are in the village?" said Caius.

"Hundreds, certainly," said Ridmark.

He yanked one of the red-glowing ghost mushrooms from the wall.

"Those are poisonous," said Caius.

"They are," said Ridmark, "but I wasn't planning to eat one."

He dropped the mushroom, picked up a pair of rocks, knelt, and started to grind the mushroom to glowing red powder.

Kharlacht and Caius stared at him in befuddlement.

"The red ghost mushrooms are poisonous," said Ridmark. He examined the powder for a moment, nodded, and plucked another mushroom from the cluster. "What other properties do they have?"

"The scent of them," said Caius slowly, "drives a spitfang to madness."

Ridmark nodded. "The Blue Hand kobolds have a pen full of spitfangs in their village. Perhaps a hundred and fifty of the beasts, if not more."

"So your plan," said Caius, "is to drive the spitfangs to madness, loose them upon the kobolds, and snatch Calliande away from this shaman in the chaos?"

"Essentially," said Ridmark, squinting at the pile of glowing powder. "No plan of battle survives contact with the foe, and I will adapt as circumstances dictate. But that is what I intend."

"Madness," said Caius.

Kharlacht threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Both Ridmark and Caius stared at him.

"Madness, yes," said Kharlacht, once he had mastered himself. "But madness with a purpose. It is the same thing you did to my warriors, when you loosed the drakes upon us. A bold and reckless plan, a plan that should not have succeeded, yet here were stand." He shook his head, a few loose hairs from his topknot brushing against his jaw. "My kin would say the blood gods have given their favor to you. But I do not follow the blood gods, and I think the Lord has placed his hand upon you, as the scriptures say he did with the Assyrians of Old Earth."

"I hope not," said Ridmark, "considering what happened to the Assyrians of Old Earth. Now stop talking, and start grinding mushrooms."

Both the orcish warrior and the dwarven friar obeyed, and soon they had an ample pile of powdered mushrooms. Ridmark examined the pile for a moment, and then nodded.

"Is that enough?" Kharlacht said.

Caius snorted. "That's enough to drive every spitfang from here to the Three Kingdoms mad."

"Good," said Ridmark. He scooped the powder into a leather pouch and dusted off his hands. "Wait here until I return with Calliande. If it becomes obvious that I am not going to return, head for the surface. Kharlacht, you are released to return to your people...and Caius, you must go to Dun Licinia and warn Sir Joram, or go to Castra Marcaine if the town is already under siege."

"I will accompany you," said Kharlacht.

"Why?" said Ridmark.

"Four hands are better than two," said Kharlacht, "and if something goes awry, you will need aid."

That, or Kharlacht wanted to seize Calliande and make his escape while Ridmark was occupied. But Ridmark would not show hesitation or doubt before the orcish warrior, and Kharlacht was right. If something went awry, Ridmark would need help.

"Very well," said Ridmark. "You, Brother Caius, will remain here." Caius opened his mouth to object. "Someone needs to warn the town if we fail...and I do not think you can climb that wall fast enough."

"You have a point," said Caius. "I will remain behind."

"Good," said Ridmark. "Kharlacht, come. Do not make any noise."

He led the way up the tunnel, the orcish warrior following.

###

Calliande struggled against the ice binding her legs.

"Strange, is it not?" said Talvinius. "The magic of the Frostborn proved useful. They are, of course, utterly extinct, and you and the Order of the Vigilant wasted your lives pursuing a phantasm. Even their petty spells have proven potent." He cackled. "Of course, you don't remember any of that."

He gestured again, and the block of ice ripped free from the floor and slammed into the wall. The impact knocked Calliande's breath from her lungs, and white mist swirled around her wrists. It hardened into shackles of ice, pinning her arms to the cave wall.

"Are you going to beg, dear Calliande?" said Talvinius. "That would be enjoyable."

"Why waste my breath?" said Calliande. "You've already made your intentions quite clear."

"Indeed," said Talvinius. "Shall we begin?"

The ancient kobold picked up a cane, heaved himself to his feet, and limped towards her.

###

Ridmark beckoned, and Kharlacht followed.

They wove their way through the fields of mushrooms, dodging from tree-sized mushroom to tree-sized mushroom to avoid notice. The kobold guards did not see them, and if the murrags saw them, the fat lizards remained apathetic. For all his muscled bulk, Kharlacht moved with a manageable degree of stealth.

They reached the base of the wall. Ridmark went first, scaling the wall. He pulled himself up to the rampart, looked around, and nodded.

Kharlacht followed a heartbeat later, massive greatsword gripped in his right fist.

Ridmark looked over the wall. The spitfangs remained calm, most of them asleep. He reached for the pouch hanging at his belt. He would start with the prowling spitfangs, and then move to the sleeping beasts as they awoke.

Then he would enter the village and get Calliande back.

Or he would die. But for Calliande's sake, he hoped to live.

He took a step forward, and a kobold appeared over the edge of rampart. The creature had a pointed stick in one hand, no doubt a prod used to keep surly spitfangs at bay.

The kobold froze in surprise. Ridmark drew back his staff to strike, but he would not be able to land a blow in time.

The kobold opened his mouth to scream a warning.

###

Talvinius limped closer, his dusty scent filling Calliande's nostrils. She also smelled the sickly, rotting smell of illness pouring off the ancient kobold.

"You don't have much time left, do you?" said Calliande.

Talvinius's broken fangs clicked together.

"No," said Talvinius. "This body has lived long beyond its natural span. I convinced the wretched kobolds that I was a god, and they offered me blood sacrifices on a regular basis. Their stolen lives have sustained me for decades, but the decay can only be postponed for so long."

"That's monstrous," said Calliande. "You murdered kobolds to sustain yourself."

Talvinius spat upon the floor. The smell of sickness grew sharper. "They are only kobolds. Lizards with overlarge brains, and nothing more. Vermin to be exterminated...or harvested, as need be."

"It's still murder," said Calliande.

"How simplistic," said Talvinius. "I have moved beyond such childish moralizing."

"Which has served you so well," said Calliande, "since you're trapped in the body of a dying kobold." She scowled. "You are loathsome, Talvinius. You had the power of magic, you had the responsibility to use your power for good...and you abused it utterly. How will you account for yourself when you stand before the throne of God on the day of judgment?"

"Another childish story," said Talvinius, gazing up at her. "See if your myths will save you now."

He reached into her pouch and drew out the soulstone, his claws clicking against the crystal.

"At last," he murmured. "I didn't think you would have one of these with you. A delightful bonus. Once I claim your flesh, this will make me all the more powerful."

He began to cast a spell, ghostly blue fire dancing around his clawed fingers.

###

The kobold drew breath, but Kharlacht moved faster.

He seized the kobold's throat and drove his blade forward in a blue blur. The steel sank into the kobold's chest and burst from his back, red with blood. The kobold thrashed for a moment, and then went limp.

Ridmark let out a long breath and nodded his thanks to Kharlacht.

Kharlacht pulled his blade from the dead kobold and let the corpse drop to the rampart.

Ridmark tugged on a leather glove, reached into the pouch, and started to throw handfuls of the powder into the spitfang pen.

The reaction was immediate.

A dozen of the spitfangs lifted their heads. They turned in a circle, growling and hissing, and attacked each other. Several threw themselves at the sleeping spitfangs. Dozens of the creatures awakened and fought back, and Ridmark kept throwing handfuls of the powder into the pen. Soon the spitfangs were embroiled in a massive melee, shrieking and howling, bursts of poisoned spit flying back and forth.

The pen's door flew open, and a dozen kobolds hurried inside, jabbing at the enraged spitfangs with sticks. The lizards barely noticed.

Ridmark needed to turn the spitfangs' attention to the kobolds. But how? What could lure...

He looked at the dead kobold.

Ridmark kicked the dead kobold into the pen. The body flopped across the stony ground. Three spitfangs jumped upon the corpse and began ripping at the dead flesh. The air filled with the scent of kobold blood.

The spitfangs went mad.

The creatures surged forward, tore apart their kobold herders, broke through the gate, and swarmed into the village of the Blue Hand. Cries of alarm and shouts of rage erupted from the village, and Ridmark saw the kobold warriors rush to meet the threat of their maddened war beasts.

In the chaos, no one noticed the gray-cloaked human and the orcish warrior standing upon the walls.

"You made a mess," said Kharlacht.

"That was the point," said Ridmark. "Follow me and stay away from the spitfangs. With luck, we can get to the shaman's cave before anyone sees us."

He dropped from the wall and into the pen, and Kharlacht followed.

Ridmark hurried into the melee.

###

Talvinius finished his spell, his thin, shaking limbs reaching for Calliande's head. For a terrible moment she thought he would rip out her throat, despite his intention to claim her body for his own.

Instead his clawed fingers brushed her temples, as gentle as a lover's touch.

And she felt the touch inside her mind.

Calliande flinched.

"Yes," whispered Talvinius, "you understand."

He spoke, his gray tongue rasping against broken fangs, but she heard his voice inside her mind.

"You are mine."

She felt the icy fingers of his power sinking into her thoughts, felt the cavern filling with darkness around her.

No, the cavern wasn't filling with darkness. She was falling into the nothingness, Talvinius's dark magic driving her spirit from her flesh.

Calliande screamed, her body trembling, fighting to drive the alien presence from her mind.

"No," whispered Talvinius. "You cannot stop me. You don't have your power. You made yourself weak, Calliande...you made yourself weak to save the world."

Calliande screamed, fighting against Talvinius's presence...but his cold fingers sank deeper into her mind.

###

Ridmark raced across the village, making for the narrow stone steps threading up the side of the cavern wall.

"Intruders!"

Ridmark whirled and saw a kobold warrior lunged at him with an obsidian spear. He parried the blow and reversed his staff, the heavy wood smashing against the kobold's temple. The kobold fell limp to the ground.

But three more rushed to take the warrior's place.

Ridmark met their attack, his staff spinning as he blocked their thrusts and swings. Their assault drove him back, but Kharlacht threw himself into the fray. The swing of his blade took the head from a kobold, and his next strike opened a kobold from throat to navel. Ridmark broke the wrists of another, and the warrior stumbled back with a shriek, only for a maddened spitfang to leap upon him.

For a moment the mayhem cleared around them.

"Go!" said Ridmark, and they ran for the stairs.

###

Calliande shuddered, Talvinius's laughter ringing in her mind.

As his cold hands reached into her thoughts, some of the mist clouding her memory swirled.

Rage rose up to devour her fear.

"You," she spat. "You betrayed the Order of the Vigilant. You promised to stand guard against the Frostborn! Instead you are crouching in this hole, feeding on the blood of kobolds like a damned leech! You were once a Magistrius, a wielder of magic, and instead you have chosen to become this contemptible shell!"

"Silence!" snarled Talvinius. "You are mine! I shall wear your flesh, and I will never die!"

"No!" said Calliande. "I will see you brought to account for what you have done."

"Unlikely," sneered Talvinius, "since you cannot even lift your hands."

The alien presence in her mind redoubled, and Calliande shuddered. Her rage increased, burning hotter until it seemed as if she had been wreathed in fire. She felt her herself snarling, her body straining against the shackles of ice.

Talvinius's ragged crest collapsed in sudden fear.

All at once the icy shackles binding Calliande's wrists vanished.

She grabbed Talvinius's wrists, yanking his clawed hands away from her face. The soulstone fell from his grasp and rolled away across the floor.

"What is this?" shouted Talvinius. "It is not possible!" The blue light around his hands began to dim, fading beneath a sudden white radiance. "It is not possible! No! No! Stop! Please, please stop!"

White light filled the world, and Calliande felt herself fall.

###

A sptifang lunged at Ridmark, jaws snapping, and he dodged a blob of venomous spit. He drove his staff in a high swing, catching the spitfang in the teeth, and the creature fell yowling to the ground. Another blow from his staff snapped its neck, and the sleek lizard went limp.

Two more kobolds rushed them, and Kharlacht's sword took the head from the first. Ridmark stepped around the second, his staff slamming into its knee. The kobold stumbled, and Ridmark brought his staff down onto the warrior's crest.

The chaos raged through the village, the kobolds fighting their enraged spitfangs, but more and more warriors had spotted Ridmark and Kharlacht. If they did not fight their way to the shaman's lair soon, then they never would...

A massive thunderclap rang through the cavern, so loud that the floor shook. Every last kobold and spitfang turned to look at shaman's cave, and a blazing beam of white light erupted from the entrance.

An instant later a white fireball shot from the cavern and landed in the midst of the melee. In the flames Ridmark saw an ancient kobold, thrashing in his death throes as the white fire chewed into his flesh.

"The shaman!" screamed a kobold. "The shaman has fallen!"

The spitfangs shrieked and resumed their attack, and Ridmark ran for the stairs, Kharlacht a half-step behind.

###

Calliande's eyes opened.

Her cheek rested against warm, rough stone, and the sullen glow of a fire filled her eyes. She sat up, and found herself on the floor of Talvinius's cave. The rock around her was blackened, as if it had been exposed to tremendous heat, and a scorched trail led out of the cavern.

There was no sign of Talvinius.

The air was heavy with the smell of burned flesh.

Calliande suspected that Talvinius would not trouble her again.

She got to her feet, head spinning. What had she done to him? Her rage had risen up in her like an inferno, burning through the fog of her memory, and then...

She looked at the smoking char on the floor.

Had her rage manifested as fire and struck down Talvinius?

It seemed impossible.

The sound of screaming reached her ears, along with the shrieks of enraged spitfangs. Something was happening in the village. Had Talvinius's death thrown the kobolds of the Blue Hand into chaos?

If so, this might be Calliande's only chance to escape.

A gleam of light caught her eye, and she saw the empty soulstone lying near the firepit. Calliande scooped up the crystal, stuffed it into her belt pouch, and headed for the exit.

She reached the top of the narrow stone stairs and saw that the spitfangs had somehow broken out of their pen and had gone berserk, hunting their kobold masters. Calliande considered hiding until the fighting died down, but this might be her only chance to get away.

She sprinted down the stairs, one hand gripping the wall for balance. A kobold female emerged from one of the caves, hissing at her, but Calliande kept running.

Her eyes widened.

Ridmark and Kharlacht fought back to back at the base of the stairs, driving back the kobolds with every step.

###

Ridmark whipped his staff in a circle, striking down another kobold, and saw Calliande.

She dashed down the steps from the shaman's cave, her blue eyes wide with fright and strain. Yet she was alive. Kharlacht cut down the last kobold, and Calliande ran down the last steps and joined them.

"Are you hurt?" said Ridmark.

She shook her head, eyes haunted. "No. I don't know how...but no."

"What did you do to that shaman?" said Kharlacht.

"We can trade stories later," said Ridmark. "Run!"

He ran for the gate, the others following. The kobolds had started to gain the upper hand against the spitfangs. A kobold lunged at Ridmark, and he knocked the warrior out of his way with a sharp swing of his staff.

Ridmark ran through the gate and sprinted through the field of mushrooms. Still he saw no signs of pursuit. The spitfangs would keep the kobolds occupied, but once they pacified their war beasts, they would realize what had happened.

They would want revenge.

Best to be gone from the Deeps by then.

He headed into the tunnel leading from the kobolds' cavern, weaving his way around the clusters of glowing mushrooms. Soon he saw Caius waiting, his mace ready.

"You're alive!" Caius said. "Truly, the age of miracles has not passed from the world."

"Evidently not," said Ridmark. "If we don't keep moving, we're not going to stay alive. Go."

They resumed their run, heading for Thainkul Agon.

***

## Chapter 15 - Parting

Calliande's chest burned, her legs aching with every step.

But she kept running.

The thought of several hundred angry kobolds proved an excellent motivator.

They had left Thainkul Agon, following the stream into its downward-sloping tunnel. The tunnel curved back and forth, the stream splashing in its channel. The air smelled of wet and mold, and thick clumps of glowing mushrooms lined the tunnel. Calliande ran on, her heart pounding, her legs throbbing. She was tired...but not as tired as she thought she would be.

Whatever strange power that had let her heal quickly, that had allowed her to drive back Talvinius, was still working.

At last Ridmark raised his hand and stopped.

"We can rest here," he said, squinting up the tunnel. "We'll have ample warning if the kobolds are after us. And I think we could benefit from some rest."

"Aye," said Caius, his gray face dark from exertion. He let out a long breath. "I once ran all day and fought deep orcs all night. Ah, but that was a hundred years ago. I am too old to keep up with you children."

Calliande looked at the dwarf. She suspected Caius was at least two centuries old, but if Talvinius had told her the truth, she might be older than him.

Ridmark passed out some food, dried meat and hard bread, and they sat against the cavern wall. Even Kharlacht sat down with a sigh, the blue steel of his armor clanking. Yet Ridmark remained standing, watching the tunnel for any pursuit.

"How did you do that?" said Calliande.

"Do what?" said Ridmark.

"Get into the village," said Calliande. "It must house five hundred kobolds. How did you fight past them?"

Caius chuckled. "He did not, my lady. Do you recall how red ghost mushrooms drive a spitfang to madness?"

Calliande nodded.

"Ridmark ground up a large number of red mushrooms and threw the powder into the spitfangs' pen," said Caius. "In the resultant chaos, he and Kharlacht slipped into the village and escorted you to safety."

"Much as he did," said Kharlacht around a mouthful of bread, "at the standing stones." He shook his head. "Only a madman would think to use a nest of fire drakes as a weapon."

Ridmark looked at her. "What happened in the village? We had come to rescue you...but you were already rescuing yourself. What happened to the shaman?"

Caius frowned. "I thought you slew him."

Ridmark shook his head. "No. We fought our way to the heart of the village....and then a blast of white fire erupted from the shaman's lair. It threw him to the ground, and if he wasn't dead from the fire, the landing certainly killed him."

Calliande hesitated. She did not want to speak of what had happened. But Ridmark and Caius had risked their lives to save her, and Kharlacht had proven himself honorable.

"I don't know," said Calliande at last. "The kobold shaman...I don't think he was a kobold, not truly. He claimed his name was Talvinius, and that he was once a member of the Order of the Magistri."

Caius frowned. "A kobold Magistrius?"

"No. Well...after a fashion," said Calliande. "He said he had once been a member of the Order of the Vigilant, but became something called an Eternalist. When his body died, he sent his spirit into a kobold's body to survive. That was why he sent Crotaph after us. He wanted to claim my body, to send his spirit into my flesh." She touched the pouch at her belt. "And he wanted the soulstone."

Ridmark and Caius shared a look.

"What is an Eternalist?" said Kharlacht.

"An order of heretics within the Order of Magistri," said Ridmark. "Or they were. They arose soon after the Frostborn were destroyed. They chafed at the restrictions the laws of the High King and the Church placed upon magic, and wished to expand their powers. Eventually they came to believe that the Magistri were the natural rulers of all men, and found willing allies in nobles who wanted to turn their peasants and freeholders into slaves, just as the lords of Rome on Old Earth ruled over an empire of slaves. There was civil war, but the Eternalists were defeated. The Order of the Magistri was reformed, and the Eternalists were all slain or went into hiding."

"Except for this Talvinius," said Kharlacht, "who has lurked here ever since."

Caius sighed. "I am not surprised the Eternalists found an audience for their lies among the lords of Andomhaim. I came to the High King's realm hoping to find zealous sons of the Church. Instead I found that the nobles are more interested in wealth, the Swordbearers in their prestige, the Magistri in their power, and the priests in their concubines."

"True," said Ridmark. "But some of the nobles are good men. Dux Gareth Licinius is a valiant and true lord." He was silent for a moment. "And my father."

Calliande blinked. Ridmark had never spoken of his family. A memory rose from the fog of her mind. He had said that his name was Ridmark Arban, and the head of the house of Arban was also the Dux of Taliand, the oldest and most prestigious duxarchate in the realm of Andomhaim.

Which meant that Ridmark's father was one of the most powerful men in the High Kingdom.

"Aye, Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance are good men," said Caius, "but I fear they are a minority."

"Are good men not always a minority?" said Ridmark. "Did not God tell Abraham that he would spare the cities of the plain if only ten righteous men could be found within their walls?" He waved his hand. "But we have more immediate concerns than history and theology."

"History and theology are the immediate concerns of every man," said Caius.

Ridmark made an exasperated sound and turned back to Calliande. "How did you escape him?"

"I'm not sure," said Calliande. "He was...powerful. He cast a spell on me, and I felt his spirit try to take control of my body. I got so...so angry. Not just from what he was doing to me, but from how he had abused his magic, how he had taken something that was to be a sacred trust and twisted it into something profane. It felt like a fire was erupting inside me. Talvinius started to scream, and when I woke up he was gone. Probably burning on the floor of the cavern."

The men considered this in silence for a moment.

"Are you a Magistria?" said Ridmark at last.

"I don't know!" said Calliande, striking her fist against her leg. "I don't know. I didn't cast a spell, yet magic must have killed Talvinius. I think Talvinius knew me before...before whatever happened to seal me below the Tower of Vigilance. The way he spoke to me, I must have been a Magistria. But I cannot recall anything of magic, any knowledge of my past." She shuddered. "And if he knew me, if he was an Eternalist...that means I was in that vault for at least a hundred and fifty years. He spoke of the Frostborn as if he had seen them, and that means I could have been asleep for two centuries. Everyone I ever knew is dead. My mother and father, any brothers and sisters. If I had a husband and children. They are all dead, and I cannot remember them."

She wanted to weep for the family she had lost, assuming she had even had a family.

For she could not remember.

"I am sorry," said Caius. "If you like, when we stop I can say prayers for the repose of their souls."

Calliande nodded. "Thank you."

"But there is another concern," said Kharlacht. He stood. "How do we know that you are not Talvinius?"

Calliande blinked. "What?"

"Talvinius burned on the floor of the cavern," said Ridmark.

"Aye, but if this sorcerer was an Eternalist, a changer of flesh," said Kharlacht, "he might have taken Calliande's body before his old flesh perished."

Calliande opened her mouth, closed it, a panic growing inside her. She had no way to disprove the orc's suspicions, no way to prove who she really was.

She didn't even know who she really was.

"Doubtful," said Ridmark. "If that was Talvinius, we would be dead. Once he occupied Calliande's body, he would have commanded his followers to slay us, or brought his magic to bear."

"Perhaps he wished to gain our trust," said Kharlacht.

"To what end?" said Ridmark. "Calliande already had the soulstone. And we are a disgraced knight, a baptized orc, and a dwarven friar. If Talvinius wanted to find useful tools, he could certainly have done better than us."

Caius laughed. "I fear your argument is correct."

"Thank you," said Calliande.

Kharlacht nodded after a moment. "As you say."

Ridmark looked up the tunnel. "We have rested enough, I think."

"You hear the kobolds?" said Caius, scrambling to his feet.

"Not yet," said Ridmark, "but they are following, I have no doubt. Come."

They stood, and followed him along the bank of the stream.

###

Ridmark squinted into the gloom.

"I see light ahead," said Caius. "Moonlight, I think."

Kharlacht sniffed the air. "I can smell trees."

"The surface," said Calliande. "I have never been so glad to see it. I have spent far too much time underground."

"Be on your guard," said Ridmark, staff ready. "Another ursaar might lair in the entrance."

But the others hurried forward, even Caius, eager to see the surface again. Ridmark kept watch, his eyes and ears straining for any sign of attackers, but the cavern seemed deserted.

Then the entrance yawned before them, and they stepped onto a ledge overlooking a steep valley. The stream rushed past and fell in a white waterfall, flowing away to the River Marcaine to the south. The stars blazed in the night sky overhead, and three of the thirteen moons shone.

All of them, Ridmark noted, glowing with the color of the flames that had filled the sky the day he found Calliande.

"The surface," said Calliande, her face relieved as she gazed at the sky.

"And this, I think," said Ridmark, turning to face Kharlacht, "is where we part ways."

His fingers tightened around his staff. If Kharlacht would attempt treachery, he would do it now.

But the orc remained impassive, his expression solemn. Perhaps even sad.

"Aye," he said. "I gave oath to see you safely to the surface, and so I have done. I am now obliged to go to my kin."

"Qazarl, you mean," said Calliande.

Kharlacht nodded. "You are a valiant warrior, Gray Knight, and could I work my will I would fight under your banner rather than Qazarl's. But I am bound by blood, and I must follow him."

"You needn't follow him," said Ridmark. "You could leave him and come with me."

"And do what?" said Kharlacht. "Wander the wilds seeking wrongs to right? I have no place within the realm of Andomhaim, just as I have no place in Vhaluusk. And I could not forsake my blood."

"You will do what you must," said Ridmark.

"You understand what that means," said Kharlacht.

"And you will not try to abduct Calliande again?" said Ridmark.

"I will not," said Kharlacht. "I gave my sworn word." He sighed. "When we next meet, it shall be on the field of battle. May God go with you, Gray Knight."

"And with you, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht nodded and walked away. Ridmark saw him picking his way over the side of the steep hill, moving from rock to rock. Soon he vanished into the pine trees coating the hill.

"Come," said Ridmark, looking at the sky. "It's about midnight. We'll find a place to rest, and then head for Dun Licinia tomorrow at daybreak."

Assuming Qazarl had not already destroyed the town.

Ridmark, Calliande and Caius ascended to the hill's crest, and Ridmark looked around. The combined light of the three moons and the stars was enough to identify some landmarks, and the dark mass of the Black Mountain blotted out a portion of the sky.

"Southwest," said Ridmark. "We're southwest of the mountain, and directly west of Dun Licinia. About a half-day, maybe three-quarters of a day. We'll reach it tomorrow."

"What will become of me?" said Calliande.

"I doubt Qazarl or Shadowbearer will forget about you," said Ridmark. "Once I've warned Sir Joram and Dux Licinius about Qazarl, I can take you to Tarlion, to the Tower of the Magistri there. If you were once a Magistria, they should have records of you. And if some sort of spell blocks your memories, they can remove it. I believe Sir Joram has a Magistrius in his service at Dun Licinia, though I cannot remember the name."

"His name is Alamur," said Caius. "A man much in love with the sound of his own voice, if you will forgive my bluntness."

"I see why you would not get along," said Ridmark. "Nevertheless, he is a Magistrius, and perhaps he can help you."

Calliande wrapped her arms around herself. "I am not sure I wish to speak to any Magistri, if Talvinius is representative of their Order."

"The Eternalists are extinct," said Ridmark, "and Talvinius spent the last century hiding in the darkness of the Deeps. I would not trust anything he said."

"I suppose not," said Calliande.

"We'll camp here tonight," said Ridmark, "and make our way to Dun Licinia in the morning."

They made themselves as comfortable as they could within a ring of pine trees. Ridmark took the first watch, and soon both Calliande and Caius had fallen asleep. The fighting in the Deeps, Ridmark suspected, had taken more out of Caius than the friar had let on.

He watched Calliande for a moment, considering what to do about her.

He had sought for evidence of the Frostborn for five years...and on the very day he had seen the omen that heralded their return, Calliande had awakened in the vault below the Tower of Vigilance. And if Talvinius had been telling the truth, she had been in that vault since the defeat of the Frostborn.

Her memories might hold the answers Ridmark had long sought, the truth about the return of the Frostborn.

Perhaps he should to travel with her until she regained her memory. He had planned to travel to Urd Morlemoch, to force the Warden to reveal the truth of his prophecy, but Calliande might hold all the answers he needed.

Assuming she was willing to share them with him.

For once she regained her memory, she might refuse to have anything to do with him. He had been expelled from the Order of the Swordbearers, branded with the mark of a traitor and a coward. The Magistri shunned Ridmark, as did the Swordbearers, and if Calliande truly had been a Magistria, she might well shun him once she recovered her memory.

She would be right to do it. He deserved death, for what had happened. Someday it would come to him, and then he could rest.

But only after he had warned the realm against the return of the Frostborn.

Ridmark stood motionless until Caius awoke to take the watch, and then fell into a dreamless sleep.

###

The next day they broke camp and headed across the foothills for Dun Licinia.

***

## Chapter 16 - Burning Fields

An hour later, Ridmark saw the first plume of black smoke against the blue sky.

"A large fire," said Caius.

Ridmark nodded, scanning the pine trees for any foes.

"Are there any freeholds this far from the town?" said Caius.

"Several," said Ridmark. He smelled the burning wood now. He could not smell burning flesh, which was good. He glanced at Calliande, saw her tight, worried expression. "It's dangerous this far north, but bold freeholders claim lands here, try to make a living. Worth it, if he can pull it off...but he's always at risk from pagan orcs or kobolds or worse things."

He found a path heading through the trees and took it, trying to move quietly. Though it hardly mattered – Caius could move quietly enough, but Calliande simply had no ability at stealth. Ridmark suspected the countryside was crawling with Qazarl's scouts by now, and he would prefer to avoid them. He thought he could take four or five of the Mhalekites in a straight fight, but any more than that could simply overwhelm him.

Or they could just shoot him from behind a tree.

The path ended in a large clearing at the base of a hill. Once the clearing had held a freehold, terraces climbing the sides of the nearby slopes, a pair of large barns overlooking a set of sheep pens. But now the barns burned, flames devouring their walls and rafters. A house built of fieldstone stood behind the barns, its interior and roof ablaze.

There was no sign of any living thing.

"Those fires couldn't have been started more than an hour past," said Caius.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "But I don't think the orcs killed anyone." He strode into the clearing. "You see these tracks?" He pointed. "Sheep and pigs. Recent tracks, too. I think the freeholder and his family got out before the orcs came." He looked at the burning barns. "Hopefully they reached Dun Licinia before Qazarl's scouts caught them."

"They lost everything," said Calliande, voice quiet. "This place must be the work of decades"

"Men can rebuild farms," said Ridmark. "Only the Dominus Christus can rebuild dead men." He beckoned the others back to the trees. "Best to get away from here. The orcs might return, and..."

Even as he spoke, he saw a movement from behind a tree.

"Down!" shouted Ridmark. Calliande and Caius ducked, and an orc came into sight, a short bow in hand. The arrow buzzed past Ridmark, and he sprinted forward, staff raised. The orc took aim, and Ridmark swung just as the orc released. The end of the staff caught the orc in the face, knocking the Mhalekite back. Ridmark sidestepped, reversing the staff, his strength and momentum driving the length of wood and steel against the Mhalekite's temple.

The orc fell motionless to the ground.

"Ridmark!"

Ridmark saw three orcs charging towards Caius and Calliande. Caius had his mace, but the dwarf was only one man, and Calliande had no weapons.

They would overwhelm Caius in short order.

Ridmark charged as the orcs closed around Caius, and flung his staff like a spear. It tangled in the legs of the nearest Mhalekite, and the orcish warrior went down in a heap. The orc stood as Ridmark approached, and he threw a punch, rocking the Mhalekite, but the orc roared and swung his short sword. Ridmark ducked, grabbed his staff, and slammed the weapon into the orc's knees. He did not have enough momentum behind the blow to do much damage, but the Mhalekite staggered back. Ridmark drove the butt of the staff into the orc's belly. The Mhalekite doubled over with a groan, and Ridmark brought his weapon down onto the orc's head.

The warrior fell dead to the ground.

The final orc faced off against Caius, short sword ringing against the dwarf's mace. Caius launched an attack, pushing the orc back with vigorous strokes. The Mhalekite dodged right into the path of Ridmark's next blow.

The orc joined his companions upon the ground.

Ridmark turned in a circle, staff raised, but saw no other attackers.

"Scouts, likely," he said. "They doubled back to see if anyone returned to the freehold."

"A cruel tactic," said Caius.

"Mhalek was fond of it," said Ridmark. "I should have realized what was happening. Are either of you hurt?"

"I am unharmed," said Caius, and Calliande shook her head.

"You," said Ridmark, pointing at her, "need a weapon."

"I don't know how to use a sword," said Calliande. "And I'm not strong enough to get much use out of a weapon like a mace or a club."

"No," said Ridmark, stooping over one of the dead orcs, "but it doesn't take much strength to stab."

A sheathed dagger rested on the dead orc's belt. It wasn't orcish work, but the sort of dagger carried by men-at-arms of the Dux of the Northerland. Undoubtedly the orc had stolen it. Ridmark examined the weapon, and then handed the blade to Calliande.

"Take this," he said.

"And do what with it?" said Calliande. "I can't fight alongside you like Caius or Kharlacht. I am useless."

"Stop speaking folly," said Ridmark. "I don't expect you to fight alongside me...but if the orcs try to take you again, you will need to defend yourself."

Calliande hesitated, and then took the dagger and clipped the sheath to her belt.

"We had best move on," said Caius, "before more of Qazarl's men find us."

Ridmark led the way into the trees.

###

Calliande walked onward, following Ridmark's lead.

They had seen a dozen more burning freeholds. From time to time they passed bodies lying untended on the ground, both Mhalekite orcs and men wearing the clothes of freeholders and laborers.

"Qazarl has likely divided his host," said Ridmark, "sent them to burn out the countryside around Dun Licinia. He must be anticipating a long siege."

"A poor strategy," said Caius. "That gives Sir Joram more time to prepare, to pull in the freeholders and supplies from the countryside."

"His goal isn't just Dun Licinia," said Ridmark. "He wants to find Calliande."

Calliande closed her eyes for a moment. She had caused this. All the death and destruction they had already seen, and all the death and destruction to come. It had been unleashed because of her.

And she didn't even know why.

"Kharlacht must not have returned to him yet," said Caius. "Otherwise he would know what happened to Calliande."

"Or," said Calliande, "he might have killed Kharlacht for his failure, before giving him the chance to speak in his defense."

Another death upon her shoulders. Kharlacht had taken her to the standing stones to perish upon the altar, to fuel whatever black magic Shadowbearer intended. Yet Kharlacht had been kind to her, had helped her escape from Talvinius's grasp. She did not wish him ill.

She certainly did not want him to die.

"Perhaps not," said Ridmark. "Even if Kharlacht returned to Qazarl and told him everything, it would still take time for Qazarl to recall all his raiding parties. At least an entire day, if not longer."

"So we have that long," said Caius, "until Dun Licinia falls under siege."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "Let us put that time to good use."

He set a brisk pace through the trees. Calliande winced with every snap of a twig beneath her feet, every crackle of dry pine needles. But she did not know how to move with stealth as Ridmark and Caius did, and the heavy orcish boots certainly did not help. She dreaded the noise she made, feared that every step would bring enemies down upon their heads.

But whether through luck or Ridmark's skill, they encountered no other orcs. The day wore on, and as noon gave way to afternoon, they emerged from the trees and onto a dirt road. A river ran alongside one side of the road, flowing away to the southwest.

"The River Marcaine," said Ridmark. "We've made good progress."

"How much farther, do you think?" said Caius.

Ridmark gestured. "See for yourself."

They followed the road around a stand of pine trees, and Calliande saw the town of Dun Licinia for the first time.

A stout stone wall fortified the town of about four thousand people, and beyond the rampart Calliande saw the tower of a keep, the twin bell towers of a stone church, and the rounded turret of a Magistrius's tower. The town's gates were shut, and men patrolled the walls, crossbows in hand. Green banners emblazoned with white harts flew from the twin octagonal towers guarding the northern gate, and after a moment Calliande realized that the white hart upon green was the sigil of the Dux of the Northerland.

Apparently she had known the Dux.

Or one of his ancestors, more likely.

"God has been with us," said Caius. "The town has not yet fallen."

Ridmark nodded. "Sir Joram was never the most formidable man on the practice field, but he is smart and diligent. We should speak with him at once. He'll need more information...and the fact that you're still alive will likely be the first piece of good news in days."

Caius snorted. "I never thought I would hear anyone say that."

Calliande hesitated. "What will you tell him about me?"

"The truth," said Ridmark. "Why should I not?" He thought for a moment. "Joram is not a fool. But do not tell the full truth to anyone but him. If anyone asks, you were taken captive by the orcs, and Caius and I rescued you and brought you back to Dun Licinia."

Calliande smiled. "That's true enough."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "But don't tell anyone about the soulstone, save for Sir Joram. I think that might prove too much of a temptation for many men, especially for the Magistri. Like a woman carrying a bag of gold alone on a deserted road. Best not to expose anyone to the temptation."

Calliande nodded. "Do not put a stumbling block in another's path, is that it?"

Caius grinned, his teeth flashing in his graying beard. "Well spoken."

Ridmark led the way to the northern gate of Dun Licinia.

###

Men-at-arms patrolled the walls, along with peasant militia equipped with leather armor and short bows.

All of them pointed their weapons as Ridmark.

"Hold!" shouted their leader, a grizzled man-at-arms in his middle years. Ridmark remembered him from his previous confrontation at the gate.

It had only been a few days ago, but it seemed much longer.

"I need to speak with Sir Joram at once," said Ridmark. "I have news about the Mhalekites."

"You'll stay where you are," said the man-at-arms. "Sir Joram has ordered the town sealed, and..."

"Thomas!" bellowed Caius, stepping to Ridmark's side.

The grizzled man-at-arms blinked. "Brother Caius?"

"Stop being obtuse and let us into the town," said Caius. "Sir Joram Agramore sent Ridmark to find me. And just in the nick of time, too, else those Mhalekites would have given me a red smile below my chin." He stroked his beard. "Assuming they could have gotten through my beard, of course."

Some of the militiamen laughed.

"And he also rescued this woman," said Caius, gesturing at Calliande, "who had been taken captive by the orcs. Truly, without the valiant intervention of the Gray Knight, both I and this fair lady would lie dead. Now stop blustering and let us inside. We have news about the orcs that Sir Joram must hear."

Thomas scowled, but shouted an order, and the gates of Dun Licinia swung open with a groan.

"Nicely said," said Ridmark.

"Thank you," said Caius. "I may talk all the time, but it all that practice has occasionally proven useful."

Calliande laughed.

Ridmark walked through the gates with the others, a pair of militiamen falling in around them. The entire town had been mobilized for a siege. Bundles of arrows and crossbow bolts had been stacked against the wall, along with rows of spears and shields. Women worked in the streets, some preparing bandages for the wounded, others carrying baskets of food. The militiamen led them to the square, and Ridmark saw Sir Joram Agramore speaking with a pair of men-at-arms. He had traded his tunic and mantle for plate armor and chain mail, his sword and dagger ready at his belt.

His eyes widened in astonishment as Ridmark approached.

"This man demands to speak with you, sir," said one of the militiamen, "and..."

"God and all his saints," said Joram. "You're still alive!" He grinned. "You found Brother Caius, too."

"Good to see you again, Sir Joram," said Caius. "I fear the orcs of the Wilderland were not particularly receptive to the message of the Church."

"It seems not," said Joram. "When we first received word of the raids on the outer freeholds, I was sure that you both were slain." He clapped Ridmark on the shoulder. "It is good to see you again. I have sore need of your aid, if you are willing to provide it."

"But sir knight," said one of the men-at-arms, "he is branded..."

"The Mhalekites will make no such distinction," said Joram. He glanced at Caius. "Did you stir them up with your preaching? I thought we had taught Mhalek's followers a lesson five years ago. I didn't think there would be enough left of them to mount an attack, but it seems that I was wrong."

"Brother Caius didn't stir them up," said Ridmark. "Something else did."

Joram frowned. "What happened?"

Ridmark nodded. "We had best speak privately."

###

Calliande listened as Ridmark told the entire story to Sir Joram.

They had gone to the keep's great hall, the chamber decorated with the tapestries of Lancelot and Galahad seeking the grail and of the Dragon Knight fighting the Frostborn, and Joram had sent away his guards. It was clear that he trusted Ridmark, and she wondered about that. Ridmark had been expelled from the Order of the Swordbearers, carried the brand of a coward and a traitor upon his face. Yet Joram was willing to believe anything he said.

Given the bold deeds she had seen Ridmark do, she wasn't entirely surprised.

"And then we parted ways with Kharlacht and made our way here," said Ridmark.

"An incredible story," said Joram. "Had any other man told it to me, I would call him a charlatan or a madman. You are many things, Ridmark, but you were never a liar."

"I fear I am not imaginative enough to come up with such a fable," said Ridmark.

Joram snorted. "Perhaps not." His green eyes turned to Calliande. "I am sorry for the ordeals you have endured, my lady. As long as you choose to remain in Dun Licinia, my hospitality is yours, and you shall be my honored guest. Though Dun Licinia is hardly a safe haven at the moment."

"Thank you, my lord knight," said Calliande, touched by his kindness.

"You can remember nothing of your past?" said Joram. "Nothing at all? No reason why Qazarl and this...Shadowbearer creature might have wished you ill?"

"None, my lord," said Calliande. "I wish I could tell you more. I dearly wish I knew more myself. Other than what Talvinius told me, I know nothing. And Talvinius might have been lying."

"I have come to suspect," said Ridmark, "that Calliande was once a Magistria of great power in the Order of the Vigilant, one who sealed herself away to awaken once the Frostborn returned."

Calliande blinked. Had she truly been someone like that? A woman of power and strength, one with the foresight to wait until the Frostborn had returned?

Of course, if true, her foresight had been flawed. The Order of the Vigilant had dwindled, the Tower of Vigilance had burned, and she had awakened alone in the darkness with her memories lost.

"I suspect Qazarl and Shadowbearer wanted to slay her with the soulstone upon the altar in order to unlock her power, and claim it for themselves," said Ridmark, "to help achieve some dire purpose."

Joram frowned. "Like breaking the walls of Dun Licinia?"

"Or something greater," said Ridmark.

"Such as the return of the Frostborn, perhaps?" said Joram. He sighed. "Ah, Ridmark. I thought the Frostborn extinct, and your quest some mad attempt at redemption. But after the strange things we have seen...who can say? Still, we only face Mhalekite orcs. If the Frostborn had returned, the rivers would freeze in the heart of summer, and men would be found dead with their blood turned to ice. Or so the tales say." He looked at Calliande. "This soulstone. May I see it?"

Calliande hesitated and drew out the stone, its rough sides cold against her fingers. She felt the power stirring within the stone, the raw arcane force.

"It looks like an overlarge piece of quartz," said Joram, voice quiet. "But...ah, I am no Magistrius, but even I can feel the power in the crystal. Put it away, please, my lady." Calliande complied. "It seems certain that Qazarl will assail Dun Licinia, once he learns that you and the stone are within our walls."

"I could ride south," said Calliande, "lure him away from the town." She did not want to leave the Dun Licinia, but she did not want any more people to die because of her.

Ridmark shook his head. "Qazarl will assail Dun Licinia with or without you. If you leave now, you will only fall into his hands."

"Then we must prepare to meet the attack," said Joram. He hesitated. "Ridmark...your aid would be welcome."

"I shall fight," said Ridmark.

"I would also welcome your counsel," said Joram. "I have never commanded so many men at once. I served as the army's quartermaster in the war against Mhalek, not as its commander."

"Are you asking me to take command of the defense?" said Ridmark. "The men will never accept orders from a man expelled from the Swordbearers."

"No," said Joram, "but if you want to give any advice to the town's commander...I think you will find him most receptive. And grateful."

Calliande realized that Joram was terrified.

"So be it, then," said Ridmark. "You've done well, so far, by gathering the freeholders and as much food as you can manage."

"Aye," said Joram. "We've enough food to feed the town and all our fighting men for three months. Four, maybe, if we tighten our belts. The battle shall be over long before that."

"How many fighting men do you have?" said Ridmark.

"Three hundred men-at-arms," said Joram. "The town's garrison, sent from Dun Licinia to guard against orcish and beastmen raiders from the Wilderland. Another four hundred militia gathered from the townsmen and the freeholders."

"Qazarl as between three and four thousand orcish warriors," said Ridmark. "He might have gathered additional allies from the beastmen packs, or from the kobolds."

"We irritated the kobolds on our way here," said Caius.

"With seven hundred men," said Ridmark, "you should be able to hold long enough for Dux Gareth to send aid from Castra Marcaine."

"If any aid comes," said Joram.

Ridmark frowned. "Did you send riders to Castra Marcaine?"

"I did, as soon as we realized the scale of the Mhalekite threat," said Joram. "They may not have gotten through. Qazarl has dispersed his host into many raiding parties, and they might have killed my messengers."

"We'll need to trust to more than your messengers' skill," said Ridmark. "You have a Magistrius here, do we not?"

"Aye, Magistrius Alamur," said Joram with a grimace. Apparently the man was just as unpleasant as Caius had said.

"The Magistri can converse with each other over long distances," said Ridmark. "And I know Dux Licinius has Magistri at Castra Marcaine. Tell Alamur to send a message to the Dux's Magistri. They can warn the Dux of the danger, and he will send troops."

"Alamur refuses to heed me," said Caius.

Ridmark blinked several times. "Why?"

"I don't know," said Joram, scowling in frustration. "The man has been nothing but trouble ever since Dux Gareth sent him to Castra Marcaine. He is arrogant, and refuses to cooperate on even the simplest of tasks. He spends days locked up in his tower with his books, and refuses to emerge to aid in the governance of the comarchate." He smacked his right fist against his left palm. "I have no Swordbearers here, and you know the beasts of the dark elves can only be slain through magic or flame. Last month an urvaalg attacked one of the outlying freeholds. Had Alamur roused himself sooner, we might have saved the freeholder and his family. Instead, our learned Magistrius only struck down the urvaalg once it drew near to the town."

Something in the knight's story woke the anger in Calliande, the same rage she had felt while facing Talvinius. A Magistrius ought to use his power for good, not selfishly, and the prospect of a Magistrius neglecting those in his care infuriated her.

"You are acting as the Comes of Dun Licinia," said Ridmark. "Command him to aid in the defense of the town."

"I tried," said Joram. "He refused to recognize my authority, and said he would only obey a command from either the Dux or one of the Masters of the Magistri. Not from me."

"The idiot," said Ridmark. For the first time since Calliande had met him, he looked angry. He had fought Kharlacht's warriors and Talvinius's kobolds with icy calm, but now he looked angry. "We will need the help of a Magistrius, and not just to send messages. Qazarl has the black magic of a pagan orcish shaman, and I doubt he's a weakling. We must have Alamur's help."

Joram shook his head. "He refuses to give it."

"Then," said Ridmark, "let's go persuade him."

***

## Chapter 17 - A Bargain

Ridmark left the keep and walked to the Magistrius's tower. Caius, Calliande, and Sir Joram followed him, trailed by a pair of Joram's men-at-arms.

The tower stood behind Dun Licinia's stone church. The Magistri often resided in high towers to study the position of the thirteen moons, since the conjunctions and positions of the moons altered the effects of certain spells. Alamur's tower looked little different than the others Ridmark had seen, tall and round with the bronze tube of a telescope jutting from the roof.

He knocked several times, but no answer came.

"Caius," said Ridmark, "would you lend me your mace?"

"Why?" said Caius.

"Because," said Ridmark, "I'm going to break down the door."

"But he is a Magistrius," said Joram. "You..."

"You can't break down his door and compel him," said Ridmark, "because you are a knight in service of Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland, and that would reflect poorly on the Dux. You, Brother Caius, cannot do it, because you are a mendicant friar and friars can only fight in defense of their lives. I, however, am a disinherited exile expelled from the Order of Swordbearers for cowardice and desertion. No one is responsible for me, and my actions reflect upon no one. If the Masters of the Magistri dislike what I am about to do, Sir Joram, you can tell them to take it up with me."

Calliande blinked. He could not tell if she was impressed or disgusted.

"As ever," said Caius, "you make a persuasive argument."

He handed over the mace.

The mace was quite a bit heavier than it looked, as most dwarven weapons were. Ridmark stepped back, raised his arm, and hammered the mace against the door.

After the fifth strike, the door splintered away from the lock.

"Thank you," said Ridmark, handing the mace back to Caius.

He pushed aside the ruined door and climbed into the tower, the others following. The first floor held a richly furnished living room, overstuffed chairs surrounding a gleaming table. The second held a dining hall, and the third held the Magistrius's luxurious sleeping chamber.

The top floor contained the Magistrius's workshop, library, and observatory. Wooden shelves groaned beneath the weight of books and scrolls, and worktables held jars and bottles and a variety of peculiar instruments. Another table held an elaborate bronze astrolabe, next to the bronze telescope.

In the center of the room stood the furious Magistrius Alamur himself.

The Magistrius was a tall man of regal bearing, clad in a gleaming white robe with a black sash. He had a close-cropped gray beard and gray hair, and his dark eyes flashed with fury. Joram and the men-at-arms looked nervous. They had broken into the home of a Magistrius, one of the wielders of the potent magic taught by the elven archmage Ardrhythain himself, masters of mysteries beyond the reach of most men.

Ridmark was less impressed.

In his dealings with the Magistri as a Swordbearer, he had found them conceited and pompous, and often less knowledgeable and less powerful than they liked to claim.

"Joram Agramore!" thundered Alamur. "What is the meaning of this egregious intrusion? You have invaded my home! This will draw the wrath of the Order of the..."

"I broke into your home," said Ridmark, his staff tapping against the polished wooden floor. "Sir Joram is just here to make sure I don't hurt you unduly."

Alamur's bearded face twisted into a sneer. "Yes, I know you. The branded man, the renegade the peasants like to call the Gray Knight. The man who fled the field of Dun Licinia to save a woman, and utterly failed."

Calliande gave him a sharp look.

"I am that man," said Ridmark.

Alamur smirked. "Then what does the Gray Knight wish of a Magistrius?"

"Nothing complex," said Ridmark. "Only your duty."

Alamur raised his eyebrows. "Duty? It is the duty of a Magistrius to defend the realm from black magic. It is a duty of a Magistrius to shepherd the people of the realm, to guide the nobles in their tasks, to urge them to wise decisions." He cast a disdainful look at Joram. "It is not the duty of a Magistrius to assist the nobles in every petty brawl with a ragged orcish warband."

"This is hardly a petty warband," said Ridmark. "These orcs are Mhalekites."

"Any fool can brand a sigil upon his forehead," said Alamur. "Mhalek is dead...as you ought to know...and his followers were destroyed. These orcs that have Sir Joram so concerned are nothing but brigands. If Sir Joram were competent, he could have defeated these attackers without bothering his betters."

Joram looked away from the older man's glare. Ridmark saw the source of the problem. Like all knights of the realm, Joram had spent his life in awe of the Magistri. It would have been difficult for him to defy one.

"The attacking orcs are at least three or four thousand strong," said Ridmark. "They are led by Qazarl, one of Mhalek's disciples."

Alamur sniffed. "A thug with a sword, no doubt."

"A shaman, strong in blood sorcery and dark magic," said Ridmark. "If you do not oppose him, his spells will wreak havoc on Sir Joram's men."

Alamur laughed. "A wretched little hill shaman is not worth the time of a Magistrius."

Ridmark tilted his head to the side, considering the Magistrius.

Something was off. Ridmark had dealt with the Magistri before, and they had usually been as pompous and arrogant as Alamur. Yet they had been eager to flaunt their powers, to prove their prowess by smashing creatures of dark magic. This utter refusal to fight was unusual.

But Ridmark did not need Alamur to fight.

"Fine, then," said Ridmark. "If you will not fight, then at least send a message. There are Magistri at Castra Marcaine."

The Magistrius offered a patronizing smile. "Yes, I know. I have been there. Recently. Unlike you, I imagine. Castra Marcaine is the closest thing to civilization in the wretched Northerland."

"Send a message to the Magistri there," said Ridmark. "Bid them to warn Dux Licinius about the Mhalekites."

"I most certainly will not," said Alamur.

"Why?" said Ridmark. "Because it is beneath the dignity of a Magistrius?"

"Yes, but that is not the reason," said Alamur.

"Will you deign to share it?" said Ridmark.

"If I must," said Alamur. "I will not trouble the Dux of the Northerland with so petty a concern." He stepped forward, his smirk changing into a glare. "I will not trouble the illustrious Dux with the ranting of Ridmark Arban, the man who slew his daughter."

A spasm of rage and grief and endless sorrow went through Ridmark. But none of the emotion touched his face.

"My failure," said Ridmark, "does not excuse your failure to do your duty."

"You are pathetic," said Calliande.

All eyes turned to face her. Ridmark was certain that she was speaking to him. He had stopped Mhalek, but he had failed in the most profound way possible, and...

But she stepped towards Alamur.

"A Magistrius is supposed to wield magic in the defense of the people of the realm," Calliande said. "All you do is lurk in this tower and nurse your injured pride."

Alamur laughed. "Who is the girl, Gray Knight? Some country bumpkin dressed up in orcish rags? Or a whore in costume? You have a taste for...orcish tarts, as it were?"

"Such comments," said Caius, face stern, "are unworthy of a child, let alone a Magistrius."

"Do not lecture me, dwarf," said Alamur. "You..."

"Be silent," said Calliande, her voice hard with icy contempt. "You were sent to Dun Licinia because you were the weakest, were you not? The least skilled, the least popular among your brothers and sisters?"

Alamur's face went hard. "Do not speak so to your betters, woman."

She turned away from him, and a strange expression went over her face as she looked at the Magistrius's shelves.

###

Calliande heard Ridmark and Alamur continue their argument, but something else drew her attention.

She sensed something wrong.

Something rotten.

Ever since they had set foot in the tower, she had sensed the currents of magical power rippling around her. Alamur worked magic here, powerful magic. The currents of power felt both familiar and benign, somehow. Vlazar's magic had been dark, like shadows mixed with burning blood, and Talvinius's magic had felt like rotten fruit, like a dead animal eaten away by corruption. The magic within the tower, by contrast, felt warm and strong, like the wall of a castle defended by bold men.

Yet she felt something dark within the warm aura.

A shadow.

"The Masters of my Order shall hear of these grievous insults to the Magistri," said Alamur. "As shall Dux Licinius, Sir Joram. It seems clear to be that you are not fit to act as the Comes of Dun Licinia. Perhaps you are not even fit to clean your own stables."

"If Dun Licinia falls and Qazarl kills everyone within the walls," said Ridmark, "then neither the Masters nor the Dux shall hear your complaints."

Calliande walked closer to the shelf. The Magistrius's shelves held books and scrolls, written in both Latin and high elven, and a variety of odd curios – a tasseled manetaur spearhead, a stone with a fish's skeleton imprinted upon it, an old orcish war helm.

A scroll, tucked between the helm and the spearhead, caught her eye.

The corruption radiated from it.

"Be reasonable, Magistrius," said Caius. "We must all stand together, or we shall perish together. That has been the history of Andomhaim. The High King and his nobles fought together against the orcs. Ardrhythain taught your people magic, and the Magistri and the Swordbearers stood as one against the urdmordar and then the Frostborn."

"Threats worthy of a Magistrius's efforts," said Alamur. "Not this rabble of hill orcs. If Joram is even marginally competent, he can handle them without my aid."

Calliande gazed at the scroll, fascinated. It had been fashioned of old leather, and she glimpsed strange symbols upon its surface.

"Then think of the words of the Dominus Christus," said Caius. "You are mighty, Magistrius, and we are to look after the weakest among us..."

Alamur laughed, his voice full of scorn. "Do not throw the words of the Church at me, dwarf. The Church is an instrument to keep the peasantry in their place and nothing more. The idea that its laws should bind a Magistrius is ludicrous. I will not take part in your little backcountry brawl. The blood of a Magistrius is worth that of a thousand lesser men."

"You are eaten up with pride and arrogance," said Caius. "You should turn your back on them, lest they devour you."

Calliande picked up the scroll. The leather felt icy cold beneath her grasp, and seemed to radiate dark magic. She unrolled it, the scroll creaking, and looked at the black symbols marching across its surface. The characters were dark elven, but the language was orcish, and...

"Pride is merely the word the weak give to the confidence of their betters," said Alamur. "You ought to...wait. What are you doing? Put that down at once!"

Calliande looked up from the leather scroll, and saw the Magistrius hurrying towards her, a hint of fear on his haughty face.

Suddenly she understood what he had done.

She wondered if Talvinius had looked like Alamur, before he had taken the body of that kobold.

"Put that down, you foolish girl," thundered Alamur. He reached for the scroll, and Calliande took a quick step out of his reach. "You will injure yourself. That scroll..."

"That scroll," said Calliande, holding it up so the others could see it, "was written by Qazarl, wasn't it?"

A stunned silence fell over the others.

"Preposterous," said Alamur. "Sir Joram, the girl is obviously addled. Remove her from my presence at once."

"This is written in orcish," said Calliande. "The characters are dark elven, but the language is orcish. It is a magical incantation for a spell that draws its power from the blood of a sacrificial victim."

"As if you would have the learning of the Magistri," said Alamur.

"She's right," said Caius. "I can read dark elven characters, and she speaks the truth."

"And how would you know, dwarf?" said Alamur. "Have you dabbled in dark arts?"

Caius smiled. "It is simply the education given to all dwarven nobles before we come of age. The dark elves were our foes long before the humans ever came to this world, and a warrior must understand his foes if he is to defeat them."

"That is what I am doing," said Alamur, "understanding my foes in order to defeat them."

He was starting to sweat, Calliande noticed.

"Indeed?" said Ridmark. "Your foes, you say? The foes you said were beneath your notice? The foes you would not trouble yourself to fight? If they are beneath your notice...then why do you have a scroll of orcish blood magic in your library?"

"And one," said Calliande, "that looks as if it was written recently?"

"I do not have to answer any questions," said Alamur. "If you have complaints, direct them to the Masters of my Order in Tarlion. Otherwise cease wasting my time and wearying my ears with..."

"Ah," said Ridmark, tapping his staff against the floor. "I think I understand."

They looked at him.

"You didn't want to come here," said Ridmark. "Dun Licinia was beneath your dignity. But the Masters of your Order sent you anyway, and that rankled. And then you found Qazarl...or Qazarl found you? He is a strong shaman, and he offered you power. Some spells of blood magic, spells that would let you take revenge on those who wronged you and claim your rightful place in the Order."

"This is a calumny," spat Alamur. "You have no proof for any of this!" He smirked. "And I have never spoken to Qazarl in my life. I would not demean myself by speaking with such a creature."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," said Ridmark. He had the same calm expression Calliande had seen on his face right before he killed someone. "Would it demean you to speak with Shadowbearer?"

Alamur flinched. "How do you know that name?"

"Because," said Calliande, "I heard him give commands to Qazarl."

"And it is very strange, is it not," said Ridmark, "that Qazarl is fighting for Shadowbearer, and you refuse to fight against Qazarl, while having a spell of orcish dark magic within your study?"

"Magistrius," said Joram, "this is a very serious charge. At the very least, I will have to contact the Dux and his Magistri, and let him know about these allegations. He will..."

Panic flashed over Alamur's face. "No!"

He flung out his hands, and Calliande felt the surge of magical power.

"Ridmark!" she shouted. "He's casting a spell..."

White light pulsed around the Magistrius, and invisible force erupted from his fingers. The force of the spell slammed into the others, driving them to the floor, the tower creaking around them. The impact knocked Calliande from her feet, the scroll tumbling from her grasp. Alamur loomed over her, and for a moment she feared that the Magistrius would kill her. But he only snatched up the scroll and headed for the stairs.

And as he did, Ridmark thrust his staff.

He caught Alamur across the ankles, and the Magistrius lost his balance and fell with a surprised bellow. Ridmark came to one knee as the scroll tumbled from Alamur's hand. The Magistrius sat up with an enraged hiss, lifting his hand to cast another spell.

"Ridmark!" shouted Calliande as she felt the magic gather. "He's going to..."

Ridmark seized Alamur's hand and bent the fingers back.

The sound of cracking bones was quite loud, and Alamur's astonished scream even louder.

The Magistrius might have been powerful, but clearly he was not used to pain.

Ridmark knelt next to Alamur and rested his staff across the Magistrius's throat as Calliande and the others stood. She felt the surge of power as Alamur began another spell, but Ridmark pressed his staff against the older man's throat. Alamur gagged, and the magic faded that away.

"None of that," said Ridmark. "I don't want to accidentally kill you."

"Is everyone all right?" said Joram, looking around. "Lady Calliande?"

Alamur's eyes went wide at the name. He hadn't recognized her...but he knew her name. Did he know who she was?

"Who am I?" she said, standing over him. His dark eyes rotated to face her. "Tell me. If you know who I am, tell me. Tell me now!" She kicked the staff in frustrated rage, and Alamur gagged again. At once she felt guilt, but then she remembered that this man had been plotting with Shadowbearer.

And apparently he had been willing to betray every man, woman, and child within the walls to their deaths.

"I don't know," he rasped. "He mentioned...he mentioned you when he came to me. He said that the shape of the world would soon change, now and forever, and that the Frostborn would return." Ridmark's face went motionless, his blue eyes cold and hard. "He said that your death would inaugurate the great change, and that a man of my skills and power would rise high in the new order..."

"If you served him," said Ridmark.

"Yes," whispered Alamur, his eyes full of terror. "Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me. I'll...I'll tell you anything you want."

He tried to cringe away like a terrified dog, but Ridmark held him fast.

"God and the archangels!" spat Joram. "You betrayed us, Alamur. Like one of the Eternalists of old. An enemy of the realm threatens to destroy the town, and you betray us for...for what? A scroll of gibberish?" He gestured at the scroll. "I will be well within my rights to have you hanged for treason."

"No," said Ridmark. "He's going to do something for us." He leaned closer to the Magistrius. "You're going to send a message to the Magistri of Castra Marcaine, right now. You will tell them of Qazarl's attack, and you will tell them to ask the Dux to send aid immediately."

"Or?" said Alamur, a hint of his defiance returning.

"Or I'll kill you," said Ridmark.

"That would be murder," said Caius.

"Yes," said Ridmark. "It would. But a lot more people will die if we don't receive help from the Dux. So, Magistrius. Either send the message to the Dux's Magistri, or prepare to account for your treachery before the throne of God. Decide now."

Calliande watched as the last hint of defiance drained from the Magistrius.

"Yes," said Alamur, closing his eyes, "yes, yes, I'll do it."

"Calliande," said Ridmark. "Watch him. Warn me if he tries anything."

Calliande nodded, and felt the power gathering around Alamur as he cast a spell. His eyes opened, shining with white light, and he spoke.

"Brothers!" he said. "It is I, Alamur of Dun Licinia! A strong force of orcs marches against the town, led by a powerful orcish shaman. If we do not receive aid at once, the town shall fall. Warn the Dux. We must receive aid."

The light faded from his eyes, and Alamur slumped back against the floor, sweat dripping down his face.

Ridmark looked up at her.

"It is done," said Calliande. "He sent the message." She was not entirely certain how she knew that, but she was sure of it.

In her previous life, it was plain she had known a great deal about magic. Did that mean she had been someone like Alamur, cold and arrogant and filled with spite? She hoped not. But if she had once wielded magic...could she do so again? She would no longer feel so helpless.

And she could aid Ridmark against Qazarl.

"Sir Joram," said Ridmark. "I suggest that you restrain the Magistrius and put him under arrest. Bind his hands and blindfold him – it will make it harder for him to work his spells. You can also have one of the priests treat his broken fingers." He thought for a moment. "If you like."

"You heard the Gray Knight," said Joram to his men-at-arms.

Ridmark got to his feet and removed his staff from Alamur's neck. The Magistrius began coughing and wheezing, and the men-at-arms hauled dragged him away.

###

"That was unpleasant," said Sir Joram as they stepped out of the tower.

Ridmark looked around. The sun was disappearing over the hills to the west. He would have to tell Joram to keep close watch on the ramparts. Qazarl might try to sneak warriors over the wall in the darkness, warriors who would then attempt to open the gates.

"It was," said Ridmark. "I hadn't intended it to become so violent. I had simply hoped to bully Alamur into sending a message to the Dux."

"You didn't know," said Calliande, "that he was a traitor. That he had sold out the town to Shadowbearer and Qazarl." She gave a vicious shake of her head. "That he was no better than Talvinius."

"Would you have killed him?" said Caius.

"If he had tried to attack us again?" said Ridmark. "Without hesitation."

"If he had refused to cooperate?" said Caius.

Joram frowned. "The Magistrius betrayed the realm during a time of war. As the Comes of Dun Licinia, I would have been well within my rights to have him hanged. Indeed, I would almost have been obliged to do so. A traitorous Magistrius could provide powerful aid to the enemy. I would prefer to keep him for trial before his Order, but if he tries to escape during the fighting...I will have him executed."

"Forgive me, my lord knight," said Caius, "but the question wasn't for you. If he had refused to cooperate, Ridmark, and if he had offered no further resistance, would you have killed him?"

Ridmark was silent for a moment. He felt the dwarf's strange blue eyes on him, felt the steady weight of Calliande's gaze.

"No," said Ridmark at last. "No, I would have let Joram imprison him. I am not a Swordbearer any longer, I am not a knight...but I am not a murderer. At least, I am not a murderer again. There is already too much innocent blood upon my hands."

Calliande opened her mouth, and he saw the question in her eyes.

The blast of trumpets rang out from the ramparts, echoing over the town.

"The enemy is within sight of the walls," said Joram. "May God be with us."

***

## Chapter 18 - Siegecraft

Ridmark followed Sir Joram to the walls, Caius at his side. He had sent Calliande to the keep, and to his relief, she had agreed without argument. She was neither a knight nor a man-at-arms, and the ramparts would be no place for her. Some of Kharlacht's orcs might have survived the battle at the standing stones, and they would recognize her. They might try to snatch her off the walls and take her back to Qazarl, or at least steal the soulstone. She would be safe in the keep.

Assuming the town did not fall.

Sir Joram climbed to the ramparts between the twin watchtowers of the northern gate. "What news?"

Thomas, the middle-aged man-at-arms who had challenged Ridmark earlier, bowed. "My lord knight. The enemy gathers north of the town. They are keeping out of bow range so far, and I suspect they are digging in for a siege."

Ridmark looked over the battlements and saw Qazarl's host.

Thousands of orcish warriors waited at the edge of the cleared fields to the north. Most of them wore leather armor, as had the Mhalekite orcs Ridmark had faced so far. Yet many wore chain mail and carried heavy axes. Dozens of banners flew over the orcish host, a black field with a single massive red drop in the center.

He remembered seeing a much larger army in this valley five years ago.

"Four thousand," said Joram, squinting at the host in the dimming sunlight. "It looks like you guessed right, Ridmark."

Ridmark nodded, watching the orcs assemble their camp.

"No siege engines, it seems," said Caius.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "The orc tribes of the Wilderland rarely have the skill to build catapults or ballistae. Ladders are easy enough to assemble. I expect they will build a few dozen ladders and then try to overwhelm us in a single rush." He scratched his chin. "Or Qazarl will try something clever, send raiders to open one of the gates."

"My lord knight," said Thomas, glaring at Ridmark. "Will you listen to this outcast?"

Joram shrugged. "He defeated the Mhalekites once before, Thomas. I am inclined to heed his counsel."

Thomas scowled, but had no answer for that.

"My lord!" said another man-at-arms, pointing over the battlements. "Look!"

"What manner of creatures are those?" said peasant militiaman. "It looks like a lizard that walks as a man."

In the midst of the orcs Ridmark glimpsed gray-skinned figures the size of large children, tails coiling behind them. The shapes wore black veils to shield their large eyes, and carried spears and axes with obsidian blades.

"Kobolds," said Ridmark. "This is my doing. We annoyed them when we passed through the Deeps, and I suspect Qazarl welcomed them with open arms."

Thomas blinked. "You passed through the Deeps? And you're still alive?"

"Oh, aye," said Caius with a grin. "It was a pleasant afternoon stroll, that's all. Hardly worth the mention."

Ridmark rested his left hand on the rough stone on the battlements. "This is a problem."

"Obviously," said Joram. "The enemy has greater numbers."

"It's more than that," said Ridmark. "Orcs see in the dark as well as we do, but they have keener noses. Kobolds have superior night vision. I think Qazarl will try to send them over the wall to open the gate in the night."

"We will have to remain vigilant," said Joram.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "I suggest patrols all night along the ramparts. Split the men into two groups, and keep them sleeping near the northern and the southern gates."

"The Mhalekites are massed to the north," said Joram.

"Which would make it all the easier for some kobolds to slip south and scale the wall there," said Ridmark. "Or Qazarl could launch an assault upon the northern wall, and try to send men to take the southern gate while we are distracted."

Joram let out a long breath. "Your counsel is sound. I will see it done, and prepare the men to fight."

"We must delay," said Ridmark. "That is the best strategy. Delay until the Dux arrives from Castra Marcaine with help."

"So be it," said Joram.

Ridmark looked at the men on the walls, at the bundles of supplies in the small square below the gate. Joram had done everything right, but there was one thing they could not prepare to face.

Qazarl's magic. Or, worse, Shadowbearer's magic, if the renegade high elf wizard chose to join the fight on his minion's side.

The defenders would simply have to wait and see.

###

Calliande climbed to the rooftop of the keep and looked over the town of Dun Licinia.

It looked...new.

From what she had heard, Mhalek had been defeated here in a great battle five years past, his horde of orcish warriors smashed. Most of the houses had been constructed of brick, their roofs covered in clay tiles. The keep, the church, the Magistrius's tower, and the town's wall had been built of stone. Most of the men were at the walls, preparing to fight, and most of the women were preparing food and bandages and arrows. Everyone else was in the church, praying for God and the Dominus Christus to watch over their husbands and sons and brothers, to see them safely through the battle to come.

Calliande hoped that God was listening.

She hoped that they all did not die within the next day.

She hoped, above all, not to fall into Shadowbearer's clutches again.

She shivered and leaned against the battlements, the stone rough and cool beneath her bare hands.

Sir Joram's majordomus had found new clothing for her, thank God. Ulazur's foul-smelling clothes had been preferable to going naked, but it felt good to wear proper clothing. The majordomus had found her a green gown that almost fit, with a black leather belt and boots that did not hurt her feet. She had kept the dagger Ridmark had given her, it sheath clipped to her belt. She did not know how to fight, but his counsel of keeping a weapon near at hand was sound.

Calliande's eyes turned towards the northern wall, to the men standing guard there.

To the orcish host, just visible in the trees beyond the cleared fields.

The defense was in Ridmark's hands now. Sir Joram was in command, but she could tell the man was not comfortable in the role. He would defer to Ridmark. Indeed, he could have done much worse. Calliande had seen Ridmark fight, and if he wielded the defenders as skillfully as he wielded his staff, he could hold off the Mhalekites for a long time, perhaps long enough for aid to arrive from Castra Marcaine.

Even the Gray Knight might not be able to hold off the Mhalekites long enough.

Because Qazarl had magic and Ridmark did not.

Had Ridmark still been a Swordbearer, it would have been different. The power of a Swordbearer's Soulblade could deflect hostile magic, could shield Ridmark long enough to cut down the orcish shaman. But Ridmark had been expelled from the Order of the Swordbearers, though Calliande did not know why. If Alamur had not been a traitor, he could have blunted the power of Qazarl's magic. Perhaps it was just as well – she had sensed the strength of Qazarl's magic and of Alamur's, and Qazarl was the stronger.

Shadowbearer was mightier than both men put together. Shadowbearer had claimed that the high elves were hunting him. If he escaped and joined Qazarl, Dun Licinia would fall in short order.

Not even Ridmark could stand against Shadowbearer's power. He might not be able to stand against Qazarl's power.

Ridmark needed magic of his own.

Calliande had to find a way to give it to him. Because if she did not, the town would fall...and Shadowbearer would claim her once more.

The stone altar awaited her within its ring of standing stones.

She sighed in frustration and gripped the battlements.

It made sense that she would have magic of her own. She knew more about magic than she ought, and she had the ability to sense magic.

If she could sense magic, could she not use it?

Perhaps she had been a Magistria of the Order of the Vigilant, sleeping away the centuries beneath the Tower of Vigilance until the Frostborn returned.

A darker thought occurred to her. Perhaps she had been an Eternalist like Talvinius. The Eternalists had been obsessed with immortality, and perhaps she had sealed herself away beneath the Tower to extend her life.

Calliande hoped not.

But no matter who she had been in her previous life, she would find a way to aid Ridmark.

If she could.

For the hundredth time, Calliande closed her eyes and tried to summon magic, tried to remember something, anything that would help her cast a spell.

Nothing happened.

She sighed in frustration and headed for the stairs. Useless, she was utterly useless. Both Shadowbearer and Talvinius had thought to claim her power, whatever it was. What good was her power if she could not find a way to use it to help the others?

Sir Joram had given her a small, but comfortable, guest room on the keep's highest level, furnished with a narrow bed and a chair. Calliande sat upon the chair and closed her eyes, staining against the mist filling her mind, trying to remember something that might prove useful against the enemy.

Nothing came.

###

Night fell, and Ridmark strode the circuit of Dun Licinia's ramparts, Caius trailing after him. He felt weary, but he did not want to sleep. Likely Qazarl would use his kobold allies in an attempt to seize the gates tonight, and Ridmark wanted to be ready.

"Gray Knight."

A stocky, middle-aged man stood near the battlements, wearing leather armor with steel studs and holding a worn wooden spear with a sharp steel head. It was Peter, the belligerent freeholder who had accused Ridmark of stealing pigs from his herd.

"I fear I was unable to find your hogs," said Ridmark, ignoring Caius's puzzled look. "Most likely the Mhalekites ate them long before I crossed your path."

"Aye, I thought so," said Peter. He scowled and spat over the wall. "Damned pagan orcs. Well, the warbands came down from the hills, and one of them set fire to my barn. My sons and I fought them off. Don't think the green bastards expected to find fighting men. We rounded up all our folk and all our livestock and got within the town." He shook his head. "I suppose God was with us. Hardly anyone in the outer freeholds made it to the town alive."

Ridmark nodded. "It is good you escaped. Stay vigilant. The Mhalekites will likely make an attempt on the town tonight."

Peter grimaced. "Do you think we can win? There are so damned many of the orcs. Not as many as the first time the Mhalekites came, but still too many."

"You were here for the first battle?" said Ridmark.

"Aye," said Peter, a grin flashing behind his graying beard. "I was a man-at-arms for the Dux Gareth Licinius. When Mhalek slew Galearus and the other commanders, I was sure we were done. But then you took command and whipped the Mhalekites." The freeholder looked almost embarrassed. "If I had known who you were, I wouldn't have accused you of taking my pigs."

"I am grateful for that," said Ridmark.

"Brother," said Peter to Caius. "Would you give us your blessing? It cannot hurt to have God on our side before the battle."

"God watches over us all," said Caius. Peter and the nearby militiamen went to their knees, and Caius started to speak in formal Latin. "In the name of God the Father, and God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit, I ask God, the archangels, and all the saints to..."

A flicker of motion caught Ridmark's eye.

Four of the moons were out tonight, throwing pale silvery-blue light over everything. He saw no sign of motion outside the walls, nor any unusual activity from the Mhalekite camp. Yet the uneven ground offered plenty of cover for someone skilled at stealth.

"Go, with this blessing," said Caius, "and put your trust in God."

The men started to rise, and again Ridmark saw a flicker of motion at the edge of the battlements. A small black shape appeared there, and Ridmark realized what it was.

A kobold's claw.

"Stay down!" he shouted as Peter and the nearby militiamen started to rise.

Three kobold warriors appeared atop the battlements, short bows in hand, and released. The arrows buzzed over the heads of the kneeling men, missing them by inches. Ridmark surged forward, his staff coming up, and swung with all his strength. He caught the nearest kobold in the stomach, and the power of his blow knocked the warrior off the battlements. The remaining kobolds hissed and lunged at him with clubs, their crests flaring. Ridmark parried the blows, reversed his staff, and drove the butt into a kobold's chest. He heard ribs crack, and his next blow knocked the kobold from the wall.

The last kobold flew at Ridmark, shrieking, only to land upon the spearheads of Peter and his men. The kobold fell to the rampart, twitching, and Peter finished off the warrior with a quick stab and twist.

"Kobolds!" said Peter. "Creeping up on us in the dark. Why..."

"To the northern gate," said Ridmark, "quickly." He pointed at one of the militiamen. "Run to the southern gate as fast as you can and put them on alert. Then find Sir Joram and tell him what is happening. He's likely at the keep."

"What is happening, sir?" said the militiaman, blinking in surprise.

"The kobolds are trying to creep into the town and open the gates," said Ridmark. "Go!"

The militiaman ran for the stairs, and Ridmark raced along the ramparts, Caius, Peter, and several militiamen following. He doubted those three kobolds had been the only infiltration party. Qazarl would have sent several, all heading for either the northern or southern gates.

The northern gate came into sight, the twin octagonal towers dark against the star-strewn sky. Ridmark saw the guards standing atop the towers, watching the Mhalekite host to the north.

Then he saw one of the watchmen fall limp from the tower to crash against the ramparts.

"Foes!" roared Ridmark at the top of his lungs. "Foes are in the towers! To arms! To arms!"

He raced for the door to the tower and found it standing half-open. A dim light came from the guttering fire in the hearth, throwing light over two dead militiamen upon the floor, kobold spears jutting from their backs.

Three kobold warriors stood over the dead men, moving to the steel windlass that operated the gate.

Ridmark fell upon them like a storm. His first blow landed with terrific force against the side of a kobold warrior's head. Bone cracked, and the warrior fell motionless to the ground. The other two turned to attack him, only to meet the charge of Peter and his men. Steel spearheads stabbed, and the kobolds fell back, retreating up the stairs.

"Peter," said Ridmark. "Stay here and guard the windlass. If the kobolds get the gate open, the orcs will charge the town."

Peter nodded, and Ridmark raced up the stairs, Caius following.

He heard the creak of a bow and shouted a warning, throwing himself against the wall. An obsidian-tipped arrow skipped off the stairs, and Ridmark hurried forward. The next turn around the stairs revealed the kobold archer, crest flared in challenge. Ridmark's staff crushed both the crest and the kobold's skull, and the archer tumbled limp down the stairs.

He reached the turret and found a pair of kobolds standing over the signal fire. One of the kobolds held a pouch of blue powder. Ridmark suspected the powder would turn the fire blue, giving the Mhalekites the signal they needed to charge the gate.

He rammed into the first kobold, knocking the warrior to the ground and sending the pouch flying away. The second kobold sprang at Ridmark with a shriek, claws and fangs reaching, only to meet Caius's mace. Bone cracked and broken fangs flew, and the kobold fell dead to the turret.

Caius let out a long breath. "Clever of them."

"Aye," said Ridmark, "and this isn't over yet. Follow me."

He hurried back down the stairs to the guard room, where Peter and his sons still defended the windlass.

"Stay here," said Ridmark, "and keep anyone from opening the gates."

Peter nodded. "Gray Knight...if you had not come when you did, those kobolds would have shot us before we even saw them."

Ridmark clapped Peter on the shoulder. "It seems Brother Caius's blessing was indeed effective."

He hurried into the night, the dwarven friar following.

###

An hour later, Ridmark stood with Brother Caius and Sir Joram in the street below the northern gate. A steady stream of men-at-arms and militiamen came to Sir Joram to offer reports.

Qazarl had been thorough.

A dozen small groups of kobold warriors had crept up to the town's walls, using the darkness to mask their movements. Four men had died at the northern gate, three at the southern, and six more at various points along the walls.

"A grim night," said Sir Joram, shaking his head.

"And it could have been much worse," said Ridmark. "If the kobolds had gotten even one of the gates open, the Mhalekites would be butchering us in the streets now."

"Aye," said Joram. "I've given strict commands for the men not to burn torches upon the walls, to preserve their night vision, and for a dozen men to guard the windlasses. The doors are to be locked and barred, and only opened with the proper passwords."

"Those are good precautions," said Ridmark. "I would also suggest putting some of the women and children to work patrolling the streets. If the kobolds can't get into the gatehouses, they might think to slip into the town and start fires."

"The women and children will not be able to fight," said Joram.

"Perhaps not," said Ridmark, "but they could warn the reserves."

"Very well," said Joram. "It will be done." He took a deep breath. "Three days."

"To what?" said Ridmark.

"Until aid arrives," said Joram. "It takes a week for a man on foot to reach Castra Marcaine from here, but men on horseback can make the journey in three days. We have three days to hold until aid arrives."

"Perhaps four," said Ridmark, "if the Dux's men face any difficulty getting here."

"I know," said Joram. "So. Three days at the earliest and five days at the latest. Do you think we can hold that long, Ridmark?"

Ridmark looked at the walls.

"I suppose," he said, "that we are going to find out."

###

Again Calliande tried to summon power.

And again nothing happened.

The sounds of fighting from the wall faded. She suspected that Qazarl had launched a raid to seize the gates, just as Ridmark had predicted. Fortunately, it sounded as if the attack had been repulsed.

Her mouth twisted in a scowl. Men were fighting and dying on the walls...and here she sat, battering her mind against her faded memory.

Useless, so useless.

She tried again, but exhaustion took her, and she sank into a black and dreamless sleep.

***

## Chapter 19 - Assault

The next morning, Ridmark awoke to the sound of drums.

He stood, working through the stiffness in his cold arms and legs. The town was full to overflowing with refugees from the nearby freeholds, and there were no beds left. So he had simply wrapped himself in his elven cloak and gone to sleep in a doorway near the northern gate. He had spent years camping in the wilds, and the doorway was more comfortable than many nights he had spent in the forests and hills of the Wilderland.

The drums boomed over the walls.

Had Qazarl launched an all-out assault?

Ridmark took his staff and hurried to the ramparts. The men-at-arms and militiamen on the walls stirred, pointing over the battlements. Ridmark saw Qazarl's army drawn up at the edge of the trees, sorted into columns around their siege ladders. Yet so far the orcs remained motionless.

He crossed to the rampart between the gate towers and found Sir Joram and Brother Caius. Joram did not look as if he had slept at all, his heavy-set face shaded with red stubble. Caius remained calm as ever, his lips working in a silent prayer as his right hand rested on the handle of his heavy mace.

"Ridmark," said Joram. "I take it the drumming woke you?"

"Aye," said Ridmark. "It just began?"

"Only a few minutes ago," said Joram. "They are trying to intimidate us, plainly." He struck his fist against the pommel of his sword with a scowl. "Would that I had more horsemen. Then we could sally forth and teach these Mhalekites some respect!"

"Let them drum until their arms fall off," said Ridmark. "Delay is our ally, and their foe."

The drumming stopped.

"It seems they figured that out," said Caius.

"Sir Joram!" shouted a militiamen. "Look!"

Joram moved to the battlements, Ridmark and Caius following.

A group of thirty orcs moved towards the northern gate. The lead orc carried a spear with a white banner.

"A parley?" said Joram.

"Likely they want to demand our surrender," said Caius.

Ridmark pointed. "Qazarl is with them."

The orcish shaman strode in the midst of his guards. Ridmark had last seen him five years ago, just before Mhalek's defeat, and Qazarl had changed little in that time. The shaman still had white hair and a long white beard, his tusks rising from his jaw like twin jagged daggers. He wore trousers and a loose vest, and tattoos and scars in the shape of arcane sigils marked his arms. Even from a distance, Ridmark sensed the aura of confidence around the shaman. Qazarl had always been one of Mhalek's most powerful disciples, and the past five years had only increased his strength.

"One good bow shot," said one of the men-at-arms, "and we could rid our foes of their leader."

"No," said Joram. "I am a knight of the realm of Andomhaim, and I will not murder a man under a white banner of truce."

Caius nodded. "Honorable."

"It is," said Ridmark. Galearus had been honorable as well, and Mhalek had used that to murder him and all his lieutenants. "And even if we were not honorable, it would not matter. Mhalek was powerful enough to shield himself from weapons of steel and wood. It would not surprise me if Qazarl had learned the spell as well."

The orcs stopped just out of bowshot of the walls.

"Hear me, human dogs!" roared the hulking orc in chain mail carrying the banner, speaking in accented Latin. "I am Mzalacht, warrior of Vhaluusk, and I speak for this host! Qazarl, the most faithful disciple of the living god Mhalek, demands your surrender. Lay down your arms, open your gates, and your lives shall be spared! Resist, and you shall all perish!" The orc herald glared up the walls, while Qazarl himself remained impassive. "Who speaks for Dun Licinia?"

"I speak for the town!" said Joram, putting one foot upon the battlements. "I am Sir Joram Agramore, the Comes of Dun Licinia. By the authority of Gareth Licinius, Dux of the Northerland, and by the High King Arthurain Pendragon, the seventh of his name, I command you to leave our lands and return to your homes at once! For you have trespassed upon the lands of the High King and brought fire and sword unlawfully and unjustly against his people."

Mzalacht laughed. "Cringe behind your walls and invoke the name of your precious High King, Joram of Andomhaim, but your High King will not save you. Your Dux cannot save you. You are at our mercy, and cannot escape."

"Bold words," said Joram, "considering that you are outside our walls, and your one attempt to break in failed miserably."

"You might have repulsed one attack," said Mzalacht, "but can you repulse another? And those that will follow? We have greater numbers, and even the weakest orc warrior has the fierceness and strength of seven crawling humans."

"We shall put that to the test, will we not?" said Joram.

Mzalacht launched into a string of roaring, rambling threats. Ridmark's eyes scanned the embassy, and settled upon Qazarl. Why bother with a herald? Qazarl was not a fool. He knew that aid was almost certainly on the way from Castra Marcaine. Why take the risk of attacking the town now? Shadowbearer might have promised the orcs victory, but there was no sign of the renegade wizard...

Then Ridmark understood.

Qazarl was launching the attack because Vlazar had failed to kill Calliande, and Calliande and the soulstone were within the town's walls.

The orcish shaman lifted his head, as if he felt Ridmark's gaze, and Ridmark saw the shock of recognition as Qazarl's black eyes widened.

The shaman stepped forward, raising his hand, and Mzalacht fell silent.

"Ridmark Arban!" said Qazarl, his rasping voice rolling over the field.

Joram looked at Ridmark and nodded.

Ridmark climbed onto the battlements, his gray cloak snapping behind him in the breeze.

"Qazarl of the Mhalekites," said Ridmark. "Making a pilgrimage to the site of your master's greatest and final defeat?"

Qazarl laughed. "Mhalek fell at Castra Marcaine, Ridmark Arban. As you know full well."

Ridmark said nothing.

"So you became the famed Gray Knight?" said Qazarl. "Surprising. I heard that Swordbearers severed from their precious Soulblades lay down to die. After what happened at Castra Marcaine, I thought you would have curled up in a corner to weep until death took you."

"As you can plainly see, I did not," said Ridmark. "Or has your mind grown so addled with age that you can no longer discern truth from delusion?" The men near him laughed. "Or given that you followed Mhalek to his defeat, perhaps your judgment was never sound."

"What is happening now is none of your concern," said Qazarl. "Run off, and I shall let you live with your misery and dishonor."

"Then you would have one less man to kill," said Ridmark. "Since you have so far failed to take Dun Licinia, your threats do not worry me."

Qazarl sneered. "Do you truly think this is about Dun Licinia? This wretched little town is nothing. Are you so blind that you cannot see what is happening? The shape of the world is about to change. A new order is arising, and a new power will rule the earth. The wise, the strong, will align themselves with the new power. The weak will be crushed and swept aside like chaff."

Ridmark felt a chill. The urdmordar he had slain ten years ago, the urdmordar who had first predicted the return of the Frostborn, had said much the same thing.

"This new power. Shadowbearer, I assume?" said Ridmark. "A poor choice. Given that he has abandoned you here to die."

Qazarl laughed. "Blind, pitiful fool. Vast powers are in motion, powers that you cannot possibly comprehend. Your realm of Andomhaim is riddled with corruption, and your High King's throne sits upon a dais of rotten wood. Very soon now it shall all come crashing down."

Ridmark decided to take a gamble. "Perhaps all that is true...but it's not going to happen. Not yet, anyway."

"And just why not?" said Qazarl.

"Because," said Ridmark, "I have Shadowbearer's empty soulstone and you do not."

Qazarl said nothing.

"I would wager every gold coin in Andomhaim," said Ridmark, "that your precious new order is not going to arise without that soulstone."

"Perhaps," said Qazarl, "you are more perceptive than I thought. Ridmark Arban, the Swordbearer without a sword. Instead of a Swordbearer, you have become the Gray Knight. And the Gray Knight loves to save people, does he not? Defend them from the monsters of the wild, the creatures of dark magic? Like a broken, pale shadow of a true Knight of the Soulblade."

"Does this have a point?" said Ridmark. "Surely you did not come all this way to weary my ears with your feeble attempts at poetry."

"I will make you a simple bargain," said Qazarl. "The soulstone and the woman both. Hand them over to me, and I will leave Dun Licinia in peace."

"And if I do not?" said Ridmark.

Qazarl grinned. "Then I will take Dun Licinia by storm and put its people to the sword. I will butcher every last defender upon its walls. I will take the children, and kill them in front of their mothers. Then I will hand the women over to my warriors, and once they have taken their pleasure, I will have the women killed. Dun Licinia will be ashes, and its people will be butchered meat."

A murmur went up from the defenders of the wall. Ridmark saw Qazarl's game well enough. None of the men upon the wall desired to fight, and most simply wanted to tend their farms and workshops in peace. By giving them a way to buy peace, Qazarl had a chance to get everything he wanted without a fight.

Then he would likely kill everyone in Dun Licinia anyway, once he claimed whatever strange power resulted from Calliande's death upon the stone altar.

Ridmark opened his mouth to answer, but Joram spoke first.

"You insult us with this offer!" said Joram, sweeping his arm over the battlements. "These are the men of Andomhaim, valiant and true! Do you think they will buy their safety with the blood of an innocent woman? Perhaps such things are common among the followers of the blood gods, but we will not debase ourselves so. If you wish to claim this woman, brigand, then throw your men against our walls. Justice and honor are with our cause, and God shall lend our arms strength!"

The men cheered in response. Qazarl remained silent until the echoes died away.

"So be it!" he said. "We shall settle this through force of arms. Pray to your God, and see if he will deliver you."

Qazarl snarled an order to his escort, and the warriors turned and marched back towards the waiting army.

"Nicely spoken," said Caius.

"Thank you," said Joram, wiping sweat from his brow. "I feared our men might lose heart at his offer. Perhaps I should have guards put around Calliande, just in case one of our men...loses faith."

"Not yet," said Ridmark. "I think you will need every man here."

Drums boomed from the Mhalekite army, and the roar of thousands of orcish voices filled the air. Six columns of orcish warriors marched forward, three on either side of the northern gate. The warriors at the center of the columns carried heavy siege ladders, tall enough to reach the top of the ramparts, and broad enough for two men to climb abreast. Other warriors with heavy shields screened the orcs with the ladders.

"I think," said Joram, "that you are correct." He turned and raised his voice. "To battle! To battle! All men to their stations! Spears and swords in front, archers behind! To battle!"

The clatter of armor and shields rose from the ramparts as the men arranged themselves to face the oncoming orcs. Shouts and the tramp of running boots came from the streets of Dun Licinia as the reserve companies rushed to the northern gate.

"Ridmark, Brother Caius," said Joram. "You are both doughty warriors, and I have no lawful authority over you."

"We certainly will not run from the fight," said Caius.

"I would expect not," said Joram. "I ask only you go where the fighting is the fiercest. Your skills could help us hold off the Mhalekites."

Ridmark gave him a tight smile. "It shall be as you say. Come, Brother."

Joram shouted additional commands as the columns approached the wall. The militiamen and the men-at-arms responded with more efficiency than Ridmark would have expected. The men-at-arms were professional soldiers, but the militiamen were townsmen and freeholders. Still, Ridmark suspected that most of them were veterans of the war against Mhalek.

He supposed he had led these men in battle five years ago.

Ridmark walked west along the wall, keeping behind the archers, Brother Caius following after. Men-at-arms raised crossbows, while the militiamen lifted short bows.

"Here," said Ridmark. "We'll make our stand here."

"Why here?" said Caius.

"Because," said Ridmark, pointing, "we're closer to the gate tower here. Any orcs who gain the wall will try to take the gate. We'll stop them."

"I should have seen it," said Caius. "I shall never get used to warfare upon the surface. It is simpler in the Deeps. But it would be better not to have war at all."

"Tell that to Qazarl," said Ridmark.

Caius sighed. "I tried."

"Archers!" boomed Joram's voice. "Release!"

The archers released, and the crossbowmen squeezed their triggers. Scores of arrows and bolts hissed from the walls and slammed into the advancing orcs. The warriors with the shields caught many of the missiles, the steel heads thudding into the thick wood. But some of the quarrels and arrows struck the orcs carrying the ladders. One of the ladders wavered and came to a stop as the arrows pierced the orcs carrying it.

But the other five ladders kept advancing.

"Release at will!" shouted Joram.

The archers kept a steady stream of arrows, while the crossbowmen reloaded and cranked their heavy weapons. The crossbows were more powerful, but took too long to reload. Ridmark guessed that the men-at-arms might have a time to fire one more volley before the orcs scaled the ladders.

"Spears and swords!" came Joram's voice. "Ready!"

The men-at-arms and militiamen moved closer to the ramparts. The crossbowmen reloaded and loosed another volley, and Ridmark heard more roars of pain and fury rise from the orcish warriors. More had died...but far more were coming.

The orcs reached the walls, and the ladders thumped against the battlements.

"Stand fast!" roared a nearby sergeant, and the orcs scrambled onto the ramparts.

The first warriors met a wall of steel and arrows. One orc caught four arrows in the chest and tumbled backwards, while the warrior next to him took a pair of spears in the gut. But more orcish warriors scrambled up the ladder, roaring in fury, their black eyes gleaming red as the orcish battle rage took hold. One orc threw himself forward and crashed into the militiamen, striking right and left with his short sword. Green blood splattered as a man-at-arms struck with a sword, but the orc whirled and impaled the man-at-arms.

The man-at-arms fell, the orc charged into the line, and Ridmark moved to attack.

The length of his staff slammed into the orc's face with enough force to break bone, but the orc was in the grip of battle rage. The warrior shook off the blow and charged, and Ridmark sidestepped, swinging his staff with enough force to shatter the bones in the orc's left shin. Rage or not, the leg could no longer support the orc's weight, and the warrior collapsed with a howl.

A militiaman brought down his spear with a yell, and the warrior went still.

More orcs scrambled up the ladder, fighting the beleaguered militiamen, and Ridmark saw Qazarl's host charging across the field. If they did not find a way to disable or destroy those ladders, the orcs would swarm up to the ramparts and drive the defenders from the wall.

And in the resultant chaos, Qazarl could carry out his threats upon the town's women and children.

"To the ladder!" shouted Ridmark, and threw himself into the fray. In the tight quarters, he did not have enough room to swing his staff properly, but he had enough space to jab and thrust. His blows stunned the orcish warriors, permitting the men-at-arms and armsmen to land killing blows with their swords and spears. Caius fought at his side, shouting exhortations to the men, his heavy mace landing bone-crushing blows. Step by step they drove the orcish attackers back, the ramparts growing slippery with green and red blood.

They reached the ladder.

"Push it over!" shouted one of the men-at-arms, seizing the end of the ladder.

"No!" said Ridmark. If they pushed over the ladder, the orcs could simply raise it up again. "Grab it and pull it over the ramparts. Quickly!"

He seized the top rung and started to pull. It was too heavy to lift himself, but a dozen other men saw the wisdom of his plan and hurried forward. Together they began to jerk the ladder upwards inch by inch. The orcs below howled in outrage and seized the bottom rung, and the ladder slid back towards the ground. Caius dropped his mace and grabbed the ladder. The dwarf's sturdy strength, coupled with the efforts of the militiamen, proved too much for the orcs on the ground. The ladder ripped free of their grasp and toppled backwards over the rampart. It landed in the street below with an echoing clatter.

The men loosed a ragged cheer.

"Thank you for your efforts, Brother," said one of the men-at-arms. "We would not have gotten the ladder over the wall without your strength. Truly, they breed strong backs in the Three Kingdoms."

Caius grinned. "And they breed valiant fighters in Andomhaim."

"Come!" said Ridmark, picking up his staff. "We can help drive the remaining ladders from the wall. Archers!" He pointed his staff at the militia archers and the men-at-arms with crossbows. "Stay back and loose at any orcs attempting to pull back the ladders. The rest of you, follow me."

Ridmark strode forward, Caius and the others following him in grim silence.

###

The fighting was over by mid-morning.

Ridmark had led the men-at-arms and militiamen along the western half of the northern wall, pushing back the orcs and pulling their ladders into the town one by one. Once the last of the ladders had been pulled up, the archers had been free to turn their full attention to the orcs below, and the Mhalekites had retreated in disarray to the trees.

The defenders had not fared as well along the eastern half of the northern wall. Joram's counterattacks had pulled two of the three ladders over the wall, but at the third, Qazarl unleashed some sort of black magic. A dozen men fell dead in a heartbeat, and the orcs fortified themselves upon the rampart. Only when Ridmark led the defenders from the western half to join Joram's men did they finally force the orcs from the wall.

The Mhalekites fell back to the trees to prepare another attack.

Ridmark stood on the rampart with Caius and Joram. Below came the groans and cries of the wounded, and dead orcs lay strewn about the ground below the wall.

"How many?" said Joram, his voice hoarse.

"Perhaps two hundred of the foe dead," said Ridmark. "Thirty or forty more, if some of their wounded perish."

Joram sighed. "We lost forty men, and suffered another forty wounded. Of those, thirty should still be fit to fight...and the rest may not live out the day."

"The Mhalekites had a rougher time of it than we did," said Caius. Specks of drying blood stained his gray, stone-colored skin. He looked at the dead orcs and sighed. "May God have mercy on them, and save them from an eternity as slaves of the cruel blood gods."

"The Mhalekites indeed suffered greater losses," said Joram, "but they can afford to spend blood. A dozen more such assaults will wear away half of Qazarl's host, but they will destroy us utterly."

"Then we must delay them at all costs," said Ridmark, "and hold until aid can come from Castra Marcaine."

Joram nodded, and they went to prepare for the next assault.

***

## Chapter 20 - A Challenge

Three days after the fighting began, Calliande hurried through the nave of Dun Licinia's stone church, her hair tied back, the sleeves and hem of her dress spotted with blood. Tapestries hung on the church's thick stone walls, showing scenes from the scriptures. One showed the Dominus Christus healing the ten lepers, and another displayed him creating loaves and fishes to feed the multitude. Still another showed him healing the eyes of the man born blind, or commanding the paralytic to rise and walk.

Calliande prayed for such miracles now.

Close to a hundred wounded men lay upon the church's stone floor. The most severely wounded, those unlikely to live out the day, lay upon cots. Those likely to survive lay upon blankets on the floor. Men who needed only some patching and stitching but could still fight sat on benches near the thick pillars that supported the roof. Groans echoed off the walls, and the air smelled of blood and sweat and urine, even with all the doors and windows open. Women from the town moved about their tasks, tending and feeding the wounded men. The keep's staff of halfling servants had been moved to the church, and now worked to clear away bloodstains, change bedding, prepare bandages, and when the end came, to carry away the bodies.

Calliande was in charge of it all.

She did not know how she knew as much about medicine as she did, but she knew things. How to clean a cut with mold and boiling wine, and how to suture it closed. How best to set a broken bone, and how to give a man the right kind of drugs to sleep as she closed his wounds. Yet she knew all those things, and as the first of the wounded had come to the church, the knowledge had risen unbidden into her mind. Soon she found that none of the townswomen or the priests knew as much about medicine as she did, that without her aid, men would die who might otherwise have lived.

So she had taken charge of the wounded, and found that the priests and women were grateful for someone to tell them what to do. Calliande labored among them, stitching wounds, winding bandages, applying poultices, and helping to carry unconscious men. It was grim, tiring work, but better than sitting alone in her room, trying to summon magic that she might not actually possess.

And she no longer felt so useless.

A wounded militiaman sat upon one of the benches, stripped to the waist. His right shoulder was a hideous bloody wound, and a deep gash went down his ribs to his belly. An orc had stabbed him in the shoulder, and as the militiaman had struck down his foe, the orc's short sword had sliced along his ribs.

"What is your name?" said Calliande as she examined the wound. Best to keep them talking. It helped distract them from the pain.

"Bann," said the militiaman with a grunt.

"An interesting name," said Elaine, the matronly woman assisting Calliande.

Bann grinned. "My father was mad for the tales of the Old Earth, Lancelot and the High King Arthur and his knights. Named me for one of them." He snorted. "Suppose if I had cut down that Qazarl, I might have been made a knight myself."

"You fought valiantly," said Calliande. "All your wounds are in the front."

"I did!" said Bann. "Not to boast, but I did. And even the Gray Knight himself said I fought well."

Calliande nodded. Sir Joram Agramore commanded the city's defense, and the men respected their Comes, but they followed Ridmark. Even Sir Joram followed Ridmark. She would not have thought an exiled Swordbearer could win their loyalty, but she was not surprised. Had Ridmark not snatched her from terrible danger, brought her to safety through fierce perils, relying only upon his wits and courage and his skill at weapons? Little wonder the defenders of Dun Licinia followed him.

Little wonder he had taken command of the host of Andomhaim five years ago to defeat Mhalek.

Again she wondered why such a man had been expelled from the Order of the Swordbearers.

"Wine," she told Elaine.

"You're going to tell me this won't hurt very much?" said Bann.

"Actually," said Calliande, "this is going to hurt a lot. But the alternative is to wait until your wounds putrefy, and then you die raving and screaming of a fever. Which will hurt a great deal more."

Bann grimaced. "Best we get on with it, then."

Calliande washed out his wounds with a mixture of boiling wine and mold. Bann gritted his teeth, sweat pouring down his face, but did not scream. After the wounds were cleaned, Calliande closed them with a needle and thread. Still Bann remained silent, though the muscles in his jaw jerked with every jab of the needle.

After he leaned against the cool stone pillar, gasping. "I don't suppose you have any of that wine left?" His voice was a croak. "Because I would dearly like to get drunk just now."

"We do," said Calliande, and Elaine handed over a clay flagon. Bann took it with his good hand. "Drink up. That should take some of the edge off. I would give you more, but we have to save the stronger medicines for those with grievous wounds."

"As you should," said Bann, draining half the flagon in one gulp.

"The wound should heal cleanly," said Calliande, "if you don't rip out your stitches. What is your profession?"

"Stonemason," said Bann. He finished off the wine.

Calliande nodded. "You'll be able to swing a hammer again. It will take some time to regain your strength after the stitches come out, but you should recover completely."

She had not often been able to say that today.

Bann nodded, eyelids heavy as the effects of the strong drink took hold. Calliande forced him to drink a large amount of boiled water, lest blood loss and the drink conspire to dehydrate him. Then Bann lay upon a blanket on the floor, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

"He will recover, I think," said Elaine.

Calliande nodded. "With God's favor, and if he doesn't rip out his stitches, he will recover." She sighed. "We can say that of too few men."

"More than we could without your aid, Lady Calliande," said Elaine.

"Don't call me that," said Calliande. "I don't know if I am noblewoman or not. For all I know I was a freeholder's daughter before the orcs took me captive."

But she doubted it. No one would trouble to put a freeholder's daughter into a centuries-long magical sleep.

"If not nobility of blood, then nobility of spirit," said Elaine. "Without your aid many of these men would have died." She blinked. "Including my husband."

"Your husband?" said Calliande, alarmed. She could not remember Elaine's husband. Was her short-term memory starting to fail as well?

Of course, the last three days were a blur of blood and screams and tears.

"He lost two fingers," said Elaine, "when his left hand was caught between his shield and an orc's sword." Calliande remembered him, a blustery, jovial merchant with a paunch who had made jokes even as the putrefaction set into his wounds. "He shouldn't have been fighting at all, the fat old fool, but he would not stand by while the younger men fought for our lives. Not after that shaman threatened to kill us all. And after he took his wound, he hid it and fought on." Elaine blinked again, her eyes bloodshot. "When I saw him, I was sure he would die. The putrefaction had set in. But you thought to use that mushroom to treat the wound. He will live."

Calliande shrugged. "It was...something I remembered, that is all. It is well for us the mushrooms were growing in the alley behind the warehouses. We could hardly leave the town to forage in the woods."

"It was the mercy of God," said Elaine, "that brought you to Dun Licinia. You and the Gray Knight. I would not think a man with a coward's brand could fight so fiercely. If we are to be delivered from this peril, he will find the path. Sir Joram is a good man, of course, but he is not a warrior. Not the way your Gray Knight is."

Calliande blinked. "My Gray Knight?"

Elaine only smiled in answer, and then Calliande heard a commotion on the other end of the nave. She turned her head, fearing that more wounded had arrived. Some of the men on cots stood, and Calliande wondered if the orcs had broken into the church...

Then she saw that Ridmark had come to visit the wounded.

She watched as he moved through them, face grave as he spoke. He listened to their stories and praised their valor. He remembered how each man had taken his wound. The men stood straighter around him, and even the badly hurt tried to stand until he urged them down.

He was good at this. He was the son of the Dux of Taliand and had been born to command, but some nobles were cowards and ineffective. But Ridmark, Calliande thought, had been born to lead men into battle the way an eagle had been born to rule the skies. He could have conquered Andomhaim, had he wished. The histories of Old Earth told of a man called Alexander of Macedon, a ruthless tyrant who had carved an empire of blood founded entirely upon his fearlessness and iron courage, a man whose name still echoed two thousand years later on a world far from Old Earth. Ridmark Arban could have become such a man.

Instead he walked through the church with the brand of a coward upon his face, speaking to the wounded.

He crossed to join her, his staff tapping against the stone floor.

"Calliande," he said.

"Ridmark," she said back. "It is good you are unharmed." She saw spots of dried blood, green and red both, upon his leather jerkin. Dark circles ringed his deep blue eyes, which seemed colder and harder than she remembered. He looked unchanged, but she could see that the fighting had worn on him.

"Thank you," said Ridmark. He looked at Elaine. "Mistress Elaine. Your husband is well, I hope? Sir Joram had to order him from the wall before he fainted."

"He is, Gray Knight," said Elaine. She did a curtsy. "Forgive me, but I must see to the wounded."

Ridmark nodded, and Elaine hurried away, leaving Calliande alone with Ridmark, or at least as alone as they could be in the crowded church. She saw what the older woman was doing, and was mostly amused. Perhaps a little annoyed.

Part of her, more than she would have thought, was grateful.

"How are things here?" said Ridmark. "Sir Joram wanted to visit the wounded, but he feared to leave his post, lest Qazarl launch another assault. So I offered to go in his stead."

"As well as can be expected," said Calliande. "Those we can save, we save. Those we cannot save...we make them as comfortable as we can and wait for the end."

Ridmark nodded. "I have seen field hospitals before, more than I care to recall. You are doing good work, Calliande." He almost smiled. "If we live through this, Sir Joram might well ask you to start a hospital in Dun Licinia."

"Perhaps I will," said Calliande. "Assuming my memory never returns, I will need to learn a trade in order to support myself."

But that was an idle fantasy and she knew it. She still had the empty soulstone. No doubt dark secrets lurked in the swirling mists of her memory.

And Shadowbearer would still be looking for her.

"You could simply wed," said Ridmark, "and have your husband support you."

Calliande laughed. "Indeed? Yes, I would be a prize indeed. A woman with no memory and no wealth, pursued by a renegade high elven sorcerer for reasons she has forgotten." Her laughter faded. "And I might have a husband and children, long dead. I...may have just forgotten them."

"Some of your memory has returned," said Ridmark, "if you recall so much of medicine."

"It is like the other parts of my memory that have returned," said Calliande. "It came only because I needed it. I remembered I could speak orcish because Ulazur and Qazarl and the others only spoke orcish. I remembered I could sense magic because I had that soulstone sitting upon my chest. I remember I knew something of medicine because I saw so many wounded men. Who taught me to speak orcish or to stitch wounds? I fear I cannot recall."

"If we live through this," said Ridmark, "I will help you to find your memory, if I can."

Calliande shrugged. "Will you not be busy pursuing the Frostborn?"

"They are connected, somehow," said Ridmark. "Your memory and the Frostborn. I do not know how, not yet. I am sure you were put into that sleep because of the Frostborn. Caius thinks I am mad, and Joram thinks I am addled with grief...but the Frostborn are returning. How, I do not know. Perhaps they will be resurrected, or they are simply in hiding...but they shall return." His blue eyes regarded her without blinking. "And you are at the center of it somehow, though I cannot see how."

"I wish I knew," said Calliande. "I wish I could tell you."

"I know," said Ridmark. "You have comported yourself well. Most women – most men, for that matter – would have been broken by the trials you have experienced since awakening. But not you."

"No," said Calliande. She frowned. "I suspect...I suspect I have lived through worse. But I cannot remember it. I do not know if that is a comforting thought or not."

He almost smiled. "I hope you have the opportunity to find out." He glanced at the church doors. "I should go. Qazarl could launch another assault at any moment."

He turned to go.

"Ridmark," said Calliande.

He looked back at her.

"Thank you," she said. "For my life."

This time he did smile, and his blue eyes turned a touch less cold. "You already thanked me for your life, the night we escaped from the ursaar. No need to do it twice."

"You rescued me from the kobolds since then," said Calliande.

"By the time I arrived," said Ridmark, taking a step closer, "it seemed you were well underway to rescuing yourself."

"I would have gotten away," said Calliande, "only to die on the spears of the kobold warriors." She stared at him for a moment, and then shook her head. "I don't understand you."

"What is there to understand?" said Ridmark.

"That brand on your cheek," she said. "You ought to be a craven, a traitor...and you are none of those things. None of them at all. What did you do to get that brand?"

"No one has told you yet?" said Ridmark. His eyes did not turn cold, but...distant. Lost, even. "I should have died here, Calliande. Five years ago, when we faced Mhalek. It would have been better if I had died during the battle. Mhalek would have been defeated, and...much evil would have been averted."

"No," said Calliande. "Never say that, Ridmark Arban. Never. If you had died, I would be dead, Caius would be dead...and God alone knows how many men and women and children within these walls would be dead."

"You almost make me believe it," said Ridmark.

"I believe it," said Calliande, "and I believe in you."

He stared at her, and Calliande felt her heart hammering against her ribs. With a sudden surge of fear, she realized that he wanted to kiss her. And she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to do it, right here, and damn the witnesses.

"Calliande," he said, voice rough. "I..."

He leaned forward...and the blast of trumpets echoed outside the church.

Both their heads snapped to look at the church's doors. They knew what the trumpet blasts meant.

Qazarl and the Mhalekites had launched another assault.

"Go," said Calliande. Her throat was dry as dust, and she licked her lips. "Go. They need the Gray Knight. Be careful."

"I am always careful," said Ridmark.

But she knew that was not true.

###

Ridmark ran through the streets of Dun Licinia, his cloak snapping behind him.

Bit by bit the unfamiliar feelings Calliande had inspired in him drained away.

Not unfamiliar, not really. But forgotten. He had not felt like that in a long time.

For a brief moment, she had almost made him feel like he was a better man than he really was.

But Ridmark knew better.

For it would have been so much better if he had died here after the orcs were defeated. Mhalek would not then have fled to Castra Marcaine, but would have fought to the bitter end.

Aelia would still live.

The trumpets rang over the town, accompanied by the distant boom of the Mhalekite war drums. Ridmark forced all thoughts of the past and of Calliande from his mind. Battle was coming, and he needed all his attention focused on the present.

Perhaps he would die in the fighting, and finally meet his just punishment.

Ridmark ran up the steps to the rampart overlooking the northern gate. Sir Joram stood there, stern in his plate armor, Caius waiting at his side. A cluster of sergeants of the men-at-arms and militiamen waited around their Comes, staring to the north.

At the motionless Mhalekite host.

"Ridmark," said Caius.

"They're not attacking?" said Ridmark, gazing at the orcs. He saw that they had formed themselves into columns around a new set of siege ladders, but despite the constant booming of the drums, they had not yet advanced.

"No," said Joram with a scowl. "I suspect they are trying to intimidate us, to play for time."

"But why?" said Caius. "Time is not on their side. The longer they delay, the more likely it is that aid shall arrive from Castra Marcaine."

"They want to distract us, not intimidate us," said Ridmark, his mind racing through the possibilities. "Qazarl has something planned, and he doesn't want us to notice it. More kobolds over the wall?" He glanced at the sky. "No, it's too bright, and kobolds don't see as well in daylight."

"Perhaps a tunnel?" said Joram.

"I would have noticed the vibrations from the digging," said Caius. "And they have been here only three and a half days. Some of my kindred could have constructed a mine beneath the walls in that time, aye. But these orcs from the Wilderland? Never."

"Reinforcements," said Ridmark. "Qazarl must have reinforcements coming down from the foothills of the Black Mountain, and he wants to mask their approach."

"And," said Joram, "if he has reinforcements, he might have sent them to assail the southern wall while he holds our attention from the north."

"It could be even simpler," said Ridmark. "Qazarl might have split his remaining warriors and sent some of them under cover of darkness to assail the southern wall. If we wait for an attack, and he launches a second attack from the south...he might be able to force his way into the town."

"A desperate move, surely," said Joram.

"It's been three days, and we've taken losses, but the town has held," said Ridmark. "If Qazarl doesn't do something dramatic before the Dux's men arrive, he's going to lose. Assuming he survives the defeat, he'll have to report back to Shadowbearer. I suspect that would be fatal."

Joram pointed at a militiaman. "Take a message to the southern gate. The sergeant in command is to exercise extra vigilance, and call for reinforcements at once if anything at all seems amiss. Am I understood?"

"Yes, lord knight," said the militiaman with a bow, running for the southern wall.

"That is all we can do for now," said Joram. "We wait until aid arrives, or until Qazarl throws more warriors at..."

The drums stopped.

Ridmark watched the enemy lines, expecting the Mhalekites to begin another assault.

Instead a procession of a dozen orcs marched from the lines. Mzalacht marched at their head, again carrying the lance with the white banner.

"An embassy?" said Caius. "Now?"

"The same reason as before," said Ridmark. "Delay."

The orc herald stopped at the same place as before. Dead orcs dotted the ground here and there. The retreating Mhalekites had sometimes taken their dead and wounded back with them, but sometimes they had not, and dozens of slain orcs lay upon the fields.

The stench was becoming a problem.

"Men of Dun Licinia!" boomed Mzalacht in Latin. "For three days we have struggled, and for three days you have fought valiantly. Again and again you have repelled our assaults."

Joram climbed upon the battlements, armor clanking. "If you have come to state the obvious, do not weary our ears." Laughter rang up around him. "For three days we have repelled you, and we shall repel you for three and thirty more!"

Cheers answered his defiant shout, the defenders shaking their spears and swords at the embassy.

"You can defy us for as long as you wish," said Mzalacht once the shouts had subsided, "but we shall grind you down in the end. Yet why should you die, men of Andomhaim? You will make excellent slaves. We wish to preserve your lives."

"Then turn around and march back into the Wilderland," said Joram, "and we shall all die of old age in our beds."

"Ridmark," murmured Caius, voice low. "Look. There, in the trees, behind the second ladder on the left."

Ridmark followed the dwarf's pointing finger. In the trees, just behind the orcish army, he saw signs of motion. The orcs were working on something. More ladders, perhaps? Maybe siege engines? Yet he doubted the Mhalekites had the engineering skill to build catapults or ballistae.

"They're digging," said Ridmark at last.

"Why?" said Caius. "If they want to dig a tunnel to undermine the wall, that's far too great a distance."

A dark suspicion stirred in Ridmark's mind. "A spell. There are some burial mounds in those woods. Leftover from an old orc kingdom the urdmordar destroyed and enslaved centuries ago."

Caius snorted. "If Qazarl wanted to rob tombs, there are better ways to go about it."

"He might need some old bones for a spell," said Ridmark. "Or there might be something of old magic buried in the mounds. God and his saints, but I should have thought of this earlier. The orc shamans were stronger in the old days, before the High King's realm reached this far north. They learned their dark magic directly from the wizards of the dark elves."

"Or the urdmordar, when it amused the spider-devils to teach their pets sorcery," said Caius. "So it is written in the histories of my kindred. If only Alamur were not a traitor. He might be able disrupt Qazarl's efforts, or at least sense the spell and tell us its nature."

"Aye," said Ridmark. He turned towards Joram, intending to warn him of the threat, but Mzalacht's next words stole his concentration.

"To end this siege," thundered the orc, "Qazarl, the loyal disciple of great Mhalek, proposes a trial by combat. We have chosen a champion, and we suggest that you choose a doughty warrior from among your number. Let him come forth, escorted only by a herald, and meet our champion halfway between your walls and our warriors."

"And the outcome of this duel?" said Joram.

"If our champion is defeated," said Mzalacht, "we shall withdraw from the field and return to Vhaluusk."

"If our champion is defeated?" said Joram.

Mzalacht laughed. "Then you lay down your arms, open your gates, and become our slaves."

Joram scoffed. "Do you really expect me to accept this ridiculous offer? Our position is strong, and we can hold for months. How much longer will your food last?"

"Joram," said Ridmark, voice quiet.

The knight looked down at him.

"Let me accept this challenge," said Ridmark.

"That is folly!" said Caius. "The orcs almost certainly intend treachery."

"I agree with the good Brother," said Joram.

"No, they don't," said Ridmark. "Well, they do, but not at the duel. Qazarl's up to something in the trees. Some trick...probably a spell, I think. The trial by single combat is only a gambit to buy more time. Qazarl knows help is coming from Castra Marcaine, and he know he has to get inside the walls before it arrives."

"Then why would we aid his distraction?" said Caius.

"Because," said Joram, "distraction plays to our advantage."

"The longer I draw out this duel," said Ridmark, "the longer we have for Dux Licinius's men to arrive."

"Are you sure about this?" said Joram.

"Yes," said Ridmark. "I will delay for as long as I can. And when I am victorious...well, we will see what Qazarl has in mind."

"You are so certain you can prevail?" said Caius.

"I am," said Ridmark.

He wasn't, not really. He knew the extent of his skill and abilities, and doubted any single orcish warrior could defeat him.

But he had been wrong before.

He remembered Aelia screaming, remembered the blood...

"Very well," said Joram. "Do as you think best."

Ridmark nodded and headed for the stairs.

***

## Chapter 21 - The Duel

The town's gate boomed shut behind Ridmark and Caius with an air of finality.

It sounded rather like a coffin's lid closing.

"You don't have to do this," said Ridmark.

"Nonsense," said Caius. "You are permitted a witness and a herald, to ensure that the trial is fair."

"True," said Ridmark. "A priest to administer the last rites, if I am mortally wounded?"

"Well," said Caius. "Yes."

"Then let's get on with it," said Ridmark.

He walked away from the gate and towards the Mhalekite host encamped at the edge of the trees. In the distance he saw the foothills and the dark mass of the Black Mountain itself. He knew the orcs were too far away for a bow shot, yet nonetheless his skin itched, and he felt the urge to take cover.

Ridmark stopped a dozen paces from the orcish embassy. Mzalacht looked him up and down and sneered.

"You are the champion?" said the herald. "The ragged Gray Knight and his pet dwarf? You are the best that Dun Licinia could muster in its defense?"

Ridmark shrugged. "If I die, no great loss."

"It is my wish," said Caius, "that you repent on your sins, and join us in brotherhood and amity in the Church."

Mzalacht spat. "Pathetic. We ought to kill you here and now, and insist that the humans send out a worthier champion."

Ridmark met his eye. "Try."

Mzalacht looked away first.

"So be it," said the orc. "Remain here until our champion and his attendants arrive."

"Attendants?" said Ridmark. "The agreement was that we would come alone to the field."

Mzalacht laughed. "Fear not, Gray Knight. You have your dwarven priest, do you not? The champion requires his attendants. But they will not harm you."

The herald turned and walked towards the Mhalekite host, his guards following.

"Can you see what they're doing in the trees?" said Caius, once Mzalacht and his party were out of earshot.

"Not from here," said Ridmark. "There are too many orcs blocking the view."

Another roll of drums came from the Mhalekite host, and the orcs started to cheer, thrusting their weapons into the air. Four orcs emerged from the army and walked towards him. The orc in the center was tall, almost seven feet, and wore only trousers and boots. Bruises marked his chest, and...

"Ah," said Ridmark, understanding.

Caius looked at him.

"Kharlacht," said Ridmark. "The orcs' champion is Kharlacht. It seems Qazarl decided to rid himself of two problems at once."

As they drew closer, Ridmark saw that Kharlacht wore an iron collar, two chains hanging from it. The orcs accompanying him held the chains on either side, while Mzalacht followed them, still carrying the spear with its white banner.

They stopped a dozen paces away.

Kharlacht's eyes met Ridmark's. The big orc looked utterly tired, both in body and spirit.

"Behold!" roared Mzalacht. "Our champion. He betrayed the sons of Mhalek, aiding our foes and helping our enemies to escape our wrath! Now he shall redeem himself by striking down the champion of the humans or he shall perish upon this field!"

The orcish army roared, their cheers struggling against the jeers and shouts of the defenders upon the wall.

"You've looked better," said Ridmark, once the shouting faded away.

"Aye," said Kharlacht.

"Perhaps you should not have returned to Qazarl," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht grimaced, deep lines etching his green-skinned face. "Perhaps. But I could not betray my kin, and I returned to Qazarl. He was...wroth."

"I can imagine," said Caius.

"He would have killed me on the spot," said Kharlacht, "but his advisors convinced him that I might be useful later."

"Silence!" said one of the orcish warriors with the chains. "You will not..."

Kharlacht growled, seized the chain, and yanked the warrior close. His hand closed hard around the orc's throat, and the warrior's face began to turn a darker shade of green.

"Do not presume," he snarled, "to threaten me."

Both Mzalacht and the other orc drew their swords and pointed the blades at Kharlacht.

"Release him!" said Mzalacht.

"You're going to kill your champion for me?" said Ridmark. "That does seem to defeat the purpose."

Kharlacht let the warrior go. "Bring me my armor and weapons and be gone. Now!"

The orcs unlocked the collar around his neck and produced a gambeson. Kharlacht pulled it on, and Mzalacht handed him a canvas sack. Kharlacht removed the blue steel plates of his armor from the sack and donned them one by one, covering his torso and arms in a carapace of steel. At last Mzalacht handed Kharlacht his massive dark elven greatsword, and then took a judicious step back.

The two orcs who had held Kharlacht's chains walked away, while Mzalacht drew a circle in the earth around Ridmark and Kharlacht.

"This circle defines the boundaries of the trial," said Mzalacht. "Forty paces wide. If you are forced outside the circle, you lose the duel. If you flee outside the circle, you lose the duel. Otherwise the trial by single combat shall continue until one of you are unable to continue and submits by raising your left arm." The herald grinned. "Or until one of you are slain. Are these terms acceptable?"

"They are," said Caius, "though I shall be watching for treachery."

"As shall we, dwarf," spat Mzalacht. "The blood gods shall grant us victory."

Caius smiled. "Your champion does not even pray to the blood gods. They may be...disinclined, shall we say, to favor your side?"

Mzalacht sneered. "Then both our champions can perish. The blood gods do not favor the weak." He stepped out of the circle, as did the other two orcs.

"Caius," said Ridmark, both hands on his staff.

"May God be with you," said the dwarven friar, stepping out of the circle.

Leaving Ridmark alone with Kharlacht.

"Begin!" roared Mzalacht. "Fight! Fight, and know that the honor and the glory of your kindred go with you!"

Kharlacht lifted his greatsword in both hands and strode forward with a slow, steady pace. Ridmark shifted his staff to one hand and walked to meet him. He was not certain he could defeat Kharlacht in single combat. Ridmark was fast and strong...but so was Kharlacht, and his greatsword was a more potent weapon than Ridmark's heavy staff.

They stared at each other for a moment, Kharlacht's sword held in both hands, Ridmark's staff resting low at his side.

A deathly silence fell over both the town and the fields as the defenders and the Mhalekites waited for the combat to begin.

"You don't have to do this," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht shook his head. "I must. It is my duty to my blood."

"This trial by combat is a sham," said Ridmark, "and you know it as well as I do. If I kill you, Qazarl will not retreat to the Wilderland, and if you kill me, Joram will not surrender the town."

"I know," said Kharlacht.

"Qazarl is only doing this to buy time," said Ridmark, "to finish whatever spell he is working in the woods."

"I also know this," said Kharlacht.

"What is he doing?" said Ridmark. "If you are willing to tell me." If he survived the trial, he could bring the information back to Sir Joram.

"That I know not," said Kharlacht. "Some spell of black sorcery, I am sure. He had his warriors digging up the old burial mounds for days. He found...something, some relic, and then called me forth to fight as champion."

"He cares nothing for you," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht scowled. "You do?"

"I respect you as a worthy foe and an honorable man," said Ridmark, "which is more than Qazarl can say."

Kharlacht said nothing.

"He will cast you aside," said Ridmark, "when this is done. If he prevails, he will have you killed. If he is defeated, he will blame his defeat upon you and kill you for it."

"But he is my blood kin," said Kharlacht, "all that is left of it in this world. I cannot forsake him. Not until he has forsaken me."

"You are loyal beyond reason," said Ridmark. "No man would blame you for turning your back upon Qazarl."

"Perhaps not," said Kharlacht, "but I would know."

Ridmark thought of Aelia and Mhalek, the great hall of Castra Marcaine ablaze with the crimson glow of Mhalek's black magic. "I understand that."

"You, too, are an honorable and a worthy foe," said Kharlacht. He sighed. "I regret greatly that the bonds of blood require that I kill you."

"I regret," said Ridmark, lifting his staff, "that I must kill you."

For the first time Kharlacht smiled, the hard, merciless smile of a man who had nothing left to lose. "If you can."

He surged forward, his greatsword a blur of blue steel as he struck.

Ridmark saw the blow coming and stepped to the side, the dark elven greatsword falling past him to hit the ground. Had the sword struck him, the power of Kharlacht's blow would have cut him open from neck to navel. Ridmark swung his staff, hoping to land a hit on Kharlacht's head. But Kharlacht ducked, the edge of Ridmark's staff brushing his topknot, and lashed his sword at Ridmark's legs. The swing did not have much power behind it, and Ridmark lowered his staff and deflected the blade. He launched a thrust at Kharlacht, hoping to catch the orc in the throat, but Kharlacht snapped his sword up and sent the thrust bouncing away.

They stepped apart, weapons raised.

Ridmark heard a distant roaring. For a moment he thought it was the sound of his blood rushing through his veins, but then he realized it was the cheering. The Mhalekites were shouting "victory" in orcish, over and over again, while the defenders upon the wall of Dun Licinia were bellowing Ridmark's name in defiance.

Kharlacht advanced, and Ridmark took a step back, his mind racing through potential attacks. The orcish warrior was stronger than Ridmark, and almost as fast. His huge greatsword gave him reach to match the length of Ridmark's staff, and his dark elven steel protected him from blows to the chest and stomach.

No armor on his throat or head, though. Or upon his legs. And while his sword matched the reach of Ridmark's staff, it was a slower weapon. Ridmark could grip his staff anywhere, and Kharlacht could not do the same with his sword. In the time that it would take Kharlacht to retract his sword and prepare the massive weapon for another blow, Ridmark could adjust his grip on the staff and land two or three quick hits.

At least, he thought he could.

If he was wrong, at least he would die quickly.

Ridmark thrust his staff towards Kharlacht's face. Kharlacht retreated, sword deflecting the staff. The orc beat aside Ridmark's next attack and charged, his greatsword sweeping in a vicious sideways cut. Again Ridmark dodged, the blade just missing him to strike the ground. Kharlacht's stroke was neither sloppy nor hasty, and at once Kharlacht regained his balance, his weapon coming up to block.

But in that brief moment, Ridmark had a chance to strike.

He shifted his grip and thrust, and the end of his staff slammed into Kharlacht's left wrist. The big orc grunted and staggered, and Ridmark thrust again, his staff striking Kharlacht's left leg. Kharlacht jumped back, his sword coming up in guard, and Ridmark circled away.

"You fight well," said Kharlacht. He opened and closed his left hand several times and then put it back on the hilt of his sword.

"Thank you," said Ridmark.

"But you are alone," said Kharlacht. "You have no nest of drakes to unleash against me. No pack of spitfangs to drive into a frenzy. Only your own strength and wit to wield. Will that be enough?"

"We shall find out, will we not?" said Ridmark. "But if it was so easy to defeat me, you would have done so already."

"Indeed," said Kharlacht, and the orcish warrior flew at him. Ridmark backed away as fast as he could manage, trying to keep Mzalacht's circle in sight. He glimpsed Caius saying a prayer, saw Mzalacht and his guards laughing in anticipation. Trying to block Kharlacht's sword with his staff was an invitation to disaster, but Ridmark could not keep dodging. Kharlacht's furious attack would not last forever, but he needed to only land one hit to cripple Ridmark.

Ridmark saw the way Kharlacht's huge sword could become a weakness. At the nadir of his swings, before he could draw back the weapon, Kharlacht's balance was slightly off. If Ridmark struck the flat of Kharlacht's blade then, he could land a quick hit on the orcish warrior.

Kharlacht swung, and Ridmark dodged and lashed his staff against the flat of the greatsword's blade. The orc staggered, tightening his grip to keep from having the sword knocked away, and for a moment he was open. Ridmark jabbed his staff, and the end slamming the steel plates covering Kharlacht's stomach. Kharlacht stumbled with a grunt, the breath exploding from his lungs. Before he could catch his balance, Ridmark struck again, aiming his staff for Kharlacht's right knee. Kharlacht swept his sword in a wide arc, deflecting the staff and forcing Ridmark to step back.

He circled around the orcish warrior, forcing Kharlacht to turn to keep him in sight.

"This is a useless strategy," said Kharlacht. "Your weapon cannot penetrate my armor. It will not even dent dark elven steel."

"No," said Ridmark. An idea came to him. "You have no armor about your throat or head, do you? Which seems unwise. A man can live without a few fingers, but he cannot survive with a crushed windpipe."

"Indeed," said Kharlacht, and attacked.

His sword came at Ridmark in a sideways swing, but not quite as fast as before. The weight of his armor and sword was slowing him down and draining his stamina. Ridmark dodged the first swing, the second, and then the third, Kharlacht driving him towards the edge of the circle. By the sixth swing, Kharlacht's movements had slowed just enough for Ridmark to slap his staff against the flat of the orc's blade. Kharlacht stumbled, and Ridmark reversed his staff and drove the end at the warrior's throat.

Kharlacht saw the blow coming and stepped back, sword coming up to guard his face.

Ridmark's attack had been only a feint, and he reversed the staff, driving the end towards Kharlacht's right knee. At the last instant Kharlacht realized his peril and jumped back, which kept the staff from shattering his kneecap. Still the blow landed with a loud crack, and Kharlacht stumbled with a grunt of surprised pain. Ridmark whipped his staff around and swung the weapon into Kharlacht's midsection. Again Kharlacht's armor absorbed the hit, but the power of the strike knocked the orc on his heels. He stumbled back several steps, breathing hard, his sword held out before him to ward off any attacks.

Ridmark circled to his left, and Kharlacht turned to keep him in sight.

The shouts of the defenders grew louder, the bellows of the orcs angrier and more ragged.

"I admit," rasped Kharlacht, his tusked face tight with strain, "that I underestimated you at first."

"Oh?" said Ridmark.

"I thought you a madman with a stick," said Kharlacht. "A true warrior, I believed, carried a sword. Not an axe, not a spear, and certainly not a quarterstaff. A sword."

"When I was a squire, first learning the sword," said Ridmark, "I grew arrogant in my skill. This displeased my father, who sent me to spar with his bailiff, a low-born man who had never carried a sword in his life, who fought with a quarterstaff. I boasted I would teach this impudent peasant his place, and show him that a knight of Andomhaim could defeat any low-born churl."

"What happened?" said Kharlacht.

Ridmark felt himself smile. "The bailiff gave me such a thrashing that I could not sit down for a week."

Kharlacht threw back his head and roared with laughter. Ridmark could have ended the fight then, could have thrust his staff and crushed the orc's throat, but he did not.

He already had a heavy burden upon his conscience. No reason to add to it.

"It seems," said Kharlacht, recovering himself, "that you have learned that lesson well."

"I did," said Ridmark. He kept circling, Kharlacht turning to keep him in sight. "There was one other lesson that man taught me, one both applicable to single combat and to leading a host of fifty thousand men."

"What lesson is that?" said Kharlacht. He kept turning, wincing as his weight shifted upon his bruised leg.

"The key to victory," said Ridmark, "is to apply your strength to your enemy's weakness, and to do so without mercy."

"How will you apply that lesson here?" said Kharlacht, resignation settling over his features.

"You cannot hit me," said Ridmark, "but I can hit you."

He charged at Kharlacht, his staff spinning. Kharlacht got his sword up, but again and again Ridmark landed minor blows, his staff darting through the brief instants Kharlacht took to recover his balance. None of the blows were particularly serious. Every one of them caused Kharlacht pain, drained away a bit of his strength and endurance.

And every blow that struck his right leg made him wince.

At last Ridmark's thrust caught Kharlacht's right knee, and the orc stumbled. Ridmark sidestepped, reversing his staff, and swung the weapon against the back of Kharlacht's knee. The orcish warrior bellowed in sudden pain as his leg folded beneath him, and Ridmark swung his staff with all his strength.

The staff caught Kharlacht across the forearms, knocking the dark elven greatsword from his hands. Kharlacht reached for the weapon, and Ridmark's next thrust slammed into his forehead.

It was not enough to kill him, not even enough to render him unconscious, but it was enough to send him sprawling to the ground.

Ridmark rested the butt of his staff on Kharlacht's throat.

One brief flex of his arm, and he could crush Kharlacht's windpipe.

Kharlacht blinked, his black eyes swimming back into focus.

"Do it," he rasped. "You vanquished me fairly and without trickery." He closed his eyes and relaxed. "Do it, and send me to join Lujena." Ridmark wondered who that was. One of Kharlacht's dead kin, perhaps? The one who had inspired such loyalty to family in him? "Do it and end my misery."

Ridmark said nothing.

Utter silence had fallen over the field. He saw Mzalacht and his guards staring at him, aghast. No doubt they had expected Kharlacht to prevail. The defenders watched in silence from the ramparts. He saw Caius watching him, expression solemn.

The orcish army remained motionless. Yet beyond the trees Ridmark caught glimpses of activity. Qazarl was up to something, and the trial by combat had gained him time to prepare it.

Perhaps it would be best to simply kill Kharlacht and force Qazarl to show his hand.

"I accept," said Ridmark, lifting his staff from Kharlacht's throat, "your surrender."

Kharlacht opened his eyes, frowning.

Ridmark shifted his staff to his left hand and extended his right. After a moment, Kharlacht took it, and Ridmark pulled him to his feet.

"You have fought well and with honor," said Ridmark, "and therefore, I accept your surrender."

Kharlacht blinked. "But...I did not..."

Ridmark turned to Mzalacht. "I have prevailed in this trial by single combat, and by the terms of the agreement, Qazarl and his warriors shall withdraw from this siege and return to the Wilderland."

Mzalacht's mouth opened and then closed again, and then he looked to his warriors, as if for assistance.

"I was defeated," said Kharlacht. "By Qazarl's own word, he must withdraw from the field."

The herald spat. "You deliberately lost the fight, you are a weakling coward enslaved to the god of the humans, and..."

Kharlacht growled, his eyes glazing red with the orcish battle fury, and the ground jolted beneath Ridmark's boots.

He looked around, as did the orcs and Caius. Again the ground shook, and a cold wind sprang up from nowhere, tugging at Ridmark's cloak. The wind stank of sulfur and carrion, of dead things left in the dark.

Mzalacht began to laugh. "Behold! The wrath of the blood gods come! In Mhalek's name, Qazarl has awakened their wrath. You shall perish! You..."

A pillar of blood-colored fire erupted from the trees behind the Mhalekite host.

Ridmark saw movement between the town and the orcs.

All across the field, the dead orcs were beginning to move.

Ridmark turned in astonishment, while Caius muttered a prayer. The dead orcs were standing, getting to their feet, picking up whatever weapons lay at hand. Most had hideous wounds marring their torsos and faces, and some had bloated from decomposition. Yet they were moving nonetheless.

Their eyes shone with the same blood-colored light as the pillar of flame rising from the trees.

"Qazarl!" roared Kharlacht. The orc snatched his fallen greatsword and pointed it at the trees. "Qazarl! What treachery is this? You agreed that if I was defeated our army would withdraw from the field! Have you betrayed your word?"

Mzalacht laughed. "Fool! Do you think Qazarl would keep his word when given to human vermin? The wrath of the blood gods has come, and you will perish alongside the humans!" His eyes gleamed with battle fury. "Kill him! Kill them all!"

Mzalacht charged, roaring, and his guards did the same. Ridmark sprang to meet them, staff in both hands, and killed Mzalacht with a single powerful blow that snapped the orc's head back. One of the warriors lunged at him, only to meet Caius's descending mace. Bone crunched, and the orc fell lifeless to the field.

The last warrior drew back his sword to strike, but Kharlacht moved first. Blue steel blurred, and the warrior's head jumped off his shoulders with a spray of green blood. The corpse toppled, and the head rolled away.

Ridmark glanced at Kharlacht in surprise.

"Qazarl has betrayed his given word," spat Kharlacht, "and he has betrayed me as well. He swore that if you prevailed in the trial, he would withdraw from the field. He is a liar...and he has made a liar of me. I must aid you until this crime is expunged."

Ridmark nodded. "Glad for your help."

"Stand fast!" shouted Caius. "The dead are coming!"

Two of the undead orcs staggered towards them, broken arrows jutting from their chests. One drew back its fist to punch at Ridmark, and he raised his staff in a block. The sheer power of the undead orc's fist hammered into the staff like a missile from a catapult, and Ridmark stumbled back. He caught his balance and went on the attack, swinging his staff. The dead orc was supernaturally strong, but it was slow and Ridmark was not. In quick succession he shattered its knees and its elbows, and the orc collapsed as its legs would no longer support its weight.

Yet still the vile thing crawled towards him. The dead would not feel pain. Would Ridmark have to cut the corpse to pieces to stop it?

That would be a challenge with his staff.

Kharlacht bellowed as the second undead orc charged him, dodged its blow, and brought his sword around. His strike took the orc's head from its shoulders, a spurt of congealed, greenish-black blood bursting from the stump. The corpse collapsed, and Ridmark waited for it to get back up.

It remained motionless.

"Their heads," said Kharlacht. "Removing their heads seems to cancel whatever black sorcery Qazarl used to animate these fools."

"Indeed." Ridmark hurried to the corpses of Mzalacht and his guards and plucked an axe from a dead warrior's back. It was a crude weapon, the haft rough, the crescent steel blade showing spots of rust. Yet it was heavy enough, and with it Ridmark could take off a head or two.

"We need to get back to the town," said Caius.

"Aye," said Ridmark. Hundreds of dead orcs had risen, and now all of them attacked Dun Licinia's northern wall. Arrows and crossbows did not slow them, and the undead orcs pulled themselves up the wall by sheer strength. "Qazarl will launch an attack while the undead distract the defenders." He looked at Kharlacht. "Will you come with us, or will you leave? Qazarl might have betrayed us, but he is still your blood kin, and..."

"No," said Kharlacht. "I will follow you into battle, Gray Knight. Qazarl is my blood kin, but he used me to work deception. The same blood ties that bound me to him now bind me to oppose him."

"Good," said Ridmark. He looked at the melee raging along the ramparts. "They dare not open the gates for us. Let us make for the western rampart and scale the wall." He secured the axe to a loop on his belt, turning the weapon so it would not slice his leg open. "Then we can aid Sir Joram against..."

Blood-colored light danced over the slain herald and his guards, and the dead orcs rose in eerie silence. Ridmark turned to face them and felt a chill, his eyes straying to the slender pillar of bloody fire rising from the trees. Qazarl's spell was still active. That meant that any orcs slain in the fighting would rise as undead.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, the drums boomed, the orcs shouted, and the Mhalekite host surged forward.

They were charging right towards Ridmark.

"Qazarl," said Ridmark. "We've got to get to Qazarl. If we can kill him, it will cancel the spell and break the sorcery upon the undead."

"Aye," said Caius, "but how are we to reach him?"

The orcish warriors charged towards them, howling. They did not bother with shieldbearers to protect the ladders now, not with the defenders of Dun Licinia struggling to hold the undead at bay.

Ridmark opened his mouth to answer, and the blast of a trumpet rang out.

It came from the southeast, not from the walls of the town.

From the road leading to Castra Marcaine.

Ridmark whirled and saw horsemen galloping past the town, knights and men-at-arms in steel plate and chain, gleaming lances and swords in their hands. At their head flew a green banner with a white hart, the sigil of the Dux of the Northerland.

Beneath the banner he glimpsed the white light of a Soulblade drawn in battle, burning in the hand of a Swordbearer.

Help had come from Castra Marcaine at last.

Ridmark only hoped that it hadn't arrived too late.

***

## Chapter 22 - Calling the Fire

"They said the dead have risen and fight alongside the Mhalekites," said Elaine, her voice full of fear.

"Yes," said Calliande, closing her eyes. "I know."

She felt the pulse of the blood magic to the north, of the dark and filthy power Qazarl had conjured. She knew Qazarl was strong, but she had thought such a feat of sorcery beyond his reach. Yet she felt something augmenting his magic, something old and strong and dark as the Black Mountain itself. Some relic of ancient sorcery, she suspected, something he had found.

No. Something that Shadowbearer had told him to find.

She was sure of it.

"Perhaps...perhaps we should move out of the church, my lady, before it's too late," said Elaine.

Calliande opened her eyes. "Why should we do that? If the town falls, there is nowhere to run."

"Before the dead below the church rise," said Elaine, her voice trembling.

"Oh," said Calliande. "No, we needn't worry about that. Qazarl's spell will only raise slain orcs. I think he used his own blood to empower it. Trying to use orc blood in a spell to raise a human corpse would be like...oh, trying to drink water to get drunk. You'd just make a mess."

Elaine stared at her. "How do you know that?"

"I don't really know," said Calliande, "but I do." She took a deep breath. "Get ready for more wounded. The undead are terrible foes, and..."

She blinked.

She felt the wrath of Qazarl's spell writhing to the north, a dark fire that entered the orcish dead and commanded them to fight. But she felt another power, a closer power.

Something within the town.

And she recognized it.

Shadowbearer.

He was here. Somehow he had gotten inside the town.

"My lady?" said Elaine. Some of Calliande's fear must have shown on her face.

"I have," said Calliande, swallowing, "I have to go."

Shadowbearer was here, and he would come for her. And he would kill anyone who tried to stop him. He would butcher everyone in the church, all the wounded and all the women and all the halfling servants, just to get at her. She would bring more death upon these people, just as her presence had brought Qazarl and his Mhalekites and his undead to Dun Licinia.

Calliande had to flee, at once. She would take the soulstone and escape through the southern gate. With luck, that would draw Shadowbearer and his black magic away from the town, away from these innocents...

Something within her, something hard and cold, recoiled at the prospect.

No. She was through running. Shadowbearer and his servants had pursued her from the Tower of Vigilance, through the Deeps, and into Dun Licinia. If she had indeed slept in that vault since the defeat of the Frostborn, that meant he had pursued her across the centuries.

She was done running, done letting other people die for her.

"Elaine," said Calliande, "you are in charge here. There is something I must do."

"But my lady..." said Elaine.

But Calliande was already running for the doors, her skirts gathered in her hands.

###

Ridmark struck again and again, his staff vibrating in his hands.

Mzalacht's corpse came at him, his grating voice forever stilled, and reached for Ridmark's throat. Ridmark dodged, his staff spinning, and shattered first the herald's right knee and then his left. Mzalacht fell, and Ridmark dropped his staff, snatched the axe from his belt, and took off the orc's head in two chops.

Mzalacht's corpse slumped motionless to the ground. Ridmark spun, saw Caius shatter the knee of another undead, staggering the creature, and allowing Kharlacht to behead it with a single mighty blow of his dark elven steel.

"Gray Knight!" boomed Kharlacht, turning to the north. "They come!"

The tide of orcish warriors rushed at them, brandishing weapons.

Ridmark shoved the axe back into its loop, snatched up his staff, and met the enemy.

Kharlacht and Caius fought back to back, the huge orc towering over the dwarven friar. Caius's heavy mace stunned and disabled the orcish warriors, leaving them open for Kharlacht's sword. The two turned around each other, carving a bloody swathe through the tide of charging orcs. Ridmark fought at the edge of the chaos, his staff stabbing and thrusting and swinging. His blows cracked skulls and crushed throats, and sent the Mhalekites tumbling to the earth. Or his strikes stunned the orcs long enough for Kharlacht to take their heads off with a sweep of his dark elven steel.

It was more efficient that way. A beheaded orc could not rise again as an undead. For the dead orcs did rise again, and attacked anew. Whenever they did, Caius, Kharlacht, and Ridmark had to turn their attention to the undead, forcing Ridmark to abandon his staff for the far heavier and slower axe.

Even worse, the living orcs were surrounding them. The orcish host had fallen into disarray, with some charging for the walls of the town, and others attempting to form up to face the horsemen galloping from the southeast. More and more were surrounding Ridmark and the others, forcing Ridmark back towards Kharlacht and Caius step by step.

Soon he would not have enough room to swing his staff or raise his axe, and then they would die. Ridmark slammed the butt of his staff into another orc's throat, dodged a thrust, and raised the staff in an overhead swing, stunning a second orc. Both crumpled to the ground, but four more rushed to take their place, and three undead staggered towards him.

He could not take them all at once.

Then a wall of horsemen slammed into the orcs.

Two of the orcs went down at once, trampled beneath steel-shod hooves. Another turned with a snarl, raising his axe, only for a lance to pierce his chest. One of the undead orcs turned towards a knight, but the knight swung a crescent-bladed war axe, all the strength of his arm and the momentum of his horse driving the blow. The blade sheared through the undead orc's neck and sent its body toppling to the bloody grass.

The knight turned towards Kharlacht and raised his axe.

"No!" shouted Ridmark, moving between the knight and Kharlacht. "He is on our side. Hold!"

The knight squinted at him, and the horsemen thundered around them, driving back the orcs.

"My lord Swordbearer!" shouted the knight, turning in his saddle. "You were right! It is him!"

Another horseman rode closer, a white light shining in his hand. As he drew closer, Ridmark saw that the light came from a longsword of gleaming steel, a rough white crystal shining at the base of the blade. Waves of magical power seemed to roll off the weapon.

A Soulblade, the enchanted blade of a knight of the Order of the Swordbearers.

A wave of longing and pain shot through Ridmark as he gazed at the weapon. He had once carried the Soulblade known as Heartwarden into battle, had used it to slay an urdmordar and numerous other creatures of dark magic. But then Mhalek had come and Aelia had perished, and Ridmark had been stripped of the blade, the brand burned upon his cheek.

The Swordbearer reined up and removed his helmet. He had a lean, olive-skinned face, with curly black hair and bright green eyes. He was young, no more than twenty-five, and Ridmark recognized him with a shock.

Sir Constantine Licinius, the Dux Gareth Licinius's eldest son.

And Aelia's brother.

###

Calliande ran into the square, following the pulse of icy magic against her senses, and headed for the castle.

The keep was deserted. Every last man able to hold a spear or carry a shield had been called to the wall, and Calliande heard the sounds of frantic battle ringing over the town.

The cellar. Shadowbearer's presence was coming from the cellar of the keep. Alamur was down there. Had Shadowbearer come to rescue his wayward minion?

Or to discipline him?

Calliande took a deep breath to steady herself and touched her belt. The dagger Ridmark had given her still rested there. It would be of little use against a wizard of Shadowbearer's might.

It made her feel better nonetheless.

She passed through the courtyard and headed the keep's doors.

###

"Sir Ridmark Arban," said Constantine. "My God, it really is you. Father and I thought you died years ago. We heard the tales of the Gray Knight, of course, and we thought of that cloak Ardrhythain gave you after Urd Morlemoch. I never dreamed you were still alive."

"I am," said Ridmark, his fingers tight around his staff. He had feared he might meet Constantine or his father here, and he had expected anger, fury, even an outright attack.

Not amazement.

"Why didn't you come back to Castra Marcaine?" said Constantine, bewildered.

"You know why," said Ridmark.

Constantine smote his saddle's pommel. "Damn it, Ridmark, it was not your fault. It was not!" Brightherald, his Soulblade, blazed brighter in his fist in response to his anger. "I do not care what lies Tarrabus Carhaine poured into the ears of the High King, lies that you seemed to believe. And what Imaria said...well, she was half-mad with grief. It was not your fault. You should have come back to Castra Marcaine. Father would gladly have made you a knight of his household, even one of his Comites. We..."

The dead orcs at the hooves of his horse started to move.

"Constantine!" said Ridmark. "Beware!"

The dead orcs surged to their feet and lunged at Constantine's horse.

The Knight of the Soulblade was ready for them.

Brightherald came down in a blaze of white light, and took off the first undead orc's head in a flash. Two others came at the Swordbearer, and Constantine loosed powerful strokes. The magic of his Soulblade enhanced his strength and speed when he called upon it, and the power of the Soulblade was proof against dark magic.

In a matter of heartbeats all five undead orcs had been dispatched.

"God and his saints," said Constantine. "Undead? Are these orcs followers of an urdmordar? Or perhaps a dark elven necromancer?"

"Neither," said Ridmark. "They follow Qazarl, one of Mhalek's disciples."

Constantine's eyes hardened. "I remember Qazarl. Father thought he might have escaped your victory. He has returned to work mischief?"

"Aye," said Ridmark. "It is a long story. Qazarl worked a spell to raise his slain warriors as undead. If we do not find him and kill him, I fear the town will fall."

"Then let us find Qazarl," said Constantine, "and put an end to him at last." He glanced at Kharlacht and frowned. "Your orcish companion bears curious armor."

Kharlacht bowed, and Ridmark said, "This is Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, a baptized son of the Church and a most valiant warrior."

"Is he? Your word is good enough for me," said Constantine.

It should not have been. Ridmark wanted to tell him that, but then Constantine spotted Caius.

"Brother Caius!" said Constantine. "It is good to see you are well. Castra Marcaine's halls are darker without your preaching. I take it your mission to bring the holy word to the orcs of the Wilderland did not go well?"

Caius shrugged. "I fear not, my lord knight. Though it is with a small note of relief that I point out this attack is not in response to my preaching."

Constantine laughed. "The gravest fear of every preacher, I am sure. Come! Let us strike down Qazarl and deliver the town from its peril!"

He sounded so confident. Ridmark had known confidence like that once. He had known victory after victory, and had even led the host of the High Kingdom to victory over Mhalek himself...

Aelia's screams echoed in his ears.

He shoved aside the memories the sight of Constantine had stirred up. He could not afford to rebuke himself, not until Qazarl had been slain and the people of Dun Licinia saved.

"He is in the trees," said Ridmark. "This way."

To his unease, Constantine and his escort obeyed without question.

###

Calliande slipped into the cellar below the keep.

Into the dungeon.

Though the dungeon was really more of a storeroom. Narrow windows close to the ceiling admitted grainy light, revealing sacks of grain stacked against one wall. A third of the cellar had been divided off with a row of iron bars, a door set in their middle.

Alamur, the Magistrius, sat in the center of the impromptu cell, bound wrist and ankle to a wooden chair, a blindfold over his eyes and a gag over his mouth to keep him from working magic.

Yet Calliande felt Shadowbearer's power in the cellar. Was the renegade high elf lurking the shadows, preparing to strike her down? She suddenly felt foolish for bringing the empty soulstone with her. Yet if she had left it behind, Shadowbearer could find it just as easily once she was dead.

A shadow moved, and Calliande stepped back.

Alamur's shadow was moving, rotating around him.

She saw the disgraced Magistrius shiver, saw sweat trickling down his brow and into his stained white robes.

Then the shadow reached over him, covering him like a shroud...and the gag in his mouth turned to dust. Alamur spent a few moments coughing and spitting, but then began to speak in a rapid, terrified voice.

"Master, I...I have done as you commanded," said Alamur. "I..."

"Be silent."

Calliande flinched, recognizing Shadowbearer's strange, reverberating voice. She looked around, expecting to see the wizard.

The voice was coming from the shadow enveloping Alamur.

"I did as you bade me, Master," said Alamur, a terrified whine in his voice.

"Did you?" said Shadowbearer. "I told you to secure the woman and the soulstone once they came to Dun Licinia. Instead I find you bound and gagged like a pig trussed for the slaughter."

"But I kept your secrets, Master!" said Alamur, his terror intensifying. "I did not tell them the truth! I said...I said I served you for blood spells, for forbidden magic. I said nothing of your true intent."

"How admirable," said Shadowbearer. "How shall I repay such daring initiative? I am sure I can think of a suitable reward. Perhaps I ought to make an example of you..."

"Please, Master!" said Alamur, shuddering. Calliande saw his eyes darting back and forth behind the blindfold. "Please! Give me another chance! One more chance, and I will prove to you that I am worthy." Tears streamed into his beard. "Please, just don't...don't..."

"Give you immortality...of a sort?" said Shadowbearer, the alien voice thick with amusement. "Oh, don't worry, Alamur. I wouldn't give you immortality. The thought of listening to you whine for the next thousand years is appalling. But you are fortunate. I have only thirteen months before the influence of the great conjunction passes, and I am in something of a hurry. So you are going to get one more chance. Exactly one."

The shadow slithered around the bound Magistrius, and the ropes on his wrists and ankles turned to dust.

"Find the woman Calliande and the empty soulstone," said Shadowbearer, "and bring them to the standing stones south of the Black Mountain. Bring her to me unharmed, Alamur. Unharmed! And the soulstone must be empty. If I find a single scratch upon her, or you attempt to work a spell using that soulstone...I shall be most displeased."

"I will not fail you, Master," said Alamur. "I swear it."

"Your devotion is ever so touching," said Shadowbearer. "Now go. Qazarl has launched his final assault upon the town. He may prevail, or he may not. It is of no concern. But the fighting occupies the woman's defenders. Now is your best chance to take her."

"Yes, Master," said Alamur.

"Go," said Shadowbearer, and the strange shadow vanished.

As it did, the remaining ropes and the blindfold crumbled into dust.

Calliande took a step back. She had to find Ridmark, or Sir Joram, and warn him that Alamur had broken free.

Then the Magistrius's dark eyes fell upon her.

###

Sir Constantine and his escorts carved their way through Qazarl's host.

Ridmark jogged alongside their horses, striking at any target that presented itself, but few did. The massive charge of Constantine's horsemen had broken the orcish host, and most of the survivors fled for the foothills of the Black Mountain. Those that remained offered little resistance against a charge of heavy horsemen. Ridmark remembered the power of such a charge, his horse thundering beneath him, Heartwarden shining in his fist...

He pushed aside the thought.

Every orc they slew would only rise again as an undead puppet, dancing on the strings of Qazarl's sorcery, and Constantine's Soulblade could not be everywhere upon the field. Sooner or later the undead orcs would wear down the horsemen and seize the town.

Unless they found Qazarl first.

The horsemen reached the edge of the trees and slowed. Ahead Qazarl's strange pillar of flame rose into the sky, painting the nearby trees with a bloody light. Ridmark hurried forward as the horsemen picked their way over the roots and the needles, Kharlacht and Caius following him. The ancient orcish burial mounds lay off the road, in a clearing ringed by pine trees.

He stepped past the last tree and into the clearing, the space dominated by a grass-covered mound about twenty feet tall. Someone had dug into the mound's southern slope, and the air shivered and buzzed with the presence of potent dark magic.

Qazarl stood atop the mound, a strange staff in his right hand.

Its length had been fashioned from orcish leg bones bound with corroded bronze wire, and the tusked skulls of three orcs adorned its top. The empty eyes of the orc skulls blazed with crimson fire, and the staff shivered and pulsed in Qazarl's hand in time to the fire rising overhead.

A flame, Ridmark realized, that appeared directly above the bone staff itself.

"Gray Knight!" shouted Qazarl, his voice gleeful, his white beard rippling in the icy wind. "I had hoped you would come here. You defeated Mhalek here and here you shall die. Poetic, no?"

Ridmark said nothing, Kharlacht and Caius joining him.

"And you, traitorous cousin," said Qazarl, pointing the staff at Kharlacht. "I am glad you have declared your allegiances at last. If you love the god of the humans so much, then you can perish with the humans."

"Qazarl," said Kharlacht as the horsemen entered the clearing. "This is madness. Do you think this plan of yours will bring you victory? You cannot conquer the Northerland, let alone the realm of Andomhaim."

Qazarl laughed. "Do you think this is about conquest? Fool boy! The world is changing. Did you not see the blue fire fill the sky, just as Shadowbearer predicted? The old era of the world is passing. A new age has come...and the humans shall be slaves. If they even survive at all."

Constantine swung down from the saddle and pointed Brightherald at the orcish shaman. "Qazarl of the Wilderland! I am Constantine, Knight of the Soulblade and son of the Dux of the Northerland. By his authority, I command you to cease your black magic, gather your host, and depart the realm, never to return. Otherwise you shall face my justice."

"Shall I, boy?" said Qazarl. "Your wretched little sword is useless here."

"This Soulblade was forged to defeat dark magic," said Constantine, "as you shall soon find out."

"Yes," said Qazarl, his voice heavy with mockery, "you shall break my spells with your sword, and then the Gray Knight shall beat me to death with his stick. Or you shall all die here. Shall we find out who is right?"

He struck the butt of the staff against the earth, the jaws of the tusked skulls clattering.

The ground shuddered...and hunched shapes erupted from the earth. Orcish skeletons, wearing corroded bronze armor, ancient swords in their bony hands. Long ago they had been buried here, to attend their chieftain in the next world.

Now they rose to kill at Qazarl's bidding.

A dozen of the undead warriors charged at Ridmark and Constantine.

###

"Ah," said Alamur. "Isn't this fortuitous?"

Calliande turned to run, but Alamur was faster.

The Magistrius gestured with his good hand, summoning power. Invisible force slammed into the cell door and ripped it free from its hinges with a shriek of tortured iron. Calliande flung herself to the side, and the edge of the door clipped her leg. The impact knocked her from her feet. Alamur strode out of his cage, and Calliande tried to stand, but the Magistrius gestured again.

She felt the surge of magic as invisible force seized her, threw her across the cellar, and slammed her against the stone wall. The same force kept her pinned against the wall, her boots dangling a few inches above the floor. Calliande strained against the force, trying to move, but it was too strong.

Alamur walked towards her, hand extended, white light glimmering around his fingers.

Again Calliande reached into her mind, trying to find some memory of magic. If she could find a way to counter Alamur's spell, she could break free of him.

But again, nothing happened.

"The Master was right," murmured Alamur, stopping a few paces away. "He did give me one more chance." He laughed. "And here you are, walking right into my grasp. Why?"

"I sensed him," spat Calliande. "Shadowbearer."

Alamur raised an eyebrow. "You thought to...confront him? To defeat him?" His dark eyes widened. "Which means...you have the means to defeat him..."

He took several alarmed steps back. He was terrified of her, Calliande realized. But why?

Did he believe she had the power to destroy him?

"Yes," she said, hoping to delay. "I came to destroy him, but I suppose I shall have to settle for you."

Terror flashed over Alamur's face, and she thought he would run from the cellar.

"No," he said at last. "No. If you had the power to kill me, you would have done so already. You wouldn't let me hold you like this." The fear faded from his expression, the confidence returning. "Which means...it will be easy enough to subdue you and deliver you to the Master."

"Are you so sure of yourself?" said Calliande.

"Yes." He smirked. "You don't even know who and what you are, do you? The Master knows. But you don't. When I deliver you to the Master...you will die in your ignorance."

He strode towards her, hand raised.

###

The skeletal orcs charged at Ridmark and Constantine, their bronze swords flashing in the bloody light.

"Take the shaman!" shouted Constantine, raising Brightherald over his head.

"Kill them!" screamed Qazarl, gesturing with the staff. "Kill them all!"

Ridmark met the first of the skeletal orcs. The undead thing stabbed at him, and Ridmark sidestepped, sweeping aside the thrust with a jerk of his staff. He began raining blows down upon the skeletal orc, sending cracks through the yellowed bones. His fifth blow ripped the tusked skull from the skeleton and sent it tumbling across the grass.

The skeleton wavered and collapsed.

Constantine proved even more effective. Brightherald blazed in his fist, and he struck down three of the undead in rapid succession. The magic binding their bones burned away at the touch of the soulblade, and the Swordbearer cut through them with ease. Ridmark smashed another of the skeletons, his eyes turning to Qazarl at the top of the mound. The shaman's defenses were crumbling, and if Ridmark could get close enough to strike a killing blow...

Qazarl shouted, struck the staff against the mound, and flung out his hand. A torrent of blood-colored fire erupted from his fingers, the grass withering to ash beneath its passage, and slammed into Constantine. The Swordbearer stumbled, raising his sword in guard. A Soulblade had the power to ward its bearer from hostile magic, and the blade shone with white light, Qazarl's bloody fire snarling and snapping.

The trees rustled, and more undead orcs emerged from the forest, summoned from the battlefield.

"Their heads!" shouted Ridmark, smashing the skull of another skeletal orc. "Take their heads!" He saw the undead driving back Constantine's knights. Kharlacht and Caius fought back to back, the dwarf's mace smashing the bones of the undead, Kharlacht's whirling greatsword taking their heads.

There were too many of the creatures, and Qazarl loosed blast after blast of magic, keeping Constantine pinned in place. The Swordbearer could deflect the shaman's blasts, but he could not advance, not while Qazarl continued his attack.

With that strange bone staff, it seemed unlikely that Qazarl's strength would wane.

"Perish!" roared Qazarl, and the undead closed around them.

###

"I'm afraid," said Alamur, stopping just out of reach, "that this will inflict a considerable amount of agony on you."

Calliande struggled, trying to tear free of his spell, but his will was too strong.

"A simple spell, that is all," said Alamur, "to dampen your will and make you a bit more...tractable." Purple light glimmered around his hand. "A spell I learned from the Master, as it happens. You yourself held the scroll. Now you shall get to experience it firsthand. A privilege, no?"

"You are a traitor and a coward," spat Calliande.

Alamur smiled. "On the contrary. I am a man with the vision to see that the order of the world shall soon change, and the courage to seize the opportunities for power. Like this."

He gestured, a pulse of purple light washing over Calliande, and she felt his will hammer into her mind, his magic sinking into her thoughts.

###

The undead orc toppled before him, its dead black eyes staring up at him. Ridmark snatched the axe from his belt, raised it high, and brought it down onto the orc's neck.

Two blows later, the undead orc's head rolled from its shoulders, and the corpse collapsed to the ground.

Ridmark grabbed his staff, the melee swirling around him. A limping orcish corpse staggered towards one of Constantine's knights, and Ridmark attacked from behind, his quick blow breaking one of the orc's legs. The undead thing fell to one knee, and the knight beheaded it with a powerful swing.

For a moment, just a moment, Ridmark was free to move.

He shot a quick look around the clearing. Qazarl flung another gout of fire at Constantine, and the young Swordbearer swayed beneath the fury of the attack. Brightherald's light was starting to dim. The sword had great magic, but the weapon's strength matched the power of its wielder, and no man could bear up under such an assault for long. Sooner or later, Constantine would fall.

And then Qazarl could turn his magic against the rest of them.

Ridmark had to get to the shaman.

But he could not do it alone.

He raced forward, knocking down an undead in his path, and made his way to Kharlacht and Caius. The friar and the warrior battled together, keeping any of the undead from making their way to Constantine. A skeletal orc stabbed at Caius, and the dwarf blocked the blow on his mace. Ridmark came up from behind and swung once, twice, three times. His staff shattered the bones of the orc's right leg, and the undead thing tottered.

Caius's mace came down upon the top of its skull, shattering the yellowed bone to a dozen fragments.

"Qazarl," said Ridmark, breathing hard, and both Kharlacht and Caius looked at him. His arms and shoulders ached, sweat dripping down his face...but the battle was not over yet. "This isn't over until we get Qazarl."

"Then I suggest," said Caius, "that we get him."

Kharlacht nodded, and the three of them cut their way through the undead, making for the burial mound.

###

"You will obey me," said Alamur, his voice echoing in Calliande's ears and thundering inside her head. "You will obey me. By the power of this spell and the strength of my will, I compel you to obey me. Obey!"

Calliande shuddered, his magic sinking deeper into her thoughts. She felt it reshaping her thoughts, forcing her to obey.

But as before, when she had faced Talvinius, fury rose up inside her, rage that Alamur should abuse his magic, rage that he had betrayed the people in his care to their deaths at Qazarl's hands.

With that rage the white fire welled up inside her again.

The fire burned away Alamur's spell, though his will still held her fast.

"That is not possible!" hissed Alamur. "You don't know who you are. You can't do that!"

Calliande gritted her teeth. "Try that again and I'll show you what I can do."

"No," said Alamur. He surged forward, his uninjured hand locking around her throat, and Calliande felt his thumb digging into her windpipe. "When you pass out, I'll carry you out of here like a sack of meat. The Master wants you alive. I suppose he will forgive a few bruises."

Calliande gagged, pawing at his hand, but the Magistrius was stronger than she was. Her arms twitched, her hands falling to her sides.

Her right hand brushed the handle of the dagger Ridmark had given her.

With a last desperate burst of strength, she yanked the dagger free of its sheath and stabbed.

The blade sank into Alamur's side.

The Magistrius fell back with a scream, and Calliande fell in a heap, coughing, as both his magical and physical grasp released. Alamur grabbed his side, his eyes wide as blood stained his white robes.

"You...you stabbed me," he whispered. He sounded more surprised than anything else.

Calliande staggered to her feet. "Then you should not have tried to take me to Shadowbearer."

Rage blossomed over his face. "Then die!" He lifted his left hand, purple light snarling and hissing around his fist. Calliande recognized the spell. It was an attack of dark magic, a spell that would shatter her mind and stop her heart.

He was going to kill her.

Alamur thrust out his fist, shouting in rage as a ball of purple flame leapt from his hand, and Calliande reacted on instinct.

Her hands came up, calling the fire within her, and a hazy shield of white light appeared before her. Alamur's spell struck the shield with a sound like a sword hitting a cuirass, and she felt the strain of his will pressing against hers.

But her will was stronger.

He flinched in sudden horror.

Much stronger.

Calliande's will drove back his, and the ball of purple fire rebounded from her shield and slammed into him.

Alamur screamed and fell, his eyes bulging, the purple fire dancing up and down his limbs. He struck the ground and lay motionless, his face forever frozen in a mask of utter horror.

Calliande walked towards him, numb, and yanked her dagger free, cleaning the bloody blade upon his robes before returning it to its sheath. She had learned to do that, somewhere.

She stared at the corpse, and a fact impressed itself upon her mind.

The white fire still shimmered below her thoughts.

She raised her left hand and stared at it, calling the fire. Patterns flashed through her mind, spells and symbols and formulae, and a pale glow surrounded her fingers.

Magic. The white fire was magic, called from the ancient Well at Tarlion's heart, and it was hers to summon and command.

She was a Magistria. Or, at least, she had once been a Magistria.

But now she was again.

Her head turned towards the stairs, Alamur's corpse forgotten. Even in the cellar, the distant sounds of fighting came to her ears. The town of Dun Licinia was about to fall without aid.

The people of the town needed her.

Ridmark needed her.

Calliande grabbed her skirts and ran for the stairs.

###

Ridmark charged for the burial mound, Kharlacht on his right and Caius on his left. Qazarl's fire surged past them, hammering into Constantine. Qazarl's magic could keep Constantine pinned in place, preventing the Swordbearer from bringing his soulblade to bear against the undead. Once the undead had disposed of Constantine's companions, the undead could tear the Swordbearer to pieces.

Unless Ridmark killed Qazarl first.

An undead orc lunged at him, and Ridmark dodged, his staff driving into the orc's knee. The undead stumbled, and Kharlacht moved into the gap. His heavy blade sheared through the undead orc's neck, and corpse and head both tumbled down the side of the burial mound. A skeletal orc attacked Caius, and he swung his heavy mace with both hands. The joint of the skeleton's left knee exploded into powder, and the undead fell.

The path was clear to Qazarl himself.

The shaman stood atop the burial mound, left hand gripping the staff of bones, right thrust towards Constantine. A constant stream of blood-colored fire erupted from his fingers, the air shivering with the power of it. A nimbus of crimson light swirled around him. Qazarl looked like a demon risen from the pits, a horror come to wage war upon the living.

He looked, Ridmark thought, a little like Mhalek.

He charged at the shaman, and Kharlacht and Caius raised their weapons.

Qazarl reacted first, leveling the bone staff, the tusked skulls clattering. A pulse of red light, and a wall of unseen force slammed into Ridmark. The blast knocked him over, but he tucked his shoulder and rolled, regaining his feet. He saw Kharlacht lying motionless, saw Caius rolling to the base of the hill. Had the spell knocked them unconscious?

Or had Qazarl simply killed them?

"A pity," said Qazarl, looking at Kharlacht. "He was such a capable..."

Ridmark attacked, all his strength behind his blow.

His staff plunged towards Qazarl's head, only to rebound from the nimbus of red light.

"Did you not think I would ward myself against your weapons?" said Qazarl. He shook the staff, the skulls grinning at Ridmark. "All that power...and I would spare none to protect myself? In the end, I am stronger in than Mhalek ever was." He leveled the staff. "Farewell, Gray Knight."

The red light glowed brighter, filling Ridmark's vision.

###

Calliande ran up the stairs and reached the ramparts of the northern wall.

The battlements were slick with blood, and all around her men-at-arms and militiamen struggled against the undead orcs. The dead things climbed up the walls by sheer strength, throwing themselves upon the living men. The defenders were holding their own, but barely. Beyond the ramparts she saw the chaos of the battlefield, saw horsemen flying the banners of Castra Marcaine and Dux Gareth Licinius.

She saw the pillar of crimson flame rising from the burial mounds in the woods, felt the harsh wrath of Qazarl's magic.

"My lady!"

She saw Sir Joram standing behind the struggling militiamen, his armor and surcoat spattered with blood both red and green.

"Go back to the castle!" he said. "I do not know if we can hold here. Go..."

Calliande sensed the black magic animating the dead orcs, the blood spell that made them dance and jerk upon the strings of Qazarl's will.

And she knew the spell to break those strings.

Calliande closed her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest, and reached for the white fire within her. It came at her call, and her mind directed the power through the structure of a spell.

"My lady!" shouted Joram. "Go!"

She opened her eyes, saw three of the undead break through the line and reach for her with cold, dead hands.

Calliande smiled and released the spell.

A ring of white light erupted from her, passing through the living men and the dead orcs alike, spreading over the northern rampart. The light touched the living men without harm. Wherever it touched the dead orcs, they fell like puppets with cut strings, smoke pouring from their mouths and nostrils.

In a matter of heartbeats Calliande's magic destroyed every last undead orc attacking the walls of Dun Licinia.

She swayed as a wave of dizziness washed through her. Expending that much power had taken a great deal. Magic, she realized, was limited by stamina. What she had just done was like carrying a dozen forty-pound sacks of flour up a flight of stairs.

All at once.

"My lady!" Sir Joram grabbed her arm. She was grateful for the support. She had not survived Shadowbearer and Qazarl and Alamur only to lose her balance and fall to her death from the walls. "Are you...are you well?"

"I think so," said Calliande, blinking as the spinning stopped.

"That spell...it was well-timed," said Joram. "Those fiends would only stop fighting once we chopped off their heads. You...you are a Magistria?"

"It would appear so," said Calliande. "Ridmark, where is Ridmark?"

"I do not know, my lady," said Joram. "He fought the duel with the orcish champion, and then the horsemen from Castra Marcaine arrived, and he followed Sir Constantine into the woods."

Calliande slipped from his grasp and moved to the battlements. In the distance she saw the pillar of Qazarl's magic rising from the trees, felt the power rolling off it in burning waves. Qazarl himself was likely there.

Which meant Ridmark was almost certainly there, if Qazarl had not killed him already.

She knew what she had to do.

"Get ready to catch me," she told Joram. "I'm going to cast a spell, and then I'm likely going to pass out."

Joram started to speak, but she ignored him and summoned power, as much as she could handle, the white fire blazing around her. Calliande gestured, her mind forcing the magic into the shape she desired, and flung out her hands.

A ball of dazzling white flame erupted from her palms and shot over the battlefield, plunging into the woods.

She saw the white flash of its impact, and then everything went black.

###

The crimson nimbus around Qazarl shone brighter, and then the world exploded around Ridmark.

White fire filled his vision.

The flame passed through him without harm. The burial mound shook beneath his boots, and he drove his staff into the earth, leaning on it to keep his balance. The white flame faded away, and he saw Qazarl staggering back and forth, his eyes glassy.

His crimson nimbus had vanished.

The white fire, whatever it was, had broken the shaman's protective spells.

It was Ridmark's last chance.

He ran forward, his staff coming up, and struck. Qazarl shook out of his stupor and raised a hand to cast a spell, but it was too late. Ridmark hit him across the face with the staff, and the shaman staggered back. His next blow ripped the staff of bones from Qazarl's grasp. Qazarl roared and lifted his hands, bloody fire brightening around them.

Ridmark brought his staff down with enough force to break Qazarl's right wrist. The shaman howled in pain, and Ridmark drove his staff into Qazarl's gut, reversed it, and swung it against Qazarl's knee.

The shaman collapsed upon his back, clutching his wounded wrist, and Ridmark raised his staff to land the killing blow.

"It won't matter!" spat Qazarl.

Ridmark hesitated.

"You've beaten me," said Qazarl. "Killing me changes nothing. The new order is coming, Gray Knight. Shadowbearer has foreseen it. The world shall change...and the Frostborn will return." He grinned, his mouth full of blood from the staff's impact. "Kill me...and the Frostborn will still return."

"Perhaps," said Ridmark, "but you will not see it."

He hammered the staff down.

***

## Chapter 23 - The Hero of Dun Licinia

Calliande drifted in a strange white mist, cool and clammy.

The mist filled her mind.

She saw the sad-eyed old man in the white robe, the old man whose image had greeted her as she awakened beneath the Tower of Vigilance. She realized his white robe was the robe of a Magistrius, the same kind of robe Alamur had worn. He had been one of the Magistri...as had she.

"I knew you, didn't I?" said Calliande.

The old man offered a sad nod, his tangled gray beard brushing his collar.

"Who are you?" said Calliande. "Tell me. Who am I? Please, tell me."

"I cannot," said the old man. "You have denied yourself your memories, for good and proper reasons. I admit I thought your plan folly. I still do. It was wise to conceal your memory. Otherwise Shadowbearer would have plucked your secrets from your mind...and now all would be lost. The gate would be open, and ice would devour the world."

"Please, say plainly what you mean," said Calliande. "Speak not to me in riddles."

"I cannot," said the old man, "for you have forbidden it."

"Then what can you tell me?" said Calliande.

The old man thought for a moment. "Only that you may call me the Watcher, and that you must not tell anyone of me. Your plan...your plan has gone badly awry. The Order of the Vigilant was to greet you upon awakening, to take you to the appointed place, but they fell victim to their own corruption and perished. So you must carry on in the Order's stead. Beware Shadowbearer. He knows that you are a threat to him and his servants...and he will be hunting you."

"I will," said Calliande. "Can you tell me nothing more?"

"Only this. To find your answers, you must find your staff."

"My staff?" said Calliande. Shadowbearer had asked her about a staff. That, and a sword. He had seemed very eager to find both. "Where is my staff?"

"At Dragonfall," said the old man.

"I don't know where that is," said Calliande.

"Few do. You did. Shadowbearer does. And he will seek you," said the Watcher. He closed his eyes. "Be careful, my lady. A great burden lies upon you...and you alone can carry it."

"I shall," said Calliande. She felt a great affection for the old man, and desperately wished she could remember more about him. "Thank you."

"My prayers go with you," said the Watcher.

He began to fade into the mists.

"Will I see you again?" said Calliande.

"I will await you," said the Watcher, "at Dragonfall."

He vanished, and Calliande felt herself drifting again. The mist flickered with visions. Again she saw herself speaking to the council of old men in robes, arguing her case. She saw armies marching to war, herself riding at their head. Sheets of glowing blue ice spreading to cover the land, tall figures in armor the color of pitted ice walking before the glaciers, swords that burned blue in their hands.

A knight wielding a sword of red gold that burned with flame.

A twisted staff of oak, shining with a pale white light.

And a laughing shadow in a long red coat, a shadow that hunted her across the centuries...

The mist swallowed Calliande, and she knew no more.

###

Calliande's eyes fluttered open.

She sat up, confused. She lay in a narrow bed, clad in a loose nightshirt. The bed occupied a small castle room, the walls and ceiling of stone, a shaft of sunlight falling through the narrow window. Brother Caius sat in a chair below the window, eyes closed and a book open upon his lap.

She heard a rasping noise, and realized that Caius was snorting.

"Caius?" she said.

"Eh?" said Caius, his strange blue eyes opening in his gray-skinned face. "I was not sleeping. I was merely resting my eyes."

"What happened?" said Calliande. "Where am I?"

Caius closed his book. "You, Magistria, are in your chamber at the keep. Sir Joram brought you here."

"What happened with the battle?" said Calliande. "Qazarl and the orcs? And Ridmark...did he fall..."

"No, Ridmark was fine, when last I saw him," said Caius. "When you attacked Qazarl, it broke his protective spells. Ridmark was able to strike him down, and once the shaman was dead, his spell over the undead broke. Sir Constantine's men were able to sweep the Mhalekites from the field." He sighed. "I fear it was a great slaughter. Some of the orcs escaped, but not many. If Qazarl gathered all that remained of Mhalek's followers, then the Mhalekites have been reduced to only a few ragged bands."

"How long have I been asleep?" said Calliande.

"Two days," said Caius.

She rubbed her face. "I fear I might have overexerted myself."

"Your overexertion decided the battle and restored your memory," said Caius. "The effort appears to have been worthwhile."

"No," said Calliande. "My memory did not return. Just...just my powers. It appears I was indeed a Magistria during the war against the Frostborn two centuries ago. None of my memories have returned. Just my skills with magic. Or some of them."

Caius snorted. "Give that your skills with magic saved my life, I am grateful for them. Qazarl would have slain us all, had you not struck."

"Was Ridmark hurt?" said Calliande.

"No," said Caius. "He came through the battle unscathed." He hesitated. "He...spoke with me, to make sure you were well, once the battle was over. Then he departed Dun Licinia."

"He departed?" said Calliande. "Why? He saved the town! He slew Qazarl, you said so yourself."

Caius stood. "Perhaps you should speak to Sir Joram and Sir Constantine. They asked to talk with you, once you awakened." He bowed. "I shall send one of the servants to help you dress."

###

A short time later Calliande entered the great hall of the keep, wearing a clean gown, the dagger Ridmark had given her sheathed at her belt. Caius walked at her side, his heavy boots clicking against the flagstones.

Sir Joram Agramore waited at the table, clad again in mantle and tunic. At his side sat a handsome man of about twenty-five, with curly black hair, olive-colored skin, and bright green eyes. A sheathed longsword hung at his belt, and Calliande felt the power of the magic gathered in the weapon...and in the soulstone worked into the blade.

The sword was a Soulblade, which meant that black-haired knight was a Swordbearer.

Both men rose as she approached.

"My lady Calliande," said Joram with a bow, "you do us honor. Or shall I address you as the Magistria Calliande now?"

"For all your kindnesses to me," said Calliande, "you may address me however you wish."

"And since your magic defeated the traitor Alamur and helped us defeat Qazarl," said Joram, "I wish to address you with the highest honor." He gestured to the younger man. "This is Sir Constantine Licinius, son of the Dux Gareth Licinius of Castra Marcaine, and a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade."

Constantine bowed, and Calliande gripped her skirts and did a curtsy.

"My lady Magistria," said Constantine, "I thank you for your aid. With Alamur turned traitor, we were at a sore disadvantage against Qazarl. If you had not unleashed your magic when you did, I fear we would all have been slain, and Dun Licinia would now be ashes."

"Thank you, my lord Swordbearer," said Calliande, "but the credit properly goes to the man known as the Gray Knight, Ridmark Arban. He saved my life, not once but many times, and his skill at arms helped Sir Joram defend the town."

Joram snorted. "Now you do me a kindness. Ridmark defended the town. I was merely along for the ride, as it were."

"Ridmark refused all reward," said Constantine, "and departed for the north as soon as he was sure you were safe."

"Why?" said Calliande. He had promised to help her find the truth of her past. "Why did he leave?"

Constantine sighed. "I fear it was my fault. I...reminded him too much of the past."

"What past?" said Calliande. "My lords, forgive me for being blunt, but what happened to Ridmark? He utterly refused to speak of it."

"Aye," said Caius. "I have rarely seen a warrior of such boldness and skill, whether among my own kindred or yours. For a man like him to bear the brand of a craven and a traitor, I cannot fathom it."

Constantine and Joram shared a look.

"He was the best of us," said Joram. "We were all squires together, in Dux Gareth's court, and he was the boldest and the most skilled. He achieved everything he set his mind to accomplish."

"I hated him at first, I admit," said Constantine. "But I was just a boy, and I was jealous that his father, the Dux of Taliand, had greater prestige than my own father. But Ridmark had no pride in him. He befriended us all...and helped teach me and my brothers the use of the sword."

"He became a Swordbearer at eighteen," said Joram, "one of the new-made knights that old Master Galearus selected. And he did deeds of tremendous renown. At eighteen, he slew the urdmordar Gothalinzur. A lone, new-made Swordbearer, and he slew an urdmordar matriarch. Such a feat...I would not have believed it, had any other man than Ridmark done it."

"He told me a little of it," said Calliande, remembering their discussion in the Deeps as the others slept.

"When the high elven archmage Ardrhythain himself came to my father's court to ask for a Swordbearer to undertake a perilous quest," said Constantine, "my father chose Ridmark. He ventured into the ruins of Urd Morlemoch and confronted the Warden, the dark elven sorcerer that rules over that evil place. He was victorious!" He looked at the ceiling and sighed. "My sister Aelia loved him. Ridmark asked my father for her hand in marriage, and he consented gladly."

"Then Mhalek came," said Joram. "He declared himself a living god, and led a huge host into the Northerland. He invited the leaders of the High King's host to a parley and slaughtered them. It would have been a disaster...but Ridmark took command of the host and crushed the Mhalekites utterly."

"But Mhalek escaped," said Constantine.

Suddenly the haunted looked in Ridmark's blue eyes made sense.

"And when he escaped, he went to Castra Marcaine, didn't he?" said Calliande.

Joram nodded. "You are wise, Magistria."

"Ridmark left the army and pursued," said Constantine. "Mhalek had taken Aelia captive."

"What did Ridmark do?" said Calliande, horrified.

Constantine looked away.

"He killed Mhalek," said Joram, "before the Dux's seat in the great hall of Castra Marcaine. But he did not know that Mhalek had worked a spell joining his blood to Aelia's. One final cruelty. Any wound Mhalek received would be dealt to Aelia as well."

"God's mercy," said Caius. "So when Ridmark struck down Mhalek..."

Constantine nodded. "I fear my sister perished as well."

She remembered Ridmark's grim face, the echo of pain in his blue eyes.

"But why did the Order expel him?" said Calliande. "He did nothing wrong. His wife's death was on Mhalek, not him! He couldn't have known about the spell."

"I thought the same," said Constantine, "as did my father, and most of the other chief nobles. But Tarrabus and his lot thought otherwise."

"Tarrabus?" said Calliande. She did not recognize the name.

"Tarrabus Carhaine," said Joram, "the Dux of Caerdracon. We were squires together, at Castra Marcaine...and he always hated Ridmark. He blamed Ridmark for Aelia's death, accused him of cowardice for leaving his army in the field. The new Master of the Order was undecided, but Tarrabus can be persuasive. And Ridmark...I think Ridmark agreed with them. The heart went out of him after Aelia died. He did not even try to defend himself. Tarrabus forced the Order to expel him, strip him of his Soulblade, and brand him as a coward. His father and brothers turned their back on him."

"How is he still alive?" said Calliande. "From what I understand, if a Swordbearer is severed from his Soulblade, he quickly loses the will to live."

"It does not often come to pass that a Swordbearer is expelled from our Order," said Constantine, "but when it does, the former Knight usually wastes away. But Ridmark...Ridmark is not the sort of man to lie down and die."

"The Frostborn," said Caius. "He believes the Frostborn are returning."

"The Frostborn are extinct," said Joram. "Some of the things Gothalinzur and the Warden told him made him believe the Frostborn would return. But they are extinct, a relic of the past." He sighed. "Or so I thought. After your arrival, my lady, and Qazarl's attack...I am not so sure."

"He believes the Frostborn shall return," said Constantine, "and has spent the past five years searching. And along the way, he has helped people, saved them from pagan orcs and creatures of the wild and worse things. Hence the legend of the Gray Knight." Constantine spread his hands. "That, my lady, is the tale of Ridmark Arban. I fear he is condemned by a harsher judge than any other in the realm."

"His own conscience," said Joram.

Calliande stood in silence for a moment. Many of the things Ridmark had said and done made a great deal of sense now. Little wonder he regarded his own life so lightly.

He did not care if he lived. Perhaps he even believed he deserved death.

"If you will forgive the question, my lady Magistria," said Constantine, "what shall you do now?"

Calliande blinked. "Oh?"

"We thought you might go to Tarlion," said Joram, "to speak with the Masters of the Order of the Magistri. They might have the spells to repair at least some of your lost memories."

Calliande thought of Talvinius and Alamur. How many more Magistri were like them?

"Perhaps," she said.

"If not," said Constantine, "you would be welcome at my father's court. The Northerland is a perilous land, and Qazarl and his Mhalekites are hardly the only dangers we face. A valiant Magistria would have a place of honor among us."

"Or you could stay here, if you forgive my presumption," said Joram. "Since Alamur was a traitor, we now have no Magistrius among us, and the Masters of the Order will investigate his death before they deign to send a replacement. It could be months before we have a new Magistrius, and Dun Licinia sorely needs one. We are at the very edge of the realm, and your magic would be a welcome aid."

Calliande thought it over. She could see herself settling here, helping the people of the Northerland to build their homes and keep the dangers of the Wilderland at bay.

She still didn't know who she was. She was a Magistria, that was plain, but that told her very little.

Shadowbearer would hunt for her and the empty soulstone in the pouch at her belt.

And the Watcher had told her to find him and her staff at Dragonfall.

"I think," said Calliande, "that I know what I must do now."

***

## Chapter 24 - The Four

Ridmark strode alone through the trees, the dark mass of the Black Mountain rising to the east.

The vast wilderness of the Wilderland stretched before him, forest and swamps and mountains and plains.

Of course, the wilderness wasn't empty. Tribes of pagan orcs lived beneath the trees, warring against each other and their neighbors. Urdmordar built petty kingdoms from the shadows, feasting upon their victims. Packs of beastmen migrated across the land, hunting prey and their foes. Kobolds raided from the tunnels of the Deeps, as did dark elven princes. Wyverns flew overhead, and beasts of ancient dark elven sorcery hunted in the darkness.

Ridmark knew it well. He had spent five years wandering the Wilderland, traveling to lands no man of Andomhaim had ever seen, seeking for evidence of the return of the Frostborn.

Now he had seen blue fire fill the sky, just as the Warden had predicted...and Ridmark knew where he had to go.

Urd Morlemoch awaited him.

It lay far to the northwest, on the shore of the cold northern sea, near the border between the Wilderland and the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves. It had once been a mighty fortress of the dark elves, tens of thousands of years old, and from there the dark elves had waged their endless war against the high elves.

Then the dark elves had summoned the urdmordar, intending to use them as slave soldiers against the high elves...only to find themselves enslaved by the urdmordar. The High King, the Magistri, and the Swordbearers had smashed the urdmordar, wielding magic taught to them by Ardrhythain, but Urd Morlemoch remained, ruled by its undead Warden.

The undead dark elven wizard who had taunted Ridmark with his warning of the blue fire, the omen that would herald the return of the Frostborn.

Now that omen had come, and Ridmark would wring the truth of it from the Warden.

He kept walking, the ground smoothing as he left the foothills of the Black Mountain behind.

Caius might have come with him, had he asked, and possibly Calliande. Joram would have sent an escort of men-at-arms, and Constantine would have convinced his father to summon his knights and Comites, and march to Urd Morlemoch in force.

If they went with Ridmark, many of them would die, and he did not want any more deaths on his conscience.

Again he heard Aelia screaming, her eyes staring up at him, full of shocked betrayal, the blood pooling around her...

Ridmark shook his head and kept walking.

It was better to go alone.

He had promised Calliande that he would help her find her memory, and he regretted leaving her behind. But it was just as well. She had come into her full powers as a Magistria, and the Masters of the Order of the Magistri could help her recover her memories.

And she was somehow connected to the Frostborn. For some reason the Order of the Vigilant had put her into a magical sleep for centuries below their castle. Ridmark suspected if he solved the riddle of the Frostborn, he would also answer the question of Calliande.

He kept walking.

Right now, he had more immediate problems.

Such as the fact that someone had been following him for the last mile.

Ridmark entered a clearing and looked around. He would have enough room here to wield his staff effectively. Of course, if his pursuers had archers among their number, they could shoot him. But he did not think they had any bows.

In fact, he thought there was only one man after him.

Ridmark waited, and after a moment a tall figure in gleaming blue armor stepped into the clearing.

"Kharlacht," said Ridmark.

"Gray Knight," said Kharlacht. The hilt of Kharlacht's greatsword rose over his right shoulder, and various cuts and bruises marked his face. He walked with a slight limp, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

"I sought you after the battle," said Ridmark, "but you were gone."

"Aye," said Kharlacht. "It seemed wisest to go. With Qazarl slain and his host broken, the knights from Castra Marcaine would kill any orc they could catch. Better to be gone, rather than try to explain myself."

"Sensible," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht nodded, his topknot bobbing, and said nothing.

"You're here to kill me, then?" said Ridmark, fingers loose around his staff. "I slew the last of your blood kin, and now you're here to kill me in turn?"

"No," said Kharlacht. "Qazarl...was the last of my blood kin, aye. But now he is slain. And he brought his death upon his own head. Even if I had never met you, Gray Knight, Qazarl still would have met his doom. Sooner or later he would have been overwhelmed and slain."

"If you are not here to kill me," said Ridmark, "then why are you here?"

"I wish to follow you into battle," said Kharlacht, "and aid you in your quest."

Ridmark blinked. "Why?"

"Because I owe you a debt," said Kharlacht. "You spared my life outside the walls of Dun Licinia. You could have slain me fairly and honorably...but you did not. I owe you my life, and I would see that debt repaid." He paused. "And your quest seems a good one."

"My quest?" said Ridmark.

"You did not speak of it to me, but I am neither blind nor deaf," said Kharlacht. "You seek to stop the return of the Frostborn."

"The Frostborn are extinct," said Ridmark. "The High King wiped them out two and a half centuries ago."

"So your nobles claim," said Kharlacht, "yet you have heard rumor of their return. I listened to Qazarl and Shadowbearer speak in the dark hours of the night. They, too, were certain the Frostborn would return. Loyalty to my kin bound my tongue before, but Qazarl claimed the Frostborn would return the on day of the blue fire. That was why he wished to assault Dun Licinia. He desired to seize the town and offer it as a gift to the Frostborn, that he might earn the favor of the new masters of the world."

Ridmark nodded. That explained much.

"A terrible danger is coming," said Kharlacht, "and it seems that only you see it and seek to stop it. I would aid you, if I can."

"I am going to Urd Morlemoch," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht's expression did not change, but the skin around his eyes tightened. "A name of dread and fear among my kindred."

"A name of dread and fear among all kindreds," said Ridmark. "Nine years ago, the Warden that rules over the ruins told me of the omen of blue fire. Now it has happened. I will return to Urd Morlemoch and force the Warden to tell me more...and I will learn how the Frostborn will return. If it is in my power, I will find a way to stop it."

"I shall aid you," said Kharlacht.

"We might die," said Ridmark. "If there is anything else you wish to do, anywhere else you wish to go...you should do it now."

"I have nowhere else to go," said Kharlacht. "All my kin are dead. I was once betrothed to a woman of my kindred...but she, too, is dead, and I hope she resides with the Dominus Christus in paradise."

"I can understand that," said Ridmark.

"There is nothing else for me to do," said Kharlacht. "So I will follow you. If you will have me."

"Come," said Ridmark. "If we start now, we can likely make another ten miles before nightfall."

They walked into the woods.

###

"Are you sure about this?" said Caius as they walked through the woods.

"Absolutely," said Calliande.

She had traded her gown for a leather jerkin, trousers, heavy boots, and a thick cloak to ward off the chill. Behind them walked a train of four pack mules, laden with supplies. She had asked Sir Joram for modest supplies, and he had given her ten times what she needed.

"Do you know where he is now?" said Caius.

"Not far," said Calliande, touching the dagger at her belt. "Perhaps two days to the northeast. Urd Morlemoch is north of the Three Kingdoms, and he's heading there now."

Ridmark had given her the dagger as a gift, and it had saved Calliande's life. That gave the dagger a sort of resonance, an echo, of his presence. With the proper spell, that meant Calliande could use the dagger to follow him.

"Then let us continue," said Caius, tugging at the reins. "Were gambling not a sin, I would wager that we could make another ten miles before nightfall, even with these truculent beasts."

Calliande nodded. She would find Ridmark and lend him her aid. Together they would find the secret of the Frostborn.

By doing so, perhaps she could find the truth of herself.

***

## Epilogue

He had once been an archmage of the high elven kindred, an honored servant of his people, respected and renowned.

That had been a very long time ago.

So long that the humans had not yet come through the gate from Old Earth, that their ancestors had still been living in caves and hunting with sticks.

A very long time.

He was much more now, and yet, less than he should be.

The rage of it burned inside him, so hot that if it burst forth, it would devour the world.

But soon enough, he would make it right.

The creature that had once been an archmage of the high elves, the creature that some called Shadowbearer, walked alone in the Deeps. The clumps of ghost mushrooms clinging to the floor provided only a little light, but that did not trouble him. He needed very little light to see. In truth, he saw by things other than light, with senses other than mere eyes of flesh.

With those senses he saw things that troubled him.

Qazarl dead, slain outside the walls of Dun Licinia.

Alamur dead, devoured by his own magic.

Calliande's powers returned. Only a portion of them, true, but even a portion was dangerous to him.

Even a portion could destroy him.

"Ridmark Arban," hissed Shadowbearer.

He had not considered the disgraced Swordbearer before. True, Ridmark had stopped Mhalek, but Mhalek had only been a...diversion, a distraction, a ploy to wear down the strength of the High King until the moons reached their proper conjunction and the real work began. Mhalek had died, but he had broken Ridmark in his death. Shadowbearer had not spared the man a thought since.

That had been a mistake.

But humans were like that. Such short lives, and they bred and died as quickly as rabbits. The best of them, the bravest and the boldest, could reshape the world in the few short decades of their lives.

As Calliande had, centuries ago.

As Ridmark might yet do.

Idly, Shadowbearer wondered if the former Swordbearer knew just how many lives he had saved in the last ten days. If Ridmark had not been there, if that idiot Vlazar had managed to kill Calliande upon the altar and activate the soulstone...well, the defenders of Dun Licinia would have faced foes more potent than a ragged band of Mhalekites.

Far more potent.

It was not too late. A year and a month after the omen, that was how long the threshold would remain, how long the thirteen moons would remain aligned, their magical fields interlocking just so. Shadowbearer's first plan had been undone, but he had been preparing for a very long time...and there was always another plan.

For corruption riddled Andomhaim like a rotten fruit, and his servants were everywhere.

Shadowbearer strode into a large cavern, the village of the Blue Hand kobolds waiting at the other end. The gate was closed, of course, but a simple effort of his vessel's power, and it crumbled into ruin. He strode into the village, and a score of kobolds surrounded him, leveling their obsidian spears, their crests flaring as they hissed at him. The fattest kobold of the lot, no doubt their Warchief, stepped forward.

"Who are you, high elf?" snarled the kobold.

"A traveler," said Shadowbearer in the kobold tongue. Such an uncouth language. Of course, all aspects of material world were uncouth. "I wish to speak with the shaman of the Blue Hand."

"He is dead!" snarled the Warchief. "Murdered by outsiders. I think you have come to attack the kobolds of the Blue Hand. But we are not weak. We will kill you, for daring to threaten the Blue Hand."

"Indeed?" said Shadowbearer, smiling.

The kobolds charged, and Shadowbearer raised his hands.

Fire came at his call.

A few moments later, he had killed every last kobold man, woman, and hatchling in the village. He spotted the Warchief trying to crawl away using his remaining arm, smoke rising from the hideous burns covering his sides and tail.

Shadowbearer walked after him.

"You," rasped the Warchief, "you are a dark elf, you..."

"No," said Shadowbearer, watching the flames consume the roofs of the stone houses, "I am not." He smiled. "Do you know the difference between the dark elves and me?"

The Warchief gaped at him, yellow eyes twitching, tongue flickering over his teeth.

"The dark elves," murmured Shadowbearer, "worshipped the shadow." He leaned closer. "I am the shadow."

The Warchief screamed, fire consuming him.

Shadowbearer left the smoking corpse behind and climbed to the cavern the wretched shaman of the Blue Hand, once the Magistrius Talvinius, had occupied. The kobolds of the Blue Hand had turned the cavern into a crypt for their dead god, placing his charred bones upon a bier in the center of the chamber.

Talvinius had grossly underestimated Calliande.

Shadowbearer had made that mistake once, centuries ago. He would not do so again.

He drew a chalk circle around the bier, ringing it in intricate symbols. Once the sigil was complete, he cast a long and elaborate spell. Cold air blew through the cavern, and the bones upon the bier stirred.

A voice whispered in his ears.

"Who disturbs my torment?" Even death had not removed the petulance from Talvinius's voice. "Who dares to summon me? I will pull you into the abyss with me," the spirit's voice dripped menace, "and we shall burn together."

"Talvinius," said Shadowbearer, smiling. "Have you forgotten me already? It has only been a century."

The spirit's menace dissolved into shock. "You! No...no! It is not possible!"

"You said that often as a living man," said Shadowbearer. "A pity you failed to learn otherwise. But no matter."

"You have come to free me, master?" said Talvinius, his voice full of cringing, desperate hope. "Give me a body, and I will eagerly serve you. I will do whatever you command."

"Actually," said Shadowbearer, "I don't need you at all. When you died the final death, you were inside Calliande's mind. I need your memories. I had thought her broken. Since she destroyed both you and Alamur, it seems she recovered more of her strength than I thought."

"Master! No!" screamed Talvinius. "I will..."

"Stop talking," said Shadowbearer, and he sent his will digging into the spirit's memories.

He sorted through them, ignoring Talvinius's agonized screams. Images of the dead Eternalist's final moments flashed before his eyes. He saw Calliande's terror, saw her wrath as the power rose up in response to her anger...

"I see," said Shadowbearer. He released the spell, let Talvinius's maimed spirit fall gibbering back into the abyss, and left the cavern.

He stood in the midst of the slain kobolds, thinking.

Calliande had recovered some of her power, but none of her memories. That made her dangerous, but not nearly as dangerous as she could have been. Still, Shadowbearer would not confront her himself. He was so close, and he would not risk a confrontation with her, not now.

Even without her full powers, she could still destroy him.

He needed her dead. And he needed the soulstone she carried.

And if she was not at her full strength, that would make it all the easier for his many servants to deal with her.

Or, perhaps, some new servants.

He cast a spell, shadow and blue fire dancing around his fingers, and a shadow-wreathed wind blew through the cavern, the flames in the ruined houses flickering.

The dead kobolds, hundreds of them, rose as undead at his command.

"Go forth," said Shadowbearer. His will burned an image of Calliande into their minds. "Find this woman, overpower her, and bring her and the stone she carries to me." He sent an image of Ridmark into their minds. "If you encounter this man, kill him."

The undead kobolds raced from the cavern to do his bidding.

Shadowbearer followed them from the ruined village.

He had a great deal of work to do.

THE END

***

## Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife Description

RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight, banished and outcast from the High King's realm. Yet Ridmark alone sees the danger. The dread Frostborn shall return, and unless Ridmark can warn the realm, the Frostborn will entomb the world in ice forever.

CALLIANDE wields mighty magic. Yet her memory is gone, her past forgotten. But her foes remember, and they are coming for her.

GAVIN is the son of the praefectus of the village of Aranaeus, and men and women and children are disappearing from their homes as shadowy, bestial shapes prowl through the forest.

Yet no one will heed Gavin's warnings of other creatures stirring in the darkness.

Creatures that feast upon the souls of their victims...

***

## A Brief Prologue

_An excerpt from the chronicles of the High Kings of Andomhaim:_

In the four centuries after Malahan Pendragon and the Keeper of Avalon led the survivors of Camelot through the portal from Old Earth to a new world, the men of Andomhaim faced many fierce foes. They strove against the savage kings of the pagan orcs and the vile sorcery of the dark elves. Their knights rode against the fierce manetaur warriors and descended into the Deeps to battle against the skulking kobold tribes. Time and time again the knights of Andomhaim faced terrible enemies, with orcish hordes driving to the very gates of the High King's citadel of Tarlion.

Yet the men of Andomhaim stood fast, and God favored their swords. Though the orcs outnumbered them and the dark elves commanded fell magic, the knights of Andomhaim prevailed and tamed the land. After a crushing defeat, the pagan kings of the orcs submitted to baptism and accepted the High King's authority. The manetaurs agreed to a treaty of peace, offering homage to the High King, and the kobolds and the dark elves were driven into the Deeps. After four centuries, peace settled over the realm of the High King at last.

Then, in the Year of Our Lord 953, the urdmordar came south.

The knights of Andomhaim had never faced foes as terrible as the great spider-devils of the north. Neither earthly steel nor flame harmed the urdmordar, and they wielded dark magic as easily as a man might breathe. The orcs and the kobolds worshipped them as goddesses, and the urdmordar kept the dark elves as useful slaves.

The urdmordar and their slaves came to the gates of Tarlion in a tide of blood and death, gorging themselves upon their victims...

***

## Chapter 1 - Claw and Fang

Nineteen days after it began, nineteen days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban gazed across the River Moradel.

Had something been moving on the far bank?

"What is it?" rumbled his companion, a towering orcish man armored in blue metal. The hilt of a greatsword rose over his right shoulder, and his green-skinned head had been shaved, save for a black warrior's topknot.

Ridmark raised a hand, and Kharlacht fell silent. They stood motionless for a few moments, watching the western bank of the River Moradel. The trees were quiet, their branches budding with the fresh leaves of early spring. A wind whispered past, and the river splashed against its banks.

Nothing else moved.

At last Ridmark lowered his right hand, his other tight against his staff.

"Foes?" said Kharlacht.

"Perhaps," said Ridmark.

"I've never traveled this part of the Wilderland," said Kharlacht. "What manner of foes might we encounter?"

Ridmark shrugged. "Beastmen hunting for prey, or perhaps a wyvern or two. A pack of urvaalgs. Perhaps some of your kinsmen raiding down from Vhaluusk." He thought for a moment. "No kobolds, though. God himself could force a kobold from its hole during the day, but no one else could."

Kharlacht made the short, rumbling sound that passed for his laugh. "I have had enough of kobolds to last the remainder of my days."

"Truly," said Ridmark, remembering his frantic fight with the kobolds of the Blue Hand in their stronghold. He had almost died there, as had Kharlacht and Brother Caius and Calliande.

He felt a twinge of guilt when he thought of Calliande. But his decision to leave her at Dun Licinia had been correct. He had promised to help her find her lost memories. But her memories were tied to the return of the Frostborn, and to learn the truth about the Frostborn, Ridmark had to travel to Urd Morlemoch and confront the Warden once more.

He would almost certainly die in the attempt.

Better to go alone. Ridmark deserved death, but no one else needed to die with him.

He would have gone without Kharlacht, had the orc not insisted on following him.

Ridmark shook off the dark thoughts and gazed at the western bank. Death could very well find him at Urd Morlemoch. Unless, of course, he made a mistake and died long before he even reached the dark elven ruin.

Nothing moved on the far bank.

"Come," he said. "It's not far to the ford. Keep your wits about you, and your sword close at hand. This is the only ford over the River Moradel for fifty miles in either direction."

"An ideal spot," said Kharlacht, "for an ambush."

"Anyone seeking prey," said Ridmark, "will look for it there."

Ridmark made his way north, the river to his left and the forest to his right. Fallen leaves covered the uneven ground, yet long practice let Ridmark move without making any noise.

"Prey?" said Kharlacht. "You expect to find beastmen?"

Kharlacht was many things, but he was not a fool.

"Aye," said Ridmark.

"I have never encountered the lupivirii before," said Kharlacht. "I saw a dead one, when I was a child, slain by the warriors of my village. But I have never seen a living one."

"I am not surprised," said Ridmark. "They range across the southern parts of the Wilderland. The dark elves and the urdmordar exterminated those in the north." He stepped around a root. "The lupivirii think differently than humans and orcs and dwarves and halflings."

"How so?" said Kharlacht.

"Humans and the other kindreds have rational minds and animal passions," said Ridmark. "A man can give into his savage side and kill, or he can follow his rational mind and refrain. The beastmen have rational minds, but their animal passions are far stronger. They live like beasts, and disdain the use of tools and weapons as crutches for the weak. If we must fight, it will be like fighting a pack of hungry wolves."

"Show no fear," said Kharlacht, "and strike down the biggest male."

"Precisely," said Ridmark.

They kept walking, and a mile later came to the ford.

By the time the River Moradel flowed past the High King's stronghold of Tarlion and entered the sea, it was almost a mile wide. Here it was sixty yards across, and no more than twenty feet deep. A ragged ford cut across the river to the western bank, a few damp white stones jutting from the water.

"An odd place for a ford," said Kharlacht.

"It isn't natural," said Ridmark. "In ancient days, dark elven strongholds stood to the west of here. The dark elves built a bridge to permit their slave soldiers to come and go more easily. The bridge fell into the river, and the ford built up around its wreckage."

Kharlacht frowned. "How do you know this?"

"One of the high elves told me," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht looked at Ridmark's gray elven cloak and grunted. "Ah."

"Over the ford," said Ridmark. "Stay watchful."

He walked into the ford, Kharlacht following, the water splashing around his boots. The river's current was strong, and from time to time Ridmark drove his staff into the silt to catch his balance. Kharlacht hopped from stone to stone, boots scraping against the wet rock. Ridmark kept his eyes on the far bank. If anyone wanted to attack, now was an excellent time to do it.

But no one stirred on the western side.

Ridmark climbed onto the western bank, Kharlacht a few steps behind.

"Where now?" said Kharlacht.

"There's a human village a half-day from here," said Ridmark. "A place called Aranaeus. We'll head there and purchase supplies, and continue to Urd Morlemoch."

"A human village? Are we not outside the boundaries of the High King's realm?" said Kharlacht.

"We are," said Ridmark, "but there are settlements of humans scattered outside the boundaries of Andomhaim, men who wished to live away from the High King's authority for whatever reason and struck out on their own. A bold way to live, but dangerous. They are outside of the High King's protection, away from the Swordbearers and the Magistri, and have no way to defend themselves from creatures of dark magic."

"Are the men of Aranaeus dangerous?" said Kharlacht. "Worshippers of the urdmordar or the orcish blood gods?" He scowled, his tusks making his green face look fierce and bestial.

"Perhaps," said Ridmark. "I passed through Aranaeus nine years ago, when I first traveled to Urd Morlemoch. The villagers were baptized sons of the church, though fearful and clannish. As one might expect of a lone village surrounded by the ruins of the dark elves. If they are hostile, we shall continue on...but some supplies would be welcome."

"And a warm meal and a bed," said Kharlacht.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "If we make haste, we can reach Aranaeus by nightfall. Let us..."

The trees rustled, and Ridmark stepped back. Kharlacht growled and drew his greatsword, the blue dark elven steel flashing in the sunlight. Ridmark swept his eyes back and forth over the trunks, watching for any signs of movement.

And then a naked man stepped out of the shadows of the trees and into the sunlight.

Or, at least, a creature that was not quite a man.

He stood eight feet tall, his lean body knotted with sinewy muscle and old scars. Stripes of black fur marked his arms and legs and torso, stark against his pale skin, and his hands and fingers ended with heavy black claws. His furred ears rose in points, and a steady stream of clear mucus came from his nose, a mouthful of yellow fangs waiting behind his thin lips. Brilliant golden eyes, like the eyes of a wolf, stared at Ridmark and Kharlacht.

The creature was a beastman. Ridmark's ancestors had called them the lupivirii, the wolfmen.

And the lupivir was hunting them.

Ridmark had seen the tactic before. One beastman would challenge the prey, holding its attention, while the rest of the pack circled around to attack from the sides. The beastmen must have been watching from the far bank, and waited until Ridmark and Kharlacht had crossed the river.

"Keep watch," said Ridmark in Latin, grateful that Kharlacht knew the language. "Others will circle around behind us."

Kharlacht gave a sharp nod.

Ridmark watched the beastman, staff ready in his right hand. He expected the creature to issue some sort of challenge. Or the creature would snarl to keep his attention, or draw upon its innate magic and change shape to full beast form.

"Where are the children?" said the lupivir, speaking in the orcish tongue.

Ridmark blinked. He hadn't expected that.

"The children?" said Ridmark, switching to orcish.

"The children!" said the beastman, inching closer. "We saw you take them. We know the scent of human and orc, and we smelled you as you took our young. Where have you taken them?"

"I know nothing of what you speak," said Ridmark. He did not dare take his eyes from the beastman's, since the lupivir would interpret that as a sign of weakness. Yet he was certain other wolfmen circled through the trees, preparing to strike.

"Lies!" roared the lupivir. "I know how humans and orcs and halflings think. You fashion tools because you are weak, and you fashion cunning words because you lie! You will tell me where you have taken our young!"

"I know nothing of this," said Ridmark. "On the name of the Dominus Christus and all his saints, I swear that I have only today returned to this land."

"Returned?" said the beastman. "Then you have traveled this land before, yes? You stole our young!"

"I did not," said Ridmark. He started to shake his head, and realized the beastman would not understand the gesture. "I have not traveled in this land for nine winters."

The golden eyes widened. Likely the beastman was no more than fourteen or fifteen years old. The lupivirii rarely lived beyond thirty. They died of disease, of hunger when prey grew scarce, of cold in the heart of winter, or beneath the claws of their kin in the endless struggle for dominance within their hunting packs. And the dark elves and the orcs and dwarves exterminated them without mercy as vermin, or enslaved them to use as war beasts.

The beastmen looked down upon those who used tools, but those who used tools had the advantage.

"How many winters have you seen?" said the beastman. "Both of you!"

"Twenty-eight," said Ridmark.

"Twenty-four," said Kharlacht.

"Then you are elders," said the lupivir, "and you are wicked, for humans and orcs grow more wicked as they age. The great memory of the True People knows this."

"Perhaps I am wicked," said Ridmark. God knew he deserved death for what he had done, but he would prefer not to meet it beneath the claws of a confused lupivir. "But I know nothing of what you speak. I have traveled in this land before, aye, but that was many winters ago. I have only now returned, and you know I speak the truth, because you saw me cross the river. My friend and I travel to a place far from here, and if you let us go we will depart in peace."

And they would likely never return.

"You lie," hissed the beastman. "You fashion cunning lies from words. Tell me what you did with our young, or you shall perish!"

The beastmen changed.

He grew broader, extra muscle covering his limbs, and black fur sheathed his pale skin. His claws grew longer and sharper, and the lupivir's face distorted, fangs sprouting from his lips, and became a terrifying blend of human features and a wolf's muzzle. His limbs stretched and changed, allowing the lupivir to travel on either two legs or four. The beastman stretched, snapped his jaws, and snarled.

"The children!" he growled, his voice far deeper. "You will tell me where the children are, or I shall..."

Ridmark whirled, his staff a blur, and the heavy weapon connected with the jaw of a beastman erupting from the trees.

He had expected the attack. The towering lupivir's transformation had been intended to distract attention from the others circling around from the side.

The lupivir Ridmark had struck tumbled to the ground with a snap of bone, dead leaves rattling around him. The creature rolled to his hands and knees with smooth, deadly grace, just in time to catch Ridmark's heavy staff on the forehead. The beastman's head snapped back with the crack of breaking bone, and the creature slumped motionless to the earth.

Kharlacht dueled another lupivir, blood flashing crimson on the blue steel of his sword. The leader of the lupivir pack charged at Ridmark, and he could spare no more thought for Kharlacht. The creature snarled, reaching for Ridmark with clawed hands and yawning jaws. There was no subtlety to his attack. The beastman intended to drive him to the ground and tear out his throat.

Ridmark decided not to oblige.

He dodged the charge, his staff blurring in a two-handed swing. He aimed for the beastman's head, but caught him at the joint of the right arm. Bone shattered, the vibration shooting up the staff, and the lupivir stumbled with a yelp of pain. He caught his balance and raked at Ridmark with claws sharp enough to part skin and muscle in a single swipe. Ridmark dodged the blow and thrust his staff. The steel-capped end slammed into the lupivir's jaw, and the creature stumbled. The beastmen reared up, ready to bring his clawed fingers down on Ridmark.

Ridmark jabbed his staff into the beastman's gut. The lupivir doubled over with a strangled grunt of pain, and Ridmark landed a blow on his head. As he did, he heard a gurgling scream, saw Kharlacht rip his blade free from the second beastman's chest.

Kharlacht raised his greatsword. The remaining lupivir scrambled to his feet and looked at Ridmark, at Kharlacht, and then back at Ridmark.

The beastman turned and fled into the trees, vanishing into shadows.

Kharlacht growled and started forward, his eyes glimmering red with the battle rage of his orcish blood.

"Hold," said Ridmark, lowering his staff. "Chasing a wounded lupivir into the forest is unwise."

Kharlacht stopped and made a brief nod.

"Did they wound you?" said Ridmark, looking the dead lupivirii. Their bodies shrank as they reverted to their human-like form, the magic leaving their corpses in death.

"No," said Kharlacht. "Why? If they wound me, will I turn into one?"

"What?" said Ridmark. "No. That's a legend. But their claws are filthy, and if you don't clean any cuts at once, they will fester and kill you."

"I am unharmed," said Kharlacht. He cleaned the blood from his blade.

"As am I," said Ridmark, examining at the dead beastmen.

"What are you looking for?" said Kharlacht.

"Signs of disease," said Ridmark. Both the dead lupivirii looked a bit gaunt, but otherwise healthy, save for the crushed skull and the sword wound.

"You think they were rabid, then?" said Kharlacht. "This behavior was not normal?"

"No," said Ridmark, "it's not. I would like to know why. How does a bear react if you take her cubs? Or an orcish woman if you take her children?"

"Violently," said Kharlacht.

Ridmark nodded. "I think that is what happened here."

Kharlacht returned his greatsword to its sheath. "But who would take the children of the beastmen?" He shook his head. "I suspect they would be just as truculent as the adults."

"I don't know," said Ridmark. "It is a mystery. The last time I encountered a mystery was when Brother Caius disappeared from Dun Licinia. A week later Qazarl came out of the hills and Dun Licinia was under siege."

"If the Frostborn are truly returning," said Kharlacht, "then their threat is far greater. Perhaps we should continue on to Urd Morlemoch."

"Perhaps," said Ridmark. The blue fire had been the omen the Warden had warned him against. Ridmark needed more information, and Urd Morlemoch was the only place he could find it.

Yet the question of why the beastmen thought orcs and humans had taken their children gnawed at him.

And perhaps, a small voice murmured inside him, perhaps if he looked into the matter, it would lead him to the death he had earned for his mistakes at Castra Marcaine five years past.

"We'll go to Aranaeus for now," said Ridmark at last. "Perhaps this was merely a coincidence, or perhaps the beastmen were mistaken or deranged from some disease. If so, we'll continue to Urd Morlemoch. But if not, I may wish to look into it."

To his surprise, Kharlacht nodded in approval. "As the Gray Knight would."

Ridmark said nothing. He had once been a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade. After the battle at Dun Linicia five years past, he had been stripped of his soulblade Heartwarden and marked with a coward's brand on the left side of his face. After that he had gone in pursuit of the mystery of the Frostborn, but his consequent deeds had given rise to the legend of the Gray Knight. Even Sir Joram and the other men at Dun Licinia had believed it.

Folly.

After what had happened at Castra Marcaine, Ridmark did not deserve to live, let alone honor and renown. But he would not commit the final sin and take his own life. The Frostborn were returning, and neither the Magistri nor the Swordbearers nor the nobles of Andomhaim saw the threat. Ridmark would find proof so the realm of Andomhaim could prepare itself.

Or he would die trying.

"As you like," said Ridmark. He peered into the trees. "There was a trail leading to Aranaeus from here. We..."

A howl rang out in the woods, followed by three more.

"They have found us!" said Kharlacht, yanking his sword from its sheath.

Ridmark listened for a moment.

"No," he said, "they haven't."

Kharlacht scowled. "Can you not hear them?"

"I can," said Ridmark, "but they're chasing someone. They're getting farther away."

In the distance he heard the sounds of pursuit, the snarls of the beastmen.

"Perhaps answers to the riddle are at hand," said Kharlacht.

"Indeed," said Ridmark. "Follow me."

He ran into the trees, Kharlacht following.

***

## Chapter 2 - Scales and Bone

In her sleep, Calliande dreamed.

At least, she thought her name was Calliande. She had awakened, alone and helpless, in a lightless vault below the ruined Tower of Vigilance. The only thing she had been certain of was that her name was Calliande, but she had no way to know if that was true or not.

She had awakened the moment the blue fire filled the sky, and she had been sleeping in that stone vault for two centuries.

Possibly longer.

Skills had resurfaced as she fled with Ridmark and Brother Caius from Qazarl's minions. She spoke both Latin and orcish with equal felicity, and knew many details about the first eight hundred years of Andomhaim's thousand years of history. She could treat wounds with great skill, an ability that had proven useful when Qazarl's warriors attacked Dun Licinia.

And she knew the magic of the Well, the spells of a Magistrius, a power that surfaced when the corrupted Magistrius Alamur tried to take her captive.

But no memories returned with her skills.

She knew things, but could not remember how she had learned them, or why.

And in the swirling mist of her dreams, she sometimes saw the Watcher.

The spirit gazed at her, his heavy eyes sad beneath gray eyebrows. He wore the white robe of the Magistri, tied about the waist with a black sash. The spirit had left a message for her in the vault below the Tower of Vigilance, and had spoken in her dreams after her magic returned.

"Watcher," said Calliande.

"You intend to go to Urd Morlemoch," said the Watcher.

"I do," said Calliande. "Or, rather, I intend to follow Ridmark Arban there. The truth of my memory, I think, is tied to the return of the Frostborn. The Warden of Urd Morlemoch gave Ridmark warning of their return. My best hope of regaining my memory is..."

"No!" For the first time the Watcher looked alarmed. "No. You must not go to Urd Morlemoch, Calliande. You must seek out Dragonfall."

"Then tell me," said Calliande, "where it is."

"I cannot," said the Watcher.

Calliande felt herself scowling in frustration. "Why not?"

"Because you have forbidden it of me," said the Watcher.

"Then I shall seek out the answers myself," said Calliande.

"If you look in Urd Morlemoch for your answers, you will find more than you wanted," said the Watcher. "Only destruction waits within those walls."

Her scowl deepened. "Then tell me who I am. Tell me why I did this to myself. Tell what Dragonfall is. For God's sake, just tell me where it is!"

"I cannot!" said the Watcher, and she saw her frustration mirrored in his expression. "You forbade it."

"Then I will follow Ridmark to Urd Morlemoch," said Calliande.

The Watcher shook his head. "Folly. You follow him not because the dark elven ruin holds your answers. You follow him in admiration..."

"Why not?" said Calliande. "He is a valiant man."

"He is a branded outcast from the Order of the Soulblade," said the Watcher.

"He saved Dun Licinia from Qazarl and the Mhalekites," said Calliande.

"And his pride brought about the death of his wife," said the Watcher. "To follow him is folly, I say. Once again your heart runs before your head..."

"Do not question me!" said Calliande. "Ridmark saved my life from Qazarl and his minions. He saved the men and women of Dun Licinia. And where was the Order of the Vigilant? If you were supposed to keep watch over me while I slept, you failed! If Ridmark had not come along, Vlazar would have slain me and trapped my power within Shadowbearer's damned soulstone."

The Watcher bowed his head with a sigh, and Calliande felt a stab of guilt.

"You are right, mistress," said the Watcher. "We were tasked to guard you as you slept, to remain vigilant against the return of the Frostborn, and we failed. Forgive me."

"No," said Calliande. "There is nothing to forgive. You struggled valiantly. You left a warning for me."

"Thank you. Perhaps you are right to trust Ridmark Arban," said the Watcher. "But going to Urd Morlemoch is madness. If you do...if you enter those ruins, the consequences will be terrible. You alone, Calliande, you alone stand between the return of the Frostborn and our world. If you perish, there will be no one left to stop them."

"Then I shall have to be careful, will I not?" said Calliande. "Tell me about the dangers of Urd Morlemoch. Or have I forbidden you to speak of that as well?"

"You have not," said the Watcher. "An undead dark eleven wizard of great power called the Warden rules Urd Morlemoch. For millennia he has thrown back every host that ever assailed the walls of Urd Morlemoch, whether high elven, dark elven, dwarven, orcish, or dvargirish. Not even the urdmordar could force him to submit. And if you go to his stronghold, you will put yourself in the grasp of this creature."

"Ridmark bested him once before," said Calliande.

"When I was still a living man," said the Watcher, "the freeholders had a proverb. Lightning never strikes the same tree twice. Perhaps they still speak it."

"I will be careful," said Calliande. "But if I am to find the truth, if I am to locate Dragonfall and my staff, then I must do so myself. That means I must take risks."

"I know," said the Watcher with a sad smile. "Go with God, Calliande. I will aid you, if I can, though I have but little power. Be wary. There will be perils you cannot see. And beware of Shadowbearer. He will never stop hunting you, for you alone can stop him."

The dream dissolved into gray mist.

###

Calliande awoke to the sound of a deep, rich voice singing the twenty-third Psalm.

For a moment she lay motionless, blinking the tears of frustration from her eyes. Sometimes she came so close to recovering her memory, like glimpsing a distant landscape through swirling fog. She felt that if she pushed a little harder, took another step, she could break through and learn the truth.

But the mists always closed around her memories.

Calliande bit her lip, her hands curled into fists.

Still, at least she was no longer helpless. The powers of a Magistria were hers to command. If she encountered another foe like Vlazar or Talvinius or Alamur, she could defeat them.

She would never again be as helpless as she had been when the orcs had dragged her naked to that dark elven altar.

Her hand strayed to the empty soulstone, secured its pouch alongside her blanket.

Then she stood, stretched, and looked around their camp.

A few wisps of smoke still rose from their fire. The four mules Sir Joram Agramore had given her stood a few yards away, watching her with sullen indifference. Rays of dawn sunlight leaked through the trees, their branches green with new leaves.

Brother Caius of the order of mendicants stood facing the sunrise, clad in his brown robes and singing the twenty-third Psalm in Latin.

He was of the dwarven kindred, with gray, stone-colored skin and blue eyes like disks of polished crystal. Most of the hair had receded from the top of his head, and white streaks marked his black beard. He looked like a statue hewn from granite, albeit a statue that happened to be wearing a friar's robe and singing the twenty-third Psalm.

As he did every morning. Calliande was not prone to oversleeping, but even if she had been, she could have relied upon Brother Caius's morning devotions to wake her.

"Ah," said Caius, once he had finished. "Magistria Calliande. I hope you slept well?"

"I did," said Calliande, squatting by the fire. She stirred the coals to life and retrieved some bread and sausage from the mules. She wore only trousers and a loose shirt, her feet barefoot against the grass, but found that the morning chill did not trouble her.

It was better than waking up alone in the cold darkness below a dead castle.

"We should reach the River Moradel today, I think," said Caius as Calliande prepared breakfast. "I fear the countryside will grow ever wilder once we reach the western side of the river."

Calliande nodded. "Are not the Three Kingdoms of your kindred west of here?"

"Aye," said Caius, "but a long distance away. And in the Deeps. Pagan orc tribes and petty dark elven lords and worse things rule the surface of the Wilderland. I fear we shall soon encounter them."

"We are not far from Ridmark," said Calliande. "I'm sure of it."

She carried two objects with her constantly. One was Shadowbearer's empty soulstone. The other was the dagger of a common man-at-arms of the Northerland. Ridmark had given her the dagger before Qazarl's final assault upon Dun Licinia, and she had used it to save her life from Alamur. That had given the dagger a link to Ridmark, a way she could track him using magic.

With the dagger, she could follow him to the ends of the earth.

"Another day," she said. "Maybe today. Then we will catch up to him."

Caius nodded, and she passed him a biscuit and some sausage. "And have you given any thought as to what you will say when we find him?"

Calliande shrugged. "I'll greet him, to start. Tell him that we have come to help him."

"He may not," said Caius, "want our help."

Calliande said nothing.

Ridmark had promised to help find the secret of her memory, and she in turn had promised to help him discover the truth of the return of the Frostborn. Yet he had left Dun Licinia without her. She guessed at his thoughts easily enough. Calliande was somehow connected to the Frostborn, and by finding the truth of the Frostborn, he could learn the truth about Calliande without putting her at risk. But she was a Magistria, with magic at her command, and to go without her seemed like a mad risk.

Then she had heard the story of his wife, slain at Mhalek's hands. Ridmark blamed himself for her death, hated himself, and so courted death without fear.

"When we find him," said Calliande, "we shall tell him that he needs our help. He has a better chance of entering Urd Morlemoch and finding the answers he seeks with our aid than without it."

"True," said Caius, "and I think you have a better chance of persuading him of that than I do."

"Why?" said Calliande.

Caius laughed. "Because I am neither young nor lovely." He thought that over for a moment. "Nor human, for that matter."

"I could be married," said Calliande. "I could have children." But if she had, her husband and her children would have been dead for a long, long time.

"Indeed," said Caius. "Well, if you are correct, and we catch up to him today, you can decide what to say."

Calliande nodded. They finished breakfast, broke camp, and headed west.

###

A few hours later they came to the River Moradel.

The river was only sixty or seventy yards wide here, but Calliande knew that by the time it reached Tarlion and the great southern sea, it was nearly a mile wide. A wave of frustrated anger rolled through her. She knew countless things about the realm of Andomhaim, but she had no idea how she knew these things.

Caius waited at her side in silence, holding the mule train. Somehow the dwarven friar knew when the angry frustration came upon her, and he never tried to soothe her with empty words.

She was grateful for his wisdom.

"Is Ridmark close?" he said at last.

"I don't know," said Calliande, rebuking herself. If the Frostborn were truly returning, there was too much at stake to waste time feeling sorry for herself. And even if the Frostborn were extinct, if Ridmark only chased a phantom of his grief, standing in the Wilderland and brooding was an invitation to a quick death.

She put a hand on her dagger's hilt, closed her eyes, and summoned magic.

And the power of the Well came at her call.

Four centuries ago, when the urdmordar and their armies of orcish and dark elven slaves laid siege to Tarlion, the high elven archmage Ardrhythain had come to the High King's aid. He had unlocked the ancient Well at Tarlion's heart, summoning its power, and signed the Pact of the Two Orders with the High King, creating the Order of the Magistri and the Order of the Soulblade. Ever since then, the Knights of the Soulblade had wielded their enchanted swords in battle, and the Magistri had called upon the magic of the Well.

As Calliande did now.

The power filled her, and she worked it into a spell, focusing it through the dagger and its link to Ridmark, the link created when the blade had saved her life.

Her eyes shot open.

"He's just across the river," she said. "Maybe...two or three miles to the west. We should catch up to him today, if we hasten."

Caius nodded. "The map Sir Joram gave us claims that the ford is a half-mile north of here, if I have read it correctly."

"If the map is even correct," said Calliande. "Dun Licinia was only an outpost five years ago. Save for Ridmark, I doubt anyone from the High King's realm has come this way and returned for decades."

"Well, let us find out," said Caius. He tugged at the reins. "Assuming that we can coax these truculent rogues across the river."

They headed north, and soon found the ford. Caius goaded the mules into the water, and Calliande helped him urge the beasts along. At last they got the mules onto the far bank, and Calliande climbed up, grateful for the good boots that Sir Joram had given her.

Caius drew his mace from his belt, the bronze-colored dwarven steel flashing in the sunlight.

"What is it?" said Calliande, and then she saw the corpses.

At first she thought two dead men lay naked upon the ground. Then she saw the clawed fingers and toes, the fanged mouths, the golden eyes.

"Beastmen," said Caius, mace in hand.

"Lupivirii," said Calliande.

"I think Ridmark killed that one," said Caius, pointing at the dead lupivir on the left. "His skull was crushed."

"The other one," said Calliande. The sight of the gore unsettled her, and she forced herself to remain calm. "He took a sword through the chest, I'm sure of it." That, at least, was not a memory from her past life. God knew she had seen enough sword wounds at Dun Licinia. "Ridmark wouldn't use a sword."

He had been stripped of his soulblade after the Order had expelled him, and Calliande knew a former Swordbearer would not pick up a sword. The pain would be too much. Most Swordbearers severed from their soulblades despaired and killed themselves after a few months.

Ridmark had not.

"Perhaps he had aid," said Caius. "Or he came to the aid of another traveler."

"Maybe," said Calliande. She looked at the ground, wishing she had Ridmark's skill at reading tracks. Instead she gripped her dagger and cast the tracking spell again. "But he's still alive, and not far ahead."

"Then we should hasten," said Caius. "He may have need of help."

"Aye," said Calliande, "but why would the lupivirii attack him? Or anyone?"

"Packs of beastmen range along the foothills of the mountains of Kothluusk," said Caius. "They are hardly peaceful, and are not above feeding upon orcs and dwarves if they are hungry."

"I know," said Calliande, "but only if they are starving, or feel threatened. Otherwise they stay away from the other kindreds." She shook her head. "They call themselves the True People, and think the use of tools and weapons is wicked and corrupt."

"You sound as if you admire them," said Caius.

"I do not," said Calliande. "I pity them. I saw many a man who would have died at Dun Licinia, if I had not treated his wounds with needle and thread and boiling wine, all things made with tools. Did not God give us minds and hands? Yet the lupivirii have both minds and hands, but use them in service of their animal nature." She frowned. "I must have dealt with them in my former life, if I know so much about them." She shook her head. "I am rambling. I can deal with them again, if they threaten Ridmark."

Caius nodded. "If he is fighting the beastmen, he should easy to find. Lead on."

Calliande stepped forward, touched her dagger, and cast the spell again. "Less than a mile ahead. He's not moving. I think..."

Her voice trailed off.

She felt something else, something cold and icy, something that crawled with rotting corruption and freezing fire.

Dark magic.

"Shadowbearer," hissed Calliande, turning.

"What?" said Caius, alarmed. "Here?"

"Yes," said Calliande, her eyes sweeping the eastern bank of the Moradel. She had stood before Shadowbearer, naked and defenseless, soon after awakening beneath the Tower of Vigilance. He had known her at once, remembered her from her past life. The Watcher had warned her against him. Calliande did not know who he was, or what he wanted.

Only that he intended to harm both her and all the world.

And that he was tremendously powerful. Even now, with her reawakened magic, she doubted she could face him and live.

He had come for her, but she would not surrender without a fight.

Calliande turned, calling her magic, watching for any sign of a foe.

Movement on the eastern bank caught her attention.

A kobold stepped out of the shadows of the trees and into the sunlight. The creature was the size of a large human child, with gray scales, a long, slender tail, and a narrow skull lined with fangs. A ridged crest of crimson scales surrounded its neck, and Calliande felt the weight of the creature's gaze. A tattoo of a blue human hand marked the scales of its chest.

There was something wrong with the kobold.

"A Blue Hand kobold," said Caius. "In the daylight. Their fear of Shadowbearer must be great, if he can drive them into the sunlight..."

"Caius," said Calliande. "That kobold is dead."

The kobold was not breathing. Its tail remained motionless, and its head rotated to face her in an eerie manner, like a piece of meat dangling from a string. Like lizards and snakes, kobolds never blinked, but Calliande saw a pale blue glow in the creature's eyes.

The light of the dark magic that animated the corpse.

More and more dead kobolds came out of the trees, until dozens of the creatures stood on the far bank, staring at Calliande. She felt the gathered dark magic waiting in the undead flesh, felt the spells binding the creatures.

"There are hundreds of them," said Calliande.

"May God have mercy and deliver us from such dark magic," said Caius. "Shadowbearer slaughtered them all, didn't he? He killed all the kobolds left in the village, raised them as undead, and loosed them upon us."

Calliande nodded. "He wants me. And he wants that empty soulstone." She flexed her fingers, summoning power. "We can't outrun them, and we can't hide from them. They will not tire, and they will not stop hunting me."

"Then we fight," said Caius.

And as if a signal had been given, the mass of kobolds surged forward. They raced into the ford, heedless of the water. Their unblinking dead eyes never turned from Calliande as they ignored the current and the slippery footing.

Calliande summoned her power, raised her hands, and cast a spell.

Magic surged through her, and blasts of white flame burst from her palms and slammed into the charging kobolds. A half-dozen of the creatures fell motionless into the water, the dark magic binding them burned away. Calliande struck again and again, yet still the undead ran at her.

There were so many of them.

And with a surge of alarm Calliande realized she did not have the strength to stop them all.

The first kobolds staggered up the bank, claws reaching for her, and Caius jumped into the fray, shouting for God to lend his arm strength. His heavy dwarven mace struck one, two, three kobolds in rapid succession, smashing bone and knocking fangs from their jaws. The undead creatures staggered, but not did not stop. Caius could not kill them.

Shadowbearer had already slain them.

Calliande flung another blast of white flame, then turned long enough to cast a spell at Caius. White fire shot from her hand and engulfed the head of his mace, sheathing the weapon in crackling flame. Caius paused just long enough to gape at the sight, and then went on the attack. He struck the kobolds again and again, and this time when he landed blows the fire from his mace sank into the undead flesh, the flame shattering the spells upon the kobolds.

Their corpses fell to the ground, rolling down the bank to splash into the Moradel.

Yet even with Caius's aid, Calliande felt her strength wavering.

The undead kobolds closed around them in a ring, charging forward despite the flames of Calliande's magic. Another group of kobolds circled past them and jumped upon the mules, and the poor beasts' terrified braying filled Calliande's ears. The kobolds tore three of the mules into bloody chunks, while a fourth raced away into the woods. A kobold jumped upon Caius, and Calliande divided her attention long enough to strike the creature with a burst of white fire. The kobold slumped to the ground, and Caius went on the attack.

But it was not enough. The Magistri could only draw so much magic at one time, and Calliande had nearly reached her limit, and the effort of holding the spell upon Caius's mace was draining her further.

The kobolds closed around them.

And it seemed that the Watcher hadn't needed to worry about Calliande going to Urd Morlemoch after all.

***

## Chapter 3 - Alpha

Ridmark ran through the trees, Kharlacht keeping pace behind him.

A half-overgrown trail wound its way through the trees. If Ridmark's memory served, it led to the cultivated fields of Aranaeus, though few of the villagers ever ventured far from the safety of their walls. He heard the howls of the beastmen, and caught glimpses of dark shapes racing through the dense trees.

Quite a few dark shapes.

They were hunting something, but not Ridmark or Kharlacht. He didn't think the lupivirii at the riverbank had expected to find him. Most likely they had been watching for someone approaching from the west, not the east. That explained why they had failed to notice him until he had crossed the ford.

But who were the beastmen hunting?

The trail led into a wide clearing. Ridmark paused for a moment to get his bearings, and then a figure sprinted from the trees.

It was a human boy of about fifteen years, old enough to serve as a knight's squire or a craftsman's apprentice. He was tall and wiry, with a ragged shock of curly brown hair and brown eyes wide with fear. He staggered into the clearing, breathing hard, and stopped when he saw Ridmark and Kharlacht.

"Run!" said the boy in Latin. "The wolfmen, they..."

A half-dozen beastmen crashed into the clearing. The boy backed towards Ridmark and Kharlacht, a heavy club in his right hand. Ridmark saw blood and clumps of fur stuck to the length of wood. Scratches marred the boy's forearms, and blood stained his tunic and trousers.

"Run!" said the boy. "Whoever you are, run! I'll hold them off! Go..."

A dozen more beastmen came into the clearing, snarling. They moved into a circle, showing their fangs and growling, but did not move closer. They had expected to find the boy, but they had not anticipated Ridmark or Kharlacht. That would make them hesitate for a few moments while they considered the new threat.

And then they would kill Ridmark, Kharlacht, and the boy.

"What is your name?" said Ridmark, raising his staff.

"Gavin," said the boy. He took a deep breath. "I'll charge them, and you can..."

"Gavin," said Ridmark, "if you want to live, do exactly as I say." He scanned the waiting lupivirii. There were at least twenty, with more entering the clearing. "Understand?"

"But..." said Gavin.

"You will do," said Ridmark in the voice he had used when he had taken command of the army of Andomhaim at Dun Licinia, "exactly as I command." He spotted the biggest of the wolfmen, and decided to take a gamble. "Now wait here until I return."

Before either Kharlacht or Gavin could stop him, Ridmark strode towards the biggest lupivir. The other beastmen snarled and snapped, but Ridmark ignored them. He stopped a dozen paces from the largest beastman and stared at the creature, meeting the golden eyes with his own.

The lupivir reared upon his legs, standing nearly nine feet tall, a solid tower of muscle and fur.

"You think," said Ridmark in orcish, "to challenge me?"

The beastman's golden eyes narrowed. He did not throw himself at Ridmark. That meant he was at least in partial control of his instincts, was more intelligent than the others. The alphas of the beastmen packs often were smarter than their fellows.

"You are the challenger, human," growled the towering lupivir.

"I am Ridmark, son of Leogrance, son of Rience, from Taliand in the south," said Ridmark.

"And I," hissed the beastman, "am Rakhaag, son of Balhaag, son of Talhaag, and you stand upon our range." His nostrils flared. "And I smell the blood of my kin upon you."

"Yes," said Ridmark. "Two of your kin attacked me when I crossed the river, and I killed them."

"Then they should have proven stronger," said Rakhaag. "You slew them with a sword, I assume? The craven tool of weaklings."

"No," said Ridmark, lifting his staff. "With this."

Rakhaag regarded it for a moment. "A club. Still a craven's weapon...but less of a craven."

"You call me craven?" said Ridmark. "I name you craven, Rakhaag son of Balhaag son of Talhaag."

An ominous growl went up from the beastmen, but Rakhaag only glared.

"And why do you bring such a challenge?" said Rakhaag.

"Because you prey upon humans," said Ridmark. "I know the True People. You are strong and fast and contemptuous of injury and death. You can outran a deer and bring it down, or face the fury and the tusks of an enraged boar. All this the True People can do, yet you have chosen to hunt humans, creatures too slow to outrun you and too weak to slay with their bare hands. Have you grown so weak, Rakhaag, so feeble that you must turn to such..."

Rakhaag roared, and Ridmark's hand tightened around his staff. But the lupivir mastered himself, and glared down at Ridmark.

"We have not hunted you," spat Rakhaag, "but you have hunted us. Humans and orcs have issued from their shelter, kidnapping our young and our females, and taken them into captivity."

Ridmark wanted to look at Gavin to see his reaction, but he dared not take his eyes from Rakhaag. The alpha would interpret that as a sign of weakness and attack.

"You have proof of this?" said Ridmark.

Rakhaag showed his fangs. "The True People do not lie. Humans and orcs and dwarves build tools of lies from cunning words, but the True People do not. I have smelled them with my own nose, followed the trails with my own feet. Humans and orcs have taken our females and our young and carried them into captivity."

"I know nothing of this," said Ridmark.

"You lie," growled Rakhaag. "Humans lie. Orcs lie. I think you carried off our children. You will tell us what you have done with them, or I shall kill you and feast upon your flesh."

"No," said Ridmark.

Rakhaag growled, his muscles tensing, and Ridmark hit him across the face with his staff.

It was not a hard blow, not hard enough to break bone, but it was enough to knock the hulking lupivir back a step.

The other beastmen growled, and Ridmark raised his staff.

"I challenge you!" he roared at the top of his lungs. "I, Ridmark son of Leogrance son of Rience, challenge Rakhaag son of Balhaag son of Talhaag! Before this pack, I name you craven, weak, and unfit, a hunter of humans because you are too weak to hunt proper prey! Let me pass, or I shall kill you where you stand!"

"Human craven!" said Rakhaag. "You think to challenge one of the True People? You steal our young and females, and then hide behind your cunning lies?"

"You fear to face my challenge?" said Ridmark. "You are as weak as I thought! Little wonder you prey upon humans! I shall..."

Rakhaag bellowed in pure rage. "Human worm! I accept your challenge!"

The lupivir surged forward, all claws and fangs and dark fur. Kharlacht and Gavin shouted warnings, while the other beastmen roared in support of their alpha.

Ridmark thrust his staff, ducking under the blur of Rakhaag's claws, and drove the end of the weapon into the lupivir's stomach. The shock of the impact almost ripped the staff from his hands. Yet Rakhaag came to a painful halt, his jaw falling open as the breath exploded from his lungs. Ridmark charged as Rakhaag wheezed, and brought his staff around in a two-handed swing. The length of heavy wood slammed into the back of Rakhaag's right knee, and the lupivir's leg folded. Rakhaag let out a croaking cry, and Ridmark's next swing landed in the small of the beastman's back.

Rakhaag's legs went out from under him, and the lupivir landed hard upon his back. Before the beastman could recover, Ridmark sprang upon him, slamming his staff against Rakhaag's throat and arms, the musky stench of the lupivir's fur filling his nostrils. His knees pinned the staff in place, pressing it against Rakhaag's neck and wrists. The lupivir gurgled as the staff sank into his neck. He bucked and heaved, trying to regain his feet. Yet Rakhaag had no leverage, and he began to wheeze, his tongue lashing at his fangs.

"Yield," said Ridmark.

Rakhaag tried to snarl.

"Yield," said Ridmark, "or I'll choke you to death."

He leaned a little harder on the staff.

"Kill me," rasped Rakhaag, "and the others will tear you apart."

"Aye," said Ridmark, "but you'll be dead, and then I'll be dead, and there will be no one left to find out who kidnapped your females and young."

Rakhaag snarled, though not as loudly. Perhaps he did not have the breath.

Ridmark leaned against the staff, and Rakhaag shuddered.

"Yield," said Ridmark, "or die, and never find your females and your young."

Rakhaag shuddered again. "Yield. I yield."

Ridmark stood, pulled his staff from Rakhaag's throat, and stepped back, the weapon ready. Rakhaag staggered to his feet, coughing and wheezing, one clawed hand massaging his neck.

"You are weak, Rakhaag!" said another lupivir, stalking toward the leader of the pack. The beastman glared at the larger male. "If you allow this human to dominate you, you are not fit to lead us, and I challenge..."

"Accepted," said Rakhaag, and his free hand moved in a blur. The younger male never even saw the blow coming. Rakhaag's talons tore out his throat, and the smaller male collapsed, his body shrinking back into its half-human, half-bestial form.

For a moment no one said anything.

"Withdraw," said Rakhaag to the rest of the pack, "and keep watch over the shelters of the humans." His furious yellow eyes turned back to Ridmark. "You and the orc may pass, and you may even take the whelp. But if you have lied to me, I shall rip out your throat and drink your blood."

"I did not take your children, nor do I know who did," said Ridmark. "I swear it on the name of the Dominus Christus and all his saints."

"I care nothing for your human god," said Rakhaag, "but we shall see if you speak the truth."

He turned, dropped to all fours, and loped from the clearing, vanishing into the trees. The other lupivirii followed suit. Some stopped long enough to snarl and growl at Ridmark, but none would meet his gaze, and they followed Rakhaag from the clearing.

Soon Ridmark was alone with Kharlacht and Gavin.

"I am surprised," said Kharlacht in Latin.

Ridmark turned. "Surprised at what?"

"That," said Kharlacht, "we are still alive."

Ridmark looked at the dead beastman. "As am I."

"What...what did you do?" said Gavin. The boy was trying to keep a brave face, but he was as white as a sheet, and a faint twitch kept going through his jaw. The hand that held his club, though, remained steady as a stone. "You talked to them, you fought the largest beastman...and then they all turned and ran." He shook his head. "How did you do that?"

"By cleverness," rumbled Kharlacht. "He is very clever."

"By understanding," said Ridmark. "The beastmen are like wolves. A wolf pack has a dominant male, an alpha. Challenge the alpha, and none of the other wolves will trouble you."

"They would have killed me," said Gavin. "Thank you." He took a deep breath. "Might I know your name, sir?"

"Ridmark Arban," said Ridmark. Gavin showed no sign of recognition. "This is Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, a baptized orc."

Gavin looked at the wooden cross resting against Kharlacht's dark elven armor. "I see." He drew himself up. "My name is Gavin, and my father is Cornelius, the praefectus of the village of Aranaeus."

"I've met him," said Ridmark. Nine years ago, when he had passed through Aranaeus on his way to Urd Morlemoch, Cornelius had been a tall, plump, unpleasant man with a tendency toward avarice. Gavin seemed to take more after his mother, fortunately for him. "I visited Aranaeus about nine years ago."

Gavin blinked. "Ridmark Arban...you're the Gray Knight! The peddlers who sometimes visit the village talk about you. They say to avenge your lady love you hunt creatures of the darkness, that you..."

Ridmark looked at him, and Gavin fell silent.

"The lupivirii," Ridmark said, "seem to believe that men and orcs from Aranaeus kidnapped their women and children. What do you think of that?"

"We did not!" said Gavin. "There have always been packs of beastmen near the dark elven ruins in the hills, but they kept to themselves, and we did not trouble them. But the blue fire came a fortnight ago, and then people started disappearing..."

"Wait," said Ridmark. "You mean people disappeared from the village?"

Gavin bobbed his head. "At first the shepherds and the woodcutters, people who spent most of their time outside the walls and away from the fields. My father said that perhaps pagan orcs took them," he shot a nervous glance at Kharlacht, "or maybe one of the creatures lurking in the ruins claimed them. But then more and more people disappeared, some from inside the village. My father said the beastmen did it."

Ridmark considered this. "You don't believe it."

"No, sir," said Gavin.

"Why not?" said Ridmark.

"Because the wolfmen are like you said, sir," said Gavin. "They're...Father Martel says they have souls, but that they think with their bellies and their fangs, not their heads. I could see them taking a man outside the walls, if they were starving. Like wild wolves do. But the village has strong walls and a stout gate, and my father posts men at watch every night. How could the beastmen get into the town and kidnap people? Especially without raising an alarm?"

"They couldn't," said Ridmark. "Not unless they had help. Or something else took those people."

"That is what I thought," said Gavin. "And the beastmen say that we took their women and their children. But why would we do that?"

Kharlacht shrugged. "Among the dark elven princes, they keep packs of enslaved wolfmen as war beasts. Some of the pagan orcish chieftains do, as well."

"Well, we of Aranaeus are neither dark elves nor orcish kings, sir," said Gavin. "We mind our own business, and if others do the same we repay them in kind. No one in Aranaeus took the beastmen. Why would we?"

"Indeed," said Ridmark. "How do you know that the beastmen think you took their children?"

"Their packs have been circling the walls for days," said Gavin. "A few of the elders in the village know orcish. The wolfmen shout out threats, we shout threats back, and nothing is accomplished."

"So the beastmen think you took their children," said Ridmark, "and the villagers think the beastmen kidnapped the missing people."

Gavin nodded. "That is the sum of it, sir."

"It seems more likely," said Ridmark, "that someone else took both the beastmen and the villagers undetected, and that you and the beastmen blame each other for it."

"I think that is it!" said Gavin, waving his club. Kharlacht took a prudent step back. "Something has taken both the beastmen and the villagers, and we are blaming each other for it! Perhaps something is even playing us for fools, turning us against each other."

"Such things," said Ridmark, "have been known to happen."

"What could have done it, sir?" said Gavin.

"Any number of creatures," said Ridmark. Pagan orcs, perhaps. Or kobolds raiding out of the Deeps. Or dvargir in need of slaves. Or, worse, a dark elven prince in need of slaves. Or one of the dark elves' creatures of black magic. Some were ferocious predators, like the urvaalgs and the ursaars, while others were cunning and powerful and delighted in suffering, like the urshanes. "Though that does bring a specific question to my mind."

"What is that, sir?" said Gavin.

"People have gone missing from your village," said Ridmark. "The beastmen think you kidnapped their kin. You think that something else took those people." He pointed at the boy. "So why the devil are you wandering around outside the walls by yourself?"

Kharlacht grunted. "That is a very good question."

Gavin opened his mouth, closed it, a flush of color going into his cheeks. "I went to get help."

"Help," said Ridmark.

"My father," said Gavin, "my father is...he will not see! He is convinced that the beastmen took our people, yet he will not lift a finger to try and save them. He says that if we wait inside our walls long enough, the beastmen will run out of food, go in search of easier prey, and leave us in peace."

"An odd position for him to take," said Kharlacht, "if he believes that the beastmen have entered your walls."

"That is what I told him!" said Gavin. "But he would not listen to me! Rosanna said I should heed his wisdom, that he was older and wiser, but..."

"Who is Rosanna?" said Ridmark.

"A girl," said Gavin. "I know her. She lives in the village."

"Ah," said Ridmark. "So why were you outside the walls? Seeking whatever is truly behind the disappearances?"

"No," said Gavin. "I am going to Castra Marcaine in the Northerland to ask the Dux Gareth Licinius for help."

Ridmark had not expected that. "You are?"

Gavin nodded. "Whatever we face, I fear it is a creature of dark magic, some horror wrought by the dark elves, or some nightmare out of the Deeps. We cannot face such a thing on our own. We need the help of the Magistri and the Swordbearers, so I went to ask them for help."

"Gareth Licinius is the Dux of the Northerland," said Ridmark. "This is the Wilderland. Aranaeus is not part of the High King's realm. You are on your own. The Dux has no obligation to help you."

"But we are all sons and daughters of the church," said Gavin. "Father Martel says so. And I hoped that I could persuade the Dux. The peddlers who come to the village say he is a good man."

"He is," said Ridmark. If the Dux heard of Aranaeus's plight, he would send Swordbearers and Magistri to help. Ridmark had undertaken such a quest once, a task that had taken him to Urd Morlemoch, and after he returned he had been betrothed to the Dux's daughter Aelia.

He felt the weight of the gold ring upon his left hand.

No, he did not want to think about that now.

"The Dux would send help," said Ridmark, "but those beastmen would have killed you."

"I know," said Gavin. "You saved my life, sir."

"But you couldn't have known that we would be here," said Ridmark. "For all you knew, there were only beastmen outside the walls. Yet you went outside anyway. Why?"

"Because," said Gavin. "Because, well...because it had to be done, sir. Someone had to do it. My father won't do it. He thinks if we close our eyes and cover our ears, eventually the beastmen will go away. Father Martel would do it, but he is too old and cannot run for long. But if no one did anything...it would get worse, sir. People would keep disappearing, and eventually it would come to a battle with the wolfmen. I had to get help." He shrugged. "And I thought I could get to the ford before the beastmen caught me."

"Evidently not," said Kharlacht.

"No," said Ridmark. "You knew you would likely die, but you went anyway?"

Gavin nodded.

"That," said Ridmark, "was very brave."

"Thank you, sir," said Gavin.

"Stupid," said Ridmark, "but brave."

Kharlacht grunted. "In the two weeks I have known you, you have riled up a nest of drakes to attack an orcish warband, walked alone into a kobold village, enraged a pack of a hundred spitfangs, and accepted Qazarl's challenge to single combat when you knew he would try to kill you. It hardly seems fair to lecture the boy."

Ridmark scowled. He had risked his life time and time again, and because of chance and skill, or perhaps the whims of God, he had come out alive. But he had been looking forward to death, knowing that he deserved it for what he had done. But Gavin was young, could marry and have children, could live a long and prosperous life.

Assuming the lupivirii did not kill him first.

But Ridmark could not find the words to say that, so he looked back at Gavin.

"That was brave," he said. "And perhaps fortune or God has favored you, for we are making for Aranaeus."

"You are?" said Gavin. "Did Dux Licinius send you to aid us?"

"No," said Ridmark. "We are just passing through. I had hoped to stop in Aranaeus to purchase supplies, but I will look into these disappearances."

"You are a knight, then?" said Gavin. "A Swordbearer? But...ah, your brand. I don't..."

"I am neither a knight nor a Swordbearer," said Ridmark, "but I will still see if I can discover who has taken your missing neighbors, if I can."

"Thank you, sir," said Gavin. "And you will have my aid."

"No," said Ridmark. "You will return to your father." He recognized the gleam in the boy's eye, the gleam of a young man eager to prove himself. It would get Gavin killed, and Ridmark wanted no more deaths on his account. "Let us set out for Aranaeus. We..."

He frowned, looking at the trees.

"What is it?" said Kharlacht, reaching for his sword, while Gavin hefted his club.

"Something's coming," said Ridmark, turning to the east.

"More beastmen?" said Gavin.

"No," said Ridmark. "Something with hooves."

A moment later a mule burst into the clearing, breathing hard. Laden packs dangled from its sides, and the beast looked wild with terror. Despite its exhaustion, the mule kept running, galloped past Ridmark, and vanished into the forest.

"Was that your mule, sir?" said Gavin.

"No," said Ridmark, frowning. "The poor beast was out of its mind with terror. It must have caught scent of the lupivirii."

Or of something else.

He saw a white flash to the east, and then another, the distant sounds of fighting coming to his ears.

***

## Chapter 4 - Spell and Staff

Calliande's next blast of white flame struck two of the undead kobolds, the creatures falling motionless to the ground. She stood in a ring of kobold corpses, Caius battling before her. His mace smashed skulls and shattered ribs, the white fire of Calliande's magic jumping from his weapon to destroy the dark magic binding the kobolds.

But more of the creatures came at them.

Calliande's arms trembled with exhaustion. Magic took as much of a physical toll on the body as strenuous exercise, and she had called a tremendous amount of power to fight the kobolds. White stars flickered and danced before her vision, and she felt the world spinning around her. Her strength would not last much longer.

And then the kobolds would have her.

Worse, the empty soulstone would fall into Shadowbearer's grasp once more.

She did not know what the renegade high elven wizard intended with the stone. Whatever it was, she knew, would cause a great deal of harm. Certainly more harm than the loss of her life.

"Caius!" rasped Calliande. "They're after me, not you. Take the soulstone from my belt and run."

"I will not abandon you, Magistria!" said Caius, sending another kobold to the ground. He was breathing hard, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead, his robes slashed from the claws of the kobolds.

"Take the soulstone and go!" said Calliande, throwing out another sheet of white flame. The power of the spell drove back a half-dozen kobolds, but the effort almost brought her to her knees. "Shadowbearer cannot have it! You must take it and run!"

Caius managed a harsh laugh. "I cannot get away from them."

"I will use the last of my power to clear a path," said Calliande. "Then you must take the soulstone! Find Ridmark and give it to him. Don't let anyone else have it, no even another one of the Magistri." She could not take the chance of the soulstone falling into the hands of someone like Alamur. "Take it and go!"

Caius crushed the jaw of another kobold. The creature fell in a limp heap at his feet. "I will not abandon you. When I stand before the judgment seat on the last day, how will I answer for it?"

"If the soulstone falls into the hands of Shadowbearer," said Calliande, "then how will you answer for that?"

She blasted down another kobold. A wave of gray washed over her vision, more severe than before.

Caius did not turn from the kobolds, kept striking creature after creature with his mace. Calliande supposed she could have no more asked him to leave her than she could have commanded him to stop breathing.

The kobolds closed around her.

###

"That sounds like fighting!" said Gavin. "Can you hear it?"

"Aye," said Ridmark. "From the ford, I think." But who was fighting at the ford? Ridmark did not think anyone, friend or foe, had followed him from Dun Licinia. Of course, Kharlacht had found him, and others could have done the same.

Or was someone fighting Rakhaag's beastmen?

"Perhaps," said Kharlacht, "we have discovered the kidnappers."

"Maybe," said Ridmark, lifting his staff. "Let's find out."

Gavin nodded. "I will come with you."

"You will not," said Ridmark, pointing his staff. "Go back to the village at once."

But a single look at Gavin's expression told Ridmark it was futile. He could have overpowered they boy and dragged him back to Aranaeus, but nothing short of that would work.

"You saved my life, sir," said Gavin, "and I am bound by honor to assist you."

"Honor," said Ridmark. He, too, had once cared a great deal about honor. "Very well. Follow me if you will, but you will do exactly as I command, is that understood?"

Gavin nodded, and Ridmark strode from the clearing without another word, the boy and the orcish warrior following him. He moved with as much haste as he could manage while maintaining stealth. Both Kharlacht and Gavin made more noise than he liked, but Gavin was reasonably quiet. Likely the boy had spent a great deal of time hunting in the woods.

Hopefully he knew how to use that club. If it came to fighting, Ridmark would prefer the boy stay out of it, but no man could predict the course of a battle.

The sounds of fighting drew nearer, accompanied by flashes of white light. That kind of light usually accompanied the spells of a powerful Magistrius. A deep, rolling voice boomed over the clatter, calling upon God and the archangels to lend his arm strength and vigor.

Ridmark had heard that voice before.

###

"God and St. Michael!" said Caius, his backhand flinging a kobold into the charging mass. "God and St. Gabriel! God and St. Raphael!" In his battle fury, Caius had abandoned Latin and reverted to the dwarven tongue, and Calliande found that she understood him.

Apparently she knew that language, too.

An undead kobold lunged at her. Calliande leveled her palm and summoned magic, unleashing a burst of white fire. The kobold fell atop the others. Calliande spun, white fire crackling around her fingers, ready to unleash another burst of magic.

And she kept spinning.

She stumbled and fell to one knee, her head swimming, her ears ringing.

Every Magistria had her limits, and she had just reached hers.

The kobolds lunged at her in a swarm of dead, scaly flesh. Caius struck down two, but the rest flowed past him, reaching for Calliande.

###

Ridmark burst from the trees and saw the fighting upon the riverbank.

"God preserve us," said Gavin. "What are those things?"

"Kobolds," said Ridmark, his hands tightening around his staff.

"In daylight?" said Kharlacht, baffled. "They never come out during the day."

"They do," said Ridmark, "if they're dead."

Because the kobolds were dead.

He had fought kobolds before, and they screeched and hissed in battle, hoping to distract their opponents. These kobolds fought in silence, surging towards their targets. And kobolds hated to fight hand to hand, preferred to attack from a distance with ambushes and poisoned arrows.

And Ridmark saw the faint blue glow in the undead kobolds' eyes, the glow of dark magic.

"They're dead," said Gavin. "All of them."

"Aye," said Ridmark, dropping his staff. A heavy orcish war axe hung from his belt, its iron blade angled to keep from cutting into his leg. "You can turn back, if you want."

Gavin gave a sharp shake of his head, his eyes wide.

"Then follow us," said Ridmark, drawing the axe. "The only way to destroy those things is either through magic or by chopping off their heads. We don't have any magic, and you have a club. Aim for their legs, try to cripple them, and Kharlacht and I will finish them off. Understand?"

Gavin nodded again, and the raging mass of undead kobolds parted for just a moment.

Ridmark's eyes widened.

The undead fought atop a ring of kobold corpses. Brother Caius stood in their midst, dwarven mace in hand, its flanged head shining with white fire. He fought with skill and vigor, shouting in the dwarven tongue as he crushed skull after skull. Yet the kobolds were about to overwhelm him.

No. They were running past him.

A woman rested on one knee behind Caius. She looked a few years younger than Ridmark, with long blond hair and blue eyes. Her face was tight with exhaustion, her arms trembling as she tried to raise them.

Calliande.

The undead kobolds were about to tear her apart.

There was no time to wonder why Calliande and Caius were here, or who had created the undead kobolds.

Ridmark moved.

###

Calliande shouted and drew on the last of her strength.

White fire burst from her in a ring and scythed into the front ranks of the kobolds. A dozen of the creatures fell, joining the others upon the earth. Between Caius's mace and her magic, they must have destroyed at least half of the vile creatures, maybe more.

But she did not have strength enough to destroy the rest.

The kobolds closed around her, ignoring Caius, and Calliande wondered if they would leave him alone after they killed her...

A kobold reached for her with black claws.

Then a gray blur shot past her, and the kobold's head jumped off its head and rolled into the river with a splash. The body staggered forward another step and collapsed before Calliande, the dusty smell of its scales and the rotten odor of its long-congealed blood filling her nostrils. Two more kobolds fell motionless in as many heartbeats, their heads hewn from their skinny necks.

A man in a gray cloak fought the kobolds, an orcish war axe in his right hand. He was tall, with close-cropped black hair and hard blue eyes, his left cheek and jaw deformed by the coward's brand of a broken sword. Yet he fought without fear, without hesitation, and moved with the economical motions of a master swordsman.

Ridmark Arban carved his way through the kobolds.

###

"Gray Knight!" shouted Caius with a laugh, hammering another kobold to the ground. "You seem to make a habit of saving my life."

Ridmark cut down a second kobold. The creatures had been ignoring Caius to focus upon Calliande, but they reacted to the new threat. Three kobolds turned towards Ridmark, slashing with their claws. He danced past them, swinging the axe, taking the head from one and the hands from another. The handless kobold charged at him, its jaws snapping. Ridmark sidestepped and brought the axe around in a two-handed swing, taking off the creature's head.

"We can reminisce later," said Ridmark, shooting a quick look around. The kobolds surged at Kharlacht, but the orcish warrior was a match for them. Their claws and fangs shattered against his armor, his dark elven greatsword carving great swaths through them. Gavin stayed closed to his side, eyes wide and his face tight with fear, but his hands did not tremble as he swung his club.

"Aye," said Caius, raising his mace. "There is work to be done yet."

Ridmark looked over the advancing kobolds, his mind calculating the odds. Calliande's magic had inflicted substantial losses, but there were at least a hundred and fifty of the creatures left. And right now Calliande looked too exhausted to speak, let alone to stand and fling potent magic at their foes.

They might be able to overcome the kobolds without magical aid. In their undead state, the kobolds had neither cunning nor skill, simply flinging themselves upon their foes. A skilled fighter could carve his way through them, and both Kharlacht and Caius knew how to fight.

But there were so many of the things.

Ridmark gripped the axe in both hands, the wooden haft rough beneath his palms, and met the attack. He cut down one kobold, and then another, the heavy blade shearing through their slender necks with ease. He remembered the second battle of Dun Licinia, remembered Qazarl's black magic raising the slain orcs as undead. It had been much harder to take off their heads.

A kobold lunged at Calliande. Ridmark jumped to meet it, a blow from the axe catching the creature in the chest. The kobold stumbled, and Ridmark brought his weapon down in a heavy blow. The fanged head rolled away, the black-slit eyes staring, and the body crumpled in a heap.

Ridmark caught a brief glimpse of Calliande's eyes, wide and blue and full of strain, and then turned back to the kobolds.

All around him the fighting raged.

###

Calliande struggled to summon magic, struggled to stand.

Around her Ridmark and Kharlacht and Caius battled against the tide of undead kobolds. A curly-haired boy she did not recognize followed Kharlacht, striking at the kobolds with a heavy wooden club. His face was full of fear and dread, yet he did not flinch from the foe. Calliande had seen men with the same expressions upon the walls of Dun Licinia, fighting to defend their wives and children from Qazarl's Mhalekite orcs...

She shook her head. Her mind was drifting, spinning out of focus. Ridmark and the others needed her help. But she did not have the strength left to strike against the undead.

Caius smashed a kobold to the ground, his mace shining with a white glow. Calliande had forgotten that she still held the spell over his weapon. The effort seemed trivial compared to the exhaustion she had brought upon herself.

Perhaps that meant she could still enchant the weapons of Ridmark and the others.

She forced herself to draw more magic, forced herself to stand. The world spun around her, but she lifted her hands, white light dancing around her fingers, and cast a spell. The white fire washed out from her, wrapping around the blades of Ridmark's axe and Kharlacht's sword, made the curly-haired boy's club glow. The boy gaped at his weapon in surprise, but neither Kharlacht nor Ridmark slowed down. White fire burst from the touch of their weapons, destroying the undead kobolds with every stroke.

Calliande gritted her teeth, pouring all her strength and will into the spell.

She had to hold it until the kobolds were destroyed.

###

Ghostly memories danced through Ridmark's mind as he carved his way through the undead kobolds.

He felt the power of Calliande's magic thrumming through the orcish axe. It was only a pale echo of the power that his soulblade Heartwarden had possessed, but he remembered Heartwarden burning with white light in his fist as he faced the urdmordar Gothalinzur, as he lead the armies of Andomhaim against the Mhalekite horde at Dun Licinia.

As he faced Mhalek for the last time in the great hall of Castra Marcaine, Aelia's screams ringing in his ears.

No, he did not want to remember that.

Ridmark forced aside the black memories and fought, the axe a white blur in his hands.

And then there were no more foes to fight.

He turned in a circle. Dead kobolds carpeted the riverbank. Some had fallen into the water, the current bearing them away. Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin stood some distance away, weapons still in hand. Calliande swayed, her face haggard, white light flickering around her fingers.

Her bleary eyes focused on him.

"Ridmark," she said. "You should...should have..."

"Calliande," he said, stepping closer. "You can release the spell. It's over."

She gave a curt nod and made a chopping gesture, the light vanishing from her fingers. The glow faded from Ridmark's axe, the thrumming sensation of the magic fading, and the white fire disappeared from the weapons of Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin. Silence fell over the field, and Ridmark caught his breath.

Calliande swayed again, and for a moment Ridmark thought she was going to fall into the river. He frowned, returned his axe to its belt loop, and started towards her.

And as he did, shadows rose from the dead kobolds.

###

Calliande sensed the dark magic surge through the corpses. Her magic had destroyed the spells animating the kobolds, whether channeled through her white fire or the weapons of Ridmark and the others. But there had been another spell on the undead, one waiting for the creatures to be destroyed.

One final trick of Shadowbearer's.

She felt his will driving the dark magic as the shadows rose like hooded wraiths from the corpses. The shadows would kill her and Ridmark and the others. Then Shadowbearer could come and retrieve the soulstone at his leisure. He had wanted to kill her and trap her power in the stone, but he could find another Magistrius to kill just as easily.

The force of the spell gathered, Shadowbearer's will driving it.

He was going to kill her.

He was going to kill Ridmark.

Calliande gathered every last scrap of power and flung it in an attack. White fire lanced from her hands, slicing through the shadows, and she felt her will contend against Shadowbearer's.

And she heard the renegade high elf's strange voice reverberating inside her head.

"It is useless," he hissed. "You were not strong enough to destroy me centuries ago, and you are less than you were. You are lessened, diminished, maimed, and you do not even know why you did it to yourself! You cannot stop me. You can never stop me. Lie down and die. It will be easier."

"No," growled Calliande, struggling against the alien presence in her mind.

"Yes," said Shadowbearer. "You will never reach Dragonfall, never recover your staff. You failed, Calliande. You failed to stop me, your precious Order of the Vigilant rotted away around you, and you cannot even remember who you are. Lie down and..."

Why was he talking about Dragonfall?

"You don't know where it is," said Calliande. "That's why you're asking. You want me to think of it so you can find it."

"Calliande?" said Ridmark, but she ignored him.

Shadowbearer's rage flooded her mind, but the revelation filled Calliande with fresh resolve. For all his power, for all his knowledge, he was not invincible. She flung her will and magic against him, and for a moment their spells strained against each other. He was stronger, so much stronger, and she was exhausted...but he was far away and she was not.

The white fire blazed from her fingers, slicing the shadows into nothingness, and Shadowbearer's presence vanished from her mind.

Calliande let out a long breath, lowering her hands.

Gray mist swallowed her vision, and she fell.

She did not feel herself hit the ground.

###

Calliande swayed, her eyes rolling back into her head, and fell over.

Ridmark caught her before she toppled into the river. She twitched in his arms, and she felt feverish even through the wool shirt and leather jerkin she wore.

"Is she all right?" said Caius.

"No," said Ridmark. "She's exhausted herself. The Magistri can draw too much magic through themselves, like a man undertaking heavy labor in the hot sun without rest or water for too long. If we let her rest, she should be fine."

At least, he thought so. He hoped so.

"We'd best make camp away from here, then," said Caius. "The reek of those kobold corpses will hardly help her rest."

"But the beastmen," said Gavin. "Will they not trouble us?"

"Beastmen?" said Caius.

"We'll take a few corpses with us," said Ridmark, looking at the dead kobolds. Calliande stirred in his arms, her eyes twitching behind closed lids. "That ought to deter the lupivirii. They'll be able to smell the dark magic."

"Beastmen," said Caius. "It seems you have quite an interesting tale to tell."

"And you as well," said Ridmark.

###

In the darkness of the caverns below the Black Mountain, the creature some men called Shadowbearer opened his eyes.

"Well," he said.

Fury stirred within him. He had come so close to ridding himself of Calliande at last and claiming the soulstone. He would have preferred to kill her while she was helpless and powerless after awakening, but that idiot Qazarl and his pet fool Vlazar had made a botch of it.

It was Shadowbearer's own fault, really. Mortals were so easily corruptible...but rarely made reliable servants.

No matter. He had time yet. A year and a month since the omen of the blue fire filled the sky, a year and a month while the thirteen moons were in proper position and the threshold was open.

There were other ways to obtain an empty soulstone, and Shadowbearer had many other servants.

Servants that made a collection of dead kobolds and a few fanatical orcs look like feeble kittens.

He strode into the darkness, his rage, his ancient, eternal rage, driving him forward.

***

## Chapter 5 - Blue Fire

Ridmark had the others make camp in the clearing where he had challenged Rakhaag. The lack of trees would make it harder for the beastmen to creep up unnoticed. He had Kharlacht and Gavin drag a pair of kobold corpses from the river and dump them at either end of the clearing. Ridmark doubted Rakhaag and his pack had ever encountered kobolds before, and he hoped their scent would keep the beastmen away.

They were predators, and predators did not like the unknown.

Of course, that would make it harder to prove that Ridmark and Kharlacht had not kidnapped the lupivirii females and young. Or perhaps Rakhaag would blame the disappearances on the kobolds. Still, Rakhaag had claimed that men and orcs were responsible for the missing lupivirii, and the beastmen did not knowingly tell lies.

As dusk fell, Gavin got a fire going, and Ridmark lay Calliande down near it and covered her with a blanket.

"We ought to be secure enough for now," said Ridmark. He picked up his staff and brushed some dirt from its length. "The beastmen will rip us apart if they get a chance, but their alpha promised to leave us alone until we came to Aranaeus."

"Though he said nothing about Calliande and Brother Caius," said Kharlacht.

"No," said Ridmark. "If he disagrees, we shall have to contest them." He looked at Calliande. If she was awake by then, she could use her magic to frighten them off.

But why was she even here?

"What are you doing here?" said Ridmark.

Caius snorted. "Following you. Is that not plain?"

"Pardon, sir," said Gavin, "but your friends...who are they?"

"This is the Magistria Calliande," said Ridmark, "and this is Brother Caius, a brother of the order of mendicants."

"A pleasure to meet you, young sir," said Caius with a stately bow. "Might I know your name?"

Gavin blinked. "Ah...Gavin of Aranaeus, Brother. My father is the praefectus of Aranaeus."

Caius nodded. "In whose name does he hold the village?"

Gavin shrugged. "In the name of the village itself, I suppose. Aranaeus doesn't actually have a lord. My father says our people left the realm long ago to be free. Though I don't know what that really means." He blinked. "Are you really a dwarf? I've never seen one before."

Caius laughed. "All my life, and I fear I've lived quite a long time. Long enough that that I remember when my kindred marched alongside the High King to fight the Frostborn, though I was too young to fight back then. But we do not call ourselves the dwarves, but the khaldari. Your kindred gave us that name when..."

"Brother Caius," said Ridmark, "you can instruct the boy in history when we have less urgent matters to discuss."

Caius smile, his beard rustling against his chest. "History is the urgent concern of every man."

Ridmark sighed. "True. But we have more urgent concerns. For one, why are you here, and how did you find me?"

"As for how we found you," said Caius, "that is simple enough. The dagger you gave Calliande."

Ridmark had seen it at her belt. "What about it?"

"You gave it to her as a gift, and she used it to kill Alamur," said Caius. "Apparently, that set up some sort of magical resonance between you and the dagger. She used it to follow you."

"Oh," said Ridmark. He had never heard of such a thing, but obviously it worked.

"And as for why we followed you, do you even need to ask?" said Caius.

"Yes, I do," said Ridmark. "It is better that I go alone to find the truth."

"Calliande said you promised to aid her," said Caius.

Ridmark's fingers tightened against his staff. "I did. And I shall. And I can do it best by discovering the truth about the Frostborn. She is tied to them somehow, I am sure of it, and if I find the truth about the Frostborn, I will discover the truth about her past."

"Pardon, sir," said Gavin, "but the Frostborn? The Frostborn are extinct. The High King destroyed them, Father Martel said so."

Ridmark looked at the boy. "You saw the omen about three weeks ago? The blue fire?" Gavin nodded. "That was a sign that the Frostborn shall return. I first learned of it in Urd Morlemoch, a dark elven ruin ruled by an undead wizard called the Warden. I am traveling to Urd Morlemoch to force the Warden to tell me more. If the Frostborn are returning, the realm must be warned."

Gavin gaped at him, eyes wide.

"You're going to fight the Warden?" said Gavin. "Have you heard the stories about him?"

"Some of them," said Ridmark. Few in Andomhaim had heard of the Warden or Urd Morlemoch, but tales about Urd Morlemoch, stories whispered in dread and fear, were common in the Northerland and the Wilderland.

"They say he can read minds," said Gavin, "and that he plays cruel games with his enemies, imprisoning them in dungeons constructed of their own worst sins. Or that the powers of hell come at his command, and drag his foes to the abyss."

"I've met him," said Ridmark, "and he's actually much worse."

Gavin's eyes got even wider.

"If I go there," said Ridmark, "I'll almost certainly be killed. There's no reason for anyone else to come with me. None."

Caius lifted his graying eyebrows. "You brought Kharlacht with you."

"I fear I had nowhere else to go," said Kharlacht. "For an orc of Vhaluusk, blood ties are paramount above all else. Yet all my kin are dead. Qazarl was the last, and he betrayed me and was slain outside the walls of Dun Licinia. I can lie down and die, I can wander the earth without purpose, or I can follow Ridmark to Urd Morlemoch and try to accomplish something of worth."

"Your chances of success," said Caius, "are much higher with companions."

Ridmark sighed. "You are mad fools, both of you."

Caius grinned. "Perhaps. But Calliande? No, she is not mad. She is brave and strong, and she feels she owes you a debt."

"She owes me nothing," said Ridmark.

"The Magistria would disagree, I think," said Caius. "And you must concede that her magic would be useful."

Ridmark grunted. "I cannot argue with that."

"And," said Caius, "she has as much right to do this as you."

"Right?" said Ridmark. "What does that have to do with it?"

"She has lost her memory," said Caius, "but she was tied to the Order of the Vigilant. You know this as well as I do, my friend. If she was one of the Vigilant, then it is her duty to stand against the return of the Frostborn. Perhaps even more than yours."

"Her duty," said Ridmark. He sighed. "I had not considered that. I thought she might go to Tarlion, seek aid from the Masters of the Magistri in recovering her memory, or that she might search the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance for clues."

"After what happened with Alamur and Talvinius," said Caius, "you can see why she might not want to trust the Magistri. And we have both been at the Tower of Vigilance. There is nothing there but empty stone and crumbling walls."

Ridmark sighed, closed his eyes for a moment.

"You are determined, aren't you?" said Ridmark. "Both of you." He looked at Kharlacht. "All three of you."

"I am," said Caius. "As Calliande is."

"As I am," said Kharlacht. "I will see this through to the end."

"So be it," said Ridmark. "I tried to dissuade you. Follow me to Urd Morlemoch if you will."

"So you will not slip off in the morning?" said Caius.

"I will not," said Ridmark. "You mad fools can follow me to your deaths if you wish."

"Well," said Caius. "We must all die and enter the kingdom of the Dominus Christus someday. We might as well do it while attempting a great deed."

"Though," said Ridmark, looking at Gavin, "we shall have to stop by Aranaeus first."

"For supplies?" said Caius.

"And other things," said Ridmark. "You saw those dead beastmen?" Caius nodded. "The packs of beastmen think the men of Aranaeus have been taking their females and young. The men of Aranaeus think the beastmen have been kidnapping people from within the village."

"And so you think," said Caius, "that something else has been preying upon both the beastmen and the villagers?"

"I'm certain of it," said Ridmark. "We came across Gavin just as the beastmen were about to tear him to pieces, and I promised I would look into the disappearances. After Calliande rests, we'll proceed to Aranaeus, and take Gavin back to his father."

Gavin stared at them with wide eyes.

"Gavin?" said Ridmark.

"It seems," said Gavin, "that I have fallen in with companions of great renown. You speak of so many strange things."

"It is," said Kharlacht, "quite a long story."

Ridmark looked at Caius. "You can tell it from the beginning. Given how much you enjoy talking."

"All men have their gifts," said Caius. He cleared his throat. "Well. In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth, and..."

"Start," said Ridmark, "a little sooner than that."

###

A faint buzzing filled Calliande's ears.

She saw things. Remembered things. A sad old man in a white Magistrius's robe, watching her. Fire and frost contesting each other, and a gash in the skin of the heavens, a gash that burned with cold blue flame. Tall, gaunt figures in armor the color of hard gray ice, eyes like blue fire in their crystalline faces. Death followed in their wake, ice choking the lands, corpses rising to fight at their sides.

Calliande tried to focus upon the memories, but they slipped through her fingers like smoke.

But she remembered other things, hard and clear. Shadowbearer's mercury-colored eyes, gazing at her. Orcs and men struggling below a stone wall. A tall, lean man in wool and leather with close-cropped black hair and blue eyes, a wooden staff in his hand as he fought with the fury of the archangels themselves.

Ridmark.

Calliande heard a voice.

Caius, telling a story.

"Then Ridmark, Kharlacht, and Lady Calliande returned from the kobold village," said Caius, "and we ran back to Thainkul Agon as fast as our legs could carry us."

An amazed laugh answered him. "You truly did that?" It was a young man's voice, deep though it cracked every few words. "Truly?"

"Aye," said Ridmark. "It was the best plan I could think of at the time. And it is only God's grace that we are not all dead."

"So then the kobolds raised their own dead and sent them after you?" said the boy. "That's monstrous."

"No," said Caius. "No, I fear something far darker than a kobold shaman set those creatures after us."

Calliande's eyes opened, and she sat up.

"Shadowbearer," she said.

The others fell silent.

Calliande sat near a campfire, wrapped in a blanket. It was night, and the firelight illuminated an empty clearing. Ridmark, Caius, and Kharlacht sat around the fire, talking to the curly-haired boy she had seen at the river. Her head throbbed, and she felt a bit woozy, but in no danger of falling over.

"Calliande." Ridmark knelt next to her, one arm holding her steady. "How are you?"

"Still alive," she said. "Which is more than I expected."

"Yes," said Ridmark. "Those undead kobolds. Caius said you think Shadowbearer sent them after you. Did..."

"Aye," said Calliande, rubbing at her aching head. "Aye, he did."

"That many kobolds," said Ridmark. "Those must have been all the kobolds left in the village of the Blue Hand."

"They were," said Calliande. "He killed them all and sent them after us. After me, specifically."

She felt a chill. If she had been at Dun Licinia when the kobolds caught up to her, hundreds of people might have died.

Ridmark frowned. "If he could find you, why not come after you himself?"

"I don't know," said Calliande. She took a deep breath and got to her feet, Ridmark helping her up.

"You can stand?" he said.

"I think so," she said. He let go of her arm, and she took another deep breath, and then another. The clearing did not spin around her.

"Why are you here?" he said.

"Following you," said Calliande. "I..." She looked at the others. "Come with me and we will talk."

Kharlacht, Caius, and the boy looked at them for a moment, and then Caius resumed his tale, continuing with their journey from Thainkul Agon to the walls of Dun Licinia. Ridmark led her to the edge of the clearing, out of earshot of the others. A dead kobold lay there.

"Why did you bring a dead kobold to the camp?" said Calliande, wrinkling her nose at the odor. Of course, she had not bathed since leaving Dun Licinia. But she still smelled better than a rotting kobold.

"Because of the scent," said Ridmark. "There are beastmen loose in the woods, and they think the men from a nearby village kidnapped their females and young. Kharlacht and I encountered them before we found you. I forced their alpha to submit, but if they change their minds, I hope the smell of dead kobold will scare them off."

"You forced a lupivir alpha to submit," said Calliande, "and you're still alive? And unhurt? You speak of the most remarkable deeds like a man discussing the weather."

Ridmark shrugged. "It was that or have the lupivirii tear out our throats." He hesitated, looked at the dark trees, and then looked back at her. "Why are you here?"

"Didn't Caius tell you?" said Calliande. "He is a noble and kindly man, but I doubt he could stop talking to save his life."

"He told me," said Ridmark, "but I would prefer to hear it from you. Why are you here?"

"Why did you leave without telling me?" said Calliande.

"You know why," said Ridmark. "I am going to Urd Morlemoch, and it will probably kill me. There is no need for anyone else to die," he glanced at the campfire, "though I seem unable to dissuade people from following me."

He did not know his own charisma, Calliande realized, did not know how his valor inspired people to follow him. Had he asked it of them, Sir Joram and Sir Constantine and all the fighting men of Dun Licinia would have followed him to Urd Morlemoch, and he could have assailed the ruins with an army. Instead he went alone, or as close to alone as he could manage.

He knew he might die, but Ridmark did not think he deserved to live.

"You promised," said Calliande, "to help me recover my memory."

His face softened somewhat. "I have not forgotten it. You were once of the Order of the Vigilant. Whatever happened to you, whatever the reason you were sealed below the Tower, it has something to do with the Frostborn. You awoke the moment the omen of blue fire filled the sky. If I find the truth of the Frostborn, I find the truth about you."

"Then let me come with you," said Calliande. "This is my fight, as much as it is yours." She shook her head. "More, even, since it seems it has been my fight since before your grandfather was even born."

Ridmark's mouth twisted. "It seems I cannot stop you. I already agreed with Caius. You can travel with me, and I will not hinder you or slip away. But it is folly. I wish you would have stayed in Dun Licinia."

"Why?" said Calliande. "You were keen enough to accept Kharlacht's help."

He scowled. "Kharlacht followed me from Dun Licinia. With all his kin dead, he has nowhere else to go. But you...you could go back to Dun Licinia, or to Tarlion, ask the Magistri for help..."

"From what I saw of Alamur," said Calliande, "I would not entrust the Magistri with a cup of water, let alone my memories. And if I had stayed in Dun Licinia, I would have been there when the kobolds attacked. We might have driven off the kobolds, but Shadowbearer will not forget me."

"I know," said Ridmark. "Nevertheless, I wish you had stayed behind."

"Why?" said Calliande again, and the answer clicked. "Ah. It's because of Aelia."

She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. Ridmark's blue eyes went cold and hard and dangerous. She wondered if the eyes of the Frostborn had looked like that.

"You talked to Sir Constantine, I see," said Ridmark, "after the battle."

"I did," said Calliande. "Perhaps it was wrong of me...but, Ridmark, you are a valiant and bold man. Why was such a man expelled from the Order of the Soulblade and given a coward's brand? I could not make sense of it."

"And now you know," he said.

"You didn't deserve it," said Calliande. "Constantine and Joram told me how Tarrabus Carhaine had a grudge against you, how he forced the Master to expel..."

"You're wrong," he said. "I did deserve it. It was my fault."

"No, it wasn't," said Calliande. "You did everything you could. You couldn't have known that Mhalek would link his blood to..."

"That's enough," said Ridmark. "It was my fault. I was the commander of the army that fought against Mhalek. I was Aelia's husband. His defeat and her safety were my responsibility. And I failed." His voice was harsh, metallic. "I failed and she died. I deserved what happened to me. I deserved more. I deserved to die for it, and someday I will."

"Mhalek killed her, not you," said Calliande. But the words felt feeble. His wife's death was a wound in his soul, an infected dagger pumping poison into his mind and heart, and it would take more than words to heal it. "Your friends don't seem to think it was your fault. Even Aelia's father and brothers do not blame you."

"Their kindness blinds them," said Ridmark. "And if you ever meet Aelia's sister Imaria, she will tell you the truth about me. She, at least, can see that it was my fault."

"Even if it was your fault, which I doubt," said Calliande, "they have forgiven you. Can you not forgive yourself?"

"What I did is unforgivable," said Ridmark.

"You are a baptized son of the church," said Calliande. "Does not the Dominus Christus forgive the sins of all who truly repent? And you are contrite, Ridmark. I have never seen anyone more..."

"Enough," said Ridmark. His tone was soft, but there was iron beneath it. "If you want to follow me, fine. But we will not discuss this. Not now, not ever. Do you understand?"

Calliande nodded. "I'm sorry. I...perhaps I should not have said anything."

"No. You told me the truth." He almost smiled. "Better to get it off your chest now, I suppose, rather than discuss it at a more inconvenient time."

She raised an eyebrow. "Like when we are inevitably attacked by misinformed beastmen?"

"Something like that," said Ridmark. He smiled. It was a faint smile, but it was there. "I suspect you are ravenous. I've heard that magic is hungry work."

"It is," said Calliande. She realized that her belly felt like an empty void. "And I am."

He nodded. "Let's get some food." He paused. "Calliande."

"Yes?" she said, trying to read his face.

"I would not have wished for you to come, but I am glad you are here," said Ridmark. "Your aid will be welcome."

Calliande shrugged. "You have saved my life so many times. Perhaps I will get the chance to return the favor."

"You did at Dun Licinia," said Ridmark, turning back towards the others, "when you broke the spells around Qazarl. Otherwise he would have killed us all with that staff he dug out of the burial mounds."

That staff...

Calliande hesitated, gazing at the sky. Of the thirteen moons, only three of them were visible tonight. Pyrrhus, the moon of fire, shone with a sullen yellow-orange glow, while the Tempus, the moon of storm gleamed with silver light and Kronos, the moon of time, had a pale golden glow. Their position altered and influenced the power and potency of certain spells.

For some reason that made her think of Dragonfall, and for a moment the memory seemed closer, but she could not pull it out of the mists of her past.

"What's wrong?" said Ridmark.

"Ridmark," said Calliande. "In your travels. Have you ever heard of Dragonfall?"

Ridmark shook his head. "No. What is it? A name?"

Calliande nodded, frustrated.

"The name of what?" said Ridmark.

"A place, I think," said Calliande. The Watcher had asked her not to reveal his existence to anyone, but he had said nothing about Dragonfall. "I left...I left something important there, I think."

"Do you know what?" said Ridmark.

"A staff," said Calliande. "I think I left a staff there. But I can remember nothing else about it."

"I have never heard the name," said Ridmark, "but there are many miles between here and Urd Morlemoch. We can ask questions as we travel."

"If we do find it," said Calliande, "we have to be careful. Shadowbearer is looking for it, too...and he can never find it. Never. If he does, something terrible will happen. I am certain of it."

"Then," said Ridmark, "we'll just have to make sure we get there first."

He led her back to the fire.

"Some food, Magistria," said Caius, handing her a biscuit wrapped around a sausage. Calliande took it gratefully. "I trust you are well?"

"Quite," said Calliande. She looked at the curly-haired boy, who watched her with wide eyes. "Forgive me, but I have been rude. My name is Calliande, and I am grateful for the help you gave us at the ford."

Gavin managed a good imitation of a proper bow. "Ah...it was my pleasure, my lady. I am Gavin of Aranaeus. My father is the praefectus of the village. You are truly a Magistria?"

"To the best of my knowledge," said Calliande, which was entirely true.

"Then we are grateful for your help," said Gavin. "Something sinister is happening here, I am sure of it."

"I look forward to meeting your father," said Calliande.

The skin around Gavin's eyes tightened. "Yes. I am sure."

"Tomorrow," said Ridmark. "The rest of you should get some sleep. I will take first watch."

***

## Chapter 6 - Aranaeus

The next morning they broke camp and took the half-overgrown trail to Aranaeus.

Gavin watched his new companions as they walked.

He had never met anyone quite like them.

Ridmark Arban was like a Swordbearer out of the songs, or even one of the knights of the High King Arthur's Round Table in the legends of Old Earth. The coward's brand upon the left side of his face had unsettled Gavin at first, but then he decided that Ridmark must have been unjustly accused. No coward could fight with such skill and ferocity. Kharlacht strode after Ridmark like a silent shadow. Gavin had seen orcs before, of course. Sometimes orcs came to the village to trade. Yet he had never seen an orc fight so fiercely.

And he had never seen a dwarf, either. Or a dwarven friar. Friars passed through Aranaeus occasionally, heading north to spread the gospel among the pagan orc tribes. They never returned.

And Gavin had never seen a woman quite so beautiful as Calliande.

Well. Second after Rosanna, of course.

Thinking of Rosanna sent the familiar twinge of regret and anger through his heart, and Gavin pushed it aside.

A few hours later they emerged from the trees and into the cleared fields around Aranaeus. The fields stood empty and deserted, the furrows spotted with the stubble from last year's harvest. Gavin had spent most of his springs and summers in those fields, helping to sow the crop and harvest it before the winter came.

"Where is everyone?" said Kharlacht. "This late in the spring, the planting should be well underway."

"They're all afraid, sir," said Gavin. "Ever since the disappearances started, the beastmen attack anyone who goes too far from the walls."

A few moments later Aranaeus itself came into sight, and Gavin looked upon his home.

The village housed about seven hundred people, and it sat upon a wide hill, with taller hills rising to the north. A strong wall of stone encircled the village, men standing guard on the ramparts and the gate. Even before the beastmen had grown hostile, the Wilderland had been a dangerous place. Gavin's father and the elders had told stories of pagan orcs seeking slaves, of the sorcerous beasts of the dark elves rampaging through the fields while the villagers huddled behind their walls. Gavin knew his ancestors had come here to escape the rule of the High King, to live their lives as they pleased without paying taxes to the Dux of the Northerland.

But he could not help but think that the protection of the Dux of the Northerland, and his Swordbearers and Magistri, would have been helpful.

Ridmark came to a stop, frowning. "I had forgotten about that."

"About what?" said Gavin.

"Tell me," said Ridmark. "If you live in the shadow of that, why does your father think the beastmen are responsible for the disappearances?"

He pointed at the hill rising behind Aranaeus.

More specifically, at the white shapes atop the hill.

A dozen slender, gleaming towers of white stone crowned the hill, surrounded by a crumbling wall. Gavin disliked looking at the ruins. The ancient towers were beautiful, but...wrong. Their angles and shapes had been designed to please the eyes of dark elves, not humans. Looking at the ruins for too long gave Gavin a headache, so he ignored them.

As did everyone else in Aranaeus.

"Urd Dagaash," said Ridmark. "Once the seat of a minor dark elven lord, destroyed in the war with the high elves long before humans ever came to Andomhaim. I had forgotten this was here." He looked at Gavin. "Almost certainly whatever took the villagers is inside Urd Dagaash."

"Perhaps, sir," said Gavin. "The ruins...the elders have always said they are cursed, that evil things dwell within. Yet those evil things never come forth. The elders say if we leave the ruins alone, the evil things within will not trouble us."

"Perhaps that was true once," said Ridmark, "but you recall the omen twenty days ago? Maybe the creatures within the ruin have changed their minds."

That had not occurred to Gavin. The thought of some horror of dark magic creeping out of Urd Dagaash was not a pleasant one. Would Philip be able to keep Rosanna safe it that happened? Philip was a blacksmith, true, and stronger than Gavin. Yet he rarely ventured outside the walls of Aranaeus. What did he know about the dangers of the Wilderland?

Of course, what did Gavin know, compared to Ridmark and Calliande and the others?

He thought of the undead kobolds he had fought.

After that, he knew more than anyone else in Aranaeus.

"When we get to the gate, sir, let me do the talking," said Gavin. "The men on watch know me, and they'll listen. You're rather...well, outlandish for strangers, and they might not react well."

Calliande smiled at him, and Gavin felt himself flush. "So a human, a dwarf, an orc, and a Magistria do not walk up to the gates of Aranaeus every day?"

"It is the first time I can recall, my lady," said Gavin.

He led the way through the fields, up the side of the hill, and to the village's closed gate. Four men stood atop the gate, fingering hunting bows, their eyes moving back and forth over Ridmark and his companions.

"Stop," said one of the men, middle-aged with a graying beard, "and identify yourself. Strangers are not welcome in Aranaeus just now."

"Mallen!" said Gavin, looking at the elder. "You know me. My father has me help you make chairs in your shop during the winters."

"Gavin ran off yesterday," said Mallen. "Disappeared from sight. You could be one of the beastmen, taking Gavin's form to beguile us."

"If I was," said Gavin, "would I know about the still in your cellar? The one your wife doesn't know about, since she thinks you stopped drinking?"

The other men upon the wall chuckled, as did Caius.

"Aye," said Mallen, "and you had best keep your mouth shut, if you know what's good for you." He peered at Ridmark and the others. "And who are these? A brigand, an orc, a noblewoman, and...a short gray fellow?"

"Good sir," said Caius, "I am Brother Caius of the order of mendicants, and twenty years ago I heard the word of the Dominus Christus and believed in his good news. I have since come north to preach the gospel to the pagan tribes of the Wilderland. After some peculiar misadventures," Kharlacht snorted, "I have come to the gates of your fair village, and beg your permission to enter."

"Indeed. Where did you find them, Gavin?" said Mallen.

"I was making for the ford," said Gavin. "I wanted to go to Castra Marcaine, to ask the Dux of the Northerland for help against whatever creatures are taking our folk."

"Your father's going to be wroth, boy," said Mallen.

His father was always wroth, but Gavin knew better than to say so.

"The beastmen chased me," said Gavin. "I think they would have killed me, but Ridmark and his companions arrived to stop them."

He did not mention the undead kobolds. At best, Mallen simply would not have believed him. At worst, he would refuse to open the gate.

"There you go," said Mallen. "That's proof, then, boy. The beastmen are taking our folk, just like your father and Morwen said."

"No," said Gavin. "I wasn't finished. Someone's taking the females and young of the beastmen. They think we're doing it."

Mallen snorted, and the other guards laughed. "Why? What would we do with them? They're too feral to be beasts of burden, and they carry fleas, too."

"But..." said Gavin.

"Enough," said Ridmark, his voice low. "You don't have to convince him. It's your father you'll have to persuade."

He was right.

"Let us in, Mallen," said Gavin. "My father will want to talk to the newcomers."

"Aye," said Mallen. "Your stepmother, too." Gavin scowled. He did not want to talk to his stepmother. Mallen pointed at Ridmark. "But you had best behave, aye? The men of Aranaeus are peaceful folk, but we can defend ourselves."

Ridmark spread his arms, staff in his right hand. "By my sworn word, Mallen of Aranaeus, no harm will to you from my hand unless you break trust with us first."

Something in the way he said it sent a chill down Gavin's back. Mallen must have felt it, too. The carpenter swallowed, rubbed his beard, and gave a curt nod.

"Aye," he said at last. "Well, the praefectus can decide what we are to do with you." He shook a finger at Gavin. "And your father will be glad to see you."

"No, he won't," muttered Gavin.

Calliande glanced at him with a frown.

Mallen shouted something and the gate swung open with a creak. Gavin led the others through the gates and into Aranaeus. Houses of built of fieldstone lined the short street leading to the main square, their roofs made of thatch.

"Your father, boy," said Mallen. "He'll be at the hall. Better go to him at once. You let the strangers wander about without seeing him first, you'll never hear the end of it."

"From Morwen, most likely," said Gavin.

"Morwen?" said Ridmark.

"My father's wife," said Gavin. He sighed. "My stepmother."

"Ah," said Ridmark.

"Well," said Gavin, "we should talk to my father and get it over. This way, sir."

They walked towards the village's square. The villagers stood on their doorsteps, speaking with each other in low voices, and cast hostile stares toward the strangers. Belatedly Gavin wondered if bringing Ridmark and the others here had been a good idea. The people of Aranaeus were frightened, and they might blame Ridmark and his companions for what had happened.

If that happened, Gavin was more concerned about what Ridmark and his friends might do to the villagers than what the villagers might do to Ridmark.

They passed the blacksmith's shop. A young man of about twenty stepped into the street, thick and muscular, a leather apron covering his clothes. A girl of about Gavin's age walked with him, her hand resting on his forearm. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying.

Philip and Rosanna.

His heart sped up when he looked at her. Rosanna saw him, and her green eyes widened in surprise.

"Gavin!" she said, and she hurried towards him and hugged him. "You're alive! Oh, thank God. I was up all night praying for you. We both were."

Philip moved to her side, a heavy arm going around her shoulders. "Aye." He frowned. "Why did you run off? You made poor Rosanna think you had disappeared." He shook his head. "You ought to have a proper craft, instead of listening to that old priest tell his outlandish tales..."

Gavin felt his temper flare. "There's more to the world than your forge and field, and if we hide from it..."

"Don't quarrel, you two," said Rosanna. "I'm just glad you're safe." Her eyes turned to Ridmark and the others. "And these...they saved you from the beastmen?"

"This is Ridmark Arban," said Gavin, "and the Magistria Calliande, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, and Brother Caius of the mendicants."

"Thank you for helping Gavin," said Rosanna to Ridmark. "He gets...well, he gets carried away sometimes."

Embarrassment warmed Gavin's face, but Ridmark remained grave. "We all do."

"You had best speak to the praefectus, sir," said Philip. "We of Aranaeus are not unfriendly, but you'll understand why we're suspicious of strangers."

Gavin opened his mouth to protest, but Ridmark only nodded. "I cannot blame a man for caution. Lead on, Gavin."

Gavin closed his mouth, nodded to Rosanna, and kept walking. He saw the eyes of the villagers staring from barred doors and shuttered windows, watching the strangers with suspicion. Looking at Gavin with suspicion. Why would they be afraid of him? Just because he had gone outside the village and returned?

An unsteady, crooning voice raised in song caught his attention.

An old, old woman stood on the doorstep of a house, a blue dress hanging loose around her bony frame. She was so old her face looked like skin pulled tight over a skull, her faded blue eyes hazy and unfocused. Her white hair hung in wispy disarray over her liver-spotted scalp, and her hands twitched as she sang.

"Why," she said, "it's young Gavin, returned with some friends. Are you well, Gavin? They thought you had died, but I told them Gavin was too young to die." She smiled a toothless smile. "Only the old die, alas, alas, once they've had many strong children."

"Agnes," said Gavin with a polite bow. She was the oldest woman in the village, at least a century of age if not more, and according to Bardus the innkeeper her mind had gone twenty years past. Yet Father Martel said elders were to be treated with respect, so Gavin always tried to be kind to Agnes.

"Who are your friends, Gavin?" said Agnes, squinting at Ridmark. "Why, I remember you! You're young John. I put my pies on the windowsill to cool them, and you would steal them." She gave his hands a gentle smack. "You naughty boy."

"I fear you are mistaken, mistress," said Ridmark without the hint of a smile. "My name is Ridmark Arban, and I have not been to Aranaeus for nine years."

But Agnes had forgotten about him. She saw Calliande, and her smile widened. "Aren't you a pretty young thing? Too skinny, though. You need wider hips for proper birthing. When you have your first child, you're going to scream like a pig with a nail through its hoof."

"Ah," said Calliande. "Thank you. I think."

"Is she your girl, Gavin?" said Agnes. She cackled. "You'll have handsome, vigorous children. Even with her narrow hips."

Gavin felt his face go red.

Calliande laughed. "I fear not, mistress. I am too old for him, by several centuries."

Centuries? What did that mean?

"Oh, pish. I am older than everyone, and I do what I like," said Agnes. "And now I must go to the gate. Why, I need to watch for men with swords and cattle."

She tottered off.

Gavin looked at Calliande, swallowed, and then back at Ridmark. "We should keep going."

To his great relief, neither Calliande nor Ridmark laughed. "Of course."

Gavin led them to the square. A well stood in the center of the square, and the village hall and the church rose on opposite ends. Word must have run ahead of them, because Gavin's father was already walking from the hall.

Morwen was with him.

His father and stepmother stopped a few paces away, frowning.

"Where have you been, Gavin?" said Cornelius. He was thin and tired, his curly hair gray, dark shadows ringing his brown eyes. From time to time a slight tremor went through his hands. "You just...you cannot run off! Not now, not when people are going missing! I thought you had been killed."

Gavin lifted his chin. "I was going to go to Castra Marcaine to get help from the Dux."

"That was foolish," said Morwen. She was at least twenty years younger than Cornelius, lovely and slim with long red hair and brilliant green eyes. "You ought to have remained safe in the village."

Gavin's temper shivered. "You are not my mother. You cannot tell me what to do."

"Gavin!" said Cornelius. Morwen only smiled, the same condescending expression she always used.

"It is all right, husband," said Morwen, her expression never wavering. "The boy is simply overwrought."

"You will forgive my son, sir," said Cornelius, taking a deep breath. "He is unaccustomed to comporting himself before strangers."

Gavin opened his mouth to answer, but Ridmark spoke first.

"Actually," said Ridmark, "he fought with great courage. I am sorry if I have caused undue disruption. My name is Ridmark Arban, and this is the Magistria Calliande, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, and Brother Caius of the mendicants."

Cornelius frowned. Ridmark had said he had met the praefectus before, but Gavin wondered if Cornelius remembered. It had been nine years ago, and Gavin's mother had still been alive.

Morwen's eyes shifted to Calliande and then back to Ridmark.

"It seems I owe you my son's life, sir," said Cornelius. "Thank you."

"Indeed," said Morwen. "A surprise from a man branded as a coward."

Calliande bristled, but Ridmark only shrugged. "I have dealt with the lupivirii before. Praefectus, I fear you face a greater enemy than the beastmen."

"What do you mean?" said Cornelius.

"The lupivir alpha I spoke with believes that you are kidnapping his females and his children," said Ridmark.

Morwen laughed. "That is absurd. What would we do with the vile beasts?"

"Nevertheless," said Ridmark. "The beastmen, as you know, do not lie. It is simply not in their nature. They believe you responsible, but I think something else is to blame. Some creature or power that is preying upon both you and the beastmen."

Morwen lifted her eyebrows, her condescending smile focusing upon Ridmark. "And what would that be, pray?"

"The choices are many," said Ridmark. "This is the Wilderland, and there are numerous creatures that regard both humans and lupivirii as useful prey. Pagan orcs and dark elves take beastmen and humans as slaves. Kobolds, deep orcs, or dvargir could be raiding from the Deeps. A pack of male urdmordar could be eating your people. A nest of fire or frost drakes or wyverns might be hunting you. Or," he pointed at the pale ruins of Urd Dagaash rising over the town, "whatever lurks within those ruins could be carrying off your people. When your ancestors left the High King's realm, I am surprised they settled in the shadow of such a place. Dark elven ruins are not to be trifled with."

"There are evil things in Urd Dagaash," said Cornelius. "But they do not venture out of the ruins, and are harmless if left alone."

"The omen of blue fire twenty days ago," said Ridmark, "might have changed their minds."

"We of Aranaeus," said Morwen, "know more of our land than some wandering stranger. Might we ask your business here, sir?"

"If you like," said Ridmark. "I am going to Urd Morlemoch." Cornelius's mouth fell open, and Morwen's smile disappeared. "The blue fire that you saw twenty days past? That is an omen of the return of the Frostborn. The Frostborn are coming back, but I need more information. So I am going to Urd Morlemoch to force the Warden to tell me his secrets."

"That is madness," said Morwen. "The tales I heard from my mother...no one enters the stronghold of the Warden and returns."

"One man did," said Cornelius. "I remember you now, sir. It was...nine, ten years ago, was it not? You said you were going to Urd Morlemoch, and you never returned. I thought you were dead."

"I took a different route on my way home," said Ridmark. "But I entered Urd Morlemoch and lived, and I intend to do so again."

"Then you are welcome to purchase supplies," said Morwen, "and to be on your way." She pointed. "Bardus at the White Walls Inn can supply what you need."

"I would not leave you in peril," said Ridmark. "I will assist you with finding whoever has taken your missing folk, if I can."

"No," said Cornelius at once. "That is not necessary."

"Father," said Gavin, "a score of people have disappeared in the last twenty days. The beastmen say the same. Surely there is some danger we both face. It..."

"Your father said no," said Morwen, a hint of anger in her voice for the first time.

"We are grateful for the offer, sir, but there is no mystery," said Cornelius. "The beastmen crept over our walls and took the missing people, that is plain. But we are on our guard now, and they will not surprise us again. Sooner or later the beastmen will exhaust the game available in the woods and move on." He pointed at Ridmark. "You are welcome to stay at the inn for the night, and to purchase whatever supplies you need, but do not meddle in our troubles, sir. They will take care of themselves." He turned toward the village hall. "Gavin, come."

Gavin folded his arms and did not move.

Cornelius looked at him, sighed, and walked away. Morwen watched them for a moment longer, and then left without another word.

###

"Well," said Calliande once Cornelius and Morwen had vanished into the hall. "That was pleasant."

"Aye," said Ridmark.

He suspected that both Gavin's father and his stepmother knew more, much more, than they claimed. And his suspicion that something other than the beastmen had taken the missing people had hardened into certainty.

But what? And more importantly, did the praefectus and his wife know who was behind the disappearances? And if so, why blame the beastmen?

"I am sorry for my father, sir," said Gavin. His disgust was plain to see.

"He is your father," said Caius, "and the holy scriptures command us to honor our fathers and mothers."

"I know. Father Martel says the same," said Gavin. He took a deep breath. "Yet it is difficult."

"When did your father remarry?" said Ridmark.

"Several years ago," said Gavin. "A few months after a fever carried off my mother, may God rest her soul."

Ridmark nodded. "Was Morwen born in Aranaeus?"

"No," said Gavin. "She was born in Andomhaim, in Caerdracon. The Dux of Caerdracon demanded that she become his mistress, and she refused. He hung her father in retribution, and Morwen fled the High King's realm and came here."

"I see," said Ridmark. Tarrabus Carhaine, the Dux of Caerdracon, would not scruple at such a deed, but Tarrabus usually employed more subtle methods to get what he wanted. And it was exactly the sort of story calculated to rouse the sympathies of villagers whose ancestors had fled Andomhaim. But a woman who fled the High King's realm might have any number of reasons to conceal her identity. "This priest you mentioned, Father Martel. Might I speak with him?"

"Of course," said Gavin. "He'll be in the church."

Caius frowned. "Should you not attend to your father? He asked you to come."

Gavin snorted. "If I do, he'll shout at me because he isn't brave enough to shout at Morwen. He'll rant and rave, then do nothing. But he is the praefectus of Aranaeus, and it is his responsibility to look after the people here. If he won't do it, then I will have to. This way, sir."

Gavin led the way, and Ridmark found himself watching the boy. He was obviously rash and impulsive, and just as obviously in love with the girl betrothed to that blacksmith's apprentice. Yet there was a nobility to Gavin's actions, a valor beyond the usual recklessness of a fifteen-year-old boy. He wondered how a man like Cornelius had begat a son like Gavin.

His mother must have been a remarkable woman.

The church was in poor repair, with chunks of thatch missing from the roof, the stone walls weathered and spotted with lichen. Caius looked the church up and down with a frown of dismay.

"The church is ill-maintained," said Caius. "Why does your father not have it repaired?"

"He doesn't care," said Gavin. "Most of the villagers come to the mass, but not many of them really care, I think. Just me, Philip, Rosanna, and a few others." He shook his head. "And Father Martel did not arrive until four years ago."

"He did not?" said Caius. "Who was your priest until then?"

Gavin shrugged. "We didn't have one."

Ridmark blinked. That Aranaeus had lacked a priest for years raised questions. Every man worshipped something, and if he did not worship God and his Dominus Christus, then he would worship something else. Wealth and power, for one. Or the blood gods of the orcs, perhaps, or the great darkness of the dark elves, or the cold, silent gods of the dwarves.

Or more fleshy gods, such as the urdmordar or the more powerful creations of the dark elves.

So to what had the men of Aranaeus prayed to before the arrival of Father Martel?

Again Ridmark found his gaze drawn to the white ruins atop the hill.

Gavin opened the church's doors. Inside the church was dim and dusty, with wooden benches resting upon the flagstone floor. Narrow beams of light leaked through the windows and illuminated the altar, the cross upon the far wall, and the font of holy water. An old tapestry rested next to the doors, showing the Dragon Knight and the last Keeper of Avalon leading the armies of Andomhaim against the Frostborn. The ancestors of the villagers must have brought it with them when they fled the High King's realm.

Kharlacht and Caius crossed themselves, and Calliande and Gavin followed suit. Ridmark examined the floor and the benches. Someone went to effort to keep the church clean, but it was obviously not used much.

Again he found himself wondering where the men of Aranaeus directed their prayers.

"Gavin!"

An old man in a brown robe walked towards them. He was thin and bald, the skin of his face marked with countless creases. Yet despite his age he walked towards them with haste.

"Father Martel," said Gavin.

"I did not think I would see you again," said Martel. "Praise God. Morwen claimed the beastmen had taken you, but I knew better. You ran off to find help, didn't you? That was brave, but foolhardy."

"I fear you are right," said Gavin. "I would have been killed, if not for these men and this woman." He gestured at Ridmark. "Father, this is Ridmark Arban, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Brother Caius, and Calliande of the Magistri."

The old man looked at Ridmark and blinked his watery eyes. "The Gray Knight?"

"You know me?" said Ridmark. He had never seen the priest before in his life.

"No," said Martel, "but I was at Dun Licinia."

"Ah," said Ridmark. For a moment he remembered the screams, remembered the slain Mhalekite orcs covering the ground with a carpet of dead flesh.

"You saved the realm on that day," said Martel. "I saw you take command, and I know the things that have been said about you since," he gestured at the left side of Ridmark's face, "must be lies and calumnies. When I heard the stories about a warrior in a gray cloak rescuing travelers, I knew it had to be you."

"How did you come here?" said Ridmark.

"After the fighting at Dun Licinia, I was weary and sick at heart," said Martel. "Mhalek led so many of the orcs of Vhaluusk astray with his claims to be an incarnate god. I decided to do what I could to keep it from happening again, and to bring the word of the Dominus Christus to the pagan tribes of the Wilderland."

"A bold and worthy goal," said Caius, who had almost done the same thing.

"And a foolish one," said Ridmark. "The orcish tribes of the north kill missionaries."

"God had different plans for me," said Martel. "When I reached Aranaeus, I grew ill, and feared I would die. But I recovered, and realized the village had no priest. The church had stood empty for years. I wondered if God had brought me here for that reason, so I took the church for my own, and I have been here ever since." The old man clutched Ridmark's shoulder. "You saved Gavin's life, and I thank you for that. He has a good and brave heart, and will grow into a good and strong man."

Ridmark considered this for a moment. The priest had a better head on his shoulders than Cornelius, and his concern for Gavin was genuine. And if he had been here for years, he might know what was happening.

Ridmark decided to take Martel into his confidence.

"Father Martel," he said, "what is happening here? Cornelius claims that the beastmen kidnapped the villagers, and the beastmen claim the villagers kidnapped their females and young, but I doubt either of them are right. Do you know what is truly going on in Aranaeus?"

"I fear you are correct," said Martel. "Something else preys upon both of us, but I know not what. Aranaeus has secrets, Sir Ridmark."

"Just Ridmark," he said. "I am neither a knight nor a Swordbearer."

"The villagers come to receive the mass," said Martel, "but I think their hearts lie elsewhere, save for a few like Gavin. Most simply do not care. But the others...ah, perhaps I am only a foolish old man, vain enough to think my preaching might sway hearts."

"No," said Ridmark. "There is something strange here, I'm sure of it. You saw the omen of blue flame a few weeks past?"

Martel nodded. "It caused a great stir among the villagers."

"It was a sign of the return of the Frostborn," said Ridmark.

"The Frostborn are extinct," said Martel, glancing at the old tapestry. "The Dragon Knight and the High King destroyed them centuries ago."

"They are returning," said Ridmark, "and I am going to Urd Morlemoch to discover how."

"That is a dark place," said Martel.

"But before I depart, I intend to discover what is happening here," said Ridmark.

"Praise God," said Martel. "We are in sore need of aid. The praefectus, if you will forgive me, is not the sort of man to deal with such a threat. And a warrior of your renown and the powers of a Magistria," he smiled at Calliande, "will be most welcome. Perhaps the other newcomers will offer you their aid as well."

Gavin frowned. "Other newcomers, Father? What other newcomers?"

"They arrived yesterday afternoon, after you vanished," said Martel. "Men from the city of Coldinium to the southwest. A knight and his retainers."

"What is the knight's name?" said Ridmark.

"Paul Tallmane, a vassal of the Dux Tarrabus Carhaine," said Martel.

Ridmark recognized the name at once.

***

## Chapter 7 - White Walls

"You know Paul Tallmane?" said Calliande as she followed Ridmark out of the church.

"Aye," said Ridmark, his face grim. "Quite well."

He set off at a brisk pace, and Calliande followed him. Gavin had remained behind in church, as had Caius, who had started discussing theology with Father Martel. Kharlacht had stayed to keep an eye on both of them. Hopefully the dwarven friar would learn useful information from the old priest, something that would shed let upon the mystery.

Because it was a mystery, one that filled Calliande with unease.

There was something wrong about this village, something she could not put into words. Perhaps it was the crumbling, barely used church. Perhaps it was the nervous twitch in Cornelius's hands, or the icy gleam in Morwen's jade eyes. Or maybe it was the cold, hostile stares of the villagers, or the white ruins of Urd Dagaash rising on the hills overhead. Calliande, if she worked a spell, could sense the ancient dark magic lurking within the walls. Who would choose to settle in the shadow of such a place?

And now these disappearances.

"Who is he?" said Calliande.

"One of the knights of Tarrabus Carhaine, Dux of Caerdracon," said Ridmark.

"The man who forced the Master of the Order of the Soulblade to expel you unjustly," said Calliande.

"Don't start on that again," said Ridmark. "He was right to do it." A shadow came over his face. "Yet...Dux Gareth Licinius is a good man. Tarrabus Carhaine is not. We were squires in Dux Gareth's court, before Tarrabus's father died and he became the new Dux of Caerdracon."

"What is Tarrabus like?" said Calliande. Ridmark led her away from the church, towards the village's northern gate.

The gate facing Urd Dagaash.

"Confident," said Ridmark. "A brilliant leader. Utterly ruthless. He has no scruples at all, and will not hesitate to use any method at hand if it will destroy his foes. And he thinks anyone not personally loyal to him is his foe." His frown deepened. "We got drunk together once, as squires do, and he told me that God had made the world for the strong, that the strong had the right to do whatever they wished, and the weak had no choice but to submit. A strong man had the right to take whatever he wanted from the weak."

"A thuggish philosophy," said Calliande. "I pity the folk of Caerdracon, if their Dux thinks in such a way."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "He was right to have the Master expel me, but the man is still a serpent. You heard what Gavin said. Morwen claims she came to Aranaeus to flee Tarrabus's vengeance. The omen of blue fire appears, men and beastmen start disappearing, and one of Tarrabus's knights arrives in Aranaeus? Too much of a coincidence."

"If the Dux is a hard man," said Calliande, "what is Sir Paul like?"

"A faithful servant of his master," said Ridmark. "Paul was a squire with us as well. He was a bully and a coward. If Tarrabus thought a freeholder or a townsman had not shown him enough respect, he sent Paul to burn the freeholder's barns or to loot the townsman's shop." He looked up. "And here we are."

The White Walls Inn sat facing the northern gate. There was nothing white about it, with its walls of gray fieldstone and its roof of yellow-brown thatch. Yet Urd Dagaash towered over them in the distance, and Calliande realized the inn had taken its name from the ruins.

An ill-omened name, to be sure.

Ridmark opened the inn's door, and Calliande followed him inside. The common room looked cozy enough. A cheery fire crackled in the hearth, and a pair of polished, if old, tables ran the length of the room. Calliande supposed the same group of forty or fifty men came here every night to drink and escape from their wives. A doughy man in an apron hurried towards them, bowing with every step.

Three men in armor and cloaks sat near the fire, swords at their belts, speaking to each other in low voices. The old woman who had embarrassed Gavin sat on a bench near the wall, a cup of beer in her hand. Agnes hummed to herself, lost in her memories. Calliande hoped they were pleasant ones.

"More strangers!" said the innkeeper. "Welcome! I am Bardus, and this is the White Walls Inn." He looked at Ridmark, flinched a bit when he saw the brand, and then his smile returned. "How can I serve?"

"We'll be staying the night," said Ridmark, "and then proceeding on our way in the morning." The men at the fire looked up at the sound of his voice. "I'll need a room for three men, and then a private room for the lady."

"Of course, of course," said Bardus. "We have the rooms, certainly. Peddlers and travelers come through the village sometimes, but not many right now, not with all the...ah, unpleasantness. But you are welcome here."

The armored men near the fire stood. Two wore the chain mail and tabards of common men-at-arms, swords at their belts. The third wore the more expensive plate and chain armor of a knight, the steel polished to a mirror-like sheen. A blue surcoat marked with the sigil of a black dragon's head hung over his armor, and some part of Calliande's damaged memory informed her that was the sigil of the Dux of Caerdracon.

"Well, I shall be damned," said the knight. He was blond and handsome, with black eyes and a mustache that had been trimmed and styled. His eyes were focused on Ridmark, and a mocking smile appeared below the mustache. "The coward of Castra Marcaine himself, still alive? God has indeed a cruel sense of humor."

He laughed, and his men-at-arms followed suit.

Bardus looked from Ridmark to the knight, fear on his face.

"Sir Paul Tallmane," said Ridmark. "It has been a long time."

"Five years," said Paul. He glanced at Bardus. "You have the privilege of a noble guest indeed, master innkeeper. Ridmark Arban, the son of the Dux of Taliand and once the most renowned Swordbearer of the Order of the Soulblade. Then he abandoned his army in the field and murdered his wife, and the Order expelled him for his crimes."

"I...I don't know, my lord knight," said Bardus. "I am an innkeeper, a simple innkeeper, and the affairs of the mighty are above me..."

"Perhaps," said Calliande, "you should check on matters in the kitchen."

Bardus gave her a grateful look and scurried away. If it came to violence, she did not want the innkeeper or his family hurt. And it might come to violence. Ridmark's expression gave away nothing, but she saw the loathing behind Paul's gleaming smile.

He hated Ridmark.

"You're a long way from Caerdracon," said Ridmark.

"Indeed I am," said Paul. "I have moved up in the world, exile. The Dux of Caerdracon, as you know, owns a castle near Coldinium, the Iron Tower. Dux Tarrabus, in his gracious wisdom, has appointed me Constable of the Iron Tower, a position high in honor and prestige."

"I congratulate you, sir," said Ridmark. "It is a remarkable bit of alchemy you have performed."

"Oh?" said Paul. "And what alchemy is this?"

"Coldinium is a frontier town, far from the heart of Andomhaim," said Ridmark. "Far from Caerdracon, for that matter. Traditionally, the Dux of Caerdracon has given responsibility for the Iron Tower to those who displeased him. The failures, the incompetents, the disliked." Paul's hard smile grew sharper. "Those who would burn a freeholder's farm in their Dux's name and were stupid enough to get caught, for instance. But it is remarkable how you have made the Constable of Iron Tower into a position of honor and prestige. I didn't think anyone could do it."

"Do not lecture me about honor, exile," said Paul. "Not when you have that brand upon your face, and you carry that stick," he pointed at Ridmark's staff, "rather than a knightly weapon."

"A drunkard's warnings about the dangers of wine are still true," said Ridmark, "and you would be surprised what a freeholder can do with a quarterstaff in his hands."

"Enough," said Paul. "I did not come all this way to listen to you quote peasant proverbs. Why are you here, exile?"

"You saw the omen of blue fire?" said Ridmark.

Paul snorted. "I could hardly miss it. Everyone in Coldinium saw it."

"It is a sign of the return of the Frostborn," said Ridmark. "They will return, though I know not when or how. I am going to Urd Morlemoch to confront the Warden, to force him to tell me more."

Paul threw back his head and roared with laughter, and his men followed suit. Calliande glared at them, but they ignored her.

"Still this nonsense, exile?" said Paul. "The Frostborn are returning? The Frostborn are extinct, you ragged fool. You talked about the Frostborn even before you slew Aelia. We all laughed at you for your obsession. Now I see it for what it really is. The last, desperate attempt of a pathetic, broken man to find some scrap of redemption."

"The Frostborn are returning," said Ridmark, still showing no flicker of emotion, "and how you and I or anyone else feels about it is irrelevant. They are coming back, and I need to find the truth of it."

Paul sneered. "Chase your fantasies, if you wish. It is no concern of mine."

"Perhaps not," said Ridmark. "What are your concerns, Sir Paul? What brings the honored Constable of Iron Tower to a village in the Wilderland?"

Paul glanced at his men, and then back at Ridmark.

"A hunt," he said. "A wyvern has been terrorizing the freeholders near Coldinium. The Comes of Coldinium posted a great bounty upon the beast's head. Naturally, I had to uphold the honor of the Dux, Caerdracon, and the Iron Tower."

"Naturally," said Ridmark.

Paul scowled. "I wounded the beast near the Iron Tower, and it fled north. I followed it to Aranaeus. I suspect the wyvern has gone to ground in the hills, perhaps in the dark elven ruin that lent its name to this charming hovel of an inn. Tomorrow I shall resume my pursuit."

"A curious coincidence," said Ridmark.

"What is?" said Paul.

"That both the folk of Aranaeus and the beastmen claim the other kidnapped their kin, and then you arrive a few days later," said Ridmark.

Paul bristled. "Dare you to insinuate that I had something to do with this?"

"Did you?" said Ridmark.

"Of course not," said Paul. "I only just arrived in Aranaeus yesterday afternoon. I spotted packs of the beastmen vermin prowling through the forest, but they knew better than to attack a knight of Andomhaim and his men-at-arms. The village was abuzz with rumors about these mysterious disappearances." He smiled. "Perhaps the wyvern is to blame."

"Perhaps," said Ridmark. "An adult wyvern has a body the size of an ox and a fifty-foot wingspan. I am sure such a creature could enter the village undetected and make off with its victims without raising an alarm."

Paul scoffed. "And I suppose you intend to find whatever is behind these disappearances, exile? I am not surprised. You were ever the fool, running after every mud-stained freeholder than came to you with a tale of woe."

Calliande bristled. Ridmark's penchant for running after every mud-stained freeholder with a tale of woe had saved her life, kept the empty soulstone from falling into the hands of Shadowbearer, and had saved the town of Dun Licinia. However much Ridmark hated himself, he did not deserve to have this preening jackass insult him.

But Ridmark answered before she could speak.

"Innocent people may be dead," said Ridmark. "Would you have me abandon the rest of them to their fate?"

Paul shrugged. "Do whatever you like, exile. But these people left Andomhaim. They chose to forsake the protection and wisdom of our High King. We are not obliged to defend them." He smiled. "Frankly, if the inn caught fire, I would not cross the street to piss upon the flames."

"They are still sons and daughters of the church," said Ridmark.

"Have you seen the church's state of repair?" said Paul. "Or talked to that senile old priest? These villagers care nothing for the sacred traditions of the faith. It would not surprise me if that red-haired bitch led them to a circle of dark elven menhirs to sacrifice to the blood gods of the orcs." He grinned. "Or maybe they're looking for the Frostborn, too, like a certain pathetic coward with a stick and a brand..."

"Enough," said Calliande. Paul looked at her, blinking in surprise. "The Frostborn are returning. The realm must prepare itself to face the danger."

Paul and his men laughed. "Who is this, exile? Some tart dressed up in men's clothing?" He stepped towards her, grinning. "Your whore, perhaps? Your prostitute that..."

A heartbeat later Paul was on the floor, his eyes wide, blood streaming from his nose. The men-at-arms shouted and drew their swords. Ridmark remained calm, though he grimaced as he shook his fist.

Agnes hooted with laughter, took another drink of her beer, and closed her eyes.

"Apologize," said Ridmark.

"You hit me!" said Paul. He sounded more astonished than angry.

"Apologize," said Ridmark again. "This woman is a Magistria of the Order, and you have insulted her. Apologize, now, or I will challenge you to a duel." His eyes were flinty. "And if I do, you will not leave Aranaeus alive."

Paul growled and got to his feet with a clatter of armor, and Calliande was sure he would throw himself at Ridmark. Ridmark stared at him without blinking, and the anger drained from Paul's face, replaced by a hint of fear.

He made a stiff bow in Calliande's direction. "Forgive me, my lady. My words were...ill-considered. I apologize."

"For God's sake," said Calliande. "Hold still."

Before Paul could react, she reached over, pinched his nose shut, and cast a spell. The power of the magic washed through her, and for a moment she felt the pain of his broken nose as if it were her own. White light flashed from her fingers, and his nose healed with a crackling sound.

She released him, and Paul stepped back, blinking.

"You...you truly are a Magistria?" he said. "I didn't...I didn't..."

"You didn't know?" said Calliande. "You thought I was helpless and harmless, and you could do whatever you wished to me? Did not the Dominus Christus say that whatever you do for the least of your brothers, you do for him? Perhaps the priest charged with your education as a child neglected to mention that? Or did you sleep through it?"

"I apologize," said Paul with a curt nod. His eyes fell back to Ridmark. "I won't forget this, exile." He smiled. "You know that the Dux Tarrabus has never forgiven you for the death of Aelia? He still has a price on your head. If I brought back your corpse, he would give me lands and riches...and an office even higher in honor than the Constable of the Iron Tower."

"The Dux," said Ridmark, "has no power to pronounce a capital sentence upon a man not of Caerdracon."

"The Dux Tarrabus Carhaine," said Paul, "has more power than you think. Your arrogant fool of a father and that senile wretch of a High King are going to learn..."

He trailed off, as if he had said too much.

"They're going to learn what, pray?" said Ridmark, lifting his eyebrows. "Please continue, sir. I am your eager pupil."

"Bah," said Paul. "I have wasted enough time speaking to you. You had best take care. I promised that whipped cur of a praefectus and his termagant wife that I would commit no violence within the walls of Aranaeus, and Sir Paul Tallmane is loyal to his given word." His grin had a nasty edge to it. "But if I find you outside the walls of Aranaeus...why, it would be a tragedy if I mistook you for a wyvern and shot you with my crossbow. A tragedy indeed."

"Indeed it would," said Ridmark. "A tragedy for Tarrabus, since his knights are stupid enough to mistake a man for a wyvern."

Calliande laughed.

Paul scowled. "Come!" He beckoned to his men-at-arms, and they followed him from the common room, leaving Calliande alone with Ridmark.

"Did you really have to hit him?" said Calliande.

"Of course." He looked surprised. "A knight must defend the honor of a lady. I am not a knight any longer...but habits die hard, I suppose."

"Were all your friends so truculent?" said Calliande.

"We never friends," said Ridmark. "We were squires together."

"Do you think his story is true?" said Calliande.

"Not in the least," said Ridmark. "If he had come north chasing a wyvern, the villagers would have noticed the beast. The lupivirii would have, certainly. Though..."

"What is it?" said Calliande.

"Did he seem surprised to see me?" said Ridmark.

"No," said Calliande. "Now that you mention it, no. I think he was expecting you. Someone must have seen you coming and told him."

"So quickly?" said Ridmark. "I suppose we spent enough time in the church. But not many of the villagers would recognize me. And of those that did, would any of them think to tell Sir Paul?"

"I don't know," said Calliande. "So if Sir Paul expected to find you here...why come to Aranaeus? Just for you? Or for some other reason?"

"Good question," said Ridmark.

He walked towards the wall, where Agnes sat watching them from her bench.

"Mistress," said Ridmark. "Might I ask you a question?"

"Why, isn't he polite?" said Agnes to Calliande. "I like polite young men. They're so rare, you know." Her hazy eyes shifted back to Ridmark. "And, yes, you can take me to the harvest dance. Though I don't think you could keep up with me!"

"I shouldn't like to try," said Ridmark. "That knight I spoke with..."

"The one you punched," said Agnes with her hooting laugh.

"The one I punched," said Ridmark. "Can you tell me anything about him?"

"He is not a polite young man," said Agnes with a disapproving shake of her head "Children ought to be respectful to their elders, don't you think?"

"I do think that," said Ridmark. Though Calliande was likely older than Agnes by at least a century and a half. "How was he disrespectful?"

Agnes smacked her lips. "Well, he kept talking about the ruins of the dark elves. That's a bad place, you know. Sometimes a village boy gets it into his head that he's going to go digging, find some shiny gem to impress his sweetheart. He never comes back." She cackled again. "The things in the ruins, you know, they're always hungry. Like babies! But what was I talking about?"

"The knight I punched," said Ridmark. "The impolite one."

"Hmm? Oh, yes, him," said Agnes. "Said his master wanted something from within the ruins. Some treasure. His master the duck would reward him well, if he found the treasure. Though why would any man serve a duck?"

"Men do not serve ducks," said Ridmark, "though they might serve a Dux."

"Yes, that was it," said Agnes. "A Dux." She took another drink of her beer. "I tried to warn him. But he told me to be off or he would have me beaten. So disrespectful! I was already old when his father first lusted after his mother. His grandfather, most likely! It will serve him right when the devils in the ruins eat him."

"Truly," said Ridmark. "Thank you."

But Agnes had already forgotten him, and started humming to herself again.

"What shall we do now?" said Calliande.

Ridmark shrugged. "We'll tell Kharlacht and Caius that we have rooms."

###

Later that night Ridmark sat alone in the common room of the White Walls Inn by the hearth, a clay mug of beer in his hand.

A dozen villagers had gathered to drink and size up the strangers. Fortunately, Caius had their full attention. The dwarven friar held the villagers rapt with his tales of their adventures near Dun Licinia. Calliande had gone to bed, still tired from their ordeal at the ford, and he had sent Kharlacht to keep watch outside her room. He would not put it past Paul Tallmane to kill her for embarrassing him. But there was no sign of the knight, and Ridmark assumed he had gone back to his room.

Ridmark thought about the disappearances, about the white ruins on the hill. He thought about the dilapidated, ignored church. In villages of this size, the church was commonly the most used building. Why did most of the villagers seem to ignore it?

He thought about Aelia, again and again.

But, then, he always thought about her.

Caius finished one of his stories to a gale of laughter and a round of applause, and the dwarven friar bowed.

"A moment, my friends!" he said. "A moment to wet my throat. Then I shall tell you of the siege of Dun Licinia, and how the valiant men of the town stood fast against the Mhalekite tide!"

Bardus handed Caius a cup of beer, and the dwarf joined Ridmark.

"You make it sound more pleasant than it really was," said Ridmark.

Caius shrugged. "It is still true. There was blood and death and misery, aye...but there was still valor and courage and bold deeds. Have you decided what we shall do tomorrow?"

Ridmark frowned. He was an outcast and an exile, and one of the most powerful men in the realm wanted him dead. He had no authority, no right to command anyone.

Yet Caius and Calliande and Kharlacht would still do whatever he told them.

"We're going to Urd Dagaash tomorrow," said Ridmark.

"Is that wise?" said Caius. "Dark elven ruins are hardly known for their welcoming nature, and this one seems worse than most."

"Likely not," said Ridmark, "but whatever is behind these disappearances is most probably lurking up there. And I suspect Tarrabus Carhaine sent Sir Paul to get something from Urd Dagaash. The omen of blue flame, the disappearances, and Sir Paul all arriving so close to each other is too much of a coincidence."

Caius nodded. "Very well. I think we should bring young Gavin along."

Ridmark grunted. "Why? He'll just get in the way."

"The boy can handle himself in a fight," said Caius. "You saw that at the ford."

"There is more to it than that," said Ridmark. "You always have your reasons, Brother Caius. If we merely needed strong arms, we could hire a few of the village men."

Caius smiled. "I've known you less than a month, but already you know me too well. Yes, I think we could use his help, but I think we could help him as well."

"How?" said Ridmark.

"The lad is a rare sort," said Caius. "Bold and fearless, but without any malice in his heart. Consider how he was willing to help us against the kobolds, and did not ask for any reward. I fear his father is a craven, and his stepmother cold and scheming. That he has been strong enough of will to fight their influence is remarkable."

"Perhaps he did so in rebellion against them," said Ridmark.

"Virtue performed for the wrong reason is still virtue," said Caius. "And he's in love with that young woman, the one betrothed to the blacksmith's apprentice."

"So?" said Ridmark. "He loves her, but she loves the blacksmith. He'll get over it."

"Or he won't," said Caius. "Perhaps you've seen that sort of thing before."

"Or he won't," said Ridmark, remembering. Tarrabus had been in love with Aelia, for years. She had regarded him as a friend, at least until she had seen his true character.

That had not ended well.

"If he wants the girl," said Ridmark, "he'll have to court her. And if she rejects him, he'll simply have to accept it and move on."

"I think he is strong enough to do that," said Caius. "But in ten years? In twenty years? That sort of rejection can fester. Enough to twist a man's character, to make him consider things he might have never contemplated in his wiser days."

"Then," said Ridmark, "you want to take a boy into a dark elven ruin so he doesn't murder a romantic rival in twenty years?"

"There's more than that," said Caius. "I think Gavin has the potential to become a remarkable man, a knight without peer. In all frankness, I think he would be wasted if he stayed here."

Ridmark drummed his fingers on the side of his cup. "Father Martel put you up to this, didn't he?"

Caius laughed. "Am I that transparent? Yes, he did. Father Martel was quite well-educated before he left the realm – familiar with the Latin and Greek authors of Old Earth, the histories of Andomhaim, even a translation of the Chronicle of the Nine Kingdoms written by the stonescribes of my kindred. Gavin soaked it up like a sponge. Martel wants what is best for the boy, and I agree with him that it would be better if Gavin left Aranaeus and sought his fortune elsewhere."

"Fine," said Ridmark. "What does Gavin want? Other than Rosanna, that is."

"A snide reply does not become you, Gray Knight. Consider. Gavin was willing to travel alone through the Wilderland to ask for aid from Dux Gareth," said Caius. "I think you know what he wants."

"To do great deeds and win renown as a knight of the realm," said Ridmark, "as young men do."

"You're twenty-eight," said Caius. "Hardly an old man. To me you all seem like children. Well. Except Calliande. And we don't know how old she is."

"I don't feel young," said Ridmark. "Not for years, now." Not since Aelia had died in a pool of her own blood before her father's seat.

"But you remember it, I think," said Caius, "and when you were fifteen years old, if some peril had threatened your home, what would you have done?"

Ridmark sighed. "I would have fought it. Very well. The boy can come. Though God forbid we get him killed. I don't want to explain his death to his father."

"I fear," said Caius, "that is why he must come with us. I don't think either his father or his stepmother would mind very much if he died."

###

Calliande slept, and in her dreams the Watcher came to her again.

"Mistress," he said, his eyes sad and heavy in his lined face.

"How much do you know about me?" said Calliande.

"You commanded me never to speak of your past," said the Watcher.

"I mean my present," said Calliande. "Can you see what I am doing?"

The Watcher nodded. "I can. It is part of both the oath and the spell that binds me. Time does not function for me as it does for you, and a haze of mist engulfs the world of the living to my eyes."

"But you must have a good idea of what I'm doing," said Calliande. "Because you know that I am about to do something dangerous, which is why you are appearing to me now."

The Watcher nodded.

"So if you can see my present, but are forbidden to speak about my past," said Calliande, "can you tell me about my present?"

The Watcher blinked, and then smiled. "Yes. Yes, I can share my knowledge of our present."

"What can you tell me about Urd Dagaash?" said Calliande.

The Watcher shrugged. "Little enough, I fear. It is part of a chain of dark elven ruins stretching across the Wilderland to Urd Morlemoch. They were ruled by petty dark elven princes and wizards, all at war with each other. When the urdmordar destroyed Cathair Amnios and swept south, they annihilated the dark elven princes for rebelling against them. Only the Warden resisted their power."

"What is inside Urd Dagaash?" said Calliande. "Something capable of causing these disappearances?"

"Almost certainly," said the Watcher. "The possibilities are limitless. Pagan orcs or the urdmordar, or perhaps a rogue tribe of manetaurs. One of the dark elves' sorcerous creatures, lairing in the ruins. Or the ruins link to the Deeps, and kobolds or the dvargir have been raiding the surface. Be careful if you enter Urd Dagaash. You alone stand against the Frostborn, and if you perish in a dark elven ruin, all hope is lost."

The mist swallowed her, and then the sound of knocking awoke Calliande.

She sat up with a gasp. She was in her room at the White Walls Inn, the narrow bed creaking beneath her. The room was small but clean, with a tiny window overlooking the street.

"Magistria?" The door swung open, and Kharlacht stepped into the room, his blue greatsword in hand. "Are you well?"

"I'm fine," said Calliande. It was odd that she trusted him, given that he had once handed her over to Qazarl and Shadowbearer. But trust him she did. "A dream. That's all."

But she knew better.

***

## Chapter 8 - Hunters

The next morning Gavin adjusted his pack, checked his dagger in its sheath, picked up his club, and walked to the village's northern gate. Beyond the wall, on the hills north of the village, he saw the strange, alien towers rising from the hill's crest like the bones of some giant beast.

Urd Dagaash.

And he was going there of his own will.

A shiver of fear went down his spine. Urd Dagaash had been a place of dread all his life. No one went there. Every few years a wandering adventurer or an aspiring tomb robber arrived in the village and went to the ruins in search of plunder.

They never returned.

Perhaps he would see their bones moldering within Urd Dagaash.

Perhaps his bones would lie alongside theirs.

He had to do this. His father simply wanted to bury his head in the sand and wait until the problem went away. But Gavin knew that would not work. Whatever creatures had decided to prey upon the villagers and the beastmen would not give up.

He heard the scrape of boots against the street and turned.

Ridmark Arban walked towards him, staff tapping against the street, his gray cloak hanging around him. Calliande came after him, wearing a heavy cloak and a leather jerkin, a dagger at her belt. Though with her magic, Gavin supposed, she hardly needed to carry any weapons. Brother Caius came next, and then Kharlacht, grim and silent in his strange blue armor.

"Sir," said Gavin.

Ridmark grimaced, the lines of the brand on his left check distorting. "You're determined on this, then?"

Gavin nodded. "I am, sir." Aranaeus was in peril, and he could not sit idly by and do nothing.

Another part of his mind, a small part, whispered that Rosanna might notice his bravery. That was folly, he knew it.

But the whisper would not stop.

"Very well," said Ridmark, glancing at Caius. "You can follow us. But you will do as I say, understand? If I tell you to run, you run."

"I will, sir," said Gavin.

"Good," said Ridmark. He looked at the hills. "Let's go. I would prefer not to be in those ruins after dark."

He strode through the gate without a backwards glance, and Gavin followed him. Ridmark set a brisk pace along the path winding down the slope. The others kept up with him, and Gavin walked alongside Caius, keeping his club close at hand. Not that he expected the beastmen to approach so close to the village's walls. But it never hurt to be careful. They left the village's hill and came to the pastures and patches of forest between Aranaeus and the taller hills.

"On the village's northern side," said Ridmark, glancing back at Gavin. "Are there any fields here? Any crops?"

"No, sir," said Gavin. "Just pastures. The freeholders with cattle graze them here. But no one grows crops here. The soil is too rocky, and it's too close to the ruins. No one ever goes north of the creek."

Ridmark nodded and kept walking.

A mile and a half later they reached the base of the valley between Aranaeus and the hill of Urd Dagaash. A wide creek bubbled before them, splashing around worn, smooth stones on its way to the River Moradel. On the south side of the creek lay the pastures of Aranaeus, alongside the patches of forest that provided firewood for the village.

On the north side the forest was thick and shadowed, an ancient, worn path of white stones climbing the hill to the gates of Urd Dagaash.

Gavin shivered, despite his jacket.

"Those standing stones," said Ridmark, pointing with his staff. "Do you see them?"

A half dozen menhirs of dark stone stood alongside the path, their surfaces carved with strange, intricate designs showing scenes of torture and death.

"A standing circle?" said Kharlacht.

"No," said Calliande. Her blue eyes were distant, as if the standing stones reminded her of something unpleasant. "Not quite. These were wardstones. The dark elves bound spells of warding into them. If any intruders approached, the spells upon the stones would alert the wizards in the citadel."

"Are they still active?" said Ridmark.

Calliande whispered under her breath and waved her right hand. White light flared around her fingers and faded away, and Gavin shivered again. He knew she was a Magistria, that she commanded magical forces, but before yesterday he had never seen such powers used.

"No," said Calliande. "No, any spells were broken long ago. There are barely even echoes left. Whoever destroyed Urd Dagaash likely also broke the spells."

"The urdmordar, I suspect," said Caius. "The stonescribes record that rebel dark elven princes settled here, hoping to escape slavery at the hands of the spider-devils. When the urdmordar shattered Cathair Amnios and came south, they took their revenge on the dark elves before they turned to Andomhaim."

"No one holds a grudge like an immortal spider-demon," said Ridmark.

Ridmark crossed the creek, hopping from stone to stone, and the others followed suit. Gavin took a deep breath, and for the first time in his life, crossed to the northern bank.

Nothing happened.

They climbed the half-crumbled road, Gavin taking care to keep his balance on the shifting flagstones. Ridmark walked in the front, staff in hand, his eyes never ceasing their moment. Unlike the others, the man made absolutely no sound as he moved, despite the uneven terrain. Gavin wondered if he would be willing to teach the skill.

Then Ridmark went motionless, holding up his free hand.

"Ah," he said. "I thought this might happen."

"What is it?" said Calliande.

"Don't move," said Ridmark. "Keep your weapons out." Kharlacht drew his greatsword, and Caius raised a mace of odd bronze-colored metal. "And above all, do not show any sign of weakness. Do not break eye contact, and do not take a step back if they snap at you."

"Oh," said Calliande, and sighed.

"What's happening?" said Gavin.

A dozen hulking, black-furred forms poured out of the surrounding trees, moving into a circle around the overgrown road.

The beastmen had found them.

###

Ridmark kept a loose grip on his staff, though his limbs remained tensed and ready. The others raised their weapons, and Calliande began the rhythmic breathing that preceded a spell. Gavin gripped his club with both hands, his eyes darting back and forth.

"Steady," said Ridmark, mostly for Gavin's benefit.

One of the lupivirii moved closer, and Ridmark spotted Rakhaag.

He locked eyes with the lupivir alpha and walked closer, keeping his posture calm and unconcerned. Rakhaag stopped, his harsh golden eyes glaring down at Ridmark.

Ridmark waited. The dominant male did not speak first.

"Ridmark son of Leogrance son of Rience," said Rakhaag at last, using the orcish language.

"Rakhaag son of Balhaag son of Talhaag," said Ridmark in the same tongue.

"You are not of the True People," said Rakhaag. "You are a user of tools, a crafter of lies."

"I am not of the beastmen," said Ridmark, "and I am a user of tools made by the cunning of men, yes. But I spoke the truth to you when last we met."

"Perhaps," said Rakhaag. "And strange scents have come to our nostrils since. We watched as you battled corpses that walked, as one of your females wielded great magic. Such strange sights have not been seen by the True People since the dark elves still ruled in Urd Dagaash."

"You know what the dead things were, then?" said Ridmark.

"I have never seen one with my own eyes, but it is in the memories of the True People," said Rakhaag. "Of old, the dark elves and the urdmordar commanded great hosts of corpses, and hunted the True People for sport. You have powerful enemies, Ridmark son of Leogrance, if they can raise the dead and command them to hunt you."

"I do," said Ridmark. He had not lied to Rakhaag before, and this seemed like a poor time to start. "The creatures were called kobolds, and they were murdered and raised by a wizard who calls himself Shadowbearer."

Rakhaag hissed, and an ominous growl went through the lupivir pack.

"I see they know the name," said Calliande.

"The True People know of him," said Rakhaag. "He taught the dark elves how to open the doors to the threshold. He brought the Frostborn to the forest."

"The Frostborn?" said Ridmark, surprised. "What do you know about the Frostborn and Shadowbearer?" He had assumed Shadowbearer wanted the empty soulstone and Calliande's death for some nefarious purpose of his own, but did that purpose involve the Frostborn somehow?

"Only that he is the herald of woe, and he heralded the invasion of the Frostborn nearly three hundred winters ago," said Rakhaag.

"How?" said Ridmark. "How do you know that? The True People rarely live past thirty winters."

"It is in our memories," said Rakhaag. "But you did not come here to speak of the Frostborn."

"No," said Ridmark, "and you did not come here to speak of them, either. You sought us out."

Rakhaag growled, showing his fangs. "Men and orcs have taken our females and young."

"Perhaps they have," said Ridmark, "and you blamed the villagers of Aranaeus. But there are no orcs in Aranaeus, are there? And you realized there are more than one group of humans in the Wilderland."

Rakhaag said nothing. He shifted back into his half-human, half-bestial form, his pale skin marked with stripes of black fur. In this form, he looked young, perhaps no more than a year or two older than Gavin.

"Yes," he growled at last. "That is why we have sought you out. The orcs that took our kin. We have seen them."

"Where?" said Ridmark.

Rakhaag growled again. "They entered Urd Dagaash last night." His golden eyes shifted to Gavin. "Likely your missing kin are within the ruin."

"And you want us," said Ridmark, "to go inside and have a look."

Caius snorted. "Given that you cannot lie, that is downright devious."

"The True People may not enter Urd Dagaash," said Rakhaag. "Our memories tell us that any male, female, or cub of the True People who has ever entered the ruins has not come out again."

"But we are not of the True People," said Ridmark, "so you're more than happy to send us inside to deal with these orcs."

"Yes," said Rakhaag. He took a step closer, glaring down at Ridmark. "Prove your truth, Ridmark son of Leogrance. You say you do not lie? Then enter the ruins. Take the dwarf, the whelp, the orc, and the female and find our kin. Show..."

He trailed off, his eyes fixed on Calliande. She lifted her chin and met his eyes without blinking, but Ridmark saw a muscle trembling in her jaw.

"Rakhaag," said Ridmark, "what is this?"

"Your hand," said Rakhaag, a note of awe in the rough voice.

"My hand?" said Ridmark. "What about it?"

"Not yours!" snarled Rakhaag, never looking away from Calliande. "The female's. Let me smell your hand."

Calliande hesitated, still keeping her eyes fixed upon Rakhaag's.

"Ridmark," she said.

"Let him do it," said Ridmark, raising his staff a few inches. Perhaps Rakhaag had smelled Calliande's ability to use magic. Ridmark did not know how the beastmen would react to a Magistria. The lupivirii were nearly extinct within Andomhaim, and Ridmark had never seen a lupivir encounter a user of magic. Perhaps Calliande's power would command more cooperation from Rakhaag and his pack.

Or perhaps he would go berserk and try to kill her.

If he did, Ridmark would be ready.

Calliande shrugged and extended her hand, and Rakhaag bowed over it, his nostrils flaring. For a moment he looked like a courtier bowing over the hand of a lady, albeit a naked, dark-furred courtier standing nine feet tall. His nostrils flared once, twice, three times.

Then Rakhaag straightened up so violently that Ridmark was sure he would attack.

"You are her!" Rakhaag hissed. "After so many years. You have come!"

There was terror on his face.

"What are you talking about?" said Calliande.

"Staffbearer," said Rakhaag. "You are the Staffbearer."

###

Calliande stared at the towering lupivir. Rakhaag stood at least three and a half feet over her and outweighed her by two hundred pounds. He could have snapped her in half without much effort.

Yet he was terrified of her.

"Staffbearer?" said Calliande. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"You are the Staffbearer," said Rakhaag. "It is in our memories. You would return, to warn the True People against the coming of the Frostborn."

"You...you know who I am?" said Calliande, stunned. It was madness. She had been born centuries ago, and Rakhaag could not have been more than twenty. There was no way he could know who she was.

Yet the lupivirii did not lie.

"You are the Staffbearer," said Rakhaag, "and we must obey you. Otherwise, the world shall die in ice, and the True People shall perish. All peoples shall perish."

"I see," said Calliande. "How can you possibly know that?"

Rakhaag hissed. "The great memory of the True People."

"What is that?" said Calliande.

"When we die," said Rakhaag, "our memories are not lost, but become part of the great memory. When we are born, we can touch the great memory. A cub learns to hunt, to stalk, to survive in the wilds by learning from the great memory."

"You mean the memories of the True People remain after death?" said Calliande. "And you can recall them?"

"It is as you say," said Rakhaag. "Your scent is part of the great memory. Every one of the True People would recognize you from your scent. And we will do as you say."

Calliande hesitated. The Magistri could speak which each other over vast distances, using their magic to create a limited form of telepathy. Perhaps the lupivirii could do something similar, communicating their memories after death. And if the lupivirii had some telepathic ability, it explained why they never spoke to each other, but only employed speech to communicate with other kindreds.

And if she had spoken with them before she had gone to sleep below the Tower of Vigilance...they might know who she truly was.

"Dragonfall," said Calliande. "Do you know where it is?"

Rakhaag growled. "The name is not known to us."

"You called me the Staffbearer," said Calliande. "Why?"

"Because you are the Staffbearer," said Rakhaag.

"Obviously I have no staff now," said Calliande. "Do you know where it is?"

Rakhaag hesitated. "You are the Staffbearer."

Calliande could have screamed in frustration. The lupivirii knew her. Or at least they knew who she had been. Yet they thought in terms of scent and instinct. They could not translate their great memory into useful information.

Ridmark's quiet voice cut into her thoughts.

"The lupivirii said you can command them," said Ridmark. "Perhaps you should follow their suggestion. And they might know something about the disappearances."

Calliande took a deep breath. "Yes, of course, you're right." She rebuked herself. Innocent lives were at stake, and she could not waste time with self-pity. And if the beastmen thought like wolves...then she would ask them questions wolves might understand. "Will you answer my questions, Rakhaag son of Balhaag?"

"I shall," said Rakhaag. "You are the Staffbearer."

"Actually," said Calliande. She was a Magistria, not a warrior. She wasn't sure of the right questions to ask. "If I command you to answer the questions of Ridmark son of Leogrance, will you do it?"

Rakhaag growled. "If you command it."

"I do."

"The men and orcs who took your kin," said Ridmark. "What can you tell me about them?"

"They were warriors," said Rakhaag. "They carried weapon-tools of steel, and clothed themselves in steel. They came with great speed and stealth, and vanished before we could pursue. They employed a magic that made us weak, a vile scent that filled our minds with fog."

"A drug, then?" said Ridmark. "Can you tell me more about them?"

"They were poison," said Rakhaag.

"The warriors carried poison, you mean," said Ridmark.

Rakhaag bared his fangs. "They stank of poison. It was in their blood. Their sweat dripped with it."

"You mean they were poisoned?" said Ridmark.

"Perhaps," said Rakhaag. "If they were of the True People, I would say that they were...diseased. That they were rabid, perhaps, or that they had been infected by an illness that had driven them mad."

"You must have followed them," said Ridmark. "If their blood was tainted, you could have followed their scent easily. Where did they go?"

"To the ruins," said Rakhaag. "To the place called Urd Dagaash."

Ridmark grunted. "Did they come out again?"

"Often," said Rakhaag. "At least a half-dozen times in the last twenty rounds of the sun."

Calliande frowned. "If they're coming from Urd Dagaash, then why did you think the men of Aranaeus took your kin?"

"Because," said Rakhaag, "some of the humans and orcs with poisoned blood went to Aranaeus."

"You're sure of this?" said Ridmark.

Rakhaag growled again. "Humans and orcs fashion tools of falsehood from cunning words, but the True People do not lie."

"No, but the True People can be mistaken," said Ridmark. "You thought me responsible for the disappearances at first."

"This is so," said Rakhaag. "But we have seen and scented the poisoned ones entering the village at night."

"A moment," said Ridmark. He switched to Latin and looked at Gavin. "Have any other strangers come to Aranaeus in the last three weeks?"

"No, sir," said Gavin. "Just you and your friends. Well, and that knight, Sir Philip. But he arrived just before you did."

"Thank you," said Ridmark. He turned back to Rakhaag and switched to orcish. "These poisoned men and orcs. They went to Aranaeus, and returned to Urd Dagaash?"

"Several times," said Rakhaag.

Ridmark nodded. Calliande recognized that expression. He was working upon a plan. "Thank you."

Rakhaag snarled at him.

"Thank you," said Calliande. "Everything you have told us will help us to find your missing kin."

"If you ask it of us, Staffbearer," said Rakhaag, "we will do whatever you wish. For we must serve you. The great memory tells us if we do not, the cold ones will return and choke the world in ice. The forests will die, all the game shall die, and the True People shall starve and become no more."

"Tell him," said Ridmark, "to keep watch over the village. Let us know if you see these poisoned warriors come for the village."

"And what," said Rakhaag, "will you be doing?"

"We are going to Urd Dagaash," said Ridmark, "and we will try to unravel the mysteries surrounding us."

"That place is death," said Rakhaag. "If you enter you shall not return."

"Perhaps," said Ridmark. "All men are mortal." He gestured at Calliande. "But we have the Staffbearer, do we not?"

"Indeed," said Rakhaag. "Her magic is mighty. With her at your side, you shall surely prevail. I was grievously mistaken. I mistook her for your mate and nothing more."

Calliande heard a croaking sound that she was very sure was Caius trying not to laugh.

"Alas, I fear I am not worthy of that honor," said Ridmark. "But with her aid, I'm sure we shall prevail."

Calliande did not know what to think about that, so she turned her gaze back to Rakhaag.

"You said I have mighty magic," said Calliande. "I have magic, but it's no stronger than the powers of any other Magistrius. You must know more about me, your great memory must know more about me. Please, I beg you, tell me anything you know. The spell that let me survive to see this time ...it damaged my memory. I know nothing about myself. If you know anything, if your great memory knows anything, tell me. Anything at all."

Rakhaag fell silent, his brow furrowing.

"I am not...I am not sure how to answer you, Swordbearer," said Rakhaag. "Your minds...the way you think does not make sense. You humans are all mad, all of you, with your lies and your tools and your magic. I cannot fathom you. The great memory cannot fathom you. You are...you are alien. That is the word. You are alien."

He closed his eyes, and the other lupivirii did the same.

"What are they doing?" said Ridmark.

"I think," said Calliande, "they're talking with this...great memory of theirs, whatever it is."

Rakhaag's eyes opened again, his pupils dilated.

"You are the Staffbearer," said Rakhaag, and the other lupivirii spoke with him in perfect unison, their growling voices forming a rasping chorus. "You bore a staff of power, the last in a long line of bearers. You stood against the shadow and the frost, at the end of the war, the great war that almost consumed the world. You promised you would return, and you have. And your return is the herald of the frost, of the return of the killing ice."

Rakhaag shuddered, and the other lupivirii fell silent, some dropping to all fours, as if exhausted.

"That is all the great memory knows of you, Staffbearer," said Rakhaag. "Words...words are so crude. We know your scent. And that is richer than any words."

"Thank you," said Calliande. She already knew everything that Rakhaag had told her. But it had been good to hear it again. "It is maddening to not remember one's past. And I know nothing of my past. Only what others have told me."

"How you humans function without a great memory of your own," said Rakhaag, "I cannot understand."

"We do what we can," said Ridmark.

"Go," said Rakhaag. "We shall do as you bid, for the Staffbearer asked it of us."

Rakhaag turned, and the beastmen melted back into the forest.

Ridmark let out a long breath, and Calliande saw his grip on his staff loosen.

"They seem fond of you, mistress," said Kharlacht.

"They remember you," said Caius. "Or rather this great mind of theirs does. I have never heard of such a thing."

Calliande shrugged. "Perhaps no one else ever talked to them before."

"Come," said Ridmark, beckoning with his staff. "I thought we might encounter the beastmen again, but I didn't think they would cooperate so well. We have you to think for that, it seems."

"I don't know if I can take credit for it," said Calliande, "seeing as I cannot remember what I did." She smiled. "Perhaps they ought to name you Staffbearer."

He almost smiled. "I doubt my scent would be as pleasing to their great memory. Let's go."

He led the way up the hill, the ancient road cutting back and forth across the slopes. And then the trees ended, a high, crumbling wall of white stone rising before them, its sides adorned with reliefs showing dark elves torturing and enslaving orcs and beastmen and halflings. A yawning arch of odd angles opened into a half overgrown courtyard, white towers jutting from the earth like the teeth of a long-dead beast.

Calliande felt the faint aura of dark magic clinging to the walls, the remnants of long-shattered wards.

They had arrived at the gates of Urd Dagaash.

***

## Chapter 9 - Urd Dagaash

Ridmark walked through the gate and into the courtyard.

The courtyard was vast, easily large enough to hold Aranaeus. Once it had been paved with gleaming flagstones, but centuries of weather and grass had upturned most of them. The nine slender towers Ridmark had seen from the valley stood in a loose oval in the center of the courtyard, gleaming like white knives. The towers themselves could not have held much, but the dark elves and their dvargir allies had been skilled engineers, and likely the ruins extended deep underground.

Perhaps even deep enough to reach the Deeps themselves, the vast maze of caverns and galleries that spread beneath the surface of Andomhaim.

Which meant any number of creatures could be lurking in the ruins.

"It looks so desolate," said Gavin.

"It's not," said Ridmark, staring at the ground.

"How do you know?" said Gavin.

"Because," said Ridmark, pointing with his staff, "of the footprints."

The ground, thick with grass and half-tilted flagstones, was not ideal for preserving footprints. Yet Ridmark had seen many footprints on the road outside the ruins, and he saw many more here. In a patch of bare earth he saw the impressions of a dozen iron-nailed boots. Paths of grass had been trampled towards the ring of towers in Urd Dagaash's heart.

"A lot of armed men passed this way," said Ridmark. He motioned the others to stay back and took a few steps forward, examining the ground. "See there, there, and there? Armored boots. And there and there. A scabbard left those marks."

"Can you tell if they recently departed?" said Calliande. "Or if they are lying in wait for us ahead?"

Ridmark frowned at the tracks. "I'm not sure. They've gone back and forth so many times that the details are muddled." He shook his head. "But I think they've departed recently."

"Then there must not be any dark magic in this place," said Gavin. "Not if these armed men can come and go freely."

"Or," said Calliande, "they serve whatever dark power waits in the ruins."

"Aye," said Kharlacht. "Such things were common in Vhaluusk. A creature of dark magic could dwell in its lair and command the allegiance of the nearby tribes." He spat. "Narrakhan did it for decades."

Ridmark wondered who that was.

"Or a nest of bandits is simply lurking here," said Caius.

"No," said Calliande, gazing at the white towers. "I sense dark magic within those towers, Brother. Not strong. But it is there."

"The tracks head towards the largest tower," said Ridmark.

He led the way across the courtyard, keeping an eye out for any movement. Clouds slid across the blue sky overhead, and a breeze set the tall grasses to rustling. It was like walking through a field on a pleasant spring day, save for the dead stone towers rising from the earth, gravestones marking the ruined kingdoms of the dark elves.

Nothing else moved, and they soon reached the narrow, arched entrance to the tower. Ridmark stepped through it and looked around. The tower's interior had collapsed long ago into piles of eroded white stone. Ridmark looked up, the walls rising a hundred and fifty feet over his head. In various places he saw niches holding statues of dark elves in robes and armor. Here and there stone steps jutted from the tower's wall.

Ridmark followed the line of the steps and saw a stairwell sinking into the earth.

"Gavin," said Ridmark. "Did you bring the torches I wanted?"

Gavin scrambled to produce five torches.

"I could work a spell to make light," said Calliande as Gavin lit the torches.

"You could," said Ridmark. "But best to save your strength."

Calliande nodded, took a torch, and thanked Gavin. The boy turned a bit red and mumbled something in answer.

Ridmark took a torch in his left hand, his staff in his right, and started down the stairs. They spiraled down, deep into the rock of the hill. The others followed him, their boots rasping against the white stone. Ridmark heard nothing but utter silence from the darkness ahead. Soon the sunlight behind him vanished, the only light coming from the sputtering torch in his left hand.

Darkness filled the stairway ahead.

And then he saw a faint red glow.

"There's light ahead," he called back. "Be ready in case anyone awaits us."

The others nodded and lifted their weapons.

One more twist, and the stairs opened into a wide hall of white stone, its arched roof rising high overhead. Slender pillars supported narrow balconies, and the red light came from crystals set into the columns' capitals, each shining with a bloody red glow.

Dust and bones lay strewn across the floor, along with pieces of brittle, ancient wood.

Utter silence reigned over the chamber.

"This place is huge," whispered Gavin.

"We're at least five hundred feet down," said Caius. "The dark elves could not match my kindred's mastery of stone and steel," he gave a grudging nod to the ruins, "but they wielded great skill nonetheless."

Ridmark walked into the hall, his boots clicking against the floor.

"This was the hall of guests," said Ridmark. "Whatever prince or lord ruled this place would welcome his visitors here. And torture slaves to death for his amusement."

"That's ghastly," said Gavin.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "The dark elves thought of cruelty as beauty, and considered a dark elf who could bring torment to a slave a great artist."

Gavin took a step, and Kharlacht held out a thick hand to block him.

"You must take care," said Kharlacht. "The dark elves loved cruelty, as the Gray Knight said, and filled their strongholds with deadly mechanical traps to kill the unwary. I found my sword and armor in such a place, far to the north of here, and almost perished."

"Aye," said Caius, "the dvargir built many traps for the dark elves."

"Dvargir?" said Gavin. "What are they?"

"They were dwarves," said Caius. "When my kindred came to this world long ago, we carved out our own kingdoms. But some among us turned to the worship of the great darkness the dark elves revered, and that darkness twisted them as it twisted the dark elves. The dvargir allied with the dark elves, and made war upon us." He shook his head. "And then the urdmordar came and smashed them."

"Likely what happened here," said Ridmark. He took a few steps forward, testing the floor with his staff.

"Are you sure that's safe?" said Calliande.

"No," said Ridmark, "but I think it's safe enough. Look. You can see the path through the dust." A thin layer of dust covered the floor, but dozens of footprints marked it. "Note the lack of corpses and fresh blood along that trail. No traps. Follow me."

He walked across the vast hall. The trail of disturbed dust led to an archway in the far wall, and then into a narrow corridor with a high ceiling. Reliefs and symbols marked the wall, showing more of the disturbing scenes the dark elves had favored. Orcish bones and long-rusted weapons lay on the floor, all that remained of the dark elves' slaves. More of the red crystals gleamed in the ceiling. Their creators had been dead for centuries, yet they still glowed in this silent place of death. Ridmark wondered how long they would last. Perhaps they would glow until the Dominus Christus returned in glory to judge the living and the dead.

The corridor ended in another lofty hall half the size of the first.

The stink of rotting flesh filled his nostrils, and Ridmark saw that they had a problem.

White stone tiles, each a yard across, covered the floor. A gap of two inches surrounded each tile, bronze-colored metal gleaming in those gaps. A dead orc lay in the exact center of the chamber, clad in the wool and leather of the pagan tribes.

At least, Ridmark thought the corpse had been an orc.

The dead orc had been sliced into at least seven different pieces, and lay in a mangled heap. A huge stain the green-black color of dried orcish blood covered the tiles around the dead orc.

"God have mercy," said Gavin. "I don't think he died well."

"Probably," said Ridmark, "he died so quickly that he barely felt anything at all. Go bring me a skull."

Gavin obeyed and brought Ridmark an orcish skull. The tusks jutted up from the thick jaw, giving the skull a perpetual scowl.

"It is ill to mishandle the dead," said Caius, making the sign of the cross.

"Aye," said Ridmark, "and if we mishandle this room, we'll join them."

He tossed the skull into the hall with an overhand throw, and it landed on the center of a tile twenty feet away.

A loud click echoed through the chamber.

A dozen gleaming, serrated blades erupted from the gaps around the tile. Each one looked sharp enough to cut through skin and muscle, and to judge from the force of whatever infernal engine drove them, the blades had power enough to slice through bone as well.

After a moment the blades retracted into the floor.

"I think," said Caius, "that we know what happened to that orc."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "Bring me more things to throw."

Gavin hastened to obey, bringing Ridmark a supply of crumbling skulls and long-rusted weapons. Ridmark threw them one by one, testing the tiles. There had to be a safe path past the traps. The trail through the dust led here, and he could see another archway on the far end of the hall. The dead orc must have been one of the warriors Rakhaag had spotted, a warrior who had stepped a half-inch too far and met his end on those blades.

Yet every tile Ridmark tested sprang a trap.

He stepped back, rubbing his free hand over his face as he thought, stubble rasping beneath his palm.

"Likely there is some sort of mechanism to disarm the trap," said Caius. "My kindred built similar devices to protect our colonies from kobolds and deep orcs, and there is always a way to disarm the mechanism."

"I'm sure there is," said Ridmark. "And I'm equally sure that the mechanism for disarming the trap is in the corridor on the far side of the hall. Why build a trap your foes can disarm from the outside?" He looked at the dead orc. "But those orcs got in somehow, and they got past the trap."

"Perhaps someone let them in," said Kharlacht.

"Maybe," said Ridmark. "But if there were any guards in here to disarm the trap, they would have noticed us by now. We haven't exactly been quiet."

"Maybe something like a...a key?" said Gavin. "Or a token that would keep the trap from activating?"

"Then we'll have to track down one of the orcs and take it," said Ridmark. "We..."

"Magic," said Calliande, blinking.

They all looked at her.

"You have a spell to get us past the blades?" said Ridmark.

"I don't, but maybe the dark elves did," said Calliande. "Look."

She raised her hands and whispered a phrase, white light flaring around her fingers. The air in the chamber blurred, and for a moment each of the tiles shone with a blue glow of its own. Then Calliande lowered her hands, and the blue glows vanished.

"There's a spell on every single one of the tiles," said Calliande. "I think if anyone other than a dark elf steps upon a tile, or anyone without a proper protective spell, the trap activates."

"But it is a mechanical trap," said Caius. "Not magical."

"Made by the dvargir for the dark elves," said Ridmark. "And the dark elves were wizards. Paranoid, mistrustful wizards. They would not let the dvargir build a trap that the dvargir could bypass."

"Hence, the spells," said Caius. "Quite devious."

"But that would mean," said Gavin, "that whoever took those missing people can cast spells."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "That is exactly what it means. We face a dangerous foe."

"But first," said Caius, "a more immediate problem. How do we get to the other side of the chamber?"

"I can cast the proper ward," said Calliande. "The spells of a Magistrius take three forms – defense, communication, and knowledge. And I can cast a spell that will mask you as a dark elf, that will let you step upon the tiles unscathed." She paused for a moment. "I think."

Kharlacht frowned. "You are uncertain?"

"I am," said Calliande. "I think it will work. But I've never cast this spell before. Or if I have, I don't remember it." She took a deep breath. "I won't know for certain until I try."

"You won't," said Ridmark. "Cast it on me. I'll test it."

"But you could be killed," said Calliande.

That did not trouble him in the least. But he could see that it troubled her.

"I'll do it," said Calliande. "I am the one casting the spell. I should test it."

"This is true," said Ridmark. "But if the blades wound me, you can likely heal me with your magic. I cannot do the same for you."

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then sighed. "Damn you for being right. Hold still."

Ridmark nodded, and she took a deep breath and began whispering, light flaring around her fingers. She put her hands upon his temples, her fingers warm against his cheek. The white light around her hands pulsed, and a strange sensation washed through him, a mixture of an icy tingle and a warm shudder, a sensation he had felt before.

The magic of a Magistrius.

Calliande stepped back, looking up at him.

"God be with you," she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

Ridmark nodded, turned, and stepped upon the nearest tile. For a brief instant the tile pulsed with a blue glow beneath his boots.

Nothing else happened.

The glow faded from the tile.

Ridmark let out a long breath.

"It worked," he said.

"Good," said Calliande. A little quaver of relief went through her voice. "Try another."

Ridmark nodded and stepped to the tile. Again he saw the brief pulse of a blue glow, but nothing else happened. The blades remained tucked into their slots. Calliande's magic had worked – her spell had fooled the magic upon the tiles into believing that he was a dark elf.

"Wait a moment," said Ridmark. "I will see if I can disarm the trap."

He crossed the chamber, pausing only long enough to examine the dead orc in the center of the floor. Unfortunately, the blades had thoroughly mutilated the corpse, and Ridmark could learn nothing from the remains. However, he was sure the orc had been dead for at least a month. That meant the orcs had taken up residence in the ruins before the omen of blue fire.

As if they had known it had been coming.

But how?

He shook his head, putting aside the mystery for now.

Ridmark crossed to the other end of the chamber. Another narrow corridor led deeper into the ruins, and he saw a staircase descending into the earth, lit by the same glowing red crystals. A lever of bronze-colored metal jutted from the wall. Ridmark pulled it, expecting resistance, but the lever slid along its tracks as smoothly and as easily as if it had just been greased. A deep, resounding click came from the trapped chamber.

"Kharlacht!" he shouted. "Test one of the tiles."

The orcish warrior nodded and pick up a rusted sword. Kharlacht pressed the dulled weapon against a tile, gently at first, and then harder. At last he discarded the ruined sword and stepped onto a tile. There was no blue flash, but no blades erupted from the floor.

The lever had disarmed the trap.

Calliande went first, flanked by Kharlacht and Caius. Gavin took a deep breath and hurried after them, wincing at the stench from the dead orc. They joined Ridmark by the metal lever.

"You can release the spell now, I think," said Ridmark. "So long as no one touches the lever, the room is safe."

Calliande shrugged. "Actually, I don't need to maintain the spell. It will dissipate of its own accord at the next sunrise. In the meantime, you will appear as a dark elf to any warding spells." She looked at the stairs. "Given what other horrors we might find down here, that could prove useful."

Ridmark nodded, and beckoned the others forward.

The stairs went deeper into the earth. Ridmark suspected they were well below the base of the hill by now. Water glistened on the white walls, cold and damp. Ridmark spotted a dark spot on the wall, and paused to examine it.

He tugged away a clump of wet, musky fur, and held it up for the others to see.

"Lupivir fur," said Ridmark, letting it fall to the ground. "With a bit of blood on it. I think the kidnapped females and young were taken this way."

"We must keep going," said Gavin. "If they're down here, we can rescue them, along with any of the villagers."

Ridmark kept walking. The stairs ended in a rough tunnel that looked like a natural cavern, though the floor had been smoothed. After twenty yards, the tunnel widened into a vast cavern. It looked natural, though more of the red crystals gleamed in the walls, and the floor likewise had been leveled. A cold, clear lake occupied the far end of the cavern, covering a third of the floor.

The remained of the cavern had been converted into a campsite. The remains of cooking fires dotted the floor, and rough blankets had been laid to create bedrolls. A dozen crude wooden pens stood against the far wall, and Ridmark saw scraps of rope and a few pieces of rusty chain inside the pens.

They had been built to hold captives, and recently.

"There must have been dozens of them," said Gavin.

"At least fifty," said Ridmark. "Maybe more." He examined one of the blankets and saw a few strands of long black hair. "Orcs. And some humans, too."

"Renegades, maybe," said Caius. "Hunting for slaves to sell to the dark elves and the pagan orcs."

"How did they get all this down here without anyone noticing?" said Gavin, looking at the pens. "Those planks are fresh-cut. Surely we would have noticed someone cutting down trees below the ruins."

"Do you feel the breeze?" said Caius. "I don't think the planks came from the trees below the village. Look."

In the far wall of the cavern, near the edge of the lake, Ridmark saw another tunnel vanishing into the darkness.

"Another cave," said Caius. "The dark elves of old likely kept it as an escape route, if they were ever trapped. I suspect our mysterious orcs and their human allies came into Urd Dagaash through there, and then withdrew with their captives through that tunnel."

Ridmark paced back and forth, examining the ground. "You're right. All the tracks go in that direction."

"Likely that tunnel links up to the Deeps," said Caius. "I fear we have solved our mystery. Those orcs and their human allies were slave raiders, taking captives to sell to the princes of the dark elves or the dvargir cities of the Deeps."

"Aye," said Ridmark. He rubbed his chin, considering. He did not think the campsite had been abandoned for very long. And the twisting, turning nature of the tunnels and caverns of the Deeps prevented fast travel, especially while burdened with captives...

"If you are thinking of pursuing them," said Caius, "we will need to go back to Aranaeus to acquire additional supplies. We are not equipped for an expedition into the Deeps."

"We survived the trip near the village of the Blue Hand," said Kharlacht.

"That was a close thing," said Ridmark. "And Brother Caius is right. We need more supplies before we venture in the Deeps. And we also need to return Gavin to Aranaeus."

"But those are my neighbors!" said Gavin. "I cannot turn my back on them."

"No," said Ridmark. "You are brave, Gavin, but the Deeps are dangerous beyond anything you have ever faced. We will return to the village and purchase supplies, and you will..."

A low moan interrupted him. For an absurd moment Ridmark wondered if Gavin had started crying, but then he heard it again.

It was coming from the shadows of one of the pens.

The sound sent a surge of alarm through Ridmark.

"Someone's still here!" said Gavin. "They left someone behind!"

He started to run forward, but Ridmark blocked the boy's path.

"Wait a moment," said Ridmark.

"But..."

"I said," said Ridmark, his voice hard, "to wait!"

"Gavin?" said the voice. It was a woman's voice, cracked and full of pain. "Is that you? Gavin?"

"Rosanna?" said Gavin.

A figure staggered out of the pen, clad in a filthy, bloodstained shift. Rosanna's hair hung in greasy strings against her shoulders, her face and arms thin and emaciated from long starvation. Her eyes glittered with fear, but they widened with hope when she saw Gavin.

"Gavin!" moaned Rosanna, holding out her thin hands. "Oh, Gavin, please, come and save me! Come and save me!"

"Let me go!" said Gavin, but Ridmark caught Gavin's arm, and twisted it behind his back.

"Listen to me!" said Ridmark.

Rosanna kept speaking. "Philip couldn't save me, Gavin! He wasn't strong enough. It was you. It was always you." She started to cry. "Please, please, get me out of here, take me home..."

"Rosanna!" said Gavin, ripping free of Ridmark's grasp.

Ridmark hit him.

It was not a hard blow, not hard enough to break bone or even to leave a bruise, but it knocked the boy back. Gavin stared at him, mouth open in shock, and then grimaced and brought up his club.

"Look at her," said Ridmark. "Stop thinking with your heart and look at her. You saw her this morning before we left Aranaeus, didn't you?"

"I...I did," said Gavin. "I..."

Some of the madness faded from his eyes.

"Look," said Ridmark. "She's half-starved. The girl you talked to this morning was healthy and happy. Even if the orcs had taken her the moment you left, she couldn't have gotten in this state so quickly."

Gavin blinked. "Then...then how did she get here...unless..."

"Think about it," said Ridmark.

Gavin shuddered. "Unless that's not really Rosanna."

Rosanna snarled at him, her lips peeling back to reveal needle-like fangs.

Kharlacht raised his greatsword and Caius his mace. Calliande caught Ridmark's eye and nodded, and began casting a spell.

"God and the saints!" said Gavin, stepping away from Ridmark and raising his club. "What are you?"

"Your death, mortal worm," hissed Rosanna, her voice mewling and inhuman.

"She's an urshane," said Ridmark. "Do you know the word?"

Gavin gave a sharp shake of his head.

"Mortal," purred Rosanna in that alien voice. "Do you not desire me?" She blinked, and her green eyes became golden, with vertical black pupils.

The eyes of a snake.

"A creature wrought through the sorcery of the dark elves," said Ridmark. "They used the urvaalgs and the ursaars as hunting beasts, the urvuuls as siege creatures. But the urshanes were spies, infiltrators. Shapechangers. They can read your mind, take the form of the person you love the most...and then laugh as they tear out your throat."

"So wise, mortal," said Rosanna. A pointed tongue flickered over her fangs and disappeared again. "But you would have been wiser to stay away from the goddess's lair. For you are not a Swordbearer, and earthly steel cannot touch me. You have no weapon that can harm me."

"No," said Ridmark. "I don't."

"Then perish!" shrieked Rosanna, and she changed.

One moment she wore the form of the half-starved village girl. The next she looked like a hideous combination of woman, serpent, and hairless cat. Black scales sheathed her from head to foot, and wicked hooked claws tipped her fingers and toes. A long black tail with a poisoned barb swayed back and forth behind.

She charged, claws reaching for Ridmark's throat.

Calliande cast her spell.

And again her power charged Ridmark's weapon, as it had during the fight against the undead kobolds. The staff glowed white in Ridmark's hands, the power of Calliande's magic trembling up his arms, and he remembered carrying Heartwarden into battle.

But the urshane was upon him, and there was no time for introspection.

The creature made no move to defend herself. She believed that Ridmark carried no weapon that could harm her. So her surprise was absolute when Ridmark smashed the staff into her forehead and cracked her skull. The urshane staggered to a halt, her limbs and tail twitching, and Ridmark raised the staff and brought it down upon the top of her head.

The creature fell to her knees, and Ridmark gave her one final blow.

The urshane collapsed dead to the floor, and the glow faded from Ridmark's staff.

Calliande swayed for a bit and let out a long breath.

"Are you all right?" said Ridmark.

"Fine," said Calliande, opening her eyes. "A bit tired. I had to put all my power into the spell. Otherwise, that thing would have killed us all."

Gavin stared at the corpse, wide-eyed.

"And you," said Ridmark. "Are you all right?"

"I would have listened to her," said Gavin in a small voice. "I would have done anything she asked of me. God have mercy upon me, she wasn't Rosanna, but that filthy demon wearing her face." He shook his head. "You were right to want to leave me behind. I am a fool."

"You are too hard on yourself," said Calliande.

"And you are too kind, my lady," said Gavin.

"She's right," said Ridmark. "I have seen men so utterly convinced by an urshane that they turned against their comrades when the creature commanded it of them. It wore the form of the woman you loved. Believe me, that is a hard thing to face."

A flash of sympathy went over Calliande's expression.

"Perhaps the urshane was commanding the orcs," said Caius.

"Perhaps," said Ridmark, "but I doubt it. Urshanes prefer to hide in the shadows and never reveal their existence. We had best..."

"Oh, you killed Mother's pet. Mother shall be ever so irritated."

It was a woman's voice, melodious and sensual.

Ridmark whirled just as a woman emerged from the lake, water glistening on her pale skin.

***

## Chapter 10 - The Woman in the Lake

Calliande drew upon the magic of the Well, preparing power for a spell.

Kharlacht pointed his dark elven greatsword, both hands wrapped around the hilt. Caius gripped his mace and slid into a ready stance. Gavin's fingers tightened against the handle of his club, the boy's face set and determined.

Ridmark moved a few steps closer to the lake, face expressionless.

The woman walked towards him, head tilted to the side.

She was naked, and looked about twenty or so, with long red hair and eerie green eyes. She was lean and sinewy, almost half-starved, and Calliande saw the outline of her ribs, the bones pressing against the skin of her hip. The strange woman stopped twenty feet from Ridmark, her head still tilted to the side.

"It is a strange thing," she said in Latin, "strange and unusual."

"A naked woman found alone in a cave?" said Ridmark. "Yes, very strange."

"Breathing," murmured the woman. "It's not necessary, you know. Not for us. But the prey...the prey has to keep breathing. At least once for every six to eight heartbeats. If the prey stops breathing, they die. And cold meat is simply deplorable. Mother says so."

"Your mother seems to have demanding tastes," said Ridmark.

"Oh, she does, she does," said the strange woman. "She knows you."

"Really," said Ridmark. "I am afraid I cannot recall the honor of making her acquaintance."

The woman grinned. It gave her face a manic cast. "She takes an interest in herd animals that stand above their origins. The Gray Knight, the branded exile, the outcast Swordbearer. You slew one of her sisters."

A horrible suspicion started to form in Calliande's mind. She had heard about Ridmark's past exploits from Joram Agramore and Constantine Licinius, how he had gone to Urd Morlemoch and returned, how he had untaken feats of daring and boldness.

How he had defeated a female urdmordar in single combat.

"Did I?" said Ridmark. "I imagine your mother desires vengeance for her sister, then."

"What?" said the woman. "No. It was her own fault, for being foolish enough to let a herd animal kill her." She tapped her thin lips with a bony finger. "If a cow tramples a farmer, do you blame the cow? Or the farmer, for being careless?"

"We're not talking about cows," said Ridmark. "You've been taking villagers from Aranaeus and beastmen from the forests, haven't you?"

The woman grinned, her eyes glinting like disks of jade. "We did. Mother commanded it."

"Why?" said Ridmark. "Is your mother simply hungry?"

The woman's grin widened. "Always, and so are her daughters. But the great culling is coming, Gray Knight. A winter without end, a world choked in ice. The herd animals shall starve and die in vast numbers, and Mother and her sisters shall go hungry. But Mother has foreseen the return of the cold ones and their freezing darkness. And so..."

"She is preparing a larder," said Ridmark, "to feed herself throughout the winter."

"You understand," said the woman. "Mother has foreseen the return of the freezing darkness. It cannot harm a goddess, of course, but it will kill the herds. She will prepare a larder to last the coming centuries of winter, rather than go needlessly hungry. In a few thousand years the great winter will end, or the goddesses will travel to a new world of herd animals. The larders shall sate our hunger until then."

And with those words, Calliande's suspicions hardened into cold certainty.

She began to shape her summoned power into a spell.

"You've been remarkably forthcoming," said Ridmark. "You've just told me your entire plan. I could do dangerous things with that knowledge."

The woman laughed. "You cannot stop Mother. And Mother would like to meet you."

"She would?" said Ridmark. "Why? So she can kill me with her own hands?"

"So you can serve her, of course," said the woman. "You have distinguished yourself beyond the common animals of the herd, and you would make a worthy servant." She shrugged, her skin taut against the bones of her shoulders. "Humans must all serve something greater than themselves. It is your nature. Why should you not serve Mother?"

Ridmark barked a short, harsh laugh. "Why not, indeed? What better master than a creature that regards you as a meal?"

The woman's mad grin sharpened. "Why do you care for the other herd animals? They cast you out. Mother can make you immortal. Mother can give you magic that makes a Soulblade look like a toy."

"Until she gets hungry and bites off my head," said Ridmark.

"I don't understand," said Gavin, looking from the gaunt woman to Ridmark and back again. "Who is she? And who is this mother she keeps talking about?"

"You see?" said the woman. "You see how weak and stupid they are? Just like all herd animals. You are stronger and smarter, worthy to serve Mother."

"She's not human," said Ridmark. "She's a spiderling, the daughter of a human father and a female urdmordar."

Kharlacht whispered a prayer, and Gavin's eyes grew wide.

"An urdmordar?" he said. "Here?"

Ridmark nodded. "Yes. I've seen it happen before. This urdmordar knows that the Frostborn are returning, that they will choke the world in ice. So she has sent her daughters and her servants to collect food, men and women and children she will put into a deep sleep with her venom. The venom of an urdmordar will keep them alive and asleep for centuries. Like a woman storing up salted meat and dried vegetables in her cellar. The urdmordar has decided to harvest the people of Aranaeus and the beastmen of the forest to stock her larder."

"God have mercy," said Gavin.

"Your god of sheep does not exist," said the spiderling with a mocking smile, "and he cannot protect you." Her unsettling green eyes turned back to Ridmark. "You are mostly correct. Mother will put many of the herd animals into the death sleep with her venom, and feed upon them over the centuries. But the rest we shall keep awake so they may breed, to foster new generations of herds. Mother does not intend to spend the millennia of the coming winter subsisting on starvation rations. No, she shall feast, as shall her loyal daughters."

"No," said Gavin. "You will not do this to the people of Aranaeus!"

The spiderling laughed, long and wild. "Young fool! Mother has already done it. Your village of Aranaeus has been her herd for centuries, and she has feasted upon many of your ancestors."

"That's impossible!" said Gavin. "We would know if you killed villagers. We are not so blind!"

The spiderling tittered. "Apparently you are." She looked back at Ridmark. "Do you not see? How blind they are, how foolish! They are fit to be bred and consumed as cattle, nothing more. Enough talk. Come with me, and I shall bring you to Mother. She shall be pleased to receive your service, and she will reward you with power."

Ridmark laughed again. "No."

The spiderling tilted her head to the side. The motion reminded Calliande of a mantis contemplating its prey. "No?"

"Instead, we will do this," said Ridmark. "You are going to release all your prisoners to me." His face had the same hard determination Calliande had seen in the village of the Blue Hand. "Then you shall depart Aranaeus and never trouble it again."

The spiderling laughed. "Foolish man! Aranaeus belongs to Mother! She brought the herd animals here, so that they might worship her undisturbed by your Swordbearers and Magistri. Why should she abandon what is hers?"

"Because," said Ridmark, "if she does not, I will stop her."

"You?" said the spiderling. "Unlikely."

"I slew Gothalinzur," said Ridmark.

"You were a Swordbearer then," said the spiderling. "Now you have no magic to wield. You are a man with a stick. Superior to the rest of the herd, true, fit to serve Mother as her servant...but still just a man with a stick. One last chance, Gray Knight. Serve Mother, and she will reward you well. Refuse..." The spiderling shrugged again. "Refuse, and I will kill you, and your companions shall go into Mother's larder."

"Try," growled Kharlacht, pointing his greatsword.

"Your kindred once worshipped Mother and her sisters as goddesses," said the spiderling. "You can serve her again, and she will protect you."

"I have turned away from both the blood gods of the orcs and the worship of spider-devils," said Kharlacht, "and I follow the Dominus Christus and his church."

"Pity," said the spiderling. "Ah, well. Mother would have rewarded me for bringing you to her, but she will also reward me for slaying the killer of Gothalinzur."

The spiderling stepped towards Ridmark, and Calliande began casting a spell.

###

Ridmark took his staff in both hands, preparing himself.

"Beware," he called to the others. "A spiderling is both stronger and faster than a normal woman."

"Indeed," said the spiderling. "And we have a few other tricks as well."

She took another step towards him, and her body changed.

Crimson claws sprouted from her toes and fingers, each three inches long and razor sharp. Her mouth changed, growing wider and deeper, long, insect-like pincers jutting from either side of her lips. Six additional eyes, like hard green crystals, gleamed upon her forehead.

The spiderling shrieked in glee, lunged forward, and spat a gobbet of green slime at Ridmark.

But he had anticipated the attack, and he dodged. The poison struck the stone floor with a hiss, bubbles rising from the slime. The spiderling tried to catch her balance, and Ridmark struck, swinging his staff with both hands. The length of heavy wood slammed into her stomach, and the spiderling doubled over, breath exploding from her pincers. Ridmark brought the staff up and slammed it against her back.

He brought the staff down in another blow, but this time the spiderling's right hand caught the weapon in an iron grip. She snarled and tried to wrench the staff from his grasp, but he kept his grip, letting her pull him forward, and drove the heel of his boot into her knee. The spiderling shrieked in pain and hopped back, releasing his staff, and Ridmark jabbed it into her stomach again.

She jumped back, moving faster than a human could manage, and raised her clawed hands. Black fire crackled around her talons. The female urdmordar could wield the mightiest spells of dark magic with the ease of a hawk taking to the air, and some of that ability passed to their half-breed children.

Ridmark charged forward, hoping to reach the spiderling before she finished her spell.

A blast of white fire slammed into the spiderling and knocked her back. She shrieked in fury, whirling to face Calliande. The Magistria strode forward, her face stern, white fire dancing around her fingers. Both women cast spells at each other, shadow flames contesting against the white fire.

Caius sprinted past the spiderling, mace gleaming in hand. The mace impacted against the spiderling's left knee, and Ridmark heard the crack of breaking bone. The spiderling stumbled with a scream, her left leg collapsing beneath her as she raked at Caius. The dwarven friar hopped out of the spiderling's reach as a shadow fell over her.

Kharlacht brought his greatsword down upon her neck.

The spiderling's head rolled off her shoulders, the pincers clicking against the stone floor. Blackish-green slime bubbled from the stump of her slender neck, running in dark rivulets down the pale skin of her chest. The body twitched, and then collapsed.

Ridmark let out a long breath and lowered his staff.

###

Gavin stared at the beheaded spiderling, his mind spinning.

He had never seen a naked woman before. Of course, the thing dead at Kharlacht's feet had not really been a woman at all. She had been spiderling, a hybrid of urdmordar and human. Human women bled red.

They did not bleed the black, stinking slime that trickled from the spiderling's head.

It did not look like blood, but the ichor from a crushed spider

"Was she telling the truth?" said Gavin.

The others looked at him.

"About the village," said Gavin. "How it always belonged to her mother."

"Gavin," said Ridmark, "do you know why your ancestors left Andomhaim and came to the Wilderland?"

Gavin shrugged. "My father always said it was because they resented the High King's authority."

"Or," said Calliande, voice gentle, "was it because they worshipped an urdmordar, and wanted to get away from the Magistri and the Swordbearers?"

"No," said Gavin, "no, that's impossible."

"It's not," said Ridmark. "There are villages like that hidden throughout the Wilderland. When the urdmordar warred against Andomhaim, before the archmage Ardrhythain taught the Keeper to create Soulblades and train Magistri, many men despaired of hope. And some thought it would be better to live as the herd animals of the urdmordar rather than perish. So they turned their backs upon the church and the Dominus Christus and worshipped the urdmordar as goddesses. But after the Magistri and the Swordbearers were founded, after the urdmordar were defeated, those cults remained. Some were hunted down and destroyed as traitors to the High King. Others went underground and remained hidden. And some fled into the Wilderland to worship the urdmordar undisturbed...and to offer up their fellows as sacrifices to the spider-devils."

"I do not worship the urdmordar!" said Gavin. He could not imagine anyone doing such an evil thing.

"I don't believe you do," said Ridmark. "But it explains a great deal, does it not? Why Aranaeus was founded in the shadow of Urd Dagaash. Why the villagers seem indifferent to the church, as if so many of them have given their souls to something else. And how unconcerned many of the villagers are with the disappearances. As if they knew why those people had vanished."

"But I would know!" said Gavin, his mind spinning. "I've spent all my life in Aranaeus. I would...I would know if they prayed to the urdmordar."

"Not if they kept it a secret," said Ridmark.

"I would know," Gavin whispered, but his words sounded hollow. He had never gotten along with his father. Philip and Rosanna had been his only friends growing up. Few others seemed interested in listening to Father Martel's teachings about the church and the Dominus Christus.

And a darker thought occurred to him.

Did his father know the truth? Had he know it all along? He would not put it past Morwen to worship the urdmordar, but his father? That seems beyond anything Cornelius would do.

But he had been the praefectus of the village for years.

If there was a cult of the urdmordar in Aranaeus, he would know about it.

Had his mother known? Had she prayed to the urdmordar?

Or had she been sacrificed to them? A fever, Cornelius had said she died of a fever, but if he had lied about the urdmordar, what else might he have lied about?

Gavin closed his eyes and shivered.

"I'm sorry," said Calliande. "I know this is hard."

Gavin nodded, unable to trust himself to speak.

"We should get back to the village," said Ridmark. "As soon as possible."

"Why?" said Gavin. "Won't they just lie about it?"

"Probably," said Ridmark, "but I've seen this sort of thing happen before, and I know what comes next."

He was always grim, but a hard note in his tone shook Gavin out of his stunned grief.

"Why?" said Gavin. "What happens next?"

"The urdmordar know the Frostborn are returning," said Ridmark. "And they're not stupid. They may not have heard the parable of the lazy grasshopper and the diligent ant, but this urdmordar is acting as if she did. She's been putting food away for the winter. Probably a few villagers here and there over the last few decades. But now the omen of the blue fire has filled the sky. The return of the Frostborn is imminent, and dangerous strangers have arrived in Aranaeus, asking questions. If she views Aranaeus as her herd, then it is time to butcher the cattle and salt the meat for winter."

"You mean she'll kill everyone in Aranaeus?" said Gavin. He thought of Rosanna, how the urshane's illusion had made her look starving and desperate. The urshane's illusion could yet become reality.

"No," said Ridmark. "But she'll likely destroy the village and round up everyone to put into her larder or to serve as herd animals. I suspect the cultists who believed her promises of immortality will find themselves unpleasantly surprised. The urdmordar regard all other kindreds as either food or tools, and if a tool ceases to be useful, it becomes food."

"Then we have to hurry!" said Gavin. "We have to warn them before it is too late."

"They may not listen," said Ridmark, stepping around the spiderling's corpse. "But there are those that will. Father Martel, for one. Maybe Bardus the innkeeper, and your friend Philip. If we..."

Ridmark stopped, frowned, and looked up.

"What is it?" said Gavin, following his gaze. The cavern's ceiling extended high overhead, and the light from the red crystals did not reach it.

"Calliande," Ridmark said.

"What is it?" said the Magistria.

"You said you can use a spell to conjure light," said Ridmark.

Calliande gestured at the glow around them. "It hardly seems necessary."

"Do it anyway," said Ridmark. "Can you get some light on the ceiling?"

Calliande nodded, lifted her hand, and whispered a phrase. A brilliant point of white light appeared above her hands, and she cupped her palm, shaping the light into a beam.

She swept the shaft over the rocky ceiling, revealing dozens of stalactites.

And the pale skins of at a dozen spiderlings that clung to the rock like bats.

The spiderlings grinned, the light reflecting off their jeweled eyes, their pincers jutting from their mouths like daggers.

"Run!" shouted Ridmark. "Head for the..."

As one, the spiderlings spat gobs of poison. Ridmark dodged past two gobs, and a third smacked right into Gavin's eyes. He flinched, expecting a wave of agony to shoot through him.

Instead a gentle warmth spread over his limbs. His fear and anger drained away, leaving him relaxed. He felt the cavern spinning around him, felt himself fall to the stone floor, but none of it mattered.

Nothing seemed to matter. He knew he should fight for his life, fight to save Rosanna, but he could not bring himself to care.

Gavin relaxed, and the pleasant darkness swallowed him.

###

Ridmark turned in a circle, cursing himself.

Calliande, Caius, Kharlacht, and Gavin collapsed to the floor, stunned by the venom. The spiderlings dropped from the ceiling, their pincers clicking, their talons flexing. Again Ridmark cursed himself. He should have gone to Urd Morlemoch alone. He should have sent Kharlacht away, should have insisted that Calliande and Caius return to Dun Licinia or Castra Marcaine.

Because he had led them to their deaths.

Just as he had brought Aelia to her death.

But his mind kept working through his rage and self-loathing. A dozen spiderlings surrounded him. He might be able to take two of them in a straight fight, assuming he avoided their venom, but a dozen?

They would tear him to pieces.

And then, most likely, they would eat him.

A plan occurred to him. It would most probably get him killed. Of course, the spiderlings were going to kill him anyway.

"You killed our sister," said one of the spiderlings.

"Bah," said another. "I never liked her. Let's take him back to Mother."

"We can take the other four for Mother's larder," said a third spiderling, her pincers distorting her mouth into a hideous grin. "We can play with him first. Let's cut off his hands and feet and make him crawl."

"Or make him sing for us while he crawls!" said a fourth.

The spiderlings shrieked with laughter.

"There is another option," said Ridmark, staff in both hands.

"Oh?" said the first spiderling. "What is that?"

"You could just let me go," said Ridmark.

The spiderlings looked at each other, and then laughed again.

And in their moment of distraction, Ridmark struck.

His staff impacted the nearest spiderling's face with enough force to rip one of the pincers from her jaw. The spiderling howled in pain, leaving herself open, but Ridmark kept running. He thrust the staff into the face of another spiderling, knocking her head back, and then reversed the weapon and slammed it into a spiderling's legs, sending her toppling to the floor.

Then he sprinted for the stairs as fast as he could manage.

As he had expected, the spiderlings ignored the others and pursued him, howling with outrage as they moved with superhuman speed. Ridmark raced into the tunnel and dashed up the stairs, taking them three at a time. If he lost his balance and fell, he was finished. He reached the corridor, scooped up the thick skull of a long-dead orc, and ran past the gleaming bronze lever and into the chamber of blades.

The spiderlings stormed up the stairs behind him.

Ridmark ran into the center of the chamber, the tiles pulsing with blue light beneath his boots, and stopped.

The spiderlings hesitated, looked at the lever, and then raced into the chamber. The tiles did not glow beneath them, which meant they had no protective spells. But since the blades were disarmed, it hardly mattered.

Ridmark lifted the skull in his right hand. "You'll want to stay back."

The spiderlings moved into a ring around him. Ridmark tossed the skull to himself a few times, feeling its weight and balance.

"Why is that?" hissed the spiderling he had hit in the face, black ichor dripping from her torn mouth.

"Because," said Ridmark, "I am a powerful sorcerer. I have embraced the blood magic of the orcs, and have imbued this skull with deadly powers. A single touch will slay a spiderling in an instant."

"Ridiculous," said the spiderling. "You are desperate, and will say any foolish thing to save your wretched life."

Ridmark shrugged. "You can prove me wrong, if you like."

Then he threw the skull as hard as he could manage.

The spiderlings flinched, but the skull had not been aimed at them. Ridmark watched as it arced over the chamber. If he had missed, he was going to die in the next few moments.

The skull slammed into the bronze lever.

"Pathetic," said the spiderling. "Kill him."

A resounding click echoed through the chamber, and the floor started to vibrate.

And a horrified expression went over the spiderlings' faces as they realized how badly they had been tricked.

They charged, but it was too late. A storm of gleaming blades erupted from the gaps between the tiles, ripping into the spiderlings. Ridmark stood untouched in a vortex of razor metal, torn flesh, and greenish-black ichor. One of the spiderlings almost reached him, but Ridmark jabbed her with his staff, and she stumbled onto another tile.

Five blades sliced her into as many pieces.

Another click, and the blades slid back into their slots. The twelve spiderlings that had pursued him lay in a ring of slashed flesh and black-green ichor. One the spiderlings was still moving, her body missing below the navel. Her green eyes, all eight of them hazy and unfocused, turned towards him.

"How?" she rasped. "Mother...Mother said..."

"I deserve death," said Ridmark, raising his staff, "but it seems you were not the ones to deliver it."

She stared at him in stunned incomprehension.

He brought his staff down against her temple with a sharp crack, and the spiderling went still.

Ridmark stepped around the corpses and walked back to the lever. He disarmed the trap and descended to the cavern. To his relief, the Calliande and the others lay where they had fallen. No other spiderlings, or the spiderlings' orcish and human allies, had come to take them.

He knelt next to Calliande and placed his hand upon her forehead. She did not feel feverish, though her breathing came sharp and rapid. That was good. The poison would likely wear off in a few hours.

Ridmark suspected waiting a few more hours within Urd Dagaash was a terrible idea.

He put aside his staff and picked up Calliande, her head resting against his left arm, and carried her to the lake. The clear waters rippled, and he propped Calliande's limp body against his left arm and ran his fingers through the water.

Ice cold.

"I am sorry about this," said Ridmark.

He dunked her head under the water.

Ridmark put a hand on her wrist and counted her heartbeats. After five, a massive spasm went through Calliande's limbs, and she started to thrash. Ridmark pulled her head above the water. She sputtered and coughed, and Ridmark held her up until she had coughed out all the water.

"God and his saints," she muttered. "My head hurts."

"That will pass in a few hours," said Ridmark.

"What?" she said, blinking. "Ridmark? What happened? The spiderlings..."

"They're dead," said Ridmark.

She pushed some strands of wet hair away from her face. "You killed them all? How?"

"They poisoned you," said Ridmark. "A sleeping venom. I lured them into the trapped room."

She blinked a few more times, and then Ridmark helped her to stand. "The others?"

"Sleeping venom," said Ridmark. "Do you have a spell that can wake them?"

"Aye." Calliande blinked again, pushed the rest of the wet hair from her face. "A simple healing spell." She frowned. "Why did you stick my head under the water?"

"Because the poison wears off in a few hours," said Ridmark, "but a lungful of water will jolt someone awake"

"Then why didn't you let me wake up in a few hours?" said Calliande.

"I need you to wake up the others," said Ridmark.

She scowled. "You could have just dunked their heads in the water."

"Of the four," said Ridmark, "you were the lightest."

She blinked, and then burst out laughing. "I suppose that makes sense."

###

A Magistria possessed many powers, but her healing spells were not as effective when used on herself.

So Calliande's head throbbed as she followed the others through the room of blades. Still, a headache was a small price to pay. The spiderlings had caught them off guard, and if not for Ridmark, Calliande and the others would have died.

She looked the butchered spiderlings and shuddered.

But despite her revulsion, she still felt amazement.

Twelve spiderlings, and Ridmark had prevailed. He had no magic of his own, did not even carry a Soulblade. Spiderlings were faster and stronger than normal men, and could often command powerful magic.

Yet he had killed them all.

Calliande could only clearly remember the last three weeks of her life. Yet even if the fog lifted from the entirety of her memory, she doubted she had ever met a warrior of his skill and boldness.

What must he have been like with a Soulblade in his hand?

Ridmark and Caius were discussing how best to warn the villagers against the urdmordar. Gavin hung back, and then fell in step alongside Calliande.

"Lady Calliande," said Gavin. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course," said Calliande.

"Sir Ridmark...ah, Lord Ridmark, I mean," said Gavin. "Have you known him long?"

"For three weeks," said Calliande.

"Um," said Gavin. "He just saved all our lives."

"I know," said Calliande. "He's good at that."

"How did he get his brand?" said Gavin. "That is a coward's brand, but a coward could not face twelve spiderlings and live." He looked at the corpses. "A coward could not run into this trap to lure his foes after him. I don't think I could do it." He looked at her, his young eyes full of confusion. "How could such a man receive a coward's brand?"

Calliande thought about it.

"Unjustly," she said at last.

"I should think so," said Gavin.

Ridmark stopped, and Calliande wondered if he had heard them.

"Are you all fit to travel?" said Ridmark.

"Aye," said Kharlacht.

"I have never been better," said Caius. "The Magistria's healing was most potent."

"I can," said Gavin.

Ridmark met her eyes, and Calliande nodded.

"We should make for Aranaeus right away," said Ridmark. "I don't know how many villagers are part of the cult." Gavin swallowed, his hands curling into fists. "But we must warn them. If that urdmordar decides to cull her herd, she will act soon. And once she learns we killed her daughters, she might decide to act at once."

"Then lead on," said Caius.

They returned to the spiral stair and ascended to the surface. Calliande blinked at the brilliant sunlight, and felt overwhelming relief. She had awakened in that dark vault below the Tower of Vigilance, and she had almost died there. And she had almost died in these dark elven ruins.

It made her glad to see the sun again.

Ridmark took a few steps from the tower, grass rustling around his knees, and froze.

Calliande looked up, fearing that she would see more spiderlings clinging to the towers....

Instead she saw white clouds against the blue sky, a black plume rising to the south.

"Smoke," said Ridmark, and he broke into a run.

Calliande and the others followed him, and they came to Urd Dagaash's outer wall. A flight of narrow steps ascended to the rampart, and Ridmark hurried to the battlements. He came to a stop, gazing to the south, and Calliande joined him.

They had a fine view of the green forest spreading away to the south and the east, the distant gleaming ribbon of the River Moradel, and the village of Aranaeus sitting atop its hill.

Thick black plumes of smoke rose from within the walls of the village.

Aranaeus was burning.

***

## Chapter 11 - Ashes

Gavin shouted in alarm and ran for the stairs, but Ridmark caught his arm.

The boy struggled to pull free. "Let me go! They need help! Rosanna needs help!"

"Aye," said Ridmark, "and we'll help them, if we can. If we run off and charge without a proper plan, we could blunder into a trap. You're no good to Rosanna or your father or anyone if you're dead."

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.

"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.

"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.

Ugrazur toppled to the dirt, his blood soaking into the soil as Ridmark ripped the axe free.

He looked around, seeking more foes, but the fighting was over.

Kharlacht put his foot upon the chest of a dead orc and wrenched his sword loose. Caius looked back and forth, his mace spattered with orc blood and more of that peculiar dark fluid. Calliande lowered her hands, the white fire fading, and Ridmark felt his enhanced speed fade, the glow of wards fading from the others. Gavin stood in the midst of the carnage, blinking, blood dripping from a cut in his temple.

"I'm still alive," said Gavin. He sounded astonished.

"You are," said Ridmark. The boy had good instincts. Some men, when facing combat for the first time, froze up, or panicked and ran. Gavin had kept his head, had even managed to kill two of the orcs.

The boy was a natural fighter.

"Here," said Calliande. "I'll tend to that cut."

She stepped toward Gavin and whispered a spell, her hand glowing as she ran it over his temple. When she left it the cut had vanished, leaving only an angry red welt.

"That will leave a scar," she said, "but it will not putrefy."

Gavin nodded, still gazing at the dead orcs. "I killed them."

"You did," said Ridmark. "If you feel guilt over it, remember that they burned your home and carried your neighbors into captivity, and they would have killed you."

"Raising the sword is always a grave matter," said Caius, "but to do so in self-defense is permissible in the eyes of God. It is a serious thing we have done, and you are right not to take it lightly. But you need not reproach yourself for it."

Gavin closed his eyes, bit his lip, and nodded again. "I think...I think we should search the church, sir. To see if anyone has survived."

"A sound idea," said Ridmark. Calliande handed him his staff, and Ridmark took it, returning the axe to its loop on his belt. "Keep a watch out for any other orcs. Gavin, take his sword."

Gavin blinked. "His sword, sir?"

"The fighting chewed up your club," said Ridmark, "and if we run into trouble again, you'll need a better weapon. Take it. And the scabbard so you don't cut off your own leg."

"You needn't hesitate," said Kharlacht. "That arachar has no need for it."

"Arachar?" said Ridmark.

"Those orcs drank the blood of an urdmordar," said Kharlacht. He pointed at the dark streaks in the green blood. "The blood gave them superhuman speed."

"They drank the blood of an urdmordar?" said Calliande, disgusted. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"They urdmordar rarely permit it," said Kharlacht. "Their blood can drive a mortal insane, but it can bestow great power. For their most loyal followers, the truly devoted, they grant the gift of their blood."

"It sounds like a blasphemous parody of communion," said Caius.

"Given that the urdmordar think of themselves as goddesses," said Calliande, "it was likely intended that way."

"So I don't think you need feel any guilt about taking the sword," said Ridmark, "and you will need it, before this is done."

Gavin hesitated, nodded, and took the dead orc's sword and belt. He buckled it around his waist, sliding the sword into his scabbard, and followed Ridmark and the others across the square. Ridmark examined the doors of the church for a moment, then pushed. The sound of wood scraping against stone filled his ears.

"Help me get the doors open," said Ridmark. "Someone piled the benches against them."

Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin helped him push again the doors, and they swung open with a groan. Inside a pile of benches stood heaped against the doors, and Ridmark kicked them aside. The church had not been as badly damaged as he feared. The thatched roof had burned away, but the charred timbers had not collapsed into the sanctuary, and the stone walls still stood.

"Which way to the crypt?" said Ridmark.

"There, behind the altar," said Gavin.

Ridmark crossed the sanctuary. A wooden trapdoor rested upon the floor behind the altar. Ridmark knelt, gripped the iron handle, and pulled the heavy door open.

He heard a click and saw the flash of steel, and found himself staring at the point of a crossbow quarrel. The crossbow itself rested in the arms of Rosanna, her green eyes wide and terrified.

"You're Gavin's friend," she said, her voice shaking. She was sweating and sooty, but otherwise unhurt. "Oh, thank God. Thank God."

"Rosanna!" said Gavin. "You're safe!"

"Gavin," came Father Martel's voice, and Ridmark saw the old priest moving in the darkness of the crypt. "It is good to see you. I feared you had been killed outside the walls."

"Who else is with you?" said Gavin.

"No one, I fear," said Martel. The old priest hobbled into the light from the trapdoor. He looked exhausted, his robes scorched, a half-congealed gash along the side of his face. "Only us. When the orcs and the human bandits arrived, I...I tried, I tried to get the praefectus to listen, but..."

He staggered, and collapsed to the floor of the crypt.

"Father!" said Rosanna, putting down the crossbow and running to him.

"Help me get him to Calliande," said Ridmark. He scrambled down the ladder, Gavin and Caius following. Together they carried the old priest to the sanctuary and laid him upon the church floor. Calliande knelt alongside him and whispered a spell, the white light around her hands closing the gash in his face. She winced as she did it. Ridmark had once carried Heartwarden, and he had used its magic to heal. He knew that to heal wounds, Calliande had to feel the pain as if the injuries had been inflicted upon her own flesh.

Yet she bore the pain without complaint.

"He'll live," said Calliande when she finished. She sighed and rubbed her face. "But he lost a lot of blood." She pointed at the dark stains on his robe. "If he makes it through the night, he should be fine." Calliande straightened up and brushed some dust from her trousers. "What about you, child? Are you injured?"

"I'm fine," said Rosanna, arms wrapped around herself. Gavin hesitated, took a deep breath, and put his hand on her shoulder. Rosanna let out a sob and slumped against him, and a looked of mingled relief and misery flashed over Gavin's face. "I'm fine. I'm...I'm..."

"Rosanna," said Ridmark. She blinked and looked at him. "Tell me what happened here."

She wiped her face on her sleeve. "It was...it was in the morning, right after you left. The orcs and the human bandits with the spider-scars came to the southern gate, demanded to be let inside. They said we were now the slaves of something called...Agra...Agrad..."

"Agrimnalazur," said Ridmark.

Rosanna nodded. "Yes, that was it. The praefectus came to the gate, and we thought he would tell them to go away. Instead..."

Gavin flinched. "Instead? What did he do?"

"Gavin, I'm sorry," said Rosanna. "I know you didn't like him, but..."

"What did he do?" said Gavin.

"He opened the gates to them," said Rosanna. "He and Morwen both. They said that we belonged to Agrimnul...whatever it was, that we had always belonged her. There was shouting and fighting, and the scarred orcs started burning the houses. Father Martel tried to take us to the church, to hide in the crypt. Philip was with me, but we got separated." She looked up at Gavin, her eyes pleading. "Did you see him?"

"No," said Gavin. "I'm sorry. I think the orcs took him captive with the others."

Rosanna started to cry again.

"But we did not see his body," said Gavin. "He was a blacksmith. They wouldn't have killed him. Blacksmiths are too valuable."

"Here," said Calliande. "Why don't you sit down? Poor Martel will be upset if he wakes up and finds that you fell over and cracked your head on the floor."

She and Gavin guided her to one of the steps below the altar. Kharlacht stood over them, keeping watch. Ridmark turned away, gazing at the clear blue sky through the charred beams of the roof.

After a moment Caius walked to his side.

"Ridmark," he said, voice quiet, "this is even graver than we thought."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "It seems clear that both Cornelius and Morwen had high rank in the cult. Morwen's was higher, I think. Likely Agrimnalazur told them that the time had come to slaughter the herd, so they were more than happy to cooperate."

"The scriptures command a man to honor his father and mother," said Caius, looking at Gavin and Rosanna, "but it seems Cornelius has indeed earned Gavin's contempt." He looked back at Ridmark. "But what are we going to do about it?"

"They won't have killed the captives," said Ridmark. "Not yet, anyway. Agrimnalazur will take some of the captives and put them into the death sleep, and keep others alive to breed new meals for her to eat in a few decades."

"Where?" said Caius. "Urd Dagaash?"

"No," said Ridmark. "Urd Dagaash is too small, too indefensible if the Frostborn do return and come after Agrimnalazur. That's what she's really afraid of – not the High King and the two Orders, not the other urdmordar, but the Frostborn." He rubbed his chin, thinking. "It would have to be another dark elven ruin, one with access to the Deeps. Agrimnalazur needs food to keep her slaves and servants alive, and she can harvest mushrooms and fish and murrag meat from the Deeps to feed her slaves." He snapped his fingers. "Urd Arowyn."

"Where is that?" said Caius.

"About three or four days north of here, in the hills," said Ridmark. "The archmage Ardrhythain told me about it."

Caius snorted. "It is strange how you speak of figures from history with such ease."

"Urd Arowyn is essentially a fortified hilltop," said Ridmark. "That must be where Agrimnalazur has her lair. She would have enough room to keep her prisoners, and Urd Arowyn's dungeons open into the Deeps. A perfect refuge for an urdmordar to spend a few millennia of winter. And even if I'm wrong, so many arachar and their prisoners will have left a clear trial. If we set out tomorrow before the weather changes, we can follow them, and we'll know if they went somewhere other than Urd Arowyn."

"So you mean to go after them?" said Caius.

"Of course," said Ridmark. "Why would we not?"

"Because your purpose is to go to Urd Morlemoch, to question the Warden about the Frostborn," said Caius. "Because one could argue that the villagers brought this woe upon themselves by forsaking the true God for a spider-devil."

"One could, but I will not," said Ridmark. "I will not abandon these people to their fate. Not if I have the power to aid them."

And he did not care whether he lived or died, but he would not admit that to Caius. For one, the dwarven friar already knew. And while Ridmark did not care if he died, he also did not care to endure another one of Caius's interminable sermons on the topic.

If by risking his life he could help the villagers, why not do it?

He deserved to die anyway for what had happened to Aelia.

To his surprise, Caius smiled. "Good. Our journey to Urd Morlemoch may have greater urgency, but it would not sit well with me to leave so many people at the mercy of a female urdmordar. Even the cultists, who may be surprised to learn their goddess regards them not as disciples but as food."

"You came north to convert the pagan orcs to the church, Brother," said Ridmark. "Perhaps you have the chance to convert some worshippers of Agrimnalazur instead."

"Perhaps," said Caius, and his smile faded. "But she is an urdmordar. Have you given any thought how to fight her? Magic is the only thing that can hurt a female urdmordar, and I fear Calliande's power alone will not be enough."

"No," said Ridmark. "It won't." He had slain an urdmordar by himself ten years ago, but luck had played a far greater role in that than skill. Usually it took teams of veteran Swordbearers and experienced Magistri to defeat an urdmordar, and even then, they often failed. "The urdmordar are mighty. But I hope we can free the prisoners without ever facing her."

He walked to where Calliande sat with Rosanna and Gavin.

"You look as if you are going somewhere," said Calliande.

"I am," said Ridmark. "Tomorrow, I intend to pursue the arachar and free their prisoners." He looked at Rosanna and Gavin. "I hold no bond of command over you. You may stay here, follow me, or go elsewhere as you wish."

"Of course I shall come!" said Gavin.

"Decide tomorrow," said Ridmark. "Kharlacht, Caius, Calliande. Stay here and watch over Father Martel and Rosanna. I am going to have a look around the village, see if I can find any other survivors, along with additional food and water for us."

"Be careful," said Calliande.

"I am always careful," said Ridmark.

Caius snorted. "Telling lies is a sin, you know."

Ridmark left the church.

He walked through the square, staff in hand, his eyes and ears seeking for any sign of foes. He saw none, and the only sound was the low roar of the flames devouring the remains of the village, the air hot and smoky. Ridmark decided to make his way to the wall and walk a circuit of the ramparts. From there he could see if any of the villagers were still within Aranaeus, or if they had taken refuge outside the walls.

Or if any of the scarred orcs were returning.

He took another step, saw the flash of steel, and turned.

Sir Paul Tallmane stood before Aranaeus's southern gate, his armor gleaming, his sword in hand. His men-at-arms followed him, carrying maces and shields.

"Ridmark Arban," said Paul. "I would have killed you simply for the pleasure of it. That the Dux and his new friends in the Enlightened of Incariel shall reward me merely makes it all the sweeter."

***

## Chapter 12 - The Enlightened

"What in God's name are you talking about?" said Ridmark.

"You haven't figured it out yet?" said Paul with an amused sneer. "The great Ridmark Arban, the mighty Hero of Dun Licinia, the fearsome Gray Knight, doesn't know that we're about to kill you?" He shared a laugh with his men. "I marvel that you are bright enough to put on your boots in the morning, let alone survive all these years."

"I understand well enough," said Ridmark. "Dux Tarrabus Carhaine hates me, has always hated me, and will kill me if he gets the chance. You are a spineless toad exiled to the Iron Tower for incompetence." Paul's sneer hardened into a scowl. "But you see a way to buy your way into the Dux's favor with my head. So when you heard about Qazarl, you came here to kill me."

"You're right on the first count, and wrong on the second," said Paul. "I am here to kill you. But I didn't come across you by chance, and a knight of Andomhaim does not go haring across the realm in search of rumor. Unlike certain renegades hunting the Frostborn. I knew you would be here. The Enlightened of Incariel knew it."

"Who are these Enlightened?" said Ridmark. "Another cult devoted to the urdmordar?"

Paul laughed. "Hardly! The urdmordar would enslave mankind. The Enlightened of Incariel shall make us into gods."

"I was never the most diligent student," said Ridmark, "but as I recall, the serpent said the same thing to Eve in the Garden of Eden."

"A myth," said Paul. "A lie told by the priests to control mankind, to make us weak and obedient."

"So you wish to add blasphemy to your list of offenses?" said Ridmark.

Paul's smile was condescending. "I have seen the truth, I have seen through the lies the church pours into the ears of the foolish. The church would have us believe that all men are equal before God. But there is no God, Ridmark. There is only power, and those strong enough to use it. The prophet of Incariel has shown us the way. Mankind is at a disadvantage. The urdmordar are immortal, and the dwarves and dark elves and even the manetaurs live far longer than we do. But Incariel shall make us as gods."

"And just who is Incariel?" said Ridmark.

"The darkness at the heart of the world," said Paul. "The axle of chaos. Freedom from all laws, all restraints, all limitations."

Ridmark felt a chill. "You have chosen to worship the great void of the dark elves?"

Paul laughed. "For all their power, the dark elves were superstitious fools, cringing and groveling before their great void. Incariel is the truth of the void, and with the power of Incariel, we shall become the immortal lords of this world." His smile widened. "And when I put your head at the Dux's feet, I shall rise high among the Enlightened."

"You think you can take me, then?" said Ridmark, shifting his grip on his staff. There were only three of them, and he had defeated larger number of opponents in battle before. But despite his other failings, Paul Tallmane had always been a formidable fighter, and Ridmark suspected he had trained his men-at-arms to fight alongside him.

"I'm not a fool," said Paul. "Certainly not foolish enough to fight you alone." He beckoned, and his men-at-arms stepped to his side, shields raised, maces ready to strike. "So I came prepared."

Yet neither he nor his men advanced. They outnumbered Ridmark, and had no reason not to attack. Unless...

Unless they were waiting for someone else.

A concealed archer, perhaps?

Ridmark threw himself to the ground and rolled, and an instant later two crossbow bolts bounced off the street, tips gleaming with poison. Paul shouted a frustrated curse, and Ridmark got to his feet.

Two men in dark cloaks emerged from the burning houses, crossbows in hand. Beneath the cloaks they wore black trousers, boots, and cuirasses of red leather.

Blood-colored leather.

"The Red Family?" said Ridmark. "You hired assassins from the Red Family of Cintarra? Have you utterly lost your mind?"

Paul laughed. "You're a dangerous man, exile. Why not hire the best? Kill him!"

The two assassins and the men-at-arms charged, and Ridmark raised his staff to defend himself. The men-at-arms came at him, shields extended, while the assassins circled to the side. Each assassin carried a sword in his right hand and a dagger in his left.

"Leading from the rear, Sir Paul?" said Ridmark, hoping to goad Paul into a mistake. "Are all the Enlightened of Incariel so brave?"

"I'm going to live forever, exile," said Paul. "As much as I shall enjoy watching you die, there's no reason to risk my life."

"You will die," said one of the assassins, "in the name of Mhor, and your blood shall water his altar."

"Then stop talking," said Ridmark, "and do it." He glared at Paul, still backing away. "I'm going to..."

In one smooth motion, he reversed his momentum and drove his staff towards the assassin on the left. The man reacted, bringing his blades up in a cross-parry to shield his face, but Ridmark shifted his aim. The butt of the staff jabbed into the man's belly, and the assassin stumbled with a wheeze. The other men rushed at Ridmark, and he whipped his staff in a wide circle, forcing them to take a cautious step back as the first assassin recovered his breath.

Ridmark was in trouble.

The men-at-arms and the assassins knew their business, and sooner or later they would rush him and kill him. Ridmark would kill one or two before he fell. Unless Ridmark changed the terms of the fight.

For a moment he considered running back to the church for help and discarded the idea. If he did, the assassins and the men-at-arms would certainly kill Gavin or Kharlacht or Caius or one of the others. Ridmark deserved to die for what had happened to Aelia. Caius and Calliande and the others did not deserve to die alongside him.

Not for the mistakes he had made.

Ridmark risked a look around the street. All the houses had burned, but the blacksmith's shop stood mostly intact. Its walls had been built of stone, no doubt to keep a fire contained in the event of an accident. Yet a fire still crackled within the interior, the remnants of the roof dancing with flames.

He backed away another step, shifting his staff to his right hand and drawing his orcish war axe with his left. The men-at-arms continued their steady advance, shields raised. The assassins remained on the side, watching for an opening to strike.

Ridmark darted forward, swinging the axe. The man-at-arms on the left raised his shield and caught the blow, splinters flying from the impact. The assassins lunged, closing at Ridmark's sides, and he jumped back, whipping the staff in a circle to ward off their blades. A sword struck the staff, the impact almost knocking the weapon from Ridmark's grasp, but he moved out of reach.

Paul laughed. "This is more enjoyable than I thought! The great Ridmark Arban, the man who slew an urdmordar and returned from Urd Morlemoch, dancing in the street with a stick."

Ridmark lashed his axe at the shield again. Again the assassins closed around him, and again he barely got out of the way. One of the assassins' swords slashed his right shoulder, drawing blood. Their crossbow quarrels had been poisoned, but he hoped they had not envenomed their blades. He backed away, the men-at-arms and assassins moving with more confidence.

Ridmark attacked again, raising the axe in his left hand to strike.

The men-at-arms raised their shields, ready to absorb his blow.

At the last minute Ridmark spun flung the axe with all his strength.

His aim was off, and the heavy axe had not been designed for throwing. Yet the blade sank two inches into an assassin's thigh with a meaty thud. The assassin's eyes widened, his leg spurting blood the color of his armor, and he loosed a high scream, charging at Ridmark. But the assassin's leg collapsed, the man tumbling to the ground before the men-at-arms. For a moment, just a moment, the men-at-arms hesitated, blocked by the prone form of the bleeding assassin.

And that was all that Ridmark needed.

He charged at the second assassin, both hands around his staff. The assassin raised his blades in a cross-parry, and Ridmark let his staff slam against the sword and dagger. The assassin growled, straining to hold the parry in place, and Ridmark spun his staff and thrust. The end of his weapon rammed into the assassin's mouth with enough force to shatter teeth, and the man's head jerked back. Ridmark kicked, his boot hammering into the assassin's knee, and the man stumbled, giving Ridmark the opening he needed to slam his staff against the assassin's temple.

The assassin fell dead at his feet.

But then the men-at-arms reached Ridmark.

He jerked back, and the blow of a mace clipped the side of his chest, spinning him around. Ridmark ducked under the next blow and thrust with his staff, the weapon bouncing off the chain mail of a man-at-arms. Paul charged with a yell, his sword a gleaming blur, and Ridmark fell back.

He had to get away. Facing Paul alone would have been a challenge, and the men-at-arms made it almost impossible. He had...

A click filled his ears.

The assassin he had wounded lay prone on the street, a loaded crossbow in his hands.

Ridmark feinted right, Paul's sword clipping his left hip, pain flooding through his leg. But Ridmark kept moving, his staff sweeping low and tangling in the legs of a man-at-arms.

The man stumbled with a curse just as the assassin squeezed his crossbow's trigger.

The man-at-arms jerked as the the barbed head of the quarrel erupted from his chest, and collapsed to the ground.

Ridmark raced for the entrance to the blacksmith's shop. He rammed his wounded shoulder against the door, and he stepped into a room filled with smoke. The walls still stood, as did the timbers of the roof, but part of the second floor had collapsed, fires crackling across the piled debris scattered about the floor.

Yet the stairs to the remnants of the second floor still stood.

Ridmark dashed up the stairs, ignoring the pain from his wounds. He propped his staff against the wall, snatched his bow from his shoulder, and put an arrow against the string.

A moment later the final man-at-arms burst through the door, Paul on his heels.

Ridmark loosed an arrow and the man-at-arms tried to dodge, but the arrow struck his left shoulder. His armor turned most of its force, but the steel head sank an inch or so into his flesh. The man-at-arms shouted in pain and stormed up the stairs, his shield leading.

Ridmark grabbed his staff and swung with all the strength he could muster. The staff struck the shield with a resounding crack. The power of the blow put stress upon the man's wounded arm, and his shield dipped. Ridmark whipped the staff over his head, driving its length into the man's forehead, and again into his throat.

The man-at-arms toppled off the stairs, landed in a pile of burning planks, and did not move again.

"Very clever," sneered Paul. "Very clever, indeed."

"Then come up and finish it, then," said Ridmark.

"I don't need to," said Paul. "I know something that you don't."

"What's that?" said Ridmark, bracing himself for an attack.

Paul took his shield in both hands. "This."

He swung the heavy sheet of wood and metal into a pillar.

As it happened, the last pillar supporting the remnants of the second floor.

The charred pillar snapped, and the floor collapsed beneath Ridmark's boots.

###

"Let her sleep," said Calliande. "When Ridmark gets back with water and food, we'll wake her long enough to eat and drink, and then she should sleep for the rest of the night."

Gavin nodded. He sat on the steps alongside Rosanna. Calliande felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was obviously in love with the girl, and she was just as obviously in love with the blacksmith's apprentice. Between that, and learning that his father had betrayed his people to Agrimnalazur, Calliande would have expected Gavin to fall to pieces.

But he did not.

"What of Father Martel?" said Gavin.

"We shall let him rest," said Calliande.

"We will pray for him later, you and I, after Ridmark returns" said Caius. "I fear that is all we can do for him now."

"Thank you," said Gavin.

"When Ridmark returns," said Calliande. "He has been gone longer than I would have thought."

Kharlacht shrugged. "It is a large village, Magistria. It will take time to search."

"Perhaps he found another group of survivors," said Caius.

"Or he ran into trouble," said Calliande. Ridmark, for all his prowess, was just one man. Suppose some misfortune had overtaken him?

She made up her mind.

"I will go find him," said Calliande, standing.

"Are you sure that is wise?" said Caius. "Ridmark bade us to stay here."

"He did," said Calliande, "but he may have encountered some difficulty."

"I will go," said Kharlacht.

"No," said Calliande. "Stay here and guard the others. I have magic. I can defend myself, and if Ridmark has found wounded survivors I can aid them."

That was not a pleasant thought.

To work a spell of healing, she had to take the pain of the injury into herself. She had felt every one of Rosanna's cuts and bruises, the searing pain of Martel's gash. Of course, the pain passed in moments, and if Calliande had not used her magic, the victims would have been forced to endure the pain for weeks as their bodies slowly healed.

But the pain was still real, and it drained her.

"Very well," said Kharlacht.

"We shall watch over the others until you return," said Caius.

Calliande left the church.

She stepped outside and stared at the burning houses. She was certain, utterly certain, she had seen places like this before, villages ravaged by war. But she could not recall where or when.

And she was certain the villages had been destroyed by ice.

The Frostborn.

This could happen again if she did not find Dragonfall and discover the truth of herself, if she did not stop the return of the Frostborn...

Calliande shook aside her fears and went in search of Ridmark. She could hardly stop the Frostborn if Agrimnalazur and her minions killed them all. She headed towards the village's southern gate. Knowing Ridmark, he would make for the wall and walk a circuit of the ramparts. That would give him a view of the village, and...

She stopped.

Three bodies lay in the street outside the blacksmith's shop.

The first was one of Paul Tallmane's men-at-arms, the bolt of a crossbow through his chest. The man had not been dead for more than five minutes. Two other bodies lay nearby, clad in dark cloaks and armor of blood-colored leather.

And the sight of red leather pulled up dark memories from the mists choking Calliande's past.

"My God," she said. "The Red Family of Mhor..."

Then she realized one of the red-armored corpses wasn't dead, that the assassin was sitting up and leveling a crossbow...

Calliande thrust out her hands, drawing upon her magic. A shield of translucent white light flared before her as the assassin squeezed the crossbow's trigger. The quarrel struck the shield, the power of her ward turning aside the bolt. The light faded, and the assassin sagged to the ground. She stood over him, ready to work another spell, and the assassin's unfocused eyes turned towards her.

"The Red Family," said Calliande. She must have encountered them in her past life, if she could remember them now. "I thought you would have been wiped out centuries ago."

He bared his teeth at her. "The Gray Knight's...the Gray Knight's whore. The Matriarch...sent us to kill him. But she would...she would have also paid well for...for..."

He went limp, and she knew he would die unless she healed him. She prepared the spell, bracing herself for the agony of the man's wounds. She had to heal him, had to learn more.

Then she heard the sounds of fighting from inside the blacksmith's shop.

"Ridmark," she whispered.

###

Ridmark landed atop a pile of charred planks and felt a dozen eruptions of pain in his back and legs. For a moment sheer agony filled him, and he could not move, could not breathe.

Paul charged at him, sword drawn back to stab, and Ridmark realized that if he did not move, he was going to die.

He might have deserved death, but he had no wish to surrender to his life to the likes of Paul Tallmane and his Enlightened of Incariel.

Paul stabbed, and Ridmark swung his staff. He barely managed to deflect the sword point aimed at his heart, and instead the tip of the blade skidded down his ribs. Ridmark kicked, and caught Paul in the knee. The knight stumbled, and Ridmark heaved himself to his feet, pain throbbing through him. He thrust his staff, but Paul blocked the blow on his shield.

"Pathetic," said Paul. "The son of the Dux of Taliand fighting with a quarterstaff like a commoner. You weren't worthy of marrying Aelia. She should have wed Dux Tarrabus. He saw how pathetic you were."

Ridmark felt himself smile, tasting the blood on his tongue. "Do you want to know why I fight with a quarterstaff?"

Paul sneered. "Because you were a coward and stripped of your Soulblade?"

"True," said Ridmark. "It also lets me do this."

He charged at Paul, and the knight got his shield up. As he did, Ridmark adjusted his grip on the staff and caught the weapon behind the lip of the shield. He wrenched, pulling the startled Paul towards him. Paul tried to get his sword up, but he was too close, and Ridmark slammed his forehead into Paul's face. Fresh pain burst through Ridmark's head, but Paul staggered with a cry. Ridmark got both hands around his staff and brought it down with all his strength.

He heard the bones in Paul's sword hand shatter, and Paul screamed as his sword clanged against the floor. Ridmark swung again, his staff hitting Paul across the chest, and the knight fell out the door and into the street.

He landed with a clang of armor and tried to rise, and Ridmark rested the tip of his staff upon Paul's throat.

"Yield," croaked Paul. "I yield. Yield! God, you killed them all! I yield!

"You..." said Ridmark.

Only then did he notice Calliande standing in the street, her mouth hanging open in surprise.

"Magistria," said Ridmark. He turned his head and spat out a mouthful of blood.

"Ridmark," said Calliande. "What happened?"

"Sir Paul came to Aranaeus to kill me, since Dux Tarrabus has a grudge," said Ridmark. "He also hired some brothers of the Red Family to help him. They failed." The shock of combat had worn off, and he felt himself growing angry. "Tell me. When the arachar came, when they carried off men and women and children in chains, did you help them? Did you lift a sword in their defense?"

"Of course not," said Paul. "The peasant scum are not worth my time."

"Thank you," said Ridmark.

"For what?" said Paul.

"For letting me do this with a clear conscience," said Ridmark.

He raised his staff.

"No," said Paul, his eyes widening. "No, don't! Don't!"

"Wait," said Calliande. "Wait! You can't just kill him in cold blood. He yielded."

Ridmark opened his mouth to ask why not, and then stopped himself.

"And he might know something useful about the urdmordar," said Calliande.

"I doubt that," said Ridmark. "He claims to be part of a group called the Enlightened of Incariel."

Her blue eyes went wide. "Incariel? Did you say Incariel?"

Ridmark frowned. "You know it?"

"I do," said Calliande. She frowned. "Or, at least, I think I did. It's a high elven word, I think. I can't remember what it means." For a moment she looked so frustrated that Ridmark thought that she was going to kick Paul. "I know it. I could swear I knew what it meant. But I cannot remember."

Paul laughed. "Where did you find this one, exile? Give me a few copper coins and I could find you a brighter woman in the brothels of Coldinium..."

The back of Paul's head bounced off the ground when the butt of Ridmark's staff impacted with his forehead.

"The next time you insult her," said Ridmark, "I shall break your other hand. I trust we understand each other."

Paul's glare held a mixture of rage and fear. But mostly fear.

"These Enlightened of Incariel," said Calliande. "Who are they?"

"Those who see the truth," said Paul, sneering at her, "that the church is merely a collection of lies to gull the credulous. The Enlightened of Incariel are stronger men, superior men, and we shall become stronger yet. We will ascend to immortal godhood, and rule this world with justice and a firm hand for all eternity."

"I think," said Ridmark, "this 'Incariel' is merely another term for the great void the dark elves worshipped."

"Yes," said Calliande, nodding. "Yes, you're right. I had forgotten that." She looked at Paul. "Are you mad? You are worshipping the great darkness? It brought nothing but ruin and despair to the dark elves."

Paul shook his head. "The dark elves were fools. We shall seize the power they were too feeble to take, and make ourselves into gods."

"You are mad," said Calliande, her voice harsh, her face stern. "You repeat the folly of Eve when she heeded the serpent. We are men, not gods, and the most terrible suffering results when we try to wield the power that rightfully belongs to God alone."

"Do not lecture me with your cringing morality," said Paul. "Power belongs to those bold enough to claim it and strong enough to wield..."

"A fine argument," said Ridmark, "coming from an armored swordsman who was defeated by a man with a stick."

Paul fell silent.

"What are you going to do with him?" said Calliande.

Ridmark said nothing.

Fear began to replace the anger on Paul's face.

"He should be put on trial for attempted murder," said Calliande, "but we are outside the realm. There is no one here to judge him. And there is no one here to imprison him." She took a deep breath. "That means...that means your only choices are to kill him or to let him go."

Still Ridmark said nothing.

"Wait," said Paul. "If you let me go, I will take an oath not to do you harm..."

"An oath on what?" said Ridmark. "God? The saints? The Dominus Christus? You've rejected them as myths. I suppose you could swear upon Incariel, but I suspect your Incariel teaches that oaths to lesser men mean nothing. But, then, by your own creed, you deserve to die, do you not? You were weak. I am the stronger, and I have the right to do with you as I wish."

The fear swallowed Paul's anger.

"Ridmark," said Calliande.

Ridmark lifted his staff, and Paul's eyes grew wide.

He put the butt of the staff on the ground and leaned on it, his weary muscles throbbing.

"Go," said Ridmark. "Go to Castra Carhaine. Now."

Paul got to his feet, his eyes wary. "Why?"

"Go to the Dux Tarrabus," said Ridmark, "and tell him that the Frostborn are returning. That's what the omen of the blue fire meant, Paul. It is a sign of the return of the Frostborn. Tell Tarrabus that he must prepare his people and his lands. I know he hates me, but this is more important. He must prepare."

"That's it?" said Paul, holding his broken hand to his chest. "You want me to tell the Dux that...nonsense?"

"Tarrabus is many things," said Ridmark, "but stupid is not one of them. Go."

"I need my supplies, my horse," said Paul. "There are beastmen loose around the town..."

"Go," said Ridmark. "Surely a superior man will have no trouble overcoming such trivial obstacles." He pointed the staff. "You should have a few hours of daylight yet. No sense wasting it. Because if I ever see you again, I will kill you."

The last hint of defiance drained from Paul's face, and he fled through the southern gate.

Ridmark leaned on his staff and watched him go.

"Hold still," said Calliande.

"Wait," said Ridmark, the white fire glimmering around her fingers. "I'm not that badly hurt, and you should save your strength for..."

She put both hands on his head, and the freezing cold and burning heat of her magic washed through him, and he heard her scream as she took the pain of his wounds into herself. Her eyes grew wide, and she let out a long, ragged breath as the pain of his injuries faded away.

She stepped back, shook her head, and pushed the hair back from her face.

"You were hurt," said Calliande. "Not as bad as you could have been, but you were hurt. My God, all that pain. How do you stand it?"

"I've had some practice," said Ridmark. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Calliande. "You're an idiot, you know."

"Probably," said Ridmark. He retrieved his axe from the dead brother of the Red Family and cleaned the blade on the dead man's cloak.

"Why did you try to fight all five of them by yourself?" said Calliande.

"I won, did I not?" said Ridmark, returning the axe to his belt.

"Barely," said Calliande. "You were trying to get yourself killed, weren't you? For Aelia's death, and you cannot blame..."

"I do not wish to speak of that," said Ridmark.

"For God's sake, Ridmark," said Calliande. "If you cannot forgive yourself for it, then find a way to live with it. Because if Paul had been a little bit smarter or you had been a little less lucky, you would be dead now."

"Would that be such a bad thing?" said Ridmark.

"It would, yes," said Calliande. "Because if you had thrown away your life like you wanted, then all those people at Dun Licinia would be dead. I would be dead. And if that is not enough for you, then think on this. The Frostborn are coming back, and we are the only ones who know it...and I cannot stop it by myself. I need your help. Ridmark, please." She swallowed, the veins twitching in her temples. "Don't throw your life away to punish yourself. Please."

He stared at her. Her concern touched him. He did not care what happened to him, but she did. He wished she did not...but it was heartening nonetheless.

"Very well," said Ridmark. "I promise not to kill myself."

One blond eyebrow rose. "That isn't what I asked."

"True," said Ridmark. "I will be more careful." He thought it over. "At least as careful as we can be while pursuing a female urdmordar and her cult of worshippers while a vengeful Dux sends assassins to kill me."

Calliande sighed. "It does sound unlikely when you phrase it like that, does it not? Do we even have a chance, Ridmark? Magic is the only thing that can hurt a female urdmordar, and I fear mine is not powerful enough to kill one."

"If we are bold and fortunate," said Ridmark, "perhaps we can get the captives away from the cult and the arachar before the urdmordar notices. But we will not know until we make the attempt."

"True enough," said Calliande. "We need to gather supplies for tomorrow, and we both need rest. I assume you will want to leave at daybreak?"

Ridmark nodded, and they walked back to the church to tell the others what had happened.

***

## Chapter 13 - Talons

The next morning Gavin left Aranaeus with Ridmark, his companions, and Rosanna and Father Martel.

Gavin wished he could have convinced them to remain behind. But Rosanna and Father Martel had insisted on accompanying them. Ridmark had acquiesced without much argument. Aranaeus had been destroyed, and was vulnerable to any scavengers or predators. One old man and one young woman would not be safe there.

And it would be cruel to force them to remain in a burned village filled with the dead.

So the seven of them headed north, each carrying as many supplies as they could manage. Father Martel had insisted that he could walk, but Calliande had been just as insistent that he should ride, and Calliande had won out in the end.

Gavin suspected Calliande often won arguments.

So Father Martel rode one of the surviving mules. Ridmark took the lead with Kharlacht, the two of them conferring about the terrain. Evidently Kharlacht had once lived in Vhaluusk, and was familiar with the hills, even if he had never been to Urd Arowyn. Calliande walked alongside the mule, keeping an eye on the old priest. Brother Caius brought up the back, keeping watch for any pursuers.

Gavin and Rosanna walked in front of the dwarven friar.

Rosanna looked at Aranaeus, her eyes red and raw. Some thin plumes of smoke still rose from the ruins, stark against the blue sky. They had spent the night in the church, sleeping upon the floor, and Gavin had heard her weeping, her face muffled in her blanket to keep from waking the others.

"We'll get Philip back," said Gavin.

"Are you sure?" said Rosanna, looking back at him.

Gavin thought of the things he had seen, the spiderlings in the ruins, the scar-faced arachar orcs striding through the ashes of Aranaeus.

The scarred orcs he had killed.

"No," said Gavin. "I'm not sure of anything."

"It's all gone, Gavin," said Rosanna. "My father's house, the blacksmith's shop, the inn, all of it. I spent my entire life there, and it's gone."

"I know," said Gavin. Her father Richard had farmed outside the walls, and then made barrels during the winter. Nothing had remained of his home but ashes and burned timbers. Gavin had not even been sure if the old man's body had been in the wreckage. Richard had always been kind to Gavin, but he had always just as firmly preferred that his daughter wed Philip.

"How could your father do this to us?" said Rosanna. "Why did he betray us to an urdmordar?"

"Because he is a coward," said Gavin. "He has always been a coward. He let Morwen control him, and he sold out our neighbors the urdmordar."

He got angry when thought of it, so angry he wanted to shout and hit things. He vowed to make his father pay for what he had done.

"I'm sorry," said Rosanna.

Gavin blinked. "For what?"

"For not thinking of you," said Rosanna. "Your home was burned, too. And to find out that your father did those things...Gavin, I know you never got along with him, but it still must be horrible.

"Don't worry about me," said Gavin. "You lost more than I did. But Philip could still be alive."

"Maybe," said Rosanna, her lip twitching.

On impulse he grabbed her hand, and she looked at him, surprised.

"I don't know if Philip is still alive," said Gavin. "I don't know if any of the others are alive, either. But I promise you that I will not rest until I find a way to free them."

She smiled. "Thank you. It...without you, Gavin, I think I might lie down and cry until I died."

He wanted to lean in close and kiss her. He wanted that more than anything. But he knew that she was crying for Philip.

So he made himself smile and let go of her hand.

"You're welcome," he said.

"The Gray Knight," said Rosanna, looking at Ridmark. "Do you think he knows what he is doing?"

"What do you mean?" said Gavin.

"This place we're going," said Rosanna. "Urd Arowyn. Do you think the arachar orcs took the captives there?"

"It makes sense," said Gavin. "I saw the inside of Urd Dagaash." Even after everything that had happened, she still shivered at the name. "There isn't enough to room to keep everyone there, especially if Agrimnalazur's servants have been kidnapping beastmen." He shrugged. "And if he's wrong, he knows how to follow trails. That many people will have left a wide trail. We can follow them to the ends of the earth."

"Do you think we can even get them back?" said Rosanna. "Even if we find them?"

"If anyone do it, it's the Gray Knight," said Gavin.

Rosanna looked doubtful.

"We would have died in Urd Dagaash," said Gavin. "Those spiderlings should have killed us all. But Ridmark defeated them. A dozen spiderlings, and he killed them all. And those assassins that Sir Paul brought with him? Ridmark killed them, too." He shook his head. "Lady Calliande's magic is powerful, and Kharlacht is a strong warrior. Brother Caius even fights, and he is a friar! Rosanna, if anyone can find a way to rescue our neighbors, it is the Gray Knight and his friends."

"I hope you are right," said Rosanna.

They kept walking, following Ridmark's lead.

###

Ridmark crossed the stream and cast about for the trail.

It was not hard to find. Nearly six hundred people had been taken from Aranaeus, and Ridmark suspected they had been captured by around one hundred and fifty orcs and humans. Such a large group had left a trail that a child could have followed.

"There," said Ridmark. "They went that way. They're circling around the base of Urd Dagaash's hill."

"Then you were right," rumbled Kharlacht, "and they are making for Urd Arowyn."

"Most likely," said Ridmark. "Or another ruin in the hills, or a cavern where the urdmordar could hide her larder. But the arachar are probably making for Urd Arowyn."

And they would do so slowly. Six hundred men, women, and children would not travel quickly. Ridmark's small group, even with Father Martel on the mule, could overtake the prisoners.

Though he had no idea what to do then.

There were between one hundred and fifty and two hundred arachar, their strength and prowess enhanced by Agrimnalazur's blood. Ridmark's group had seven people, two of them a tired old man and a girl who had never lifted a weapon in anger. If they tried a direct confrontation, they would die.

Ridmark had to think of something clever.

The beginnings of a plan simmered at the edge of his mind.

Ridmark looked at the trees around them, scanning the ground for the trail of the captives and the arachar, but his mind turned back to Calliande. She had come after him once Paul and his hirelings from the Red Family had attacked, but she couldn't have known that he was in danger.

Yet she had come anyway.

Her concern touched him, though he did not deserve it. He wondered who she had been in her previous life, before she had gone to sleep away the centuries in the dark vault below the Tower of Vigilance. Even before her magic had returned, she had been brave. What would she be like if her memories resurfaced?

If he wanted the answer to that mystery, he would have to go to Urd Morlemoch and pry the secret out of the Warden. Or find the Dragonfall place she had remembered.

"Is something amiss?" said Kharlacht.

"Hmm?" said Ridmark, shaking off his reverie. There was a time and a place for such musings. Tracking a band of arachar through the hills of the Wilderland was neither. "Nothing more than is obvious, I fear."

Kharlacht nodded. "The situation is dire. But no more dire than the siege of Dun Licinia, and you found a way to break that."

Ridmark frowned. "I had little enough to do with it. Sir Constantine came with reinforcements, and Calliande broke the spells around Qazarl. I only..."

He stopped, raising a hand, and the others halted.

"What is it?" said Calliande.

"Father Martel, Rosanna," said Ridmark. "Have you ever spoken to a beastman before?"

Rosanna shook her head.

"I have seen them from afar," said Martel, "but never spoken with one."

"That's about to change," said Ridmark. "Get off the mule and hold it steady. It might panic. Try not to stare at any of the beastmen, but if you do, for God's sake do not break eye contact. If they become hostile, stay near Calliande. They'll do whatever she tells them to do."

Rosanna's eyes grew wide, but the old priest nodded.

A few moments later the lupivirii appeared out of the surrounding forest. There were nearly a score of them, and they moved into a loose ring around Ridmark's group. One of the lupivir moved forward on all fours, and then reared up on his legs. His form shifted and blurred, and Ridmark found himself looking at Rakhaag son of Balhaag son of Talhaag.

"Rakhaag son of Balhaag," said Ridmark, meeting the lupivir's gaze.

Rakhaag growled and began speaking orcish. "Ridmark son of Leogrance." His breath hissed through his fangs. "It seems the words you spoke to the True People were not false words."

"You saw what happened to the village, then?" said Ridmark.

"Yes." The lupivir moved closer. "We saw the men and orcs who have been taking our young, a great pack of them. They descended upon the village with metal weapons and fire, and took many captives."

"Do you know where they went?" said Ridmark.

"You are upon their trail," said Rakhaag. "I believed they would go to Urd Dagaash and overwhelm you within the ruins. But instead they circled around the hill and went to the north."

"Then you see," said Ridmark, "that the men of Aranaeus did not take your females and your young?"

"No," said Rakhaag. "You told it truly. But it seems there are traitors within the men of Aranaeus."

"What do you mean?" said Ridmark.

"A man of Aranaeus commanded the tainted men and tainted orcs," said Rakhaag.

"Describe him," said Ridmark.

Rakhaag closed his eyes, no doubt communing with the great memory of the lupivirii. "Old. Older than you. Curly gray hair. He smelled sick. A woman was with him. She smelled...tainted, as did the orcs."

"The man was Cornelius, the praefectus of the village," said Ridmark. Gavin looked up at the mention of his father's name. "The woman was Morwen, his wife. And they, I fear, are responsible for kidnapping your females and your young."

Rakhaag bared his fangs. "You will tell me more."

"Do you know," said Ridmark, "of the urdmordar?"

A violent shudder went through Rakhaag, and the other lupivirii growled.

"The great spider-devils," said Rakhaag. "They are death made flesh, and they weave webs of lies and dark magic. Ever since the great memory first began upon this world, they have tormented us and hunted us."

"You said the orcs smelled tainted," said Ridmark. "They are called arachar. They drank of the blood of the urdmordar Agrimnalazur to make themselves stronger and faster."

"The True People have faced such foes before," said Rakhaag. "The great memory records that the dark elves brought us to this world to fight their wars. But then the dark elves summoned the urdmordar, and the spider-devils enslaved them. The True People fled south to escape the urdmordar, for no one can stand before them." His fangs clicked. "And these arachar took the humans of Aranaeus?"

"Aye," said Ridmark. "And they took your kin."

"Why?" said Rakhaag. "The urdmordar have hunted us before, but never sent their slaves to do it for them."

"Because," said Ridmark, "the Staffbearer has returned."

He did not dare look away from Rakhaag, but he heard the crunch of fallen leaves as Calliande came to his side.

"You know why the Staffbearer has awakened," said Ridmark. "The Frostborn are returning, unless we find a way to stop it. The urdmordar know it, too. So they are preparing, like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter. Agrimnalazur sent her servants to kidnap men and women, both human and of the True People, and bring them to her lair. Then she will use her venom to put them into a deep sleep, and feed on them while the Frostborn cover the world in ice."

"This news is dire," said Rakhaag. "An urdmordar is a terrible foe."

"They are," said Ridmark, "but I suspect I know where Agrimnalazur's servants have taken your missing females and young."

"Where?" said Rakhaag.

"A dark elven ruin several days north of here," said Ridmark. "A place called Urd Arowyn."

Rakhaag recoiled, breaking gazes with Ridmark. Ridmark lifted his staff, wondering if Rakhaag intended to attack. But Rakhaag did nothing, and after a moment Ridmark realized what had happened.

The name had made Rakhaag recoil.

"That is an evil place," said Rakhaag, "worse than Urd Dagaash."

"I take it anyone who enters Urd Arowyn never returns?" said Ridmark. If a female urdmordar laired within the ruins, that made sense.

"Yes," said Rakhaag. "But a greater evil dwells within the fortress. If anyone enters the ruins, the dead rise to attack them. And sometimes packs of the dead issue from the gates and drag the living within the walls."

"The dead?" said Ridmark.

"Desiccated and dry," said Rakhaag. "They reeked of dark magic."

"Not dead, but undead," said Calliande. "Urdmordar are thrifty creatures. Once they devour their victims, often they keep the corpses and use their black magic to raise them as guardians."

"Evil magic," said Rakhaag.

"Yes," said Ridmark. "That is your true foe, Rakhaag. Not the arachar, the orcs with tainted blood. Not the traitors within Aranaeus who sold their neighbors to the urdmordar. They are only the tools of Agrimnalazur. She is the one who has taken your females and young, and if we do not stop her, she will feast upon them all."

"Then we are extinct," said Rakhaag.

"Extinct?" said Ridmark.

"Most of our females and young were taken," said Rakhaag. "Not enough females remain to sustain our numbers. Soon we will fall victim to disease and the hunt and old age. Our numbers shall dwindle, and we shall only be a memory."

"Unless we retrieve your females and children from Urd Arowyn," said Ridmark.

"We cannot," said Rakhaag. "You cannot. The True People cannot defeat an urdmordar. We can only flee from them."

"The men of Andomhaim have defeated the urdmordar," said Ridmark.

"When they had magic," said Rakhaag. "The great memory knows this. You have no magic, Ridmark son of Leogrance. You have no way to harm an urdmordar."

"The Staffbearer has magic," said Ridmark.

Again Rakhaag looked away, his yellow eyes focusing on Calliande. "Is your magic strong enough to slay an urdmordar, Staffbearer?"

Calliande stood with her chin raised, like a queen addressing her subjects. "I will not lie to you, Rakhaag son of Balhaag son of Talhaag. I have magic, but it is not enough to kill an urdmordar. Not without help."

"Then it is futile," said Rakhaag. "The True People must withdraw from these hills, and hunt until death takes us." His rasping voice was heavy with sorrow.

"No," said Ridmark.

Rakhaag snarled, slashing at the air with a clawed hand. "What would you have us do? We cannot defeat the urdmordar."

"No," said Ridmark again, "but we need not kill Agrimnalazur to get your kin back, do we? We need only enter Urd Arowyn and escape with them."

Rakhaag blinked. "What do you mean?"

"It is simple," said Ridmark. "We will enter Urd Arowyn in disguise, find a way to rescue the prisoners, and escape with them."

"Madness," said Rakhaag. "You will almost certainly perish in such an attempt."

"Indeed," said Ridmark. "And you might as well. But you are going to die anyway, are you not? How do you want to die, Rakhaag? Alone in the wilderness, dying of old age and hunger, the last of the True People?"

Rakhaag growled, stepping closer.

"Ridmark," said Calliande.

"Or," said Ridmark, "would you rather die fighting to free your females and young from lives of slavery? Those are the choices before you. I am going to Urd Arowyn, and I am going to free the prisoners or die trying. I would have you accompany us, if you would."

"To what end?" said Rakhaag.

"Many hands," said Ridmark, "make for light work."

Actually, he was not sure what the lupivirii could do. He needed to have a look at Urd Arowyn before he decided upon a plan of action. Nevertheless, their aid would be useful. The arachar were fearsome fighters, but so were the lupivirii.

Rakhaag said nothing. For the first time Ridmark saw hints of doubt, even fear, on his thick features. The beastmen did not live long lives, and Rakhaag could not have been much older than Gavin. Now the alpha had to face terrible foes, make decisions that could kill every member of his pack. Even the great memory could not offer much guidance.

"Staffbearer," said Rakhaag. "You were a friend to the True People, long ago. What is your counsel? What should we do?"

Calliande took a deep breath. "I do not presume to command you."

"But we shall heed your counsel," said Rakhaag.

"Then my counsel is that you should follow Ridmark," said Calliande. "If anyone can find a way to free your kin, Ridmark can do it. He has defeated great foes in the past."

For a long time Rakhaag said nothing, his eyes closed. The other lupivirii had their eyes closed as well. Ridmark suspected they were communicating without speech, using the strange telepathy of their kindred.

At last Rakhaag's eyes opened.

"So be it," said the lupivir alpha. "We will follow you, Ridmark son of Leogrance son of Rience, because the Staffbearer has spoken for you."

"Then we shall go into battle together," said Ridmark, "and meet victory or death as one."

"What do you wish us to do?" said Rakhaag.

"For now, travel north with us," said Ridmark. "We follow the trail of the arachar to Urd Arowyn. But your senses are keener than ours, and I would like your packs to scout around us, to keep watch for any arachar."

"If they approach, we shall kill them," said Rakhaag.

"Or wound them, and then question them," said Ridmark. "The more we know about our foes, the better."

"Words," spat Rakhaag. "Mere words. What good are words? Deeds are better."

"True," said Ridmark, "but the right words at the right time might save your kin. We had best be on our way. I hope to make at least another ten miles before dark."

"So be it," said Rakhaag, and the lupivirii vanished into the trees.

###

Calliande watched the beastmen depart, and she heard Ridmark let out a long breath.

She looked at him as he wiped sweat from his forehead, despite the chill from the spring day. He had been less certain than he shown.

"Remind me," said Calliande, "to never gamble with you."

"Why is that?" said Ridmark.

"Because your face," said Calliande, "rarely shows anything at all of your thoughts."

To her surprise, he smiled. "Useful in a negotiation, is it not? And I am surprised you are averse to gambling with me. You've done nothing else since we rescued you from the standing stones."

"I suppose you are right," said Calliande.

"Thank you," said Ridmark. "I do not think I could have persuaded Rakhaag on my own."

"Do you have a plan?" said Calliande.

"Not yet," said Ridmark.

She frowned. "Then have I just told Rakhaag to take his kindred to their deaths?"

"They would have died in any event," said Ridmark, "but I am not that callous. If Rakhaag flees and does nothing, his pack will eventually die out. If we go to Urd Arowyn and fight, perhaps we yet have a chance of freeing both his kin and the villagers of Aranaeus."

"Then you have a way to succeed?" said Calliande.

"Maybe," said Ridmark. "I would prefer to avoid facing Agrimnalazur altogether. If we can get the captives away without alerting her, that would be best."

"A difficult task," said Calliande.

"Aye," said Ridmark with a shrug, "but all things worth doing are difficult, all they not?"

***

## Chapter 14 - Urd Arowyn

Four days later, they came to the foothills of the mountains, and Ridmark Arban looked upon the walls of Urd Arowyn.

Little wonder the lupivirii feared the place.

Ridmark had rarely seen a stronger fortress.

A flat-topped foothill rose at the edge of one of the mountains, its crest encircled by a white stone wall like a rampart made of gleaming bones. With the wall Ridmark saw the crumbling shapes of dark elven towers, constructed with strange, alien angles. A massive round tower, at least a hundred and fifty feet tall, rose from the heart of the ruins. A small culvert had been built in the base of the wall, and a waterfall fell in a brilliant white spray down two hundred feet of cliffs. Urd Arowyn had its own supply of water, and space enough within the walls to grow crops to support Agrimnalazur's slaves. The fortress blocked off a narrow meadow climbing the side of the mountain, offering even more space for crops and herds.

And Ridmark saw green-skinned figures in armor patrolling the outer wall and standing watch over the ruined gates.

Arachar orcs.

"Well," murmured Caius, "getting in there is going to be something of a challenge."

Ridmark nodded.

They stood concealed in the trees on the far side of the valley, the waterfall's stream flowing between them and the dark elven ruin. Ridmark wanted to move closer for a better look, but he dared not. Too much movement, and the guards might notice him.

Calliande, Kharlacht, and Caius stood at his left, Gavin and Rosanna at stood at his right, Father Martel behind them. Rosanna gazed at the walls with wide eyes, while Gavin's expression was hard. Ridmark saw Gavin reach for her hand and stop himself.

"I think they're building something on the walls," said Caius, squinting.

"Siege engines, it looks like," said Ridmark. "Ballistae and catapults. In case any passing orcs or kobolds decided to raid."

Caius snorted. "Only foolish raiders would challenge the stronghold of an urdmordar."

"Yes, like us," said Ridmark.

He knew the villagers of Aranaeus were within the walls of Urd Arowyn. The trail led right to the gates of the ruin. They had found a score of dead villagers scattered over the last few days. They had been very old or very young, unable to survive the rigors of a long journey across the wild.

So the arachar had left them to die.

They would pay for that. If Ridmark could find a way to make them pay.

He turned as Rakhaag glided towards them, moving without sound. For all their size and speed, the lupivirii could move with terrifying silence.

"We have arrived," said Rakhaag.

"So we have," said Ridmark.

"The scent goes right to Urd Arowyn, just as you claimed," said Rakhaag. "Yet there is no sign of my kin. Where are they?"

"Likely within the walls," said Ridmark. "I suspect your females and young are harder to control than orcish and human slaves. Most likely Agrimnalazur put them into the death sleep and secured them within her larder."

"Then why do I not smell them?" said Rakhaag. The muscles on his legs and arms thickened, black fur covering more of his pale hide as he started to shift fully into beast form.

Ridmark frowned, and then nodded. "Ah. You think I led you false? You cannot find the trail of your kindred because the arachar took them through the Deeps. There is an entrance to the Deeps below Urd Dagaash, and most likely one below Urd Arowyn as well."

"Then why did they not take the humans through the caverns?" said Rakhaag.

"Because," said Ridmark, "the Deeps are cramped and full of dangers. Would you want to herd seven hundred humans through a narrow, dark cave while spitfangs and kobolds and worse things attack?"

Rakhaag considered this. "No. For many reasons."

"And if the arachar had moved your females and young through the forest, you would have been able to find them," said Ridmark. "Instead, they took them into Urd Dagaash and then underground through the Deeps. That's why you thought they disappeared."

It was devilishly clever. And the urdmordar were always diabolically clever. Gothalinzur had come within a hair's breadth of destroying the village of Victrix before Ridmark had stumbled into her plan ten years ago.

And Agrimnalazur had already destroyed Aranaeus.

But perhaps it was not too late to save the villagers and Rakhaag's kin.

"Of the True People," Ridmark asked Rakhaag, "how many have come at your call?"

"Several packs. Perhaps two hundred total," said Rakhaag. "They remain out of sight around the valley." He bared his teeth in the lupivirii equivalent of a smirk. "Not even the eyes of the tainted orcs can spot us. But we will need to act soon. There is not enough game here to support us, and we will need to move on."

"We shall," said Ridmark. "Have your kin keep watch over the valley. If any additional arachar arrive, or if any arachar leave Urd Arowyn, tell me at once."

"I shall do as you ask," said Rakhaag, "but only because the Staffbearer wishes it of us."

He melted back into the trees.

Ridmark sighed. Rakhaag had never stopped challenging him since they had left Aranaeus, usually two or three times a day. Ridmark could hardly blame him for that. The lupivirii thought in terms of dominance and submission, and the dominant male had to fend off challengers to his position. If he could not, he was no longer fit to be the dominant male, and that was that.

"I don't think," said Gavin, "that he likes you very much."

"Like and dislike have nothing to do with it," said Calliande. "Ridmark forced him to submit when he rescued you. So now Rakhaag will do what Ridmark says. But he will never stop testing Ridmark to see if he is fit to be dominant."

"There's a reason," said Ridmark, "most lupivirii males do not live to reach thirty years. They wind up killing each other in these endless challenges."

"God gave men and orcs and dwarves rational faculties for a reason," said Caius, "to help us govern our passions. I fear he chose not to bestow similar faculties upon the lupivirii, though I know not why."

"Perhaps they have a wisdom we do not see," said Martel. "The beastmen may kill each other, but they do not lie, cheat, steal, betray, or commit adultery. Too often we use our rational faculties to justify the most grievous evils."

"I am not sure which would be better," said Kharlacht, "to live as the beastmen do, or to live as we do and know betrayal."

"Perhaps the beastmen did not fall as mankind did," said Caius, "and learn the knowledge of good and evil."

"I do not care what they know," said Rosanna. "I want for us to live in peace in the village, and for the beastmen to live in peace in the woods, and for both of us to leave the other alone."

"A noble goal," said Caius. "Perhaps we shall yet..."

Ridmark ignored them as Caius and Martel launched into another one of their theological discussions. Gavin listened, his head moving back and forth as they talked. Should they live through this, the boy would receive quite an education. But Ridmark's concerns were more practical. He looked at the cliff below Urd Arowyn's southern wall, following the white line of the waterfall as it fell to the churning stream.

At the pile of rocks at the base of the cliff, the water splashing against them.

"You do have a plan," murmured Calliande, coming to his side.

Ridmark turned his gaze from the waterfall. "Oh?"

"And it has something to do with that waterfall, doesn't it?" said Calliande.

"I don't know for certain," said Ridmark. "I will have to look before I know. But..."

"Ridmark!" said Gavin.

Rakhaag reappeared, loping on all fours. Ridmark lifted his staff, wondering if Rakhaag had decided to challenge him, but the lupivir stopped a few feet away and blurred into his half-human, half-bestial form.

"What is it?" said Ridmark.

"Tainted orcs moving through the woods near here," said Rakhaag. "They left Urd Arowyn, and travel south."

An idea flashed through Ridmark's mind. "How many of them?"

"Seven," said Rakhaag.

"Scouts, I deem," said Kharlacht. "Likely Agrimnalazur's minions have abducted slaves from villagers other than Aranaeus. No doubt the purpose of the scouts is to watch for anyone coming to rescue the prisoners."

"Like us," said Ridmark. Perhaps they ought to conceal themselves and wait for the scouts to pass. On the other hand, the scouts might present a useful opportunity. "Did they have food?"

"Food?" said Gavin, frowning. "We have enough supplies."

Ridmark ignored the question. "Could the True People smell if they carried food?"

"They stank of the taint in their blood," said Rakhaag, "of the foul poison of the spider they drank. They also smelled of wheat and oil and salt and old meat."

"Jerky and hard bread," said Ridmark. "Rations, for a long time away from Urd Arowyn."

"So if we kill them," said Kharlacht, "no one may notice for a few days."

"Precisely," said Ridmark. "Calliande, Kharlacht, Caius, come with me. We'll need to deal with these arachar..."

"Sir," said Gavin, "I would like to come with you, if I may."

"I would prefer that you watch over Rosanna and Father Martel," said Ridmark.

"The beastmen will ensure that no one draws near to them, sir," said Gavin.

"The whelp speaks truth," said Rakhaag. "These tainted orcs and their human allies lumber through the woods like cows. A year-old cub could track them with ease."

"This is my father's fault," said Gavin. "I need...I should do something to make it right. Anything."

Ridmark started to say that Gavin might get killed, that Ridmark would have to answer to his mother and father.

But Gavin's mother had been dead for years, and his father had likely tried to have him killed. Would Cornelius have spared Gavin? He wouldn't have been able to convert Gavin to the worship of Agrimnalazur. Would he have fed his own son to an urdmordar?

There were many ways a man could respond to that kind of betrayal. Most of them weren't good.

"Very well," said Ridmark. "Come along."

###

Gavin followed the others through the forest, trying to keep his footfalls quiet.

Rakhaag darted through the trees, moving with fearful speed and silence. Ridmark followed, almost as fast and as silent, the others moving after him. Gavin came last, the arachar orc's sword in his right hand, a shield taken from one of Sir Paul Tallmane's men-at-arms on his left arm. He felt bad carrying a shield taken from a dead man. Or, at least, he had felt bad, until Caius had pointed out that the man-at-arms had tried to murder Ridmark in cold blood.

That made the shield easier to carry. Gavin practiced with it every night as they stopped, both Ridmark and Caius instructing him in the proper use of weapons.

Rakhaag stopped, and Ridmark held up his hand. The others came to a halt around him. Gavin went to their side, picking his footfalls carefully. The slope of the hill was littered with dead leaves and twisted roots and dozens of other things to make stealthy movement difficult.

He saw motion at the base of the hill.

Seven orcs came into sight, clad in leather armor. The orcs carried swords at their belts and axes slung over their shoulders. The shape of the strange eightfold scar marked their faces, the lines curving over their temples and along their jaws. All seven looked like hardened warriors, and while they did not move with much stealth, Gavin saw the wary tension in their posture.

He wondered if they had killed anyone at Aranaeus.

"Gavin," said Ridmark, voice low. "Stay here and guard Lady Calliande. She's going to be busy in a few moments."

Calliande nodded and raised her hands.

Ridmark said something to Kharlacht and Caius, and then descended the hillside.

Gavin watched in surprise as Ridmark strode to meet the orcs.

###

Ridmark felt the eyes of the arachar upon him.

He strode to the bottom of the hill and stopped, the orcs watching him. They stared at him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. Most likely they did not see the staff in his right hand as a threatening weapon.

They would soon learn otherwise.

"What have we here?" said the leader of the orcs, a hulking warrior with a net of old, faded scars beneath his ritual scarring. "Some wanderer who's about to have a very bad day, eh?"

His men chuckled.

"I've come to join you," said Ridmark.

"Oh, you have?" said the orc leader, stepping closer. There was no sign of battle rage in his eyes yet. "Why is that?"

"I've seen the truth," said Ridmark. "I saw what you did at Aranaeus and the other villages."

The leader chuckled. "And you want vengeance, is that it?"

"No," said Ridmark. "I want to join you. I see what's happening. The blue fire was a sign. Something big is about to happen." He shrugged. "Where better to shelter from the storm than in the service of Agrimnalazur?"

"So you know the name of the goddess?" said the orc. "Do you think to impress me?"

"No," said Ridmark, "but I wish to enter her service."

The orc sneered. "Then you will leave behind the crucified god of the humans and worship the goddess?"

"I can see who is going to be victorious," said Ridmark. "An urdmordar can protect her children. The High King and his knights cannot."

He did not dare look at the hillside. Yet he thought that Kharlacht and Caius would be in position by now, that Calliande would have her spell ready.

Perhaps he could yet get more useful information out of these arachar.

"What do you know of great Agrimnalazur and her servants, human?" rumbled the orc. He drew his sword with an iron rasp.

"I know that she is immortal and invincible," said Ridmark. "I know that she has foreseen the return of the Frostborn, how they shall choke the world in ice and bring the winter that never ends. I know that she is preparing a larder, and herds of slaves to sustain herself during the frozen centuries. And I know that her loyal arachar, orcish and human both, are rewarded well for devoted service. You have been kidnapping humans from the nearby villages, and beastmen from the wandering packs, to stock her larder." Ridmark spread his hands, keeping a tight grip on his staff. "I see three fates for mankind – to perish when the Frostborn return, to serve as cattle for the urdmordar, or to become a chosen servant of the goddess. Between the three, I choose the latter."

The arachar said nothing.

"You know," said the orc leader at last, "rather more than you should, human."

"Perhaps we should let him join us," said one of the arachar. "If he truly wishes to serve the goddess."

"Bah," said a third orc. "He is a renegade. Look at the brand upon his face. Even the High King of Andomhaim does not tolerate cowards. He is an exile and an outcast, and thinks to buy his way into the High King's favor by spying upon the goddess. I say we kill him and continue on our way."

"The daughters of the goddess said we needed more fighters," said a fourth arachar.

"No," said the leader at last, raising his sword. "The daughters said we were to report anything unusual. They will wish to know about this stranger. Cripple him and take him back to Urd Arowyn. The daughters can question him, and once he has shared his secrets, he will make a fit offering to the goddess's hunger. Take him!"

The arachar advanced, and Ridmark lifted his staff.

The branches rustled, and Caius emerged from the trees on Ridmark's right and Kharlacht from the trees on his left. A pale white glow flickered around both men. Calliande had placed spells upon them, making them faster and stronger, and the Magistria herself waited in concealment, maintaining the spells.

Rakhaag crouched next to Kharlacht, and two lupivirii prowled alongside Caius.

"A trap!" snarled the arachar leader, his eyes shining with the red haze of battle fury.

"No one need die today," said Ridmark. "Lay down your weapons, and ..."

"Kill them all!" roared the orcish leader. "Kill them in the name of Agrimnalazur!"

The arachar roared and charged. Kharlacht shouted a battle cry and ran to meet them, moving with the superhuman speed granted by Calliande's magic. Caius followed suit, his mace a bronze blur in his fist. The lupivirii snarled and sprang into the fray. Kharlacht and Caius held the attention of the arachar, but the lupivirii circled around the edge of the fight, snarling and snapping, drawing tainted blood from the orcs. But the arachar hardly seemed to care. Their orcish battle rage, combined with the taint of Agrimnalazur in their veins, seemed to render them immune to pain and fear.

They would fight to the death.

The arachar leader charged Ridmark with a roar, shield on his left arm, sword in his right fist. He swept the blade in a vicious swing, and Ridmark jumped back, the sword whistling a few inches past his chest. Ridmark sidestepped, bringing his staff around in a two-handed swing, and the heavy wood smacked into the orc's left leg with a crack. The arachar leader staggered, and thrust with his shield. The plane of wood and iron struck Ridmark across the torso, and now it was his turn to stagger.

Ridmark thrust his staff as he stumbled, the tip of the weapon striking the orc's right wrist. The arachar's blow went amiss, the iron blade missing Ridmark's chest. Ridmark jabbed again, the staff striking the orc in the belly. The arachar stumbled, and Ridmark raised the staff over his head and swung.

His staff smashed into the arachar's face with bone-shattering force. The orc toppled backwards, and Ridmark's next blow connected with the leader's temple. The arachar struck the ground, twitched a few times, and went still.

Ridmark ran to join the others.

###

Gavin waited, his fingers tight against his sword's hilt.

He wanted to join the attack, but once Calliande began her spells, Gavin saw why Ridmark wanted her guarded. She closed her eyes, her mouth shaping silent words, white fire glimmering around her fingers. The effort of maintaining a spell, Calliande had told him, was like carrying an armful of bricks. It was well within her strength, but just as a man carrying an armful of bricks was vulnerable to an attacker, so was Calliande vulnerable while the bulk of her magic went into holding the spells.

So Gavin guarded her and watched the fighting.

Kharlacht and Caius moved in a blur. Two of the orcs went down almost at once, while the rest fell into a defensive line. The lupivirii circled around the melee, snapping and snarling, keeping the orcs off-balance. Kharlacht's blue greatsword gashed the right leg of an orc, sending the arachar stumbling.

Two lupivirii sprang upon the warrior, driving him to the ground as their jaws ripped open his throat. Ridmark struck down the arachar leader and rushed to join the others. Calliande had not put any spells upon Ridmark.

Perhaps he simply did not need them.

The surviving arachar fled.

"Don't let them get away!" shouted Ridmark.

The lupivirii pursued, as did Ridmark and the others, and Gavin saw an orc scrambling up the hill towards Calliande.

The arachar's right leg had been wounded by a beastman's talons. His red-gleaming eyes fixed on Calliande, and his mouth twisted in an enraged snarl. He sprinted at her, raising his mace to strike.

Gavin's world narrowed to that orc.

He ran to meet the orc's attack. Gavin raised his shield, bracing himself as Ridmark and Caius had taught, and caught the orc's blow. The shield shuddered beneath the impact, the shock sending vibrations up Gavin's arm and into his chest.

God, but the orc could hit hard! The arachar snarled and went on the attack, hammering at the shield. Gavin fell back a step, the orc striking again and again with the mace. Gavin feared that his shield would splinter beneath the furious assault, or the impacts would break the bones in his forearm.

Then the orc stumbled on a root.

Gavin saw his chance and thrust, dropping his shield just long enough to stab with his sword. The blade struck the orc in the belly, drawing a gash through the leather armor. The orc bellowed in rage, black eyes flickering with red light, and came at Gavin again. He raised the mace high and brought in down with both hands. The power of the impact almost drove Gavin to his knees, but the orc raised the mace again, and Gavin saw the opening.

He hammered his shield against the orc's chest and thrust his sword with all his strength. The blade plunged into the orc's torso, sinking in just beneath his lower rib. The orc's furious eyes went wide and he coughed, green blood spattering across his yellowed tusks. Gavin twisted the sword and ripped it free. He raised the weapon, preparing to strike again, but the orc fell to his knees, and then upon his face.

The sword must have hit his heart.

Gavin lowered his sword, breathing hard. He looked around and saw that the others had slain the remaining arachar. Gavin knelt, cleaned his sword as Ridmark had taught him, and sheathed the blade. He felt calm, strangely calm. Why did he not feel anything else? He had just killed a man, again. But the orc had been trying to kill him, and would have killed Lady Calliande.

It was a terrible thing to kill, but it would have been worse to let the arachar kill Calliande.

The Magistria sighed, the light fading from her hands, and opened her eyes.

"Gavin," she said, and she blinked when she saw the dead orc.

"Magistria," said Gavin. "Are you all right?"

"So I am," said Calliande, "and it appears I have you to thank for it."

Gavin bowed, and they went to join Ridmark.

###

Calliande looked at the dead orcs and wondered why Ridmark had fought them.

There seemed no point. He had questioned them, and they had revealed nothing useful. It seemed a poor reason to risk their lives.

She opened her mouth to ask, and then stopped.

Ridmark walked in a circle around the dead arachar, examining them.

"Couldn't you have left this one in a single piece?" he said to Rakhaag.

The lupivir alpha growled. "When the hunt ends, the True People kill the prey quickly."

"Plainly," said Ridmark. "Well, these should work."

"What are you doing?" said Calliande.

"I think I know a way into Urd Arowyn," said Ridmark, "and I need a disguise."

***

## Chapter 15 - Daughters of the Goddess

Ridmark held still as Calliande painted his face.

He wore a dead arachar's leather jerkin, along with the arachar's ragged woolen cloak. A search through the woods had revealed some berries and roots that Calliande mixed to produce a thick paste, one that looked remarkably like a fresh scar when applied to human skin.

Between that and the cloak, Ridmark could pass as one of the human arachar.

"You really think there's a secret entrance to Urd Arowyn," said Calliande, squinting as she applied the paste to his forehead.

"Almost certainly," said Ridmark. "The dark elves always constructed their strongholds with a secret exit."

"And you know where it is?" said Calliande.

"No," said Ridmark, closing his eyes as her paste-smeared fingers brushed his temples. "I suspect it's in a cave at the base of the waterfall. The archmage Ardrhythain told me about Urd Arowyn when I went to Urd Morlemoch nine years ago."

"What exactly did he say?" said Calliande.

"That it was a dangerous place and I should avoid it," said Ridmark. "But if I ever found myself there, the dark elves always built their strongholds with a secret exit, and the exit was usually concealed behind a prominent natural formation. Such as a waterfall."

He opened his eyes, and saw Calliande frowning at him.

"So that was your plan all along," she said. "To take the prisoners out through a secret tunnel."

"If we can manage it," said Ridmark.

"Then why didn't you say so?" said Calliande.

He looked at where Gavin stood talking with Rosanna, the paste creating the illusion of a hideous eightfold scar across his face.

"Because," said Ridmark, "the only thing more demoralizing than having no hope is having false hope snatched away."

Gavin had insisted upon accompanying Ridmark and Kharlacht into the secret entrance. Ridmark would have preferred leaving him with Caius and Calliande, but Gavin would be useful. He knew all the villagers of Aranaeus, and while they would not listen to Ridmark, they might heed Gavin. And the boy had courage. He would have made an excellent knight, perhaps even a Swordbearer. If they lived through this, Ridmark would send him to Castra Marcaine to serve as a squire and learn the knight's skills. Surely Sir Constantine would take the boy as a squire, perhaps even the Dux himself, once they heard of Gavin's deeds.

Assuming they lived through this, of course.

"You are right," said Calliande, glancing at Gavin. "As you often are. You are wise, Ridmark Arban, about everything save yourself."

He frowned, half-expecting her to start lecturing him about the necessity of forgiving himself, but instead she stepped back.

"You look," she said, "absolutely ghastly."

"You do good work," said Ridmark, and she laughed.

He picked up his staff, checked his axe in its belt loop, and went to join Kharlacht and Gavin. Kharlacht always looked solemn, but the fake scars gave him a fierce aspect. Gavin and Rosanna fell silent as he approached.

"It is time?" said Kharlacht.

"Aye," said Ridmark. He looked at Caius. "Stay with Calliande, and move Rosanna and Father Martel out of sight of the ramparts. If we locate the secret entrance, I intend to enter Urd Arowyn, have a quick look around, and rejoin you. If we're not back in two days, leave. Make for Dun Licinia or Castra Marcaine, and let Sir Joram and Dux Gareth know what has happened here. Agrimnalazur might not be the only urdmordar gathering up a larder before the Frostborn return. And perhaps Calliande can convince the Dux and the others that the Frostborn are returning."

"Go with God," said Caius. "We shall pray for you."

"Gavin," said Rosanna. "Thank you for this. If...if you see Philip, can you tell him..."

"Yes?" said Gavin.

"Tell him that I love him," said Rosanna, her eyes full of tears, "and that I will wait for him. However long it takes."

She had no idea, Ridmark supposed, how thoroughly she had just crushed Gavin's heart. The boy's face remained expressionless, and he managed to nod.

"I will," he said.

"You have the torches?" said Ridmark.

Gavin nodded.

"God be with you," said Calliande.

God had forsaken him for his failures long ago.

But Ridmark only nodded. "And with you."

He led the way toward Urd Arowyn, Kharlacht and Gavin following.

###

Night had fallen by the time they reached the base of the waterfall.

Gavin looked at the dark cliffs overhead and shivered. Four of the thirteen moons shone in the dark sky, and the white walls of Urd Arowyn gleamed so brightly that Gavin had no trouble seeing the ground. It was like walking in a snow-choked forest during a full moon. The waterfall roared before him, white foam churning at its base, the spray wet against his face. Ridmark led the way across the broken stones, staying close to the foot of the cliff. A narrow path, covered with grit and wet pebbles, led behind the waterfall. Gavin followed Ridmark and Kharlacht, making sure to keep his balance on the uneven footing.

The moonlight and the falling water filled the hollow space beyond the waterfall with an eerie, rippling glow.

No, not an empty space. A cavern.

And at the end of the cavern Gavin saw an arch of white stone, steps rising into the darkness, loose white stones littering the cavern floor.

Ridmark had been right. The dark elves had left a secret entrance into their fortress.

They entered the cavern, and Gavin saw that the white things upon the floor were not stones.

They were bones, human and orcish both.

Ridmark stopped at the base of the stairs.

"A torch," he said, his voice just audible over the roar of the waterfall.

Gavin lit a torch, the sputtering light throwing shadows over the wall. He half-expected to see a terrible monster crouching upon the stairs, waiting to attack.

But he saw only white stairs climbing into the heart of the hill.

"I doubt those bones washed down the waterfall," said Kharlacht.

"No," said Ridmark. "The urdmordar are not fools. Likely Agrimnalazur has a guardian here, something to keep anyone from using the secret entrance."

"And what do we do about the guardian?" said Kharlacht.

"Simple," said Ridmark, hefting his staff. "We sneak around it unnoticed. And if it tries to stop us, we kill it."

Or, Gavin knew, they would join the collection of bones littering the cavern floor.

Kharlacht grunted and shook his head. "I always seem to follow you into caverns filled with dangerous creatures. First the ursaar's cave, and then the village of the Blue Hand."

"We're not dead yet," said Ridmark. "Be ready to extinguish that torch in an instant." He scratched his chin. "Though whatever's waiting up there can likely see in the dark."

Gavin took a deep breath, bracing himself. Walking into Urd Dagaash had been frightening. Fighting the arachar, both in the ruins of Aranaeus and in the hills, had been terrifying. But this, walking into the dark lair of some unknown thing, this was somehow worse.

But he would not turn back now. He could not bear the disappointment in Rosanna's eyes.

Ridmark started up the stairs, Kharlacht following him with greatsword in hand.

"Should I not go first?" said Gavin. "I have the torch."

"No," said Ridmark. "The light might alert anyone waiting in the cavern. If you're further back, any defenders will have a harder time seeing me."

That made sense, so Gavin shrugged and followed the two men.

They climbed the stairs in silence, the torch throwing eerie shadows along the white walls. Dozens of bones littered the stairs, and Gavin took care to step around them. The noise of a bone clattering down the stairs would likely carry a long way. The bones showed no signs of violence, no marks from sword or axe or claws, and after the last few days, Gavin knew what such marks looked like.

It was almost as if some creature dwelling above had gotten in the habit of throwing corpses down the steps, leaving them to rot.

The stairs ended at a tall arch of unusual angles, opening into a high corridor similar to the dungeons beneath Urd Dagaash. Ridmark stepped into the corridor, stopped, and pointed at the ceiling. Thick webs clung to the upper arches and walls, and dark shapes dotted the webs...

Gavin swallowed.

Desiccated corpses hung in the thick strands. Some were human, their skin dried to yellowed leather. Others were orcish, and a few were beastmen, to judge from the fur. Most of their mouths hung open in silent screams, webs clinging to their withered lips.

Were they walking into Agrimnalazur's lair? The thought made Gavin want to run back down the stairs. All his life he had heard tales of the invincible might of the urdmordar.

And all the time his father and stepmother had worshipped such a creature, a creature that would leave rotting corpses hanging in those webs.

Ridmark went around a corner and up another flight of stairs, his boots silent. Gavin followed, and they entered a large hall, similar to the chamber of traps in Urd Dagaash. Fortunately, the stone tiles were set close together, lacking the hidden blades.

Though he supposed that meant the hall held some other deadly traps.

Ridmark took a step forward and went motionless so quickly that Gavin wondered if he had been wounded. He started to speak, but Ridmark held up his hand for silence.

And then Gavin saw what Ridmark was staring at, and he went rigid.

More dense webs covered the walls and ceiling, and in the corner of the hall crouched the single most hideous creature that Gavin had ever seen.

It was a giant blood-colored spider, its swollen body the size of an ox. Eight thick legs jutted from its carapace, their ends topped with claws like axe blades. But in lieu of a head, the torso of a human male jutted from the spider, covered in more plates of armor-like chitin. Eight eyes dotted the hairless skull, and huge pincers rose from the distended mouth.

The thing was an urdmordar. It had to be.

Yet it was absolutely motionless. Was it sleeping? Gavin could not tell.

Ridmark turned and whispered something to Kharlacht. The big orc nodded, and Ridmark moved to Gavin's side.

"Follow me," he whispered. "Remain quiet. And do not touch any of the webs."

Gavin followed Ridmark across the chamber, moving towards an archway in the far wall. That meant Gavin had to move closer to the urdmordar, and every fiber of his being flinched with revulsion. He had not been frightened of spiders as a child, but neither had he been fond of them, and the nightmarish thing in the corner made his skin crawl.

Step by step they made their way across the chamber. The huge spider-creature did not stir, did not even seem to breathe. After an eternity of walking, they reached the far stairs. They climbed and came to a round chamber, its walls adorned with scenes of the dark elves triumphing over their foes.

He felt the absurd urge to laugh. The dark elves had summoned the urdmordar to this world, and now the urdmordar ruled in the ruins of their kingdoms.

"It should be safe to talk here," said Ridmark.

Gavin let out a shuddering breath. "I don't think the creature could fit up the stairs."

"Oh, he could," said Ridmark. "He could squeeze himself up, if he felt the reason to do so."

"What was it?" said Kharlacht. Even the stern orcish warrior looked shaken. "An urdmordar?"

Ridmark nodded.

"Agrimnalazur herself?" said Gavin.

"No," said Ridmark. "That was a male urdmordar. The female urdmordar are the ones who are immortal and invincible, who wield mighty dark magic. The male urdmordar are far weaker. Normal steel can wound them, they cannot use magic, and they are not nearly as clever as the female urdmordar." He shook his head. "But they are still fearsomely strong. A male urdmordar can face far larger numbers of humans and orcs and prevail with ease."

"Why was that one down there?" said Gavin.

"He is one of Agrimnalazur's mates, I expect," said Ridmark. "A female urdmordar usually has anywhere from one to a score of mates around her, depending upon her whims."

"Then we could face a dozen more of those things?" said Kharlacht.

"Unlikely," said Ridmark. "Agrimnalazur would not want to share her larder with anyone else. I doubt she has more than one or two. An urdmordar female will eat her mates, if they become too tiresome."

"Why was the creature sleeping?" said Gavin. "If Agrimnalazur commanded him to watch the entrance...isn't he afraid that she will eat him?"

"He most probably forgot," said Ridmark. "Male urdmordar are not very intelligent, and lack even the ability of the lupivirii to control their instincts. And he doesn't need to stay awake. He can feel the web, sense it the way you and I can feel our fingers. If anyone touched it, he would awake at once."

"So he lurks there," said Kharlacht, "awakens to eat intruders, and then goes back to sleep?"

"A male urdmordar would find that a congenial existence," said Ridmark. "But so long as we do not touch his webs, he will stay asleep. Come. We have tarried too long already."

Another archway opened on the other side of the round chamber, and Gavin followed Ridmark and Kharlacht. A narrow stair spiraled up from the chamber, terminating in a stone door. Ridmark examined the door for a moment, and then pushed one of the carvings in the arch. The floor vibrated beneath Gavin's boots, and the stone door opened without a sound.

They stepped onto a street of ruins.

Towers and mansions of white stone rose over the street, their roofs gone, their walls crumbling. Yet they still possessed an eerie, alien beauty. Statues stood on plinths alongside the street, showing dark elven warriors in armor, their faces concealed behind elaborate winged helmets. The outer wall rose behind them, and beyond the ruins Gavin saw the great stone mass of the central tower, its sides studded with statues and balconies.

"Now what?" said Kharlacht.

"Now," said Ridmark, "we have a look around. Walk as if you have a purpose in mind."

He set off down the street, staff tapping against the worn stones. This part of the ruins looked deserted, but they turned the corner and saw four arachar. Three were orcish, but one was a human, a squat, scowling man with the eightfold scar across his face. Gavin took a deep breath, his hand straying towards his sword hilt, his muscles tensing.

But Ridmark kept walking and nodded at the arachar, and one of the orcs nodded back.

The arachar turned the corner and left.

Gavin let out a long breath. He could not believe they had eluded discovery.

Ridmark stopped, looking up at curtain wall for a moment.

A half-constructed ballista stood atop the rampart, an orcish arachar standing guard. A man in ragged, filthy clothing knelt over the ballista, working on the gears.

It was Philip.

"Follow me," said Ridmark, and he climbed the stairs to the ramparts.

The arachar guarding the ballista scowled at Ridmark. Philip's eyes went wide, and Gavin put a finger to his lips.

"What?" said the arachar in a sullen voice.

"One of the daughters of the goddess wants you," said Ridmark.

"What? Why?" said the arachar, fear appearing on his tusked face. "What does she want?"

"How the hell should I know?" said Ridmark. "Do I look dumb enough to argue with a daughter of the goddess? You're to meet her at the base of the central tower. Go, or we'll take you."

"I would like to see you try," said the arachar, but the orcish warrior stalked away.

Gavin watched him go, and then Ridmark turned to Philip.

"It's you," said Philip, stunned. "The Gray Knight. How...you didn't join the arachar, did you?"

"Of course not," said Ridmark. "We went to Urd Dagaash to investigate the disappearances, and the arachar attacked while we were in the ruins. When we returned the village had been burned and the people taken."

"I suppose Gavin and Father Martel were right all along," said Philip. "Obviously the beastmen were not behind the disappearances." He looked at Gavin. "Rosanna. Rosanna wasn't with us." There was fear in his eyes. "Is she..."

"She's alive," said Gavin. "She sheltered with Father Martel in the crypt below the church."

"Thank God," said Philip. He hesitated. "I thought...I thought after your father opened the gates, that you..."

"That I was one of them?" said Gavin. "That I worshipped the urdmordar like my father? Never. I am going to kill him for it."

Both Ridmark and Kharlacht looked at him, and then back at Philip.

"Well," said Philip with a scowl, "if any man deserves it, it's that treacherous scoundrel Cornelius."

"Where are the others?" said Ridmark.

"Scattered throughout the ruins," said Philip. "When the arachar brought us here, the spiderlings questioned each of us. They sent some into the high meadow, to work in the fields. Others they sent into the tower." He shuddered. "The spiderlings said they were going into the goddess's larder. And those of us with special skills," he lifted his hammer, "they put us to work. They've got Mallen and Richard making barrels, and they put me to work building these damned ballistae."

"Why?" said Ridmark.

"The spiderlings say a great winter is coming," said Philip. "We're here to...feed the urdmordar, I think. Like a farmer putting away food for the winter. I think she's going to put some of us to sleep, and have the rest of us farm and breed."

"Like a farmer raising a herd of pigs," said Ridmark.

"Yes," said Philip. "And we are her pigs. At least Rosanna got away." He looked up at them. "And you can get away, too. You're disguised, right? They'll notice if I go, but you can get away. Take Rosanna somewhere safe. You..."

"No," said Ridmark. "I intend to get the prisoners away, all of you."

"You can't," said Philip. "There's no way to kill an urdmordar. They're invincible. Just take Rosanna, and get away from here."

"I don't intend to kill the urdmordar," said Ridmark. "I intend to create a distraction and then..."

A deep, booming bell rang out, echoing through the pale ruins of Urd Arowyn. Torches flared in the streets, and Gavin heard shouts and the tramp of boots. For a terrible instant he thought that they had been discovered, that one of the arachar had sounded the alarm.

"We've been found," said Kharlacht. "We must flee at once."

"That arachar you sent away must have realized we were imposters," said Gavin, "and warned the others."

But Ridmark looked only intrigued.

"No," said Ridmark, "no, an arachar who addressed a spiderling without invitation would get killed for his trouble. This is something else."

"Assembly," said Philip, putting down his hammer and straightening up. "When that bell sounds, all the slaves and the arachar must gather in the courtyard below the tower. Anyone caught lagging is killed."

"We should leave at once," said Kharlacht.

Ridmark looked at the massive tower rising from the heart of the ruins.

"No," he said. "We shouldn't."

***

## Chapter 16 - Sacrifices

Ridmark walked through the streets, Kharlacht and Caius following him, Philip between them. They looked like a group of arachar taking one of the slaves to the assembly.

Or so Ridmark hoped.

They passed other groups of arachar and slaves, all heading to the courtyard of Urd Arowyn. Ridmark kept his pace steady, his face grim, but his eyes swept his surroundings. Urd Arowyn had the appearance of a town preparing itself for a long siege. Several of the ruined dark elven mansions had been converted to warehouses, and Ridmark saw sacks of grain and barrels of food and oil stored within.

It seemed Agrimnalazur intended to keep herself secure in Urd Arowyn with slaves for a long time. Despite himself, Ridmark admired her cleverness. Gothalinzur had merely tried to make the village of Victrix disappear, to use the villagers as a larder. Agrimnalazur was building something more ambitious. A self-sustaining slave community, one that could support itself and even grow.

One that she could feed upon for centuries.

It was like a wolf herding sheep into a meadow so it could dine upon them at its leisure. Had she tried this in Andomhaim, the Magistri and the Swordbearers would have fought her. But here, far from the borders of the High King's realm, there was no one with the power to stop her.

Ridmark did not have the power to stop her. Once, he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden, and he could have used the mighty weapon to kill Agrimnalazur. But now he had no weapon capable of harming a female urdmordar.

But perhaps he could free these people.

They entered the courtyard below the tower, a vast round space paved in gleaming white stone, the light from a score of torches glinting off the walls and ground. A dozen statues of dark elven warriors stood upon plinths, and Ridmark saw that the crude image of a spider had been marked upon their faces in red paint. Hundreds of people, most of them villagers from Aranaeus, filled the square, guarded by scowling arachar. Ridmark saw no signs of any lupivirii. Most likely the beastmen were too troublesome to make good slaves and had been put to sleep in Agrimnalazur's larder.

Ridmark saw many he recognized among the slaves. Bardus, the innkeeper. Mallen, who had guarded the gates when he had first arrived, along with a dozen others. He even saw old Agnes standing among the slaves, face slack as she stared into nothingness. Ridmark was surprised that the arachar hadn't killed her on the road. Perhaps she possessed a useful skill.

Ridmark urged the others towards the edge of the plaza. If one of the villagers recognized him, or worse, recognized Gavin, they might call out. That would be disastrous.

"Look," said Kharlacht, voice low. "Spiderlings."

A flight of low, wide steps led up to the tower's entrance. Three spiderlings, indifferent of their nudity, stood there. Like the spiderlings Ridmark had killed in Urd Dagaash, they looked gaunt, almost emaciated, with red hair and eight green eyes shining in their faces. Crimson talons rose from their fingers and toes, pincers rising from their deformed mouths.

"Why don't they ever wear clothes?" muttered Philip.

"Some of them do," said Ridmark. "When they disguise themselves as humans. But the spiderlings think like the urdmordar, and the urdmordar regard clothing as an affectation, a crutch of creatures too weak to survive without it. So the spiderlings go naked to prove their superiority." He looked at the others. "Now keep quiet, unless it is urgent. The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better."

The others nodded, and Ridmark fell silent. The flow of slaves and arachar into the plaza slowed to a trickle, and Ridmark counted heads. There were about eight hundred slaves, he guessed, mostly human, but some orcish men and women and a few halflings. Agrimnalazur's minions must have raided villages other than Aranaeus. He suspected there were about two hundred arachar in the square.

The bell rang again, three more times, and the arachar and the slaves fell silent. The only sound was the sobbing a few children and the frantic efforts of their mothers to hush them.

Two figures appeared in the entrance to the tower and descended.

The first was Cornelius. The former praefectus of Aranaeus did not look like a well man. Dark circles ringed his eyes, gray stubble covering his jaw and cheeks. A tremor went through his hands, and his brown eyes darted back and forth as if he expected foes to spring from the shadows.

Morwen walked at his side, young and beautiful in a gown of deep crimson, her red hair gleaming in the torchlight, her green eyes sweeping over the arachar...

"Oh," said Ridmark.

So damned obvious, and yet he had missed it. How could he have been so blind?

"What?" said Gavin, glaring at his father.

Ridmark said nothing. The boy would learn the truth soon enough.

Morwen stepped forward. A sheathed dagger rested in a leather scabbard at her belt, its handle wrapped in an intricate guard of blue steel. She began to whisper under her breath, and black flames danced around her hands.

"What is she doing?" said Gavin.

"Casting a spell," said Ridmark. "She knows dark magic." He hesitated. "Many of the spiderlings do."

Gavin looked at him, at his stepmother, and then back at Ridmark, the horrified realization spreading over his face.

"Steady," said Ridmark, putting his hand on Gavin's shoulder. "Don't look away from the stairs. You'll draw attention."

"He knew!" Gavin's furious whisper hissed in Ridmark's ear. "He knew! All those years, he knew the entire time." He shuddered again. "All those years, I lived in his house with a...with a..."

"Hear me!" said Morwen, her magic throwing her voice across the plaza. "I am Morwen, eldest daughter of the great goddess Agrimnalazur! And you," she looked at the crowd, "you are favored beyond all other mortals! Hail great Agrimnalazur!"

"Hail Agrimnalazur!" roared the arachar, slamming their right fists against their chests. Ridmark followed suit, hoping to keep from drawing attention.

"You are the arachar, those deemed strong enough and loyal enough to drink of the blood of Agrimnalazur," said Morwen. Her smile was condescending as she looked at the slaves, like a teacher about to explain the benefits of her harsh discipline. "And you who serve, you are blessed above all other mortals. For Agrimnalazur has chosen you. The great cold ones are returning, and they shall cover the world in ice and darkness. All kindreds shall perish or become their slaves. But you, in exchange for your tribute of flesh and blood, you shall dwell within the walls of Urd Arowyn for the rest of your lives. Your children and your children's children shall grow up here in service to my mother the goddess, and they shall revere her name."

Ridmark watched the spiderling, again feeling a dark admiration for Agrimnalazur's cleverness. It was not enough that she enslave the humans and orcs. She meant to chain their hearts, to make them into her willing servants. If she succeeded, within a generation the descendants of the slaves would revere the urdmordar as their goddess, would take her word as law.

She would enslave them more thoroughly than any chains or manacles.

Unless Ridmark found a way to free them.

"But some of you," said Morwen, "have chosen to spurn the benevolence of our goddess. She offers you her protection and a life of purpose in her service, and you choose to cast aside these blessings." She shook her head. "Such fools will pay. Cornelius."

Her husband shuffled forward, accompanied by two spiderlings, and started to undress her. They removed her clothing, folding it neatly, until Morwen stood naked before the crowd. Like the other spiderlings, she was indifferent to her nudity. Elaborate swirling tattoos the color of blood reached up her legs and spiraled around her torso, and Ridmark saw that they flickered with a pale red glow as she moved.

Morwen stretched her neck, and her body rippled as it changed. The eight green eyes of the spiderlings appeared on her face, along with the deadly crimson pincers. Red claws sprouted from her fingertips. Morwen let out a sigh of relief and extended her right hand.

Cornelius drew the dagger from her belt and handed the weapon to her.

It was a blade of dark elven steel, its crosspiece and guard wrought in the intricate shape of a fanged spider. Some long-dead dark elven smith, enslaved to the urdmordar, had likely made the weapon. Morwen pointed the blade, the blue steel glinting, and the spider's metal legs seemed to come to life, wrapping around her wrist.

"Now," she said, "bring forth the traitors, the blasphemers, those who have spurned the generosity of the goddess."

Four arachar strode toward the stairs. Two of them dragged a sobbing woman of Aranaeus between them, while the remaining arachar each carried a child.

"This woman," said Morwen, "tried to flee our sanctuary, taking her children with her!"

"No!" said the woman, trying to pull away. "No, I won't let you..."

One of the arachar backhanded her, and she fell silent, still weeping.

"The penalty," said Morwen, "for betrayal is death."

She whispered a spell, the blade of the dagger cracking with black fire, and drove it into the woman's chest. The woman shuddered and went limp, dangling between the arachar, and the black fire flared and flowed up the blade and into Morwen. She closed all eight of her eyes and went rigid, the muscles standing out in her sinewy legs and arms.

Her spell had consumed the woman's life, using it to enhance her black magic. Ridmark wondered how many other lives she had consumed to augment her power.

Morwen stepped back, jerking her head at Cornelius. The traitorous praefectus grabbed the limp body and dragged it towards the other spiderlings. He had barely taken three steps before the daughters of Agrimnalazur fell upon the corpse like a pack of starving wolves, their pincers snapping.

The wail of the children echoed over the silent crowds.

"Take them," said Morwen, "to the larder of the goddess. There they shall sleep the centuries until Agrimnalazur has need of them."

Cornelius led the two arachar with the children into the darkness of the tower, the cries fading away.

"But the goddess rewards loyal service well," said Morwen, gesturing with her dagger. "Five men have been found worthy of partaking of her blood, of joining her service as arachar. Step forward!"

Three orcs and two humans climbed the stairs. The humans looked like bandits, their hair and beards long and matted, their clothing stained with dirt and travel. The orcs looked like tribesmen from Vhaluusk, clad in the same fur and leather as most of the other arachar. Morwen brought forth a golden goblet brimming with a viscous black fluid that seemed to crawl and writhe like a living thing.

The blood of an urdmordar.

The men knelt, and one by one they swore loyalty to Agrimnalazur and drank from the goblet. One by one they fell choking and wheezing to the stairs, smoke rising from their mouths. One of the orcs did not rise again, as did one of the humans, and the spiderlings feasted on their bodies. But the survivors rose, and Morwen chanted a spell, black flames dancing around her dagger. She carved the eightfold gash into the faces of the new-made arachar, her dark magic healing the wounds and leaving the distinctive scars.

"Now go," said Morwen. "Go and serve the goddess. Arachar, wield your arms in her name, and let the power of her blood fill you. Slaves, labor joyfully, for Agrimnalazur has put you under her protection, and your flesh is a worthy tribute. Go and serve!"

The bell clanged again, and the arachar herded the slaves from the plaza. Gavin stared at the steps, shaking with fury.

It was time to go.

"Come," said Ridmark in a low voice.

He led the way into one of the narrow streets, the others following.

"Where are you going now?" said Philip.

"Out of here," said Ridmark, "and back to the forest."

"Will you take me with you?" said Philip.

"If you want, yes," said Ridmark.

Philip frowned. "If I want? Why in God's name would I want to stay here?"

"Morwen holds those assemblies every night?" said Ridmark.

Philip nodded. "She doesn't kill someone every time. But every night she insists we all gather so she can preach at us about great Agrimnalazur and all that rot. Why would I stay for that?"

"Because I am going to come back tomorrow night," said Ridmark, "and I am going to free all the slaves, or I'm going to die in the attempt."

Philip blinked. "How?"

"Distractions," said Ridmark. "Once the arachar and the slaves have gathered in assembly, I'm going to kill the guards and let some allies through the gates. Then we'll start fires. Agrimnalazur has supplies stored throughout the ruins, and it will be a shame to let them go to waste. While the arachar are running around putting out the fires, we'll get the prisoners out of the gates and to safety. Agrimnalazur and the spiderlings will be furious, but it will be a while before they can organize a pursuit."

Or they would all be killed. But if Ridmark did nothing, if he turned his back on these people and continued his journey to Urd Morlemoch, then they would all die anyway. No other help would come for them. Many would fall to the hunger of the spiderlings and their mother, and those that survived would spend their lives in slavery to Agrimnalazur.

And their children would be raised to worship her.

Ridmark would not allow that, not if he had a chance to prevent it.

"That is mad," said Philip. "Utterly and completely mad."

"It is," said Ridmark.

"But if I stay here," said Philip, "it has a better chance of working, doesn't it?"

Ridmark nodded.

Philip hesitated, and Ridmark waited. If he asked, Ridmark would take him along. But he saw the doubt on Philip's face, the hesitation. The young man felt a responsibility to his neighbors. He could not leave them in good conscience, just as Gavin could not.

"Very well," said Philip, taking a deep breath. "I will stay." He grinned at Gavin. "And if you are fighting to free us, I can hardly fail to do the same."

Gavin grinned back. "Anything you can do, I can do twice as well." His smile faded. "And I have to make my father pay for his crimes. All those people Morwen murdered, that blood is on my father's hands."

"You warned us," said Philip. "You said something other than the beastmen had taken those people. We should have listened."

Gavin shook his head. "It wouldn't have mattered. My father and Morwen poisoned everyone against the truth. All those years, he lied to us." His hands curled into fists. "He lied to me. My mother. He said she died of a fever, but did he kill her? Did he feed her to..."

"Keep your voice down," said Ridmark. Gavin nodded and stared at the ground. Ridmark turned back to Philip. "I will return after dark tomorrow. Be ready to act. I want to set at least a dozen fires within in the walls of Urd Arowyn once Morwen's assembly begins."

Philip nodded. "I will see it done. There are a few men I can trust among the slaves, Bardus and Mallen and Rosanna's father and others. We should be able to do it."

"Good," said Ridmark. "You had best resume your work before the arachar notice anything amiss. Where do you sleep?"

"In the southern slave barracks," said Philip. "Not far from the gate."

Ridmark nodded. "We will see you there tomorrow. Go with God."

"And you, Gray Knight," said Philip.

He hurried through the street, dodging past a statue of a robed dark elf upon a plinth.

"Come," said Ridmark. "The sooner we are gone from here, the better."

###

Gavin had thought sneaking past the male urdmordar had been bad.

Doing it again was much worse.

The hulking creature had moved to a different position, though it remained motionless, its eyes closed. It took every bit of Gavin's self-control to keep from sprinting through the hall. He could not escape the feeling that the male urdmordar would awake at any moment, that the creature would wrap him in its webs and leave him helpless and paralyzed as it feasted upon his entrails.

But the urdmordar remained motionless, Gavin did not touch the web, and soon he, Ridmark, and Kharlacht stood below the waterfall at the base of the cliff.

"To my astonishment," said Kharlacht, "we appear to be alive."

"Aye," said Gavin. "I was sure we would die a dozen times over. Truly Agrimnalazur is not a fool."

"She is not," said Ridmark. There was a strange, keen light in his cold eyes, like a hunter fixed upon the trail of his prey. "But her servants may be. They have not fortified Urd Arowyn as well as they should have. They built those ballistae upon the walls, aye, but their efforts would have been better spent repairing the gates. And the arachar spend all their time guarding the slaves, not their warehouses. Every single storehouse we saw was unguarded when the arachar went to assembly. Urd Arowyn is a strong fortress, but they are not using its strength properly."

"Likely that is Morwen's doing," said Kharlacht. "I doubt that either she or Cornelius know much of the arts of battle."

"That seems likely," said Ridmark.

"Those allies you mentioned to Philip," said Gavin. "Who are they?"

"The lupivirii," said Ridmark.

Gavin blinked. "The beastmen?"

"They'll do whatever Calliande tells them to do," said Ridmark. "And even if they would not, their women and young are locked up in the central tower. They'll fight to get them back."

"So," said Kharlacht. "Your plan is to creep past the male urdmordar, set a dozen fires in the ruins, kill the guards, let the beastmen inside, and then sneak the prisoners out in the chaos?"

"Essentially," said Ridmark. "No plan of battle survives the first clash of swords, of course, and we shall have to adapt. But my goal is to get the prisoners out, all of them."

"That," said Gavin, "forgive me, sir, but that...that is an utterly mad."

Kharlacht snorted. "You should have been there when we got Calliande out of the village of the Blue Hand."

"It worked." Ridmark thought about it. "Barely."

"Barely?" said Gavin. "We shall follow this mad plan?"

"Do you have a better one?" said Ridmark. "If you do, I would be glad to hear of it."

Gavin had to shake his head.

"And if we do nothing," said Ridmark, "the people of Aranaeus will die in Urd Arowyn. They will die when Agrimnalazur and her daughters feast upon them. Or they will die of old age in a slave's chains, and their children and grandchildren will grow up worshipping Agrimnalazur as a goddess. If we act, aye, we might die. But if we do nothing, then they all will surely die."

"You're right," said Gavin. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of the storm of emotion raging through him. His fury at his father's betrayal, the pain of what had happened to the people of Aranaeus, his love for Rosanna, the fact that she preferred Philip...it was all too much. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," said Ridmark. "You are young, and have endured more than many men thrice your age. And I fear the worst is yet to come." He looked into the valley. "We should get back to the camp."

He led the way from the waterfall, and Kharlacht and Gavin followed him.

But Gavin's thoughts turned to his father, remembering the empty expression on his face as he led those two screaming children in Agrimnalazur's larder. The urdmordar was responsible for all the evils that had befallen both Aranaeus and Rakhaag's kin.

Yet Cornelius had made all of those evils possible. He had sold the people of Aranaeus to Agrimnalazur. He had been married to Morwen for nine years, and for all that time, he must have known the truth about her.

Perhaps he had even killed Gavin's mother to make room for Morwen.

Gavin vowed to make his father pay for all his crimes.

His hand tightened against his sword hilt.

***

## Chapter 17 - A Plan of Battle

"I'm sure they will return soon," said Caius.

Calliande gazed at the darkened hillside, the light from the moons throwing patches of pale blue light and black shadow across the forest floor. She wanted to climb the hill and watch for their return. Ridmark had done many bold and mad things in the short time she had known him.

But walking into the lair of an urdmordar was the boldest yet.

Caius stood nearby. Rosanna and Father Martel sat huddled in cloaks on the ground. It was cold out, and lighting a fire so close to Urd Arowyn was too great a risk. From time to time she saw a darker shadow among the trees. Rakhaag and his packs, prowling among the trunks.

Any arachar that came too close would meet claws and fangs.

"You're not sure they will return soon," said Calliande. "You pray they will return."

Even in the gloom she saw Caius's smile behind his graying beard. "And is not prayer the faith in things unseen?"

Calliande laughed. "Ever the pastor."

"A man must hold to his calling," said Caius.

Calliande gazed at the hill for a moment longer, thinking.

"Why are you here?" said Calliande.

"Because if Father Martel and I discuss any more theology," said Caius, "I fear poor Rosanna will never get any sleep."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," said Calliande. "Why are you here, with us? Not that I am ungrateful for your help. Far from it! But why did you come with me when I went to find Ridmark?"

Caius shrugged. "Perhaps it is my calling."

"I thought your calling was to be a friar, to proclaim the word of the Lord in your travels," said Calliande.

"Oh, it is, I doubt that not," said Caius. "Perhaps if we succeed in freeing the prisoners as Ridmark plans, those who worshipped Agrimnalazur will turn from their false goddess. The Dominus Christus promises freedom, not slavery and death as the urdmordar do."

"A noble purpose," said Calliande, "but why follow Ridmark? He is hardly a worshipper of the urdmordar, or the orcish blood gods, or the great void of the dark elves."

Or the Incariel that Sir Paul Tallmane had mentioned, the name and interpretation they had given to the void.

"He is a baptized son of the church," said Caius, "but I fear he is frozen in despair."

"Because of Aelia," said Calliande.

"He blames himself for her death beyond all reason," said Caius, "even when her father said that her death is upon Mhalek's hands."

"Is that why you follow him?" said Calliande. "Because you want to convince him to forgive himself?"

"No." Caius was silent for a long time. "I follow him because I fear what he may do."

"Why?" said Calliande, baffled. "He saved your life. He has saved all our lives, and he is about to put himself at great risk to save people he barely knows. Why would you fear him?"

"Because," said Caius. "He reminds me of another man I knew, centuries ago. A dwarf. A bolder and braver warrior I never knew, save Ridmark Arban himself. And this dwarven warrior followed the creed of the gods of stone and silence, of proud and unyielding despair. He won great victories against the dvargir and the dark elves, but in the end his despair, his indifference to his own fate, led him and his warriors to destruction." He shook his head, beard rustling against his robes. "If Ridmark wished it, he could seize the throne of Andomhaim and become High King. It is within his talents. You saw how the men of Dun Licinia followed him. How we follow him now. Yet...his despair drives him. That is why I follow him. To turn his mind from despair, if I can." He shrugged. "And he did save my life, as you said. I owe him a debt, and I will aid him if it is within my power."

Calliande nodded. "I can understand that."

"So why do you follow him?" said Caius.

"Because of the Frostborn," said Calliande. She took a deep breath. "And everything that you said is true. He is a warrior without peer. I don't know who I am. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. But with Ridmark...with his help, I have the best chance of finding the answers."

"I think you are correct," said Caius.

"You're right. He could have made himself the Comes of Dun Licinia, after he killed Qazarl," said Calliande. "I think Sir Joram would have stepped aside for him, gladly even. But he didn't. He is going to find proof that the Frostborn are returning and a way to stop them, if possible. And I was part of the Order of the Vigilant. I have a responsibility, and Ridmark's help is the best way to fulfill that responsibility."

"We will find our answers," said Caius, "and we will find a way to stop the return of the Frostborn."

"Yes," said Calliande. When Caius said it, she could almost believe it. Perhaps she would find Dragonfall and learn the truth of herself, and Ridmark would discover a way to stop the return of the Frostborn.

Or Agrimnalazur would simply kill them all.

A shadow flowed out of the darkened trees, and Calliande tensed.

But it was only Rakhaag. The lupivir stood, his body shifting back into its half-human, half-beast form.

"Staffbearer," said Rakhaag in Latin. She had asked him to speak Latin for the benefit of Rosanna and Father Martel, and he had complied, if grudgingly.

"Rakhaag," said Calliande. The lupivir alpha and all the beastmen regarded her with a cross of fear and superstitious awe. Rakhaag never stopped questioning Ridmark, but he never challenged her.

What had she done to make the beastmen fear her so much?

"The gray warrior returns," said Rakhaag.

"And the others?" said Calliande. "Are they with him?"

"The orc and the whelp have returned with him," said Rakhaag. "They are alive, and unhurt."

"It seems God has heard our prayers after all," said Calliande.

A moment later Ridmark walked into the camp, Kharlacht and Gavin behind him. She saw the gears turning behind Ridmark's eyes, and knew at once that he had a plan. Kharlacht remained as impassive as ever, but Gavin looked furious.

She wondered what he had seen in Urd Arowyn.

"You've returned," said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded. "It was close, but we were able to escape."

"Did you see Philip?" said Rosanna, scrambling to her feet alongside Father Martel.

"I did," said Gavin. "He's alive. The arachar have him helping to build ballistae on the wall. So long as he's useful to them and he doesn't make trouble, I don't think they'll hurt him."

Rosanna frowned. "Couldn't you have brought him out?"

"We could have," said Ridmark, "but he chose to stay behind."

"What?" said Rosanna. "Why?"

"He would not abandon his neighbors," said Martel. "Philip was always a brave young man."

"He stayed," said Ridmark, "because tomorrow night we are going to go back and get him, along with all the others."

"How?" said Calliande and Caius in unison.

"The females and the young of the True People," said Rakhaag. "Did you see them?"

"No," said Ridmark, "but I know where they are. Agrimnalazur keeps her larder within the central tower of the ruins. Likely they are there, her venom keeping them in the death sleep."

Rosanna hesitated. "Your father. Is he..."

"He's alive," said Gavin with a grimace, "and he's helping the spiderlings. Morwen seems like she's in charge. Oh, and she's a spiderling, too."

Rosanna's hands flew to her mouth, and Martel said a quiet prayer.

"All those years she lived with us after my mother died," said Gavin. "The entire time she was a spiderling. And he knew. They were planning to do something like this all along."

"I think," said Caius, "Cornelius might have gotten in over his head."

They looked at him.

"The omen of blue fire three and a half weeks past," said Caius. "That forced Agrimnalazur and Morwen to act. When Cornelius first became praefectus, I suspect he thought he could play along, offer a villager up to the urdmordar's appetite every so often, and keep the peace. Then the omen happened, and Cornelius found himself forced to become a traitor."

"He was always a traitor," said Gavin, "and he deserves to die for what he has done." His hand curled into a fist, hovering near the hilt of his sword. "I will make sure he is called to account for what he has done."

"You said you would go into the ruins to rescue the villagers and my kindred," said Rakhaag, showing his teeth. "I assume you have a plan, something crafted of lies and deceit?"

"I do," said Ridmark, "but we shall deceive the arachar and the daughters of Agrimnalazur. I assume you have no qualms about this?"

"None," said Rakhaag. "The urdmordar and their daughters are death. The True People have always fled them, but if we are to get our females and young back, then we must fight."

"What is your plan?" said Caius. "Something bold, most likely."

"It is," said Ridmark. "But Cornelius and Morwen have given us the opportunities for boldness. I suspect Agrimnalazur does not trouble herself with the day-to-day business of Urd Arowyn, and leaves those tasks in the hands of Cornelius and Morwen. And neither of them appear to know much of war."

"They're building those ballistae," said Caius.

"To what use?" said Ridmark. "If an army comes against Urd Arowyn, it won't be for years. Meanwhile they have not bothered to repair the gates, and the arachar spend most of their time guarding the slaves rather than watching the walls."

"They trust in the power of Agrimnalazur to protect them," said Caius.

"Perhaps they are right to do so," said Kharlacht, "for an urdmordar has great power."

"Agrimnalazur does," said Ridmark, "but they are wrong to trust to it. Her slaves and servants are only food and tools to her, and unless she is personally threatened, she may not rouse herself to act. We cannot overcome an urdmordar...but we can overcome her servants."

"How?" said Rakhaag. "You have no magic, and the Staffbearer has said her magic cannot slay an urdmordar."

"We will create chaos," said Ridmark, "and use that chaos to escape with the captives."

Rakhaag took a step closer to Ridmark, baring his fangs. "How?"

"Every night, an hour after sunset, Morwen calls the slaves and the arachar together in the central courtyard," said Ridmark. "Then she catechizes them about the glory of Agrimnalazur."

Caius snorted. "A compelling sermon, I'm sure."

"But while she does this," said Ridmark, "all the arachar withdraw to the courtyard. Only the guards on the gate are left, I believe. This, then, is my plan. Tomorrow night, when Morwen calls the assembly, I will sneak past the urdmordar in the secret entrance..."

"Wait," said Calliande. "There was an urdmordar in the secret entrance? Agrimnalazur herself? How are you still alive?"

"A male urdmordar, one of Agrimnalazur's mates," said Ridmark. "And he was asleep. So long as we do not disturb his webs, we can get past him."

"A male urdmordar," said Calliande, shaking her head. Again she marveled at how lightly he dismissed the most terrible of dangers.

But as Caius had said, Ridmark's bravery had a darker edge, founded in his despair.

"Once I am inside Urd Arowyn," said Ridmark, "I will kill the guards, and then start setting fire to the supplies scattered around the ruins. Eventually that will draw the attention of Morwen and her arachar, and they will hurry to put out the flames. But by then," he looked at Rakhaag, "you and your kindred will have seen the fires."

"And done what?" said Rakhaag. "You expect us to put them out?"

"No," said Ridmark, "since the gate will be unguarded, I expect you to enter and attack the arachar."

Rakhaag loosed a low, rumbling growl. "We are hunters, not warriors. The tainted orcs have steel."

"And they will be scattered in dozens of small groups fighting the flames," said Ridmark. His smile was as hard and mirthless as his eyes. "They will not be warriors, but your prey."

"The streets in Urd Arowyn are narrow," said Calliande, "and the ruins will offer plenty of shadows to hide. Your kin can see better in the dark, and have sharper ears and noses than the orcs." She shook her head. "You'll turn Urd Arowyn into a slaughterhouse."

Ridmark's plan was mad, but it was brilliant. Loosing the lupivirii into those narrow streets, as chaos and flames raged...the lupivirii would indeed turn the ruins into a slaughterhouse.

If the plan worked.

"What of our females and young?" said Rakhaag. "Will we leave our own kin to fill an urdmordar's belly?"

"No," said Ridmark. "I will go to the central tower with Calliande and wake them. Her magic can nullify the urdmordar's sleeping venom, and they will recognize her as the Staffbearer. While I do that, Philip and some of the other trustworthy men from the village will get the prisoners to the gates. Then we will all flee Urd Arowyn together."

"What about Morwen?" said Gavin. "She has dark magic, and she will try to stop you."

"She might," said Ridmark. "But the fires could hold her attention. And if she tries to stop us, she will face Calliande. I suspect a Magistria will prove something of a challenge to her powers."

Calliande nodded. She hated to see magic abused. Whatever had happened to her in the past had filled her with a hatred for magic users who wielded their power for selfish ends, leaving ruined lives in their wake.

And few magical powers were as destructive as the black sorcery of an urdmordar.

"What happens if you are wrong?" said Rakhaag. "What if the urdmordar chooses to involve herself?"

"Then we will all die," said Ridmark.

Rakhaag tilted his head to the side. Clearly he had not expected that answer.

"I said I would not lie to you, Rakhaag," said Ridmark, "and I will not. I have no way to defeat an urdmordar. If Agrimnalazur joins the fight, she might well kill us all." He spread his hands, the tip of his staff scraping through the dead leaves. "But if we do nothing, everyone in Urd Arowyn will die. Agrimnalazur and her daughters will consume them, or they will die of old age in chains. And your kin will die one by one over the centuries as Agrimnalazur wakes and devours them."

He fell silent, the others staring at him. Calliande held her breath. She could ask Rakhaag to help, and she knew he would do it. But she would not command him to do it, would not command him to risk so much.

At last Rakhaag growled, the deep noise rumbling around the trees.

"We fight," he spat.

Ridmark nodded. "I thought you might. Now get some rest, all of you. Rakhaag, make sure the bellies of your kin are full. Tomorrow we will have hard fighting."

###

The next afternoon, Gavin prepared for battle.

He sharpened and oiled the blade of his sword as Kharlacht had shown him, and then returned the weapon to its sheath. He tightened the straps of his shield, and donned the chain mail hauberk Ridmark had taken from one of the dead men-at-arms in Aranaeus. It was a bit long for Gavin, but the spiderlings fought with poison, and he welcomed the extra protection.

Then he stretched, shifting the unfamiliar weight of the armor, and looked around.

Ridmark and Kharlacht had gone to watch the walls of Urd Arowyn, making sure the arachar made no unexpected moves. Rakhaag and the lupivirii had vanished to hunt prey, which relieved Gavin. He knew the creatures were on their side, but they still made him uneasy. Caius, Martel, and Rosanna were all praying, asking God for aid in the coming battle.

He hoped that God was listening, that he had not turned his back upon the people of Aranaeus.

"Gavin."

Gavin shook out of his thoughts as Calliande walked towards him, a pot of paste in her right hand.

"I need you to paint my face," said Calliande.

Gavin blinked. "Ah...isn't that the sort of thing that's easier to do yourself?"

"It is," said Calliande, "but only if you have a mirror. I don't."

"Oh." Gavin set the pot upon the branch of a nearby tree. "Certainly. You're going to be disguised as an arachar, then?"

Calliande nodded.

Gavin dipped a finger into the pot, wincing at the clammy feel of the paste. "But none of the arachar are women."

"No, but in all this," she gestured at the leather jerkin and wool clothing she wore beneath her heavy cloak, "it's not obvious that I am a woman. And by the time any of the arachar get close enough to see, we'll be fighting for our lives." She tied back her blond hair, pushing it away from her forehead and temples. "It's easiest to start with the forehead."

Gavin nodded, and Calliande closed her eyes.

For a moment he hesitated, struck by her beauty. For she was beautiful, even in her dusty traveling clothes. For a moment he entertained the wild fantasy of courting her, maybe even daring to lean forward and steal a kiss. Rosanna loved him, he knew, but as a brother, and she would never love him as he loved her.

Perhaps it was time to move on.

But he pushed aside the absurd fantasy. Calliande was a Magistria, with powers he did not understand. And there was something uncanny about her. She had not told him her story, but from what the others had said, he suspected that she was hundreds of years old. Such a woman was well beyond his reach of someone like Gavin.

Anyway, she was obviously in love with Ridmark.

But Aranaeus was ashes, and Rosanna would wed Philip. If they survived the coming battle, what would Gavin do with the rest of his life?

Calliande opened one blue eye, and Gavin wondered if she had guessed his thoughts.

"Sorry," he said. "My mind wandered."

She nodded and closed her eyes. "A lot has happened to you in a very short time."

"Aye," said Gavin. He started to draw the fake scar upon her forehead. "More than I would like." He drew the spider's body, and then traced the legs across her left temple. "I'm going to kill my father."

"I see," said Calliande.

"Are you going to try and talk me out of it?" said Gavin. He felt his voice grow angry, but he did not care. "After all the people he killed? After he kept that spiderling in our house for years? He probably murdered my mother so he could marry Morwen."

"I know," said Calliande. "And I won't try to talk you out of anything." He finished the legs on her left temple and started upon the right. "I have no right to give you commands. You ought to forgive him, true, because the Dominus Christus commands it and otherwise your hatred will eat you out from the inside. But if any man deserves death for his crimes, it is Cornelius."

"Then you think I should kill him?" said Gavin, reaching into the pot for more paste.

"No," said Calliande. "You should let Ridmark or Kharlacht do it."

"Why?" said Gavin. "My father betrayed me and everyone else in Aranaeus."

"Because if you kill him," said Calliande, "I think you'll become like Ridmark."

Gavin frowned, finishing the legs upon her temples. "Is that bad? He is a great knight and warrior."

"He is," said Calliande. "Has he told you anything about his past?"

Gavin shook his head and then remembered that she could not see him. "No."

"He lost his wife," said Calliande, "and he blamed himself for her death, even though it was not his fault. He has never forgiven himself for it, and believes he deserves death. So he drives himself on, putting himself in greater and greater danger."

"What does that have to do with me?" said Gavin, painting the lines upon her jaw. "I want to kill my father, not..."

"You want revenge," said Calliande, "but it won't end with your father. Ridmark puts himself in danger because he believes he deserves to die. Your father does deserve to die. But killing him will not quench the fury in your heart. So you'll look for someone else who deserves to die, and someone else, and someone else, and it will consume you the way guilt and despair have consumed Ridmark."

Gavin said nothing as he painted the rest of the fake scars. He remembered the day his father had wed Morwen, remembered the cold smirk upon her red lips. He remembered the tired, dull look upon Cornelius's face as he gave the dead woman to the spiderlings.

And he remembered Ridmark's icy, hard eyes.

"Done," said Gavin, stepping away.

Calliande opened her eyes. "That itches more than I expect. I can only imagine how it feels with beard stubble. How do I look?"

"Positively ghastly," said Gavin.

"Good," said Calliande. She smiled. "But you probably shouldn't say that to women very often."

Gavin laughed. "I will heed your counsel." His laughter faded. "And I shall think upon what you have said, about other matters."

"You should," said Calliande. "I will not tell you what to do. But one of the advantages of being young is that there is still time to learn from the mistakes of your elders."

"That sounds," said Gavin, "that sounds...wise."

"Perhaps it is," said Calliande. "But if your elders are wise, it is only because we ignored our own elders and made grievous mistakes of our own."

Gavin laughed, as did Calliande, but her face grew grave.

"Magistria?" he said.

"Have you ever heard of a place called Dragonfall?" said Calliande.

Gavin shook his head. "I haven't. What is it? A castle?"

"I don't know," said Calliande. "I don't know what it is, or where it is. Only that my staff is there, and I need to find it. And that losing it might have been the biggest mistake I ever made."

Gavin didn't know what any of that meant.

"I'm sure," he said at last, "that you'll be able to find it again."

"I hope you are right," said Calliande.

Leaves rustled, and Ridmark and Kharlacht returned.

Calliande smiled at Ridmark. "How do I look?"

"Like someone I would not want to meet on a dark night," said Ridmark. "Which I suppose is the point. We will strike tonight. Two fresh patrols of arachar came from the gates, six each. The lupivirii dealt with them, but I suspect Morwen is growing suspicious that the first patrol hasn't returned."

"Just as well, then," said Kharlacht. "Twelve fewer arachar we shall have to fight."

Ridmark nodded. "Prepare yourselves. As soon as the sun goes down, we're heading for Urd Arowyn."

Gavin gripped his sword hilt again, the worn leather rough beneath his fingers, and thought of his father.

***

## Chapter 18 - The Consort

Ridmark stopped at the base of the waterfall, the spray damp against his face. Five of the thirteen moons threw an eerie blue glow over everything. It was brighter than he would have preferred, but the illumination would make it easier to fight.

And easier for the beastmen to hunt their prey through the streets of Urd Arowyn.

He looked back at the others. Calliande walked behind him, hood drawn up over her head, the fake scars crimson against her pale face. Kharlacht waited behind her, grim and silent in his dark elven armor. Then followed Brother Caius, draped in his friar's robe. Disguising him would have been useless, as there were no dwarves among either the arachar or the slaves. If questioned, Ridmark would claim he was a prisoner they had found wandering the woods.

Gavin came in the back, his face solemn and tired, hand resting on his sword hilt.

"Remember," said Ridmark. "No talking until we reach the interior of Urd Arowyn. I want to get past the male urdmordar without rousing the creature. Once inside the ruins, if we are separated, find the storehouses and start lighting them ablaze. Any questions?"

No one had any.

"Then," said Caius, "may God go with us, and lend strength to our arms, for surely our cause is as righteous as any upon the earth."

"Let us hope that God agrees with you," said Ridmark.

They went over the slick path, behind the waterfall, and into the cave. The white stairs climbed into the darkness, the steps littered with long-dead bones. As far as Ridmark could tell, no one had come this way since they had departed last night. Gavin lit a torch, the firelight throwing dancing shadows across the walls.

They climbed the stairs and came to the corridor of white stone, the walls still lined with webs, long-dead corpses dangling from the ceiling. Ridmark led the way and the others followed in single file, making sure to keep well away from the web-mantled walls. His eyes scanned the shadowy darkness for any sign of threat, and his ears strained for any hint of attackers.

But he heard and saw no signs of danger.

He stopped before the stairs leading up to the male urdmordar's chamber, took a few breaths to steady himself, and then climbed the steps, moving with as much stealth as he could manage. Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin had their weapons ready, while Calliande held her hands up, ready to summon magic.

Ridmark stepped into the lofty hall, the withered corpses caught in the strands of the webs like long-dead flies. The male urdmordar clung halfway up the wall near the archway to the next corridor, his human-shaped torso limp, his eyes closed. The creature was utterly motionless. The urdmordar looked dead, but Ridmark knew that the creatures only needed to breathe every few days or so.

He beckoned with his staff, and the others followed him.

They had made it halfway across the chamber when the urdmordar lifted his head, all eight of his green eyes shining with their own eerie green glow.

###

Calliande froze beneath the weight of the male urdmordar's gaze.

The urdmordar's attention had a weight to it, a dark and heavy power. She felt a faint pressure upon her temples, and she realized that it was the urdmordar's telepathic power, the sheer might of the creature's will. Even male urdmordar, for all their lack of intelligence, possessed mighty wills.

The knowledge ought to have harkened her. It proved she had faced the urdmordar before and survived, sometime in the mists of her past.

But her skin crawled with revulsion and fear as the predator upon the wall started to move with slow, languid grace. She heard a rumbling, rasping voice, far deeper than any human or orcish or dwarven voice, and realized the urdmordar was speaking.

She felt the harsh telepathic pressure of his words throb against her temples.

"I smelled it," he said, his head turning back and forth. "Yes. I woke up and smelled smoke. I could not remember why. Nothing down here burns. Then I remembered. The herd animals." His pincers clicked. "The cattle need light to see. That meant herd animals had been down here." He sounded almost absurdly pleased with himself for figuring it out. "The mistress will be wroth. The cattle are not to come down here. They are not."

Calliande started to summon power for a spell, but Ridmark stepped forward.

"I salute your wisdom, consort of the great goddess Agrimnalazur," he said with a bow. The urdmordar's eyes fixed upon him. "We are the chosen servants of the goddess, and she has sent us here with an urgent task."

"She has?" said the male urdmordar. Had the urdmordar been human, Calliande suspected he would have been blinking stupidly.

"She sent us to spy upon her foes," said Ridmark, "and to return in secret, lest anyone learn of our presence. I pray let us pass, my lord consort, that we might bring news to the ears of great Agrimnalazur."

The urdmordar went utterly motionless.

"Yes," said the creature at last. "Yes, that makes sense. The mistress is always doing many clever things. They make my head hurt."

Calliande felt a surge of relief.

"But you are lying," said the male urdmordar. "You do not smell like the blood of the mistress, and all the mistress's servants partake of her blood. Also, I can hear your thoughts, and you are lying. Which means I shall devour you all."

The urdmordar hurtled forward with inhuman speed.

###

Ridmark flung himself to the side as the urdmordar thundered towards him in a crimson blur.

It almost wasn't enough.

The urdmordar's armored legs slashed towards him. Ridmark whipped his staff up at the last moment, deflecting the claws from his throat. But he could not match the urdmordar's terrible strength, and while the claws missed his face, the creature's front two legs slammed across his chest. The blow blasted the breath from Ridmark's lungs and threw him backwards. He hit the ground a dozen paces away, stunned.

The urdmordar raced towards him and reared up, claws preparing to plunge into Ridmark's chest.

White light flashed, and a blast of brilliant flame arced across the chamber and struck the urdmordar. The creature bellowed in fury and pain, and Ridmark saw Calliande standing with her hands spread, the power of her magic flaring around her fingers.

Ridmark staggered to his feet, leaving his staff upon the floor. The weapon was useless against the armored chitin of the urdmordar's carapace. He yanked the orcish war axe from his belt, the haft heavy and smooth beneath his fingers, and prepared to charge the before the urdmordar recovered from Calliande's attack.

But the urdmordar turned and raced at Calliande.

###

Calliande summoned more power, white fire blazing around her hands as she prepared to fling another spell at the male urdmordar.

But it would not be enough.

The creature was hideously fast, so fast his armored body moved in a crimson blur. The urdmordar lunged at her, and Calliande knew that she would not be able to work a spell in time.

Then Kharlacht and Caius shouted, and the orc and the dwarf attacked the urdmordar from the right and the left. Caius's dwarven mace did not penetrate the thick chitin of the urdmordar's legs, but the strength of his blows rocked the creature. Kharlacht's dark elven greatsword sheared through one of the urdmordar's right legs. The clawed tip clattered to the ground, leaking thick black ichor.

"You cut me!" roared the urdmordar. "Now I am angry!"

The urdmordar whirled, clawed legs stabbing down, and drove his talons into Kharlacht's chest. Kharlacht's armor turned aside the razor edges, but the force of the impact drove him to the floor. Caius clubbed the urdmordar again, his mace bouncing off the urdmordar's left flank, but the creature hardly seemed to feel the blows. The massive legs flexed, and Caius went skidding across the floor.

The urdmordar turned towards Calliande, and she tried to focus enough power for a spell.

Gavin yelled and attacked, shield raised, sword drawn back. He stabbed with all his strength, driving his orcish sword into the urdmordar's abdomen. The blade sank a foot into the urdmordar's carapace, black slime bubbling from the wound. The urdmordar looked at him, pincers snapping, and lashed out with an arm. Gavin stumbled back, his weapon still buried in the urdmordar's exoskeleton.

But he had given Calliande the time she needed to finish her spell.

She thrust her arms out, and white fire poured from her palms and sank into the urdmordar. The creature screamed, legs lashing at the floor, pincers snapping with fury. A Magistria could only use her power to defend, to learn, and to communicate, never to harm another mortal. But the urdmordar were immortals, were predators that delighted in tormenting the innocent.

She could unleash her power against them without mercy, without scruple.

Calliande poured all her strength into the spell.

But it was not enough.

Step by step the urdmordar dragged himself towards her, his clawed legs clicking against the stone floor. Her spell left smoking burns across his carapace, the hideous stench of charred chitin filling the vault. But still the urdmordar came for her, like a man walking into a strong wind.

She was not strong enough to stop him.

###

Ridmark gripped the axe in his left hand and ran at the male urdmordar.

The creature's full attention was on Calliande. An inferno of white flame burst from her hands and slammed into the urdmordar, but he shrugged off the burns. The urdmordar moved closer to her, and soon would be near enough to strike.

Ridmark grabbed the back of the urdmordar's thorax. The crimson chitin felt icy cold beneath his fingers, and he heaved himself onto the urdmordar's back. Calliande's white flames billowed around him, but left him untouched. Her spell would harm creatures of dark magic, but not living mortals.

Though Ridmark might not remain living much longer.

The urdmordar felt his presence, the human-shaped torso turning to face him.

Ridmark dashed across the urdmordar's back with two steps and swung his axe with both hands.

He felt the blade land, and then the urdmordar's fist struck his stomach, throwing him to the floor.

###

Gavin groaned and got to one knee.

His chest burned from the urdmordar's blow, and he feared he had broken a rib. He looked for his sword, saw it jutting from the urdmordar's abdomen, just below the creature's human-shaped torso.

A weapon, he needed a weapon. Did one of the withered corpses have a weapon? Perhaps...

He saw Ridmark standing on the urdmordar's back, and then he went flying, tumbling across the floor.

The urdmordar twitched, legs writhing and jerking. Calliande poured more white fire into the creature, and Gavin saw something jutting from the back of the urdmordar's head, black ichor dripping down the crimson carapace.

Ridmark's axe.

The urdmordar twitched once more, and then fell over.

###

Calliande lowered her hands with a sigh, the fire winking out, her head ringing with the effort of wielding so much magic.

The telepathic weight of the urdmordar faded from her thoughts.

The creature was indeed dead.

She blinked at the sudden gloom. The fury of her magic had lit up the hall, but now that it was gone, the only light came from Gavin's dropped torch. The boy picked up his torch, wincing, and Caius walked closer, mace still hand.

"Is it dead?" Gavin whispered.

"Aye," said Caius. "An axe to the brain will kill almost anything."

"Except a female urdmordar," said Calliande. One male urdmordar had almost killed them all. What would happen if Agrimnalazur took a hand in the coming fight?

She pushed aside the fear. It was too late to turn back now.

Ridmark joined them, helping Kharlacht to stand.

"You're hurt," said Calliande.

Kharlacht grimaced. "I turned my leg in the fall. It is not serious..."

"Enough," said Calliande, summoning magic and putting her hands on Kharlacht's left leg. The pain of his torn muscles and cracked bone flooded through her, but she gritted her teeth and commanded the spell to heal him. After that she healed Gavin's broken ribs, trying not to shriek as the pain plunged into her chest. Caius was uninjured, thanks to the sturdiness of dwarven bones, and Ridmark was only bruised, despite his mad attack.

Perhaps it was luck, or God indeed favored him.

Or maybe it was sheer skill. Something had allowed him to survive so many mad deeds.

"That went well," said Ridmark.

"Well?" said Gavin, incredulous. "How did that go well?"

"We are still alive," said Kharlacht.

"And," said Ridmark, putting one boot upon the male urdmordar's chest, "the guardian is dead." He gripped his axe and yanked it free from the urdmordar's head with a ghastly squelching sound. Black ichor gleamed upon the blade. "Which means we can use the secret passage to help the slaves escape from here."

"Oh." To judge from his expression, Gavin had not thought of that. Thought to be fair, neither had Calliande. "That will be useful, if the arachar block the main gate."

"Exactly," said Ridmark. "Get your sword. You'll likely need it soon."

Gavin nodded and tugged his sword from the dead urdmordar.

"That was easier than I expected," said Kharlacht. "I thought an urdmordar would be a more formidable foe."

"They are," said Ridmark. "We were lucky. Male urdmordar are not terribly clever. If he had been thinking clearly, the urdmordar would have killed the rest of us first, and then dispatched Calliande." Ridmark shook his head. "If he had done that, odds are that no one would ever know what had happened to us. The male urdmordar would likely forget unless Agrimnalazur happened to ask about it."

Calliande felt a chill. If not for Ridmark's quick thinking, if not for her magic, the urdmordar would have killed them all with ease.

And the male urdmordar had only a fraction of the power of a female.

"Come," said Ridmark, returning his axe to his belt and picking up his staff. "Philip awaits."

###

Ridmark pushed open the secret door as the bell of the assembly clanged over the ruins of Urd Arowyn.

He looked around the street. He wanted to avoid any fights until he killed the gate guards and got the lupivirii within the walls. A few arachar, panicked by flames and the unknown attackers, would not be a challenge. But if Morwen set all the arachar to hunting Ridmark and his companions, they would die in short order.

"You came!" hissed a man's voice.

Philip waited in the shadows of a ruined archway. The blacksmith hurried over, his face and clothing dirty, but his eyes eager.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "Are you ready?"

Philip nodded. "I spoke to Mallen and Bardus and a few other trustworthy men. They had to go to the assembly, but they left oil in the storehouses. We can set them ablaze whenever we wish."

"Good," said Ridmark, looking north. He saw the glow of the assembly's torches reflecting against the white bulk of the central tower, heard the distant echoes of Morwen's sermon. If she had started preaching, all of the slaves and the arachar must have gathered in the plaza. "Gavin, go with Philip. Set as many fires as you can. Calliande, Caius, Kharlacht, help me deal with the guards at the gate. The sooner we can get the lupivirii inside the walls, the better. Gavin, Philip. Meet us at the gate once you've set as many fires as you can. I expect Urd Arowyn will be rather frantic by then."

He headed towards the outer wall.

###

"Here," said Philip, pointing at a ruined mansion.

Gavin glanced around, but the street was empty. The ruined dark elven mansion loomed overhead, its windows gazing down like the eyes of a corpse. Here and there the remnants of the disturbing, grisly reliefs the dark elves had preferred still covered the walls. Yet the mansion was a ruin, and now housed supplies to feed the slaves of the urdmordar.

Philip led Gavin inside the mansion. Bales of hay stood stacked against one wall, while bundles of clothing and blankets rested against another. Gavin smelled oil in the air, saw that the hay and the blankets glistened with it.

"Fodder for the animals," said Philip, grinning. "Should make a nice, thick black smoke."

Gavin nodded and raised his torch.

"If we don't live through this," said Philip, "you're a good man, Gavin." He hesitated. "Better than your father. I was always annoyed how you kept sniffing around Rosanna, and after Cornelius opened the gate...well, I thought the worst of you. But I was wrong. You're a good man." He snorted. "And as mad and brave as that Gray Knight."

"I'm not that brave," said Gavin. He looked a deep breath. "But thank you. And...I know I will never wed Rosanna. But if she is to wed anyone, she could do much worse than you. Much worse."

"Well," said Philip. He reached behind one of the bundles and drew out the heavy hammer of a blacksmith. In his hands, it would make a formidable weapon. "Shall we kill some arachar?"

"By all means," said Gavin, touching the torch to the bales of hay.

They fled from the mansion as the hay and the clothing began to burn, and went to another storehouse and started a second fire.

And then a third, and a fourth.

###

Ridmark waited in the shadows.

A small, oval plaza lay behind the gates of Urd Arowyn, a long-dried fountain adorned with statues of armored warriors occupying its center. Six arachar stood guard over the gate. Two stood below the arch itself, spears in hand. Four waited atop the rampart, watching the path that led down to the valley and the creek.

The arachar on the right side of the rampart carried a war horn at his belt.

The glow from three separate fires flickered in the ruins. Both the arachar upon the wall and the slaves and arachar in the assembly would notice at any moment.

It was time to move.

Ridmark took a deep breath, lifted his bow, and set an arrow to the string.

Calliande began to whisper, her fingers glimmering with white light.

Ridmark drew back the bow and released. His arrow hissed through the gloom and plunged into the arachar with the horn. The orc staggered forward with a grunt, arms flailing, and slumped against the battlements.

"Eh?" said the orc next to him. "What is it? The daughters will have your hide if you've been drinking while on guard."

Calliande cast her spell, and a pulsing glow of white light flared around Kharlacht. The big orc surged forward with superhuman speed, the power of Calliande's magic driving his legs.

"Brothers!" shouted Kharlacht. "We are under attack! To arms! To arms!"

The orcs spun, and Ridmark took the opportunity to shoot another. The arrow sprouted from the chest of an arachar on the rampart, and the orc toppled forward with a scream, landing with bone-breaking force upon the flagstones. The two arachar waiting in the archway hurried forward, but Kharlacht acted first. His blue greatsword came around in a blur, the heavy blade taking off the head of an arachar in a fountain of green blood. The second arachar thrust his sword, but Kharlacht was already moving. He beat aside the thrust, stepped back, and brought his blade hammering down. The weapon ripped through the orc's chest and belly, and the arachar stumbled to his knees.

The remaining two arachar upon the wall drew their bows and took aim, but Ridmark and Caius were already running. The archers released, and Kharlacht dodged with the speed granted by Calliande's spell. Ridmark raced up the stairs to the ramparts as the archers reached for more arrows. The first orc whirled, drawing to draw back his bow to shoot Ridmark, but Ridmark was faster. His staff hooked the bow's string and ripped the weapon from the arachar's hands. The orc roared and started to draw his sword, but Caius's mace slammed into the orc's arm with bone-shattering force. The orc bellowed again, and Ridmark swung his staff and shattered the orc's skull.

The second arachar lifted his bow, but Caius was already moving. His mace struck the orc in the knee, and the warrior stumbled. Ridmark swung his staff, the blow catching the orc's other leg. The arachar tumbled from the rampart, landed in the plaza thirty feet below, and did not move again.

Ridmark turned, looking around the courtyard, but saw no sign of any other arachar. But a fourth fire glimmered in the ruins, and even as he looked he saw a fifth flare to life. Gavin and Philip were industrious. An uneasy rumbling came from the central plaza. That would be the slaves and the arachar, realizing that something was wrong.

Morwen would send the arachar to quench the fires soon.

Calliande walked to the gate, the white light still flickering around her fingers.

"They're coming!" she called to Ridmark.

Ridmark and Caius descended from the rampart just as a wave of dark shapes and gleaming yellow eyes flowed through the gate.

Lupivirii.

Hundreds of them. They moved in eerie silence, their yellow eyes reflecting the growing light from the fires. Some of them spread out and disappeared into the streets, while a few dozen stopped before Calliande and Ridmark, Rakhaag at their head. The alpha took a step forward, his form blurring into his half-human, half-beast shape.

"Ridmark son of Leogrance," said Rakhaag, his voice solemn. "We have come."

"Rather more than I expected," said Ridmark.

"More came at my call," said Rakhaag. "The great memory knows that the urdmordar are the enemy, our terrible foe. We cannot face them and prevail." He broke Ridmark's gaze and shifted his eyes to Calliande. "But the Staffbearer has called us. If we do not aid her, our kin shall perish, and the Staffbearer will perish with them. And the cold ones shall return and destroy the True People and the great memory."

"I am glad of your aid," said Ridmark. "Break into small packs. The tainted orcs will come to put out the fires soon, and you will..."

For the first time, Ridmark heard Rakhaag laugh.

"You will tell us how to hunt, gray warrior?" said Rakhaag. "We know how to hunt. And tonight, our prey is the tainted orcs!"

Footsteps clattered against the flagstones, and Gavin and Philip ran into the plaza. The lupivirii snarled and snapped at them, but did not attack. Ridmark could only guess what they might have done had Calliande not been there.

"We managed to get seven fires going," said Gavin. "Then some arachar came to see what was happening, and we had to run."

The sounds of chaos from the central plaza grew louder. With many of the arachar sent away, the panic and fear would spread. Morwen and Cornelius would have a harder time keeping the slaves under control.

And the moment of opportunity had arrived.

"Come," said Ridmark, lifting his staff. "Let us free some slaves."

He strode towards the central plaza, the others following him. All around them packs of the lupivirii vanished into the darkness, racing down the narrow streets.

A few moments later the screams began.

***

## Chapter 19 - Storm

Gavin's heartbeat thundered in his ears.

The wide street led towards the white tower rising from the heart of the ruins. Shouts and screams and snarls echoed from the surrounding streets, and dark forms raced through the ruins, beastmen hunting for the arachar.

Urd Arowyn had fallen into chaos. Gavin wondered if Morwen and his father knew what was happening, if they had yet realized they were under attack.

If they hadn't, they soon would.

A score of arachar burst out of a side street, running towards one of the fires, and came to a shocked halt when they saw Ridmark and the others.

For a moment no one moved.

Ridmark stepped forward, staff tapping against the white paving stones.

"Let's make this simple, shall we?" said Ridmark. "Surrender, lay down your arms, remove your armor, and depart Urd Arowyn immediately. Otherwise I will fight you."

The arachar leader blinked.

"Kill them!" roared the arachar, and the orcs charged with furious yells, their black eyes flaring with the crimson haze of orcish battle rage.

"Fight!" said Ridmark, and Gavin gripped his sword and raised his shield as Philip lifted his hammer.

###

Ridmark sprinted at the orcs, his staff ready.

Even through their battle rage, he saw the contempt flash across their faces. Warriors fought with swords and axes or maces, never with a quarterstaff. A staff was the weapon of peasants, of freeholders, of farmers fighting to defend their holdings from bandits and wolves. Warriors did not wield quarterstaffs.

Ridmark had thought that, once. As a new-made squire he had boasted of his skill with the sword. Amused, his father had equipped him with a sword and sent him to fight an old man-at-arms armed with a quarterstaff. Ridmark had been certain of victory.

The old man had beaten him so thoroughly that Ridmark had not been able to sit down for a week.

Since then he had respected the quarterstaff. A skilled swordsman was a dangerous foe, but a man of equal skill with a quarterstaff would prevail.

Almost every time.

So the orcs' surprise was absolute when Ridmark attacked.

He struck first, the end of his staff smashing an arachar's hand with enough force to break bones. The orc howled, rage vanishing in surprised pain, and Ridmark's next blow cracked his skull. The orc toppled to the ground in a limp heap. Another orc came at him with an axe, and Ridmark drove the end of his staff into the arachar's neck. The strike crushed the arachar's windpipe, and the orc fell to his knees. A quick blow from his staff put the orc out of his misery. A third orc came at Ridmark, and he tripped the arachar with a quick sweep of his staff. The orc fell into two others, throwing off their balance.

His friends crashed into the melee around him. Kharlacht's sword wrote arcs of blue steel in the air, leaving trails of black-streaked green blood in its wake. Caius's mace smashed bones and crushed skulls, while Gavin bashed with his shield, thrusting with his sword at off-balance orcs. Ridmark would have to correct the boy's technique if they lived through this ...

Another orc came at him, and Ridmark had no more time for thought, only for fighting and survival.

He forced his way through the orcs.

###

Gavin struck an arachar across the face with his shield. The orc roared in rage, the red light in his eyes brightening, and surged forward in a fury, swinging his sword. Gavin backed away, trying to get his blade in line to strike.

Philip's hammer struck the side of the arachar's head, and the orc joined the others upon the ground.

Someone screamed, and Gavin turned, green blood dripping from his sword as he braced for another attack.

But most of the orcs were dead.

Kharlacht and Caius had carved their way through the orcs, but Ridmark had killed most of them. Gavin had seen Ridmark force Rakhaag to submit, face the spiderlings in Urd Dagaash and the male urdmordar in the tunnels, but he had never seen anyone move so quickly and fight with such precision.

It was awe-inspiring. Even terrifying.

Another scream rang out, and Gavin turned, expecting an attack.

Instead a dozen villagers ran at him, their eyes wide with fear. Gavin knew them all, and they gaped at him in surprise.

"Run!" shouted Gavin. "Go! The gate is unguarded. Wait for the others in the valley. We'll rejoin you when we can. Run!"

They ran for the gate.

Gavin looked around for any other foes, but he saw none. Screams and shouts echoed through the streets, along with the occasional roar of an enraged lupivir. The raging flames spreading through the ruins reflected off the clouds overhead, filling the city with an eerie smoldering glow.

It was like a scene out of hell.

But it was working. Gavin felt a surge of exultation. They would do it. They would defeat the arachar, they would free the captives, they...

A deathly chill passed through him.

They had almost reached the central plaza. Screaming people fled in all directions, arachar bellowing at them to stay where they were, only to fall beneath the claws and fangs of the beastmen.

The chill deepened, and a whirling column of shadows and darkness appeared at the end of the street, a vortex of nothingness. An arachar came too close to it, and screamed as he withered and then crumbled into dust.

Morwen had unleashed her dark magic.

The vortex surged forward with terrifying speed.

###

Calliande saw the writhing column of darkness flow towards them.

Tremendous power radiated from the whirling vortex. Spiderlings could often use dark magic, but this was the work of a skilled sorceress. Agrimnalazur had plainly entrusted Morwen with great dark magic, perhaps even the ability to tap Agrimnalazur's own power.

Calliande was not sure she had the strength to overcome the potent spell.

The vortex touched another pair of arachar, sucking away their lives as their bodies crumbled into dust. The tornado of shadow danced along the street, moving towards a group of fleeing slaves. If the vortex reached them, it would kill them all in the space of a heartbeat.

And Calliande would not let that happen.

She summoned magic, as much power as she could hold, and unleashed it at the vortex. White fire burst from her fingertips and slashed at the vortex with a line of scintillating flame. The shadowy column shuddered, and Calliande gritted her teeth as she felt her will strain against Morwen's. Through the strain of their competing magic, she sensed the spiderling's insatiable hunger for living flesh, her lust for power and domination.

The impulses of an urdmordar.

The vortex shuddered, Calliande's magic tearing at the spell. The slaves sprinted past her, running for the gate. Another wave of arachar boiled out of the side streets, and Ridmark sprang into his motion, his staff dealing death with every blow. Kharlacht and Caius followed him, striking with their weapons, while Gavin and Philip urged more of the slaves to safety.

The vortex trembled, and Calliande sensed Morwen pouring more dark magic into the thing.

It flowed towards her, its icy radiance washing over her. Calliande felt her strength waver, felt her power start to buckle.

She heard herself growl in fury, her hands hooked into claws.

She would not allow this. Her memory only extended back a month, but too often in that short time she had seen magic abused. First Talvinius in the village of the Blue Hand, and then the Magistrius Alamur in Dun Licinia. And she could only imagine what other horrors she had seen in her previous life, horrors shrouded by the mists choking her memory.

By God, she did not want to add another memory to the collection!

Calliande thrust out her arms, drawing upon every scrap of power she could gather, and screamed.

Her magic lashed at the vortex, and there was a dazzling flash of white light, so bright that it drove away the night. A thunderclap rang out, a blast of hot air washing over Calliande. She staggered back a step, partly from the wind, partly from a wave of exhaustion.

But the vortex of shadows unraveled into nothing.

Calliande sighed in relief, sweat dripping down her face.

###

Ridmark sought another foe, but saw none.

Dead arachar lay scattered across the ground, their black-streaked green blood pooling around them. The vortex of shadow had collapsed, and for a moment they stood in an island of calm.

But only for a moment.

He heard shouts and screams coming from the rest of Urd Arowyn, the flames rising higher from the ruined mansions. People fled through the streets, men and women and children, making for the gate and freedom.

"Perhaps we should withdraw while we still can," said Kharlacht. "Most of the villagers will have escaped by now. We can organize them and lead them back to Aranaeus."

Ridmark shook his head. "No. There are still villagers in the streets. And Rakhaag's kin are trapped within the central tower, locked in the death sleep. I promised Rakhaag I would try to rescue them, and I will not break my word."

"If we do that," said Philip, "if we go into the tower, we risk waking Agrimnalazur. From what Morwen and the other spiderlings said, I think she spends most of her time in the tower."

"So be it," said Ridmark.

"And this is not over," said Gavin, "until we find my father." Orc blood dripped from his sword, his face smudged with soot. He looked as if he had aged ten years in the last day. Ridmark had seen it before, in boys who had been forced to grow up by a battle.

"No," said Ridmark. "I suppose not."

"Morwen will be the most dangerous foe by far," said Calliande. "Then let us end this," said Ridmark, and led the way to the plaza.

***

## Chapter 20 - Father and Son

Gavin followed as Ridmark led the way into the plaza.

It was almost deserted. The torches still burned in a ring around the outer edge, but almost of the villagers had fled. Only those too old or injured to flee had been left behind. Gavin saw old Agnes slumped against the wall, muttering to herself and grabbing her knees, along with a few of the older villagers. Why hadn't the others helped them to escape? Had they just abandoned the older men and women to die?

Perhaps the rot in Aranaeus had gone deeper than merely Cornelius.

Morwen awaited them upon the steps to the tower.

She was naked, the talons jutting from her fingers, the pincers rising from her mouth, eight green eyes gleaming on her face. The red tattoos spiraled up and down her pale body, flickering with an ominous red glow. The strange blue dagger waited in her right hand, the eightfold legs of its hilt wrapped around her wrist. Three other spiderlings waited behind her, rage and hungry lust on their faces.

Cornelius stood beside his wife, his expression a mixture of terror and despair. He saw Gavin, and he opened his mouth, closed it, and said nothing.

Ridmark stopped a dozen yards from the stairs, the others waiting,

For a moment no one said anything.

"Gavin," said Cornelius. "You're safe."

"No thanks to you," said Gavin.

His face worked. "The daughters of the goddess at Urd Dagaash were supposed to kill everyone but you. They would have brought you safe to me."

"Maybe the daughters of your goddess," said Gavin, glaring at Morwen, "are not as strong as you think."

Even through the pincers, Gavin saw Morwen's familiar, condescending smile.

"It's not too late," said Cornelius. A tremor went through his hands. "Agrimnalazur is rewarding to those who serve her well. Come here, now. You can still be safe. You can still be..."

Gavin laughed. "Be you? Be a man who betrays his neighbors to the spider-devils?"

"I had no choice!" said Cornelius, his voice rising to a shout. "I did it all to save you."

"What are you talking about?" said Gavin.

"I found out about Agrimnalazur when I was elected praefectus," said Cornelius, the words tumbling out of him. "I didn't know about her, not really, not before that. There were always rumors. But then Morwen showed herself to me and I knew the truth. Aranaeus belonged to Agrimnalazur. Aranaeus had always belonged to Agrimnalazur. Only a few of us knew the truth, and if I did not keep the secret...they would have killed me. They would have killed you in front of me, first. I did it to save you."

"And what about all of this?" said Gavin, waving his sword at the chaos of Urd Arowyn around them, at the screams and roars echoing through the streets. "Did you do this for me, Father? Did you sell our neighbors into slavery to save me?"

"I didn't have any choice!" screamed Cornelius. "Agrimnalazur commanded it. She thinks the omen of blue fire means the Frostborn are coming back to destroy the world. So we had to gather the villagers and take them here." His hands brushed the side of his shirt, wiping it over and over again. "They all would have died anyway when the Frostborn returned. I saved them, I let them..."

"You saved them?" said Gavin, incredulous. "To do what? Live as slaves to that bloated spider you worship as a goddess? To feed her hunger?"

"Yes!" said Cornelius. "That is exactly what I did. Better that than the freezing death when the Frostborn return. And I can save you, too. It's not too late. Agrimnalazur will accept your service yet."

Gavin felt Calliande and Ridmark and Philip looking at him, and he lifted his chin.

"Tell me one thing," he said. "How did my mother die?"

"A...a fever," said Cornelius, stuttering over her words. "A fever, she died of a fever, that..."

Morwen laughed with derision. "A fever from my poison, which you put into her cup, dear husband."

"You killed her," said Gavin. He ought to have felt rage, he knew.

But he felt only cold, so cold, as if the Frostborn had returned within him.

"I had no choice!" said Cornelius.

"You seem to say that," said Caius, "quite often."

"She wouldn't have understood," said Cornelius. "She was like you, Gavin. A blind fool, devoted to useless, foolish ideals! She would never have accepted the truth. She would have insisted that we fight Agrimnalazur or flee from her. So I had to kill her! Don't you see? I had to do it to save Aranaeus. I had to do it to save you. I..."

"Enough," said Morwen. "I tire of your constant whining, husband. Be silent until I give you permission to speak once again."

Cornelius stopped talking, his eyes wet with tears, his hands shaking. Gavin looked at him and felt nothing but loathing. His father deserved death. Gavin would feel no guilt about killing him.

He would feel nothing at all.

"This doesn't have to end in a fight," said Ridmark.

Morwen laughed and gestured with the dagger, black flames dancing around the blue blade.

"It does not," she said, all eight of her eyes glimmering with green light. "Lay down your weapons and submit to the will of great Agrimnalazur, and you shall be spared. You shall make fine arachar, all of you, assuming you survive drinking the goddess's blood."

"Or," said Ridmark, "you could release the remaining captives to me, take your sisters, and depart."

"Why should we do that?" said Morwen with a laugh.

"To save your lives," said Ridmark.

She laughed again, so hard her pincers clacked. "You are mistaken, Gray Knight. Oh, I know who you are. The Swordbearer who slew Mhalek, but lost his sword and his wife. You have no magic of your own, and only one Magistria," her glowing eyes turned towards Calliande, "one whose strength is barely a match for my own. The advantage is mine." She pointed her dagger at Ridmark. "And even if you prevail, Agrimnalazur will destroy you." She smirked. "Mother gets ever so cross about intruders."

"Actually," said Ridmark, "I don't think she will lift a single one of her eight legs to save you."

"Do you know so much about the urdmordar?" said Morwen.

"I slew Gothalinzur," said Ridmark.

"Ten years ago," said Morwen. "And you were a Swordbearer then."

"True," said Ridmark, "but Gothalinzur remains dead. Look around you, Morwen. Most of your arachar are slain or wounded, your captives are escaping, and your supplies are burning."

"Losses that can be easily replaced," said Morwen.

Gavin spat. "Perhaps your precious goddess is not as powerful as you thought."

Cornelius would not meet his eyes.

"I don't think those are losses," said Ridmark. "I think they're a test."

"A test?" said Morwen. "A test of what?"

"Of you," said Ridmark. "I know how the urdmordar think, Morwen. They value only themselves. You, her other daughters, her arachar, her slaves...they're only tools. Tools to help her survive the Frostborn, and she wants reliable tools. And all this, Morwen...all this is a test."

She laughed again. "For you? To see if you are worthy to serve the goddess?"

"Not for me," said Ridmark. "For you."

Morwen recoiled as if he had slapped her. "For me?"

And suddenly, even through his rage, Gavin understood why Ridmark had been so willing to chance a confrontation with Agrimnalazur.

"Do not dare to speak to me in that tone," said Morwen. "I am the daughter of a goddess! You..."

"You're not," said Ridmark. "Agrimnalazur is not a goddess, and even if she was, you're only her tool. And she's testing to see if you are a worthy tool. If I defeat you, Agrimnalazur will not come to your aid. The urdmordar dislike confrontation, and prefer to work through servants. She'll merely leave and set up a larder for herself somewhere else. You, however, will be dead."

Morwen said nothing, her fingers tightening against the dagger's hilt.

"This is your last chance," said Ridmark. "You..."

Morwen screamed, and Cornelius shrank against the archway.

"Kill them!" shouted Morwen. "Kill them in the name of great Agrimnalazur!"

The other three spiderlings raced forward, and Morwen raised her hands, black fire crackling around her fingers.

###

Ridmark charged, his staff in hand, and met the three spiderlings.

The first one lunged, reaching with crimson claws. Ridmark danced back, just missing the red talons, and struck with his staff. The heavy weapon landed against the spiderling's hip with enough force to break bone.

Human bone, at any rate.

The spiderling stumbled, but recovered fast enough to avoid his next swing.

The other two spiderlings rushed him, but Gavin and Kharlacht and Caius and Philip charged into the fray. Kharlacht swung and one of the spiderlings jumped back, but not before his dark elven blade carved a line of black ichor along her ribs. Gavin bashed a spiderling across the face with his shield, and as she stumbled, Philip drove his hammer into her ribs with all his strength. The spiderling's ribs, crimson chitin rather than white bone, burst from her skin.

The spiderling screamed in fury and backhanded Philip, the blow sending him to the ground.

Ridmark swung his staff again, catching the first spiderling across the head. The impact would have killed a human, but again the spiderling shrugged it off. She danced back, her mouth yawning wide, and Ridmark ducked as a gobbet of green venom burst from her mouth.

It missed him but struck Kharlacht's chest, sizzling against his blue armor. The orc growled and continued his attack, his sword rising and falling.

Then darkness fell over the plaza, a column of shadow rising from the stairs as Morwen unleashed her spell.

###

Calliande summoned more magic.

She considered casting a spell upon Morwen, but discarded the idea. Morwen was casting a spell at Ridmark and the others. Unless Calliande protected them, her dark magic would kill them all. Dark power flared around Morwen, and a vortex of shadow whirled around her, preparing to fall upon the melee. Cornelius cringed against the arch, his eyes full of fear.

Morwen focused her magic upon the fight, but Calliande struck first. A blast of white fire sprang from her hands and slammed into the spiderling. The vortex of shadows unraveled and dissipated into nothingness. Morwen rocked back a step, all eight of her green eyes focusing upon Calliande.

"Come forth!" shouted Morwen. "Come forth and aid me! Your mistress commands it!"

She beckoned, and shadows moved within the tower.

A lupivir raced forth from the entrance, and for an instant Calliande wondered if Rakhaag's packs had gotten inside. But this beastman had been dead for a long time. Ragged wisps of torn webs hung from its matted fur, and the creature was gaunt, as if all the flesh had been siphoned away beneath its furry hide.

One of Agrimnalazur's victims.

A dozen more emaciated corpses emerged from the archway, summoned by Morwen's dark magic. They staggered down the steps and charged at Calliande, reaching for her with dead hands.

###

The wounded spiderling hissed, ichor leaking from the ghastly wound Philip had left in her chest. But the creature showed no signs of pain as she drove at Gavin. Again and again he raised his shield, her crimson talons raking at the wood. Her claws dug splinters from the shield, but it held beneath her onslaught.

She stepped back, and Gavin realized what was coming next.

He lowered his shield, hoping to lure her in.

Her pincers yawned wide, and a gob of poison burst from her mouth. Gavin jerked his shield up at the last moment, the venom spattering against it. A few drops arced over the rim to land against his chain mail, but the poison missed his eyes and mouth.

And for a moment, the spiderling was vulnerable.

Gavin thrust his sword. The orcish blade stabbed into the wound Philip's hammer had left, and he felt the shudder of the spiderling's heartbeat through the hilt. She howled in fury, black ichor bubbling around her lips, and Gavin ripped his sword free and stabbed against before she recovered.

The spiderling toppled to the ground.

Gavin turned. Part of him, most of him, wanted to run at Cornelius, to kill his father for what he had done. But the rest of his mind, the part that had grown colder and harder over the last few days, told him to look at battle. Philip still lay stunned upon the ground, his eyelids twitching as he regained consciousness. Ridmark and Kharlacht and Caius fought against the remaining two spiderlings. Calliande stood ablaze in an aura of white light, flinging spells against Morwen.

Dead men raced from the tower, charging at Calliande.

Ridmark had said the urdmordar often raised their victims as undead guardians.

Morwen had called them forth to kill Calliande.

Gavin attacked the undead, shielding Calliande as he had during the fight in the woods. He struck the first corpse, a towering beastman, across the face with his shield. The undead staggered, and then Gavin swung his sword once, twice, three times. On the third blow he took off the beastman's head, and the gaunt corpse collapsed to the ground. No blood came from the stump or the severed head.

Likely Agrimnalazur had drank it all.

The undead closed around him, and Gavin fought to keep them away from Calliande.

###

Ridmark jabbed his staff into a spiderling's belly. The creature doubled over with a wheeze of breath, pincers clacking in front of her face. Kharlacht raised his sword over his head and brought it down. The blade sheared through the spiderling's neck in one smooth motion, and the creature collapsed, dark slime pooling beneath her body.

The final spiderling fell back, dodging the swings of Caius's mace and the thrusts of Kharlacht's heavy sword.

Ridmark risked a look around.

Morwen and Calliande stood locked in magical battle, white fire and black shadows snarling back and forth between them. A score of undead charged from the tower, and Gavin fought to keep them from Calliande, and the boy falling back the growing mass of animated corpses. Ridmark saw Morwen's strategy at once. She and Calliande were equally matched in power. But if Morwen held Calliande's attention, the undead could strike her down.

Unless Ridmark intervened.

A plan formed in his mind, and he shifted his staff to his left hand, drawing his orcish war axe in his right. He charged across the courtyard, leaving Kharlacht and Caius to finish the final spiderling, and bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Morwen spotted him as he dashed up the stairs. He swung his staff for her head, and she caught it, holding it in place with her inhuman strength.

"Foolish Gray Knight," she hissed, shadows whirling around her. "I am worthy of Agrimnalazur, and you shall perish!"

She ripped the staff from his hand. Ridmark let her, the movement yanking him forward, and he buried the axe's blade in her side.

Her mouth yawned in a sudden cry of pain, and the shadows around her flickered and faded. Ridmark ripped the axe free, got both hands around the haft, and drove the weapon into her neck.

Morwen fell, her features going slack.

"You should have listened," he said.

A pulse of shadow went out from her and vanished, and the animated corpses collapsed. Ridmark retrieved his staff, leaving his axe in Morwen. Cornelius cowered against the arch, staring at him with wide eyes, and Ridmark ignored him.

He turned as Kharlacht and Caius cut down the last spiderling. The white fire faded from around Calliande as she released her magic, and Gavin helped Philip to his feet. The fires blazed ever brighter through the ruins of Urd Arowyn, and over the stench of spiderling ichor Ridmark smelled the harsh bite of smoke. The dark shapes of the lupivirii raced into the plaza, Rakhaag at their head.

Ridmark walked to the base of the steps, and Rakhaag ran to join him.

"Ridmark son of Leogrance," said the lupivir alpha, his claws and fangs stained with orcish blood.

"Rakhaag son of Balhaag," said Ridmark, the others gathering around him. "You are victorious?"

Rakhaag bared his fangs. "We hunted the tainted orcs from street to street, and left them to drown in their own poisoned blood. They may have been warriors, but they were not hunters. Most were slain, ambushed in the streets, and the rest have fled."

"What of the villagers?" said Ridmark.

Rakhaag shrugged, an odd gesture in his beast form. "They fled as well. Most have obeyed your commands and gathered with the priest and the female. Others have fled into the woods. They are safe now, as you wished." He growled. "Will you heed your word and help us rescue our females and our young?"

"I shall," said Ridmark. "Likely they are within." He pointed at the tower's entrance with his staff. "We shall enter and investigate."

"I will come with you," said Calliande.

Ridmark wanted to refuse her, but he knew better. If his guess about Agrimnalazur had been wrong, if the urdmordar awaited them in the tower, Calliande's magic would be the only chance of escape.

"Very well," said Ridmark.

He paused long enough to wrench his axe from Morwen's corpse. The dark elven dagger lay near her right hand, the blade still burning with black fire. It seemed the dagger remained charged with dark power, even if the rest of Morwen's magic had dissipated with her death. Ridmark would have to ask Calliande to dispel it before they departed Urd Arowyn.

"Kharlacht, Caius," said Ridmark. "Help the older villagers from the plaza, and then search the rest of the ruins for anyone still hiding. Rakhaag, have your hunters aid them."

Rakhaag snarled.

"I would be grateful if you would do as he asks, Rakhaag," said Calliande.

"As you will, Staffbearer," said Rakhaag.

"Philip, Gavin," said Ridmark. "Go outside of the ruins and take charge of the camp. Bardus and Mallen and Richard and the others will need aid. Calliande and I will return once we have freed Rakhaag's kin."

Or Agrimnalazur would kill them all. Or perhaps Ridmark had been right and the urdmordar had abandoned the ruins once victory had eluded Morwen.

Gavin stepped to Ridmark's side, his eyes empty, his face hard.

"There is one thing," he said, "that I have to do first."

Without another word he stepped towards his father, sword in hand.

"Gavin!" said Calliande, but the boy ignored her.

Gavin stopped a few paces from Cornelius, and for a moment father and son stared at each other. Gavin remained expressionless, while Cornelius wept, his face trembling.

"I did it for you," whispered Cornelius. "All of it, I did it to save you. She would have killed you, if you had not cooperated."

"The same way," said Gavin, "you killed my mother?"

"Yes," said Cornelius. "She was so brave, Gavin. She was the bravest man or woman I have ever known. You are...you are so like her. If she had known the truth, she would have done just as you did. Gone off with a sword to save us all from Agrimnalazur." He shook his head. "But it didn't matter, did it? Aranaeus is gone. I did it to save you, to save Aranaeus...but you didn't need me to save you, and Aranaeus is ashes."

He slumped against the wall, defeated.

"You should kill me," said Cornelius. "I deserve it for what I've done." He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, exposing his throat. "Just...just make it quick. I don't deserve that, I know, but..."

He fell silent, and Gavin lifted his sword.

But the boy did not strike, and Ridmark saw tears sliding down his face. His arm trembled, and at last he turned away.

Cornelius opened his eyes.

"I can't do it," whispered Gavin. "I want to do it, he deserves it, but...but I can't. You should kill him."

Ridmark nodded. "Aye, but I won't. Once the villagers of Aranaeus elect a new praefectus, we will hand Cornelius over to him. The villagers can decide what to do next."

Gavin nodded and said nothing else.

"Tie him up and leave him here," said Ridmark to Philip. "We'll deal with him later." He looked at Calliande and Rakhaag. "Let's go."

He turned towards the tower entrance, and then a woman's voice rang out, confident and melodious and beautiful beyond belief.

And oddly familiar.

"No need to trouble yourself," said the woman in perfect Latin. "None of that will be necessary."

Ridmark turned, the hair standing up on the back of his neck.

Old Agnes walked across the plaza, her cane tapping against the ground, her black gown rippling around her withered frame.

"Oh," said Ridmark as he understood at last.

But too late.

***

## Chapter 21 - Before the Ice

Calliande watched as Ridmark strode towards Agnes, axe and staff in hand.

The old woman stopped twenty paces from him, both hands resting upon the handle of her cane. The confusion, the dreamy obliviousness, had vanished from her face. Her expression was sharp and focused...and amused.

Her eyes flickered with a faint green glow.

Did that mean Agnes was another spiderling? Another creature with the power of dark magic?

Calliande flexed her fingers, preparing a spell.

Agnes tilted her head to the side, her wispy white hair blowing in the hot wind rising from the burning storehouses around the plaza. The lupivirii encircled, dozens of them ready to spring, but Agnes seemed utterly unconcerned.

"Look at you all," murmured Agnes. "How you struggle! You live and die like flies. So quickly, over and over again. Blink and the span of your lives has passed. And yet you fight to keep the pathetic few years you have left." She shook her head. "I wonder why you don't lie down and die."

Still Ridmark said nothing, standing motionless as the hot wind tugged at his cloak.

"No," said Cornelius, staggering to his feet. He hobbled down the stairs, his hands raised in supplication. "No, please, great one. Show mercy. Please, show mercy. I...I did as you commanded, we all did. Spare us, please, I..."

Agnes did not look at him. She lifted one hand from her cane and waggled a finger.

Calliande felt the surge of dark magic, and invisible force threw Cornelius into the wall of the tower. He slumped against the stairs and started to sob, the high, keening sound of a man gripped by absolute terror.

Why was he so afraid of Agnes?

Calliande worked a simple spell, one to sense the presence of magic.

She recoiled in shock.

Agnes was a nexus of dark power, of black sorcery beyond anything Calliande had ever sensed. Or, at least, she must have sensed it before, long ago, because the memory rose up from the mists of her mind.

Agnes was an urdmordar.

"You," said Calliande. "You're her. You're Agrimnalazur."

An alarmed ripple went through the lupivirii, and some of them stepped back a few paces.

The glimmering green eyes turned towards her, a faint smile appearing on the thin lips.

"Yes," she said, and this time Calliande felt the telepathic force behind the words, a power much stronger than the male urdmordar in the tunnels. "What a clever child you are."

But her attention turned back to Ridmark.

She seemed intrigued by him, almost fascinated.

###

Ridmark watched Agnes.

Or Agrimnalazur, wearing the form of the old woman Agnes.

"You killed Agnes and took her place," said Ridmark. Agrimnalazur raised an eyebrow. "Wait. There never was an Agnes, was there? Not ever."

"Clever boy," said Agrimnalazur. "The ancestors of my cattle came to Aranaeus two hundred years ago, after the Keeper and the Dragon Knight drove the Frostborn from this world. I did not expect that, I admit. I thought the Frostborn would exterminate most of you and enslave the rest. But instead the Dragon Knight and the Keeper destroyed them. In the chaos, it was easy for my herds to slip away from the High King's realm, to a place where the Magistri and the Swordbearers would not trouble them."

"And when they left Andomhaim," said Ridmark, "there was an old woman named Agnes with them, was there not?"

She smiled, some of the deep wrinkles in her face vanishing. "Indeed. One more widowed old woman, in such bloody times...why, no one noticed. No one ever realized." She laughed, her beautiful voice ringing off the plaza. "They prayed to Agrimnalazur, and sent sacrifices to her daughters in Urd Dagaash...but they never even suspected that their goddess walked among them."

"You're Agrimnalazur?" said Gavin, his face white with shock. "But...but I've known you my entire life. That's not...that's not..."

"I really should have killed your grandmother before she whelped," said Agrimnalazur. She was getting younger before Ridmark's eyes, the wrinkles fading, her white hair growing thicker. "A willful, rebellious woman. My servants kidnapped travelers who stayed at the inn, to offer up as sacrifices to me, but sometimes your grandmother would help them to escape." She shook her head. "Traits she passed to her mother, and then to you. No matter. You will not pass those vexing flaws to another generation of my cattle."

"We are not your herd!" said Gavin.

She smiled, her hair starting to go from white to gray. "But you are, my willful child. All of you are. That is your purpose. We are the urdmordar and you are our prey. Our herds, to cull as we will."

Gavin stepped forward, raising his sword, but Ridmark stopped him. Gavin had no weapon that could hurt the urdmordar.

None of them did.

At least the villagers of Aranaeus had gotten away. Ridmark wished he could have freed Rakhaag's kin.

"Then why haven't you killed us all?" said Ridmark. "We've freed your slaves and killed your servants."

Agrimnalazur scoffed and waved a hand. "No matter. I can collect new cattle at my leisure, and if my servants were weak, they deserved to die. The reason that I haven't killed you all, my clever boy, is because of you."

"Me?" said Ridmark, surprised. "Why? Ah. Vengeance for Gothalinzur, I suppose?"

Agrimnalazur cackled as if he had said something funny. "If Gothalinzur had wanted to live, she should not have let you kill her!" She shook her head. Her hair was more gray than white now. "No. I knew you at once, the moment you stepped foot into the village. Ridmark Arban, the Swordbearer who single-handedly slew an urdmordar."

"Why didn't you kill us then?" said Ridmark.

"Wasteful, wasteful," said Agrimnalazur. "You could make fine additions to my larder, even to my servants. And I was curious. It is so rare for one of the herd animals to slay us in single combat. You were not at all what I expected. A ragged wanderer with a coward's brand and a staff? How did you kill Gothalinzur? Fortunately, there was a test close at hand."

"Paul Tallmane and his assassins," said Ridmark. "Did you arrange that?"

"I?" said Agrimnalazur. "Not at all." She smiled. "I am just an old, old woman, confused and helpless. How could I arrange such a thing?" She shrugged. "The knight and his red-clad fools were merely convenient. A test for you."

"And your daughters in Urd Dagaash?" said Ridmark.

"The same," said Agrimnalazur. "Another test for you. You passed them both. And now all this," she waved a hand at the flames encircling the plaza, "all this with nothing more than a staff and the band of failures and outcasts that follow you." Her green eyes shifted over the others. "The Magistria who lost her mind, the orc that lost his family, the dwarf who lost his gods, and the boy that lost his mother. All following the man who lost his sword and his wife." She cackled again. "It's poetic, really. Tragic." She grinned. "Certainly it shall have a tragic ending."

"This is the ending," said Ridmark. "Let us go, and release the lupivirii from their imprisonment in the tower. Then we shall go on our way."

It was a threat, but he had nothing he could use to back it up. Agrimnalazur had to know that. But the minds of the urdmordar were alien, fortresses of invincible pride and seething contempt for all other kindreds. She could slaughter all the villagers and the lupivirii. Or she could decide it was simply too much trouble and let them all go.

Ridmark rather doubted that she would make the second choice.

But the longer he delayed, the longer the villagers had to get away. And when the fighting began, that would give the others more time to escape.

But he could not face her and live, not when he had no weapon that could hurt her.

He regretted that he had brought Calliande here, that he had brought Kharlacht and Gavin and Caius and Gavin and Philip to die.

"Let them go?" said Agrimnalazur, laughing. She looked middle-aged now, her hair thick and iron-gray as it blew around her shoulders. "Let them go?" She laughed as if it was the funniest thing she had ever heard. "Why should I do that? No, I'll round them up and put them into the death sleep. I will hibernate, and wake up every few decades to sate my hunger. Maintaining them as a live herd would have been pleasant, but it would draw unwelcome attention." She waved a hand at him. "Like you. Where you came, others might follow...and they might carry Soulblades."

"An ambitious plan," said Ridmark. "Though that leaves one question. What will you do with us?"

"Why, we shall play a little game, you and I," said Agrimnalazur, rolling her shoulders. Now she looked like an attractive woman in her thirties, strong and vigorous, her red hair like a banner of blood-colored flame.

"And what game is that?" said Ridmark. "Shall we roll dice? Play cards?"

"A better game," said Agrimnalazur. "A game of secrets. You have impressed me, Gray Knight, and few of the human vermin ever do. Your race has such a short, feeble memory, and forgets so many things of importance from generation to generation. How you must crave secrets, for they are more valuable than any treasure! You may ask me two questions, and I shall answer them freely, without prevarication or misdirection."

"Before I ask my questions," said Ridmark, "suppose I ask you to let us go?"

Agrimnalazur smiled. "You may ask for secrets. Not favors."

"Very well," said Ridmark. Even though he was likely about to die, he still wanted to know things. The Frostborn were returning, and if Agrimnalazur knew how to find proof, one of the others might be able to carry warning back to the realm.

"Tell me about the Frostborn," he said at last.

"Ah," said Agrimnalazur, teeth flashing white in her pale face. Now she looked like she was in her middle twenties, young and beautiful and fit. "That is a statement, not a question. But that is what you want to know, is it not? I heard you speak to the Magistria and the dwarven priest in the village. You seek to stop the return of the Frostborn. Is that what you wish to know?"

"Yes," said Ridmark. "That is what I wish to know."

Odd that he felt more foreboding about what she would say than his own impending death.

Agrimnalazur shrugged. "I know very little about the Frostborn. We once ruled most of this world, my sisters and I," she offered a thin smile, "but your Magistri and Swordbearers put an end to our domination five centuries past. When the Frostborn appeared two and a half centuries ago, we were already in hiding, and took little part in their conflict against your High King."

She fell silent, and Ridmark wondered if that was her answer, and started to ask his second question. But Agrimnalazur shook her head, and Ridmark realized something.

She was afraid. For all her power and dark magic, she was afraid of the Frostborn.

"The elves are the only kindred truly native to this world, you know," said Agrimnalazur. "They began here. None of the rest of us did. When the elves sundered into the high elves and the dark elves, the dark elves opened gates to other worlds and summoned the other kindreds to serve as their slaves and their soldiers. Then, of course, the dark elves summoned my sisters." She grinned, her green eyes flashing. "That did not end well for them."

"As we are standing in their ruins," said Ridmark, "plainly not."

"But the Frostborn came later, after we enslaved the dark elves and you humans arrived," said Agrimnalazur. "I do not know where the Frostborn originated. Some of my sisters think they came from the lands far to the north of here, the lands where the winter never ceases. Others think they come from a world alien to this one, as we did. I know not which is the truth," she shrugged, "and I care not. All I know is that their return shall entomb the world in ice, and only the strong and clever shall survive."

"I already knew that," said Ridmark.

"Did you? Then did you know this?" said Agrimnalazur. "The omen of blue fire a month past? That heralded their return." She laughed. "Just as your scriptures record that the Baptist proceeded the birth of your Dominus Christus upon Old Earth."

"I know that as well," said Ridmark. "The Warden told me."

"What he did not tell you," said Agrimnalazur, "is that their return will happen within a year and a month of the omen of blue flame."

Ridmark nodded, thinking. "And if that is true, that means their return can be stopped within a year and a month."

"Not that it matters," said Agrimnalazur. "That is all I will tell you about the Frostborn. Now. Your second question."

"The Enlightened of Incariel," said Ridmark. "What do you know about them?"

"The larder of the humans," said Agrimnalazur.

Now she looked no more than eighteen, a young woman at the height of her beauty, her eyes shining, her red hair long and thick. She had the sort of beauty that would intoxicate men and inspire poets and sculptors to greatness.

But it did not touch Ridmark.

He knew what she would really look like.

"The larder of the humans?" said Ridmark.

"Just as I prepared a larder for withstand the winter of the Frostborn," said Agrimnalazur, "so too are the Enlightened of Incariel a preparation. They worship the great void of the dark elves, but under a different name. They think to use magic to elevate themselves from prey to predators." She laughed. "They will fail, of course. They are fools, and deluded ones. But fools with power, and they will put that power to use."

"They'll try to take over Andomhaim?" said Ridmark.

"They already have," said Agrimnalazur. "Your High King's realm is rotten, Gray Knight, like a tree hollowed out by corruption. So many of your knights and lords and Magistri have taken oaths to Incariel in secret. When the storm comes, when the clouds cover the sun and ice chokes the earth, the tree will fall and all the maggots will come swarming out."

"More poetry?" said Ridmark.

"Now," said Agrimnalazur, "it is time for my question."

Ridmark nodded. He expected her to ask about Aelia, about Mhalek, something about the darkness in his past.

"Join me," said Agrimnalazur.

Ridmark blinked. "What?"

"Serve me," said Agrimnalazur. She took a step forward, the black gown flowing around the curves of her body, "I have consumed and enslaved more of your kindred than I can recall. But never have I seen a warrior of your boldness and skill." She raised her hands, gesturing at the flames around them. "All this you wrought with no magic and no real weapons! Only your wits and the strength of your arm. Of all the humans I have seen, you are the worthiest to serve me."

"You must be mad," said Ridmark. "After all the blood and death you have worked, you expect me to join to help you to work more?"

"Yes," said Agrimnalazur. Her voice dropped to a low purr. "But you would help me save them, Gray Knight. All the little villagers who concern you so very much. If I let them go, they will all die when the Frostborn return. Join me, and they can sleep away the centuries, secure in my larder." She took another step closer. "And there will be rewards for you, as well. I can make you immortal, stronger and faster than any man. I can give you pleasures beyond anything you have ever experienced. All you need to do is serve me."

"Bow down before you," said Ridmark, "and you will give me dominion over all the kingdoms of the world, is that it? No. And even if I would accept such an offer, I shall not back the losing side. You're running from the Frostborn, Agrimnalazur. You're going to spend centuries hiding in a hole while ice chokes the earth. That is hardly an appealing prospect."

The smile faded from her beautiful face. "You are certain?"

Ridmark took a deep breath and braced himself. "Yes."

"Pity," said Agrimnalazur. "Most of your kindred would rather live as slaves than perish as a free man. You, it seems, are one of the few who would prefer to die a free man rather than live as a slave, even as a slave with gilded shackles."

"I have stained my soul with enough crimes already," said Ridmark. "No need to add any further to it."

She stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. "As you wish. I cannot understand your madness, but I can respect it. You have faced death with great courage for a herd animal. Let us see if you can face it with courage for the final time."

Agrimnalazur took one final step forward, and she changed.

Her body swelled to immensity, becoming an armored spider the size of two oxen, covered in crimson chitin like armor plating. Eight knobbed legs arched from her flanks, each one as thick as Ridmark's body and tipped with a claw the length of a sword, the edges gleaming with poison. The torso, arms, and head of a human woman of unearthly beauty rose from the front of the spider's abdomen, covered in more plates of red chitin. Foot-long claws tipped the long, distended fingers, gleaming with more venom.

The true form of a female urdmordar

All eight of Agrimnalazur's glowing eyes fell upon Ridmark, and he felt the power of her will like a hammer blow.

He should never have come here. He should never have brought the others here. He ought to have gone alone to Urd Morlemoch.

Agrimnalazur charged at him in a crimson blur.

Ridmark ran to meet her, staff in his right hand, axe in his left, and a curious sense of peace settled over him.

For over five years, he had sought the answer to the return of the Frostborn, but he had also sought his own death in battle, in repayment for the blood of Aelia.

And, at last, Ridmark had found someone capable of giving him that death.

He ran to meet it.

***

## Chapter 22 - Staff and Dagger

Agrimnalazur's unveiled power washed over Calliande like a storm.

Every instinct screamed for her to run. A female urdmordar wielded dark magic with the ease of a shark swimming through water, and while a man might learn to swim, he would never outrun a shark. No Magistria had ever defeated an urdmordar without the aid of other Magistri and the Swordbearers.

Ridmark had defeated a female urdmordar in single combat.

But he had been a Swordbearer then, and now he had only his staff and axe.

Agrimnalazur charged Ridmark, moving with eerie silence and speed despite her bulk. Chaos erupted through the plaza as the lupivirii fled in panic, howling in fear. Calliande could not blame them, and even if she had commanded them as the Staffbearer, they would not have stayed.

The scent of a female urdmordar would drive them mad with terror.

Agrimnalazur reared up, preparing to stab her clawed legs through Ridmark's chest.

Calliande flung up her hands and threw all her power into a spell. White fire hammered out and drove into the side of Agrimnalazur's abdomen, striking the great spider-devil with enough force to flip her onto her side. Her spell attacked Agrimnalazur's black magic, assailing the dark power that permeated the creature.

And it barely made the urdmordar's power flicker.

Agrimnalazur was just too strong.

"Go!" roared Ridmark, slashing at Agrimnalazur's flank with his axe. The orcish blade opened her armored chitin, black slime bubbling forth. But the wounds healed almost instantly. Mere mortal steel could not permanently harm a female urdmordar, could not even slow her down. "I'll hold her! Go, damn you, go!"

"No!" said Calliande, throwing another burst of white flame into Agrimnalazur.

In one smooth, graceful motion, the urdmordar regained her feet and gestured at Calliande.

A wall of black flame erupted from her clawed fingers.

###

Gavin watched the fight in horror.

Old Agnes had been Agrimnalazur. Kindly, confused old Agnes, who had wandered the streets singing snatches of songs and telling rambling stories about the past. The entire time she had been walking among them like a wolf among sheep.

Or a farmer walking among his pigs, deciding which one to slaughter.

Agrimnalazur threw a wall of black flame at Calliande, and a shield of white light shimmered around the Magistria. The tide of dark fire slammed into her, and the impact drove her back, her magical shield buckling beneath the onslaught.

She was going to die. Ridmark was going to die.

They were all going to die.

And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

Gavin wished he could have seen Rosanna one last time. He wished he had sent Philip away. Perhaps Philip and Rosanna could have escaped Aranaeus before Agrimnalazur returned to put her herd into order once more.

Ridmark wheeled to face Agrimnalazur, slashing with his axe, and Gavin found himself running towards the Gray Knight.

He was screaming at the top of his lungs, Philip at his side, bellowing as he brandished his hammer.

They were all going to die here. Perhaps it had been inevitable. But, by God and all his saints, Gavin intended to die fighting. He would not live as Cornelius had lived, dancing on Morwen's strings. He would die with his courage intact.

He hoped his mother would be proud of him.

A deep voice roared in fury, and he saw Kharlacht running nearby, his dark elven greatsword in hand. Caius was behind him, brown robes billowing, crucifix bouncing against his chest.

Then the great crimson bulk of the urdmordar rose before him, and Gavin had no more time for thought.

###

Calliande struggled as the black fires snarled against her ward.

It was not truly fire, not really. The shadow fire did not burn, but would suck away the life and the warmth from her.

It took all of Calliande's power to hold it at bay. She dared not turn a single scrap of her magic from defense, not without Agrimnalazur's magic killing her.

Yet the urdmordar did not seem drained in the slightest. Through the blaze of competing magic Calliande saw Agrimnalazur fighting Ridmark and the others. With her superior strength and speed, she would kill them all in a matter of moments unless Calliande distracted her with a magical attack.

Yet Calliande could not even hold back Agrimnalazur's spell.

The dark flames closed around her.

###

Ridmark hit Agrimnalazur again and again. Every blow from the axe crunched through her chitin, drawing black blood.

And the wounds disappeared at once.

Normal steel could not harm an urdmordar, but Agrimnalazur's talons could harm Ridmark. He just barely dodged her attacks. She needed no strategy, no tactics, to finish him. Her immortal stamina would outlast his, and she need only wait until he tired and stumbled.

And then she would kill him.

At least he had bought time for the others to get away.

Kharlacht and Gavin and the others charged at the urdmordar, howling like madmen. Gavin's sword bit into one of Agrimnalazur's legs, while Philip's hammer snapped off one of her talons. Caius's mace crushed a plate of chitin.

Agrimnalazur only laughed.

Her wounds disappeared as she blurred into motion. A sweep of her legs knocked Gavin and Philip from their feet. A backhand flung Caius into the air, sent him rolling across the ground a dozen yards away. Ridmark barely dodged a blow that would have opened his torso. Agrimnalazur stalked after him, her claws rattling against the ground.

Kharlacht swung his greatsword with all his strength, opening a deep gash on her right side.

The wound sizzled, and Agrimnalazur screamed in surprise.

###

The fires around Calliande flickered, the dark magic unraveling.

She did not hesitate, but threw all her power into a ward. The shadow flames howled, flickered, and went out. Calliande ran forward, raising her hands, and summoned more power, trying to ignore the weariness that washed through her.

More brilliant fire drilled into Agrimnalazur, throwing the urdmordar back several yards.

###

Ridmark caught his balance as Calliande's blast knocked Agrimnalazur over, the urdmordar's legs tangling around each other. Every wound that Ridmark and Caius and Gavin and Philip had dealt to the urdmordar had vanished. But the gash that Kharlacht's sword had left down her flank had not vanished. It was shrinking rapidly, but slower than the wounds dealt by normal steel.

Dark elven steel had the power to wound an urdmordar, but not to kill one. Only powerful magic could do that. But if Kharlacht's sword could wound Agrimnalazur badly enough, it would give the others more time to escape.

"Kharlacht!" shouted Ridmark, and the orc's red-glazed eyes turned toward him. "Strike at her legs. Try to slow her!"

Kharlacht nodded, and they charged at the urdmordar as Agrimnalazur regained her balance. Ridmark attacked, lashing with his axe, and Agrimnalazur slashed at him. He jerked back, the tips of her talons blurring before his face. Kharlacht stepped into the opening and swung, carving another smoking groove across her abdomen. Another blast of white fire shot over Ridmark's shoulder and hit Agrimnalazur, her legs skittering as she kept her balance.

She snarled in fury and flung out her hands, black fire crackling around her clawed fingers. There was a pulse of darkness, and invisible force exploded from her in all directions. The blast caught Ridmark, threw him hard to the white flagstones of the plaza. He bounced a few times, rolled, and came back to his feet, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his arms and legs.

Agrimnalazur wheeled and flung another blast of dark fire at Calliande.

###

Calliande braced herself and cast a spell, a new idea coming to her.

She was not strong enough to block Agrimnalazur's attacks for long. She had the power to hurt the urdmordar, but she dared not spare any power from her wards.

But perhaps that was the wrong approach.

Perhaps she could use Agrimnalazur's vast might against her, just as Ridmark had used the spiderlings' traps against them in the ruins of Urd Dagaash.

Black fire hammered into Calliande, and rather than trying to block it, she redirected it. The force flung her backwards, and she stumbled and fell, her head ringing from the exertion. Yet her ward shimmered around her like a mirrored dome, and the spell caught Agrimnalazur's attack and flung it back at her.

The black fire struck the urdmordar, and she roared in fury and pain.

Calliande staggered back to her feet, summoning more magic with a surge of hope. Agrimnalazur had no defense against her own dark magic. If she could redirect another attack, perhaps Calliande could...

A shaft of dark fire, as wide as a full-grown oak tree, screamed towards Calliande, and it took all her strength to keep the shadow flames from consuming her.

###

Agrimnalazur's legs cracked like a whip, and Kharlacht and Gavin went flying. Both the boy and the orcish warrior struck the ground, and Ridmark thought Agrimnalazur's claws had torn them open. But only the sides of her legs had struck them. The great urdmordar rotated to face Ridmark. The dark fire had left smoking gashes in the armored chitin of her torso and abdomen. Her own magic had dealt her far greater damage than anything Ridmark and his companions had been able to manage.

Her own magic...

Ridmark remembered the dark elven dagger Morwen had carried, its blade still crackling with shadow fire. Morwen had learned her dark magic from Agrimnalazur, had drawn at least some of her power from her mother.

Power, perhaps, that could harm Agrimnalazur?

Agrimnalazur turned, flinging another volley of dark flames at Calliande, and Ridmark saw his chance.

He ran for the stairs, jumping over the corpses of the dead spiderlings. Morwen lay in a pool of spreading black slime, her dead green eyes gazing at the sky. Cornelius huddled against the archway, weeping and clutching his knees.

The dagger lay next to Morwen's limp hand, the blade still wreathed in black fire.

Ridmark shoved his axe into his belt and picked up the dagger. The blade felt icy cold beneath his fingers, and the steel legs of the spider started to move and twitch, wrapping around his wrist and hand to offer a better grip. Cornelius gaped at him, his eyes red and watery.

"We're all going to die," he whispered.

"Everyone dies," said Ridmark, lifting the dagger. "But perhaps not today."

He ran back to the fight as Agrimnalazur unleashed yet another volley of shadow fire at Calliande. The dark magic howled and snarled around Calliande's wards, and through the storm of magic Ridmark glimpsed the pain on her expression as she struggled to hold back the assault. Agrimnalazur whirled to face her attackers, a blow from her legs knocking Caius and Philip down. Gavin struck her from behind, his orcish blade rebounding from her armored carapace, while Kharlacht hewed at her legs. But their efforts were in vain. Gavin's blade could not hurt her, and Kharlacht could not draw close enough to land a substantial hit. Sooner or later Agrimnalazur would kill them all.

It was nothing short of miraculous they had lasted this long already.

Ridmark ran at the urdmordar, and felt the telepathic weight as her green eyes turned upon him. Despite the contempt he held for their worshippers, he understood why Cornelius and the others worshipped Agrimnalazur as a goddess. The female urdmordar were power made manifest, magic and strength beyond anything a human could wield.

But even urdmordar could die.

Ridmark sprinted at Agrimnalazur, intending to leap upon her back and strike her from behind, as he had with her mate.

But she was too fast, or she had divined his intentions. She drove her legs at him like barbed spears, and Ridmark had to dodge. Another leg lashed at him, and the blow caught him on the left side and sent him sprawling. He rolled to avoid the stab of still another leg as she skittered past him, and slashed with the dagger. The dark elven steel bit at the tip of one of her legs, and Ridmark felt the blade sink in, felt icy coldness spread into the alien flesh. Agrimnalazur screamed in fury and pain and ripped free of the dagger, springing into the air to land a dozen yards away.

Ridmark rolled to his feet, the dagger in his right hand, staff in his left.

"Ah," said Agrimnalazur, her beautiful voice like thunder. "Figured that out, did you? Clever, clever. I taught Morwen a little too well. She would have gotten ideas above her station sooner or later. Just as well you rid me of her. One last time. Are you sure you do not wish to serve me?"

"You asked once before," said Ridmark. The others gathered around him, battered, bloody and bleeding. The black fire still pinned Calliande in place, struggling against her wards, and Ridmark wished he could think of way to help her. "My answer is still the same. Are you going to simply talk, or are you going to kill me?"

"An excellent argument," said Agrimnalazur. "The time for both speaking and playing has passed."

She beckoned, and green fire, not dark, blazed around her claws.

Dozens of pinpoints of green light flared to life within the tower. Cornelius screamed, and corpses shambled from the tower, human and lupivirii both. All had been reduced to withered shells by Agrimnalazur's hunger, and shrouds of torn webs fluttered from their limbs.

Ridmark clenched the dark elven dagger, its eightfold guard twitching around his wrist. The blade and its dark magic could hurt Agrimnalazur, he was sure of it. But he could not get close enough to use the weapon. Her clawed legs gave her inhuman reach, and she moved too fast to get close.

"Kharlacht," said Ridmark, his voice cold and hard in his ears. "If you get close enough, try to take off one of her legs. It will grow back, but it will slow her. And if I can get past her reach, this might have the power to harm her."

"If we can get past the undead," said Gavin.

They couldn't. Ridmark knew it, and Agrimnalazur knew it. Calliande could have dealt with the undead, but the Agrimnalazur had magical power enough to command both her undead servants and to hold Calliande at bay. Ridmark and the others would have to behead the undead one by one.

Again the glassy calm of impending death returned to him.

The undead raced to meet them, Agrimnalazur sprang into the air, and Ridmark charged into the fray.

###

Calliande struggled with all her strength to fight off Agrimnalazur's attack, to bring her spells to the aid of the others.

But it was futile.

The female urdmordar's magic was just too strong. Calliande could barely hold it at bay, and she felt her defenses crumpling. Any moment now, the spell would exhaust the last of her strength, and the shadow fire would kill her.

And then Agrimnalazur and her undead would kill the others.

Calliande cursed herself. If only she had been able to recall her past life! She had faced urdmordar in her past life, she was sure of it, and she was still alive. Yet the mists still choked her memory, and she could remember nothing of those battles.

Her ward sputtered, the shadow fire drawing tight around her...

Then a dark blur shot past her, and then another, and another.

Then hundreds.

The lupivirii had returned.

She heard Rakhaag's voice, wild with rage and terror, howl over the plaza.

"Fight!" he screamed. "Fight to save the Staffbearer! If she falls, the cold ones will return, and the world shall freeze. One last hunt! Fight!"

Calliande was astonished, and she saw the same shock mirrored on Agrimnalazur's beautiful, alien face. Rakhaag and his packs charged into the melee, throwing themselves upon the undead. Six of the beastmen sprang upon Agrimnalazur, clawing at her carapace.

Agrimnalazur whirled into a dance of death, butchering the lupivirii like a fox loose in a henhouse.

But her concentration wavered, the black fires dimming, and Calliande broke free at last.

She caught her balance, tried to ignore the thundering pain behind her eyes, and gathered magic.

###

All around Gavin the roaring beastmen threw themselves upon the undead, snarling and snapping. He heard Rakhaag roar, saw the towering lupivir rip the head from an animated corpse with a single savage twist of his clawed hands. By speed and skill Ridmark and the others had stayed ahead of Agrimnalazur's attacks, but the beastmen were hunters, not warriors, and the great urdmordar butchered them. But dozens of them circled around her, like hunting dogs trying to pull down an enraged boar.

"Now!" said Ridmark. "It's our last chance! Take her!"

Gavin followed the others in a rush as Agrimnalazur killed beastman after beastman. For all her power, even a female urdmordar could only split her attention in so many directions at once, and dozens of beastmen surrounded her.

A blast of white fire hammered across the courtyard, staggering the urdmordar, and Ridmark and the others struck.

Kharlacht reached her first, his massive greatsword shearing through one of the legs on her right side. Agrimnalazur shrieked, dark ichor spurting from the stump, and Kharlacht seized the moment of surprise and hewed off another leg. Ridmark darted into the gap and plunged the dagger into her side, burying the blade to its hilt. Dark fire pulsed around the wound, and Agrimnalazur screamed in pain. Gavin felt a surge of wild hope. They were winning! They...

The urdmordar lifted her hands.

Kharlacht just had time to hew off another one of Agrimnalazur's right legs before power exploded from the urdmordar. The blast of invisible force tore through the melee of beastmen and undead like a hurricane scything through a field of wheat. Lupivirii and undead alike went flying through the air. Gavin felt himself tumbling, and then he struck the ground. He saw Brother Caius fall, the dwarf's head bouncing off the ground with a loud crack.

He twitched once and went still.

Kharlacht lay motionless, and Gavin heaved himself to his feet. Agrimnalazur turned in a circle, wobbling as her sole remaining right leg tried to support her weight. She was vulnerable, but Gavin saw new legs already starting to grow from the glistening black stumps.

Their best effort had not been enough.

"God!" Gavin turned his head as Philip staggered to his side, his face covered in blood, hammer dangling from one hand. "What I wouldn't give for a damned crossbow! I could..."

"A crossbow?" Ridmark stood nearby, the guard of that strange dagger wrapped around his hand, its blade wrapped in flames of darkness. "What did you say?"

Philip blinked. "A...a crossbow. Does it matter now? What..."

"Did you finish any of those ballistae?" said Ridmark.

"Why?" said Philip. "Do..."

"Tell me if you finished any of those damned ballistae!" said Ridmark.

Agrimnalazur veered in a drunken circle, slaughtering any beastman that drew too near.

"Yes, three of them," said Philip.

"Where?" said Ridmark. He had a strange, mad light in his eyes.

The light of a man who has just had an idea.

"East of the gate," said Philip, "overlooking the valley. I..."

"Run!" said Ridmark. "Both of you, follow me! Run!"

He sprinted across the plaza, and Gavin followed, Philip running at his side.

Agrimnalazur started after Ridmark, moving with great speed despite her wounded legs.

###

Calliande gathered power, hoping to strike at Agrimnalazur while the beastmen distracted her.

Her heart burned with fury and grief. She had seen the urdmordar strike down both Kharlacht and Caius, and Agrimnalazur had slaughtered scores of beastmen. How many more had she slaughtered over the centuries, over the millennia?

Then Ridmark ran at her, Philip and Gavin racing behind. He would not run from a fight, not Ridmark.

And Agrimnalazur was pursuing him. Even with three of her legs missing, she still ran with terrifying speed.

"Ridmark?" said Calliande. "What..."

"Run!" he shouted. "Follow me!"

He ran past her, and Calliande followed them as Agrimnalazur pursued.

###

Ridmark ran towards the street, changed his mind, and veered into one of the ruined mansions lining the plaza. The street would be faster, but it would give Agrimnalazur a chance to run them down. Hopefully the obstacle course of the ruined mansion would slow Agrimnalazur long enough for Ridmark to reach the ballista.

He dashed through a crumbling hall, up a flight of stairs, jumped through a window, and entered another ruined mansion. The others followed him, breathing hard, and a heartbeat later Ridmark heard the crash as Agrimnalazur ripped her way inside. He knew the urdmordar could squeeze herself into smaller spaces, or use her magic to shift to a smaller shape, but it seemed she had elected to simply rip her way through.

Faster, most likely.

Ridmark sprinted through a door. It opened into one of the storehouses, flames still roaring through the debris. He ran through the wreckage, jumping over a burning timber, and through another door. He found himself in the plaza below the gate, the dead arachar still lying upon the rampart.

And there, further east upon the rampart, stood one of the ballistae.

"What are we doing?" said Calliande, breathing hard.

"The ballista," said Ridmark.

He ran across the plaza and up the stairs to the weapon. The ballista looked like an oversized crossbow, its gears and mechanisms gleaming with grease. Philip did good work. A bolt waited in the weapon, though the windlass had not been wound.

"What..." said Calliande.

Ridmark pressed the dagger against the razor-sharp head of the ballista's bolt. At his mental command the legs of the dagger's guard wrapped around the head, sinking into the metal and pinning the weapon in place.

"Help me get this pointed at the mansion, now," said Ridmark, pushing on the ballista. Philip and Gavin jumped to aid him. "Calliande, put all your magic into the shaft of the bolt, as you did to our weapons when we fought the undead kobolds at the ford."

She blinked in confusion, and then her blue eyes widened as comprehension came.

"My God!" she said. "That's...that's..."

"Just do it!" said Ridmark, pushing the ballista so it pointed at the entrance to the burning mansion.

Calliande nodded, closed her eyes, and cast a spell, and the shaft of the bolt began to blaze with white fire.

Ridmark grabbed the winch and started to draw the weapon. Gavin and Philip helped him pull, winding the ballista, and Ridmark heard the metal arms creak. Just a little further...

The mansion's entrance exploded in a spray of broken white stone, and Agrimnalazur erupted into the plaza. Her severed legs had regenerated, red and damp and glistening, propelling her forward in a blur.

She was going to reach them before Ridmark could finish winding the ballista.

He wanted to laugh.

He had come so close...but it seemed he would indeed die here.

Then Gavin sprinted down the stairs at Agrimnalazur, shouting at the top of his lungs.

###

Gavin ran at Agrimnalazur, screaming and brandishing his shield, and knew that he was about to die.

But he knew that Ridmark had a plan. Philip could go home and marry Rosanna, and they could rebuild Aranaeus and raise a crop of children. It would make up for all the misery his father had wrought upon Aranaeus.

Agrimnalazur looked at him, amused contempt upon her beautiful, eerie face. He swung his sword, the blade rebounding from one of her legs. Another leg came up and tore the shield from his grasp. Agrimnalazur reared up, her claws ready to rip him to shreds.

Gavin spread his arms and waited to die.

Someone crashed into him and spent him tumbling across the ground. A moment later Agrimnalazur's clawed legs hammered into the spot where he had been standing, so hard the flagstones cracked. Gavin rolled, sputtering and coughing, and got to his feet.

Cornelius stood facing Agrimnalazur, a club clutched in his hand.

"Run," his father whispered, his voice a strained, croaking wheeze. "Gavin, please. Just...just run. Run!"

"You?" said Agrimnalazur, her beautiful, alien voice filled with disdainful amusement. "Why, Cornelius, I never would have expected it of you."

"Run!" screamed Cornelius, and he threw himself at Agrimnalazur, beating at her legs with the club.

It was like watching a mouse attack a lion.

Agrimnalazur raised a single leg and speared Cornelius through his chest. With a contemptuous flick of her leg she sent him flying to slam into the wall of the burning storehouse, leaving a crimson stain against the white stone.

And Gavin screamed.

###

The ballista clicked.

"Now," said Philip, his voice shaking with fear. "Do it now."

"It has to be now," whispered Calliande, sweat pouring down her face, eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. "I can't hold it for much longer..."

Ridmark's hand tightened around the release lever.

"Agrimnalazur!" he shouted.

The female urdmordar turned to look at him, her leg still gleaming with Cornelius's blood.

Ridmark yanked the lever.

The ballista hurled its bolt, moving faster than his eye could follow in blur of writhing shadow and white flame. The bolt slammed into Agrimnalazur's chest, just below her neck, and burst from her back in a spray of black ichor.

Shadow fire and white flame exploded through her.

Agrimnalazur screamed, every one of her legs jerking in unison, her claws raking at the air. The urdmordar wielded mighty magic, but a fire could not defend against itself. The dark elven dagger, charged with black sorcery, had ripped through Agrimnalazur's sorcerous defenses, allowing Calliande's magic to pour into the wound.

The urdmordar shrieked again, louder, and Ridmark felt the pressure of her rage and pain against the inside of his skull. The bolt in her chest glowed white-hot as the competing powers struggled, yet Ridmark still saw both the black fire and the white sinking into Agrimnalazur's wound.

Calliande screamed, raising her hands to her temples, her cries matching Agrimnalazur's screams.

Then the bolt exploded.

Ridmark threw himself before Calliande as a column of green and black fire erupted from Agrimnalazur, brighter than the fires raging through the storehouses. Calliande slumped to her knees with a groan.

The fire faded away.

Agrimnalazur looked at the ramparts, the glow in her eyes dimming, her beautiful, terrible face filled with confusion. A smoking crater filled most of her torso, the chitin armor charred and blackened.

"A...a clever," she rasped, "a clever...herd animal..." She smiled. "But...remember this, when the Frostborn come for you. You will wish...you will wish to you had sworn to serve...me..."

The light faded from her eyes, and she collapsed motionless to the ground, her legs a tangled knot.

Dead.

Calliande opened her eyes, breathing hard.

Ridmark picked up his staff and descended the stairs, moving closer to the urdmordar. The half-melted bolt still jutted from her chest, glowing like a sullen coal. The remains of the dark elven dagger drooped from the bolt, withered like a burned leaf. No black flames danced around the blade. Ridmark prodded her with his staff, and she did not move.

She was truly dead.

"You did it," said Philip, stunned. "You killed an urdmordar."

"No." Ridmark looked at Calliande, at where Gavin knelt beside his father. "I had help."

###

Gavin looked at his father's gray face, at his terrified, bloodshot eyes.

"Gavin," whispered Cornelius. "It...it...the goddess..."

"She's dead," said Gavin.

"I hated her," said Cornelius. "I hated her so much. But I wasn't brave. Not like your mother." His eyes met Gavin's. "Not like you."

Gavin did not know what to say.

"It's over now," he said at last.

"Yes," said Cornelius. "Gavin. I did it...everything that I did, I did it for you. To keep you safe from her. To..."

He slumped against the ground, letting out his final breath.

Gavin bowed his head and wept.

***

## Chapter 23 - The Return

The next morning, Ridmark walked through the plaza at the heart of Urd Arowyn.

The air smelled of smoke and death. A cool wind whistled through the ruins, black plumes of smoke trailing from the smoldering storehouses. Dead lupivirii lay scattered across the ground, and they would lie there until their flesh moldered and scavengers picked their bones. The beastmen did not bury their dead.

Perhaps they lived on in their great memory. Or perhaps Caius was right, and the lupivirii died in a state of savage innocence and entered paradise.

Ridmark did not know.

He stopped at the makeshift encampment at the base of the tower, away from the spiderling bodies upon the stairs. Crows descended from the skies to feast upon the dead lupivirii, but the birds went nowhere near the dead spiderlings.

"How is she?" said Ridmark.

A fire crackled against the foot of the tower, and Calliande lay unconscious near it, wrapped in a blanket. Caius and Kharlacht stood guard over her. None of the beastmen would dare harm the Staffbearer, but if anyone else tried, they would quickly come to a bloody end.

"Well enough," said Caius. "I think she just needs rest. How are you? You must be exhausted."

Ridmark gave a distracted nod, looking at Calliande. "I can rest when I'm dead."

After Agrimnalazur's death, Calliande had rushed back to the plaza to heal both Caius and Kharlacht. Then she had gone to the beastmen, healing them one by one, enduring their pain until it had been too much for her and she collapsed into unconsciousness.

"Where's Gavin?" said Caius.

"I took sent him with Philip," said Ridmark. "The villagers were milling all over the valley, but Philip and Bardus and Mallen and some of the other men put them in order. Father Martel and Philip have taken charge, and I expect our young blacksmith is going to find himself elected praefectus before too much longer."

Caius snorted. "And wed, most likely."

"Aye," said Ridmark. Gavin's weary expression had not changed when Rosanna had flown weeping into Philip's arms, though he had smiled when Rosanna had thanked him for bringing Philip back to her.

Kharlacht grunted. "Will they not take vengeance upon him for helping to slay Agrimnalazur?"

"Probably not," said Ridmark. "Agrimnalazur was a goddess for many of them, but we killed her nonetheless. I imagine seeing your goddess die would shake the faith of even the most stalwart believer."

"And unlike the Dominus Christus," said Caius, "she will not rise again on the third day."

"No," said Ridmark. "I do not think many of the villagers knew the truth about Agrimnalazur, and those who did were held in line by fear. Like Cornelius. The rest were simply indifferent. But after this shock, I think Father Martel will have far more worshippers in his church."

Claws rasped against stone. Rakhaag approached, wearing his half-human form. Fresh scars from Agrimnalazur's claws marked his torso. He would have bled to death, had Calliande not healed him.

"Ridmark son of Leogrance," said Rakhaag.

"Rakhaag son of Balhaag," said Ridmark.

"Will you keep your bargain?" said Rakhaag. The lupivir alpha had seemed subdued ever since Agrimnalazur's death. Ridmark suspect the great memory contained very few recollections of an urdmordar meeting defeat. "Will you help us awake our females and young?"

"Yes," said Ridmark. "I would not betray you. Not after you fought valiantly at our side against Agrimnalazur." He pointed at Calliande's motionless form. "And even if I were of a mind to do so, which I am not, I would not betray the Staffbearer, not after she had given her word."

At last Rakhaag lowered his challenging gaze. "That is acceptable."

"Have your hunters gathered the plants I requested?" said Ridmark.

Rakhaag snarled an acknowledgment, and a dozen beastmen came forward, bearing plants gathered from the valley, and Brother Caius went to work. The dwarves had lived upon this world far longer than the humans, and they too had fought the urdmordar.

And they knew how to wake those who had fallen victim to the venom of the urdmordar.

Kharlacht's nose wrinkled behind his tusks. "That does not smell pleasant."

"It does not," said Caius, mixing the ingredients in a pot over the fire. "But it makes an excellent cure for hangovers. And it will wake anyone who has fallen victim to the sleeping poison of the urdmordar."

"Stay with Calliande," said Ridmark. Kharlacht nodded, and Ridmark led Caius and Rakhaag into the heart of the central tower, steam rising from Caius's foul-smelling pot. They stepped into a huge round chamber, once the great hall of some long-dead dark elven prince. Slender pillars supported delicate balconies, and the chamber would have been beautiful, if not for the disturbing reliefs of chilling beauty that covered the walls, scenes that showed the dark elves torturing dwarves and halflings and orcs.

And for the masses of thick webs strung between the pillars, hundreds of humans and lupivirii wrapped in cocoons of webbing.

"Quite the larder," said Caius.

Ridmark crossed to the nearest cocoon and cut it open, revealing the face of a lupivirii girl of about twelve, her eyes closed, her skin pallid and chill beneath the black fur. Caius lifted the pot to her face, and she shuddered, her yellow eyes flying open.

"Best send to the villagers for help," said Ridmark. "This might take a while."

###

Gavin walked alone through the makeshift encampment.

In the chaos of Ridmark's attack, the villagers had fled Urd Arowyn as fast as they could, wandering the valley in the dark. Bardus and Mallen and Rosanna's father had started putting things to order, and Philip had come and taken charge.

They had rounded up most of the survivors, though a few people had simply disappeared. Some, Gavin was sure, had struck out on their own, preferring to take their chances in the Wilderland. Others had likely fled south to Aranaeus. A few had been killed. There were predators other than urdmordar in the hills of the Wilderland.

But most of the captives had survived.

More than Gavin could have hoped.

As he walked through them, he felt their stares.

Their fear, their mistrust.

Even their hatred.

He could not blame them. Cornelius had betrayed them to the arachar, and he was Cornelius's son. He heard their whispers. Perhaps he had betrayed them, too. Maybe he had gone into Urd Dagaash to summon the arachar. The Gray Knight had freed them, but perhaps Gavin was as false as his father, allying himself with Ridmark when victory became apparent.

None of that was true. Gavin knew what had happened. He knew what the villagers said about him wasn't true.

But they whispered it nonetheless.

And Gavin found that he did not care. He did not blame them, but neither did he care.

He walked through the camp until he found Rosanna. She stood talking with Father Martel, discussing how to best arrange the supplies for the journey south.

"Gavin!" she said, smiling as she saw him. "You should get some sleep."

"So should you," said Gavin. "You were up all night."

"But I was not fighting," said Rosanna.

"Or slaying an urdmordar," said Martel. "Such a feat...only Swordbearers and Magistri have slain urdmordar in the past. For common men to do so..."

"Ridmark did it," said Gavin. "It was his plan. And Calliande's magic. If not for them, Agrimnalazur would have killed us all."

"But Philip told us you fought valiantly," said Rosanna. "If you hadn't distracted the demon, she would have killed the Gray Knight before he could release the ballista."

"And your father," said Martel, voice quiet, "seems to have repented, before the end."

"Aye," said Gavin. "Maybe." A jumble of pain and rage and regret burned through his heart at the mention of Cornelius. "I don't know." He shook his head. "But Ridmark sent me. They've woken up most of the children, and need someone to take them in hand."

"I will speak to the other women," said Rosanna. "Perhaps we shall have some tears of joy before this day is done. God knows we need them." She smiled at him again. "We'll rebuild Aranaeus, won't we? We'll make it better and stronger than it was."

"Yes." Gavin nodded. "You will."

She hugged him and vanished into the camp.

Gavin stood alone with Martel for a moment.

"It is not just," said the old priest, "how the villagers blame you for this."

Gavin shrugged. "I understand it. We have endured much misery, and my father was the author of most of it."

"But you sought to warn the village that our foe was something darker than the beastmen," said Martel, "and you were right. And you fought for our freedom. But the scriptures recorded it truly. A prophet has no honor in his hometown."

Gavin laughed. "I'm not a prophet, Father. I'm..."

Who was he now?

The praefectus's son? Cornelius was dead. A man of Aranaeus? The village was ashes, and it would never be the same. The boy who was in love with Rosanna? Rosanna and Philip would wed the moment they returned to Aranaeus.

So who was Gavin now?

"What will you do once we depart?" said Martel.

"I don't know," said Gavin.

"Rosanna would like it if you remained for the wedding," said Martel. "Philip, too, now that you have gone through grave danger together."

"They would," said Gavin, "but I wouldn't."

Martel offered a gentle smile. "I understand. I was once a young man myself. Go with God, Gavin. I would tell you to remember mercy, to show valor in the face of evil, but you have already learned those lessons far better than I could teach."

"Thank you," said Gavin. "For everything."

He left the camp.

###

Calliande drifted in the mists of her mind.

By now the dream was familiar to her. Glimpses from her past, cloaked in the haze choking her memory, flashed before her eyes. Terrible battles, as men in shining steel faced figures in armor the color of gray ice, blue eyes burning in their crystalline faces.

Fire and ice and death, a sword of red gold ablaze with flames.

A council of old men in white robes, frowning at her.

The cold darkness of the vault below the Tower of Vigilance closing around her.

And something she had not seen before, a chamber full of skulls, countless skulls, the skulls of dragons watching her with empty eyes...

The mists rippled, and again Calliande saw the white-robed Watcher, his tired eyes full of sadness.

"You almost died," said the Watcher. "Below Urd Dagaash, and again in Urd Arowyn."

"I know," said Calliande.

"And if you had," said the Watcher, "the empty soulstone would have fallen into the claws of Agrimnalazur, and there would have been no one left to stop the Frostborn."

"The urdmordar care nothing for tools," said Calliande, "and Agrimnalazur would have cast aside the soulstone and forgotten about it. And those people needed me, needed my power. Magic is supposed to serve and defend the people of this world, not torment them. If I had turned my back on them and pursued my own goals...I would have been no better that Talvinius and Alamur."

The Watcher sighed. "The loss of your memory has not changed you, Calliande. As always you are ready to take terrible risks in defense of others, heedless of the cost to yourself."

Calliande raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were not permitted to speak of my past."

The Watcher snorted. "This is so. But I am not speaking of the past. I merely point out the obvious. The blatantly obvious."

"I cannot dispute that," said Calliande.

He smiled. "It was one of the things I admired about you. One of the reasons I followed you in life, and serve you after death."

"And you can tell me no more, I suppose?" said Calliande.

"I cannot," said the Watcher, "but I can warn you. Look."

He pointed, and deep in the mists Calliande saw a flare of blood-colored light. "What is that?" she said.

"Shadowbearer," said the Watcher. "He is seeking you, always seeking you. You escaped from his undead slaves, but he will never stop hunting you. Because you are the key to either stopping the Frostborn, or allowing them to return."

"How?" said Calliande.

"I can tell you no more," said the Watcher.

Calliande pounded a fist against her leg in frustration. "Someday you will tell me a straight answer and the moons shall freeze in their courses overhead."

"I grieve that I cannot tell you more," said the Watcher. "I would, if I could work my will, but I cannot. You know what you must do. Find Dragonfall, find your staff, and you shall have your answers."

Again the strange image of a chamber lined with dragon skulls flashed through her mind.

"Very well," said Calliande.

She turned to go, preparing to dismiss the strange dream.

And then a thought occurred to her.

"I don't suppose," said Calliande, "that you know anything about the Enlightened of Incariel?"

"I do," said the Watcher. "And I can speak of it to you."

"You can?" said Calliande. "Why?"

"Because it is not part of your past," said the Watcher. "It began after you entered the long sleep below the Tower. And I am the Watcher, am I not? I watch the mortal world, to prepare for your return."

"Then tell me about the Enlightened," said Calliande. Even if she could get nothing useful about the Frostborn or Dragonfall from the Watcher, perhaps he could tell her about the Enlightened that Paul Tallmane had claimed to serve.

"They began during the war of the five Pendragon princes a hundred years past," said the Watcher. "They worship a creature they call Incariel, a name they give to the great void the dark elves worshipped. They claim the worship of Incariel will make them superior men, immortal and invincible, able to vanquish the urdmordar and the dark elves without the aid of the Magistri or the Swordbearers. They desire to break the Pact of Ardrhythain and the Two Orders and use magic to conquer the world and make all other kindreds, and most of mankind, their slaves." He shook his head. "Beyond that I can say nothing more. They are very secretive...and I fear they have spread through the nobles and Magistri of Andomhaim like a cancer. Beware them, Calliande. If they learn who you are, they will come for you and the empty soulstone. And you must beware them for one other reason."

"What is that?" said Calliande.

"They are the devoted servants of Shadowbearer," said the Watcher.

The red light pulsed in the distance, and the dream vanished.

###

Calliande awoke with a splitting headache, every joint in her body stiff.

She sat up and groaned, rubbing her head. She lay at the base of Urd Arowyn's central tower. People milled through the plaza, women with children, many of them crying.

"Drink this."

Ridmark handed her a cup that smelled and tasted of medicine. Calliande drank it all as he sat next to her.

"How do you feel?" he said.

"Terrible," said Calliande. "How long was I asleep?"

"All of the night and most of the day," said Ridmark. "It's almost sunset now. If you feel up to it, we will depart tomorrow."

Calliande raised her eyebrows. "So you won't run off while I recover this time?"

She regretted saying it at once, but to her surprise, Ridmark laughed.

"No, not this time," he said. "You were right. You have every reason to follow me. We both want to find the secret of the Frostborn, and stop them from returning, if we can." He shrugged. "And if you had not been here, I would have been killed. I couldn't fight an urdmordar on my own."

"If I hadn't been here," said Calliande, "then perhaps you would not have gone to Aranaeus."

"No," said Ridmark. "I still would have. I would have found Gavin, I would have gone to Aranaeus, and sooner or later the spiderlings or Agrimnalazur herself would have killed me." His smile was tired. "That is what I would have done."

"Risk your life in hopes that you finally die in repayment for Aelia's death?" said Calliande.

"I told you I don't want to talk about Aelia," said Ridmark.

"But I'm right," said Calliande.

Ridmark looked away. "I am going to Urd Morlemoch to wring the secret from the Warden...but I have a better chance of success with you and the others."

"Thank you," said Calliande. Odd that his comment had touched her so much. "And my best chance of finding Dragonfall, of learning who I am, is with you."

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the women with their children.

"They would have all died, or grown up as slaves," said Calliande.

"I know," said Ridmark.

"It was good we helped them," said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded.

"Perhaps on the way to Urd Morlemoch," said Calliande, "we'll have a chance to help a few other people."

He turned his head and smiled, one of the few genuine smiles she had ever seen from him.

"Perhaps we will," he said.

###

The next morning Ridmark walked from the gates, Calliande, Caius, and Kharlacht following him.

Philip, Mallen, Bardus, Richard, Father Martel, and the other chief men of Aranaeus awaited him, Rosanna holding Philip's arm.

"We have all the supplies we can carry," said Philip, "and we are setting out for Aranaeus. We should have enough to plant a crop. We will have to tighten our belts for a year or so, but with God's favor, we should be able to rebuild Aranaeus."

"I think you will do well," said Ridmark. "Praefectus."

Philip grimaced. "They should have elected someone else. Like a nobleman. A knight. Someone who knows how to fight. Someone who could be, say, the Comes of Aranaeus."

Ridmark laughed. "You'll have to find someone else. I fear I have another task."

"The Frostborn," said Philip. "Gavin told me."

Ridmark wondered where Gavin had gone. Perhaps he had gone to bury his father. Ridmark would have liked to say farewell, but he understood if Gavin never wanted to see him again.

Ridmark had come to Aranaeus, and Gavin's life would never again be the same.

"The Frostborn are coming back," said Ridmark, and he saw that they were listening to him. Usually when he spoke of the Frostborn, people ignored him or laughed him off. Even Sir Joram and Sir Constantine and Dux Gareth thought him mad with grief. "I do now know how, or why. But they shall return," he remembered what Agrimnalazur had told him, "within a year."

"We will prepare," said Philip. "Gray Knight...if you ever have need of aid, come to Aranaeus. We owe you our lives and freedom."

"May God go with you," said Father Martel, "and aid you in your quest."

"Perhaps he will," said Ridmark, and he led the others down the hill towards the valley. He had not traveled in this part of the Wilderland before, but he had seen maps, and had traveled through most of the neighboring areas. From here they could proceed west until they reached the swamps surrounding Moraime, a town built around a monastery. From there they would turn northwest, towards the mountains of Kothluusk and the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves.

And then across the Torn Hills to Urd Morlemoch itself.

They reached the valley, crossed the creek, and turned west.

The lupivirii awaited them.

A score of the males stood near the creek, wearing their half-human, half-beast forms. Rakhaag stood at their head, and stepped forward as Ridmark and the others approached.

"You depart, gray warrior," he said.

"Aye," said Ridmark.

"Will the humans of Aranaeus trouble the True People?" said Rakhaag.

"I cannot say," said Ridmark. "But they have taken heavy losses, and are weary of pain and suffering. If you leave them alone, if you ignore them and their flocks, they will leave you in peace."

"We shall," said Rakhaag. "We will return to our hunting grounds, far from the homes of humans." He hesitated, and then lowered his eyes. "We are...grateful...to you, gray warrior, for your deeds on our behalf. In all the great memory, only the Staffbearer has ever aided us as you have. And none among the True People have ever seen the death of an urdmordar."

"I am pleased," said Ridmark, "that at least some of your kin were able to escape from Agrimnalazur."

"The True People all die, in the end," said Rakhaag, "but better that we die on the hunt, our bones weary with age, than as prey for the urdmordar." His yellow eyes shifted to Calliande. "And you, Staffbearer, you alone have aided us more than the gray warrior. The cold ones are returning. When the hour comes, call and we will aid you."

"I shall," said Calliande.

"Then good hunting to you," said Rakhaag. "The great memory will remember you, for as long as the True People endure."

The lupivirii melted away into the trees.

"How will you call them?" said Ridmark a moment later.

"I don't know," said Calliande. "It must have been something I knew how to do in my previous life. When I still had my memory." She gave a frustrated shake of her head. "I wish I could remember more. And I wish their great memory could have told me more."

"I know," said Ridmark, "where we can find our answers."

He heard a boot crunch against dead leaves.

***

## Chapter 24 - The Five

"Wait!" said Gavin.

He found Ridmark and his friends near the creek. Ridmark had his staff in hand, Calliande at his side in her leather jerkin and heavy cloak. Caius followed in his brown robes, and Kharlacht in his blue armor.

Gavin stopped a dozen paces away, his orcish sword bouncing in its scabbard, his pack digging into his shoulders.

Ridmark looked at him and nodded, as if unsurprised.

"Gavin," said Calliande. "The other villagers are still by the gate."

"I don't think," said Caius, "that our young friend is looking for the villagers of Aranaeus."

"No," said Gavin. He took a deep breath. "I would like to come with you."

Ridmark said nothing.

"Why?" said Calliande.

"Because," said Gavin. "There is nothing left for me in Aranaeus. My father is a traitor, a man who sold his neighbors into slavery, and I am his son. The villagers will never forgive me for that."

"And Rosanna," said Caius, "is about to marry someone else."

Gavin looked away. "Aye."

"I can understand that," rumbled Kharlacht.

"You could help your neighbors rebuild," said Caius.

"They don't need my help," said Gavin. "I already talked to Father Martel. Everything my father had, I inherited, and I gave it all to Father Martel and the church, to help anyone who goes hungry. And I...I would be a reminder of everything that had happened." He shook his head. "The man whose father betrayed the village."

Still Ridmark said nothing.

"And I want to help," said Gavin.

"With what?" said Calliande.

"To find the Frostborn," said Gavin. "The blue fire a month past...that was when it all began. That's when Agrimnalazur decided to harvest Aranaeus. The Frostborn are coming back, aren't they?"

"They are," said Calliande. "I am utterly certain of it."

"And you're going to try and stop them," said Gavin. "Let me help." His hands curled into fists. "Their return made Agrimnalazur destroy Aranaeus. As bad as that was, if the Frostborn return, it will be much worse, won't it?"

Calliande and the others looked at Ridmark. He would make the decision, Gavin knew. The others would defer to his judgment.

"If you don't want to return to Aranaeus," said Ridmark, "I can send you with a letter to Castra Marcaine. The Dux will take you as a squire in his court. In time, if you serve well and valiantly, you will become one of his household knights. Given the bravery you showed against the arachar and Agrimnalazur, I don't think you will find that much of a challenge."

It was a tempting offer. Urd Arowyn was the farthest Gavin had ever been from Aranaeus, and for a moment visions of traveling through the realm flashed through his mind, of seeing Castra Marcaine and Cintarra and Coldinium and Tarlion and all the other places Father Martel had told him about.

"That is a kind offer, sir," said Gavin, "and I may take you up on it. But only after this is done. After you and Lady Calliande have defeated the Frostborn, then I might go to Castra Marcaine. But this...this is important. After what happened at Aranaeus, I have to see it through to the end."

Ridmark sighed. "I should have left Dun Licinia the moment Qazarl was dead."

Calliande laughed. "We already had this talk."

"I know," said Ridmark, and his cold eyes fixed on Gavin. "You understand what I'm doing? The Frostborn are returning, and I'm going to Urd Morlemoch to find out how and why. We could be killed on the way there. If even make it there, we will very likely be killed. The Warden is even more formidable than the tales claim, and will not easily divulge his secrets."

"I thought I was going to die yesterday," said Gavin. "If by following you I can help make amends for the harm my father has done, then I will do it."

"You'll have to be trained," said Ridmark, "in the use of the sword and shield. It's nothing short of a miracle you haven't cut off your own foot yet."

"Well," said Gavin, taking a deep breath, "if you're the Gray Knight... doesn't every knight need a squire?"

Ridmark blinked, and the others laughed.

"Well spoken, Gavin," said Caius.

"God have mercy, Gavin," said Ridmark, "you're as mad as they are."

Calliande laughed again. "Said the man who fought an urdmordar and lived, twice, and is now going to Urd Morlemoch."

Ridmark ignored the tease. "So. I have said what I intend to do. And knowing all that, do you still want to follow me?"

"Yes," said Gavin.

"So be it," said Ridmark. "Then gather your possessions and come. I want to make at least another ten miles before nightfall."

"I will not disappoint you, sir," said Gavin.

Ridmark almost smiled. "I don't think you will. Though you will do the cooking tonight."

###

Ridmark Arban turned his face to the west.

Urd Morlemoch awaited.

And within the darkness of the Warden's stronghold, perhaps he would find the answers that both he and Calliande sought.

***

## Epilogue

In the great hall of the Iron Tower, Sir Paul Tallmane knelt before the dais and told his tale. He did not bother to lie, did not paper over his failures in Aranaeus. The creature standing atop the dais would know if he lied.

Paul realized that he was going to die.

Actually, death was probably more than he could hope for.

Considering what the creature atop the dais could do to him.

Considering the inhuman screams he often heard echoing from the dungeons of the Iron Tower.

"And then I returned here, Master," said Paul, still not daring to lift his eyes. His broken wrist throbbed in its splint.

"So I observe," said the Master.

The Master's voice was...wrong. It was deep and resonant and commanding, yet carried an eerie echo. A resonance that made Paul's head hurt and sent a shiver down his spine.

As if two creatures were trying to speak through the same mouth at once.

"Look at me," said the Master.

Paul shuddered, swallowed, and lifted his eyes to the Master, the creature that some called Shadowbearer.

The Master was a high elf, clad in a black tunic, trousers, and boots beneath a long black-trimmed coat the color of blood. The wizards of the high elves wore coats like that, though Paul was not sure that the Master was still a high elf. His skin was the grayish-white of a corpse, and black veins threaded beneath his face and hands. The irises of his bloodshot eyes were the color of quicksilver, and Paul saw his reflection in them.

The Master stepped closer, and Paul flinched. A hearth burned in the wall to Paul's left, throwing his shadow to the right. Yet the Master's shadow pointed at Paul, like a serpent ready to strike.

Paul knew what would happen if that shadow touched him.

"So," said the Master, "the Dux sent you to kill his old enemy. Instead the Gray Knight slew all your men, and in a fit of mercy let you live. Is that the sum of it?"

"Yes, Master," said Paul. "The failure is mine."

The Master glanced at the ceiling, as if distracted.

"Perhaps," said the Master, "the fault is mine."

Paul had not expected that. He started to speak, and then realized that keeping quiet was a good idea.

"I knew that word would reach the Dux about the Gray Knight," said the Master, "and the Dux would send someone after him. The Dux never forgiven him for that dead girl in Castra Marcaine." He shook his head. "So the Dux sent you...and Ridmark Arban prevailed. That is not surprising. The man is a lion, and you, Sir Paul, are not. I might as well have sent a mouse to slay a cat."

Paul started to protest, his anger rising. Then sanity reasserted itself and he clamped his mouth shut. One did not question the Master.

"Remain here," said the Master, descending from the dais. He strode past Paul without a glance, his shadow sweeping after him like the wings of a hunting raptor. "I shall have duties for you soon enough."

He left the great hall without another word.

A scream echoed up from the dungeons, faint and full of despair.

Paul let out a long breath, marveling at his survival.

The anger returned, partly at himself.

But mostly at Ridmark Arban.

The Enlightened of Incariel did not tolerate weakness, but Paul had been given a second chance. He would prove himself strong, would prove himself worthy to reign with the Enlightened in immortality forevermore.

And to do that, he need only kill Ridmark Arban.

###

The creature that some men called Shadowbearer stood upon the ramparts of the Iron Tower, gazing to the north. Behind him stretched the rippling water of the Lake of Battles. The lords of Andomhaim had given the lake its name from the numerous battles against the pagan orcs fought upon its shores. But many battles had been fought here, long before the humans had even come through the gate from Old Earth.

Many, many mortals had died here.

And many more would, before Shadowbearer was done.

Time had not run out yet. He still had a year before the conjunction of the thirteen moons passed.

And he had more servants other than the idiots of the Enlightened of Incariel.

Shadowbearer closed his eyes and sent his will ranging north.

A few moments later he touched the mind he sought. It was ancient by the standards of the humans, nearly two centuries old, though that was but a drop in the ocean of years Shadowbearer had seen.

And a drop in the endless abyss of the howling black power filling him.

"Master?" said the mind, its words brushing against Shadowbearer's thoughts. "It has been a long time."

Shadowbearer opened his eyes and smiled.

"It has," he said. "But I have a task for you. You proved the strongest, and therefore you are worthy. Soon a man and a woman shall pass near your home." He sent an image of Calliande of Tarlion and Ridmark Arban, of his old enemy and her newfound protector. "They carry an empty soulstone. Kill them both and bring the soulstone to me. Do this, and I shall reward you with power beyond anything you can imagine."

For a moment there was silence.

Then the mind answered, its words filled with confidence.

"It shall be as you say, Master. They both will die."

THE END

***

## Frostborn: The Undying Wizard Description

RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight, and he quests for the ruined citadel of Urd Morlemoch, seeking a way to stop the return of the dreaded Frostborn.

For if he does not find a way to stop them, the Frostborn shall entomb the world in ice forever.

MORIGNA is the cunninng Witch of the Hills, feared and mistrusted by the townsmen of Moraime. Yet darker things stir in the hills.

A trap that might devour both her and the Gray Knight...

***

## Prologue

An excerpt from the chronicles of the High Kings of Andomhaim:

In the Year of Our Lord 1256, the last Keeper of Avalon and the Dragon Knight destroyed the dread Frostborn after fifty years of war, and the realm of Andomhaim had peace from battle at last, and the armies of the High King laid down their arms.

Yet peace provided a more subtle enemy than war.

For long ago the archmage Ardrhythain had founded the Two Orders, the Swordbearers and the Magistri, giving them magic to wield against the foes of mankind. And with their magic, the realm of Andomhaim stood fast against the wrath of the urdmordar and the storm of the Frostborn. Yet now both foes had been overthrown, and the hearts of the Magistri grew proud. For some among them had grown to love their power more than all other things, and desired ever more.

"Why should man be weak and mortal?" said these Magistri. "Why should he die? Do not the dark elves live for millennia? Are not the urdmordar immortal, save those slain in battle? Why should we obey the strictures of the High King and the church? Our magic makes us strong, and can make us stronger yet. Let us therefore use our spells to become immortal and rule over mankind as gods."

These Magistri called themselves the Eternalists, for they desired to become immortal. And in their madness they turned to the vilest dark magic and the foulest blood sorcery, and wrought great misery and terrible destruction. At last the truth of their crimes came to light, and the Swordbearers and the true Magistri united to burn the cancer from their midst. In the Year of Our Lord 1307, the Eternalists were defeated, and those who desired to live forever met death at last.

Yet rumor held that not all the Eternalists had been slain, that some had escaped to lurk in dark places and plot revenge...

***

## Chapter 1 - Fire and Stone

Thirty-two days after it began, thirty-two days after that afternoon in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark stopped and looked across the marshes.

Something did not smell right.

"What is it?" said the orcish man at his right. The orc was tall and strong, his black hair bound in a warrior's topknot. He wore armor of overlapping blue steel plates, the hilt of a greatsword rising over his right shoulder.

"Kharlacht," said Ridmark. "Wait a moment."

"Something is amiss?" said a woman's voice.

Ridmark looked at his other three companions.

The first was a human woman named Calliande, her long blond hair pulled back in a ragged tail, her blue eyes narrowed with sudden alarm. She looked young and lovely, and while the beauty was real, the youth was not. She was two centuries old.

Likely older, but no one knew for certain.

The second was a dwarven man in the brown robes of a mendicant friar, his gray skin the color of granite, his receding black hair and beard streaked with gray. Brother Caius looked as if he had been hewn from living stone. His strange eyes were like disks of blue marble, and a mace of bronze-colored dwarven steel hung at his belt.

The third was a human boy of fifteen, with curly brown hair and brown eyes. He wore a chain mail hauberk, the shield of a man-at-arms slung over his back and an orcish sword at his belt. Dark circles ringed his brown eyes. That did not surprise Ridmark. Gavin had gone through a great deal since his home village of Aranaeus had been destroyed by the cultists of an urdmordar.

Little wonder he had not been sleeping well.

"Do you smell that?" Ridmark said.

Calliande smiled. "I fear I can smell nothing but myself. Traveling through the Wilderland does not offer many opportunities for bathing."

"Nor do I," said Caius in his deep, rolling voice. "Alas, the dwarven kindred are not known for their keen noses."

"Perhaps that is just as well, Brother Caius," said Gavin. "These marshes certainly have many...different smells."

"That is merely a polite way of saying they smell bad," said Calliande.

"True," said Gavin. "Though I do smell something rotten."

Kharlacht frowned. "As do I, Gray Knight."

"And a metallic scent?" said Ridmark.

"Yes," said Kharlacht, his perpetual frown deepening. "Now that you mention it."

Ridmark nodded. "Be on your guard."

He tightened his grip on his staff and kept walking.

The road, such as it was, consisted of a causeway winding its way through the stagnant water of the marshes. Massive trees rose from the water, thick ropes of pale moss hanging from their branches, their rough trunks spotted with lichen. Grass and weeds covered the causeway, and here and there small, tough trees rose from the dirt. It made for slow going, but it was easier than wading through the water. The marshes themselves stretched north and south as the causeway rolled west. After another day's journey they would come to the town of Moraime, and the town and its monastery marked the end of the marshes and the beginning of the forests and hills of central Vhaluusk.

And from there it was another few weeks' journey to the wild, spell-damaged lands of the Torn Hills, and then to Urd Morlemoch itself.

Where the Warden waited with the answers Ridmark had sought for the last five years.

Assuming, of course, that something in the marshes did not kill him first.

Ridmark pushed aside his thoughts of Urd Morlemoch and focused upon the present. In these marshes, inattention was fatal. A cut could fester and lead to an agonizing death. The pagan orcish tribes of southern Vhaluusk lurked among the marshes, building houses upon wooden posts and attacking travelers with poisoned arrows.

And more dangerous creatures hunted among the waters and the trees.

Ridmark stopped again, the others halting behind him, and watched a pool of water bubble a dozen yards away.

Of course, more natural hazards might kill them before the orcs did.

"Gavin," said Ridmark. "Do you still have any of the torches from Urd Dagaash?"

"Three," said the boy. "But it's mid-morning. Surely we do not need the light."

"We don't," said Ridmark. "Light one anyway, give it to me, and then step back. All of you."

Calliande gave him a suspicious look. "What are you doing?"

"Testing an idea," said Ridmark as Gavin fumbled with his pack. "It's perfectly safe." He thought for a moment. "Mostly."

He expected another lecture from her, another sermon about forgiving himself and not risking his life without cause, but she only sighed. Perhaps she had learned the futility by now. Or more likely she would save it until the others were out of earshot.

It would have been annoying if she were not so obviously concerned about him.

Ridmark had no qualms about risking his life, given that he deserved death for what he had done, but he did not want to risk the lives of the others. If he could have undertaken his journey to Urd Morlemoch alone, he would have done so. But the others had insisted on following him.

He did not want to get them killed.

Too many people had died on his account already.

He remembered Aelia screaming, remembered the blood upon the black and white tiles of Castra Marcaine...

Then Gavin approached with a lit torch, and Ridmark shook aside his dark musings.

"Stand back," he warned the others, gesturing with the torch. "This might get loud."

"Loud?" said Calliande.

"Like this," said Ridmark, and he threw the torch. It spun end over and end and struck the bubbling pool of water. The torch went out with a faint hiss and sank.

"Well," said Caius, "that was..."

A blue fireball erupted from the water with a plume of steam and an angry hiss. Kharlacht and Caius yelled and drew their weapons, while Calliande raised her hands, white light flaring around her fingers. But the fireball vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only burning grass and moss in its wake.

"What did you do?" said Gavin. "You...you aren't really a wizard, are you?"

"Marsh gas," said Ridmark. "Dead plants and animals get buried in the marsh, and when they decay, they give off a flammable gas. Since they are buried, there is no place for the gas to go. Eventually it leaks to the surface, and a single spark will set it alight."

"I've heard the fur traders who visit...who used to visit Aranaeus speak of ghosts in the swamp," said Gavin. "Blue lights at night."

"There may be restless spirits in the swamp," said Ridmark, "but those blue flames are marsh gases, catching flame and burning away."

"I'd never heard of such a thing," said Kharlacht.

"I thought were you were from Vhaluusk," said Caius.

"The northern hills, near the mountains," said Kharlacht. "Not the swamps. Even Qazarl thought the orcs of the swamps were mad."

"This has been an enlightening demonstration," said Calliande, "but why risk it? The light and noise will have drawn attention, if anyone is nearby."

"Because," said Ridmark, "I wanted to see if any swamp drakes were near."

Her eyes widened. "Swamp drakes?"

"The metallic scent," said Ridmark. "Swamp drake scales. They nest near patches of marsh gas, use their breath to set it afire and kill prey. They can't fly the way fire drakes can, but they still breathe flame upon their prey."

"Then why draw their attention?" said Calliande.

"They're hard to see," said Ridmark. "Brown and gray scales. Blends perfectly with the marsh. If one's hunting you, you might not see it until it rips out your throat or sets your head on fire. But since the explosion hasn't drawn any attention," he shrugged, "we ought to be safe enough."

"A sound stratagem," said Caius.

"It was," said Calliande, "but I wish you would explain these things. You have a deep and subtle mind, Ridmark, but my heart almost stopped when the water caught fire."

Ridmark opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it.

She had a point.

"Forgive me," he said. "I have spent years traveling in my own company, and I...have grown unused to explaining myself at times."

Caius smiled. "At times, Gray Knight?"

"He merely objects, Brother," said Kharlacht, "because of your insistence upon greeting the dawn every morning by singing the twenty-third Psalm in a voice that could wake the dead."

"It is the duty of every baptized son of the church to offer praise to our Creator," said Caius. "And only the Dominus Christus can raise the dead."

"I said wake, not raise," said Kharlacht.

Gavin burst out laughing and then fell silent, eyes wide with embarrassment.

"Be gentle," said Calliande. "Brother Caius has a fine voice."

"And loud," said Kharlacht.

Caius snorted. "I was singing the twenty-third Psalm before you were born."

"Enough," said Ridmark, though he felt himself smile. "Brother Caius's singing shall not have the chance to wake the dead if your bickering does it first. Come. If we make good time, we may yet get out of these marshes today."

"A hopeful thought," said Calliande. "And if God is merciful, perhaps there shall be a clean stream or pond where we can wash off the stench."

"And," said Caius, "a clearing that might provide excellent acoustics for morning praise."

Ridmark shook his head. As much as he would have preferred to travel alone, traveling with companions did have compensations. It was pleasant to think about something other than the Frostborn, something other than his dark memories of that terrible day in Castra Marcaine.

For sooner or later his thoughts always returned there.

The causeway continued to a patch of massive, heavy trees veiled in thick curtains of hanging moss. Their roots had sunk deep into the causeway, and Ridmark and the others picked their way carefully over the uneven earth. The air now smelled of smoke, thanks to Ridmark's impromptu fire, but the metallic smell had only grown stronger.

He stopped, hand tightening against his heavy staff.

"Something else?" said Calliande. "More marsh gas?"

"No," said Ridmark, pointing with his staff. "Trouble."

A small dome of dried mud and sticks sat between two of the thick trunks, a single opening in its side.

"What's that?" said Gavin. "It looks like a hut."

"A nest," said Ridmark.

"Swamp drakes?" said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded. "The females only build nests after laying eggs. And they never go far from the nest until the hatchlings are strong enough to fend for themselves. That explosion should have drawn the mother's attention."

"Perhaps the nest is already abandoned," said Caius.

Ridmark shook his head. "It's too new. See? The mud is still wet in places. That explosion ought to have brought the female down on our heads. But why would she abandon her eggs?" He scratched the stubble on his chin, thinking. "She wouldn't, unless..."

Unless something had killed her.

Or something had driven her from the nest.

But what could frighten away a female swamp drake from her eggs? Ridmark could think of several possibilities, and he wanted to fight none of them.

"Wait here," he told the others.

"This might be one of those times," said Calliande, flexing her fingers, "when you should explain your mind."

"I'm going to check if there are any eggs in that nest," said Ridmark. "If there aren't, we're safe. If there are, we may be in trouble. Keep your weapons ready."

Kharlacht grunted and drew his massive greatsword, the blue blade glinting. Caius lifted his mace, and Gavin drew his orcish sword. Ridmark strung his bow, hung it from his shoulder, and started down the side of the causeway. Massive boulders jutted from the sides of the causeway, and more stood amongst the trees, their gray sides spotted with lichen. Likely the orcs of Vhaluusk had piled the boulders there long ago at the behest of their dark elven masters, to aid the dark elves' endless war against the high elves.

Or, more likely, the orcs' halfling slaves had toiled to construct the road. If Ridmark dug into the causeway, he suspected he would find the bones of uncounted generations of halfling slaves.

He stepped around a boulder and scrutinized the nest. It was six feet tall and twelve wide, a dome built about of mud and branches. Within the female drake kept her eggs warm, driving off and sometimes incinerating any predators while the male hunted for food. An opening yawned in one side of the nest, and Ridmark looked inside.

Seven white eggs lay within, packed in mud. Each was about the size of his fist, their white shells marked with dozens of green spots.

There was no sign of the female drake.

Ridmark stepped back, thinking. A female drake would not abandon her eggs, not while she was still alive.

"Ridmark!"

Calliande's voice rang over the marshes.

He whirled, staff coming up, and saw a dark form racing across the causeway.

Unlike fire drakes, swamp drakes could not fly. But fire drakes rarely grew beyond the size of a large dog. The swamp drake racing toward Calliande and the others was the size of a knight's war horse, all serpentine speed and movement, its tail lashing back and forth behind its barrel-shaped body. It was armored in brown and gray scales, and a ridged crest ringed its head. Ridmark saw its maw open wide, saw the flames glimmering to life behind its dagger-like teeth.

He dropped his staff, raised his bow, and released an arrow. The shaft slammed into the creature's neck. The scales turned the force of the arrow, but the drake stopped and roared, shaking its head. It glared at Ridmark, its black-slit yellow eyes unblinking, and spat a gout of flame at him.

Ridmark sprinted to the left, dodging the fire. The flames washed over one of the trees, the bark crackling and hissing as it burned. Ridmark pivoted, raised his bow, and sent another arrow at the drake. This time the steel-tipped head sank into the creature's neck, and the drake reared up on its hind legs with a brassy bellow of fury.

Caius and Kharlacht and Gavin took the opportunity to strike.

White light glimmered around them as Calliande worked a spell, using her magic to enhance their speed. Caius struck first, his mace slamming into the drake's right hind leg as Ridmark seized his staff and ran for the causeway. Gavin landed a blow next, his orcish sword cutting through scales to bite into flesh. The drake screamed again and lashed with its tail, and the blow knocked Gavin off his feet. Yet he had cut deep into the drake's leg, and the beast stumbled, losing its balance.

That was all the opening that Kharlacht needed.

The orcish warrior moved with speed and power, the dark elven greatsword a blue blur in his hands. The massive blade struck the drake behind its ridged crest. The creature shuddered, its claws digging chunks of grassy dirt from the causeway, and Kharlacht ripped his blade free and swung again.

The drake's head fell from its neck in a burst of coppery blood and rolled away. The body went into a mad, thrashing dance, tail whipping back and forth, and then went still. Kharlacht let out a long sigh and lowered his sword, while Calliande rushed to Gavin's side as the boy sat up with a groan.

"How is he?" said Ridmark, climbing the side of the causeway.

"Sore," muttered Gavin.

"He'll be fine, I think," said Calliande. "Just bruised."

"Good," said Ridmark. He looked at Kharlacht. "Good swing, by the way."

"Good shot," said the big orc. "I have never been anything but mediocre with a bow."

"Nor was I," said Ridmark, "but when it is your only means of filling your belly for weeks at a time, you have the motivation to learn."

"Indeed," said Kharlacht.

Ridmark stepped past the drake's carcass and joined Calliande and Gavin. "A good strike."

"It was my fault," said Gavin. "I should have paid closer attention during our lessons." Kharlacht had been teaching him the sword, and Caius the mace, and Ridmark the use of his shield.

Caius snorted. "Yes, the lesson was to duck faster."

"You did fine," said Ridmark. "That drake could have killed us all, but it didn't, and we are alive."

"And it seems our worries were unfounded," said Caius. "The explanation is simple enough. The drake detected us meddling with her eggs, and she came to their defense."

"That's not what happened," said Ridmark.

"Why not?" said Caius.

"Because," said Ridmark, prodding the crest of scales ringing the severed head with his staff, "this is a male drake." He lowered his staff. "The females don't have crests."

"Like kobolds," said Calliande with a shudder.

"Like kobolds," said Ridmark. "And the male drakes never fight to defend the nests."

"Perhaps this one was simply...chivalrous?" said Gavin.

"No," said Ridmark. "The male wasn't defending the nest. He was running from something to the north."

"What could scare a monster like that?" said Gavin, looking at the carcass.

"Well," said Caius, "what is north of here?"

"The Wilderland," said Calliande.

"The mountains and hills of Vhaluusk," said Kharlacht. "My old homeland."

"Dark elven ruins," said Ridmark.

They shared a look. They knew the sort of things that could lurk in the ruins of the dark elves.

"Ruins of Vhaluusk, too," said Kharlacht. "After the High King and the Two Orders overthrew the urdmordar, the orcs of Vhaluusk warred among themselves, and every chieftain tried to make himself High King of the orcs in imitation of the High King of Andomhaim. Many fortresses were raised, and many burned, and the orcs of Vhaluusk war against each other to this day." He shook his head, his tusks throwing dark shadows over his hard face. "To this day. Mhalek killed many orcs before he came south."

"Mhalek killed many after he came south," said Ridmark, remembering.

He looked north.

"You're think of investigating, aren't you?" said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded.

"Urd Morlemoch is west," said Caius.

"We're less than a day from the monastery of St. Cassian and the town of Moraime," said Ridmark. "Anything that could frighten a swamp drake is a threat to the town."

Calliande frowned. "You don't know that. It is an unnecessary risk..."

Ridmark opened his mouth to continue their old argument, but a new voice cut him off.

"You speak the truth, man of water."

The voice spoke Latin, but no human, orc, halfling, dwarf, or elf had a voice like that. It was deep, so deep that it sounded like a note from one of the ancient war horns housed in the High King's stronghold of Tarlion. If a mountain could speak, it would have a voice like that.

He turned, and saw that one of the gray boulders near the nest stand up.

"What in God's name is that?" said Gavin, lifting his sword.

The boulder seemed to take the shape of a towering old man of rough-hewn stone. Caius's skin looked like gray granite, but this creature actually was made of rock, but rock that flowed and moved as easily as flesh. Golden light glimmered in the creature's eyes, and Ridmark thought its expression looked solemn.

Even sad.

That did not reassure him. Likely it could pound them to a pulp while looking solemn and sad.

"It's a trolldomr," Ridmark heard himself say.

"One of the giants of stone and rock," said Caius. The dwarven friar sounded awed. "They live in the Deeps, and shun the company of all others. They visit the dwarves, but only rarely."

"You speak truly, son of the khaldari," said the trolldomr. "This one has wandered far from the dark places beneath the earth."

"Do you mean us harm?" said Ridmark. He had heard of the trolldomr, but had never before seen one. Few men of Andomhaim had. He glanced at Calliande, wondering if she might know more, but she seemed just as surprised as he did.

And even if she knew something of the trolldomr, she might have forgotten.

"Does this one mean you harm, man of water?" said the trolldomr. The creature appeared to consider for a moment. "This one does not mean anyone harm. But many mean you harm, it would appear." The glowing golden eyes wandered over them. "So many different kindreds traveling together. Many must mean you harm."

The trolldomr did not seem hostile. Yet from what Ridmark understood, the trolldomr rarely left the Deeps, and shunned company.

Why was this one here? Surely not to collect swamp drake eggs.

"My name is Ridmark Arban," said Ridmark. He gestured with his staff at the others. "This is Calliande of the Magistri, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Gavin of Aranaeus, and Brother Caius of the Order of Mendicants. Might we know your name?"

The trolldomr considered this. "You may. But our tongue does not translate easily to yours. You may know this one as Rjalfur."

"Rjalfur," said Ridmark with a bow. "Might I ask why you have sought us out? While we certainly do not find your conversation disagreeable, it is nonetheless remarkable."

"This is so," said Rjalfur. "This one wished to stop and speak with you because I found you remarkable." He pointed at Caius. "Specifically, you, child of the khaldari."

"Me, sir?" said Caius. "I fear I am altogether unremarkable."

"You are a child of the khaldari," said Rjalfur, "and your kindred worship the gods of stone and silence, of inevitable death and stern duty. Yet you wear a symbol of the god the humans brought to this world."

"You mean this?" said Caius, touching the wooden cross that rested against his chest.

"Yes," said Rjalfur. "This one found it curious, and wishes to know why you wear such a symbol."

"Several years ago a missionary came to Khald Tormen," said Caius, "and shared the word of the Dominus Christus. I was convinced and baptized, and came forth to share the word with others."

"Interesting," said Rjalfur. The golden eyes shifted to Ridmark. "And you are right, man of water. There is something wrong here. Dark magic stirs to the north, and it comes for you."

"For me?" said Ridmark. He shared a glance with Calliande. Had Shadowbearer found her at last?

"For you," said Rjalfur, "and the Magistria. The dark magic comes for you. This one will bid you farewell now, and thanks you for the knowledge."

The trolldomr sank into the earth so fast that he almost seemed to disappear. A ripple went through a patch of grass, one of the stagnant pools splashed, and then Rjalfur was gone.

Ridmark let out a breath.

"I take it," said Gavin, his voice a bit unsteady, "that was a trolldomr?"

Ridmark nodded.

"What exactly is a trolldomr?" said Gavin.

"A kindred," said Caius, "utterly alien to all of ours. Orcs and dwarves and humans have much in common, despite our differences. But the trolldomr are alien to all of us. They require neither food nor drink, and do not have blood...hence we are all 'men of water' to them. They wield magical control over earth and stone as easily as a fish swims or a bird flies..."

"Or as an urdmordar commands dark magic," said Ridmark.

"Aye," said Caius, "but the trolldomr are not malicious, not the way the urdmordar are. They are simply...indifferent. They keep to themselves, and only rarely interact with other kindreds. For one to speak is rare. For one to come to the surface and speak is...well, I have never heard of it happening, and the records of our stonescribes go back thousands of years."

"He warned us," said Ridmark. "Dark magic to the north. I think we know what frightened the drakes now."

He met Calliande's eyes, and saw the fear and determination there.

"Shadowbearer," she said. "Or more of his creatures hunting for us."

"This dread wizard, my lady," said Gavin. "Could he have hunted you to the Wilderland?"

"He could," said Calliande. "His power is great. Greater than anything I have sensed...since I awakened. Though that is not very long."

"It could be more of his creatures," said Caius. "Like the undead kobolds."

"If so," said Ridmark, "then we shall take the fight to them. If not, they will pursue us to Moraime, and I would not bring death upon the heads of the townsmen."

As would have happened in Dun Licinia, if Calliande had not pursued him into the Wilderland.

"Would it not be better to find some strong place and wait for the foe to come to us?" said Gavin.

"I fear not," said Ridmark. "For one, there are no strong places in these marshes, not until we reach Moraime. And if Shadowbearer and his servants are hunting us, they might not expect us to hunt them in turn."

He beckoned, and they headed north, away from the causeway and into the marshes.

***

## Chapter 2 - Tombs

Calliande moved carefully across the grassy knoll, the ground squishing beneath her boots.

Ridmark led the way, staff in hand, his gray elven cloak hanging loose around his shoulders. His blue eyes were cold and watchful in his hard face, the black stubble shading his jaw like dust. Despite their many days in the wilderness, he moved with the grace and speed of a hunting predator, his boots rarely making a sound against the wet ground.

At such times the coward's brand upon his left cheek never seemed more incongruous. He did not deserve the sigil of a broken sword upon his cheek, did not deserve the burden of self-inflicted guilt he carried with it. Mhalek was to blame for his wife's death, not Ridmark.

It was unjust. She wondered if she could ever convince him of that.

But, then, life was not just.

Calliande knew that all too well. She could remember nothing that had happened before she had awakened in the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance thirty-two days ago, nothing before the omen of blue fire filled the sky. Yet she knew so many things. She knew the history of Andomhaim and the older kindreds. She knew many languages, and was sometimes surprised when Caius or Kharlacht said something in the dwarven and orcish tongues and she understood them. She knew how to treat illness, injury, and wound, and her skills had saved many lives during Qazarl's siege of Dun Licinia.

And she knew how to use magic for healing, defense, and knowledge, the three paths of the Order of the Magistri. With those powers, she had helped Ridmark save the villagers of Aranaeus and destroy the dread urdmordar Agrimnalazur.

Yet she remembered nothing of her past life, could not remember how she had learned her skills...and if her suspicions were correct, she had rested in that dark vault below the Tower for centuries, guarded by the Order of the Vigilant.

And she remembered nothing of it, and sometimes that made her want to scream in frustration.

But for now the possibility of danger held her attention.

She kept a minor spell in place, one to detect the presence of magic. With it, she could keep Shadowbearer and his minions from ambushing them. So far she had sensed nothing, and yet...

Her spell detected a faint ripple, almost on the edge of her consciousness. An echo, really.

Someone had worked magic nearby, recently.

Yet she could not tell what kind of magic.

"Anything?" said Ridmark.

"Yes," said Calliande, her voice tight. "There was magic here, not long ago. Maybe the trolldomr. I can't tell."

He nodded and kept moving. They passed through thick stands of trees, pools of stagnant water sitting at their roots, moss hanging from their branches like long gray beards. The stench of rotting vegetation was everywhere, and Calliande wondered why anyone would live in such a place. Still, she supposed food would be abundant, with the fish and the lizards and the birds. And the marshes would make for a defensible home. A large army would have trouble moving through this terrain, and a small, determined force could inflict hell upon any invaders...

She blinked. How did she know that with such certainty? Had she led armies in the past?

The memory hovered just out of reach, cloaked by the mists choking her mind, and she almost cursed in frustrated fury.

"Do you smell that?" said Kharlacht, his voice cutting into her dark thoughts.

"Aye," said Ridmark, and Calliande caught it as well, a worse scent underlying the odor of rotting vegetation and stagnant water.

Rotting flesh.

Even in the thirty-two days since she had awakened, Calliande had smelled it too many times not to recognize it.

"It's coming from there," said Ridmark, pointing at the trees.

They kept walking. The trees thinned, and a fortress rose from the earth.

Or the ruins of a fortress, anyway. Once it had been a massive round tower of stone ringed by an earthwork wall. Now the tower's roof had collapsed, and the marsh had flooded the courtyard, reeds and grass growing within. Dozens of small mounds encircled the wall, covered in grass and small trees.

And many of the mounds looked disturbed.

"Burial mounds," said Kharlacht.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "Like the ones outside of Dun Licinia."

"Some chieftain or petty orcish king made his stronghold here," said Kharlacht, pointing at the ruined fortress, "and buried his chief warriors and their slaves around him."

Something shivered against Calliande's magical senses.

"Ridmark," she said. "There was powerful dark magic here. Recently."

"Today?" said Ridmark.

"Within a few hours," she said.

"And an undead creature, brought from its grave through necromancy," said Ridmark, "would terrify a swamp drake. It would terrify any animal. They would know it was unnatural, and their instincts would tell them to flee."

"Like the corpses Qazarl raised outside of Dun Licinia," said Caius.

Gavin shuddered. "Or the undead that Agrimnalazur raised against us."

"And the sort of creatures that Shadowbearer would use to hunt Calliande," said Ridmark. "It seemed Rjalfur warned us true. We..."

Dark magic blazed against Calliande's senses.

"Ridmark!" she said. "They're coming. They're..."

But they had no need of her warning.

Dozens of dark forms burst from the fortress's ruined gate. They were skeletal orcs, ragged tusks jutting from their jaws, moldering flesh still clinging to their bones. Ghostly blue fire danced up their limbs and flickered inside their eyes. The undead orcs held rusted weapons in their skeletal fists, swords and axes and maces, and some still wore armor and carried shields.

"Calliande!" shouted Ridmark, but she had already begun the spell.

When Shadowbearer's undead kobolds had attacked at the ford of the River Moradel, she had struck back at them using her magic, blasting away the necromancy Shadowbearer had bound to their corpses. She had destroyed dozens of them, yet the effort had nearly exhausted her strength. If not for Ridmark's intervention, she would have been killed.

Yet it had taught her a valuable lesson.

She had bound her magic to his staff, giving it the power to harm undead creatures. And in doing so, she realized that enspelling the weapons of others was far, far easier than striking down the undead through raw force.

She needed to save her strength to face whoever had raised the undead.

Calliande finished her spell and thrust out her hands. White light flared around her fingers, and the same white light glimmered around Ridmark's staff. The head of Caius's bronze-colored mace began to glow, and both Kharlacht's greatsword and Gavin's orcish blade began to radiate white light. Gavin blinked in surprise and set himself, his shield upon his left arm.

As one, the undead orcs turned to look at Calliande, their ghostly eyes staring at her.

They felt the power of her spell.

"Kharlacht, Caius, with me," said Ridmark, lifting his glowing staff, his voice icy calm. "Gavin, shield Lady Calliande and deal with any orcs that get past us."

He strode forward, the orcish warrior and the dwarven friar following.

###

The staff thrummed with Calliande's magic beneath Ridmark's hands.

It brought back a storm of memories. Once Ridmark had been a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, a Swordbearer, and he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden into battle. With that sword he had slain the urdmordar Gothalinzur, entered Urd Morlemoch and escaped, and defeated the Mhalekite horde.

With Heartwarden he had struck down Mhalek himself.

And then Aelia had died.

Ridmark walked toward the charging undead, the staff ready in his right hand. The power of Calliande's magic was not as strong as Heartwarden's. The soulblade had blazed like a torch in Ridmark's fist, and with the sword Ridmark had cut a path through creatures of dark magic. The staff shone with a gentle glow, its vibrations weaker.

But more than enough to destroy the undead.

The first creature came at him, raising a rusted mace to strike, and Ridmark moved.

He dodged the blow, the staff a white blur in his hand. Normal weapons could not harm the undead, but the staff had been charged with Calliande's magic, and his strike shattered the bones of the creature's weapon hand. The mace fell into the grass and rolled away, and Ridmark reversed his weapon and jabbed the undead in the gut. The creature did not need to breathe and felt no pain, but the power of Ridmark's blow knocked the undead orc back a step.

He whipped the staff around and drove its length into the undead orc's head. The tusked skull exploded in a burst of yellowing bone. The blue flames winked out, and the corpse collapsed into pieces, the bones tumbling away.

Three more reached for him, and Ridmark charged into them.

Most of the knights of Andomhaim looked down upon the quarterstaff, seeing it as the weapon of commoners, of freeholders and laborers. A true knight with a sword, they believed, could overcome a peasant armed with a staff.

Ridmark knew better.

He deflected a descending sword with a sweep of his staff, pivoted, and spun his weapon around. The staff's heavy length crashed into the back of an undead orc's knee, and the creature toppled. Ridmark's next blow slammed into the crown of its head, and the weight of his strike shattered the undead orc's skull, pieces of its rusted helmet falling away. He dodged the swing of a heavy axe and brought the staff down upon the undead orc's arms before it recovered its balance. The bones cracked and splintered, the axe falling away, and Ridmark dispatched the creature with a sharp swing to the head. The last orc raised its sword for a final strike, and Ridmark moved before it could launch the blow, knocking the weapon aside. The creature lunged at him with skeletal fingers, but Ridmark sidestepped and swung his staff with both hands. The skull popped off the neck and soared through the air, tumbling jaw over forehead, and landed with a splash in a pool. The body staggered forward and disintegrated into loose bones and rotting flesh.

Ridmark spun, intending to aid either Kharlacht or Caius if they were hard-pressed.

But neither one needed his help. Kharlacht carved his way through the undead orcs like a butcher cutting meat. He wielded his greatsword with massive arcs, every blow shearing through a skeletal neck or skull. Few undead drew close enough to harm him, and when they did he stepped back or allowed their blows to shatter against his dark elven armor. Caius fought at Kharlacht's side. With his heavy mace, the burly friar barely needed Calliande's magical augmentation. The blows of his mace shattered knees and spines, and Caius then finished them off with a strike to the head.

Ridmark shot a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Gavin strike down an undead orc that charged Calliande. It had been just over a week since they had departed Aranaeus, but the boy's skill had improved in that time. His blade sheared through the undead creature's neck, white fire struggling against the ghostly blue flame, and the undead orc fell motionless. Gavin had a steady head and a steady arm, and if they lived through this, one day he would be a masterful swordsman.

But for now, Ridmark would try to keep the undead away from Gavin and Calliande.

He turned back to the attack, the length of his staff shattering another undead skull. The corpse fell, and Ridmark moved closer to the others as they fought their way to the burial mounds. They had destroyed at least a score of the undead, but more still emerged from the ruined fortress. How many of the creatures were there? Individually, the undead were not strong, but they could overwhelm Ridmark and the others through sheer numbers.

And whatever necromancer had raised them had to be watching the fight. Perhaps the wizard's plan was to pin them in place and then unleash his spells in an attack.

A dark shape emerged from the ruins, and Ridmark wondered if he had found the wizard.

It was an undead orc that stood nearly eight feet tall, taller than even Kharlacht. Black steel armored the orc from head to toe, and the creature carried an enormous black greatsword. Eldritch symbols of crimson fire shone upon its cuirass and bracers and greaves, and Ridmark realized the creature's armor had been reinforced by blood magic long ago, likely the work of an orcish shaman. No doubt that explained why the armor had survived the centuries in the ground without damage. Its owner must have been a powerful chieftain, perhaps even the petty king who had raised this fortress.

The armored orc spotted Ridmark and raced towards him, raising the greatsword.

Ridmark sprinted to meet the creature as Kharlacht and Caius fought their way through the other undead.

He did not attempt to block the undead chieftain's first swing. His staff had a steel core, but the sheer weight and power of the undead orc's greatsword would tear the staff from his grasp. The huge blade blurred past his face, and Ridmark stepped inside the creature's guard, his staff swinging. It slammed into an armored leg, and the massive orc staggered but did not fall. The staff flared with white light as Calliande's magic struggled against the ancient spells upon the armor, its glyphs shining with a crimson glow. The orc rushed at Ridmark, and he landed another blow on its armored flank as the creature passed. The undead warrior staggered from the blow, and Ridmark stepped behind it and struck, his staff hammering against the black helmet.

The armor deflected the blow of his staff, and the undead orc turned with inhuman grace, the black sword blurring. Ridmark retreated as the creature pursued him with heavy, lumbering steps, its black sword clutched in both hands. One strike from the undead orc's heavy sword would open him up like a butchered pig.

The heavy sword...

That armor had to be heavy, too.

Ridmark dodged another swing and changed direction. His staff struck the undead orc's heavy cuirass and bounced away, but he had not intended the strike to penetrate armor. It held the creature's attention, and the warrior followed him.

He jumped into one of the stagnant pools, the cloudy water splashing around his boots, and backed away.

The warrior pursued him, striding into the water.

And as it did, its armored boots sank into the muck at the bottom of the pool. The undead orc staggered, its balance lost for just a moment, but a moment was all that Ridmark needed. He thrust the staff with both hands, all his strength behind the blow, and slammed its butt into the orc's skeletal face. The skull shattered beneath the staff, its end clanging against the back of the orc's helmet, and the white light in the staff drowned out the ghostly blue fire of its eyes. Ridmark retracted his staff and scrambled upon dry ground, but the headless orc did not pursue him.

It fell into the pool with a mighty splash, the black armor sinking.

The glow from the sigils painted the water the color of blood.

Ridmark looked around for more foes, and saw the remainder of the undead orcs fleeing.

###

Calliande lowered her hands, blinking the sweat from her eyes. Maintaining the auras over the weapons was not as draining as casting spells of attack, but it was still an effort.

Yet the undead orcs retreated, fleeing around the earthwork outer wall of the ruined fortress.

Kharlacht started to pursue.

"Hold!" Ridmark's voice rang over the marsh. "Hold here! They might be trying to lure us into a trap."

Kharlacht glared at Ridmark, his black eyes gleaming red with the battle fury of his orcish blood. But the big orc took a deep breath, calmed himself, and gave a sharp nod.

Ridmark strode back to Calliande's side, and the others rejoined him.

"They fled from us?" said Gavin, peering at the fortress. "That...seems odd."

"It is," said Ridmark. "One more peculiar thing in a day filled with them."

"Undead like that do not flee," said Calliande. "They have no minds of their own, and act as their master commands."

"So their master commanded them to fall back," said Gavin.

"That seems likely," said Ridmark, staring at the ruined tower.

"Perhaps the wizard wishes to draw us into a trap," said Kharlacht.

"Or," said Ridmark, "he desired to test our strength, and is now preparing something new for us."

"A cheering thought," said Caius.

"Ridmark," said Calliande, "before we go any further, I should destroy that armor. The spells of dark magic upon it are potent, and I fear that anyone who claims it might be driven mad."

He frowned. "Will it cost much of your strength?"

She shook her head. "A single spell should suffice."

"Very well," said Ridmark. "We'll destroy the armor, and then we'll scout the interior of the fortress. It is a logical place for the necromancer to hide, and even if he isn't there, we'll have a good view of the countryside from the tower."

He led the way to where the armored orcish chieftain had fallen. Even if Ridmark had forgotten the location, the eerie blood-colored glow in the water would have been easy to find. Calliande took a deep breath and gazed into the pool, and then worked a spell to probe the dark magic upon the armored corpse.

"Do you think the trolldomr summoned the undead, sir?" said Gavin to Ridmark.

"That seems unlikely," said Caius. "The trolldomr are alien, but that is not the same as malevolence. And I have never heard a single account of a trolldomr using dark magic."

"But you said that Rjalfur was acting oddly for a trolldomr, Brother," said Gavin.

"Aye," said Caius. "But he did warn us against the undead."

"Or," rumbled Kharlacht, watching the fortress, "it could have been a ploy to lure us here."

Calliande closed her eyes and focused upon the armor. The spells upon it were potent. Their long-dead creator had been powerful, but unskilled. The spells were crude, and Calliande thought she could unravel them without much effort.

"I am inclined to agree with Brother Caius," said Ridmark. "Still. Rjalfur did act strangely. If we encounter him again, best be on our guard."

Calliande opened her eyes and raised her hand. A shaft of white flame burst from her palm and stabbed into the water. The crimson light flared once and vanished as her magic shattered the spell.

"It is done," said Calliande.

"Thank you," said Ridmark. "Watch for more dark magic."

Calliande nodded and cast the spell again, extending her magical senses in all directions.

She flinched, her eyes widening.

Multiple spikes of magical power washed against her.

"What is it?" said Ridmark, catching her elbow.

She recovered her balance. "Someone's casting spells north of here, powerful ones. Not dark magic. Ridmark...I think the undead didn't retreat. I think they sensed a more promising target, and are going after him."

"Someone needs our aid?" said Gavin.

"Then let us furnish it," said Ridmark, and he broke in a run for the fortress.

Calliande and the others followed him.

***

## Chapter 3 - The Sorceress

Ridmark ran around the curve of the earthen wall, a flare of purple light flashing in the distance.

Who was casting spells? Perhaps the master of the undead had lost control over his creations, and they had turned upon him. Or maybe an orcish shaman of the blood gods had been traveling near the ruins, and the undead had attacked him. Or perhaps a Magistrius had come to fight the undead.

Ridmark thought that unlikely. There had been no Magistri living in Moraime when he had passed through the town nine years past, and he doubted any had come to settle since.

Which meant that the wizard was likely a renegade, a wielder of magic who operated outside the laws of the Order of the Magistri.

Such men were almost always dangerous.

He spotted three undead orcs and tightened his grasp on his staff, but the creatures ignored him. They ran around the curve of the earthwork wall, pursuing the unknown wizard. For a moment Ridmark wondered if Rjalfur had been lying. The trolldomr had claimed that the dark magic had been targeted at Ridmark, but what if they had stumbled upon someone else's quarrel? Two renegade wizards fighting with dark magic?

If he had, he would ensure they hurt no one else.

Part of his mind whispered that he ought to leave and continue to Urd Morlemoch. The Frostborn were returning, unless Ridmark found a way to stop them, and they could destroy the world. Better to stay out of this business and continue on his way.

But it was not in his nature to turn back.

And if he died here, if the undead or a renegade wizard struck him down, then it was no more than he deserved for what had happened to Aelia.

Ridmark reached the northern end of the fortress and saw a battle.

A swarm of undead, nearly thirty of them, moved around the base of a burial mound. Ridmark saw a score lying upon the slopes of the burial mound, some of them torn to pieces. A figure in a tattered cloak stood atop the hill.

"The wizard," said Calliande.

The figure spun, and to his surprise, Ridmark saw himself looking at a young woman.

She was about twenty, with long black hair tied back into a thick tail. Her hard black eyes were stark against her pale face. Her cloak was a tattered mixture of gray and brown strips, no doubt to aid in concealment. Beneath the cloak she wore boots, trousers, and a jerkin of well-worn leather.

The woman spun, sweeping her hand before her, her mouth moving in silent words.

Purple light flared around her fingers, and a strange ripple went through the slope of the mound. The earth turned to quicksand beneath the feet of the undead orcs, and they sank into the ground, clawing at the grass. The spell ended with several undead half-buried. The woman gestured again, and a shudder went through the ground beneath Ridmark's boots. Thick cords erupted from the earth, roots wet with mud and moisture. They curled around the undead and tightened with enough force to rip them apart.

This woman, young though she was, was a powerful sorceress.

And clearly not a Magistria.

She turned again, and her dark eyes met Ridmark's. Even across the distance he felt a peculiar sort of shock at her gaze. Was it recognition? No, he was sure that he had never seen her before.

It didn't matter. She had held her own against the undead, but without aid, they would overwhelm her.

"Calliande," said Ridmark.

She stared at the sorceress, her mouth a hard line. But she blinked, nodded, and cast a spell. Again white light flared to life around their weapons, Ridmark's staff a glowing line in his fist. A ripple went through the undead orcs as they sensed the presence of Calliande's spell, and some of the creatures turned toward them. The sorceress upon the hill took advantage of their distraction and struck, more roots rising from the ground to entangle the undead.

Ridmark charged, Kharlacht and Caius at his side as Gavin hung back to shield Calliande from the undead. He brought his staff around and struck, smashing an orc's skull, and whipped the weapon around to catch another undead behind the knees. The creature fell, and Caius's mace met its skull.

The sorceress flung out her arms, and the ground around Ridmark rippled. For an instant he wondered if the woman had attacked him, if the undead had simply been a ploy to lure them into a trap, but the shockwave knocked the undead from their feet. He destroyed three of them before they recovered, Calliande's magic glowing brighter around the staff as it canceled the necromancy binding the undead things. Kharlacht and Caius struck on his left and right, forcing their way through the undead. The mob of dead orcs staggered, forced back by the sheer power of their attack. The sorceress atop the burial mound sent another shock through the earth, a wild, mad grin on her face, and Ridmark struck down two more undead.

The fight was almost over.

"Ridmark!"

Calliande's voice rang over the fray.

"The fortress!" she shouted.

He turned his head just in time to see the wraith float through the earthwork wall.

The translucent creature looked like a hooded specter in a long black robe. It had the features of an orcish shaman of the blood gods, its face adorned with elaborate tattoos, bronze rings glinting in its nose and ears and lips. It glided over the water, and the grass turned black and dead at its touch.

Ridmark suspected much the same would happen if it touched a living man or woman.

"Do not let it reach you!" said Calliande. "One touch will be enough to kill you."

The sorceress atop the hill gestured, and more roots rose from the earth, lashing at the wraith. But the roots passed through its immaterial body without touching it, and Ridmark glimpsed a flicker of fear on the sorceress's face.

"Can you ward us against it?" said Ridmark, smashing another undead orc.

"Aye," said Calliande, "but I'll not have enough strength left to maintain the aura around your weapons."

"Will the aura harm it?" said Ridmark, the wraith flowing toward him.

"It will!" said Calliande. "But..."

"Kharlacht, Caius!" said Ridmark. "Hold against the undead orcs. Gavin, guard Lady Calliande." The sorceress in the tattered cloak unleashed another spell, throwing more of the undead to the ground, and Kharlacht and Caius seized the moment to attack.

"What will you..." began Calliande.

Ridmark was already moving.

The air grew colder as he charged the wraith, and its eyes, filled with ghostly blue flame, turned toward him. It was freezing cold, yet no frost formed upon the pools of water, and Ridmark's breath did not steam. It was a magical cold, one that tugged upon his life force.

He suspected a touch from the wraith would not be pleasant.

The creature lunged at him, and Ridmark swung his staff one-handed, using the weapon's greater reach to keep the wraith away from him. The staff sheared through the wraith's torso, the spell upon it glowing brighter. The wraith hissed in pain, the first time Ridmark had heard any of the undead make a noise.

"Human dog," whispered the wraith in orcish. "Bow down. We shall make all your kindred slaves."

"Unlikely," said Ridmark, watching the wraith. "Given that you failed in life, and are now nothing more than a shadow."

The wraith shrieked in fury, the sound cutting into Ridmark's head like a knife, and billowed towards him. Ridmark danced around the wraith, thrusting and jabbing with his staff. The creature recoiled from every strike, hissing with pain, yet Ridmark's blows seemed only to discomfort it. Had Ridmark still carried Heartwarden, he could have dispatched the wraith with a single swing of blade.

But he only had a staff and Calliande's spell, and he circled the wraith, striking again and again. The terrible chill started to sink into his muscles, his fingers growing numb. It would not affect his ability to fight, not yet, but soon he would start to shiver.

One stumble and the wraith would have him.

Then his staff blazed with white fire, the weapon thrumming with fresh power.

Ridmark did not hesitate, but swung with all his strength, driving the shaft through the wraith's chest. The creature reared back, screaming, and for the first time its ethereal form rippled and blurred. Ridmark thrust his staff like a spear, raking the weapon across the undead creature's face. Calliande's white fire drowned out the eerie blue flame, and the wraith loosed one final shriek and dissolved into smoke.

Ridmark lowered his staff, breathing hard, and the deadly chill faded.

He looked around for more undead, but the fighting was over, and the white fire faded from his staff.

The orcish undead lay motionless below the burial mound, the earth torn and ripped from the sorceress's spells. Kharlacht and Caius lowered their weapons and walked over, while Calliande hurried toward him, Gavin following.

"Are you hurt?" said Calliande.

"No," said Ridmark. "What did you do?"

"Brother Caius and Kharlacht slew all the undead," said Calliande, "so I put all my power into your staff."

"Thank you," said Ridmark. "Your aid was most timely."

"We may need it again," said Calliande, flexing her fingers.

Ridmark followed her gaze and watched as the sorceress approached.

She moved across the grassy patches and the pools with slow, steady grace, the gait of someone well-accustomed to the marshes. She looked lithe and fit, and had she been wearing a proper gown, no doubt would have been lovely enough. Neither Kharlacht nor Caius sheathed their weapons as she approached, and Gavin gripped his sword, but the young woman either did not notice or did not care.

She stopped and gazed at them. Ridmark met her hard black eyes, and saw a wary amusement there.

"Well," she said in Latin at last, "this certainly is a riddle."

Her accent was strange. She spoke Latin with a precise, stately formality. Ridmark would have expected such an accent from a lady in the High King's court of Tarlion, not from a mud-spattered sorceress wandering the marshes of the Wilderland. Strangely, it suited her well – her voice could have made her a capable bard.

"Indeed," said Ridmark, watching her.

"An orc," said the sorceress, her eyes flicking over them, "a dwarf in a monk's robes, a Magistria, a stripling boy with a shield," Gavin scowled at her, "and a man in a gray cloak with a coward's brand who fights with the wrath of a lion. Strange indeed, and there are many strange things in the marshes."

"Yourself among them," said Ridmark, hoping to test her reaction.

A faint smile passed over her pale lips. "Oh, for a certainty, Gray Knight. For that is who you are, is it not? I have heard the tales the townsfolk Moraime tell. The lost knight, wandering forever through the Wilderland to avenge his slain love. A romantic tale. Or it would be, if it were not so foolish. A dead woman can offer a man no comfort."

"Since we stopped the undead from killing you," said Ridmark, "perhaps you ought to be grateful that I am a fool."

A flicker of chagrin went over her face. "Perhaps you are right. I could have handled the corpses on my own. But that wraith...I have no spells to harm such a creature. Just as well you and your pet Magistria came along when you did."

Calliande scowled, and Gavin stepped forward. "You should speak to the Lady Calliande with respect."

"Respect is a wage, boy, not a gift," said the sorceress. "Yet...I thank you for your aid, both you, Gray Knight, and you, Magistria. Having a wraith drain away my life is not how I wished this day to end."

"I suspect," said Ridmark, "we can all agree on that. The undead seemed most interested in you."

"Vexingly so," agreed the sorceress. "I was making my way south when the first band of corpses attacked me. I dispatched them all, and then decided to warn the fools of Moraime of the threat. Likely I passed too close to the ruins of the fortress, and drew the attention of the undead."

"They seemed most interested in you," said Ridmark.

"As if," said Calliande, "you raised them and lost control."

The sorceress smirked. "Or as if they had been commanded to seek out wielders of magic. They hunted you, did they not? Perhaps you raised them."

"Do you have any idea who might have summoned them?" said Ridmark.

"I fear not," said the sorceress. "My guess would be a shaman of the orcish blood gods, but none have been seen in the marshes since Mhalek led the tribes of Vhaluusk to their doom in Andomhaim..." She blinked and smirked at Ridmark again. "But if you truly are the Gray Knight, you already know that."

"You know who I am," said Ridmark. "Might we know who you are?"

The young woman blinked and then laughed. "If you must. You can call me Morigna." She gripped the edges of her tattered cloak and performed an elaborate mockery of a formal curtsy. "And I am pleased to meet you, my lords and lady, in my humble palace, which I hope is to your liking." She looked at Gavin. "Was that respectful enough?"

Gavin opened his mouth, his face going red, but Ridmark spoke first.

"I am Ridmark Arban," he said. "This is Calliande of the Magistri, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Gavin of Aranaeus, and Brother Caius of the mendicant order."

"A peculiar company," said Morigna.

"Almost as peculiar as finding a sorceress in the Wilderland," said Calliande, a hint of ice in her voice. "Where did you learn your magic?"

"Ah," said Morigna. "So that is what you are doing, is it? The Magistria hunting for renegade wizards, outcasts from the Order, while her ragtag band of enforcers trudge after her?"

"Ragtag?" said Gavin, his face turning red again.

"Given the state of your cloak," said Ridmark, "that is a serious accusation to level."

She grinned at him. "And as for my magic, I acquired it in the usual way. I prayed to the forces of darkness for thirteen nights, and then danced naked around a ring of dark elven standing stones. On the thirteenth night, I conjured forth a hundred and one demons and coupled with each of them upon the altar, and in return they bestowed magical powers upon me."

"Casual blasphemy," said Caius, "is hardly a joking matter."

"Why not?" said Morigna. "Given that it amuses me to watch Gavin splutter so."

"And given that we just fought our way through a pack of undead," said Ridmark, cutting off Gavin's furious response, "it is a relevant question."

"Indeed," said Morigna. "My magic manifested when I was a child, and the Old Man taught me."

"The Old Man?" said Ridmark.

"He is a hermit who lives some distance north of Moraime, and he took me as a student."

"What is his name?" said Calliande.

"That is his to tell you, not mine," said Morigna. "And I do not know, in truth. He has claimed many names. But do not fear. The Old Man did not raise your undead. The man is so querulous he could not harm a fly, which is a pity, given that he lives in his own filth. But now that I have answered your question, you shall answer mine."

Ridmark inclined his head.

"Your little ragtag band," said Morigna. "Where is it going?"

"You saw the omen of blue flame thirty-two days past?" said Ridmark.

"It would have been most difficult to miss," said Morigna.

"It was a sign of the return of the Frostborn," said Ridmark.

Morigna scoffed. "The Frostborn are legendary."

"They are not," said Ridmark, "and they are returning. That is certain, but I do not know where or when. But the Warden of Urd Morlemoch warned me of the omen nine years past, and so I travel to Urd Morlemoch once more to wring the answers from him."

Morigna laughed. "Absurd. Well, my first answer was a fanciful tale, so I suppose you are within your rights to repay me in kind. Where are you really going, Ridmark Arban?"

"Urd Morlemoch," said Ridmark again, "to get answers from the Warden."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"Madness," said Morigna. "You...are telling the truth? You truly intend to do this?"

Ridmark nodded.

"Mad, utterly mad," said Morigna. She shrugged. "By why not? If you are the Gray Knight, you went to Urd Morlemoch once before and returned. Nathan told me, before..."

She stopped talking. Clearly, she did not want Ridmark to know about this Nathan, whoever he was.

"So if neither you nor this Old Man raised the undead," said Ridmark, "then who did?"

"I know not," said Morigna. "The magic is a sort I have never sensed before."

"I have," said Calliande. "It reminds me of Shadowbearer's, though it is not his."

"Shadowbearer?" said Morigna. "That is a legend of the dark elves."

"He's not," said Calliande. "I met him."

"How peculiar," said Morigna. "You speak of these legends with such familiarity."

"We saw a trolldomr earlier," said Ridmark. "Do you think he might have done it?"

"Old Rjalfur?" said Morigna with a laugh. "I doubt it. He has lived in the Deeps near here for years, and emerges from time to time to pose riddles to travelers. He is mad, but harmless."

"Does he offer a pot of gold to anyone who answers one of his riddles?" said Caius.

"Alas, no," said Morigna. "Though I have heard that dwarves offer gold to anyone who answers a riddle."

"I fear that is only a tale," said Caius.

"How tragic," said Morigna, turning her attention back to Ridmark. "So. You have fought your way free of the undead. I assume you will continue your fool's quest to Urd Morlemoch?"

"We shall," said Ridmark. "But only after we find the necromancer who raised these undead."

She frowned. "Why? You fought your way free, and with the Magistria's magic you are strong enough that neither the undead nor the necromancer will stop you. Go and leave the problems of others behind."

"I will not," said Ridmark. "Not if it is in my power to aid them."

"But you could die," said Morigna. "You cannot perish in Urd Morlemoch if you die here."

Ridmark shrugged. "All men die."

She stared at him, baffled. As if he had started babbling in a language that she did not know.

"Why?" said Morigna. "Why help them? Do you hope for a reward from the monks?"

"They may do as they like," said Ridmark. "But they are outside of the realm, away from the High King's protection and the aid of the Magistri and the Swordbearers. I would not leave them to their fate."

"I do not understand," said Morigna. "You are strong enough to do as you like. Why waste your time with those too weak to defend themselves?"

"Because it is the duty of all sons of the church to defend the weak and the helpless, as the Dominus Christus instructed," said Caius.

"The words of men a thousand years dead," said Morigna, "do not concern me."

"Then you think the strong should rule over the weak and do as they like?" said Calliande.

"The world is what it is," said Morigna. "What I may or may not wish has no consequence upon it."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "I have learned that myself."

Morigna blinked, and though his words still seem to baffle her, she appeared almost intrigued.

"Then you mean to help the town of Moraime?" said Morigna.

"I do," said Ridmark, "if I can."

"Then I shall travel with you to the town," said Morigna. "I wish to warn them of the undead."

"No," said Calliande at once.

Ridmark looked at her.

"You just gave us that fine speech about the strong ruling the weak," said Calliande, her voice tight with anger, "and users of magic who believe such things tend to abuse their powers. Grievously."

"I have no wish to rule anyone," said Morigna, "merely to be left alone."

"Then why warn the town and the monastery?" said Ridmark.

"Because," said Morigna, "I owe a debt, and I wish to repay it. I owe a man..." She shook her head and looked away. "Suffice it to say I have my own reasons. If you are going to Moraime to warn the monks and their town, I shall come. And if not, I will go on my own."

"No," said Calliande at once. "She's not trustworthy, Ridmark. She's not one of the Magistri."

"In fairness," said Caius, "Alamur was a Magistrius, and he was a traitor and a servant of Shadowbearer."

"I agree with Lady Calliande," said Gavin, glaring at Morigna. She only answered him with a mocking smile.

Kharlacht shrugged. "She handled herself well in the fight against the undead. If there are more of those creatures about, we will need all the aid we can find."

"She used dark magic," said Calliande.

"I did not," said Morigna. "I commanded the earth and the wind to aid me, as the Old Man taught me. Nothing I did drew upon dark magic or necromancy. One would expect a learned Magistria to know the difference. But perhaps the Magistri are not as wise as I was led to believe."

Calliande gave a sharp shake of her head, but said nothing.

"Well, Gray Knight?" said Morigna. "It seems the choice is yours. Shall I accompany you or not?"

"For now," said Ridmark. "Let us travel to Moraime together. There is safety in numbers, and if we are attacked again, we could use your aid. Or if you are attacked by more of those wraiths upon the road, I would not want your death upon my conscience." God knew he had enough upon it already.

"Very well," said Morigna.

"Be warned, though," said Ridmark. "If you have lied to us, if you raised these undead, I will put a stop to it."

She gazed at him for a moment, and then nodded.

"I would expect no less," she said. "Lead on."

"And I shall watch you, too," said Calliande.

"Watch all you like, Magistria," said Morigna, filling the title with scorn. "You shall find nothing. And perhaps you shall even learn a thing or two."

"Enough," said Ridmark. "Let's go. If there are more of these undead about, if some wizard is opening the old orcish burial mounds, the town of Moraime has to be warned. This way."

He led them away from the ruined fortress.

***

## Chapter 4 - Moraime

Morigna was not sure what to make of her new companions.

Or, at least, of their grim-faced leader.

She took the measure of the others easily enough. Morigna had never met a Magistria, but Calliande was just as she had always imagined the Magistri to be – cold, aloof, suspicious, and imperious. The Old Man had always said the Magistri were fools, too enslaved and shackled to their rules to achieve anything, and Calliande did little to dispel that belief. The idiot boy trudging after her was most likely the Magistria's servant.

Kharlacht, likewise, was easy to understand. Morigna had traveled through much of Vhaluusk, and she had spoken and bartered with the orcish tribes of the hills and the mountains. To judge from his cross necklace, Kharlacht was baptized, which was odd, but not impossible. Some of the orcs of the south had listened to the missionaries rather than killing them, and likely Kharlacht was one of them. It was peculiar that an orcish warrior would forsake the old blood gods for the God of the church. The blood gods permitted a warrior to take as many wives and concubines as he wished, while the church of Andomhaim did not. Still, guilt could drive a man to do odd things.

Morigna knew that better than she might have wished.

The dwarven friar was an enigma, but not much of one. She had seen a few dwarves as they traveled through the Wilderland, and they were grim and silent and humorless, keeping to themselves and speaking only when necessary, stopping every night to offer prayers to the Stone Heart in the Deeps. Caius, by contrast, never seemed to shut up, and laughed often. She wondered how he had become a friar. Perhaps it was a rebellion against his people.

But she could not understand Ridmark Arban.

She had heard the stories of the Gray Knight, of course, of the gray-cloaked warrior who wandered the Wilderland to avenge some dead woman. She had certainly not expected him to be real. And she had certainly not expected him to have a coward's brand, the sigil of a broken sword, marked upon his left cheek. The knights of Andomhaim only received those brands for the gravest crimes, for the most egregious acts of cowardice.

But this man was clearly no coward.

Certainly a coward would not fight a creature like that wraith. And a coward could not command the loyalty of his followers as did Ridmark Arban. Morigna would have expected the Magistria to lead the little group. But she obeyed Ridmark instead. They all did. A former knight, a man with a coward's brand upon his cheek, and they followed his decisions.

Stranger and stranger.

"Tell me, friar," said Morigna, since Caius seemed the most inclined to talk, "how does a dwarf of the Three Kingdoms become a brother of the mendicants? It must be a remarkable tale."

Kharlacht grunted. "Perhaps he saw a witch coupling with demons in the night, and the sight drove him to the church."

Gavin laughed.

"Regrettably, I fear the story is not quite so lurid," said Caius. "Missionaries came to the court of Khald Tormen, and I heard the gospel of the Dominus Christus and believed. I left the Three Kingdoms and went to Tarlion to learn more. Alas, I found many of the priests and lords of Tarlion complacent in their faith, so I went north to spread the word of the Dominus Christus among the pagan orcish tribes of the Wilderland."

"A foolish course," said Morigna. "The tribes of Vhaluusk are not receptive to missionaries. Many a chieftain has a wall lined with missionaries' skulls."

"All things are in the hand of God," said Caius, "and if that is my fate, it shall be as God decrees. And it would have been my fate, if not for Ridmark."

"Oh?" said Morigna, looking at the gray-cloaked man. He had not spoken, but she was sure that he was listening.

"I was taken prisoner by some Mhalekite orcs," said Caius, "and he slew them. A score of foes, and he overcame them."

"You exaggerate," said Ridmark, not glancing back at them as he led the way through the marsh. "There were only four."

"And you?" said Morigna, looking at Kharlacht. "He saved your life, too?"

"After a fashion," said Kharlacht. "We fought a duel below the walls of Dun Licinia, when the Mhalekites laid siege to the town, and he spared my life."

"Truly?" said Morigna, surprised. "And you follow him now?"

Kharlacht shrugged. "I had nowhere else to go."

"Certainly somewhere other than Urd Morlemoch, one would think," said Morigna.

"What of you, madam?" said Caius. "Perhaps our stories are remarkable, but I am sure yours is as well. One does not often come across lovely young sorceresses wandering the swamps of the Wilderland."

"Flattery, dwarf?" said Morigna.

"I merely state the truth," said Caius. "Though you needn't fear for your virtue. I have taken a vow of celibacy...and had I not, well, human women are far too thin and tall."

Gavin laughed, turned a bit red again, and fell silent.

"So," said Caius, "how does a young sorceress wind up living in the swamps of the Wilderland?"

"Yes," said Calliande. For a moment her blue eyes looked just as cold as Ridmark's. "I would be most interested in knowing that myself. Human wielders of magic are rare outside of the Magistri."

Morigna offered a chilly smile to the other woman. "And they often turn out to be crazed wielders of dark magic?"

"I can say in all candor," said Calliande, "that has entirely been my experience."

"Very well," said Morigna. "My parents were born in Moraime, so far as I know, and hunted and trapped outside the town walls. There are entrances to the Deeps in the hills northwest of the town, and one day some dvargir raiders from the Deeps came to the surface looking for slaves. My father fought back, and they killed him and my mother in front of me."

"May God rest their souls," said Caius.

"I'm sorry," said Calliande.

Morigna shrugged. "It was long ago. I was no more than five or six at the time. I barely remember it."

Yet she still had nightmares about it, remembered the house burning, remembered her mother's frantic screams, dark shapes wrapped in shadow pouring through the door.

"Plainly," said Kharlacht, "you escaped."

"Yes, plainly," said Morigna. "How terribly observant. I ran from my father's house and into the hills, and the dvargir followed. They would have killed me, but my magic manifested in rage and I killed two of them. And then the Old Man came and slew the others with his spells."

"A tragic story," said Caius. "I am sorry."

Morigna shrugged. "It was fourteen years ago. The Old Man took me in and raised me, and taught me how to use my magic."

"He should have taken you to the Magistri," said Calliande. "Your spells are earth magic, drawing upon the power of the world around you. That is dangerous for humans to use, a doorway to dark magic and worse things. If he had taken you to the Magistri, they could have taught you how to use the magic of the Well, magic to heal and defend and seek, magic you can use without putting yourself at risk."

"The Old Man said the Magistri were not trustworthy," said Morigna, "that they had been corrupted. Can you say otherwise?"

A shadow went over Calliande's face. For all her pride, she was not that much older than Morigna. How much of her confident pose was only a mask?

"No," she said at last. "No, I cannot."

Morigna shrugged. "The Old Man said much the same. He took me in and taught me to use my magic, and I have studied with him ever since."

"And wandered the swamps on your own, it seems," said Caius.

"The Old Man is hardly a tyrant, but he is not pleasant to live with, and I have lived alone since I was twelve," said Morigna. "I can look after myself."

"So that is what you do, then?" said Calliande. "Wander the swamps?"

"I travel across Vhaluusk as I please," said Morigna. "Otherwise I am alone with my own company, and I find that preferable."

At least, she had, once upon a time. But then she had met Nathan and things had changed.

Now she did not know.

"I am surprised you are still alive," said Kharlacht. "Vhaluusk is a dangerous place."

"Vhaluusk and the Wilderland are very dangerous places," said Morigna. "And not just from your kindred. The dvargir scum, the horrors the dark elves left in their ruins, the Mhalekites and the lupivirii..."

"The lupivirii," said Gavin, "are extremely dangerous."

"And what would you know of them?" said Morigna.

This time he only offered a thin smile in answer to her mockery. "You might be surprised."

Morigna doubted that. "But I have my magic, and I keep my wits about me. This world is one where the strong prey upon the weak. The only security is power...and I have power of my own."

"A dangerous attitude," said Calliande. "It leads to abuse of that power."

"A lie," said Morigna, "told by those with power to keep the weak in their place. Just as your church tells lies to keep the peasants docile and complacent."

Caius raised his graying eyebrows. "Then you think the teachings of the church are a lie?"

"I do," said Morigna. The Old Man had always said so, and she had seen nothing to make her change her mind. "The meek are called blessed because they are too cowardly to take power for themselves. They..."

Calliande, Caius, Kharlacht, and Gavin all started to argue with her, but Ridmark spoke first. The others fell silent and looked at him, and Morigna marveled at that.

The man indeed had a commanding presence.

"The Old Man," said Ridmark, "this hermit who raised you."

"What about him?" said Morigna.

"You said he was timid," said Ridmark, "that he wouldn't hurt a fly."

Morigna nodded, feeling the weight of his gaze as he looked back at him. "He wouldn't. He avoids confrontation whenever possible."

"But this is the same man," said Ridmark, "who rescued you from the dvargir as a child. I have fought the dvargir before, and they are dangerous foes."

"His magic is powerful," said Morigna.

"Clearly," said Ridmark. "I wish to meet him."

Morigna frowned. "You think him responsible for raising the undead? He is not." She glared at Calliande. "I have never seen him use dark magic, and he does not involve himself in the affairs of others."

"I did not say that," said Ridmark, calm in the face of her anger. "I wish to speak with him nonetheless. If he is as powerful as you say, he might know who has been raising these undead."

"I see," said Morigna. That made sense, but if Ridmark decided that the Old Man had raised the undead, then he would attack. For all his magical power, Morigna doubted that the Old Man could defend himself against someone like Ridmark Arban. Still, Ridmark did not seem like the sort to kill on suspicion, and he would find no reason for suspicion, since the Old Man had nothing to do with the undead. "Very well. Once we warn the folk of Moraime, I shall lead you to his home, and you may speak to him yourself."

"Thank you," said Ridmark.

He walked in silence for a moment, then turned as if something had just occurred to him.

"The townsfolk," he said. "How are they likely to react to you?"

"To me?" said Morigna. "What do you mean?"

"Obviously they know you, if you've been there before," said Ridmark. "The monks of the monastery of St. Cassian rule the town, and they are kindlier masters than many of the other rulers of the Wilderland. The dark elves, for instance, or the pagan orcs."

"Or the urdmordar," said Gavin.

"As if you would know," said Morigna.

"But the town of Moraime is a small island of order in a sea of wilderness and dangerous creatures," said Ridmark. "Such folk quickly become suspicious...and often rightly so, given the dangers that surround them."

"Such as me, perhaps?" said Morigna.

"I cannot imagine that the men of Moraime think well of a renegade wizard living in the hills near the town," said Ridmark, "or of his apprentice. How will they react to you?"

"With suspicion," Morigna admitted.

"Justified suspicion?" said Ridmark.

His blue eyes seemed to cut right through her.

"No," said Morigna. "No. It is not. But...they do not see it that way."

"I see," said Ridmark. "We shall be careful, then. And you would do well to heed Gavin's warning."

"Warning?" she said, confused. "About what?"

"About facing an urdmordar," said Ridmark. "Given that he stood a few paces from a female urdmordar before she fell in battle."

Morigna blinked in astonishment. The urdmordar were deadly, and only powerful magic could slay a female urdmordar. She looked at Gavin and saw no trace of boasting, but only a distant look in his eyes, the look of a much older man who had survived terrible dangers at great cost.

Perhaps there was more to the idiot boy than she had thought.

Ridmark turned away, and they kept walking.

They left the marshes behind and came to a hill-dotted plain. Once, Morigna knew, it had been part of the vast forests covering the Wilderland. But then the monks had settled upon the hill of Moraime after the defeat of the Frostborn, and the town had grown up around the monastery of St. Cassian. Now most of the trees had been cut down, and fields and pastures dotted the countryside. Nearly all the fields had been newly turned, and the spring planting was well underway.

"Where is everyone?" said Kharlacht. "It is only a little past noon."

"They ought to be busy with the planting," said Gavin, "if they do not want to starve come winter."

Ridmark looked at Morigna. "Is there some festival in the town? A fair, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "None."

"It reminds me of Aranaeus," said Kharlacht, "when the folk had retreated behind the walls for fear of the wolfmen."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "Perhaps we were not the only ones the undead attacked. Stay on your guard."

They took a well-worn dirt road that wound its way through the hills, and came to Moraime perhaps an hour later.

The monastery stood in the town's center, built upon a rocky crag of a hill. Out of necessity, the monks had built their home in the form of a castra, a strong fortress with tall towers and a thick outer wall. Generations of devoted labor had carved the stones for the monastery, raising them into proud towers and strong walls.

The town, home to perhaps fifteen hundred people, encircled the monastery's hill. The monks had built a small oasis of order in the chaos of the Wilderland, and over the centuries others had come to shelter in that oasis. Refugees fleeing the endless wars of the pagan orc tribes, slaves escaped from the dvargir and the dark elves, and those who wished to leave the realm of Andomhaim for whatever reason. They came to Moraime and settled, and the monks welcomed everyone who lived in peace and accepted the teachings of the church and the Dominus Christus.

The Old Man, with his dim view of the church, had never tried to settle within the town's strong stone walls.

Of course, with his magic, he hardly needed their protection.

"The gates are shut," said Ridmark.

"They shouldn't be," said Morigna. "Not at this time of day. Not unless..."

"The town is threatened," said Ridmark.

He led the way to the wall. It stood twenty feet tall, topped by a rampart. Men from the town's militia stood over the gate, crossbows in hand, and they leveled their weapons.

"Hold!" shouted their sergeant. "Identify yourselves!"

"My name is Ridmark Arban," said Ridmark, "and this is the Magistria Calliande." He gestured at the blond woman. "We are traveling through the Wilderland, and were attacked by corpses raised by dark magic. We hope to shelter within your walls before continuing upon our way."

"A Magistria?" said the sergeant. "Truly?"

"I am," said Calliande.

"Then your aid is sorely needed," said the sergeant. "Bands of those corpses have been wandering the countryside, attacking farms and pastures. The walls have kept them out, but steel won't hurt those things. Only fire harms them. Your magic could help us. We..."

"Sir!" said one of the men, pointing. "It's her!"

He pointed at Morigna.

The sergeant's eyes narrowed. "The witch who killed Sir Nathan?"

"I did not kill Nathan!" said Morigna, her temper rising. "I told you all. The urvaalg killed him. Had you a spark of wit, you would have believed me!"

"Sir Jonas said you killed his brother!" said the sergeant.

"Who," said Ridmark, calm as ever, "is Sir Nathan?"

"The brother of Sir Michael, the praefectus of the town," said Morigna. "He thinks that I killed Nathan."

"Did you?" said Ridmark.

She wanted to scream at him. Instead she took a deep breath. "No. I did not."

"Get Sir Michael," said the sergeant. "He'll want to see this." One of the men ran from the ramparts, and the rest leveled their crossbows. "You lot, stay where you are. Anything suspicious, we'll fill you with shafts."

"Yes, how fine, how noble," said Morigna, glaring up at them. "These strangers have come to offer you aid against the undead, and you threaten them?"

"It wouldn't surprise me if you raised the undead," said the sergeant, "you and that crazy wizard in the hills."

"I did not, and neither did he!" said Morigna. She wanted to summon her powers and teach these fools a lesson. "And I..."

"Enough," said Ridmark. She glared at him. "We'll speak to Sir Michael when he comes."

So they waited.

A few moments later the portcullis rattled up, the gate swung open, and Sir Michael Vorinus stalked out, accompanied by a pair of militiamen with spears. He was a tall, balding man, with arms like tree trunks and a hard face behind a bushy, graying beard. A man who looked like a younger version of Sir Michael followed him. Sir Jonas Vorinus, Michael's younger brother, looked at Morigna and scowled, contempt glinting in his eyes.

Then he saw Ridmark, and his eyes widened with surprise.

He knew Ridmark?

Then Michael looked at Morigna.

"So," said Michael, "the dead walk in the hills and the marshes, the folk flee behind the walls of the town, and the witch of the hills, the murderer of my brother, dares to show her face here."

"I did not kill Nathan," said Morigna. "That urvaalg killed him. I tried to save him, but I could not."

Michael made a dismissive wave of his hand. "Even if your hand did not deal the death blow, you led him to his death. His foolish infatuation with you was his undoing."

A wave of fury rolled through Morigna. She had tried to save Nathan. To be reminded of his death, to have it thrown in her face before Ridmark and his companions, almost enraged her beyond reason.

But Ridmark spoke before she could do anything rash.

"I am sorry for the death of your brother," said Ridmark. "But you face a more immediate peril. We are passing through the Wilderland, and had hoped to buy supplies and rest in Moraime. But we were attacked by a band of undead in the marshes, and found another group attacking Morigna."

Michael sneered. "And why should I believe the word of a man who wears the brand of a coward? Even if you are an honest man, which I doubt, the witch could have enchanted you."

"A fair point," said Ridmark. "Would you believe the word of a Magistria?"

He turned his head, and Calliande lifted her right hand. A ball of white light shimmered and danced over her fingers, and Michael's eyes grew wide.

"Then you are truly a Magistria?" said Michael. "That wasn't a lie?"

"I am," said Calliande, cool and serene. Morigna did not like the other woman, but she had to admit that Calliande could look commanding, even queenly, when she wished. "My name is Calliande, and if I can aid you against these undead, I shall. The abuse of magic is evil, an affront to the laws of both God and man, and I will not allow it."

Morigna suspected that little speech had not been aimed at Michael.

"Thank you, Lady Calliande," said Michael. "Any aid will be welcome." He turned to Ridmark. "And just who are you?"

"My name is Ridmark Arban," said Ridmark.

Michael's eyes narrowed.

"Brother," said Jonas, gripping his elder brother's shoulder, "he's telling the truth. You've heard the tales of the Gray Knight?"

"The gray warrior that aids travelers?" said Michael.

"You remember the Swordbearer that passed through the town nine years ago?" said Jonas. "When our father was still praefectus?"

"The Swordbearer?" said Michael, his eyes growing distant with memory. "But...that man said he was going to Urd Morlemoch. He..."

"He did," said Ridmark, "and he lived to tell the tale." He paused. "Barely."

Morigna found herself staring at him in astonishment. She had thought his tale of traveling to Urd Morlemoch a madman's folly. But he had already entered the Warden's ancient fortress and returned? Even the Old Man was unnerved by the thought of going anywhere near Urd Morlemoch.

Just what kind of man was Ridmark Arban?

"Forgive me, Swordbearer," said Michael. "I saw you nine years ago, when you stayed with the monks. I had...I had thought you dead long ago."

"There is nothing to forgive," said Ridmark. "I came home by a different route. And do not call me a Swordbearer. I lost the right to that title."

"I see," said Michael, looking at the brand. "Then...why have you come to Moraime now?"

"The omen of blue fire a month past?" said Ridmark. Michael nodded. "It is a sign of the return of the Frostborn. The Warden warned me against it when I was last in Urd Morlemoch. Now that I have seen the omen, I am going back to Urd Morlemoch to wring more answers from the Warden."

"You escaped from Urd Morlemoch," said Michael, "and now you are going back there? God and all his saints, man. You are either valiant beyond all measure or a madman."

"Likely the latter," said Ridmark, and Kharlacht snorted. "But my companions and I shall aid you against the undead, if we can."

"We should be glad for any aid," said Michael. "Especially from the honored Magistria. These undead...weapons of mortal steel do not harm them. The walls keep them out, but they range over our fields, and if we do not get a crop into the ground soon, we will starve come winter."

"Someone is raising the undead," said Ridmark. "It is possible a wizard called Shadowbearer is raising them. Have you encountered him at all?"

Jonas snorted. "A legend of the dark elves."

"No," said Calliande. "I wish he was, but he is not."

"An elven wizard?" said Michael. "My lady, Sir...ah, Ridmark, there are no elves here, whether high or dark. We are mostly humans, with some orcs and halflings. Sometimes dwarves pass through on their way to the Three Kingdoms or their enclave in Coldinium, but no elves."

"Then do you have any suspicions?" said Ridmark. "An orcish shaman of the blood gods could do it. Or some other renegade wizard."

"The Old Man," said Michael at once.

"No," said Morigna. "He would not do it."

Michael scowled. "The man has magic, and refuses to speak to anyone. He has hidden himself in the hills for as long as anyone can remember, but he has nothing to do with the town."

"Much as I am loathe to agree with the witch," said Jonas, "she may have a point. The Old Man has left the town alone for decades. Why trouble us now?"

"Why indeed?" said Ridmark. "Perhaps..."

Shouts rang out from inside the town, and a militiaman in leather armor sprinted through the gates.

"Sir Michael!" shouted the young man, his face pale with terror. "Sir Michael!"

"What is it, lad?" said Michael. "Speak!"

"The undead," said the militiaman. "They're inside the town!"

"What?" said Michael. "They got over the walls?"

"No, sir," said the militiaman. "They're rising from the crypts below the monastery! Sir, what shall we do?"

***

## Chapter 5 - The Monastery

Sir Michael stared at the messenger, and Ridmark realized that the older man was at a loss.

The praefectus had done everything right so far by closing the gates, sealing the town, and putting a guard upon the wall. Given the number of raiders that wandered the Wilderland, Sir Michael had to be a veteran fighter. But fighting the undead, Ridmark realized, was outside of Michael's experience.

"Have they broken out of the monastery yet?" said Michael at last.

"No, sir," said the militiaman. "The monks barred the doors to the crypt. But it will not hold for long. What shall we do, sir? If the dead men get into the streets it will be a slaughter."

"We must abandon the town," said Jonas. "We cannot fight those creatures on an even footing."

"And where will the people shelter?" said Michael. "What shall they eat? If we move everyone outside the walls, we will be vulnerable to every band of undead that happens to come along...or pagan orcs raiding from the north or kobolds out of the Deeps."

"If we stay it will be a slaughter," said Jonas. "There must be hundreds of tombs in the monastery's crypts, and if all those corpses rise at once and swarm into the village..."

"Let us help," said Ridmark.

Both Michael and Jonas looked at him.

"The undead are still trapped in the monastery's crypt?" said Ridmark. The messenger nodded. "Sir Michael, then the time to act is now. My friends and I have experience fighting the undead, and we have the aid of a Magistria. If we attack at once, perhaps we can overcome the undead at the crypt and hold both the monastery and the town. But only if we act immediately."

"I do not know," said Michael.

"If you abandon Moraime now," said Ridmark, "you will never get it back. The undead will hold the town, and your people will be scattered across the Wilderland." Jonas scowled at him, but Ridmark ignored it. "The Wilderland is dotted with hundreds of ruined villages. If you abandon the town now, Moraime will be just one more of them"

"Let us act boldly, Sir Michael," said Caius, "for the Lord has given us a spirit of boldness, not of fear." Morigna rolled her eyes, but thankfully, kept her mouth shut.

"Yes, you're right," said Michael with a sharp nod. "We must either risk everything or lose everything." He looked up at the rampart. "Sergeant! Close the gates after we go through, and keep watch upon the countryside. If some malignant intelligence controls the undead, it might decide to launch an attack upon the walls while we deal with the undead in the crypt."

"It was what I would do," said Ridmark.

"Gray Knight, thank you for your aid," said Michael. "You know us not, yet you go into grave peril beside us."

"Do not thank us yet," said Ridmark. "Not until the battle is won. I suggest we hasten."

"The undead will not remain in the crypt for long," said Michael. "Come!"

He strode through the gate. Jonas scowled at Ridmark once more, and then followed his brother. Ridmark wondered if he had somehow offended the younger knight. He had never seen Jonas before, but perhaps he met him during his previous visit to Moraime.

It was something he could worry about later.

Assuming the undead did not kill every single person in the town.

"Calliande," said Ridmark, following Jonas and Michael. "How many weapons could you enspell at once?"

"I'm not sure," said Calliande. "But the more weapons I augment, the harder it is for me to hold the spell. I could enspell our weapons and a few more, perhaps. Any more than that, and I doubt I could maintain the spell for long."

Ridmark nodded. The monks had lived atop the hill for centuries, carving crypts into the rock below their home. If he remembered correctly, only the monks were buried beneath the hill, while the townsmen buried their dead in the graveyard outside the wall. But even that meant hundreds of undead could have been raised in the crypts below the monastery.

And that also meant the necromancer could be here in Moraime.

"Keep your sensing spell in place," said Ridmark to Calliande in a low voice. "I wonder if our renegade wizard is in the town."

Calliande nodded. "The same thought occurred to me."

Morigna overheard them. "I can sense the presence of magic as well."

Calliande opened her mouth to argue, but Ridmark spoke first.

"Two sets of eyes are better than one," he said. "Keep watch."

Morigna nodded and whispered the spell. Ridmark was not yet sure what to make of her. She was pretty, but he knew that beauty was often a mask for something darker. She was arrogant and abrasive, yet had fought the undead in the marsh without flinching. And he suspected that much of her abrasiveness was a pose to hide a great deal of fear and loss.

She had looked bleak when Michael mentioned Sir Nathan.

Another riddle he could ponder later.

Moraime had changed little in the nine years since Ridmark's last visit. Most of the houses had been built of rough-cut stone and mortar, with tilted roofs of fired clay tiles to ward away the Wilderland's harsh winters. The street from the gate led them to the village's square, and Ridmark saw a large stone church, flanked on either side by halls for the stonemasons and the potters. Everywhere he saw signs of preparation for a siege, with women making bandages and arrows and carrying supplies to the walls, while men drilled with sword and spear. The newcomers drew stares, and townsmen looked alarmed at the sight of Morigna. She ignored the stares, her head held high with arrogant contempt. She claimed she did not know who had raised the undead, and Ridmark believed her.

But he suspected she knew a great deal more than she claimed.

A narrow road circled the rocky hill and led to the monastery's curtain wall. The gate opened into a wide courtyard. Monks in brown robes hurried back and forth, many of them carrying crossbows. In the south, the monastic orders renounced violence, but in the Wilderland, monks did not have that luxury. A massive stone keep rose from the center of the courtyard, ringed in towers. Ridmark saw a small mob of monks and novices struggling at a set of doors in the keep's base, near the entrance to the chapel.

The doors to the crypts.

"Sir Michael," said a rasping, gravelly voice.

The abbot of the monastery and the leader of Moraime hobbled towards them. The abbot was an elderly orcish man, so old that only a few wisps of white hair clung to his green scalp, his tusks yellowed and worn. He leaned heavily upon a cane in his right hand, yet hobbled towards them with surprising speed.

"Abbot Ulakhur," said Michael with a bow, and Ridmark and the others followed suit. Morigna only crossed her arms and glared at the old orc.

"You have brought guests," said Ulakhur, blinking his watery black eyes. "And the witch of the hills is with you."

"Forgive me, lord abbot," said Michael, "but this is Ridmark Arban, the Gray Knight of the tales. The woman with him is Calliande of the Magistri, and they have come to offer help."

"You have?" said Ulakhur. "We sorely need aid." The doors to the crypt thumped, the hinges creaking. "If those devils get out, it shall be a slaughter. I have commanded the brothers to seal the gates in the wall and retreat to the ramparts. If necessary, we shall fire the monastery and hope the undead are caught in the blaze."

"With respect, lord abbot, that may be necessary," said Ridmark. "Lady Calliande can enchant our weapons to make them proof against the undead. If we force the undead to come at us here, perhaps we can defeat them."

"Ridmark," said Calliande, "there might be another way. I can sense...something inside the hill, some source of dark magic in the crypts."

"I can detect it, too," Morigna announced. "I think it is the source of the power that raised the undead."

"The necromancer himself?" said Ridmark.

"Perhaps," said Morigna.

"No," said Calliande with a distracted shake of her head. "A...totem, a relic. An object, I think. Something that was left in the crypts and then activated.

"Then if we find and destroy it," said Ridmark, "perhaps we can return the dead to their rest." He looked at Ulakhur. "Lord abbot, with your permission, we shall enter the crypts and find this relic."

"You risk much on our behalf," said Ulakhur. "Go with our blessings and prayers."

"If this goes ill," said Michael, "we should withdraw the brothers to the wall, lord abbot, with crossbows and torches ready. If the Gray Knight fails, we should prepare to fire the monastery."

Ulakhur sighed. "Make what preparations you think best, Sir Michael. Gray Knight, you have our thanks. Though I am unsure of the presence of the witch of the hills."

Morigna scowled and started to speak, but Ridmark interrupted her. "She fought the undead outside of the town, lord abbot. I do not believe she means Moraime ill, and we need all the aid we can find."

"Very well," said Ulakhur. "Go with God and his saints."

Michael shouted orders, and the monks abandoned the crypt doors and headed for the walls. The militiamen moved to follow Michael, and Jonas hesitated, looking back and forth between Ridmark and his brother. Ridmark met his gaze, and Jonas scowled, sneered, and went after the militiamen.

The crypt doors shuddered, one of the planks splintering, and Ridmark glimpsed dark shapes moving behind the doors.

And a hint of ghostly blue flame.

"Prepare yourselves," said Ridmark, raising his staff.

###

Calliande took a deep breath and let her magical senses wash over the monastery one last time.

She felt the peculiar power of Morigna's earth magic, strange and alien. But it lacked the icy malevolence of the power binding the corpses behind the door, of the source of power buried in the crypt.

Gavin drew his sword and set his shield, putting himself in front of Calliande.

Morigna laughed. "Defending the women, boy? I need no one to defend me."

"I wasn't thinking of defending you," said Gavin, not looking at Morigna.

"Gavin," said Calliande, "go with Ridmark. When the undead break through the doors, he will need your help."

Gavin hesitated, nodded, and hurried to join Ridmark and the other men.

"Does he usually shield you in battle?" said Morigna.

"Yes," said Calliande, releasing her sensing spell and summoning more power, "effectively."

"Well, fear not," said Morigna with her mocking smile. "I'll look after you while you enchant the weapons."

"How very comforting," said Calliande.

She could deal with Morigna later, once the undead had been defeated. The woman was dangerous, and Calliande was sure that she had lied to Ridmark. Even if she had not used dark magic, she seemed well along on the path to becoming someone like Talvinius of the Eternalists or Alamur.

But for now, they had to work together to defeat the undead.

Calliande cast a spell. White fire burst from her hands, and Ridmark's staff began to glow with white light, as did Kharlacht's sword, Gavin's blade, and Caius's mace.

The doors burst open, and the undead came forth.

The undead in the marshes had been orcs, long-dead warriors of Vhaluusk. These undead had once been monks of Moraime, still clad in their crumbling robes. Generations of monks had been buried in the crypts, until the dark magic had defiled their graves and raised them up as undead.

On the plus side, it meant none of the undead carried armor or weapons. No one buried monks with swords and daggers.

Ridmark and the others charged into the horde of undead.

Kharlacht carved into them like a man harvesting wheat, his blue greatsword inscribing white-glowing arcs through the undead monks. Every blow severed a head or a skeletal arm. Caius followed the tall orc, hammering with his mace. Whenever an undead monk drew too near, Caius darted into the gap, his brown robes billowing around him, and shattered a skull or a leg. Gavin guarded the dwarven friar, bashing with his shield and striking with the orcish sword he had taken from the arachar in Aranaeus.

But Ridmark tore through the undead like a storm.

His staff had a steel core, and Calliande knew firsthand how heavy the weapon was. Yet he wielded the staff as if it weighed no more than a light willow branch. He fought through the undead, striking right and left, shifting his grip from one-handed to two-handed and back again. The creatures reached for him, rotting robes billowing around them, but Ridmark remained just ahead of them, so close that Calliande feared that he would fall again and again.

But they never touched him, and he left a score of broken corpses in his wake.

She had never seen a warrior like him. Of course, she could not remember anything that had happened before she had awakened thirty-two days ago. But even if she could, she doubted she could recall a man like Ridmark Arban.

Ridmark, Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin tore through the undead, driving them back toward the crypt.

More of the creatures poured out of the doors, and some of them got past Ridmark and the others and charged Calliande, drawn by her magic like flies to a lamp.

"Morigna," said Calliande, her hands trembling as she struggled to maintain the spell around the weapons.

She expected a mocking answer, but Morigna only stepped forward, purple fire crackling around her fingers. The sorceress clapped her hands, and a ripple went through the ground, the heavy flagstones of the courtyard folding and bending like paper. The shock wave knocked a half-dozen undead to the ground. At once the creatures started to rise, but Morigna gestured again. Mist billowed from the ground, wrapping around the undead. Calliande wondered what good that would do, but the undead sizzled and hissed. The acidic mist ate into their rotting flesh and dissolved their bones, and the undead collapsed into piles of burning slime.

Unease went through Calliande. The Magistri used their magic to defend, to heal, and to seek knowledge, never to harm or kill. What would stop Morigna from conjuring acidic mist against living men?

Morigna raked her hands through the air, face tight with strain, and knocked another wave of undead monks into her pool of burning mist. They dissolved into smoke and slime, the stench hideous, and Ridmark and the others battled to the doors of the crypt.

Silence fell over the courtyard.

Calliande looked around. Dozens of undead lay strewn across the ground, their skulls and limbs smashed. No more issued from the crypt doors, and Ridmark and the others stood at the threshold, glowing weapons in hand.

"Is that it?" said Calliande. "We destroyed them all already?"

"No," said Ridmark. "There's more down there."

"Torches?" said Gavin.

"No need," said Morigna, lifting a hand. "I can provide the necessary light."

She lifted her right hand, mist swirling above it, and for an alarmed moment Calliande thought she meant to attack. But the ball of mist began to glow with a gray light, shining brighter and brighter.

"Good enough," said Ridmark, and they descended into the darkness.

###

Scuttling noises echoed in crypt's darkness.

Morigna's eerie spell-light threw back the darkness, but cast crazed shadows in all directions. Massive, thick pillars supported the vaulted ceiling, and hundreds of graves had been cut into the floor, sealed with lids of stone.

Most of the lids had been smashed open.

Ridmark raised his staff, the weapon's glow helping to throw back the darkness. He glimpsed dark shapes moving in the distant shadows of the vast crypt, caught glimpses of empty eyes gleaming with pale blue flames. Yet none of the undead approached.

The creatures had shown no cunning during the fight in the marsh, and none during the fighting in the courtyard. Did that mean the necromancer was down here, controlling his minions?

But why? Why loose the bands of undead in the countryside? Why raise the dead below the monastery? The attacks seemed to have no purpose.

Or they had a purpose that Ridmark could not yet see.

"Morigna," he said, not bothering to keep his voice low. The light would have alerted anyone watching for intruders. "Do you sense anything?"

"Aye," said Morigna, the light shining from her right hand, her left moving in the gestures of a spell. "At the far wall, I think. The dark magic is coming from there."

Ridmark nodded and kept walking, careful to keep his footing amongst the opened tombs. Broken stone lay everywhere, and the stench of dust and rotten flesh was heavy in the air. He heard the scuttling of the undead in the darkness, but none of the creatures attacked.

He suspected that they were talking into a trap.

"Gray Knight," rumbled Kharlacht, peering into the gloom. "A corpse ahead."

"We are surrounded by walking corpses," said Morigna. "Have you only now just noticed?"

The big orc ignored her. "A dwarven corpse, I think."

"Dwarven?" said Caius.

"And fresh," said Kharlacht.

Morigna raised her right hand, the light brightening, and Ridmark saw the corpse.

The short, stocky figure lay on its back, armored in black metal that looked somehow wet and reflective while absorbing the light. The gray-skinned face was utterly hairless, and a serrated black sword of the same metal lay in its right hand, a pointed shield near its left.

Morigna began to swear in a furious voice.

"God save us," said Caius.

"Why?" said Gavin. "What's wrong?"

"That isn't a dwarf," said Ridmark.

"What is it, then?" said Kharlacht.

"Look at its shadow," said Ridmark.

Kharlacht frowned. "It doesn't have one."

The broken stones and the pillars all cast shadows in Morigna's hazy gray light.

But the black-armored corpse did not, its armor drinking the light.

"That," said Ridmark, "is the corpse of a dvargir."

"Once of my kindred," said Caius, his voice shaken, "but turned to worship the great void revered by the dark elves."

Like the Enlightened of Incariel.

"What would a dvargir be doing down here?" said Calliande.

"They killed my parents," spat Morigna. "Most probably they came here to attack Moraime."

"Our dark cousins know necromancy," said Caius.

"How did it get in here?" said Kharlacht. "This hill is solid rock."

"That would be no obstacle to the engineering skill of the dvargir," said Caius.

Ridmark stepped over an opened tomb and examined at the corpse. The dead dvargir showed no sign of a wound. Its eyes looked like polished disks of black granite, harsh and staring.

"Gray Knight," said Morigna. "The source of dark power. You are near it."

Ridmark nodded and lifted his staff like a torch, using its white glow to throw back the gloom. He was only a few yards from the crypt's far wall, and he saw skulls resting in niches, their empty eyes staring at him.

A gleam of metal caught his attention...

"Ridmark!" shouted Calliande, and a deathly chill went through the crypt.

And all at once Ridmark realized that the dead dvargir had indeed been a trap.

He spun just as six hooded, translucent figures rose from the floor. The wraith outside of the burial mound had been the image of a long-dead orcish shaman. These wraiths looked like ancient monks, bent with age, heavy gray beards hanging from their chins.

And one wraith had been almost more than Ridmark could defeat.

Six would kill them all.

Morigna and Calliande both began casting spells, and four of the wraiths flowed towards them. Two turned toward Ridmark, and he backed away, feeling his staff's vibration fade as Calliande drew power for her spell. Even with her magic, even with Morigna's help, they could not possibly defeat six wraiths at once. Six of the damned things could likely kill everyone in Moraime.

The wraiths reached for him, and Ridmark was out of time.

He whirled, sprinted at the wall, and plunged his staff into one of the burial niches with all his strength, aiming for the metal he had seen earlier. From the staff's fading glow he saw a skull crowned with an elaborate diadem, jewels glittering in the metal.

Jewels that flickered with a pale glow of their own.

Ridmark smashed his staff into the skull, and it shattered against the stone wall, the diadem snapping.

A pulse of cold blue fire erupted from the wall, washing over him and illuminating the crypt. The flames did not burn him, but he felt a terrible chill from their touch. The fire rolled through the crypt, and the wraiths dissolved into smoke at their touch, while the undead monks quivered and collapsed motionless to the floor.

Ridmark let out a long breath and caught his balance, leaning on his staff for a moment.

"Is anyone wounded?" he said.

"No," said Calliande. "Well, yes. Some scrapes, some cuts. But none of the wraiths touched us."

"What did you do?" said Morigna. "There was a surge of power...and then nothing."

Ridmark turned and took careful steps towards the others. They were all alive, God and his saints be praised. Both Kharlacht and Gavin had taken some cuts, and already Calliande was working spells to heal them.

"There was a... totem," said Ridmark. "A human skull, crowned with a diadem, blue gems in the metal. I guessed it was the source of the power, and I shattered it." He rolled his shoulders, stretching the aching muscles. He had done a lot of fighting today. "It seemed to do the trick."

"A bold guess," said Morigna.

"But an accurate one," said Kharlacht, "given that it saved our lives."

"I've never heard of such a spell," said Calliande.

"I have, I fear," said Caius. "It is a dvargir totem. When the dvargir abandoned my people and turned towards the darkness, the great void rewarded them with power over shadows and the dead. They use such totems to raise undead guardians to defend their strongholds."

"It seems," said Ridmark, "that your Old Man is not responsible for the undead after all."

"I told you," said Morigna, but the reply lacked her usual spite, her eyes subdued as she stared at the dead dvargir.

Perhaps it had brought back more memories than she had wished.

"I think," said Ridmark, "we should go have a talk with Abbot Ulakhur and Sir Michael."

***

## Chapter 6 - The Abbot

Abbot Ulakhur's study was as austere as Ridmark expected.

It occupied the highest room in one of the keep's towers, with a view of the town and the hills rising to the north. The abbot's desk was a simple wooden table, adorned only with a few half-finished letters and a copy of the Gospel of St. Luke. A wooden shelf held curios, mostly orcish knives and daggers made in the style of Vhaluusk. Ridmark guessed that Ulakhur's path to the church had been as convoluted as Kharlacht's.

Fortunately, the abbot's study had numerous guest chairs, and Ridmark sat gratefully in one, his legs and shoulders aching, and the others did the same. The abbot seated himself behind his desk, while Sir Michael leaned against the wall, his expression grim. Jonas paced back and forth before the study door.

Again and again he glowered at Ridmark.

But Michael spoke first.

"I object," he said, pointing at Morigna, "to her presence here. She killed my brother."

"I did not," said Morigna. Ridmark would have expected more anger, but she only sounded tired. The battle had taken its toll upon her. Or maybe she was tired of the argument. "The urvaalg killed Nathan. I tried to save him, but..."

"Praefectus," said the old abbot, "peace, I beg you. We all grieve for the death of Sir Nathan, and I admit, if I could have worked my will," his black eyes turned to Morigna, "Nathan would have stayed far away from her. But she fought valiantly alongside the Gray Knight and his friends to defeat the undead."

"As you say," said Michael, but his anger seemed undimmed.

"She deserves our thanks," said Ulakhur, "as does Ridmark Arban." He rose and bowed in their direction. "If not for your aid, we would have lost the monastery. And we could easily have lost the town."

"You would have lost the town in any event," said Calliande, voice quiet. "I barely have the magical strength to overcome one wraith, and there were six in the crypt. Even if you had held the wall against the skeletal undead, the wraiths could have passed through the wall without hindrance, and you would have been forced to flee the town."

"Then, truly," said Ulakhur, "God in his mercy sent you to us in our hour of need."

"He works in mysterious ways," said Caius, "his wonders to perform."

"I fear it may not be so mysterious," said Calliande. "The undead might be after me."

"You, my lady?" said Ulakhur. "Why?"

"There is a renegade high elven wizard who calls himself Shadowbearer," said Calliande.

Jonas scoffed. "A legend."

Calliande remained calm, but Ridmark knew her well enough by now to know when she wanted to roll her eyes.

"Shadowbearer may or may not be a legend," said Calliande, "but this high elven wizard calls himself by that name. I escaped him once, and he is hunting me. Already he has sent groups of undead after me. I fear...I fear I may have brought this evil upon you."

"No," said Caius. "The evil is the work of the dvargir, not Shadowbearer. And certainly not you."

"Then how," said Michael, "did that dead dvargir get into the crypts?"

"A grievous evil," said Ulakhur. "Generations of departed brothers rested in the crypts, awaiting the Last Day. The vile necromancy has defiled that sacred place. Thankfully their souls rest in the arms of the Dominus Christus...though their mortal vessels can still be profaned by dark magic."

"I am not sure," said Ridmark, "that the dead dvargir was responsible."

"Why not?" said Ulakhur.

"As Sir Michael said," said Ridmark, "how did the dvargir get into the crypts?"

No one had an answer for him.

Ridmark had fought dvargir before, while he had been a Swordbearer in service to the Dux Gareth Licinius of Castra Marcaine. The dvargir dwelled in the Deeps, and rarely came to the surface, preferring to spend their time warring against the dark elves and the kobolds and the deep orcs and each other. But when they attacked humans on the surface, they preferred to use surprise and ambush. One of their favorite tactics was to tunnel into the cellars of a castra and attack in the middle of the night.

"I do not know," said Ulakhur. "The brothers and the novices searched the crypt once it was made safe. They found no sign of a tunnel."

"Is there a secret entrance?" said Ridmark. "This monastery is a fortress, and often fortresses are built with escape tunnels. Is there a secret passage from the crypts?"

"No," said Ulakhur. "I'm sure of it. The monastery has secret passages, of course, and the knowledge of them is passed from abbot to abbot. But there are no secret passages to the crypts."

Jonas laughed. "Then perhaps the dvargir used magic to turn itself into a wraith and pass through the walls."

"No," said Caius. "The dvargir have magic, but that is not among their powers."

"The dvargir must have infiltrated the monastery in the night," said Kharlacht.

"Or," said Jonas, "someone within the monastery let it inside."

Ulakhur frowned. Despite his advanced age, the old orc still looked fierce. "Do you accuse one of our brothers, Sir Jonas? We are all men of God, and we do not betray each other."

"Even the Dominus Christus was betrayed, was he not?" said Jonas. "Treachery ever lurks in the heart of men."

"This is so," said Michael, "but why would any of the monks or novices let a dvargir into the monastery? The dvargir take humans and orcs and halflings as slaves. Any traitor would find himself killed once he was no longer useful."

"Nor," said Ulakhur, "does that explain the undead in the countryside."

"How many groups of undead have you seen?" said Ridmark.

"Perhaps half a dozen," said Michael, "of twenty or thirty each. There are many old orcish burial mounds scattered around the hills and the marshes. Sensible folk stay away from them, but this necromancer must have gone digging."

"It seems," said Morigna, "that a great deal of preparation must have been involved. So, Magistria, much as you might wish to blame yourself, it seems you cannot. The necromancer cannot have known you would come here."

Calliande frowned, but Michael spoke first. "Be silent. I will tolerate your presence here, but I will not suffer you to speak."

"A pity," said Morigna. "If you listened to my counsel, then..."

"If Nathan had listened to my counsel," said Michael, "then you might not have led him to his death."

Morigna said nothing, but her fingers tightened against the arms of her chair.

"This is ridiculous," said Jonas. "Brother, lord abbot, you are the governors of Moraime. Not this Magistria, not the witch of the hills, and certainly not this...this gray-cloaked brigand with a coward's brand. Why are we even heeding his counsel?"

Ridmark met Jonas's gaze without blinking, and eventually the knight looked away.

Again Ridmark could not shake the feeling that Jonas knew him. Of course, after Mhalek, most of the men of Andomhaim knew his name, and to his annoyance tales of the Gray Knight had spread far and wide. But Jonas's dislike seemed different, as if the man knew him personally.

Or had some other reason to hate him.

"You should not speak of things you do not understand, Sir Jonas," said Caius.

"The Gray Knight aided us without asking for any reward," said the abbot. "And a man's sins are in his past, if he repents and asks the Dominus Christus for forgiveness."

"He saved my life and the lives of my village from an urdmordar," said Gavin.

Jonas laughed. "An urdmordar? Be silent when your elders are speaking, boy. And do not make up fanciful tales, or I shall have to give you a beating."

"Sound advice," said Morigna, and Gavin answered her with a glare.

"I told you to be silent," said Michael, stepping closer to her. "Lord abbot, it is my belief that the Old Man and his apprentice are responsible for the undead. They used their magic to smuggle the dvargir into the monastery to divert blame from themselves."

"That is a slander," said Morigna. "I have never lifted my hand against anyone in this miserable little town."

"Save for my brother, perhaps?" said Michael.

Morigna slammed a fist against the arm of her chair. "I tried to save him, damn you! Why will you not believe me?"

"Because," said Calliande, "you are a renegade wielder of outlawed magic, as is your teacher?"

"I am suspicious of the Old Man," said Ulakhur, "but he has dwelled alone in the hills for longer than I have been abbot. Longer than I have been a brother at this monastery. In all that long span of years he has never made trouble for the people of Moraime."

"Perhaps, lord abbot," said Jonas, "your forgiving nature makes it difficult for you to see the treacherous nature of men." He looked at Morigna. "Or of women."

Ulakhur snorted. "My lad, I knew well the treacherous nature of men long before you were born."

"Then why do you not see the plain and obvious truth?" said Michael, pointing at Morigna. "Obviously the Old Man worked the necromancy, and left the dead dvargir to fool us. His apprentice is part of the plot. And she murdered my brother!"

"You blind fool!" shouted Morigna, shooting to her feet. "I tried to save him! I would have done anything to save him. Why..."

Calliande, Michael, Jonas, Caius, Gavin and the abbot all began trying to talk at once. The study filled with the sound of angry voices, and soon everyone was shouting.

Ridmark sighed, got to his feet, and picked up his staff.

And then he swung.

The sound of the heavy weapon slamming into the abbot's desk was deafening.

The others stared at him in surprise.

"It seems to me," said Ridmark into the silence, "that we have a common goal. We must find this necromancer and stop him from raising more undead to send against Moraime. It matters not whether the necromancer is a wild sorcerer, a renegade Magistrius, an orcish shaman of the blood gods, a band of dvargir, or the Old Man himself." Morigna started to protest, but Ridmark raised a hand. "We can agree on this."

The others nodded.

"So," said Ridmark, "I think this is the logical course. Sir Michael, Sir Jonas, the monks, and the militiamen will remain behind to guard the town and the monastery from further bands of undead. I myself will go in search of the necromancer, along with my companions."

"That is reasonable," said Ulakhur.

"Though one wonders," said Jonas, "how you are going to find the necromancer."

"I will start," said Ridmark, "by traveling to the home of the Old Man and speaking with him."

Morigna scowled. "Then you think he is responsible? I have told you that he is not!"

"I do not know what to think yet," said Ridmark. "Maybe Sir Michael is right, and you simply defend the Old Man out of loyalty." Her scowl deepened. She had a pretty face, but her black eyes made her look ferocious when enraged. "Or maybe Sir Michael is wrong, and the Old Man has nothing to do with it. But by all account, he has lived north of Moraime for decades. He will know the area better than anyone. And if his magic is as powerful as you say, if he is not the necromancer...then he will almost certainly know who raised the undead."

Morigna opened her mouth to argue, and then closed it again. "I...had not considered that."

"The Old Man has never aided Moraime before," said Michael. "When pagan orcs raided out of the north, or kobolds came out of the Deeps, he never lifted a finger to aid us."

"And neither did he aid your foes," said Ridmark. "I simply wish to talk with him."

"What makes you think he will speak with you?" said Jonas.

"He will," said Ridmark. "I can be very persuasive."

He did not know what kind of man Morigna's teacher was, but he could guess. Mostly likely the Old Man was a dabbler in forbidden magic, given the spells he had taught Morigna. Or he was a renegade Magistrius, one who had fled the High King's realm for anything from practicing dark magic to having an affair with the wife of a Comes.

Either way, such a man would wish to avoid the attention of the Magistri and the Swordbearers...and both Ridmark and Calliande could bring the attention of the two Orders.

The Old Man would cooperate.

And if he was indeed responsible for the necromancy, then Ridmark would kill him without regret.

"I will accompany you," said Morigna. "You think that I am involved in this? So be it. I shall prove otherwise. I will lend my magic to your cause, and help you defeat the undead."

"Why would we want that?" said Gavin. "We already have a strong Magistria."

"Because while the Magistria may be strong," said Morigna, not taking her eyes from Ridmark, "I can do things she cannot. Just as she can do things I cannot."

Ridmark said nothing.

"And I can aid you in other ways," said Morigna. "I know the countryside well, and I can lead you right to the Old Man's home. You will never find it otherwise – he has it ringed about with wards of concealment and hiding." She hesitated, licked her lips. "I wish to help you. Please."

Ridmark watched her. She looked almost upset, and he knew how a skilled actress could feign emotion. Yet Morigna seemed too wild, too rough, and simply too arrogant for that kind of manipulation. And he thought he saw a hint of pain there, despite all her prickly demeanor. Fear, even. But fear of what? The Old Man? Or something else?

"Very well," said Ridmark. "I will not turn away help. But keep your debates with Brother Caius to a reasonable volume."

"I'm sure we shall be the soul of civil discourse," said Caius.

Caius looked pleased, Kharlacht indifferent, and Calliande and Gavin annoyed. Ridmark understood their dislike. He did not trust Morigna, not even slightly. But she had proven useful in the fight against the undead, both at the burial mounds and in the crypts. Likely her knowledge of the countryside and the Old Man would prove useful.

And Ridmark would be able to keep an eye on her.

"It is almost dark," said Ridmark. "At first light tomorrow I will set out for the Old Man's home."

"Just as well," said Morigna. "It is almost a full day's journey."

"You will stay here tonight as our guests, and eat at our table," said Ulakhur. "We even have special quarters for female guests, lest their beauty distract our brothers from their holy contemplations."

Calliande smiled. "You are a flatterer, lord abbot."

Ulakhur barked out a laugh. "In my younger days, perhaps. Now, not so much."

"Thank you, lord abbot," said Caius. "We have been many days on travel rations, and I feel as if I could eat a horse."

"Two horses," said Kharlacht.

"Well, you are taller."

"I have some questions," said Ridmark.

"Please, ask what you will," said Ulakhur. "I will tell you anything you wish to know, if it will keep Moraime safe."

"Have any strangers come to Moraime recently?" said Ridmark.

Michael snorted. "Other than yourself, Gray Knight?"

"That is exactly what I mean," said Ridmark. "Someone who seems as suspicious or out of place as I do."

Michael looked at Jonas. "Those merchants of yours, brother."

"Merchants?" said Ridmark.

Jonas snorted. "Rotherius and his lot? You think he is a necromancer? Surely you are jesting."

"Who is Rotherius?" said Ridmark.

"A fur merchant from Coldinium," said Jonas with a scowl. "He makes the trip from Coldinium once every year or so to buy pelts from me. No need to pay tax to the Comes of Coldinium on pelts acquired outside of the realm, after all. Nathan and I used to make some coin selling furs and drake scales." He glanced at Morigna. "Of course, since Nathan died in such mysterious circumstances, I've carried on myself."

"Could this merchant be involved?" said Ridmark.

Jonas laughed. "Oh, I suppose, if he were not a sweating craven. He would not come, if the profits were not so sweet. Every year I listen to him whine about how the pagan orcs or the urvaalgs or the ursaars shall descend upon him and tear him to bloody shreds."

"A reasonable fear," said Kharlacht.

"He travels with several guards," said Jonas, "and they are staying at the inn. Question them if you like, but I am utterly certain they have nothing to do with the undead. The guards are unlettered knaves, and Rotherius himself is a craven. The man barricaded himself in his room when the undead attacked and hasn't emerged since."

"Very well," said Ridmark. "One other question. Have any of you ever encountered a trolldomr who calls himself Rjalfur?"

The abbot and the praefectus looked at each other.

"I haven't," said Michael, "though I have spoken to farmers and hunters who have."

"When I was younger, and the previous abbot still sent me on errands to the countryside," said Ulakhur, "I talked to him once. He spoke in riddles, and then vanished into the ground."

"How long has he been here?" said Ridmark.

"For centuries, surely," said Ulakhur. "The first abbot recorded speaking with him in the chronicles of the monastery, and the monastery has been here since the defeat of the Frostborn."

"Is there any chance he would be behind the undead?" said Ridmark.

"I think that most unlikely," said the abbot. "We have never heard any stories of Rjalfur harming anyone. Sometimes he even warns travelers against danger."

"He warned us against the undead," said Kharlacht.

"No," said Ridmark. "The undead were almost a mile north of us, and they were attacking Morigna. He sent us into their path."

"Perhaps he was aiding me," said Morigna.

"I suppose that is likely," said Michael, "given that your main skill is luring men to their doom."

"There is no need for further argument," said Ridmark before the praefectus and the sorceress could start shouting again. "I am going to the Old Man's home tomorrow, as is Morigna."

"Very well," said Ulakhur, rising. "I shall have the novices show you to the guest chambers."

They started to go, Morigna keeping well away from the Vorinii brothers.

"Morigna," said Ridmark.

She looked back at him, and Calliande frowned.

"A word with you," said Ridmark.

###

He led Morigna onto a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Below the monks labored, returning the corpses to their rest in the crypt. She saw the cleverness of his choice to speak with her on the balcony. No one could overhear them, yet they were in plain sight, so no one could accuse her of putting a spell on him.

For that matter, no one could accuse him of seducing her, either.

Ridmark Arban was a clever man. The meeting in the abbot's study could have ended in violence, but he had taken charge with ease. Even more remarkable, both the abbot and the praefectus had deferred to him. Both Sir Michael and Ulakhur were stubborn men, and would not give way when they thought themselves right.

So how did a man able to sway their minds carry a coward's brand upon his face?

"I am surprised," said Morigna, "how quickly you brought them to see reason."

"Nathan Vorinus," said Ridmark. "Who was he?"

She tried not to flinch at the question.

"The youngest of the three brothers," said Morigna. "A knight, like the other two, knighted by their father before he died. A hunter like Jonas, but he was better at it. He would range far over the hills and the marshes."

"Where," said Ridmark, "he met you."

Morigna nodded, feeling something brittle shift inside her.

"Who was he?" said Ridmark.

She scowled. "I already answered the question. Shall I repeat myself? Perhaps with smaller words?"

As ever, her barb failed to get a reaction from him. "Let me restate the question. Who was he to you?"

"He was a brave man," said Morigna, "a skilled hunter, bold and fearless. He could track a deer by the trace of its hooves upon the grass. He..."

Ridmark stared at her without blinking.

"A lover," she said at last. "Damn you. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Did you kill him?" said Ridmark.

She laughed, harsh and cold. "Did I slay him, paint myself with blood, and dance naked around a standing stone to gain my magic?"

"That isn't what I asked."

"No," she said. "I suppose it wasn't." She took a deep breath. "There...is a ring of standing stones near the Old Man's home, raised by the dark elves in the deeps of time. The Old Man warned me away from it. He said the creatures of the dark elves still lurked in the caverns beneath the stones, urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things. One day about two years past, I went hunting with Nathan. He chased a deer to the standing stones. I begged him not to go after it, but ..."

"And," said Ridmark, "the urvaalg was waiting for him."

She nodded, blinking. She would not cry in front of him. She would not show weakness in front of anyone ever again. The Old Man had taught her that much. "I managed to kill the urvaalg with the loose boulders from the hill."

"A remarkable feat," said Ridmark. "It is hard to kill an urvaalg without a Soulblade or the magic of the Well."

"I couldn't save him," said Morigna. "Michael and Jonas think I seduced Nathan and lured him to his death. But they may say whatever they wish about me." The bitter pain filled her. "I saw the man I loved die in front of me. No punishment is worse than that."

She expected Ridmark to condemn her, just as Michael and Jonas and that haughty Magistria had. Or to blame her for Nathan's death, to chastise her for not saving him.

"I'm sorry," he said at last.

She blinked. He looked tired, and...sad, so very sad.

"That is not," he said, "something I would wish on anyone. Come. The monks of St. Cassian set a fine table, and we shall need our strength tomorrow."

He left the balcony without another word. After a moment Morigna shrugged and followed him.

Ridmark Arban was a most unusual man, and Morigna found herself growing more curious.

***

## Chapter 7 - Dark Magic

The monks of Moraime had a small cottage within their walls for unmarried female visitors. It was more comfortable than Calliande would have expected, with four single beds resting against the walls, a massive hearth between them, and a small room with its own latrine and a large stone bathtub set into the floor. With the thick stone walls, it would be warm and pleasant in the cool spring night.

Unfortunately, the monks had only one cottage for unmarried women, which meant Calliande would have to share it with Morigna.

She set her pack next to one of the beds and turned. Morigna regarded her with a smirk that was half-amused, half-wary. Calliande could not shake that feeling that she was confronting a wild animal, one that could either flee or attack in a rage.

Morigna's stare reminded her of Rakhaag and his pack of lupivirii.

Calliande did not think there was any malevolence in Morigna, not yet. But there was arrogance, and spiteful contempt, and those things led easily to unyielding pride.

To men like Alamur and Talvinius.

"So," said Morigna. "I suppose you would like the bath first?"

"It is large enough for four," said Calliande, "and the monks have built a hypocaust for hot water. We can share easily enough."

Morigna laughed. "Assuming you do not mind that the monks shall be spying upon us."

Calliande blinked. "What?"

"These cloistered, feeble, fearful old men," said Morigna. "Do you really think they built this guest cottage without any holes drilled into the walls?"

"I do," said Calliande. "They have taken vows to God."

"To God?" said Morigna, a glint in her black eyes. "A tale told by priests."

"So you think there is no God?" said Calliande.

Morigna shrugged. "Perhaps there is, and perhaps there is not. Perhaps all those places described in the scriptures, Jerusalem and Rome and Babylon, never really existed, and Old Earth was nothing but a fable concocted by our ancestors."

"Why would they do that?" said Calliande. She was aware that Morigna was testing her, probing her for weakness, and it was probably a good idea not engage at all. But Calliande had escaped from the Mhalekite orcs who had intended to sacrifice her upon the altar of the Black Mountain, had eluded the grasp of Shadowbearer, and had faced a female urdmordar in her fury and power.

She would not show any weakness before this arrogant, half-wild sorceress.

"To live in idle leisure, of course," said Morigna. "The monks do not labor in the fields, and instead accept tithes from the townsfolk. Why make up stories about Old Earth that would allow them to live in idle luxury? Truly, it baffles the mind."

"They hardly seem to live in luxury," said Calliande. "Someone had to build this fortress. Did you see the monks? They all look half-starved. I expect they spend long hours fasting and in prayer, and then long hours in labor, whether in the scriptorium or attending the monastery's fields. If they concocted false tales to live in comfort, they certainly have done a poor job of it."

Morigna laughed. "Better stone walls and a full belly than scratching for food in the wilderness."

"I shall make a wild guess of my own," said Calliande. "Your Old Man does not approve of the church?"

"He does not," said Morigna. "He told me that there is no God, that all kindness and cruelty flow only from the hearts of men. He says that the church is a corrupt lie, and that strong men invented the scriptures to rule over weaker men."

"You think he is correct?" said Calliande.

"I see no reason he is not," said Morigna.

Calliande laughed. "You seem so...young."

Morigna raised her eyebrows. "You cannot be more than two or three years older than me. You are as young as I am."

"I'm not," said Calliande. "I'm really not."

If the monks had come to Moraime after the defeat of the Frostborn, it was entirely possible Calliande was older than the monastery itself.

"What do you mean, young?" said Morigna.

"You're certain the church is corrupt?" said Calliande. "How many churches have you seen?"

"The monastery and the church in the town," said Morigna, "and they live off the labor of the townsfolk."

"And their own, too, it seems," said Calliande. "But even if you dislike the monks, then tell me. How many other churches have you visited?"

Morigna said nothing.

"You must have gone to Coldinium, surely," said Calliande. "It is not that far south of here. Or to the great cathedrals in Tarlion of Cintarra. Or maybe even the churches in the villages and the freeholds of the Northerland. Surely you must have seen many churches before you arrived at your opinion."

"No," said Morigna. "I've never been out of Vhaluusk."

"And there are many churches among the pagan tribes of Vhaluusk, I am sure," said Calliande. "Well, at least you took the time to form your own conclusions before swallowing whatever the Old Man happened to tell you. That would be dreadfully foolish otherwise."

"I..." Morigna opened her mouth, closed it again, and scowled. "The Old Man said the Magistri were proud and haughty."

Calliande raised her eyebrows. "And how many Magistri have you met?"

"You," said Morigna, "and..."

"The Old Man?" said Calliande. "Was he a Magistrius?"

"No," said Morigna. "Maybe. I don't know for sure. He knows a great deal about them, though."

"Perhaps he was a Magistrius," said Calliande, "and he fled the realm for some reason."

Morigna smiled. "And since he was a Magistrius, everything he told me about their Order is accurate."

"Or," said Calliande, "he is bitter, and has told you a darkened version of the truth."

Morigna made her uneasy, but her descriptions of the Old Man alarmed Calliande. He sounded a great deal like Alamur, a traitorous Magistrius who had tried to hand her over to Shadowbearer in Dun Licinia. Or, worse, Talvinius, a former Magistrius who had used dark magic to extend his lifespan, and had ended his days with his spirit bound to the body of an ancient, crippled kobold shaman.

"He would not lie about that to me," declared Morigna.

"Are you entirely certain?" said Calliande.

"Yes," said Morigna.

Calliande shrugged. "Well, if the monks can make up stories to ease their lives...why should the Old Man not spin tales to make himself sound better?"

Morigna said nothing, and Calliande had the satisfaction of seeing the sorceress at a brief loss.

"There is one thing the Old Man taught me that is certainly true," said Morigna.

"Oh?" said Calliande.

"Power is the basis of all respect," she said, "and the strong rule over the weak. If I did not have magic, Michael or Jonas would have killed me by now. You would probably try to take me back as a prisoner to Tarlion."

"No," said Calliande. She sat down on a bed and tugged off her boots, sighing in relief. "I would not. I have my own concerns, and cannot spare the time to take you back to Tarlion to forcibly enroll you in the Magistri."

"What are you doing?" said Morigna.

"Bathing," said Calliande. "If I must listen to you talk with such authority upon topics about which you know nothing, I may as well be comfortable for it."

Morigna glared at her, but thankfully did not say anything.

Calliande crossed to the bathtub, stripped off her clothing, and stacked it in the corner. She made sure to pile everything over a leather pouch that had hung from her belt. That pouch contained a relic of tremendous power.

Exactly the sort of thing that should not fall into the hands of someone like Morigna.

Calliande lowered herself into the water and let sighed. The monks had filled the tub already, thank God, and the hypocaust kept the water warm. After a week traveling through the wilderness, of bathing only when she could find a stream, it felt wonderful.

She opened her eyes and saw Morigna staring at her.

"If you're concerned about the monks spying on you," said Calliande, "we could always tell them the tale of what happened to the foolish young man who spied upon the bathing Magistria."

"No," said Morigna. "It's just...truly? You...bathe with others?"

Calliande shrugged. "It is the custom. Since the time of the Empire of the Romans, even before Malahan Pendragon led our ancestors from Old Earth. One bathhouse for men, and one for women."

At least, it must have been the custom before she went into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance. Of course, the custom might well have faded away in the two centuries she had slept below the Tower. But she had seen bathhouses in Dun Licinia and Moraime, and another for the monks alongside the main keep.

To sit in a hot bath and talk with friends was such a pleasant custom. It would be a pity if it faded away.

A memory of doing so hovered just as the edge of her consciousness, but as ever, it sank into the mists choking her past.

For a moment Calliande thought Morigna would stalk away back to the bedroom. But the woman steeled herself, pulled off her boots and removed her ragged cloak and her leather and wool clothing. She was slim and fit, with legs muscled from long travels across the hills and marshes, and the arms of a woman accustomed to using a short bow. Her black hair hung loose around her pale shoulders, and she took a deep breath, the ribs pressing against her skin.

Then she dropped herself into the water with a splash.

"Damnation!" spat Morigna. "It's so hot!"

"It's supposed to be," said Calliande.

"I always bathe in the ponds of the hills," said Morigna. "Cold in winter. I suppose you wouldn't be used to that."

"I suppose not," said Calliande. She had bathed in creeks during the last thirty-two days, but could remember nothing before that. For all she knew, she had bathed in mountain streams every day. But she did remember cold water, remembered desperately floundering through the freezing water in the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance. "But I've had enough of cold water."

"Still," said Morigna, leaning against the stone tub, "this is...less unpleasant than I expected. I suppose one could even get used to it."

"I suppose," said Calliande.

The monks had left rough cakes of soap by the edge of the tub, and Calliande took one and started to scrub. It felt good to wash away the accumulated grime and grease of the road. Morigna frowned for a moment, and then reached for a second cake of soap and followed suit.

"I suppose I haven't smelled like this in years," said Morigna. "I'll have half the wolves of the hills following me in bafflement."

"You...speak to wolves?" said Calliande, thinking of dark magic.

"Of course not," said Morigna. "Wolves are not capable of speech. But I could reach their minds, and command them to obey me, and share images from their primitive thoughts."

Calliande shook her head, wet hair sticking to her face. "That is perilously close to dark magic."

"Is it?" said Morigna, sniffing the soap with a look of distaste.

"If you used that same magic to enslave the minds of mortal men, then yes," said Calliande.

"Well, I do not," said Morigna. "I know you think me some dark witch eager to go on a rampage, but I am not. I want...I want..."

A look of distant pain came over her face.

"What do you want?" said Calliande.

"I want," said Morigna at last, "to be left alone. To have enough power to be left alone."

"Why did you need power for that?" said Calliande.

"Because," said Morigna, "the strong do as they please..."

"You keep saying that," said Calliande.

"It is true," said Morigna. "No doubt you think the Old Man pumped my head full of lies. But he is right about this. The weak are trampled underfoot. The only security in life is power."

"That is a bleak view," said Calliande.

"Whether or not a truth is bleak," said Morigna, "has no bearing on whether or not it is true."

"There is kindness and love," said Calliande.

Morigna laughed. "Masks only, for lust. Or manipulation."

They washed in silence for a moment.

"I wish to ask you a question," said Calliande, setting the cake of soap back on the edge of the tub.

Morigna sighed. "About whether or not I am a dark sorceress feeding upon the weak?"

"No," said Calliande. "About a place."

It was a risk, talking to Morigna about it. But if the Old Man was a renegade Magistrius or sorcerer, he might have access to forgotten lore.

Including, perhaps, the answer to one of Calliande's questions.

"A place?" said Morigna. For the first time there was no arrogance or annoyance in her tone, only curiosity. "What kind of place?"

"A place called Dragonfall," said Calliande, repeating the name the Watcher had given her as she dreamed.

"Dragonfall?" said Morigna. "No...the Old Man has never mentioned the name. What is it?"

"I don't know," said Calliande. The Watcher had said that her staff waited there, but Calliande would not tell that to Morigna. "I...think it might be a tomb of some kind. Something to do with the dragons of old."

"Dragons?" said Morigna. "Now they are surely mythical. The great dragons of old who taught the high elves their magic long before humans ever came to this world? No living human has seen one...nor has any human in the history of Andomhaim, one should think."

"Perhaps," said Calliande, thinking. "Your Old Man...how old is he?"

Morigna blinked. "Old. Very old. He looks ancient. Certainly he has lived in the hills as long as anyone in Moraime can remember. Why?"

"The way you describe him," said Calliande, "reminds me of someone I met."

"Who?"

"Talvinius," said Calliande. "A renegade Magistrius who joined the Eternalists."

"An Eternalist?" said Morigna. "What is that?"

"A traitor to the Magistri," said Calliande. "A hundred and fifty years past, a group of Magistri turned against the teachings of the church and the Order. They sought to use their magic to become...oh, a more powerful kindred of man, I suppose, as powerful as the dark elves and as immortal as the urdmordar."

"Foolish," said Morigna. "The natural of man is mortal. It is madness to deny that. No power can overcome it."

"For once, I agree," said Calliande. "The Eternalists pursued the vilest blood sorcery and dark magic in pursuit of their goal. Eventually, they were discovered, and driven out. Talvinius survived by transferring his spirit into the body of a kobold shaman and lurked in the Deeps for centuries. His minions captured me, and he tried to move his spirit into my body."

Morigna started to laugh.

"What?" said Calliande. "It's not funny."

"But it is," said Morigna. "He tried to possess a woman's body? The old lecher! Likely he hoped to sit about and fondle himself. Well, herself, if he claimed your body."

Despite herself, Calliande laughed at the grotesque absurdity of the thought. "I would not put it past him."

"Clearly you escaped him," said Morigna. "How did he die?"

"I killed him," said Calliande. "He underestimated me."

"And you think he reminds you of the Old Man?" said Morigna. "Don't be absurd. The Old Man looks older than Moraime, and he needs a cane to walk. If he had the magic to take a new body, I think he would have done so fifty years ago."

"Perhaps he was waiting for a suitable host," said Calliande. "Talvinius was only strong enough to possess a kobold, not a human."

"A thousand people live in Moraime," said Morigna, "and hundreds more must have come and gone in the time the Old Man has lived here. If he was looking for a suitable body, surely he must have found one by now. The Old Man is not one of your Eternalists."

Calliande shrugged, the water rippling. "When Ridmark speaks with him tomorrow, we'll know for certain, won't we?"

"The Gray Knight," said Morigna. "An unusual man."

"He is," said Calliande.

"How did you meet him?" said Morigna.

"He saved my life," said Calliande. "Some Mhalekite orcs were about to kill me for an arcane ritual. Ridmark stopped them, and I've been with him ever since."

Morigna raised her eyebrows. "With him? Is that a polite euphemism?"

"No," said Calliande, annoyed. "It's not. Mhalek killed his wife five years ago, and Ridmark..." She shook her head. Why was she even trying to justify herself to Morigna? Calliande could not remember anything that had happened more than thirty-two days ago. For all she knew, she had been married and had borne children. Perhaps her husband and children still slept in some secret place, as she had slept below the Tower of Vigilance.

She could not think about Ridmark in that fashion.

Even if Aelia's death had not scarred Ridmark too much to think about Calliande, or anyone, in that fashion.

"Ah," said Morigna, "for the first time a question for which you do not have a glib answer. How interesting."

"Ridmark saw his wife killed in front of him," said Calliande. "He has not recovered from it."

"That is not the sort of thing one recovers from," said Morigna, a cold glint in her black eyes, "though I am sure I would not know. Yet I am curious why you are following this man, about whom you feel nothing, into a place like Urd Morlemoch."

"Because the Frostborn are returning," said Calliande. "The omen of blue fire a month past was proof of it. But we do not know how or when. The Warden warned Ridmark against the omen nine years ago."

"Brave of you," said Morigna, "but foolish. Even the Old Man would not go to Urd Morlemoch. Once he fretted about some lost book of the high elves, and I pointed out that he had told me the Warden has the largest library of magical lore upon this world. He said that was folly, that the Warden amuses himself by driving intruders to madness over a span of decades."

"The Warden has answers that we need," said Calliande.

"Such as," said Morigna, glancing over Calliande's shoulder, "the nature of the powerful magical object you carry?"

Calliande kept her expression blank.

"Do not bother to deny it," said Morigna. "I have sensed the thing since I got within five paces of you. What is it?"

"An empty soulstone." Perhaps Morigna would not recognize the term.

But to judge from the way Morigna's eyes widened, that had been a vain hope.

"Truly?" said Morigna. "Such a thing...how did it get away from the high elves?"

"I think Shadowbearer stole it," said Calliande. "The Mhalekites wanted to use it on me when they tried to kill me atop a dark elven altar."

Morigna considered this in silence for a moment.

"Whatever you do," she said, "do not tell the Old Man about it, and do not let him sense it."

"I wasn't planning on it," said Calliande.

"He might try to steal it, if he thinks he can get away with it," said Morigna.

"And you won't?" said Calliande.

Morigna shrugged. "Believe what you like. But I know my limitations. That is too much magical power for me to control. If I tried anything with the soulstone, I would likely burn myself to ashes. But the Old Man has no such limitations. Better not to wave raw meat in front of a dog."

"I see," said Calliande. "Thank you."

She climbed out of the tub and got dressed.

###

Ridmark stood alone upon the monastery's curtain wall and looked into the darkness.

He saw lights in the great hall behind him. Gavin and Kharlacht and Caius were eating heartily, and no doubt Caius was regaling the monks with tales from their travels. The dwarven friar knew how to spin a tale.

Ridmark himself had little taste for companionship. He would have gone to Urd Morlemoch alone, if he could have managed it. He deserved to die, but no one else did.

Still, without Calliande's help, he would have perished at Urd Arowyn.

He heard the scrape of a boot against the rampart and turned, hand tightening against his staff.

But it was only Calliande, as if his thoughts had summoned her. She had bathed and put on clean clothing, a wool shirt and trousers and a leather jerkin and boots, her cloak pulled tight against the chill of the spring night.

"Shouldn't you be at dinner?" said Ridmark.

Calliande shrugged. "The monks are not comfortable around women. So I availed myself of their bath instead. Why aren't you there?"

"Because hearing Caius recount the glorious tales of my valor," said Ridmark with a scowl, "grows tiresome. And I wish to think."

She nodded, but did not leave. To his surprise, he did not mind. He sometimes tired of her constant lectures about letting go of the past, about forgiving himself. But she understood him, and she knew when not to push him too far.

And she, too, saw the dangers of the return of the Frostborn.

They stood in silence. A few lights shone here and there in the town, but none on the wall. The watchmen would want to preserve their night vision.

"What are you thinking about?" she said at last.

"It does not make sense," said Ridmark.

"Morigna's story?" said Calliande.

"No. She makes perfect sense," said Ridmark, and Calliande frowned. "But of all this," he waved a hand over the battlements, "does not."

"The undead, you mean?" said Calliande.

"Yes," said Ridmark. "Why raise the undead? Why attack Moraime?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps there is no purpose. Wielders of dark magic are rarely rational in their decisions."

"There is always a purpose," said Ridmark. "Qazarl raised the undead to attack Dun Licinia. Agrimnalazur and Morwen used the undead as guards. Yet I cannot see the reason here. Does someone hope to drive the people of Moraime behind their walls to prepare for an attack? If so, it would be better to wait until the crops are in the ground."

"Our foe may not have a sound grasp of tactics," said Calliande. "Morwen did not."

"No," said Ridmark. "Yet her actions still had a purpose. Here, I cannot see the purpose, not yet." He looked north. "Perhaps this Old Man of Morigna's shall know more."

"Morigna," said Calliande.

There was a wary note in her voice.

"I don't think you should trust her," said Calliande.

"I won't," said Ridmark. "But trust is not necessary. I understand her."

"So quickly, then?" said Calliande with a bit of doubt.

"The Old Man, whoever he is, raised her," said Ridmark. "So all her arguments are, I expect, merely recitations of things the Old Man had told her over the years."

"I thought as much," said Calliande.

"But she is young," said Ridmark.

"Younger than me, you mean," said Calliande.

"We all are," said Ridmark, "but I mean she is younger than all of us, save for Gavin. She is clever, and strong with magic, but has little experience of the world beyond the marshes. So she has the arrogance of youth coupled with considerable power."

"A dangerous combination," said Calliande.

"But tempered by loss," said Ridmark. "Apparently she and Nathan Vorinus were lovers. He disregarded her counsel and got himself killed by an urvaalg, and Michael and Jonas blame her for his death."

"Perhaps they are right to do so," said Calliande.

"I don't think so," said Ridmark. "Either she is a convincing actress, or she blames herself for his death. Which is, I suspect, why she is helping us. Why she was going to Moraime in to warn the townsmen against the undead. It is what Nathan would have wanted her to do." He shook his head. "I don't trust her, but I believe I understand her."

"Which is why you are talking her with us to speak with the Old Man," said Calliande. "She could be luring us into a trap."

Ridmark nodded. "I know. But if she is with us, she cannot work any mischief against the town."

She seemed angry. "Maybe there is another reason."

"Oh?" said Ridmark.

"She looked at you with her dark eyes and swayed you," said Calliande.

Ridmark blinked. "Ah. You think she has charmed me, is that it?"

Calliande folded her arms. The words seemed to pain her, but she kept speaking. "She seems quite taken with you. And it is not unusual for a man to be swayed by the admiration of a pretty young woman."

"The same could be said of you," said Ridmark.

"What?"

"I intended to head to Urd Morlemoch alone," said Ridmark. "I promised I would help find the truth of your memory, and I meant it. But I could do that alone. Yet it is a month later, and here we both are."

"You said my help was valuable," said Calliande.

"It was, and it is," said Ridmark. "But I intended to risk my life and no others. Yet here you are. You have a knack for getting your way, Calliande."

She laughed. "I suppose I do. Ridmark. Forgive me. What I said...that was unworthy of you."

He waved his hand. "It doesn't matter."

"It does." She gripped his hands, her fingers cold against his. "You are a good man, Ridmark Arban."

"Thank you," he said.

"I know you are humoring me," she said. "But you are. Regardless of what you think of yourself. Regardless of the things for which you unjustly take the blame." He sighed, but she kept speaking. "You are a good and brave man."

He looked down at her and said nothing. She was lovely in the dim moonlight, and if he leaned down and kissed her, he suspected she would not protest. For just a moment he wondered what it feel like to have her lips against his, her body pressed against his...

He dismissed the thought.

Aelia's death was his fault. No matter what anyone else said, no matter who forgave him for it, Tarrabus Carhaine had been right. The Order had been right to expel Ridmark, take his soulblade, and brand him as a coward. He deserved no less. He deserved much worse.

And neither he nor Calliande knew who she really was.

He lifted her hands to his lips, kissed her fingers, and then released them.

"And you are a brave and valiant woman," he said.

For just an instant she looked disappointed, but then she smiled.

"I am not," she said. "I have wanted to run screaming ever since I awoke beneath the Tower of Vigilance."

"But you did not," said Ridmark, "and you stood against the wrath of an urdmordar without fleeing. Few among the Magistri could do the same."

Calliande sighed. "Let's hope an urdmordar isn't behind these undead."

"I think we may be safe in that hope," said Ridmark. "If an urdmordar showed herself so openly, Moraime would already be ashes." He remembered the smoke rising from the ruins of Aranaeus. "And the Old Man seems like a survivor. If an urdmordar laired anywhere near his dwelling, he would flee."

Calliande nodded. "I'm going to get some sleep." She turned, paused. "Ridmark?"

"Aye?" he said.

"Thank you," said Calliande.

"We'll find the secret of the Frostborn yet," said Ridmark, "and the truth of who you are."

Or they would both die in the attempt. But there was no reason to say it.

She already knew that.

***

## Chapter 8 - Scouts

The next morning, Ridmark and the others left Moraime and headed north.

Ridmark walked at the front, Kharlacht and Morigna at his side. Of Ridmark's companions, Kharlacht had spent the most time in the wild, and knew how to track. Morigna was familiar with the countryside around Moraime and knew its dangers.

That, and she was the only one who knew where the Old Man lived.

Calliande followed, Gavin and Caius at her side. Gavin alternated between watching the countryside and scowling at Morigna, as if he believed her to be a greater threat than the swamp drakes or the undead.

He might not be wrong.

One way or another, they would know by the end of the day.

"We will have to head into the marshes," said Morigna.

"That's east, not north," said Calliande.

"Aye," said Morigna, "but it is the only way to reach the Old Man's home. He lives upon one of the rockier hills. From the north, the east, and the west, it is inaccessible, and the only open path is from the south. And that path begins in the marshes."

"A solid defensive choice," said Kharlacht, "forcing any visitors to wade through the swamp."

"Though it means we shall have to pass through the marshes again," said Gavin.

"I am sure," said Morigna with a smirk, "that a strapping young lad like you is ready for the challenge."

"Let's go," said Ridmark, hoping to cut off yet another argument. "Where shall we head first?"

"The ruined fortress where we first met, Gray Knight," said Morigna, brushing a bit of hair from her forehead as she looked at him. "From there we can head due north to the Old Man's hill."

"How many orcish burial mounds are in the marshes?" said Ridmark.

"Many," said Morigna. She glanced at Kharlacht. "Your kindred warred amongst themselves so enthusiastically that the tribes here wiped each other out, and only the burial mounds remain."

"Which means," said Caius, "there will be plenty of opportunities to fight more undead."

"If the necromancer raised more," said Ridmark. There had been no attacks in the night, and none of the night watchmen had seen any undead moving outside the town. It was as if the necromancer had raised enough creatures to cause an upheaval, and had then stopped.

But why?

"I will keep my spells in place," said Calliande, "watching for any sign of dark magic."

She looked at Morigna as she said it, but the black-haired woman only smiled.

"I can help with that as well," said Morigna, and she snapped her fingers, a pulse of purple fire flaring around her hand.

A moment later a pair of large black birds fell out of the sky and perched upon the shoulders of her tattered cloak, looking at Ridmark with beady black eyes.

"Crows?" said Gavin. "You can command crows?"

"Ravens," said Morigna. "Much smarter than crows. And villagers of the Wilderland, for that matter." She stroked one of the birds with a finger. "I can see their thoughts with a spell, and bid them to keep watch. If they see any undead, or any other foes, they will return to warn me."

"Dark magic," said Gavin.

"Only if it used against a mortal mind," said Calliande, though she sounded reluctant.

"I suppose I could employ the spell upon you, dear Gavin," said Morigna, "but, alas, where would be the challenge?"

Ridmark expected Gavin to insult her back, but the boy only shook his head. "I saw an urdmordar conjure shadows and green fire. After that, a trick with a pair of birds is hardly frightening."

"Ah," said Morigna. "You're getting better at his."

She snapped her fingers again, and the ravens flew off in silence.

"I imagine," said Kharlacht, "that was a useful skill while hunting."

Morigna blinked in surprise, and then laughed. "Yes, it was. Easier to find a deer through the eyes of a raven instead of a mortal man. Nathan said..." She shook her head. "We had best be on our way, Gray Knight, if you want to speak with the Old Man before dark."

"Then let us be off," said Ridmark. He beckoned with his staff, and they left Moraime.

He led them to the marshes, and they took the old causeway, picking their way over the rocks and the tangled roots. The marshes were silent around them, save for the occasional splash of water or cry of a bird. It was still too early in the year for insects, God be praised. Soon they came into sight of the domed mud hut of the swamp drake's nest, and...

Ridmark stopped.

"What's wrong?" said Calliande. "I don't sense any magic."

"I haven't seen anyone approach," said Morigna.

"Something's missing," said Ridmark.

"What?" said Kharlacht.

Caius realized the answer first. "The swamp drake. Where is its carcass?"

It had vanished.

Patches of dried blood marked the causeway, a faint metallic odor clinging to them. Ridmark saw the indentations on the grass where the drake's carcass and severed head had lain, but the animal was gone.

"Scavengers must have gotten to it," said Caius, but there was doubt in the dwarf's deep voice.

"Scavengers would have left a mess," said Ridmark. "Stay back so I can have a look at the ground."

He paced forward, examining the damp grass and wet rock. There were no other tracks upon the causeway, save the ones they had left during the battle yesterday. The dead swamp drake had been as heavy as a horse, and would have taken a team of strong men to move. He supposed wolves or other scavengers could have done it, but only by ripping the carcass to shreds. Certainly they would not have bothered to move the armored scales and heavy bones of the dead drake.

He considered the ground, but no tracks or traces presented themselves. That made even less sense. The carcass could not have been moved without someone leaving tracks. Of course, the sides of the causeway were hardly ideal for preserving tracks, but surely some trace would have been left.

"So the carcass," said Calliande, "simply disappeared."

Ridmark straightened up. "It would appear so." He looked at Morigna. "Are there any creatures in the marsh that could make a swamp drake's carcass vanish?"

"None that I have ever encountered," said Morigna. She, too, looked troubled.

"Maybe the trolldomr took it," said Gavin. "Perhaps he can make things disappear into the ground with him."

"Why would Rjalfur take the carcass of a swamp drake?" said Caius, but Gavin only shrugged.

"No matter," said Ridmark, looking at Calliande. "Keep your sensing spell active, and warn us if you sense anything." She nodded and Ridmark turned to Morigna. "Keep your eyes open. All six of them, it seems."

"I shall," said Morigna.

"The rest of you, be on your guard," said Ridmark. "Something strange is happening, and I will not be at ease until we discover what."

Caius snorted. "When have you ever been at ease?"

"Not recently," said Ridmark.

Not since he had heard the Warden warn him against the return of the Frostborn nine years ago. Ridmark had wed Aelia, had hope to live in honor and peace as a Swordbearer of the Dux's court, but in the back of his mind, the Warden's warning had lingered.

And then Mhalek had come.

Ridmark led the way from the causeway to the ruined fortress. To his relief, they saw no additional undead near the ruins or the burial mounds. All of the mounds had been opened, the dead within having risen as undead, but nothing moved through the ruins.

Perhaps the previous attack had emptied the graves.

The undead they had destroyed still lay strewn across the ground, the bones moldering, the weapons rusting away in the dank of the swamp.

"Lady Calliande," said Gavin. "After they are destroyed, can the undead be raised once more?"

"It depends upon the spell used," said Calliande. "Some forms of dark magic devour the corpse after the spell is broken, leaving only ashes and embers in its wake. But others are more subtle. I fear these undead could well be raised again."

"A grim thought," said Kharlacht, "that we might have to fight them all over again."

"Which way?" said Ridmark.

"Due north," said Morigna.

They headed north from the fortress and the burial mound, picking their way across the grassy patches and around the trunks of the massive, mossy trees. Fortunately, the ground soon grew firmer, though rockier. Massive gray boulders jutted from the earth, weathered and mantled with lichen. The terrain tilted upward, and Ridmark saw that they walked upon a wide spit of rocky land that rose from the swamp like an island.

The perfect place for a renegade sorcerer to make his lair.

Ridmark looked over the mossy ground and stopped.

"Hold a moment," he said.

"What is it?" said Calliande. "I don't sense anything."

"Footprints," said Ridmark. "A large group of men passed this way. Recently. Perhaps even a few hours ago."

"Truly?" said Morigna, peering at the ground. "I saw the Old Man four days past. These tracks were not here then."

"Does the Old Man often have visitors?" said Ridmark.

"Rarely," said Morigna. "Sometimes one of the townsmen will get desperate and visit him, but not often." She seemed almost concerned. "No one else would dare."

"Your ravens have seen nothing," said Ridmark.

"No," said Morigna. "They overflew his cottage on their last flight. No one is on the hills."

"An ambush, then," said Kharlacht. "I dislike these rocks, Gray Knight." He waved a fist at the tangled gray boulders covering the side of the hill. "Too many places for an ambush."

"Agreed," said Ridmark.

"I wish to go ahead and scout," said Kharlacht. "If an ambush awaits us, perhaps we can repay our foes in kind."

"Go," said Ridmark. "Be careful."

The orc's lips split in a hard grin, his tusks rising like daggers before his face. "I shall be as careful as you are."

"That's hardly reassuring," muttered Calliande.

Kharlacht strode into the maze of boulders. Despite his bulk and his armor, he moved without sound, and soon disappeared.

"You let him go off alone?" said Morigna.

"Kharlacht knows what he is doing," said Calliande.

"He does," said Ridmark. "I left Dun Licinia alone, and I have spent years wandering the Wilderland. I know how to move without leaving a trail. Yet he tracked me nonetheless."

Morigna shrugged, her tattered cloak rippling around her. "As you say."

Dark shapes moved overhead, and Ridmark raised his staff. But it was only Morigna's ravens, and they dropped upon her shoulders. Her eyes closed, darting back and forth behind the lids as she communicated with the birds.

"Anything?" said Ridmark.

"Nothing," said Morigna, her voice tight. "The Old Man's cottage is still there, and they saw smoke rising from the chimney. But..."

She fell silent.

"What is it?" said Ridmark.

Her eyes shot open, and the ravens took flight.

"I need to speak with you," said Morigna. She glanced at Calliande. "Alone."

"Why?" said Calliande.

"So I can plot to bewitch him with dark magic, of course," said Morigna.

"Of course," said Calliande, her scorn apparent.

"But you could sense any spell I worked," said Morigna. "And I simply do not wish to share with you what I have to say."

"Very well," said Ridmark. "Be quick about it, though."

He strode a dozen paces away, close enough that he could see the others if anyone attacked, but far that Morigna would not be overhead.

"What is it?" said Ridmark.

"The place I told you about," said Morigna in a low voice. "The circle of standing stones where..."

"Where Sir Nathan Vorinus died," said Ridmark.

She gave a sharp nod. "It is atop a hill about a half-mile north of the Old Man's cottage. Something is moving around within the circle."

"Could the ravens see what it was?" said Ridmark.

"No," said Morigna. "The ravens won't go anywhere near the stones. They...sense the dark magic about the place, I think. Even with magic, I can't force them to approach it."

Ridmark nodded. Most animals avoided the dark elven standing stones. Most people, as well.

At least those with good intentions.

"Have the ravens circle this hill again," said Ridmark. "See if they can find anything."

Morigna gave a sharp nod, her face strained, and then she laughed.

"What is it?" said Ridmark.

"Look at me," said Morigna. "Jumping at your commands, as if I was one of your ragged little collection of outcasts."

"Do you have a better plan?" said Ridmark. "Then, please, I am eager to hear it."

She scowled. "Are you mocking me?"

"No," said Ridmark. "If you have a better plan, I shall be glad to put it into motion." He shook his head. "Perhaps we are merely chasing shadows. Or perhaps deadly foes lurk in the boulders. If so, if I make the wrong decision, we all shall die, and I shall have more deaths upon my conscience. So I would be glad for a better plan."

She said nothing for a moment.

"Who are you?" said Morigna.

Ridmark grunted. "Have you forgotten my name already?"

"That is not what I meant," said Morigna. "An orcish warrior of Vhaluusk, a dwarven friar, and a proud Magistria, and they all obey your every word. And you bent Sir Michael and the abbot to your will. They are stubborn old fools. I thought they would sit and argue as the undead swarmed over them." She shook her head again. "Why are you even here?"

"I told you," said Ridmark. "I'm going to Urd Morlemoch to wring answers from the Warden."

"You should not be," said Morigna. "You ought to go back to Andomhaim and rule. You could if you wanted to. You are the strongest man I have ever met." She looked toward the hill and grimaced. "Though the men I have met were either ancient wizards, elderly monks, or idiots like Michael or Jonas. The bar for comparison is not high."

"Or Nathan," said Ridmark, voice quiet.

She looked at him, pain flashing across her face. "He was different. You...remind me of him, a little. Though I do not think you would be so foolish as to charge into a circle of dark elven standing stones."

"You misjudge me greatly, then," said Ridmark, remembering the day he had rescued Calliande.

"Perhaps not," said Morigna. "You are strong enough to take whatever you wish, yet you seem ready to throw your life away on this mad quest to Urd Morlemoch."

"It is necessary," said Ridmark.

"Is it?" said Morigna. "You could have whatever you want. Instead you are wandering the wilderness with a pack of outcasts and helping others with problems that are not your responsibility. Why?"

"The same reason," said Ridmark, "that you were planning to warn the town against the undead."

"Oh?" said Morigna. "And what reason is that? Can you read my mind? Perhaps Calliande ought to direct her fears about dark magic to you."

"Because," said Ridmark, "it's what Nathan would have wanted you to do."

Again he saw the pain flicker across her face.

"Michael would not have believed me," said Morigna. "Maybe I just wanted the satisfaction of telling him he was wrong after the undead overran Moraime."

"I am sure you would have enjoyed that satisfaction," said Ridmark, "but that is not the main reason you did it."

"No," said Morigna. "I suppose it is not." She fell silent for a moment. "Is that why you are doing this? Because your dead wife would wish it of you?"

Ridmark had never considered the question in that light. Aelia had believed him when he spoke of the return of the Frostborn, but had never seemed concerned. His wife had been a practical woman, more concerned with the welfare of Castra Marcaine than a far-off threat about which she could do nothing. Perhaps she had trusted him to take care of the Frostborn, if they ever returned.

Just as she had trusted him to save her from Mhalek five years ago.

"Ah," said Morigna. "Have you no answer for me at last?"

"Did Calliande tell you about her?" he said.

"No," said Morigna. "Only a little. That your wife died in front of you."

"Killed," said Ridmark. "She was killed."

"And you could not save her," said Morigna. "I suppose that explains much about you."

"Then you do understand," said Ridmark, "why I am doing this."

She said nothing for a long moment.

"Perhaps I do," said Morigna at last.

"Tell your ravens," said Ridmark, turning back toward Calliande and the others. "Have them keep watch on the hill with the dark elven standing stones. If they do not wish to look at the stones, I cannot blame them. But they should have no such qualms about the hillside itself."

"I should have thought of it myself," said Morigna.

Ridmark rejoined Calliande and the others.

"What was that about?" said Calliande. She was calm, but Ridmark could see her distrust of Morigna.

"Dark magic and witchery, of course," said Morigna. "I put a spell of evil sorcery upon the Gray Knight, and now he will dance upon my strings like a puppet."

Caius snorted. "Certainly that was the least spectacular piece of dark magic I have ever seen."

"There is a hill north of here with a dark elven stone circle," said Ridmark. Calliande shuddered, no doubt recalling unpleasant memories of the stone circle upon the foothills of the Black Mountain. "Something is moving there."

"Perhaps an animal that wandered into the circle," said Caius.

"Or something worse," said Ridmark. "The ravens will keep watch. We..."

He heard the rasp of a boot upon stone and turned, raising his staff. But it was only Kharlacht.

The orcish warrior did not look pleased.

"Foes?" said Ridmark.

"Worse," rumbled Kharlacht. "A mystery. I followed the tracks halfway up the slope, to a wide ledge. And then nothing."

"Nothing?" said Ridmark. "The trail vanishes?"

"It does," said Kharlacht, "and it should not." He gave an irritated shake of his head. "The footprints simply vanish. There is enough loose sand and dirt upon the hillside that I should have been able to track their passage, but I could not. It as if they were simply plucked off the hill."

"Perhaps you missed the tracks," said Morigna.

"This is possible," said Kharlacht. "But I do not think so. Something else is afoot."

"Some trick of the Old Man's magic?" said Gavin.

"A logical conclusion," said Morigna. "But he's never done anything like that."

Ridmark considered, drumming his fingers against his staff. Footprints that disappeared, imprinted upon the hillside of a renegade wizard. He liked this less and less. Some of the creatures of dark elves could take a human form and yet use their wings to fly – he had fought an urdhracos in the ruins of Urd Morlemoch. Perhaps one lurked near the circle of standing stones.

He opened his mouth to ask if Morigna's ravens had seen any other flying creatures, and then stopped.

Kharlacht's footprints led down the side of the hill, and a half-dozen more sets of tracks followed his.

Footprints, Ridmark was utterly certain, that had not been there a few moments ago.

"Give me a moment to think," said Ridmark, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He kept tapping his fingers against his staff, but his eyes swung back and forth. The footprints broke off and moved along the sides of the wide path, and then came to a stop encircling Ridmark and his companions.

As if they had just been surrounded by a band of invisible men.

Some of the dark elves' creatures could blend with their surroundings, and the dvargir could use shadow to conceal themselves almost perfectly. Yet the dvargir preferred to leave the Deeps at night, and Ridmark saw none of the telltale rippling that marked the presence of an urvaalg. For that matter, an urvaalg would have left clawed paw marks upon the ground.

Not the prints of booted feet.

Invisible men. A ridiculous idea.

Yet Ridmark was utterly certain those footprints had not been there a few moments ago.

And if there were invisible men watching them, they were preparing to strike. And if they were preparing to strike, they were close enough to overhear anything he said.

Which meant he could not warn the others.

Unless he thought of something clever.

"Calliande," he said, stepping closer to her.

"What is it?" she said. "I don't sense anything..."

He took her in his arms and pulled her close. He just had time to see her expression, her blue eyes wide and shocked, but she made no effort to stop him. He cupped his free hand against the back of her neck and lowered his lips to her right ear.

"Listen to me," he whispered as softly as he could. "We're in terrible danger. Don't speak. Nod if you understand."

He felt her nod, heard Morigna's amused laugh.

"A spell to break other spells," whispered Ridmark. "Can you cast it over the path?"

Calliande nodded.

"Prepare it," whispered Ridmark, her body warm against him. "Do it as soon as I step away."

She nodded once more, and he felt her hands clench as she summoned power, her breathing turning rhythmic. Hopefully their unseen observers would fail to notice anything amiss.

Ridmark released her and took two steps back, gripping his staff in both hands.

"Dare I even ask what that was about?" said Caius.

Calliande flung out her hands, white fire dancing around her fingers, and a pulse of white light washed across the hillside. For a moment nothing happened, and Ridmark wondered if he had been too cautious, or if he had simply lost his mind.

Then seven man-sized pillars of shadow swirled around the edges of the path. Kharlacht barked a curse and drew his greatsword, while Caius lifted his mace and Gavin yanked his sword from its sheath. Morigna took a step back, purple fire shining around her fingers.

Then the shadows faded away, revealing seven men.

Six of them wore identical costumes, dark cloaks with the hoods raised, swords and daggers at their belts. Crimson masks concealed their faces, shaped like grinning human skulls, and cuirasses of crimson leather armored their torsos. Ridmark recognized the design of the masks at once. They were assassins of the Red Family of Cintarra, a cult that worshipped Mhor, one of the old orcish blood gods, and they dealt death in his name. They also happened to profit tidily from their murders, and performed assassinations in exchange for large sums of gold.

The seventh man was stocky and muscular, with a thick beard and a hauberk of chain mail, a sword ready in his hand.

Sir Jonas Vorinus, younger brother of the praefectus of Moraime.

"Well, well," said Jonas with a laugh. "You were just as clever as I was warned, Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii. But not clever enough to escape the Enlightened of Incariel."

***

## Chapter 9 - Sons of Mhor

"The Enlightened of what?" said Morigna, scowling at Jonas. "What foolishness is this?"

She was stunned. Jonas has used some sort of magic to conceal himself and his red-masked followers. Yet she had sensed nothing. Surely she would have felt something, some trace of the spell, as they drew closer. Certainly the Old Man would have detected the magic and dispatched the intruders.

Yet there Jonas stood. Morigna had always considered him a spiteful, useless buffoon.

Perhaps she had been mistaken.

"Oh, you don't know, do you?" said Jonas, lifting his sword with a lazy smile. "The Witch of the Hills, so arrogant, so sure of herself, doesn't know something? How shocking."

"Incariel," said Ridmark, his staff in both hands. The Gray Knight looked calm, but his voice was ice. "It's a name for the great void the dark elves worshipped, the darkness that twisted them."

"And the dvargir," added Caius, his mace ready.

"Go on," said Jonas. "This is most educational."

"There are some among the nobility of Andomhaim who worship Incariel, who believe it will give them the power to become the immortal princes of mankind," said Ridmark. "Of course, the serpent promised much the same to Eve on Old Earth."

"A feeble story for children," said Jonas. "Neither Old Earth nor the Dominus Christus ever existed, only this world. The priests of the church have no power. The Initiated of the Enlightened do, power beyond anything your parochial little mind can understand."

"Paul Tallmane said the same," said Ridmark.

"He was not one of the Initiated," said Jonas, "and I have been sent to rectify his error." His brown eyes, so similar to Nathan's, turned back to Morigna. "And my fine friends, little witch? Do you recognize them?"

Morigna sneered at Jonas's companions. The men looked at her in silence, and she had to admit their grim skull-masks were a bit unnerving. "Whoever they are, they have poor taste in costumes. A crimson skull? Why not dress up in a sheet to frighten children?"

"They are called the Red Family of Cintarra," said Ridmark. "Hired assassins. I have enemies, and they are willing to pay a rich price for my head."

"The Dux Tarrabus Carhaine of Caerdracon, you mean," said Jonas. "A fine and noble man. I enjoyed meeting him."

"And these are your fur merchants, I take it?" said Morigna.

Jonas laughed. "Aye. They've visited Moraime for years. I made their acquaintance when I visited Coldinium a few years ago...and there I met the Enlightened. They sought worthy men to join them, to aid them in ruling the earth in the new order to come, and I joined them."

"I suspect your masters will be less than pleased," said Ridmark, "when they learn how badly you botched this ambush."

"The Master cares nothing for methods, only for results," said Jonas. "If I had to kill everyone in that miserable monastery to get at you, he would not blink an eye, so long as I was successful. Which reminds me. How did you see past the concealment?"

"The Magistria sensed it," said Ridmark. That annoyed Morigna – if Calliande had been able to sense it, why had it eluded her notice?

"That is a lie," said Jonas with a smile. "A good one, though. Mortal wizards, whether Magistri or renegade hill witches, cannot detect the power of Incariel's shadow."

Shadow? What was he talking about?

"Footprints," said Ridmark. "You didn't bother to conceal them when you followed us here."

Jonas groaned. "Of course! You really are as clever as the Dux said. Not clever enough to escape, of course, but still clever."

"And that is why you recognized me," said Ridmark. "The Dux sent you to kill me."

"In a way," said Jonas. "The Master said you might pass through Moraime, and it is well-known within the Enlightened that the Dux will pay a fortune for your head. So I can both please the Master and earn the Dux's gold in the same day. If there were a God, I would say that he smiled upon me."

"So you want my head," said Ridmark.

"Yes," said Jonas. "And the pretty blond head of the Magistria, too. A pity we have to kill her. Ah, but we could have put her to some good use."

One of the assassins let out a short, nasty laugh.

"Shadowbearer," said Calliande, her blue eyes narrowed. "Your precious Master is Shadowbearer, isn't he? I should have known. He told me..." She shook her head.

"The Master has many names," said Jonas. "Some have called him Shadowbearer. We call him the Master, for he has taught us secret knowledge, and shown us the path to becoming gods."

"Folly," said Caius.

"As if you would know, dwarf," said Jonas. "Your kindred shall have no place when the new order arises." He pointed at Morigna. "Her, however, we shall take alive."

"Me?" said Morigna. "What does your Master want with me?"

"I neither know nor care," said Jonas. "I suspect the Master is doing a favor for one of his servants. But you will come with us...along with the stone carried by the Magistria."

"The empty soulstone," said Morigna. "And what will your Master do with it?"

"Why, that is a surprise," said Jonas. "I suspect you will not enjoy it, though."

"Or to put it simply," said Ridmark, "you are not important enough to the Enlightened to know."

Morigna laughed at the flicker of dismay that went over Jonas's expression, but the chagrin soon turned to anger.

"Enough," said Jonas. "Let us begin, shall we?"

"By all means, please," said Ridmark. "I assumed there was a reason you wished to weary our ears with your nonsense."

"Perhaps because we spoiled his ambush," said Calliande.

Kharlacht barked a grim laugh. "Given how incompetently it was executed, we should not be surprised."

"Impatience is ever the failing of the young," said Caius. "Had the Red Brothers and the cultist remain where they were, we would have strolled right into their trap. We..."

"Enough!" said Jonas, pointing his sword. "I have decided to be generous and make you and offer. The Gray Knight and the Magistria must die, and the soulstone and the witch shall come with us."

"A compelling offer," said Ridmark. "What do you offer in exchange?"

"You three," said Jonas with a smile. "The orc, the dwarf, and the boy. Kill the Gray Knight and the Magistria, help me overpower the witch, and I'll let you live. More, I'll even reward you. The Enlightened of Incariel are rising to power in Andomhaim, and we shall soon rule all of the world. Our friendship will be highly..."

Gavin and Caius laughed, and even Kharlacht looked amused.

"Aren't you even going to offer us thirty pieces of silver?" said Gavin. "Isn't that traditional?"

Caius laughed. "Well spoken, lad."

"Thank you."

"Enough of this foolishness." The Red Brother who had laughed turned his masked head to look at Jonas. "Kill them and be done with it. We were hired to kill your foes and help take the witch hostage, not to listen to your oratory."

"So be it, Rotherius," said Jonas.

"Are you sure that is wise?" said Ridmark. "We have a Magistria and another wielder of magic. You have none. Are you sure you can overcome us?"

"I am entirely certain," said Jonas. "You see, Gray Knight, you might have overcome Paul Tallmane. He may have been one of the Enlightened, but he was not one of the Initiated...and I am an Initiated of the Second Circle."

He lifted his sword, and shadows swirled and crawled around the blade.

Cold power washed over Morigna, the darkness around the weapon pushing against her magical senses.

"They taught you magic?" she said, astonished.

"Greater than the petty tricks of a Magistrius," said Jonas, the shadows crawling up his arms like the tentacles of some unearthly beast. "The power of Incariel, the power to evolve mankind into a new and higher form. A pity you will not be there to see it. Rotherius! Kill them all, save for the witch. She's mine."

Rotherius snarled a command, and the masked assassins sprang forward, swords and daggers a blur of steel. Ridmark and his companions moved just as quickly. Gavin planted himself before Calliande, shield and sword ready, and the Magistria herself began casting a spell. Kharlacht and Caius broke right and left, charging to meet the assassins' attack, while Ridmark moved like a gray-cloaked storm, his staff a dark blur in his hand.

But Morigna focused upon Jonas.

She drew upon her magic, letting the power of the earth flood through her. Her mind expanded, and she felt the ground beneath her boots, the stone bones of the earth spread below her like a skeleton draped in mud. She commanded the ground beneath Jonas to turn to quicksand, to suck him into the earth. The spell would hold him immobile until Ridmark questioned him.

Or until Morigna decided to kill him. Ridmark, for all his strength, seemed like the sort of man to show mercy to defeated enemies. Valorous, certainly, but foolish.

A dead enemy could do you no harm.

She gestured at him, and Jonas grinned.

The tentacle of shadow unwrapped from his arm and shot toward her with blinding speed. It wrapped around her like a rope, and Morigna screamed in sudden pain. She had no idea what kind of magic he had used, but it felt like a chain made of ice.

And it disrupted her concentration, shattering her spell.

Morigna slumped to her knees, fighting against the agony that flooded through her.

###

Calliande cast a spell, drawing on the magic of the Well despite her shock and alarm. The assassins of the Red Family were frightening, and she might die in the next few moments.

But the revelation about Shadowbearer alarmed her more.

When she had first learned of the Enlightened of Incariel, she had assumed they were simply another esoteric cult, a collection of fools pursuing forbidden knowledge. Such things had happened at various times through Andomhaim's history. But then the Watcher had appeared in her dreams and warned her against the Enlightened, telling her that they were a tool of Shadowbearer.

And now, if Jonas had told the truth, the Enlightened were Shadowbearer's willing allies.

The strange shadow writhing around Jonas's sword arm seemed to prove the Watcher correct. It reminded Calliande of the shadow cast by Shadowbearer himself. It had crawled and hissed around him like a living serpent. When she had been dragged before him, naked and bound and helpless, she knew that a single touch of that terrible shadow would bring death. But he had intended to sacrifice her within a dark elven stone circle, binding her power to the empty soulstone.

The empty soulstone she now carried.

She felt a brief flicker of defiant pride. Apparently Shadowbearer had decided that she was too dangerous to keep alive.

Morigna fell with a cry of pain, Jonas's shadow coiling around her like a rope. Caius charged to the left, swinging his mace, while Kharlacht struck right, driving back a pair of the skull-masked assassins. Gavin raised his shield and set himself before Calliande. Ridmark ran at Jonas, while Rotherius and a second Red Brother moved to intercept him.

White fire burn around Calliande's hands as her spell flared to life. The light leapt from her fingers and soaked into her friends, and a moment later they moved faster, her magic enhancing their speed. The assassins fell back beneath the invigorated assault.

Then Jonas's hard eyes shifted to her, and he pointed his sword.

A tentacle of shadow lashed from the sword blade like a whip and struck Calliande. She screamed in pain as icy agony filled her, and her concentration shattered. The spell collapsed, and the enhanced speed faded from Ridmark and the others.

"My lady!" shouted Gavin, slashing at the ribbon of shadow with his sword, but the blade passed through it.

"Kill the Magistria!" said Jonas. "Now!"

Two of the assassins turned toward her, and Gavin rushed to meet them, shield raised and sword drawn back.

Calliande tried to stand, but the icy cold from Jonas's shadow would not leave her.

###

Ridmark tried to reach Jonas, but Rotherius and a second assassin of the Red Family intercepted him, their skull masks seeming to grin. Both men wielded sword and dagger, and came at him with the skill of men accustomed to fighting alongside each other.

That was bad. Ridmark had killed two Red Brothers in Aranaeus. But the fight had been close, dangerously close, and if Ridmark had been a half-second slower, Paul Tallmane and his hired assassins would have killed him.

And now he faced six sons of the Red Family.

But Ridmark had help. Kharlacht and Caius battled four of the assassins, and Gavin stood guard over Calliande. Both Calliande and Morigna had fallen to their knees, their faces twisted in pain from the touch of Jonas's strange shadow. Jonas himself strode forward, shadows wreathing his sword.

Apparently becoming one of the Initiated brought powers in dark magic...though Ridmark had never seen magic like that before.

Then the assassins charged Ridmark, and he had no more time for thought.

Rotherius came in a rush, sword and dagger thrusting, while the second assassin circled to the right. Ridmark saw the game – Rotherius wanted to hold his attention while the second assassin attacked from the side. But Ridmark's longer weapon gave him a greater reach, and he stepped back, gripping the bottom third of his staff with both hands.

His swing drove back Rotherius, and the assassin on the right lunged for the kill. But Ridmark reversed his grip on the staff and thrust the weapon like a spear. Its steel-shod head drove into the assassin's red cuirass hard enough to dimple the leather, and the assassin staggered back. Before either Rotherius or the stunned assassin recovered, Ridmark reversed his grip on the staff yet again and swung it with all his strength. The length of heavy wood slammed into the side of the second assassin's head with a clang. The skull mask was part of a steel helmet, and Ridmark doubted his blow had killed the assassin. Yet it had stunned the man, and Ridmark charged Rotherius, hoping to strike him down before the other assassin recovered.

Yet Rotherius met Ridmark's attack with skill and speed. His sword went right, deflecting the thrust of Ridmark's staff. Ridmark spun the weapon, hoping to line up another strike, but Rotherius lunged with his dagger, and Ridmark had to dodge. Then Jonas jumped into the fray, shadows dancing around his sword, and Ridmark retreated. He did not know what would happen if those swirling shadows touched his skin, but he suspected it would not be pleasant.

"Fall and die, Gray Knight," said Jonas with a laugh. Two ropes of shadow rippled from his sword, coiling around Morigna and Calliande. Rotherius started to stab, but Jonas slashed, disrupting the masked assassin's attack. "Go on, twirl that little stick of yours. Perhaps I'll mount your head upon it when I present your corpse to the Dux."

Jonas might have been an Enlightened of Incariel and an Initiated of the Second Circle, but he was not a very good swordsman. He swung again, getting in Rotherius's way.

And leaving an opening a mile wide in his defenses.

Ridmark rammed his staff into Jonas's chest with all his strength. The chain mail hauberk grated against the staff's metal tip, but Ridmark heard the sound of a snapping rib. Jonas stumbled back with a grunt, and Ridmark swung again. The staff connected with the wrist of Jonas's sword hand, and again bones snapped. Jonas dropped his sword with a scream and backed away, the shadows around the blade winking out.

Ridmark raised his staff for the kill, but Rotherius and the second assassin attacked, forcing him back.

###

The shadowy coil binding Calliande winked out, and the icy pain eased.

But it did not vanish entirely.

She struggled to her feet, summoning the magic of the Well, white fire burning around her fingers.

And as she did, something emerged from the mist that choked her memory.

The strange shadows. She had seen them before, somewhere in her past before she had gone into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance. She had faced the shadows.

And she was still alive.

Which meant she knew how to fight them.

"Lady Calliande?" said Gavin.

"Help Caius, now," said Calliande. Kharlacht held his own against the two assassins, protected by his dark elven armor and the longer reach of his greatsword, but Caius fell back, pursued by his two foes, a vicious gash across his forehead.

Gavin sprinted at the Red Brothers menacing the dwarven friar. One of the assassins turned to face him, and Caius got his footing back, breathing hard as he raised his mace to block. Kharlacht roared a malediction in orcish and struck with his greatsword, and one of the Red Brothers fell, his head rolling from the bloody stump of his neck. Ridmark dueled Rotherius and a second assassin, while Jonas huddled behind them, shadows crawling around him as he clutched his right arm.

Morigna remained on her knees, still shuddering despite the removal of Jonas's shadow coil. Likely she had never faced such an attack before, and did not know how to fight it off.

And apparently, neither statement was true about Calliande.

She drew upon as much magic as she could hold. Ridmark's staff blurred and slammed into the forehead of a masked assassin with a clang. The man toppled in silence, the forehead of his crimson skull dented. Rotherius drove at Ridmark, sword and dagger striking against the blur of Ridmark's spinning staff.

Calliande flung out her hands, and white fire drilled into Jonas.

It couldn't hurt him. A Magistria's power could neither harm nor kill living mortals. But it attacked the dark magic swirling around the self-proclaimed Initiated of Incariel, and Jonas screamed in sudden agony and fell to one knee, his eyes wide with surprise. She saw the terror on his face as the shadows flickered beneath her white fire.

But the shadows closed around him like wings and repulsed her flames. The shadows wrapped tight around him, and Calliande felt a pulse of power as they healed his injuries. Jonas snarled, snatched up his sword, and charged at her, shadows coiling around his blade.

They leapt from his sword and flew at her like winged serpents.

But Calliande knew how to fight them.

She raised her hands, fingers hooked into claws, and worked a spell of warding and protection, similar to the one she had used against Agrimnalazur in Urd Arowyn. A shell of white light flared around her, and the tentacles of shadow slammed into it. The spell hissed and snarled beneath the strain, the light flickering. Calliande gritted her teeth and drew on more power, fighting to keep the ward in place. Her magic was strong...but so were the shadows pouring from Jonas's sword.

Step by step Jonas staggered towards her, lips peeled back in a snarl, sword raised to strike. She had no power left to strike at him, none left to ward herself against his weapons.

Calliande looked for aid, but Morigna was still stunned, and Ridmark and the others struggled against the assassins.

Jonas drew closer.

###

Ridmark jumped back, just avoiding the edge of Rotherius's sword.

The red-masked assassin was a masterful swordsman, one of the best Ridmark had ever fought. And unlike most swordsmen, he knew how to fight a man with a quarterstaff. The second assassin had not, and lay dead upon the ground.

Ridmark dodged another thrust, jumped back, and saw that the others had not fared as well.

Volleys of shadow and white fire ripped back and forth between Calliande and Jonas, yet Jonas seemed to have the upper hand. Blood dripped down Caius's face, and both Kharlacht and Gavin had taken wounds. Morigna remained upon her knees, shuddering from whatever Jonas's magic had done to her.

Unless Ridmark changed the balance of the fight, they were going to die.

An idea came to him, mad and wild. It might work. It might get them all killed. It would very likely get Ridmark killed, but that hardly mattered. But that was the point – Ridmark was only an obstacle to Jonas Vorinus. Jonas wanted Morigna and the empty soulstone. With Morigna overpowered, Jonas needed only to capture the soulstone.

And Ridmark would give him the opportunity.

He launched a series of thrusts and swings at Rotherius, putting the Red Brother on the defensive. Rotherius stepped back, and Ridmark landed a minor hit upon him. The assassin grunted, but rather than follow up with another attack, Ridmark turned and sprinted.

He ran at Calliande. He glimpsed her face, full of pain and determination, and he snatched the leather pouch from her belt.

"Ridmark!" she said. "What..."

"Is this what you want, Jonas?" said Ridmark, holding the pouch over his head. "The soulstone! When I throw it into the swamp, do you think you'll find it again? Lower your weapons, or you can see how Shadowbearer rewards failure!"

"No!" roared Jonas. "Stop him! Kill him and take that damned stone!"

Ridmark turned, jammed the pouch into his belt, and sprinted down the path.

And as he hoped, Jonas and the four surviving assassins followed him, leaving the others behind.

###

Calliande caught her breath and gathered her power, preparing to strike at the shadows wreathing Jonas.

But Sir Jonas and the surviving assassins sprinted away down the path in pursuit of Ridmark. Calliande started after them, frustration and anger warring inside of her. What was Ridmark doing? Was he sacrificing his life to save them? Fool! Even if he succeeded, Jonas would only kill him and take the empty soulstone back to Shadowbearer, and God alone knew what kind of evil the high elven wizard would work with it...

Then her mind caught up to her raging emotions.

Ridmark had a plan. He was indifferent to his own survival, but he was not suicidal. If he had drawn off Jonas and the Red Family, he had done so for a reason.

Meanwhile, Calliande had her own tasks.

She hurried over to Caius, who was breathing hard, red blood marking his gray skin.

"Lady Calliande," said Caius, "Ridmark...we must..."

"Quiet," said Calliande, summoning magic and lifting her hands.

She placed her palms upon Caius's head. For a moment she felt the pain of the wounds in his head and arm, the agony of them flooding through her as if they had been carved into her own flesh, and she gritted her teeth and tried not to scream.

But the pain faded, and the white light washing from her hands closed Caius's wounds.

Calliande took a ragged breath and stepped back.

"Thank you," said Caius, "but that was not necessary. You should save your strength. Ridmark..."

"Ridmark," said Calliande as Kharlacht joined them, "knows what he is doing. And if you bleed to death, Brother Caius, poor Kharlacht and Gavin will have to carry your corpse all the way back to Dun Licinia."

"And you are far too heavy for that," said Kharlacht.

Calliande glanced at Morigna, saw that the black-haired sorceress was still on her knees, shivering. Whatever Jonas had done to her was still working. Calliande would deal with Gavin's and Kharlacht's wounds, and then...

A thunderclap rang out over the marshes.

###

Ridmark ran into the marsh and found what he sought.

He took a deep breath and scrambled up a nearby grassy hill, the massive trees rising around him with their veils of hanging moss. Ridmark yanked what he needed from the pouches on his belt and prepared himself.

A moment later Jonas Vorinus and the assassins came into sight, splashing through the water at the base of the hill.

"Ah," said Jonas with satisfaction. "There are you are." Shadows swirled around the blade of his sword. Evidently whatever strange powers the Enlightened had given him had been strong enough to heal his wrist.

"One chance, Jonas," said Ridmark. "I don't want to kill anyone."

"You already killed two of the Family in Aranaeus," said Rotherius in his harsh voice, "and two more upon the hill. Your life is already forfeit."

"And how," said Jonas, "are you going to kill us? We are five, and I am an Initiated of the Second Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel. You are one man with a stick and...did you set that dagger on fire?"

Ridmark lifted his dagger with his right hand, the blade wrapped in a burning cloth.

"A burning dagger?" said Jonas, laughing as he took another step forward. "How droll. They took away your Soulblade, and so you replaced it with a dagger and a rag."

He laughed again, as did the other assassins.

Rotherius, however, did not, his skull mask looking at the water.

"Jonas," said the assassin. "I think..."

A bubble broke the surface of the water, accompanied by a pungent odor.

Jonas looked at the water, then at Ridmark, dawning horror spreading across his face.

Ridmark tossed the burning dagger into the water and threw himself to the ground.

A heartbeat later a howling roar filled his ears, and a wall of hot air slammed into him. Ridmark rolled several paces, coughing and wheezing. At last the terrible roar faded, and Ridmark used his staff to pull himself to his feet.

The burning corpses of three skull-masked men floated in the water. Jonas staggered backward, his arm charred black, his face red from heat, his hair burned away. There was no sign of Rotherius.

Ridmark descended the hill and headed toward Jonas.

"No!" croaked Jonas, raising his hands. "No!" He spat in fury. "This isn't over, Arban! Aid me. Aid me!"

Shadows swirled around him, and he disappeared. No doubt he had used his power to turn invisible once again. Ridmark swung his staff at the space Jonas had occupied, but only met empty air.

Footprints. If he had turned invisible, there would be footprints. Ridmark whirled, but saw no splashing, no footprints, no sign of Jonas.

His magic had transported him away.

Ridmark had seen such spells in Urd Morlemoch, but humans could not use them safely. Not without risking complete and irreversible madness. Jonas could not have gone far. Not without losing his mind.

On the other hand, perhaps he could. Perhaps Jonas's strange shadow-magic allowed him to travel safely.

Right back to Calliande and the others, maybe?

And Rotherius, it seemed, had escaped.

He hurried back across the marshes, leaving the dead Red Brothers behind.

###

Morigna blinked, trying to ignore the headache behind her eyes, and looked up.

Calliande stood over her, face pinched and weary, Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin waiting nearby. Morigna started to sit up, and a wave of dizziness went through her.

"Easy, now," said Calliande, helping Morigna up. Morigna wanted to wave the other woman away. She was not some weakling child to require aid!

Nevertheless, she was quite dizzy.

"What happened?" she said. Two dead Red Brothers lay near the boulders, their blood the color of their masks. There was no sign of Jonas or the other assassins.

Or of Ridmark, for that matter.

"I'm not sure," said Calliande.

"Those shadows," said Morigna. "What were they?"

"Dark magic," said Gavin.

"Clearly," said Morigna, getting to her feet with a groan, "but of what kind?"

"I don't know," said Calliande, "but I must have fought it before, because I knew how to ward against it. Though I don't remember it."

"That," said Morigna, "makes absolutely no sense."

Calliande shrugged, looking towards the path. "I wish it did."

"Where's Ridmark?" said Morigna.

"I don't know," said Calliande. "He took the soulstone and ran off into the swamp, and Jonas and the other assassins went after him. I..."

A gray-cloaked man came into sight, a staff in his right hand, a leather pouch in his left.

"Ridmark," said Calliande.

"You might want this back," said Ridmark, handing the pouch to her.

"Thank you," said Calliande. "What did you do?"

"I lured Jonas and the assassins into a pocket of marsh gas," said Ridmark, "and set it on fire."

"That explains the noise, I expect," said Caius.

Kharlacht started laughing.

"What?" said Morigna. "What is so funny?"

"The Gray Knight," said Kharlacht, "is prone to mad plans. The nest of drakes at the stone circle." He shook his head, still laughing. "The ursaar and the cave-in."

"The kobolds and the enraged spitfangs," said Caius.

"Challenging me to a duel," said Kharlacht.

"The spiderlings and the trap in Urd Dagaash," said Gavin.

Morigna stared at Ridmark. "Perhaps God does indeed exist, since it seems to be nothing short of a miracle that you are still alive."

"I cannot argue," said Ridmark. "Three of the assassins are dead. Rotherius got away. Jonas escaped through some sort of shadow-spell."

"What was it?" said Caius. "I have never seen magic like that."

"I don't know," said Calliande. "Shadowbearer had similar powers."

Kharlacht grunted. "Shadowbearer could come and go as he pleased, disappearing and reappearing against through his magic."

"I couldn't ward against his spells," said Morigna.

"It was an attack on the spiritual level," said Calliande. "Your magic controls the elements, earth and air and animals. But it can't heal or ward against that kind of attack. You had no way to deflect the spell. And why would the Enlightened of Incariel want you alive?"

"I know not," said Morigna. "I have never heard of these so-called 'Enlightened' before today."

"Ridmark, this is dangerous," said Calliande. "If Shadowbearer is the Master of the Enlightened, if they're all obeying his commands...then Andomhaim is in terrible danger. Not just from the return of the Frostborn, but from the Enlightened. Imagine men like Jonas Vorinus and Paul Tallmane ruling over Andomhaim. They would kill countless innocents...and if Shadowbearer is giving them magic..."

Ridmark nodded. "You're right." He looked at the hill. "Perhaps the Old Man shall be able to tell us more."

"You mean to press on, then?" said Caius.

"Perhaps it would be better to turn back," said Gavin.

Morigna scowled at them. "Why not? We have come this far. Or do you think the Old Man is allied with these Enlightened fools?"

"Actually," said Ridmark, his voice hardening, "I don't think we can go back."

He pointed.

Dark shapes moved up the slope, clad in rusted armor, ancient weapons in their hands, blue fires dancing in their empty eye sockets.

Undead orcs, dozens of them.

"Well," said Caius, "I suppose that answers the question of who raised the undead. Jonas couldn't kill us himself, but he has sent his minions to kill us instead."

"Prepare yourselves," said Ridmark, lifting his staff.

***

## Chapter 10 - Shadows

Ridmark watched the undead orcs come.

As before, they moved in a mindless, thoughtless mob. Part of his mind prepared himself for more fighting, his arms and legs relaxing, his heart hammering against his ribs.

But the rest of him wondered about the timing. Had Jonas raised the undead? If so, why hadn't he thrown them into battle at once?

Or had someone else been observing them, waiting until Jonas and his assassin allies had been driven back before attacking?

Ridmark didn't know, but he intended to find out.

Assuming they lived through this.

Calliande cast a spell. Ridmark's staff vibrated in his hands, shining with a light of its own. Morigna drew herself up, purple fire crackling around her fingers.

"Are you able to keep this up?" said Ridmark, looking his staff.

"I don't have much choice, do I?" said Calliande, sweat tricking down her face. Her voice only shook a little.

"The path," said Morigna. "Further down the hill, do you see where it narrows between two boulders? If we can drive the undead past that point, I can conjure a wall of acid mist between the boulders and hold the undead at bay."

"So the undead simply march into the mist and dissolve?" said Gavin.

"Less work than destroying them ourselves," said Kharlacht.

The undead orcs drew closer, weapons raised.

"Then first," said Ridmark, "let us drive the orcs back."

He hurried forward, and Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin followed him, weapons ready. The undead surged forward, and Ridmark struck. His staff landed with enough force to knock a tusked skull from the rotted stump of its neck. The undead collapsed, the blue light fading from its eyes. Around him Kharlacht and Gavin and Caius attacked. Caius's mace shattered bones and crushed skulls, while Gavin lopped off limbs and heads with quick strikes of his orcish sword, and Kharlacht's heavy blade cut them in twain.

The undead orcs were strong and fast, but Ridmark and the others had Calliande's magic, and the undead were unskilled. The assassins from the Red Family had been skilled and capable fighters. The undead fought with crude power, but with neither skill nor grace.

Ridmark forced his way through the creatures. Morigna cast a spell, and roots erupted from the stony soil of the hillside, curling and entrapping a dozen of the undead. Gavin chopped through the bound undead. Step by step they drove the creatures back, leaving a carpet of crumbling bones and rusted armor in their wake.

And then Ridmark saw the gap in the path, the twin boulders looming together like a long-crumbled arch.

He dodged a rusted axe and lashed out with his staff, shattering an orcish skull. The corpse fell backward, slowing down the others.

Another wave of undead, nearly a hundred strong, climbed up the slope.

"Morigna!" shouted Ridmark. "Now!"

###

Morigna took a deep breath, putting her thoughts through the patterns of spell casting.

She felt terrible. The shadows that Jonas had conjured had disrupted her connection with the earth magic, and she had tried a dozen times to fight off Jonas's attack.

But she had been unable to concentrate through the pain.

If not for Calliande and Ridmark, she would be dead.

Or, worse, Jonas's captive, helpless to defend herself against him.

The thought terrified her. Strength and power were important. The Old Man had taught that to her, and her experience of life had agreed with him. She had wanted to be strong, so strong that no one could ever hurt her again.

The way she had been hurt the night the dvargir had killed her parents, the day the urvaalg slew Nathan.

She had trusted in her magic and wits, certain they would see her through any danger. Even Nathan's death had not shaken her confidence. If he had listened to her, he would still be alive.

But even all her power had been useless against the shadows.

She had trusted in her strength, and her strength had not been enough.

Morigna did not know what that meant.

But she could ponder it later after they escaped the mob of undead climbing the hill.

She summoned power from the land around her and gestured. The magic surged through her, and a wall of mist filled the gap between the two boulders. The undead passing through it caught fire at once, the mist burning into their bones and decayed flesh. A dozen of the creatures remained trapped on the near side, but Ridmark and the others cut them down.

More undead creatures pressed into the mist, Morigna's magic eating into them and setting them aflame. Soon a heap of smoking, sizzling bones and dissolving flesh blocked the gap between the boulders.

"That," said Gavin, lowering his sword and breathing hard, "is a most unpleasant smell."

For once, Morigna could not disagree with him.

"Why are they still walking into the mist?" said Kharlacht as another corpse collapsed into charred bones.

"They're puppets of dead flesh upon strings of dark magic," said Ridmark. "They won't turn back unless their master commands them."

"Jonas," said Morigna. "The wretch failed to defeat us, and so he loosed his undead."

"I'm not sure it was him," said Ridmark. "The marsh gas burned him badly, and I think his shadows carried him away to safety. And we didn't see any undead on our way here."

"Perhaps Jonas turned them invisible," said Gavin, "the way he did with his assassins."

Another corpse fell sizzling and smoking.

"Surely hiding that many undead at once would strain Jonas's powers?" said Caius.

"I think it more likely," said Calliande, "that Jonas has an ally, one that raised the undead and watched the fight from afar. Once he saw that Ridmark had beaten Jonas, he sent the undead into the fight."

"Another Initiated of the Enlightened?" said Caius.

"Perhaps," said Calliande. "Maybe one of the dvargir."

The undead on the other side of the misty barrier began retreating.

"And whoever the necromancer is," said Ridmark, "he's still observing us. Calliande. Can you sense him?"

She worked the spell to sense the presence of magic.

"The undead," she said, her eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. "Lots of undead. But...I can't sense anyone working spells nearby."

"Morigna," said Ridmark. "Your ravens?"

She shook her head. "The fighting scared them off. I'll have to summon more." The admission of weakness galled her. "It will take time."

But Ridmark did not look upset. "When you can. If you can bind more birds, have them look around." He rubbed his jaw, the black stubble rasping beneath his palm. "Though I suppose that standing circle would be an excellent place for a necromancer to hide."

"Yes." Morigna hesitated. "Thank you." She took a deep breath. "All of you."

Ridmark blinked. "For what?"

"For saving my life," said Morigna. "For keeping Jonas from taking me prisoner."

"Shadowbearer wanted me alive, too," said Calliande, her eyes still closed. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"Do you have any idea why Jonas wanted you prisoner?" said Ridmark.

"None," said Morigna. "It must be a grudge. A reward Shadowbearer promised him for capturing the soulstone."

"But Jonas said it was a favor for another of Shadowbearer's servants," said Caius.

Morigna shrugged. "I know not. I've never been more than a hundred miles from Moraime. Certainly I doubt there are many others in the town who are part of this cult of Incariel."

"The undead," said Gavin. "They're moving off."

"Likely they will keep watch upon the hill," said Ridmark.

"Then what do we do now?" said Kharlacht. "If we try to fight our way out, they could overwhelm us."

Ridmark shrugged. "We'll do what we came here to do." His eyes moved to Morigna. "Let's speak with the Old Man."

Morigna swallowed and nodded. "This way."

"Ridmark!" said Calliande, her eyes shooting open.

"You sense something?" said Ridmark.

"Wraiths," said Calliande.

The single wraith near the ruined fortress wraith had almost been enough to kill them. The six below the crypt would have killed them, had Ridmark not been so clever.

"How many?" Morigna asked.

"A dozen, at least," said Calliande. "Probably more."

"They have trapped us like rats in a pit," said Kharlacht with a growl, the red haze of orcish battle fury brightening in his black eyes. In that moment Morigna could almost believed he could carve his way through the undead on his own.

"Aye," said Morigna, "but we have a way out. The Old Man."

Ridmark looked at her. "His power is strong enough to resist that many wraiths?"

"I do not know," said Morigna. "But he has survived here for all these years, has he not?"

"And will he welcome strangers arriving with a half-dozen wraiths on their tails?" said Caius.

Morigna grinned at the dwarven friar. "Probably not. But if a half-dozen wraiths turn up on his doorstep, he will have no choice but to fight. And there are wards around his home."

"I haven't sensed anything," said Calliande.

"They are latent," said Morigna. "They only activate when foes draw near. He uses them whenever orcish or kobold raiders move through the marshes."

"But will the Old Man see us as foes and activate the wards to keep us out?" said Caius.

"We have no choice in the matter," said Ridmark.

"Ridmark," said Calliande. "They're getting closer. We..."

"Run!" said Ridmark.

Morigna saw the wall of mist darken. She wondered if her spell had unraveled, or the master of the undead had started countering her magic.

But the wraiths flowed unharmed through the wall of mist, the air growing cold against Morigna's skin.

She turned and sprinted after the others, her tattered cloak flying around her.

###

Ridmark raced up the path.

The others followed, their boots scraping against the rocky ground. His arms and legs burned from the day's fighting. He would need rest soon, and he suspected the others would as well. He did not know how much a toll the use of that much magic had taken Calliande and Morigna, but he suspected it was significant.

If they did not get behind the Old Man's wards, if the Old Man's wards were not strong enough to turn aside the wraiths, they were dead.

It was as simple as that.

He ran across the broad ledge that Kharlacht had described. It would have been ideal for an ambush – Jonas and his men could have stood against the face of the hill, and driven them back to the edge. Just as well that Jonas had grown impatient. Another path, narrower than the first, ascended at a steep angle along the stony face of the hill.

Ridmark ran for the path.

White light flared, and he ran into an invisible wall. He stumbled backward across the ledge, just in time to see a shimmering field of light fade away from the path. Sigils of white fire burned for a moment upon the rocky slope, and then faded away.

The Old Man had already activated his wards.

"That was the spell of a Magistrius," said Calliande. "A ward. Powerful one."

"Then it seems the Old Man is indeed a renegade Magistrius," said Caius.

"Can you break the ward?" said Ridmark.

"No," said Calliande. "No, it's too strong. Maybe if I had an hour or two to wear it down, but..."

Ridmark understood. They didn't have an hour. They didn't have five minutes.

The air grew colder.

"Morigna," said Ridmark. "Did the Old Man tell you how to bypass his wards?"

She gave a sharp shake of her head. "No. Only that if I wanted to survive, I had better be inside of them."

"How generous," said Calliande.

"Calliande," said Ridmark. "My staff. Enspell it, and I will hold off the wraiths for as long as I can."

"You'll die," said Calliande.

"We shall fight alongside you," said Kharlacht.

"No," said Ridmark, looking around the ledge. Could they climb up the hillside? No, it was too steep and too rocky. "She doesn't have enough magic to make all your weapons effective against the wraiths. But she can augment mine, and you can escape while I hold the wraiths." He pointed toward the marshes. "The slope is steep, but if you're careful, you can manage it. Head back to Moraime. Abbot Ulakhur and Sir Michael must be warned about Jonas's treachery."

"What about you?" said Calliande.

Ridmark shrugged. "I'll escape and rejoin you in Moraime."

But he knew that he most likely would not. One wraith had almost finished him. Six would kill him in short order. He had long ago accepted that he would die, knew that he deserved it. But he would not lead the others to their deaths, not if he could find a way to prevent it.

They protested, but to his surprise, so did Morigna.

"Do not be ridiculous," she said. "You will be killed."

"I don't intend to be," said Ridmark. The air grew colder, and a shadow fell over the lower path as the wraiths drew closer. "Calliande."

She looked like she wanted to protest, but nodded and worked the spell. Ridmark's staff blazed with white light in his hand. It almost reminded him of carrying Heartwarden into battle. He wished he had a soulblade now.

The wraiths boiled up the path, dark specters in the shape of hooded orcish shamans, and Ridmark had no more time for thought.

He charged, trying to ignore the terrible chill, and thrust the length of the staff into the nearest wraith. The staff blazed with Calliande's magic, and the first wraith unraveled into smoke and mist.

But the other five pursued him.

Ridmark retreated, whipping the staff in glowing circles to keep the wraiths at bay, trying to ignore the deathly chill settling into his muscles. The wraiths moved into a half-circle around him, driving him toward the rocky wall of the hill. They would pin him against the slope, overwhelm him, and kill him.

He hoped the others had time to get away.

He hoped he would see Aelia again. She had joined the Dominus Christus in paradise, he was sure, and though he knew he had been damned for his failure, Ridmark only hoped he could tell her how sorry he was, how very sorry...

Ridmark felt the back of his boots strike the boulders of the slope. The wraiths closed around him, and Ridmark braced himself for one final charge...

A second sun rose overhead.

Ridmark squinted against the brilliant golden light that flooded the hillside. The wraiths went motionless, hissing and shrieking as shafts of golden light pierced their immaterial bodies. A moment later they dissolved into nothingness, and the horrible chill faded away.

Ridmark caught his balance and stepped forward. His friends stood at the edge of ledge, staring at something in shock. Specifically, a towering figure of gray granite, hewn in the shape of a bent old man with a long beard, golden fire glimmering in his eyes.

The trolldomr Rjalfur.

***

## Chapter 11 - Ancient Stone

"Rjalfur," said Ridmark.

"Man of water," said the trolldomr in his voice of thunder and rolling stone.

"You drove off the wraiths," said Ridmark. Calliande hurried to his side, looking over him for any sign of injury, and the others followed her.

"This one did not drive them off," said Rjalfur. "This one destroyed them. The bound shadows are the echoes of mortal men, given power and rage through dark magic. Such dark magic is an abomination, an affront to the song of the world. This one cleansed the abominations."

Ridmark bowed to the trolldomr. "Thank you for your assistance, sir. If you had not come along when you did, the battle might have gone ill."

Little expression crossed Rjalfur's rough-hewn features, but the trolldomr seemed almost surprised. "You offer gratitude? Men of water rarely do, for their natures are so changeable, just as water changes from ice to liquid and steam and back again. When your Dominus Christus healed the ten lepers, did not only one come back to thank him?"

"I know death when I see it," said Ridmark, "and only a churl would not thank his deliverer."

"Ah." Rjalfur considered this for a moment. "Then you are welcome, man of water. Your kind perishes so quickly. A sunrise and a sunset, and you are gone. Yet this one would not see your allotted span of years fall to creatures of abomination."

Twice now Rjalfur had helped them, once to warn them against the undead in the burial mounds, and again to save them from the wraiths. Perhaps the trolldomr knew more of what was happening here.

"I wish to ask some questions, if I may," said Ridmark.

"You may," said Rjalfur. "It is the nature of men of water to ask questions. Your lives are so short, and there are so many things to learn. You must ask questions constantly if you are to have time to learn anything."

Caius laughed. "I have lived for centuries, and I have often felt the same way, sir."

"Why are you helping us?" said Ridmark.

The trolldomr said nothing, standing motionless as a statue.

"We are grateful for your aid," said Ridmark, "but...it is unusual for one of the trolldomr to involve himself in the affairs of others."

"We do not, save for when we are attacked. If we are attacked, we will defend ourselves. But this one has seen strange things, and wishes to know the answer. This one has seen the missionary," said Rjalfur.

"Which missionary?" said Ridmark.

"It was a short time ago," said Rjalfur. "Only four hundred years past."

"A short time, indeed," said Gavin, blinking.

"This one wandered the Deeps, listening to the song of the earth," said Rjalfur. "The molten blood flowing through her veins, the sighs of the mountains as they carry their great burdens, the whisper of the canyons as they open. This one left the Deeps and came to the surface, listening to the song of the mountains in the land the orcs have named Vhaluusk. This one saw a man of water clad in a brown robe, wearing an instrument of torture and death around his neck."

"An instrument of death?" said Ridmark. He looked at Caius and Kharlacht, at the crosses both of them wore, and he understood. "You mean a cross."

"He was a missionary, this man you saw," said Caius.

"Yes," said Rjalfur. "The man of water went into an orcish village, and proclaimed that the Dominus Christus had died for their sins. The shaman of the village said the missionary would die for the intrusion. This one expected the missionary to flee...but he did not. Instead he proclaimed his words all the louder, and then forgave his enemies as their swords pierced his heart."

"Is that why you are helping us?" said Ridmark.

The trolldomr considered. "This one helps you because this one does not understand. For four hundred years this one has thought upon that missionary. Why did he die? He could have fled so easily. It is the nature of men of water, of short-lived mortals, to preserve their few years, as a miser hoards gold. Yet he sacrificed his remaining years with joy. Why? This one does not understand."

"Because he was a fool," said Morigna, heat in her voice, "a fool who believed lies, and threw his life away for nothing."

"Perhaps," said Rjalfur. "But you are a child of dark magic, Morigna of the swamps. This one has seen you wandering the marshes, and this one knows you love only power."

"What do you know of me?" said Morigna. "I..."

"The missionary died," said Caius, "because he loved something other than power. He trusted in the promise of the Dominus Christus, and wished to share that promise with the orcs."

"With the orcs and the halflings, the manetaur and the dark elves," said Rjalfur. "Even with the khaldari. You wear the missionary's sign about your neck, son of the khaldari. For tens of thousands of years, your kindred have dwelled in the Deeps and made war against the urdmordar and the dark elves and the dvargir. Yet in all that time, you are the first this one has seen who follows a different god."

Caius shrugged. "Humans only brought the Dominus Christus with them when they came to this world a thousand years ago."

"A short time," said Rjalfur. "Why did the missionary let himself die? For four hundred years this one has wondered the sunlight world, seeking wisdom. This one has spoken with many mortals, and then saw an orc and a dwarf traveling together, both wearing crosses. How did you come to believe as the missionary did?"

Kharlacht shrugged. "My mother was a follower of the church, and had me baptized. The blood gods of my kindred are cruel and brutal, and the Dominus Christus is neither."

"A missionary came to the court of the king in Khald Tormen," said Caius, "and I was moved by his words."

"So that is why you have helped us," said Ridmark. "We are a mystery to you, and if we are killed, we will not be able to help you understand the mystery.

"You speak true, man of water," said Rjalfur. "It is hard for our kind to understand yours. We are stone and strength, and you are water and weakness. We are eternal, and you come and go so quickly. Generations of your kindred might past while we contemplate the song of the earth, the pulse of the molten stone through her veins. And yet this one would understand."

"Then help us survive," said Ridmark.

"If this one can," said Rjalfur. "This one dislikes interfering, for it is grievous for us to alter the fates of other kindreds, whether for good or for ill, save for when we must defend ourselves. The lust for power is the greatest sin one of our kindred can commit."

"Thank you," said Ridmark. "Who raised the undead?"

"You did," said Rjalfur.

Silence answered him.

"Well," said Caius at last, "do we cut off your head now, or later?"

"I am not a Magistrius," said Ridmark. "I have no magical power. I could not have raised the undead even if I wanted to do it."

Rjalfur let out a long, rumbling sigh. "Forgive me. It is difficult for this one to speak properly in the Latin tongue. Or, perhaps, your perceptions are too alien. My kindred...we do not see time in the same fashion you do."

"Like the high elves?" said Ridmark.

"You have spoken with them?" said Rjalfur.

"Once, long ago," said Ridmark. "Nine years ago, which I suppose is a second or two to you. Ardrhythain said that the past is set in stone, the present is a fire that burns and changes, and the future is the shadows cast by that flame. The shadows change as the present does, and the high elves can see the changing shadows of the future."

So could the dark elves. The Warden had shown Ridmark his future, though he had disregarded it at the time. If only he had understood.

Aelia might still be alive.

"That is closer to our perspective," said Rjalfur. "This one suspects men of water see time as a continuity, a continuum, rather than a totality."

"That is accurate," said Calliande.

Rjalfur thought for a moment. "This one understands, though perhaps only a little. When this one says that you raised the undead...perhaps it is more accurate to say that the undead were raised because of you." The golden eyes shifted to Calliande. "And because of you."

"Us?" said Calliande.

"For many years this one has walked the lands near Moraime," said Rjalfur. "And only when you entered did the undead rise. There has long been dark magic in the hills, but it has only now awakened, and it seeks for you."

"The dvargir," said Ridmark. "Do you know of them?"

"The sons of the khaldari," said Rjalfur, "who turned away from the gods of their fathers, and worshipped instead Incariel, the great void of the dark elves."

Calliande frowned. "Then Incariel is indeed the great darkness?"

"It has many names," said Rjalfur. "It was sealed away long ago, even by the standards of the trolldomr. It has had many worshippers, and rewards them with power. But it always devours the souls of its servants in the end."

"The dvargir," said Caius slowly, "have some ability to control shadows. As did Jonas."

"Perhaps," said Gavin, "then the dvargir are allied with Jonas, and raised the undead at his bidding."

"We found a dead dvargir in the crypt below the monastery of St. Cassian," said Ridmark. "Are the dvargir responsible for the undead?"

"This one does not know," said Rjalfur. "The dvargir often pass through this land. There is an entrance to the Deeps north of here, and sometimes the dvargir come to the surface to seek slaves. They, too, are part of the dark magic that waits here. But if they come for you, this one does not know."

"Have you seen any dvargir recently?" said Ridmark. "And I mean within the last few days, not within the last few decades."

"This one has," said Rjalfur. "They avoid the trolldomr, for they fear us. But this one has seen them moving through the hills with stealth."

"What of the Old Man?" said Ridmark. Morigna gave him a sharp look. "Has he raised the undead?"

"He has not," said Morigna. "I told you that."

"The Old Man is a coward," said Rjalfur. "You, man of water, you risk your life fearlessly. The Old Man does not. He waits atop his hill, and if any foe with the slightest chance of harming him approaches, he activates his wards and hides behind them. He has always stayed well away from this one, though he has dwelled upon his hill for nearly ninety years."

"Ninety years?" said Ridmark, surprised. Even Morigna looked taken aback. "He has been here ninety years?"

"Perhaps his magic sustains him," said Rjalfur. The trolldomr fell silent for a moment. "This one does not know who raised the undead against you, as you understand the term. All this one knows is that the undead are for you. That is what this one can see in the song of stone and earth as it spreads throughout all of eternity. You came to the marshes of Moraime, and the undead rose to find you and the Magistria."

"Thank you," said Ridmark. "We will take any aid we can find. If you learn more, will you tell us? If it is within my power, I intend to end this dark magic."

"A noble cause," said Rjalfur. "The trolldomr are custodians of the stone and the earth, and this one will be glad to aid you. We dislike interfering in the destinies of others...but if this one finds useful knowledge, this one shall give it you."

"A question," said Calliande, stepping forward, "if I may."

"Of course," said Rjalfur.

"A place called Dragonfall," said Calliande. "Do you know of it?"

"This one does not," said Rjalfur. The trolldomr tilted his head to the side, his glowing eyes gazing at Calliande. "But this one can see the name in the totality of your existence. You must find it. For if you find it...yes, you may save many lives. And if you do not, many lives shall perish."

Calliande nodded, her face tight with frustration. Rjalfur had told her nothing that she did not already know.

And as quickly as he had appeared, Rjalfur vanished, his stony body disappearing into the ground.

Ridmark let out a long breath.

"Well," said Caius, "that was certainly interesting."

"The creature is mad," said Morigna. "A trolldomr interested in the lies of the church? Only a crippled mind could find such things fascinating."

"And only a blasphemer and a witch could not," said Gavin, glaring at the black-haired sorceress.

"Given that he saved us from the wraiths," said Ridmark, before Morigna and Gavin could start arguing again, "perhaps we should be glad he finds such things fascinating."

"Perhaps," said Morigna with a scowl. "But the trolldomr gave us no useful information."

"He gave us a great deal of useful information," said Ridmark. "We can be sure that he was not involved, for one. Additionally, we are certain the dvargir are working with Jonas, and are likely the source of the necromancy we have seen. If they are using dark magic to creep around the marshes, we might never have seen them. And," he pointed with his staff, "the wards have gone down."

The glimmering light blocking the upper path had vanished.

"Perhaps the Old Man will know more," said Ridmark.

Morigna nodded. She looked almost nervous at the prospect of seeing him again.

"Let's go," said Ridmark.

They started climbing.

***

## Chapter 12 - The Old Man

A short time later, Ridmark and the others reached the top of the hill.

A small meadow covered the hill's top, and it offered a magnificent view of the surrounding countryside. Ridmark saw the hills stretching away to the north, the forests to the west, the marshes to the east, and even the distant towers of the monastery far to the south. If the Old Man was as fearful as Rjalfur claimed, little wonder he dwelled here. A man could see any intruders coming for miles.

A large stone cottage with a thatched roof stood at the northern edge of the meadow. A deep, wooded ravine separated the Old Man's hill from its nearest neighbor, and atop that hill Ridmark saw the circle of black standing stones that Morigna had described.

The standing stones where Nathan Vorinus had died.

The cottage itself looked large and comfortable. Gardens filled half the meadow, and Ridmark saw that many of them had already been dug up in preparation for spring. The Old Man, it seemed, still had vigor enough to maintain his own gardens.

Unusual in a man of ninety years.

"This is it," said Morigna, her voice quiet. "His cottage."

"Is he home?" said Caius.

"He is," said Morigna. "His wards would not have activated otherwise. He..."

The door to the cottage swung open, and an old, old man hobbled out, leaning upon a staff.

The man looked at least a century old, thin as a scarecrow and tough as old leather. Wispy white hair encircled his head and jaw and chin. He wore ragged, patchwork clothing and scuffed boots, and his right leg dragged a bit. His eyes were watery and bloodshot and blue, yet Ridmark saw a keen sharpness there.

The Old Man came to a stop a dozen paces away, gazing at Morigna, and shook his head with a sigh.

"Well, girl?" he said in precise Latin, his raspy voice tight with peevish irritation, "what is this? I told you to never bring strangers here."

Morigna sniffed. "They are hardly strangers. I know who they are, do I not?"

"And I do not!" said the Old Man, rapping his staff against the ground in annoyance. "I told you, girl, strangers bring nothing but trouble! Why do you still fail to heed me after all this time? One would think that if you had listened to me, that strapping young man of yours might still be alive."

Morigna bristled. "And if you had killed the urvaalg, he would still be alive!"

"We mean no harm," said Ridmark.

The Old Man turned to face him. "Whether or not one means harm is irrelevant. Intentions do not matter. Results do. You have brought danger to me by coming here...to say nothing of the risk to yourselves."

"There are undead loose in the marshes, and they have attacked the town of Moraime," said Ridmark.

The Old Man scoffed, his expression almost identical to Morigna's. Ridmark saw where she had learned much of her truculent posing. "This is not my concern. The superstitious, petty fools of the town and monastery can deal with their own problems."

"Very well," said Ridmark. "Then permit us to ask a few questions of you, and we shall be on our way."

The Old Man drew himself up. "And just who are you to ask me questions, young man?"

"I am Ridmark Arban," said Ridmark. The Old Man blinked once, but gave no other sign of recognition. "This is Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Gavin of Aranaeus, Brother Caius of the mendicant order, and Calliande of the Magistri."

The Old Man deflated a bit. "A Magistria? Truly?"

Calliande nodded.

"Prove it."

She smiled, raised an eyebrow, and lifted her hand, white light glimmering around her fingers.

"Oh," said the Old Man. He closed his eyes and rested his head against his staff. "Have you come for me? After all these decades, have you finally come to make me pay for my crimes?"

"What crimes are those?" said Calliande.

"We did not even know you existed until yesterday," said Ridmark. "Who are you, truly?"

"My name," said the Old Man, "is Coriolus."

"Your name!" said Morigna in fury. "For fourteen years I have lived with you, and you never told me your..."

"You lived with me for six years at best," said Coriolus with a snort of derision. "By twelve years of age, you came and went as you pleased and spent more time with the beasts of the marsh, save for when you wanted to learn another bit of magic."

"Fine," spat Morigna. "Then I have known you for fourteen years, and in all that time, you never once told me your name?"

Coriolus shrugged. "You are not a Magistria, and you never well be."

Morigna glared at him, but Ridmark saw a flicker of pain go across her face. He could not blame her. This strange old man had taken her in after her parents' death and had taught her magic, but seemed to hold her in contempt. Little wonder she was so prickly and hostile.

He felt sorry for her.

"Well," said Coriolus, ignoring Morigna, "you are here about the undead, I assume?"

Ridmark nodded. "Someone has been raising undead from the orcish burial mounds and the crypts below the monastery."

"Ah," said Coriolus. He grinned. "And I suppose you think I'm behind it, hmm? The crazy old wizard lurking in the hills, raising corpses to terrorizing the pious local villagers, is that it?"

"You must admit," said Ridmark, "it is a most believable story."

"Hardly," said Morigna, "given how lazy you are."

Coriolus ignored her. "I admit, it is plausible. I suppose I could raise corpses as undead, if I could be bothered to learn the necessary necromancy. But why should I? I care nothing for the villagers, to be sure, and would not lift a finger to come to their aid...but nor would I lift a finger to harm them."

"Convince me of that," said Ridmark.

"Why should I?" said Coriolus with a sneer.

Ridmark remembered how Rjalfur had called the Old Man a coward. "Because I travel in the company of a Magistria. She might not know you, but if we return to Tarlion and tell the Masters of the Order that a renegade named Coriolus is lurking in the hills north of Moraime...tell me, how would they react?"

"You wouldn't," said Coriolus, a muscle twitching near his eye.

"On the other hand," said Ridmark, "if you answer my questions freely, I will forget where I obtained the answers."

For a moment the Old Man stared at him, trembling with fury. Ridmark wondered if he had pushed him too far, if Coriolus would indeed attack. But the Old Man only sighed and looked away, shaking his head.

Coriolus was indeed a coward.

"Fine," spat Coriolus. "I suppose you had better come inside, then."

###

Morigna watched the Old Man with disdain.

Fourteen years she had known him, and he had never once told her his name. She had asked, repeatedly. At first he had merely hit her for asking. When she had grown too strong for that, she had still asked, but he put her off with inane answers.

And he had never told her.

But had he not taught her that strength ruled and weakness served? Sharing his name with her would have been a weakness.

Yet it still made her feel cold and empty.

Ridmark and the others sat at the long table in the cottage's main room. Morigna stood near the wall, as far from the Old Man as she could get, though she took care not to touch anything, since the cottage was just as filthy as she remembered. Wooden plates covered the table, some covered with chunks of rotting food. Shelves lined the walls of the cottage, holding books and scrolls and various curios. A thick coating of dust covered everything, and if the Old Man had indeed lived here for ninety years, surely the floor had not been cleaned in that time.

"Thank you for inviting us into your home," said Ridmark. His expression was its usual calm mask, giving no hint of the thoughts behind those icy blue eyes.

Coriolus snorted. "Bah. You bullied your way in here, Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii. I met your grandfather, you know, old Dux Rience. I wonder what he would think of a grandson with a coward's brand."

"Doubtless he would be disappointed," said Ridmark. "However, he would take comfort in the knowledge that I had never wielded dark magic to raise undead."

Coriolus coughed and spat in the hearth, his spittle sizzling against the coals. "Like me, you mean?"

"Well?" said Ridmark. "Did you?"

The Old Man was silent for a long time.

"No, I did not," he said. For the first time Morigna heard something like contrition in his voice. "I have made many mistakes, but that was not one of them."

"Tell me about these mistakes," said Ridmark.

Coriolus sighed. "A long time ago...a very long time ago, I was a new-made Magistrius of the Order in Tarlion." He smirked at Calliande. "I was little different than most young Magistri. So proud, so arrogant, so sure of myself. I thought the world was mine to reshape as I liked. For its own good, of course, but mine to reshape nonetheless." He sighed, his eyes growing distant. "And then I met her."

"Who?" said Ridmark.

Coriolus's smile was both sad and bitter. "My downfall."

Despite her anger, Morigna was intrigued. The Old Man had told her little about his past. Coriolus had spent a great deal of time complaining about the Magistri and the Swordbearers and the church, claiming they had failed to understand his genius, but had never given her a straight answer.

"Victoria," said Coriolus. "The bastard daughter of the High King's younger brother."

Ridmark and Calliande shared a look.

"I take it," said Ridmark, "that you were fond of her."

"I was," said Coriolus. "We met, and it was...ah, to be young again. We were quite taken with each other."

"And then you took her into your bed," said Ridmark.

"Yes," said Coriolus. "It was necessary to keep it a secret, of course. I might have been a Magistrius, but I was of common birth, and she was the High King's niece, even if she was a bastard." He spat into the fire again. "Pendragon blood does not defile itself with the touch of a commoner," he smirked, "but she was glad to defile herself with me."

"Please," said Calliande with a hint of disgust, "if you carried on an affair with this woman, there's no need to gloat over it."

"Oh?" said Coriolus, leering at her. "How would you know, my pretty little Magistria? So pretty, and so cold. What would you know about the pleasures of the bedchamber?"

Caius and Gavin bristled. Morigna expected Calliande to wilt beneath the mockery, but the Magistria only offered a chilly smile. "I confess I cannot say for certainty. But given your advanced age, sir, I fear I shall not learn any of those pleasures from you."

The Old Man cackled. "Quick-witted. I like that. A good quality in a Magistria. But while your dwarven monk and your young squire bristle in outrage over my adulterous sins, we have lost the main point."

"You and Victoria," said Ridmark. "What happened?"

"The inevitable," said Coriolus. "She became pregnant. I urged her to purge the child from her womb, or barring that, to wed me. But she so feared her father's displeasure...and she lacked the necessary steel to rid herself of the child. A common weakness in the female sex, alas. We quarreled on the wall overlooking the harbor of Tarlion. She ran from me, tripped upon her skirts, fell down, and cracked her head." He sighed, and to Morigna's astonishment there was a glimmer of pain upon his face. "I rushed to help her...but it was too late. Not even my healing magic could aid her."

"So you carried on an affair with an unmarried woman," said Caius, "and then just she happened to accidentally die when she became pregnant?"

"Of course you do not believe me," said Coriolus. "Why would you? I realize that no one else would believe me, and the High King would have me beheaded for murder. I had no choice but to flee. At first I settled in the Northerland, as far from Tarlion as I could go without leaving the realm of Andomhaim entirely. But as the realm's population grew, more settlers came to the Northerland, and so I fled into the Wilderland. Eventually I came to Moraime and settled here."

"Why here?" said Ridmark.

Coriolus spread his bony hands. "Why not? The hill is defensible, even without my wards, and commands an excellent view of the countryside. The town is a convenient place to obtain tools I cannot make myself. If I went any further north, I would risk venturing into the realms of the remaining dark elven princes. Any further west, and I might draw the eye of the Warden of Urd Morlemoch. Sometimes the Warden sends his servants to abduct people he finds interesting, and I have no wish to share that fate. No one who enters Urd Morlemoch ever comes out again."

"Indeed not," said Ridmark without a hint of expression.

"And there is one other reason, though I doubt you will believe it of me," said Coriolus.

"What is that?" said Ridmark.

"There is an entrance to the Deeps a few miles north of here," said Coriolus, "and it leads to one of the dvargir cities. The dvargir come forth and raid every few years, but I turn them aside when they do. Why do you think Moraime still stands? Why do you think no one has burned it to the ground and carried its people off into slavery? Because I have kept watch over it."

Morigna laughed. "Do you expect them to believe that, Old Man? That you have been the secret guardian of Moraime for all these years? I have never seen you lift a finger in defense of the town."

"Dear girl," said Coriolus, "just because you are too dense to have observed something does not mean it did not happen."

She started to snarl back at him, but Ridmark answered first. "So you have kept watch over the town of Moraime. How else have you passed the time in your exile?"

"By studying the secrets of earth magic, of course," said Coriolus.

"That is forbidden to the Magistri," said Calliande. "The power of the Well cannot be used to kill and harm mortals, but earth magic can. The Order has banned its study and use, as part of the Pact with the elven archmage Ardrhythain."

"The Order of the Magistri is a collection of musty fools, young lady," said Coriolus, "and they are idiots to forbid themselves the study of earth magic. There is great potential in it, potential to make Andomhaim strong." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "But that is no longer my concern. I left Andomhaim long ago, and the realm and the two Orders may do as they wish."

"How did you meet Morigna?" said Ridmark.

His watery eyes shifted to her, cold and indifferent.

"A praefectus appointed by the abbot governs Moraime," said Coriolus, "but sometimes a man finds the praefectus's rule chafing. Morigna's mother and father were such – hunters, trappers, and poachers. Though I suppose since no King, Dux, or Comes rules in Moraime, it hardly counts as poaching. They made their home in the hills not far from here, and sold pelts to the traders who sometimes come from Coldinium."

"A home too close," said Ridmark, "to the entrance of the Deeps."

Morigna remembered the house burning, her mother screaming, the dvargir mantled in shadow as they approached.

Her magic rising up in wrath...

"I am unsure exactly what happened," said Coriolus. "I suspect the dvargir came to take her parents as slaves, and they fought back and were killed. When the dvargir tried to take Morigna, they encountered more than they expected. You see, she was born with a natural connection to earth magic." His tone grew drier, more lecturing, as it often did when he discussed the intricacies of magic. "Such a thing is becoming more common. When humanity first came here from Old Earth, the only magic we possessed was that borne by the Keeper of Avalon. Later Ardrhythain of Cathair Solas gave us the magic of the Soulblades and the Well. I believe that the longer humanity has lived upon this world, the more attuned we have become to its native magic. Hence the increasing number of children born with innate magical ability..."

"That is fascinating," said Ridmark, "but it doesn't explain how you found Morigna."

"I came across the scene as I returned from a journey," said Coriolus, "and killed the dvargir. I found Morigna weeping over the corpses of her parents, and intended to deposit her with the monastery. Then I saw that she possessed magic strong enough to have killed two of the dvargir. So I took her to study her magic further."

Calliande frowned. "Not to...raise her? You only took her to study her magic?"

"Do I need to repeat myself?" said Coriolus, irritated. "Of course I fed and clothed and housed her – a drain upon my resources, I might add. And I taught her how to use and control her magic. Not that she ever showed any gratitude for anything I did for her. Willful, rebellious child. When she turned twelve, we quarreled fiercely, and she left. She returns every few weeks, of course, when she has a question about magic. But the ungrateful, feral little child does not obey me."

"Indeed," said Calliande, her tone frosty. "Why should she? Given that you clearly care nothing for her."

A mixture of fury and embarrassment filled Morigna. What right did the Magistria have to feel sorry for her?

But a tiny part of her appreciated it.

"I taught her to use her magic," retorted Coriolus. "And more importantly, I taught her to be strong. The world respects strength alone and nothing else. I owe her nothing. She owes me a great deal."

"And what, precisely, is that?" said Ridmark.

Coriolus opened his mouth, closed it again, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "As I said, a great deal."

"I see," said Ridmark. "Thank you for your candor. I am grateful."

Coriolus sniffed. "As you should be."

"Though I do have one more question," said Ridmark.

"Of course you do," said Coriolus.

"You didn't raise the undead that attacked Moraime," said Ridmark. "Who did?"

"I know not," said Coriolus.

"Yes, the vast wisdom of the Old Man of the hills," said Morigna.

"I know not," said Coriolus, "but I strongly suspect the dvargir. They've been active lately, quite active. There is a ruined dwarven outpost a few miles into the Deeps. The dvargir have fortified it, and have sent scouts regularly into the countryside, using their power to cloak themselves in shadow."

"You have the ability to detect them?" said Calliande.

"Yes," said Coriolus with a smirk. "A spell of the earth magic you despise so much. The dvargir and others who manipulate shadow magic can make themselves undetectable to spells drawn from the Well. However, their weight still presses upon the earth, and a practitioner skilled with earth magic can detect their presence."

"You never taught me that," said Morigna with a frown.

"I saw no need," said Coriolus.

"Teach her the spell before we depart, please," said Ridmark. "I suspect we shall find it useful."

"If it removes you from my hill all the faster, I shall not object," said Coriolus.

And perhaps the spell would let Morigna detect the presence of Jonas.

"One final question," said Ridmark. "What do you know of the Enlightened of Incariel?"

"The what?" said Coriolus.

"The Enlightened of Incariel," said Ridmark. "A secret society that wishes me dead."

"A charming young man such as you?" said Coriolus. "I can't imagine why anyone might wish you harm." He spat in the fire again. "But I have never heard of them. The term Incariel I recognize. It is one of the names given to the void the dark elves worshipped in ancient days. Allegedly it was a fallen angel or demon imprisoned within the core of this world. Whether such a being actually exists or not, I do not know. Most likely it is a myth the princes of the dark elves invented to control their subjects, just as the lords of Andomhaim invented the myths of the church."

"An invented myth?" said Caius. Morigna expected him to leap to the defense of the church, but he did not. "The dvargir and the dark elves derive their powers of shadow from something. Clearly there is more to Incariel than mere myth."

"A natural force," said Coriolus, "given a name through fear and superstition. One..."

"A moment," said Calliande. "A place called Dragonfall. Do you know of it?"

Her face was calm, but Morigna thought she saw a hint of tension there.

Coriolus blinked a few times. "No, I've never heard of it. What is it? Some fable, perhaps, or..."

"Thank you," said Ridmark, rising to his feet, "for your counsel. We shall trouble you no further. If you could teach the spell of detection to Morigna before we depart, we will be grateful."

"Very well," said Coriolus. The Old Man's watery eyes turned toward Morigna. "It is time for another lesson, child."

###

Ridmark stood behind the cottage, gazing at the ring of dark elven standing stones upon the hill across the ravine.

They were more complex than the circle where Vlazur had tried to kill Calliande. Two massive rings of dark menhirs, some of them topped with lintels, stood in a ring around a low mound of earth. An altar of black stone capped the mound, still rough and jagged despite the passage of the centuries. The dark elves had used these stone circles to augment their sorcery, drawing upon the magic of the earth like a miller using a stream to drive his grindstone.

The ruins of the dark elves he had seen, citadels like Urd Dagaash and Urd Arowyn and even Urd Morlemoch itself, had been places of beauty. Alien, eerie, disturbing beauty, but beauty nonetheless. The stone circles of the dark elves made no such pretense. Ridmark suspected the dark elves lied to themselves, as wicked men often did, claiming that they were in the right.

But at the stone circles, all pretense was stripped away.

Calliande stepped to his side.

"Perhaps you ought to keep an eye on Morigna and Coriolus," said Ridmark, "and make sure he doesn't hurt her."

"He won't," said Calliande. Ridmark glanced back at the others. Morigna and Coriolus stood at the far edge of the hilltop, the Old Man gesturing as he lectured. Caius and Kharlacht and Gavin sat upon the ground, cleaning their weapons and armor, but they kept an eye upon the Old Man and his apprentice.

"My sensing spell is active," said Calliande. "If he tries anything, I will detect it. Though he is powerful, Ridmark. He can draw on both the magic of the Well and earth magic, and God only knows what else. If he wants to fight, I don't think I could defeat him."

"He won't fight," said Ridmark. "Rjalfur was right. He is a coward."

Calliande nodded. "You didn't even need to threaten him very much, and he told us everything." Her blue eyes strayed toward Morigna. "It explains a lot, doesn't it?"

"It does," said Ridmark.

"I thought she might be someone like Talvinius or Alamur," said Calliande. "Now I simply feel sorry for her."

"Don't tell her that," said Ridmark. "She might bite your head off."

"Aye, and then lay her eggs in my neck," said Calliande. She shook her head. "No, forgive me, that is harsh. What happened to her is not her fault."

"But she bears responsibility," said Ridmark, "for whatever she chooses to do next."

"As do well all," said Calliande.

Coriolus threw up his hands in disgust and stalked into the cottage, slamming the door behind him. Morigna stared after him, a flicker of pain on her face. Then she shook her head, arranging her features into their usual arrogant mask, and walked to join Ridmark and Calliande.

"It is done, then?" said Ridmark.

"Aye," said Morigna. "He taught me the spell." She sniffed. "Had the pompous old fool taught it to me earlier, we might have avoided much trouble."

"I take it," said Calliande, "he will not talk to us further."

Morigna's smile was icy. "He said we could see ourselves out."

Ridmark nodded. "Did he tell the truth?"

Morigna blinked. "About what?"

"Everything," said Ridmark.

"He contradicted nothing he had told me earlier," said Morigna. "But he has never told me his name. Or his story about his bastard lover." She shrugged. "He could have been telling the truth. Or he could have spun you a tale." She looked at Calliande. "You're the learned Magistria. Was there ever a bastard Pendragon woman named Victoria?"

"I don't know," said Calliande. "It would have been after my time."

"After your time?" said Morigna, incredulous. "It would have been decades ago."

Calliande took a deep breath. "I will tell you the truth, Morigna. I don't know how old I am. Thirty-three days ago, on the day of the blue fire, I awoke in a vault below the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance in the Northerland. The Tower burned and fell into ruin ninety years ago, which means I might have been lying in that vault since the Tower was built." She shrugged. "And I can remember nothing of what happened before I awoke."

For the first time Ridmark could remember, Morigna was at a loss for words.

"She's telling the truth," said Ridmark. "I was there."

"Hellfire and damnation," said Morigna. "So you might be older than the Old Man, then?"

Calliande nodded.

"Why tell me this?" said Morigna.

"So that you understand that I am sincere," said Calliande, "when I tell you that I am sorry your parents died, that you had to grow up with such a wretched man as Coriolus."

Morigna's eyes narrowed, and Ridmark expected her to fly into a tirade. But something seemed to wither in her hard black eyes, and she sighed.

"Thank you," she said, as if the words pained her. "I...he truly is wretched, it is he not? I thought he was a wizard of power, hiding from the church and the Magistri because they feared him for his intellect. Instead he is an old wretch who could not even take responsibility for his bastard child." She spat. "He truly is a coward."

"Perhaps," said Ridmark, "but he is powerful. And I am sure he didn't tell us the entire truth. You said he hardly ever leaves his home, but you have been gone for months at a time for the last eight years." Morigna nodded. "Yet if he could detect the dvargir and you could not...I wonder if he could make himself undetectable to you, or to anyone else."

"So what do you intend to do next?" said Calliande.

"We'll camp here tonight, inside Coriolus's wards," said Ridmark. "Then we will visit the Deeps, and see if the dvargir are indeed stirring."

***

## Chapter 13 - Silence

The next day as the morning sun rose overhead, Ridmark stared into the darkness.

Specifically, into the darkness of the entrance to the Deeps.

The entrance was a few miles north of the hill with the ring of standing stones. As they circled the base of the hill, Ridmark kept a wary eye on the dark stones upon the hill's rocky crest, watching for any sign of movement. Nathan Vorinus had fallen beneath the talons of an urvaalg there, and it would not surprise Ridmark to find more of the twisted creatures upon the slopes.

Yet nothing moved on the hill. Not even birds flew overhead. Though if Morigna could not magically compel her ravens to fly over the standing circle, Ridmark doubted a normal bird would do so.

But they saw no sign of any undead or urvaalgs, and soon they stood before the entrance to the Deeps.

Ridmark had ventured into the Deeps more often than he had liked, but he had never seen an entrance quite like this one. A tunnel mouth yawned in the slope of the rocky hill, but the arch had been carved and worked by living hands. Dozens of square, angular glyphs encircled the entrance.

The dwarven language.

Caius stared up at the glyphs.

Morigna blinked. "You can read those?"

"Certainly," said Caius.

"You know the dvargir tongue?" said Morigna.

"They're not dvargir, but dwarven," said Caius. "An archaic form, but still dwarven." He pointed at the arch. "A guide to any travelers of my kindred. According to the sign, the stronghold of Thainkul Dural lies a few miles within the tunnel."

"Thainkul Dural?" said Calliande.

"The Three Kingdoms of the dwarves were once nine," said Caius. "Three still stand in the Deeps to the west, but the urdmordar and the dark elves destroyed several, and others turned to the worship of the great void and became the dvargir." He scratched at his graying beard. "I think Thainkul Dural was an outpost of one of the lost six kingdoms."

"And then the dvargir just moved in?" said Gavin.

Caius nodded. "My kindred build mighty strongholds, and our sundered cousins have an eye for quality."

"So the dvargir are really dwarves, then?" said Gavin. "Just dwarves that chose to worship the great void."

"Not quite," said Caius.

"The choice to follow the great void is different than any other choice," said Calliande. Her voice was distant, and Ridmark stopped and looked at her. Her voice only took that tone when she remembered something she had learned before she had gone into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance. "A man can choose to be a murderer or a thief, and while his crime leaves marks upon his soul, it does nothing to his flesh. Choosing to worship the great void is a weightier choice. Swearing to the darkness, pledging to serve it, draws some of the darkness into the worshipper's soul. And that darkness bestows power even as it twists the flesh. You remember how the dead dvargir cast no shadow?" Gavin nodded. "That is one of the effects of the change. The dvargir can command shadows, but cast no shadows themselves."

"And their eyes," murmured Caius, his blue eyes distant with memory. "You will know at once if you look into the eyes of a dvargir. There is nothing but darkness there."

Ridmark nodded. The Warden's eyes had been like that.

"Darkness," said Caius, his usual jovial air gone, "and an utter lack of mercy and conscience. The great void takes that as its price." He looked at Morigna. "You might consider a lack of mercy to be strength, a virtue to be admired. But look into the eyes of a dvargir, behold his love of cruelty, and you will not know admiration. No, you will know only fear."

Ridmark expected Morigna to react with scorn, but she said nothing. She had been subdued ever since leaving Coriolus's cottage. The Old Man's revelations had left her shaken. And perhaps seeing her mentor in a new light had cast doubt upon his teachings of strength and mercy.

"There are other changes," said Calliande. "The void is a corruption. A dvargir man cannot father a child on a dwarven woman, nor a dwarven man with a dvargir woman. The same is true of the dark elves and the high elves."

"So that would mean," said Gavin, "if Sir Jonas worships Incariel, and Incariel is really the great void of the dark elves, then he's become something like a...a human dvargir? Or a human version of a dark elf?"

"Perhaps," said Calliande. "I don't know. Apparently I have faced his sort of powers before...but not like this. He's something new."

"How," said Morigna, "do you know all of this?"

"I don't know," said Calliande. "I must have learned it before I lost my memory. Otherwise I wouldn't know it."

"That makes absolutely no sense," said Morigna.

"I cannot disagree with you," said Calliande.

"Regardless of their nature, we should proceed," said Ridmark. Standing before an entrance to the Deeps was not the time to discourse upon the history and nature of the dvargir. "If the dvargir are indeed responsible for the undead, I intend to stop them. Or at least warn Sir Michael and Abbot Ulakhur so they can defend the town adequately. Morigna, can you cast the spell to detect the dvargir?"

Morigna nodded and began gesturing, purple fire flaring around her hands. She raised her arms, and the fire pulsed and went out. As it did, she staggered a few steps, her eyes growing wide.

"What is it?" said Ridmark. "Did it work?"

"It did," said Morigna. She pinched her nose. "But it is an...odd feeling. Like having ants crawl over my skin. I can sense where you are standing, your weight upon the earth. I am sure I will sense the dvargir, if they cloak themselves in shadow. Or Jonas, for that matter."

"How far does the spell extend?" said Ridmark

Morigna's face tightened, her eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. "About...a hundred yards, I think." She opened her eyes. "I do not know how well it will work underground."

"Let us find out," said Ridmark.

"I should walk with you, Gray Knight," said Caius. "My kindred might have left traps in the tunnel, and I will recognize them. If the dvargir have set any traps, I have the best chance of spotting them."

Ridmark nodded. "Very well. Morigna, on my left. Caius, on my right. Kharlacht and Gavin, keep your eyes open and your weapons ready. Calliande, keep your sensing spell active. If the dvargir raised the undead, they might have kept some as guardians, or their wizards..."

"Stonecasters," said Caius.

"Their stonecasters might have left other wards," said Ridmark.

Calliande cast her sensing spell as the others moved into place. Ridmark tapped his staff against the stony ground a few times, nodded to himself, and walked into the tunnel, the others following.

The darkness swallowed them, but it did not last for long. Patches of pale blue light glimmered upon the floor and walls. As they drew closer, Ridmark saw clusters of ghost mushrooms clinging to the stone, the pale light radiating from their luminescent caps. In the dim light he saw the distinct marks of dwarven stonework. The floor had been leveled, and a shallow trench followed the center of the tunnel, no doubt a culvert to drain water. From time to time he saw dwarven glyphs upon the wall.

"Milestones," said Caius when he asked. "More or less. Humans use the mile of the old Empire of the Romans. Our equivalent unit of distance is called a strizahd, which is approximately one-fifth of a mile. The strizahd glyphs mark off the distance to the Stone Heart in the Three Kingdoms, the place where the dwarven kindred first entered this world."

"That sounds complicated," said Gavin.

Caius grinned. "More complicated than a mile? Marking off five thousand steps seems onerous, if you ask me."

"Scholarly debates can come later," said Ridmark, "once we are not approaching a dvargir stronghold in the Deeps."

Both Caius and Gavin fell silent.

The tunnel sloped down, the strizahd-glyphs marking off the distance in regular intervals. The clusters of ghost mushrooms provided regular light, for which Ridmark was grateful. Deeper and wider the tunnel went, and Ridmark heard faint splashing in the distance.

An underground stream, perhaps, or a lake?

The tunnel opened into a large stone cavern, and Ridmark stopped for a moment to get his bearings.

The cavern was at least as large as the monastery's courtyard. A rippling pond occupied its central half, and Ridmark saw the dull gleam of flickering lights within the waters. Thick clusters of ghost mushrooms, some as tall as small trees, encircled the water.

The façade of Thainkul Dural filled the cavern's far wall.

It had been cut out of the living rock, with pillars and a fortified rampart for archers. The buttresses supporting the rampart had been carved in the shape of armored dwarven warriors, solemn and grim. A gleaming door of bronze-colored dwarven steel sealed the entrance, surrounded by deep-cut glyphs.

"There is a ward upon the gates," said Calliande. "A powerful one."

"Aye," said Caius. "The stonescribes would have imbued the doors with the power of a lodestone to hold them in place. The doors are impervious to all but the most powerful attacks and spells." He snorted. "It is often easier to tunnel through the surrounding rock than to go through a dwarven gate."

"If the gates are sealed," said Gavin, "then perhaps the stronghold is deserted. Maybe the final defenders locked themselves inside and died long ago."

"That makes sense," said Ridmark, "but it doesn't explain the tracks."

He gestured with his staff, squinting in the blue-lit gloom. Dry sand and silt covered the cavern floor, no doubt deposited whenever the tunnel flooded. Dozens of tracks marked the floor. Some of them had been left armored boots, others by clawed feet.

"What are those tracks?" said Morigna. "I've never seen anything like them."

"Murrag," said Ridmark. "A lizard."

"Are they dangerous?" said Morigna.

"Not particularly," said Ridmark. "Think of a fat, surly lizard the size of a sheep. The kindreds that dwell in the Deeps use them as herd animals."

"Which means," said Kharlacht, "the dvargir living within the stronghold must bring their murrags out here to graze upon the mushrooms every so often."

"Or to catch fish," said Ridmark, looking at the glowing fish in the pond. All the tracks led to and from the closed gates of dwarven steel in the carved façade.

"So," said Gavin. "How are we going to get into Thainkul Dural?"

That was a very good question.

"I could break the spell upon the gates," said Morigna.

"I fear that would accomplish little," said Caius. "Even if you broke the spell, the gates themselves will remain locked, and we have no tool or spell to penetrate them. I suppose we could hammer them down, given enough time, or chisel through the surrounding stone, but the resultant noise would alert the dvargir within the fortress."

"Aye," said Ridmark, a thought rattling at the edge of his mind.

Why hadn't they seen any guards? The dvargir were vicious and merciless, and with that came unrelenting paranoia. The dvargir never went anywhere without guards. Perhaps they trusted in Thainkul Dural's gates to protect them from intruders. Yet that seemed unlikely. Perhaps a small party of dvargir had taken refuge in the abandoned ruin, and they did not have enough men to spare as sentinels.

If so, why had they not raised undead to act as guards?

Ridmark examined the rampart over the gates. It was forty feet over the cavern floor, with high, narrow battlements. The battlements almost reached the cavern's roof, yet there was enough room to allow an intruder to climb over the battlements and onto the rampart.

"We'll climb up," said Ridmark. "The dvargir might not have thought to seal off the entrances on the rampart. If..."

"Wait," said Caius. He frowned at some of the glyphs upon the façade. "I think..."

"Ridmark!"

Ridmark whirled. Morigna stood rigid, purple fire flaring to life around her hands as she gathered power for a spell.

"Someone is moving," she said, voice tight with alarm. "Near the lake. I cannot see..."

"The dvargir have found us!" said Kharlacht. "To arms!"

Ridmark gazed at the pond. If the unseen foes were indeed dvargir, they would have to release their shadowy invisibility before attacking. Yet there were other creatures that could move unseen in the Deeps. The urvaalgs and the ursaars, for one. Or...

Ridmark saw a shape outlined against the ghost mushrooms, hunched and moving without sound.

"Deep orcs!" said Ridmark, moving to attack.

And as he did, a dozen deep orcs sprang from the ghost mushrooms.

The orcs of the surface tended to be tall and muscular, with dark green skin and black hair. The deep orcs were shorter and thinner, their skins a sickly yellow. Their huge ears, bigger than Ridmark's palms, clung to the side of their heads. The deep orcs were eyeless, yet a strange band of knotted, veined flesh encircled their heads like a blindfold. The strange organ allowed them to see heat the way that humans and surface orcs saw the sun's light. The dark elves had created the deep orcs long ago, using their magic to make them more effective slaves in the Deeps. The urdmordar had crushed the dark elves, but the deep orcs remained, living in independent tribes scattered throughout the Deeps.

Or as slaves to the dvargir and the remaining dark elves.

One of the deep orcs charged at Ridmark. The orc wore black leather armor that drank the light, and carried a pair of black daggers. The orc lunged in eerie silence, his boots making no sound, and Ridmark jumped back. The blades missed, and he whirled his staff, using his weapon's longer reach to land a hit against the deep orc's left flank. He heard the crack of a rib, and for the first time the deep orc made a sound, a faint hiss of pain. Before the orcish warrior recovered, Ridmark raised his staff and brought it down upon the orc's skull. Again he heard the crack of bone, and the deep orc fell, as silent as death as he had been in life.

Ridmark sought a new foe and found a dozen deep orcs locked in battle against his friends. Kharlacht and Caius fought back to back as was their custom, a half-dozen orcs circling around them like dancing shadows. Gavin stood guard before Calliande, struggling against two deep orcs as the Magistria cast a spell. Morigna gestured, summoning up a column of pale white mist. A deep orc ran into the mist, and collapsed thrashing and smoking as the acid ate into his flesh.

Ridmark sprinted for Calliande, intending to aid Gavin against the deep orcs. Calliande finished her spell, a blaze of white light burning around her, and the same white light wrapped around Ridmark. He felt her magic augment his speed, and he used the extra momentum to leap forward, swinging his staff with both hands. One of the deep orcs started to turn, but with Calliande's magic Ridmark was faster, and his staff creased the orcish warrior's skull. Gavin seized the opportunity and struck, his heavy sword sinking into the second orc's belly. The deep orc staggered, and Gavin ripped his sword free and drove the blade into the warrior's throat.

The boy's sword work had indeed improved. Ridmark would have preferred that Gavin had lived in peace in Aranaeus, but since that was impossible, he was pleased that Gavin was developing into a capable fighter. If they lived through this, if they survived the journey to Urd Morlemoch and stopped the Frostborn, Ridmark would see to it that Sir Constantine or Dux Gareth made the boy into a knight of Andomhaim.

Another deep orc fell to Morigna's acidic mist, and four others turned to attack her. Ridmark charged them as they lunged at the sorceress. Morigna shouted and flung out her hands, a ripple going through the solid stone of the floor. The deep orcs stumbled, and Ridmark struck, a blow from his staff shattering a skull and sending the deep orc to the ground. Two others turned to face him, black daggers in hand, and Ridmark sidestepped and swept his staff out. One of the orcs stumbled and fell, and Ridmark thrust the butt of his staff against the deep orc's temple. Again bone cracked, and the orc toppled. Ridmark reversed his staff and killed another, and Morigna gestured, her tattered cloak flying around her. White mist swirled around the remaining orc, and the warrior staggered forward with a grunt, skin hissing and sizzling as it dissolved. Ridmark slammed his staff against the orc's temple and put the warrior out of his misery.

He turned, seeking more foes, and saw Kharlacht open the last deep orc from throat to stomach with a vicious slash of his greatsword. The crimson blood that splashed from the ghastly wound was marked with black streaks, and the deep orc staggered and fell at the foot of a cluster of ghost mushrooms.

Silence fell over the cavern.

Ridmark looked around, but nothing else moved.

"Morigna," he said, wiping some sweat from his forehead.

She cast her detection spell again. "Nothing. We are alone. I think."

"How did they get so close?" said Calliande. "I thought you could detect them."

"I did," said Morigna, scowling at the Magistria. "But I warned you the spell's range would be limited underground. No more than ten or twenty yards, I think. They were right on top of us before I sensed them. Perhaps you should have been paying better attention, Magistria, and you might have heard..."

"Enough," said Ridmark. "That you were able to detect them at all saved our lives. They are masters of stealth."

"What are they?" said Gavin, prodding one of the dead orcs with the tip of his blade. "They look like orcs, but..."

"The eyeless ones," said Caius, and Kharlacht nodded, his face grimmer than usual.

"The deep orcs," said Ridmark. "The dark elves changed them with magic, made them better suited to the Deeps."

"Aye," said Calliande, her expression pained as she looked at the dead. "They are blind to normal light, but they can see heat. In absolute darkness, we can see nothing, but the heat of our bodies shines like torches to them. Their hearing is sharp, so sharp they could hear our heartbeats from a dozen yards away, and they know how to move in perfect silence."

"Likely they were waiting for us," said Ridmark. "If not for Morigna's spell, they would have taken us unawares."

Morigna smirked at Calliande. "And how to do you know so much about deep orcs? Have you encountered them before?"

Calliande ignored the sorceress's mocking tone. "Apparently, I must have."

"I think the deep orcs were slave-soldiers for the dvargir," said Caius. He knelt and yanked aside the leather armor of a dead orc. A blocky glyph had been burned into the yellow skin of the warrior's bony chest.

"They were the guards, then," said Ridmark.

Caius nodded, straightened up, and made the sign of the cross over the dead orcs. "Most likely the dvargir gave them instructions to kill anyone who entered the cavern."

"Which means," said Ridmark, "we killed the guards, and the dvargir do not know we are here."

Caius nodded again. "That seems likely."

"This is our best chance to enter Thainkul Dural and have a look around," said Ridmark. "I will scale the wall and enter through the ramparts. Wait here for the rest of the day. If I have not returned..."

"Actually," said Caius, "it might be easier to use the secret door."

"Door?" said Ridmark. "What secret door?"

"The one indicated by the glyphs over the main gate," said Caius.

Morigna laughed. "Your kindred were very trusting then, were they not? They simply left a sign saying 'here is the secret door' upon the wall of their stronghold."

"Of course not," said Caius, walking to the gates of Thainkul Dural, the others following him. "The glyphs merely record the date of the founding and the Great Houses that stationed warriors here. But there is a code known only to dwarves of noble birth, a second, hidden meaning in many common words. And that code says there is a secret door right over...here."

He stopped next to one of the pillars. Then he nodded to himself and started pressing portions of the glyphs seemingly at random. Nothing happened.

"This is..." Morigna started to say.

Ridmark heard a low click, and a portion of the wall slid aside, revealing a narrow doorway that led into darkness.

Caius smiled at Morigna. "You were saying?"

"Easier than climbing up a rope into the rampart," said Morigna without missing a beat.

"Of course," said Calliande.

"I'll go," said Ridmark. "Wait here until..."

"You are not going in there alone," said Calliande.

"For once, I agree," said Morigna. "Without my spell, you cannot find the dvargir if they choose to make themselves invisible. You could blunder into them before you realize it."

"And if you are attacked," said Gavin, "you will be quickly overpowered."

Ridmark started to argue, realized that it was futile, and sighed. "Very well. But for the love of God, no arguing about history or magic or anything else. Keep quiet, and speak only if it is necessary. Calliande and Morigna, keep your sensing spells active, and warn us if you detect anything dangerous."

"What exactly do we seek?" said Kharlacht.

"Proof that the dvargir raised the undead and launched them upon Moraime," said Ridmark. "And if not that, evidence of their intentions. Are they raiders seeking captives and booty? Scouts for an invasion? Allies of Jonas and the Red Family?"

Or did they have some other purpose? Ridmark remembered Rjalfur's words, the repeated warnings that the undead had come to claim him. Jonas Vorinus had come to kill Calliande and take the soulstone. Ridmark had assumed that he had raised the undead, but Coriolus claimed that the dvargir had done so. Perhaps Jonas and the dvargir were allied, and perhaps they were working at cross-purposes.

Either way, Ridmark would find the answers within Thainkul Dural.

He stepped into the darkness, leading the way through the narrow passage.

***

## Chapter 14 - Thainkul Dural

"Here," whispered Caius.

Calliande stood motionless, her mind divided in several directions. One maintained the pulsing ball of white light that floated over her left palm, throwing back the darkness of the hidden passage. The other worked to hold her sensing spell. She detected the latent power of the wards upon the gate. She also sensed flickers of magical power beyond the wall. Warding spells, she thought, but...sleeping. Inactive. Or simply incomplete.

Were the dvargir stonecasters constructing new wards within Thainkul Dural?

"The door is here," murmured Caius, squeezing past Ridmark. The dwarven friar could walk comfortably within the passage, but the top of Calliande's head brushed the ceiling, and Morigna had to keep her head down. Ridmark, Kharlacht, and Gavin all walked stooped. If something attacked while they were in the passage, they were trouble.

"Anything on the far side of the door?" said Ridmark.

Morigna gave a shake of her head. "Nothing that I can detect." Calliande sensed the swirl of earth magic around the sorceress as the black-haired woman maintained her spell.

"Brace yourselves," said Caius. "This might be loud."

He pressed a block in the side of the passage.

The wall ahead opened with a loud grinding noise, followed by a clang. Ridmark whispered a curse and urged Caius forward. The friar disappeared through the doorway, and Ridmark hurried after, staff in his right hand, his orcish war axe in his left. Kharlacht and Gavin when after them, and then Morigna and Calliande.

They stepped into a spacious hall, easily large enough to hold the church of Moraime. Thick, square pillars adorned with images of dwarven warriors and the gods of stone and silence supported the high ceiling. Glowstones shone from the apex of the arches and the tops of the pillars, providing ample light. The dwarves created the glowstones through a bath of chemicals and salts from the Deeps, and they lasted for centuries, even millennia. Likely those glowstones had shone from the ceiling ever since the dwarves had been driven from Thainkul Dural.

Or the dvargir had made their own.

Ridmark moved in a circle, his staff leveled, his hard eyes unblinking. Calliande was struck again by his grace and speed. With a Soulblade in hand, he must have been a terror. Little wonder he had survived the journey to Urd Morlemoch.

But if he was alarmed, then it was best to be ready. Calliande pushed aside her musings and prepared herself to cast a spell.

"Why," grunted Kharlacht, "was the door so loud?"

"It was a secret door," said Caius. "The noise keeps foes from entering unseen into the fortress."

"Foes like us, learned friar?" said Morigna.

Calliande sighed and braced herself for the argument. Morigna had to be the single most disagreeable woman she had ever met.

Fortunately, Ridmark spoke first. Morigna seemed willing to heed him, if no one else.

"It was a risk," said Ridmark, voice quiet, "but every option is a risk. Wait a moment, and keep quiet."

They stood motionless, waiting for any sign of movement. Calliande extended the reach of her sensing spell. She detected wards waiting on the floor of the hall, powerful and complex wards, but they felt...incomplete. She saw a flight of stairs descending deeper into the earth from the far end of the hall, but nothing moved.

"Anything?" said Ridmark at last.

"No," said Morigna. "Nothing."

"There are wards upon the floor, but I don't think they're finished," said Calliande.

"I can sense them as well," said Morigna.

Ridmark nodded and took few steps forward.

"You had to know how much noise that door would make," said Morigna. "Why did you open it anyway?"

"Because," said Ridmark, staring at the floor. "I thought the hall would be empty. I don't think there are more than a dozen dvargir in Thainkul Dural."

"And how did you know that?" said Morigna.

"The footprints," said Ridmark. "I counted a dozen different boots, but no more."

Kharlacht snorted. "I should have seen that myself."

"That, and the dvargir entrusted deep orcs as their guards," said Caius.

Morigna laughed. "Given how easily we overcame them, the deep orcs seem to have been a poor choice of sentinel."

"Clearly," said Ridmark. "Calliande. Morigna. Caius. Come here and tell me what you make of this. Kharlacht, Gavin. Keep watch."

Calliande and Caius walked to Ridmark's right, and Morigna moved to his left. Dozens of dwarven glyphs had been carved into the floor, and recently. Their edges were still sharp, and Calliande saw dvargir footprints in the rock dust. Lines of glyphs led from the floor to the pillars, and in places the glyphs had been carved over the reliefs of dwarven warriors.

"Can you read what they say?" said Ridmark.

"They're the glyphs of stonecasters," said Caius. "Glyphs of warding and protection. But I don't think they have been activated or completed."

"They haven't," said Calliande, focusing her spell further.

"And...Gray Knight, those are not dwarven glyphs," said Caius, pointing at some of the symbols.

"They're not," said Calliande.

"You recognize them?" said Ridmark.

"They're symbols of dark magic and necromancy," said Calliande. She closed her eyes, reaching into the choking mists that shrouded most of her memory. "I...can't remember exactly what they do." That was a relief. What if she had been someone like Talvinius or Alamur in her previous life, a necromancer or an Eternalist?

Or a sneering craven like Coriolus?

"They are...interlocking with the dvargir wards, somehow," said Morigna. Calliande felt the ripple as Morigna cast her own sensing spell with earth magic. "Yet...yet the whole thing is unfinished. Like a fireplace laid with wood and oil, but missing the spark."

"Or a crossbow missing a quarrel," said Calliande.

"Aye, that is a better metaphor," said Morigna. "A machine missing one final gear. That is the best way to describe this spell. Whatever it is."

"You cannot guess at its function?" said Ridmark.

Calliande shrugged. "Nothing good, I am sure. Dwarven warding glyphs combined with sigils of dark magic? I think it is intended as a prison for something. Some creature of dark magic, or some kind of conjured spirit."

"But it is unfinished," said Ridmark.

Calliande nodded, as did Morigna.

"Could the dvargir summoning something up?" said Ridmark. "Some kind of spirit?"

"I have never heard of the dvargir attempting magic like that," said Caius. "Their stonecasters, like ours, limit themselves to warding glyphs. But summoning spirits or elementals? That is the province of the high elves and the dark elves. Neither the dwarven nor the dvargir kindreds have ever attempted magic of that nature."

"But whatever they are doing," said Ridmark, "it is best left unfinished." He lifted his staff. "Come."

###

The flight of stairs ended, and Ridmark found himself in a smaller pillared hall. Unlike the first hall, rows of stone benches lined the walls, and stone tables stood here and there. There were signs of long-ago battle– the scratches left by dwarven armor and weapons upon the gray stone, a few orcish bones gathering dust in the corner.

And Ridmark saw the impression of dvargir boots in the dust.

"A barracks," said Caius, once Morigna confirmed that they were alone. "The top hall was the entrance, used for ceremony and defense. Warriors upon duty would wait here, if any alarm came from the main gates or the lower halls."

"This place is bigger than Thainkul Agon," said Ridmark.

"Where is that?" said Morigna.

"A dwarven ruin in the Deeps near Dun Licinia," said Ridmark.

Caius laughed. "Aye, it is. Thainkul Agon was an outpost. Little more than a village. Thainkul Dural seems to have been a good-sized town."

"I wonder what happened to the dwarves who lived here," said Gavin, gazing at the bones in the corner.

"I don't know," said Caius. "The dvargir, most likely. Or the dark elves or the deep orcs or the kobolds. Or perhaps the urdmordar. The urdmordar destroyed both the high elves and the dark elves, and my kindred paid a terrible price to hold them at bay. The Three Kingdoms were once nine."

"My entire life," murmured Morigna, "I have lived near Moraime, and I had no idea that all of this was beneath my feet."

"And I thought you knew everything," said Gavin.

Morigna glared at him. "Indeed? Then..."

"Save the fighting for the dvargir," said Ridmark. "Follow me."

Another set of stairs descended into the earth, and Ridmark took them with as much silence as he could muster. Not that it mattered. The deep orcs could hear his heartbeat from yards away. Though the senses of the dvargir were not so keen. Perhaps the dvargir lurking within Thainkul Dural had kept all the deep orcs outside to act as guards.

But Ridmark would not lower his diligence.

He heard the splashing of water ahead. Perhaps the additional noise would mask their presence from any listening deep orcs. On the other hand, it might mean the lower levels of Thainkul Dural had flooded.

The stairs ended in a long, high gallery, glowstones flickering in the arches overhead. Dozens of niches lined the walls, each one holding a door of dwarven steel. Square stone tiles, a yard on each side, covered the floor of the gallery. Each tile bore a single dwarven glyph.

The sound of splashing water was louder here, and beads of water glistened upon the doors of dwarven steel. Here and there Ridmark saw discoloration in the stones, the signs of slow leakage. Thick clusters of ghost mushrooms filled some of the niches, and mushrooms required at least some moisture to grow.

He suspected there was a lot of water behind those doors.

"It floods," said Ridmark.

"A flood?" said Kharlacht.

"The tunnel to the surface," said Ridmark. "That pond in the outer cavern must swell whenever there are heavy rains. We're not far from the marshes, and marshes flood as well. Where does the excess water go?"

"Downhill," said Gavin, frowning.

"Profound," said Morigna.

"It must drain here," said Ridmark. "Behind those doors, into a reservoir. And..."

"Oh," said Caius, blinking. "Oh, that is very bad."

They looked at him.

"A flood trap," said Caius.

"Another trap," muttered Ridmark, remembering the fiendish mechanical devices he had seen in Urd Morlemoch and Urd Dagaash.

"They're rare. Even my kindred, for all our skill with steel and stone, cannot simply create them. They can only be constructed in places where the local water and terrain allow it. I think Thainkul Dural is one of those places."

"Let me guess," said Ridmark, looking at the glyphs upon the tiles of the floor. "We step on the wrong tile, the doors open, the gallery floods, and we all drown?"

"It is worse than that, I am afraid," said Caius, craning his neck. Ridmark followed his gaze and saw the dark gap within the center of the archway overhead. "Another door awaits above us, and a second one at the far end of the gallery, I suspect. If the flood trap is triggered..."

"The gallery is sealed off," said Ridmark, pointing at the niches, "the flood doors open, and anyone within is drowned."

"Aye," said Caius.

"A cunning trap," said Ridmark. "And a nearly impenetrable defense. If someone attacks from the surface, the defenders can seal off the gallery. Or if the stronghold is overrun with attackers from the Deeps, the defenders can withdraw to the surface and flood the gallery behind them to block any pursuit."

"You have the right of it," said Caius.

"Which means the important question," said Morigna, "is how to get past the trap."

"It is," said Caius, "but the trap might not even be armed. The dvargir have been able to come and go freely."

"The dvargir are just as skilled at making traps as the dwarves," said Ridmark. "Likely they knew how to bypass the trap, and left it armed to deal with any unwelcome intruders." That would explain why the dvargir had felt confident enough to leave their defense in the hands of the deep orcs.

"We had best assume that the trap is armed," said Calliande.

"Agreed," said Ridmark. "So. How do we get past it?" He remembered the trap below Urd Dagaash, the blades of dvargir steel erupting from the floor to shred the spiderlings. "I assume we have to step upon the proper tiles?"

"Aye," said Caius. He stared at the tiles for a moment. "That is the glyph for a welcomed guest, and it is repeated across the pattern. I assume stepping upon it is safe."

"You assume?" said Morigna. "You do not know?"

"I do not," said Caius. "The dwarves of Thainkul Dural might have built their trap upon different principles. And it is possible the dvargir have altered the trap so that stepping upon any tile opens the flood doors."

"There is only one way to find out," said Ridmark.

Morigna grabbed his wrist. "Surely you do not mean to test the trap yourself?"

"What?" said Ridmark. "Of course not. There was some loose masonry further up the stairs. I'll throw them upon the tiles and see if they trigger the trap or not."

"Ah." Morigna released his wrist, and for a moment she looked embarrassed. "I...should not have assumed that you were a fool. You have shown little enough evidence for it."

"Then you haven't known me long enough yet," said Ridmark. "All of you, get behind the archway in case we trigger the trap and the door closes. Gavin, go get me some rocks."

The others obeyed, and Gavin clambered up the stairs and returned with an armful of broken masonry. Ridmark leaned his staff against the wall, picked up a broken block, and examined the tile Caius indicated.

Then he flung the rock. It landed upon the center of the tile, and the tile settled perhaps an inch deeper into the floor, but nothing else happened. Ridmark threw more stones, until perhaps about sixty pounds of broken stone sat upon the tile, but still nothing happened. He took a deep breath, lifted his staff, and walked closer.

Then he pressed the staff against the tile, leaning all his weight against it, every muscle tensed to race back if anything happened.

But nothing moved in the gallery.

"It would seem those tiles are indeed safe," said Kharlacht.

"Or," said Morigna, "that one is merely broken."

"That is a possibility," said Ridmark, lifting his staff. He spotted another tile marked with the glyph for a welcomed guest. "Let us find out."

Before he could change his mind, he stepped onto the tile, putting all his weight upon it. It sank an inch into the floor, and he felt some mechanism shift beneath the stone.

A stunned silence fell over the others.

Nothing else happened.

"I retract my former statement," said Morigna. "That was tremendously foolish."

"He does things like that quite frequently," said Calliande. "You get used to them after a time."

The two women looked at each other, blinked, and then laughed.

"If you are quite finished," said Ridmark, "let us see if we can find the dvargir before they find us. Keep to the tiles with the guest glyph."

Bit by bit they picked their way across the long gallery, moving from tile to tile. Ridmark alternated between examining the floor and staring at the archway on the far side of the gallery. As they drew closer, he saw that it opened into a large cylindrical chamber. The chamber looked deserted, but Ridmark expected foes to emerge at any moment. They were terribly vulnerable upon the tiles. One crossbow bolt from the dvargir, one even one accidental stumble, and the trap would activate, the gallery would seal, and they would drown.

But nothing emerged from the far chamber.

At last Ridmark crossed through the archway, the others following. The cylindrical chamber was large, about thirty yards across, and the stone floor sloped to a grate of dwarven steel about ten yards across. The sounds of splashing water came from the grate."

"If gambling were not a sin," said Caius, coming to Ridmark's side, "I would wager that drain leads to the trap's reservoir."

Ridmark nodded and looked at the gateway on the far side of the chamber. A faint breeze came through it, and he suspected the cavern beyond was far larger. "There's another door of dwarven steel above that archway. It must close with the trap. And after all their foes are drowned, the residents can open the inner door, let all the waters drain away, and reset the trap."

"I wonder how this place ever fell," said Gavin, "if it had such potent defenses."

"Perhaps their foes came from the Deeps," said Kharlacht. "Worse things than murrags and dvargir live in the darkness."

"Aye," said Ridmark, "and we might meet some of them soon. Keep quiet."

He walked to the far archway, and stopped to gaze in wonder at the sight before him.

The cavern beyond was the size and shape of a valley, perhaps a half mile across at its widest. The sloped walls had been hewn into terraces, and upon those terraces rose houses and towers in the blocky dwarven style, their walls adorned with elaborate glyphs and reliefs. Massive glowstones shone in a few of the towers, throwing pale light and strange, tangled shadows over everything. The place had a grim beauty. It was not the eerie, alien beauty of the dark elven ruins, with their lines and angles built to please the strange aesthetic tastes of the dark elves. Thainkul Dural spoke of strength and endurance, of an ancient oak that had weathered countless storms.

Yet it had fallen to foes nonetheless.

"A mighty city," whispered Gavin, his brown eyes wide.

"Aye," said Caius. "Not as large as Khald Tormen, but perhaps a thousand of my kindred lived here once upon a time."

"A thousand dwarves," said Kharlacht, "and a thousand places for a small band of dvargir to hide. Where shall we search?"

"Right there," said Ridmark, pointing.

At the apex of the valley, overlooking the town, stood a tall stone keep. Ridmark suspected it had once been the seat of Thainkul Dural's lord. The doors of dwarven steel to the hall stood ajar, and a faint ray of light leaked out.

Firelight.

"This way," said Ridmark.

He led the way along the street of the highest tier, past the blocky dwarven houses with their doors of bronze-colored steel and their dark windows like empty eyes. Here and there Ridmark saw the gray skeletons of long-dead dwarves, some still clad in battered armor and helmets. Like their steel, the bones of the dwarves were nearly indestructible. Caius made the sign of the cross and mouthed prayers for the dead in silence. Ridmark wondered if the prayers were effective. Caius was the first man of the dwarven kindred to accept baptism. Perhaps the dead dwarves had joined their ancient gods in eternal silence and darkness. Or perhaps they languished in purgatory, and awaited the prayers of righteous men to send them to the Dominus Christus in paradise.

Ridmark did not know, and he had more immediate worries.

Such as keeping his bones and the bones of his friends from joining those of the dwarves.

They reached the keep, and Ridmark heard deep, rough voices, like stone rasping stone.

The dvargir.

Ridmark whispered into Caius's ear. "You speak their tongue?"

The dwarven friar nodded.

"Come with me," said Ridmark. "The rest of you, stay here. Get ready to fight or to run."

They obeyed, lifting weapons and preparing spells. Ridmark and Caius crossed the square before the keep in silence. The firelight grew brighter, and they crawled up the stairs and peered into the hall beyond the doors. Statues of dwarven warriors lined the hall, and a long stone table stood at the foot of the dais.

A dozen dvargir warriors sat at the table, and none of them cast shadows in the firelight thrown from the hearth.

Like the dead dvargir below the monastery, the warriors wore armor of strange black metal that seemed somehow wet while drinking the light. They carried swords and axes of the strange black metal at their belts. Unlike their dwarven cousins, the dvargir shaved their heads – hair, beards, and even eyebrows. Their eyes were utterly black, like spheres of liquid shadow.

They reminded Ridmark a great deal of the Warden's eyes.

A dvargir sat on the throne atop the dais. His cuirass had been adorned with strange stylized reliefs of red gold, the color bright against his black armor and gray skin, and a diadem of red gold encircled his hairless head. Deep lines marked the skin of his face, and his lips curled in a perpetual sneer.

"A Dzark," whispered Caius. "Like...a knight, essentially. A warrior and a minor noble."

Ridmark nodded and listened to the dvargir speak in their deep, rasping voices.

"They are complaining," said Caius after a moment. "They have been waiting for too long."

One of the dvargir warriors began gesturing, while the Dzark listened in contemptuous silence.

Caius's breath hissed in alarm.

"What is it?" said Ridmark.

"They are waiting," said Caius, "for a 'yapping dog' of Shadowbearer's to return to them."

Ridmark felt ice trickle down his spine.

"It seems," said Caius, "they came here at the bidding of Shadowbearer. No. At the command of one of Shadowbearer's disciples." He listened for a while, watching the dvargir warrior complain and gesture. "He think it is an insult, a loss of face. The dvargir are the strongest servants of the great void, the most worthy, and Shadowbearer ought to have come to them in the flesh, rather than sending a lackey."

"They should be careful what they wish for," said Ridmark.

"Truly," said Caius. He listened for a moment longer. "He says that it is an insult that Shadowbearer wears the form of a high elf, when he should clothe himself in the flesh of a dvargir."

The dvargir warrior stopped speaking, and the Dzark stared. The silence stretched on, and the Dzark spoke a single, growling sentence. The dvargir warriors erupted with laughter, pounding their armored fists against the table.

"The Dzark said," said Caius, "that if Korzdan – the warrior – disagrees with Shadowbearer, Korzdan is welcome to challenge him."

The Dzark rose from his throne, paced to the edge of the dais, and began to speak. Caius listened for a while, held tilted to the side, and began to translate.

"He says that the dvargir are strong, stronger than any other kindred upon this world," said Caius. "Shadowbearer's disciple is a fool and a yapping dog. In time, they shall deal with the disciple as he deserves. Meanwhile, Shadowbearer will see that the dvargir are worthy, and shall give them a high place in the new order when..."

He fell silent.

"When what?" said Ridmark.

"When the Frostborn return," said Caius.

Ridmark stared at the Dzark, his mind spinning with plans. Gothalinzur had first predicted the return of the Frostborn, and both the Warden and Agrimnalazur had told Ridmark additional details. Yet Ridmark still did not know where, when, or how the Frostborn would return. But if the Dzark knew, if Ridmark could pry the knowledge out of him...

There were thirteen dvargir in the hall, including the Dzark. Could Ridmark and the others defeat them? It seemed unlikely. The dvargir would be tough and brutal fighters, and their ability to turn invisible could prove deadly. Worse, this disciple of Shadowbearer might decide to take a hand. If that happened, the fight would be over quickly.

Better to listen for now. If one of Shadowbearer's disciples, another man like Alamur of Dun Licinia, was behind the undead, then perhaps the Dzark and his warriors would discuss their plan. Then Ridmark could withdraw, join the others, and decided upon a course of action.

"So be patient," translated Caius in a low whisper, "for the shape of the world will change when the Frostborn return. The weak shall be ground underfoot, and the strong shall reign forever."

The Dzark opened his mouth to speak again, and a horrible rattling squeal rang out. It sounded like jagged metal plates rubbing together, accompanied by a tapping noise like the legs of an insect against the floor.

But much, much louder.

"Mzrokar," said Caius with alarm.

"Mzrokar?" said Ridmark. "What..."

The warriors surged to their feet, and the Dzark began shouting commands. Ridmark did not know their tongue, but he recognized the tone well enough.

The dvargir were preparing for battle. Ridmark and the others had been discovered.

"We should probably run," said Caius.

Even as he spoke, the dvargir vanished as shadows swirled around them.

***

## Chapter 15 - The Dzark

Morigna readied a spell as Ridmark and Caius sprinted from the keep.

The strange, horrible noise, the peculiar mixture of clashing metal and clacking, rang out again. Ridmark and Caius joined the others at the far end of the square, but Morigna did not see anyone or anything pursuit of them.

That, of course, did not mean anything.

Morigna swept her sensing spell towards the keep. She felt the weight of Ridmark and Caius pull against the stone of the terrace.

And she sensed a dozen unseen pursuers after them.

"Dvargir!" said Ridmark, raising his staff. "Calliande, your dispelling spell!"

"They are in front of the keep!" said Morigna, keeping her spell in place.

Calliande nodded and raised her hands. The familiar pulse of white light washed across the square. Thirteen columns of shadows swirled between Ridmark and the keep.

And for the first time since childhood, Morigna found herself looking at the dvargir.

A shiver of fear and rage went through her.

The dvargir stood motionless in their strange black armor. Their heads had been shaved hairless, and their eyes were like pools of darkness. They carried swords and maces in their hands, as black as their armor. The lead dvargir stepped forward, his armor adorned with red gold, a diadem encircling his gray head.

Morigna growled, hands hooked into claws, and gathered power for a killing spell.

But Ridmark only stepped forward, his staff ready in his hand.

For a moment they stared at the dvargir.

"I assume," said Ridmark in orcish, "that you speak this tongue?"

"Indeed, human," said the dvargir in red armor, black eyes fixed upon Ridmark. "It is the language of our slaves, and a skilled master knows how to best drive his beasts of burden."

"Assuming you do not cut out their tongues," said Ridmark.

"This is so," said the red-armored dvargir. "Since you are the intruder, you will give your name first."

"I am Ridmark, son of Leogrance of the House of the Arbanii," said Ridmark.

The dvargir gave a short bow. "I thought as much. I am Kzargar, a Dzark of the Great House Tklathar of the city of Khaldurmar."

His eloquence surprised Morigna. In her memory, the dvargir were hulking, black-eyed beasts, draped in cloaks of shadow. She had expected bluster and threats, not polite courtesy.

"You know me, then?" said Ridmark.

The Dzark's thin gray lips twitched into a smile. "I have been informed of you." The bottomless black eyes wandered over them. "The yellow-haired female is known as Calliande. The black-haired female is called Morigna." His eyes moved past Gavin. "The whelp is not known to me." A smirk reappeared as he looked at Caius. "And you...the apostate prince?"

"A prince?" said Gavin. "You are a prince of the dwarves?"

"The title does not mean the same thing among my kindred," said Caius, "as it does among the humans. And there are neither rich nor poor nor kings nor peasants in the eyes of God."

Kzargar laughed. "Indeed? The dwarves call us apostates for following the truth of the great void, for abandoning the ancient and feeble superstitions of stone and silence from our home world. But the great void has made us strong. You choose instead to follow the sheep god of the humans?" A moment of bafflement made its way through the Dzark's mocking malice. "Why?"

"Because there is no hope otherwise," said Caius. "The gods of stone and silence offer no hope for mortal lives. Only grim and joyless duty, followed by an eternity of lightless silence. And what does the great void offer you? An endless and brutal scramble for power terminated by a bloody death at the hand of someone stronger?"

"Hope is an empty illusion," said Kzargar. "The strong embrace life as it is, without yearning for false dreams."

"It is not a false dream," said Caius. "The Dominus Christus offers hope and life to all mortals."

Kzargar laughed. "Us as well? Will you try to convert us?"

"My wish is that you become as I am," said Caius.

"Given the fate that awaits you, son of the khaldari," said Kzargar, "I may have to take that as an insult."

"And what," said Ridmark, stepping closer to the Dzark, "fate is that?"

"Ah," said Kzargar, "you haven't figured it out yet?"

"Not yet," said Ridmark, "though I was hoping you could enlighten me."

"See?" said Kzargar, glancing at Caius. "Hope is an illusion. Your hopes are disappointed, Ridmark of the Arbanii. You shall not learn my secrets before you die."

"I already know many of your secrets," said Ridmark. "Shadowbearer commanded you to come here, did he not?"

One of the dvargir stepped forward with a snarl. "Speak not the sacred name of the prophet of the great void!"

Kzargar raised a hand, and the dvargir warrior fell silent. "And what else, pray? This is most interesting."

"You are allied with Jonas Vorinus of the Enlightened of Incariel," said Ridmark.

"The Enlightened are vermin," sneered the dvargir warrior who had spoken earlier. "The pets of the great prophet of the void."

"Do go on," said Kzargar.

"And you were commanded to kill us all," said Ridmark, "save for Morigna, and to take an object from Calliande."

"You are more attentive than I expected, for a human," said Kzargar. "The empty soulstone the yellow-haired female carries? The prophet requires it to inaugurate the new age."

"I suppose," said Ridmark, "that you're going to let us go if we give you the soulstone and Morigna?"

"Not at all," said Kzargar. "I shall kill you all, and present the empty soulstone to Shadowbearer myself. Shadowbearer desires the soulstone. Shadowbearer's disciple desires the black-haired female, no doubt for a concubine. But Shadowbearer is the strongest, and his favor is worth far more than the favor of his disciple."

"A logical conclusion," said Ridmark.

Again Kzargar offered a small bow. "Thank you."

"There is a flaw in your logic, though," said Ridmark.

"That I need to kill you all first?" said the Dzark. "True, battle is ever risky. But there are thirteen of us, and six of you. You have magic, but we have shadow and strength at arms. Come, then. Shall we see which of us is the stronger?"

"Before you do," said Morigna, stepping forward as she summoned power, "you are going to answer a question."

Kzargar laughed. "A Dzark of the Great House Tklathar of the city of Khaldurmar does not deign to speak with mere females."

"You will speak with me," said Morigna, her ever-present fury hardening further. "And you will answer my questions, dvargir scum."

Kzargar's lips thinned, but he gestured. "Well, then, sorceress?" The purple flames crackled brighter around her hands. "Ask. Perhaps you will learn something ere you die."

"Fourteen years ago," said Morigna, "dvargir raiders killed a man and a woman living in the hills, a pair of hunters named Litavis and Maria."

"And?" said Kzargar.

"Did you kill them?" said Morigna, her voice hot. "Does their blood lie upon your hands?"

Kzargar gave an indifferent shrug. "Who can say? There have been so many over the years. Thainkul Dural lies desolate, and many of the Dzarks and Rzarns of Khaldurmar have used it as a base to bring slaves to our city. I have made many trips to the surface in the last century." He smiled. "Perhaps your mother and father died resisting me. For that is what this is about, it is not? Your long-dead parents? They fought against the slavers who came to take them, and perished?"

"They did," said Morigna.

"Morigna," said Ridmark, but she ignored him.

"And you killed them?" said Morigna. "Tell me the truth."

Kzargar shrugged. "I know not. There have been so many. And if they fought back and died...then they deserved it, for the weak deserve to be brushed aside by the strong."

"Then see for yourself!" said Morigna, summoning all her power.

She released her spell, and flung out her hands. A wall of white mist plunged into the dvargir, and they rocked back with grunts of pain. Yet by spreading the mist across so many, she had diluted its power, and the spell did little harm to the dvargir. Their strange armor blunted the spell, and shadows sprang from nothingness and wrapped around them, turning aside her magic.

"Ah," said Kzargar, rubbing at a minor burn across his jaw. "That rather hurt. Kill them all."

Six of the dvargir warriors charged, while the others vanished anew in columns of shadow.

###

Ridmark sprinted to meet the attack of the dvargir, Kharlacht and Caius at his side. Gavin, as usual, hung back to protect Calliande. Both Morigna and Calliande began casting fresh spells, white light and purple fire throwing their glows across the stone floor. The Dzark and one other dvargir warrior charged at Ridmark. Kzargar himself hung back, the second dvargir moving to Ridmark's right.

Which gave Ridmark an opening on his left and Kzargar's right.

Of course, since the dvargir could turn invisible, it was an obvious trap, so Ridmark threw himself into it. His staff blurred out, all his strength and speed behind it, and he felt the weapon's metal-shod end slam into something hard. A grunt of pain reached his ears, along with the scraping of armored boots against the floor.

Another pulse of white light washed across the square as Calliande cast her spell. The dvargir warrior Ridmark had struck appeared, one hand raised his face, crimson blood streaming from a broken nose.

Kzargar bellowed a command, and the three dvargir charged. Ridmark retreated, whipping his staff back and forth to ward off any blows. He just barely managed to stay ahead of their attacks. The dvargir were skilled warriors, better than the assassins of the Red Family, and knew how to coordinate their attacks properly. Worse, their strange black armor was as strong and light as dwarven steel. Ridmark landed a half-dozen minor hits with his staff, but the black armor deflected his blows.

Only the greater reach provided by his height and the length of his staff kept him ahead of a killing strike.

He jumped out of reach and risked a glance around the square. Caius and Kharlacht fought back-to-back, the dvargir swarming around them. Kharlacht's longer reach kept them at bay, and a headless dvargir lay upon the floor, blood pooling over the cold stone. Yet both Kharlacht and Caius had taken wounds, and the dvargir could wear them out through sheer attrition. Unless Ridmark thought of something clever, they were going to lose this fight.

Calliande finished her spell.

More white light flared, and Ridmark felt her magic close around him, making his legs and arms faster. Morigna gestured, and a ripple went through the ground. It flowed around him, but knocked the Dzark and his warriors from their feet. Ridmark attacked with spell-enhanced speed, and hammered his staff down with both hands. The weapon slammed into a dvargir's temple with a hideous crack, and the warrior went motionless, blood leaking from his ears and nose. The other dvargir got to their feet, but Ridmark struck again before they could recover, killing another warrior. Kzargar snarled in fury and attacked, but with the speed of Calliande's spell, Ridmark drove the Dzark back on his heels, and the dvargir retreated towards the keep. He saw Kharlacht and Caius going on the attack, saw Gavin strike down a dvargir with a quick thrust of his sword. For a moment, the battle had gone their way.

But the dvargir still had greater numbers, and if they caught their balance...

Kzargar shouted a command in the dvargir tongue, and the remaining warriors sprinted for the keep. Ridmark hesitated, intending to pursue them, but stopped.

Why were they retreating? They had the advantage.

The others stopped as well, breathing hard, and Calliande rushed forward to heal their wounds. As she did, the dvargir retreated into the keep, closing the doors behind them with a resounding clang.

###

Calliande gripped Kharlacht's arms and gritted her teeth as waves of agony washed through her. The big orc had taken wounds upon his right arm and leg, and for a terrible, endless instant, she felt those same wounds in her own flesh, felt the blades slicing through skin and muscle, and it took every ounce of control not to scream in pain.

But she endured it, and the agony faded.

Actually bearing the wounds in her own flesh would have hurt far more. She had to keep reminding herself of that.

"Thank you," rumbled Kharlacht.

Calliande took a deep breath, nodded, and stepped back, her limbs feeling a bit weak. Healing always sapped her strength.

Fortunately, the dvargir had fled.

"Why did they run?" said Gavin. "They were winning."

"We should withdraw at once," said Caius. "Back to the surface, if at all possible. I think..."

Again Calliande heard that metallic screeching combined with the strange insect-like clicking.

"That noise," said Ridmark. "What is it?"

"It's how the dvargir knew we were here," said Caius. "It smelled us."

"Smelled?" said Ridmark. "You called it a mzrokar. I thought it was a warding glyph."

"It's not," said Caius. "It is a creature of the Deeps, one that rarely comes this close to the surface. And if the dvargir have one, we need to turn back. They are exceedingly dangerous, and..."

A dark shape appeared around the edge of the keep.

The shape flowed around the corner, and kept coming and coming, the noise growing louder.

"God and his saints," said Gavin, shaken, "it's as bad as the spiderlings."

The thing looked like a colossal centipede, as thick as two grown men and as long as three oxen. Scores of thin legs jutted from its sides, pulling the creature forward. Its body had been armored in an exoskeleton of black dvargir steel, making it look like a giant shadow. A pair of enormous pincers jutted from the creature's mouth, a dozen slender antennae waving back and forth above its head. The stench of rotting meat surrounded it, like fumes rising from the marshes above.

A wave of loathing and fear went through Calliande. The creature was as grotesque as the male urdmordar they had fought in the catacombs below Urd Arowyn. Yet the female urdmordar had their own terrifying, alien beauty. But there was no beauty to this thing or the black steel plates grafted to its hide.

Or to the scores of slender legs lined with razor edges.

"What in God's name is that?" said Kharlacht.

"That," said Caius, "is a mzrokar. Scavengers. They lurk in the lower Deeps and eat carrion, and anything too slow to escape them. Sometimes the dvargir turn them into fearsomely effective war beasts."

The mzrokar went motionless as only insects could. For a moment Calliande wondered if somehow it had failed to notice them. Yet the huge pincers turned in their direction, the antennae twitching.

"So Kzargar retreated," said Ridmark, "to let his pet monster kill us all."

"Essentially, yes," said Caius. "It's time to run."

"Go!" said Ridmark

The mzrokar loosed its horrid metallic shriek and charged in a tide of black steel and stabbing legs.

***

## Chapter 16 - Pincers

Ridmark realized he had made a very serious mistake.

He had expected the mzrokar to be slow and clumsy, yet the huge creature moved with quick, fluid grace, its legs propelling it forward with terrifying speed. Likely the creature could move with the speed of a galloping horse, and in the broad streets of the highest tier of Thainkul Dural, it would run them down with ease.

Fighting the beast was not an option. Its long legs gave it a longer reach than even Ridmark's staff, and its large body meant they could not hit it hard enough to kill it. Taking off its head would likely work, but not even Kharlacht could hew through the thick body with a single blow, and the mzrokar would kill him before he could take a second.

They had to escape.

"This way!" said Ridmark, changing direction.

A house overlooked the square before the keep, two stories tall, its front carved with glyphs and reliefs of dwarven warriors battling dark elves while the gods of stone and silence looked on with grim approval. The house had square windows, and one door in the center.

A narrow door.

Ridmark paused as the others ran through the door. The mzrokar moved through the square so fast it seemed to blur

He cursed and threw himself through the door after Morigna. A moment later the mzrokar slammed into the wall with such force that the entire house shook, dust falling from the ceiling. A pair of legs lashed at Ridmark, the creature's pincers snapping a few inches from his back. He lost his balance and fell into Morigna, driving them both to the floor. He landed atop her, and for a moment her black eyes, wide and shocked, stared up into his.

Ridmark jumped back to his feet, rock chips flying from the doorway as the mzrokar began to push itself through, the plates of black steel grinding at the stone frame. Kharlacht lopped off a pair of legs with a single swipe of his greatsword. The mzrokar screamed in pain, and Kharlacht jumped back as the pincers snapped.

"It's squeezing through!" said Gavin.

He was right. The mzrokar was oozing through the door like a rat squeezing itself through a pipe.

"I think," said Morigna, climbing to her feet, "I think I might be able to control it."

"How?" said Ridmark.

"You saw what I can do with birds," said Morigna. "This creature is just a large animal, is it not? I think..."

"Do it," said Ridmark, edging back as the mzrokar heaved forward, cracks spreading through the wall.

###

Morigna set herself, drew on her magic, and concentrated.

She felt the mzrokar's mind, such as it was. Ravens and dogs and cats were clever. The mzrokar was not. The creature's mind was all instinct and reflex, nothing but ravenous hunger and an endless urge to reproduce. Yet the same instincts made it a scavenger, not a hunter. The mzrokar hated and feared light and anything strong enough to fight, and the glowstones of Thainkul Dural should have been enough to force it to flee.

Yet still it came, filled with mindless rage, and Morigna commanded it to stop.

The mzrokar froze, but its legs lashed like whips, its pincers opening and closing.

She felt spikes of magic within the creature's puny mind, goads of rage and fury and obedience that drove it forward.

"It is enspelled!" shouted Morigna, feeling sweat pour down her face. "I can't control it."

A glimmer of white light flashed as Calliande worked her sensing spell. "Glyphs on the interior of its armor plating." She cast another spell. "I can't undo them all. There are too many. I..."

The rage filling the mzrokar's mind surged, and the creature started moving again, pushing itself through the door like pulp squeezed from a fruit. Morigna growled and redoubled her efforts, her head pulsing with pain.

Ridmark grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. "Too late. Run!"

They sprinted for a set of stone stairs at the far end of the empty room, and Morigna followed, the mzrokar's presence fading from her thoughts.

###

Ridmark scrambled to the mansion's second story, and saw another flight of stairs leading to the roof. Idly he wondered why the house's builders had even bothered with a roof. It never rained in the Deeps. Perhaps it was less work than tunneling into the walls of the cavern.

He could ask Caius later, if they lived through this.

Ridmark ran up the flight of stairs to the roof and pushed open a trapdoor of dwarven steel. The roof was flat, with a stone post that had likely once held clotheslines. A few empty chests of dwarven steel stood here and there, but the roof was otherwise unoccupied.

And only a narrow gap separated the house from its neighbor.

"Hurry," said Ridmark, urging the others forward. If Calliande couldn't dispel the binding upon the creature, and Morigna couldn't control it, then their best bet was to escape entirely. They couldn't outrun the beast, but perhaps they could outwit it.

The others jumped over the gap to the next roof, and Ridmark followed. He risked a glance back and saw the mzrokar still squeezing its way into the house. With any luck, they could be halfway through the flood trap before the creature realized what had happened.

And if the creature blundered into the trap after them...well, Ridmark doubted even a mzrokar could survive immersion in a hundred thousand gallons of water. And if the Dzark and his men had raised the undead, they would be sealed behind the flooded gallery. Ridmark hoped that would mean the disciple of Shadowbearer would be trapped underground with Kzargar and his men.

They jumped across to a third house, and to a fourth, and still the mzrokar forced its way into the first house. Ridmark saw the entrance to the drain chamber draw near, and he felt a flicker of hope. Just three more houses, and they could return to the gallery...

A horrible tearing shriek rang through the cavern, so loud the walls of Thainkul Dural reverberated with them.

In one smooth motion, the mzrokar ripped its way free of the house, its antennae-studded head rotating to face them.

"I think we annoyed it," said Gavin.

"Keep running!" said Ridmark.

The façade of the first house collapsed into shattered ruin, the cavern ringing with the echoes. The mzrokar scrambled up the wreckage and onto the roof, and Ridmark feared the creature would leap over the rooftops and run them down.

Instead the mzrokar scrambled up the wall and ran along the ceiling, hanging upside down.

It was simply going to drop down and crush them.

Ridmark saw another trapdoor leading into the house beneath them.

"Down!" he shouted, yanking on the trapdoor. Thankfully, the hinges of dwarven steel did not rust, and the heavy metal door slid open as smoothly as if it had been oiled yesterday. Gavin urged Calliande down the stairs, followed by Morigna and Kharlacht and Caius. The carrion stench of the mzrokar flooded his nostrils, and Ridmark hastened down the stairs, closing the trapdoor over their heads.

"Now what?" said Morigna. "We have run like rats into a trap."

"To the ground floor," said Ridmark, "hurry."

They started down the stairs, and as Calliande reached the ground floor, Ridmark put his foot upon the top step.

Right about then the ceiling exploded.

###

Calliande rolled back to her feet, coughing from the rock dust in the air.

The ground floor of the dwarven house had been reduced to a ruin in a second. Parts of the ceiling lay in pieces across the floor, and a web of cracks covered both the remains of the ceiling and the walls. She heard the mzrokar thrashing across the second floor, and knew it was only a matter of time before the beast forced its way down the stairs and killed them all.

She saw Ridmark lying on the floor, blood in his close-cropped black hair, and for a terrible instant Calliande was sure he had been killed, that one of the falling chunks of rock had shattered his skull.

But he stood up, staff in hand, blood trickling down his jaw.

"Into the street," he shouted over the roar of the mzrokar thrashing above. "Quickly!"

"It will simply run us down," said Morigna, her voice tight. "We..."

"Wait!" said Caius. "I have an idea. Follow me!"

Ridmark followed him, and Calliande shrugged and did the same. Caius led them through a door to a small room off the main floor. A single stone object dominated the room, a hollow box with a round hole cut on the top.

Morigna frowned. "What is that thing?"

"A latrine," said Calliande.

"Oh."

"Help me push this," said Caius, and Ridmark and Gavin and Kharlacht moved to help. Calliande looked over her shoulder and saw the dark shape of the mzrokar squeezing itself down the stairs. The entrance to the second floor was only wide enough for one dwarf at a time, but the mzrokar could shove itself through and kill them all.

A shudder went through the ceiling, more dust falling.

Or the ceiling would simply collapse and crush them.

The stone latrine slid aside with a rasp, revealing a dark tunnel running beneath the house.

"A sewage tunnel," said Caius.

"I'll go first," said Ridmark.

###

Ridmark dropped into the darkness of the sewage tunnel.

There was no smell, of course. Thainkul Dural had been ruined for centuries, even millennia. The stench would have faded away long ago. Yet a trickle of water still went down the tunnel, splashing against Ridmark's boots. Ridmark found himself marveling at the engineering skill of the dwarves. In a human ruin, the water would have worn away the structure long ago.

He stepped forward, and the others dropped into the tunnel.

"No light," said Kharlacht.

"Here," said Calliande, raising her hand. A ball of harsh white light appeared over her palm, throwing back the gloom.

"Will the mzrokar not follow us?" said Gavin.

"The creature hunts by scent," said Caius, another crash echoing out from above. "Perhaps it cannot smell us in the water."

"Let's not give it the chance," said Ridmark.

He hurried down the tunnel, boots slapping against the damp stone. The others followed single-file through the narrow tunnel, Calliande's light throwing mad shadows across the wall. A dim circle of light shone overhead as they passed beneath another latrine. Ridmark counted the circles as they passed. He suspected this drainage tunnel went all the way to the flood trap's reservoir, and if they went too far they would find themselves trapped between the waters and the mzrokar.

As if his thought had summoned the creature, the latrine they had used to enter the tunnel exploded behind them. The dark mass of the mzrokar came into sight, the creature squeezing itself through the hole, its legs gripping the tunnel wall to pull itself along. For a moment Ridmark hoped the beast would get stuck, but he realized that was unlikely. The mzrokar could compress its body to an incredible degree, even with the enspelled armor plates of dvargir steel. It would force itself into the tunnel and pursue them.

"Here," said Ridmark, stopping beneath the last circle of light. He propped his staff against the wall and made a stirrup with his hands. Caius scrambled up and pulled himself through the hole. Calliande followed suit, and then Morigna, and then Gavin and Kharlacht. Ridmark went last, gripping his staff and thrusting it up through the hole. Kharlacht and Gavin seized the staff and pulled him up.

As they did, he saw the mzrokar crawling towards him, sparks flashing from the steel plates scraping against the stone wall of the tunnel. A stroke of luck – the creature could compress its body, but the rough armor plates dragged against the wall and slowed its advance.

Then Kharlacht and Gavin lifted him through the latrine, and Ridmark got his feet beneath him.

"Escaping through the sewer," said Gavin. "It's like a tale."

"I never liked stories," said Morigna.

"Come," said Ridmark, and they ran onto the street. They had reached nearly the end of the tier, not far from the entrance to the drain chamber. From there they could pass through the trapped gallery and return to the barracks. Barring the mzrokar from pursuit would be a simple matter of triggering the flood trap behind them.

But if the mzrokar caught them in the trapped gallery, they were finished. The creature could not distinguished between the tiles, would blunder after them, trigger the trap, and drown itself.

And Ridmark and his companions would drown with it.

Ridmark hurried through the drain chamber and into the trapped gallery. The doors of dwarven steel lining the niches remained closed, though the sound of splashing water remained as constant as ever.

"Take care," he said, stepping onto the nearest tile with the glyph for a welcomed guest. "Follow me. Go as quickly as you can, but do not stumble."

Ridmark moved from tile to tile as fast as he dared. He did not look back at the others. Either they would keep their balance, or one of them would stumble and they all would die. Yet no one stumbled. On and on they went, their boots clicking against the stone tiles.

They were a third of the way across the gallery when the sound of tearing rock echoed through the chamber, followed by the furious roar of the mzrokar.

The creature had torn its way free from the sewer tunnel.

###

Morigna stared back at the drain chamber.

"We must stand and fight," said Kharlacht.

"It doesn't matter," said Ridmark. "The minute the mzrokar steps on the wrong tile, the gallery will flood. And with a hundred legs, it will step on all the wrong tiles at once."

"No," said Calliande. "Keep going. I can try to break the spells upon the armor plates. If I do, the mzrokar might flee."

"Or it might flee toward us," said Morigna, "and kill us all. No. I have to take control of its mind."

"You couldn't before," said Calliande.

The click of dozens of legs upon the stone floor reached her ears.

"I have no choice in the matter now," said Morigna.

"You stopped the mzrokar before," said Ridmark. "You held it in place. How long can you do that?"

"I don't know," said Morigna. "I suppose I am about to find out, am I not?"

A cold sense of doom settled upon her. She had believed herself so strong, but her strength had failed against both Jonas's dark magic and the nightmarish creature charging toward her. She had not even been strong enough to kill those damned dvargir. And for all her pride, she had never even left Vhaluusk.

She had not seen so much of the world.

She had become as crabbed and narrow-minded as the Old Man himself.

"Can you run and cast the spell at the same time?" said Ridmark.

Morigna shook her head. "It requires too much concentration. I suggest you go."

"If someone carried you," said Ridmark, "could you still work the spell?"

Morigna blinked. "I...I do not know. I have never tried."

"You're about to find out," said Ridmark, stepping to her side as he handed his staff to Gavin. "Go, all of you. Go! Get to the far end as fast as you can. We'll rejoin you soon."

Calliande hesitated, opened her mouth, closed it, and then nodded. "Don't take too long." She started across the tiles, and Kharlacht and Gavin and Caius followed her.

"What are you planning?" said Morigna.

Ridmark started to answer, and then the mzrokar appeared at the far end of the drain chamber. Rock dust covered its armor plates, but the creature looked otherwise unharmed. It shrieked again and surged forward, legs clicking against the metal grating.

"Now!" said Ridmark.

Morigna drew on her magic and cast the spell. Again her thoughts reached out, touching the simple, enraged mind of the huge creature. She commanded it to return to the keep and kill every last dvargir it found.

It ignored her commands.

But it went motionless within the drain chamber, quivering a few yards from the trapped tiles.

Morigna threw out both her hands, her will and magic straining against the power of the wards on the creature.

"Let's go," said Ridmark.

"I...I can't," said Morigna, fresh sweat beading on her forehead. "I...I can't walk and do this at..."

Ridmark nodded, put one arm around her shoulders, another behind her knees, and scooped her up as easily as if she were a child.

So that was what he had meant.

He started across the tiles, and Morigna felt her connection to the mzrokar waver.

"See it!" she gasped. "I have to see it for this to work!"

Without breaking his stride, Ridmark shifted her, slinging her over his shoulders like a freeholder carrying a sack of grain. Morigna bounced once, twisted her head, and flung out her right hand, keeping her eyes locked upon the trembling mzrokar. She had controlled animals through her magic since she had been a child, and the mzrokar's mind was so simple that she should have been able to command the creature to tie itself into a bow.

But the dvargir wards were too strong, and she felt their power pushing her magic out of the mzrokar's puny little mind.

"You," wheezed Morigna, sweat dripping into her eyes as she felt the muscles of Ridmark's arms wrapped against her shoulders and legs, "you had better hurry. I can't...I can't..."

Ridmark started to run, hurrying from tile to tile. Morigna cursed and poured all her power into the spell. The mzrokar took a staggering step forward, went motionless, and then another.

Ridmark kept running, and a burst of white light shone around him. Calliande's magic augmented his speed, and Morigna's tattered cloak rippled around them in the wind of his passage. How he avoided the trapped tiles in his haste, Morigna had no idea. Yet he did, even as she felt the pressure of the wards in her mind.

She screamed in frustration and pain...and her spell unraveled.

The mzrokar surged forward, its legs clicking against the tiles.

Against the trapped tiles.

"Ridmark!" shouted Morigna. "Too..."

A horrendous clang echoed through the trapped gallery, and every single one of the flood doors opened. Torrents of water erupted from them in a white spray, engulfing the gallery and the mzrokar alike.

The wall of water thundered towards her, and Morigna screamed.

A sheet of dwarven steel appeared a few inches in front of her nose, as if it had sprung out of nothingness. She turned her head, and realized that a massive door of dwarven steel had sealed off the gallery. The door trembled, and the roar of the flooding waters had only gotten slightly softer, but the massive slab of steel held against the floodwaters.

And the waters had taken the mzrokar with them.

Morigna let out a long breath, and realized that she was still slung across Ridmark's shoulders.

"You can let me down now," she said, putting a hint of acerbity into her voice. "I have perfectly fine legs."

For some reason that made her face flush. She decided to attribute it to exhaustion from fighting the wards.

Ridmark grunted. "I know. Given that your knee has been digging into my arm." He swung her back down, and Morigna found her feet, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

Then she stepped back, feeling the heat in her face.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, that was very clever." She turned and saw that Calliande, Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin had made it out alive. The dwarven friar looked amused, damn him.

"I suppose it was," said Calliande with a smile. "Given that we are alive, thanks to both of you."

"I told you," said Ridmark, "that if you knew me long enough that you would see me do something foolish."

Morigna laughed. The unsteadiness in her voice was annoying, but since she had come within a few inches of death, she could forgive herself for the display of weakness. "Clearly, three days was all that was necessary."

"Clearly," said Ridmark, looking at the door as Gavin handed him his staff. "Come. I don't think we'll have to worry about Kzargar coming to take revenge for his slain retainers." He rapped his staff against the door. "At least for a few hours. Or until the dvargir leave the ruins and find another exit from the Deeps. And with Kzargar and his men trapped in Thainkul Dural, they won't be able to raise any additional undead to aid Jonas Vorinus."

"Aye," said Morigna. "Do you think we will be able to find him?"

"I think we will come for us," said Ridmark. "Shadowbearer wants the soulstone, and Shadowbearer's disciple wants you. Shadowbearer isn't the sort to tolerate failure, so likely both Jonas and the disciple will come for us." He paused for a moment in thought, tapping his staff against the door once more. "Or Jonas is the disciple."

"Kzargar though very little of the disciple," said Caius.

"Jonas inspires that reaction," said Morigna.

Ridmark nodded. "And even if he runs all the way back to Coldinium, well...he won't trouble the people of Moraime any longer. Not after we warn them against him. Let's go." He rubbed his neck with his free hand. "It will be good to see the sun again."

"Agreed," said Kharlacht and Caius in unison.

Morigna looked at him, watching his gray cloak hang against his back. She knew the measure of Jonas Vorinus, and now that she knew the measure of Ridmark Arban, and she was certain that Ridmark would find and kill Jonas.

And what then?

Morigna would not go back to the Old Man, not after she had learned how much Coriolus had kept from her over the years.

But where else would she go?

She looked at Ridmark and had an idea.

"Morigna?" said Calliande. "Do you need healing?"

"No," said Morigna, "no, I am fine."

She followed the others up the stairs to the barracks.

###

Ridmark took one step into the entry hall and stopped.

"Someone has been here," he said.

There were fresh footprints in the rock dust. Not many – only two or three people had come through the chamber since Ridmark and his companions had passed through. And as far as he could tell, none of the new footprints went to the barracks below.

"Morigna, Calliande," he said. "Check your..."

But both Morigna and Calliande shouted in alarm and began casting spells.

Ridmark turned, seeking foes, and every last dwarven glyph carved into the floor and the walls blazed with ruby-colored light. The arcane sigils began to glow as well, shining with an eerie crimson radiance of their own.

"Run!" said Calliande. "All of you..."

The light blazed brighter, and Ridmark realized what the massive warding spell had been designed to do. It wasn't built to hold a summoned creature, or to shield Thainkul Dural from attack.

It had been a trap for Ridmark and his friends all along.

And they had walked right into it.

Sheets of translucent crimson light erupted from the floor and slammed into the ceiling. Pain erupted through Ridmark, and his muscles locked into place, holding him immobile. He growled in fury and tried to step forward, tried to move, but his legs refused to obey him. He managed to turn his head, and saw the others pinned in place by the spell.

Like flies trapped in amber.

"Calliande," Ridmark grated. "The spell. The..."

Calliande stood motionless, sheathed in a cocoon of red light, as did Morigna.

A familiar voice cut into his thoughts.

"Ah, splendid. You are all here. We can begin, finally."

Ridmark forced his head to turn, and saw a figure clad in a long, hooded gray coat standing near the gleaming gates. The figure drew back the hood, revealing a lined face with watery blue eyes and wispy white hair.

The Old Man.

***

## Chapter 17 - Prizes

"Surprised?" said Coriolus. He made a flipping gesture with one hand. "Oh, go ahead and speak. You can talk, but you cannot move. A useful aspect of this particular spell. It makes interrogations so much easier."

His voice was the same, but the cringing resentment and fear had vanished. The wariness in his face had evaporated, and in its place Ridmark saw utter confidence and surety, the kind of confidence than sprang from decades of wielding great power.

It reminded him of Agrimnalazur in the moments before their final battle in Urd Arowyn. That cheered Ridmark – Agrimnalazur had perished in the end.

Of course, she could just have easily killed them all.

"You are," said Ridmark, "quite a skilled actor."

Coriolus offered a mocking little bow. "Why, thank you. I have had much practice over the centuries. Tell me, how much of my little tale did you believe?"

"None of it," said Ridmark. "I was sure you were lying."

Coriolus wagged his finger like a teacher chastising a pupil. "I was sure of that, too. But deception is only one possible purpose of a lie. Misdirection is another."

"Such as," said Ridmark, "making us believe that you had nothing to do with the dvargir." Kzargar's complaints flashed through his mind. "Or keeping us from realizing that you are a disciple of Shadowbearer."

"Oh, you are as clever as I was warned," said Coriolus, moving closer to the edge of the magical trap. A few quick steps, and Ridmark could have crushed the Old Man's skull with a blow from his staff. But the bands of crimson magic held his limbs fast. "A pity you weren't just a little cleverer. Then you would not be here. But that would be bad for me."

"And that, above all," said Ridmark, "is your primary concern."

"Of course," said Coriolus.

"Except for heeding the wishes of Shadowbearer," said Ridmark.

He expected the Old Man to take umbrage, but Coriolus only smiled.

"The fools in the Enlightened of Incariel," said Coriolus, "worship strength. Oh, they are right to do so, do not mistake me. But they make an error. Every last Enlightened and Initiated assumes that one day, he will become the strongest of all. That he will rule and dominate. But they fail to understand the true nature of strength."

"And that is?" said Ridmark.

"There is always something stronger," said Coriolus. "A man must serve someone." He waved a thin hand. "After all, you and the dwarf and the orc and the so-called Magistria claim to follow the Dominus Christus and his God. They are illusions, of course, but the principle is the same. You have chosen to serve a master. I have merely chosen to serve a more effective and powerful one." He turned his head. "Isn't that right, Initiated of the Second Circle?"

Boots scraped against the floor, and Jonas Vorinus came into sight, still wearing chain mail. His strange shadow-magic had healed the burns from the explosion, and he looked healthy as ever, though his hair and one of his eyebrows had not grown back.

"You're looking less charred than I expected," said Ridmark.

Jonas spat. "You're in no position to gloat, fool." He started to draw his sword. "Let's hear you gloat when I..."

Coriolus sighed and gestured. The floor beneath Jonas's boots rippled, and Jonas fell to the floor. He scrambled backward, glaring at the Old Man with hatred.

And more than a hint of fear.

"The Dux will be wroth if you kill me!" said Jonas. "I am the Dux's favored servant!"

"I care nothing for the good opinion of Tarrabus Carhaine," said Coriolus. "However, the Dux cares nothing for what happens to you, and neither does Shadowbearer. They prefer results, not excuses. Killing unless necessary is so wasteful. Annoy me again, however, and you may make me reconsider."

Jonas got to his feet and took several steps back.

"So," said Ridmark. "You were the one yanking Jonas's leash, I take it?"

"I am an Initiated of the Second Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel!" said Jonas. "I am no man's dog."

"I let Jonas have his chance," said Coriolus. "Though my intent was to drive you here all along. I raised the undead to draw you to Moraime. I knew the fools in the town would blame me, and you would investigate. And once you spoke with me, I would blame the dvargir. And after the dvargir forced you to retreat, I would lure you here...and my trap would take care of the rest. Though if you died at any time, it would be simple to retrieve the empty soulstone, which is what Shadowbearer really wants." He craned his neck, looking behind Ridmark. "I see you triggered the flood trap. Kzargar must have been more enthusiastic than I instructed. I would chastise him for disobedience, but since he is trapped behind the flood at the moment, I suppose I shall simply have to keep his promised payment."

"They it is safer to snatch a cub from a lioness," said Ridmark, "than to cheat a dvargir."

Coriolus smiled. "Kzargar and his thugs do not concern me."

"Such an elaborate game," said Ridmark, seeking for some flaw in the trap, some way to escape. Perhaps if he delayed long enough, Calliande or Morigna would find a way to break the spell. "Wouldn't it have been easier just to kill us and take the soulstone?"

"Immensely," said Coriolus. "But I have not lived this long by failing to take opportunities when they present themselves. Shadowbearer wants the soulstone, true." A cold smile spread over his bearded lips. "But he would not object to having the Magistria in his grasp. And you, Gray Knight, have the enmity of the Dux of Caerdracon. Since the Dux will rise high in the new order, there is no harm in doing him a favor now by capturing you alive."

"But I captured him!" said Jonas. "I..." Coriolus looked at him, and Jonas fell silent.

"So you are one of the Enlightened of Incariel?" said Ridmark.

"Not at all," said Coriolus. "The Enlightened are a relatively modern order, little more than a century old. I am older by far."

Ridmark stared at the old wizard, and something clicked into place.

"You're one of the Eternalists," said Ridmark, "are you not?"

Coriolus smiled. "Clever indeed."

"Is that your original body?" said Ridmark.

"My fourth, in truth," said Coriolus. "I was one of the first of our Order." His smile was almost wistful. "We had grand dreams of overthrowing the Magistri and ruling the realm of Andomhaim ourselves. Alas, the hour was not yet ripe. We were not strong enough. I foresaw that the Magistri and the Swordbearers would destroy us. The others did not, the prideful fools, and the Eternalists were crushed."

"But you fled," said Ridmark, "and have lurked near Moraime ever since."

"Well, not ever since," said Coriolus. "Only for the last few decades. I find it necessary to change bodies every so often." He sighed and rolled his shoulders. "And this one...this one is nearing its end."

"So you're going to claim a kobold's body?" said Ridmark. "Like Talvinius, perhaps?"

Coriolus blinked. "Talvinius? You knew him?"

"Not personally," said Ridmark, "but he died after his spirit possessed the body of a kobold of the Deeps. Perhaps that will be your fate as well."

He expected the Eternalist to take offense, but Coriolus threw back his head and roared with laughter, so loudly that even Jonas looked surprised.

"What is so funny?" said Jonas.

"Talvinius had to possess the body of a kobold?" said Coriolus. "Ah, but that is delightful. He was terrified of snakes, lizards, anything with scales. It was his own fault, I suppose. The idiot did not apply himself diligently to the practice of magic, and never mustered the skill to take another human body for his own. Little wonder he had to settle for a kobold."

"That's what this is about," said Ridmark. "You need a new body."

"Indeed," said Coriolus, "and it's time to proceed. But first, I want to enjoy a little reunion."

He stepped past Ridmark and faced Calliande.

###

Calliande struggled against the magic holding her fast.

But it was futile. The magic of the elaborate warding spell was too strong. If she had been outside the trap, she could have broken it. But inside, it was as if both her limbs and her magic had been sheathed in steel chains. She could not cast a spell. She could not move.

She could not even open her mouth to speak.

Had Coriolus wished it, she knew, he could have commanded her lungs to stop, and she would asphyxiate in short order.

She fought against the spell with all her strength, but it was useless. She heard Ridmark taunting Coriolus, heard the voice of Jonas Vorinus, but it barely registered. She had to break free. She had...

Coriolus stepped before her, standing just beyond the wall of ruby-colored light. Jonas trailed after him, glaring at Ridmark. For a moment Coriolus simply stared at Calliande, his expression distant.

He crooked a finger.

"You can speak, Calliande," he said. "It has been such a long time."

"You...know me, then?" said Calliande, her voice hoarse.

"Not well," he said. "Not as well as some of the other Eternalists. They always looked down upon me, thought I was weaker." He smirked. "But they are all dead and I am not. He who laughs last laughs best, does he not?"

"But you know who I am?" said Calliande.

"I saw you speak," said Coriolus, his eyes distant. "The day you addressed the assembled Magistri and Comites and Duxi in the hall of the High King in Tarlion. Ah, such grand words you spoke! You convinced them. You even convinced me for a time." He tilted his head to the side. "You...do not remember? Any of it?"

Calliande said nothing, hoping to draw him out. Sometimes in her dreams she saw herself speaking to an assembly of old men and women in the white robes of the Magistri, but whenever she tried to grasp the memory, it faded away.

"The Master said that she had lost her memory entirely," said Jonas.

"Indeed," said Coriolus. "And while Shadowbearer is by no means infallible," Jonas scowled at that, "it appears he was entirely correct. She doesn't know who she is. Or what."

"Are you so certain of that?" said Calliande, hoping to shake the Old Man's smug confidence.

"I was certain you were dead," said Coriolus. "You convinced them with your fine speech, that your mad plan would work...after all, your first mad plan had worked. But when your splendid rhetoric wore off...it really was just a foolish plan, wasn't it? To sleep away the centuries? I was sure you were dead. The Tower of Vigilance burned in 1388, and the Vigilant were slain and forgotten. You were forgotten." He shook his head. "Of all the fates that might have awaited Calliande of Tarlion, the thought that you might be utterly and completely forgotten...that never even occurred to me. And that you will die never remembering who you are...ah, but Shadowbearer's cruelty is almost artistic in its profundity."

"And your speech," growled Ridmark, "is certainly tedious in its pomposity."

"True," said Coriolus. "Ever a failing of mine. I do like to talk, and there has been so little opportunity for it in the last century." He grinned and spread his hands. "And now that I have a captive audience, how can I resist?"

"You like to talk, fine," said Calliande. "Then talk. Tell me who I am, if you claim to know." If she kept him talking, perhaps Ridmark would figure out something clever, or Morigna might break free of the spell. She considered asking Coriolus about Dragonfall, but stopped herself. Perhaps he knew of Dragonfall, but did not know of its importance. If she brought it to the forefront of his mind, then he might go there after she died.

Because he was likely to kill them all...and then he would take the soulstone and present it to Shadowbearer.

"I admit it would bring me great pleasure," said Coriolus, "simply to see the look of consternation upon your face. But, alas, I must refrain. I think Shadowbearer will reserve that pleasure to himself, and only a fool would cross him. And I have my own affairs to conduct."

"Such as?" said Calliande.

Coriolus's smile widened. "You met Talvinius?"

"Briefly," said Calliande. "As Ridmark told you, his spirit was trapped in the flesh of a kobold shaman."

"And he tried to possess you, I take it?" said Coriolus.

"He did," said Calliande. "It did not end well for him." The realization came to her. "Your body is old and failing. You need a new one, one with magical ability, and so you lured me here to claim mine, just at Talvinius did."

"You are," said Coriolus, "half-right. I only need one more thing from you."

He gestured, and Calliande's jaw clamped shut. The Old Man stepped into the ruby light, and for a moment Calliande hoped it would trap him. But Coriolus's own spell would not touch him. He plucked the pouch containing the empty soulstone from Calliande's belt.

Then he stepped out of the trap and gazed at Morigna with a predatory smile.

###

Morigna fought against the spell with impotent fury.

She tried to summon magic, but the trap disrupted her power. She tried to move, but the crimson light held her fast.

Once again, her strength had been insufficient.

Coriolus stopped a few paces away from her, weighing the pouch in his right hand.

"Dear little Morigna," he said. "How I have waited for this day."

Morigna realized she could speak.

"And what day is that?" she spat. "A day for betrayal?"

"Betrayal?" said Coriolus. "Hardly. How is this a betrayal?"

"You ought to know," said Jonas, "given that you betrayed Nathan to his death."

Morigna glared at him. "Be silent when your betters are speaking."

Jonas growled and started to draw his sword again, but Coriolus looked at him.

"You really ought to take her advice, Initiated," he said.

Jonas flinched and released his sword.

"That's better," said Coriolus, turning back to Morigna. "And this is not a betrayal. Does a freeholder betray the pig when he leads the beast to the slaughtering block?"

A chill went through Morigna. "What do you mean?"

"Who do you think you are, Morigna daughter of Litavis?" said Coriolus. "My adopted daughter? Perhaps a surrogate niece? My student? No. You are none of these things. You are," he paused for a moment, searching for the word, "my fattened calf. And the hour of the feast has come at last."

Morigna sneered. "So you are going to kill and eat me, then?"

"Not at all," said Coriolus. "Well. Perhaps in a metaphorical sense."

"Say what you mean, old fool, without the needless words," said Morigna.

"Absolutely not," said Coriolus. "I've been looking forward to seeing the expression on your face when you learn the truth for fourteen years...and I am going to savor this. You see, I came to Moraime twenty years ago, seeking a new host. The Old Man already lived in the hills. A failed initiate of the Magistri, living in fear of an order that had forgotten him years ago." He glanced at Ridmark. "The story I told you was mostly true, by the way. It was only about the previous owner of this body. I expelled his feeble spirit from this flesh and claimed it for my own. But the Old Man was already old, and even with my skill at necromancy, I would need another body within a few decades. A young one, a healthy one, a body that would last me for many years. And one with strong magical ability."

"Me," said Morigna, the chill settling into her bones. "That is why you took me in."

"I admit, wearing a woman's body is something of an...indignity, let us say," said Coriolus. "And menstruation is a terrible inconvenience. But I have inhabited a woman's flesh before, and can do so again if I must. And you...you have such magical potential, and you are healthy enough to live for nearly a century. How could I resist?"

"That is why you took me in after my mother and father died," said Morigna. "To raise me as your vessel."

The cruel glint in his eyes brightened. "Quite right. Oh, but you were a trial. Children are detestable vermin, but you were particularly vexing. But so easy to mold, for all that. The rebellious little sorceress, sneering at the Old Man but desiring his approval, forever running from and returning to her teacher. I taught you enough to magic to grow your potential, but never enough to threaten me. You should be honored, really. Your entire life has been shaped to reach this moment, from the first moment I saw your mother carrying you and sensed your potential..."

"My potential?" said Morigna, and she blinked. "Then you...you..."

He laughed. "Do you understand now?"

"You killed my mother and father," she whispered.

His smile widened. "The dvargir are amenable to gold. And when I sent them to murder one wretched, flea-ridden hunter and his slattern wife, they did so gladly. Of course, I killed them all when I came to the rescue, the crazy wizard coming out of the hills to claim his apprentice, the child who would feel gratitude to her rescuer..."

Morigna screamed.

Fury beyond anything she had ever known filled her, and she threw herself against the wards with all her power. For a moment the sheet of crimson light flickered, but the Old Man's magic was too strong. The trap snapped back into place.

Her entire life. Morigna's entire life had been shaped by the Old Man's malice.

He had murdered her mother and father just to claim her.

Morigna felt herself shaking, felt hot tears sliding down her face.

"There we go," murmured Coriolus. "The proud little bitch, broken at last. How I have looked forward to this!"

"You will pay," hissed Morigna. "I swear you will."

"No, I won't," said Coriolus. "The Enlightened of Incariel are prattling fools for the most part," Jonas scowled at him, "but they are right about one thing. Justice is only an illusion. The time for talk is over, dear Morigna. The hour of work has come...and the time to make your flesh suitable to receive my spirit."

He gestured, red fire blazing around his fingers, and darkness swallowed Morigna.

###

Ridmark watched as Morigna floated out of the trap, wrapped in a cocoon of crimson light.

"And now, I suppose," said Ridmark, "you're going to kill the rest of us?"

"What?" said Coriolus. "Oh, no, nothing of the sort. Shadowbearer wants to kill you, and I shall not stand in his way. No, my little spell is going to put you to sleep until he arrives. Then you can deal with him. You will wish I had killed you then." He grinned as Morigna floated to his side, her eyes closed. "Especially Calliande."

"You should kill us now," said Ridmark.

"Oh?" said Coriolus. "Why is that?"

"Because if I get loose," said Ridmark, "I am going to kill you for your crimes."

"Such a terrifying threat," said Coriolus. "What will you do, beat me to death with that stick of yours?"

"He will," said Calliande, her voice ice, "once I break your defensive wards. You are a monster."

"A monster?" said Coriolus, raising his wispy white eyebrows. "I suppose from your perspective, I am. But I am an immortal, and you are not. And the wolf always looks like a monster to the sheep." He lifted his hand, more red light flaring to life. "Sleep well. Do give my regards to Shadowbearer before he rips the tongues from your mouths."

The red light blazed brighter. Blackness closed around Ridmark. He fought against it, but his eyes grew heavier.

The last thing he saw was Coriolus and Jonas striding from the hall, Morigna floating after them.

And then darkness swallowed the world.

***

## Chapter 18 - New Flesh

Morigna floated through her dreams.

She saw her father and mother, saw Litavis and Maria. Her father had been tall and sinewy, able to move through the woods like a ghost. He had taken her along from time to time, teaching her how to track and hunt. Maria looked a great deal like Morigna, with long black hair and black eyes. She cleaned Litavis's kills, teasing him until he joined in the work. He always complained about it, but did so good-naturedly. Every few weeks they went to Moraime to hear the priest and receive the sacrament, to buy supplies from the merchants.

They had been both so young. Maria had been no more than Morigna's age, no more than twenty or twenty-one. They seemed so old in her memories.

But they hadn't been old at all. They had died young.

Died when Coriolus sent his dvargir to cut them down.

She saw his face floating through her mind, that sneering, contemptuous face. She heard his endless lectures over the last fourteen years, his contempt for those weaker than himself, his pride in his strength. She had absorbed it all like a sponge, and he had molded her into a little copy of himself.

But it had all been a lie. He had not been teaching her, but preparing her. Molding her into a vessel to receive his corrupted spirit, like a potter shaping a jar.

Her entire life had been his lie.

She remembered running from her father's cottage, screaming in terror. The dvargir had pursued her, cloaked in shadow. She had been certain she would die.

Then the Old Man had come, killing them with his magic.

The Old Man, who had saved her life.

But that had been another lie. He had murdered her parents. Then he had betrayed and murdered his dvargir servants to gain her trust.

All while plotting to possess her flesh.

Morigna screamed in fury, chasing him through the dream.

###

She awoke with a gasp, breathing hard, sweat pouring down her face.

And right away she realized that many things were very wrong.

Cold, rough stone dug into the skin of her back and shoulders and legs, and Morigna realized that she was naked. Panic filled her and she tried to sit up, but coils of rope encircled her wrists and ankles, holding her spread-eagle upon a slab of stone. She saw the sky overhead, covered in heavy gray clouds. It was not that chilly out, but without her clothing, Morigna felt desperately cold.

She summoned magic, trying to work a spell to break the ropes. Yet a stab of pain went through her head, and she slumped against the stone, unable to concentrate through the sudden agony.

"None of that, now," said a familiar voice.

Morigna turned her head, looking around as she tried to find the speaker.

She lay on an altar of rough black stone. The altar itself sat atop a low mound of earth, encircled by a ring of black standing stones, their sides adorned with scenes of dark elves torturing their foes. Another ring encircled the first, and beyond Morigna saw the hills. She saw the Old Man's cottage across the ravine, sitting perched atop its hill, the marshes stretching away to the south.

Coriolus came into sight, his long gray coat blowing in the breeze.

"I was wondering," he said, "when you would wake up."

"Let me go!" spat Morigna, the fury exploding through her. "Let me go!"

"And why," said Coriolus, "should I do that?"

He stepped closer, and fear crawled through Morigna. She pressed against the altar, trying to get as far away from him as possible. She desperately wanted to cover herself.

"Oh, you need not fear that," said Coriolus. "I will not harm or molest you. It would be most foolish, would it not? I have no intention of damaging a house in which I plan to reside."

"You killed my mother and father," said Morigna. "You lied to me my whole life!"

"Yes, I believe I already mentioned that," said Coriolus. "Kind of you to remember, though." He turned his head. "You two, bring it here."

Something moved, shuffling against the hill, and the stench of carrion came to Morigna's nostrils. A pair of orcish undead came into sight, carrying a wooden table from the Old Man's cottage. Upon the table rested a variety of clay pots, a set of brushes, a few rolled-up scrolls, and a golden chalice that glimmered in the dim light.

"Yes, there," said Coriolus. "That will do." He waved a hand. "Stand guard with the others."

The undead shuffled away.

"Then you raised those undead," said Morigna.

He raised his eyebrows, but did not look up as he rummaged through the table's contents. "Was that not obvious? The skill of the dvargir with necromancy is crude, much like their warding magic. They could not have raised so many corporeal undead at once, and they certainly could not have created any wraiths." He smiled, and Morigna saw the black shadow of a wraith drift past one of the standing stones.

No wonder she felt so cold.

"The standing stones," she said. "Aren't you afraid of the urvaalgs?"

"No," said Coriolus, looking at one of his scrolls. "I had two of them, but they ran across a dvargir raiding party about a year ago. Dvargir steel can harm creatures of dark magic, though not as effectively as a soulblade. The urvaalgs killed six of the dvargir, but the beasts perished in the end. Pity. They might have been useful against the Gray Knight and his ragged little band. Though I hardly needed the help."

"You commanded the urvaalgs?" said Morigna, a fresh chill sinking into her.

"Of course," said Coriolus, still reading his scroll. "The spells to command them are complex for human wizards, but well within my capability."

"Then you killed him," whispered Morigna. "You killed Nathan."

Coriolus said nothing, did not even look up from his scroll.

But she saw that damned smirk on his face.

"You killed him!" roared Morigna, jerking against the ropes. "My mother! My father! You killed everyone I ever loved. Why?"

"Don't be melodramatic," said Coriolus. "It was necessary to kill Nathan. If he had gotten you with child, that would have made possessing you considerably more complicated. It is much easier to possess a woman who has never carried a child." He shook his head. "I learned that the hard way."

"You killed them," snarled Morigna. Blood dripped down her arms from the rope burns, but she was past caring. "You killed them, you..."

"That," said Coriolus, "is quite enough." He scowled. "You are injuring yourself. Or, more precisely, you are injuring the body that will soon be mine."

He walked around the table and gestured, ruby light flashing from his hand. Invisible force wrapped around Morigna, locking her in place. Coriolus cast another spell, and this time white light flared around his fingers. He healed the cuts and bruises upon her arms and wrists, grimacing as he did.

"There," said Coriolus. "I wish no more wear and tear upon you than necessary."

"How generous," spat Morigna.

"One must look after oneself," said Coriolus. He returned to his table, opened one of the pots, and dipped a brush into it.

Then he moved closer and began painting sigils upon the skin of her left leg. She tried to jerk away, but the ropes held her fast. Inch by inch he worked, painting arcane sigils upon her shin and calf, and then working his way along her thigh.

"What are you doing?" said Morigna.

"Preparing the spell," said Coriolus, still painting. "Transferring my spirit into your flesh is hardly as simple as pouring wine from one cup into another. A tremendous amount of magical force is required. The sigils I am painting upon you," he moved from her left leg and onto her belly, his voice slipping into its familiar lecturing tone, "will serve to augment and focus the powers I shall summon." He waved his free hand at the standing stones around them. "Hence the necessity of performing the spell here, on a night when the thirteen moons are in the proper configuration. The dark elves built these stone circles to empower their spells. Now they shall empower mine."

"How very brilliant," sneered Morigna.

Yet it was brilliant, even if he had turned his intellect to a twisted end. She had considered herself strong in magic, yet she could only follow about half of the glyphs he painted onto her skin, and she could barely grasp the entirety of the spell. And he had orchestrated her entire life to his end, his persona of the "Old Man" never wavering for even an instant.

At least she knew the truth now. If Ridmark had not come, if Shadowbearer had not commanded Coriolus to claim the empty soulstone, then Coriolus would simply have taken Morigna whenever he felt ready. She could well have perished without ever knowing the truth.

The truth that blazed inside her like an inferno.

He had killed her parents. He had killed the only man she had loved. She wanted to kill him more than she had ever wanted anything.

But she could do nothing more than lie motionless and watch as he prepared her like a butcher leading a sheep to the slaughterhouse.

In the end, she simply had not been strong enough.

"Not to worry," said Coriolus, straightening up and rubbing his back with a grunt, "perhaps after I claim your flesh, your spirit will ascend to join the Dominus Christus in paradise, and your wretched parents and your imbecilic lover will await to welcome you" He leaned closer and grinned. "But we know better, don't we?"

Morigna spat in his face.

Coriolus laughed and turned away.

"Coriolus."

Morigna turned her head and saw Jonas Vorinus climb to the top of the mound, still clad in his chain mail and cloak.

"The guards are around the hill," said Jonas, "though I don't see why you are so cautious. The Gray Knight and his followers are imprisoned, and the fools of the town have no idea of what is about to happen."

"Nevertheless," said Coriolus, "I have not lived for over two centuries by taking foolish risks."

"Perhaps," said Jonas, and his eyes fell over Morigna.

A leering grin spread over his face.

She forced herself to meet his eyes without blinking, without flinching. Even like this, she refused to show weakness in front of a man like Jonas Vorinus.

"I cannot believe," said Jonas, "that my brother fell in love with a woman like you. You're too stringy. No curves to you at all. But Nathan never had any taste." He laughed. "In the end, the dread witch of the hills is nothing more than a frightened girl."

"If I'm too stringy," said Morigna, "then why are you still staring?"

A hint of color went into Jonas's face, and he scowled and looked away.

"Coriolus killed Nathan," said Morigna. "Not me. He set the urvaalg upon Nathan. If you're so keen to avenge his death, then take that sword and ram it between the Old Man's ribs."

"His death was your fault," said Jonas. "You were Coriolus's property, and you should have stayed away from Nathan."

Morigna started to spit an answer back at him, but Jonas turned to the Old Man.

"You should contact the Master," said Jonas.

"I shall notify Shadowbearer in my own good time," said Coriolus. "Best not to communicate until my victory is certain."

"Your victory is certain," said Jonas. "The Gray Knight and the Magistria are imprisoned and cannot escape. The witch of the hills," he smirked at her, "cannot escape." He pointed at the leather pouch hanging from the Old Man's belt. "And if you keep that soulstone for too long without telling the Master, he might think you were planning to keep it for yourself. I imagine his displeasure would be considerable."

"You make a good point," said Coriolus. "Very well."

He turned away, his back toward Morigna, and cast a spell. Darkness shivered and danced around him, and his shadow, longer and blacker than such dim light could cast, billowed out behind him.

And the shadow was pointing toward the light, not away from it.

"Master," said Coriolus, speaking to his shadow. "I have news."

The shadow rotated around him, slowly. Coriolus kept his face calm, but there was a hint of tension near his eyes.

He feared the thing that now circled him.

The shadow began to speak.

"Do you, now?" it said. Jonas dropped to his knees at once. The voice was deep and resonant and musical, far deeper than any human voice, deeper than even the rasping voices of the dvargir. Yet for all its beauty, there was a strange, eerie resonance to the voice.

As if two voices were speaking through the same mouth at once.

"I am pleased to report," said Coriolus, his eyes moving to follow his shadow, "that I have succeeded in the task you have given me, Master. I have obtained the empty soulstone."

"Indeed?" said the strange voice. It made Morigna's skin crawl, and something about it frightened her more than everything that had happened to her.

The voice of Shadowbearer.

No wonder Calliande feared him so much.

"I have it with me now," said Coriolus, touching his belt.

"Well done," said Shadowbearer. "Competence, alas, seems to be a rare quality in the modern age. And what of the Gray Knight and the Magistria? You have slain them as I bid?"

"Even better, Master," said Coriolus. "I hold them imprisoned."

A cold note entered the strange voice. "I told you to kill them."

"They are thoroughly bound," said Coriolus. He remained calm, but a line of sweat trickled down his temple and into his beard. "I sealed them within a trap constructed of dvargir wards and dark magic within the entry hall of Thainkul Dural. Nothing can shatter the trap from within, and only the most powerful magic can break it from without. They will sleep until you come to wake them. I would not presume to take the pleasure of killing them."

For a moment the shadow said nothing, and Morigna felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps Coriolus had overstepped himself, and Shadowbearer would kill both him and Jonas. Maybe she could yet escape...

"Well," said Shadowbearer at last. "Ambition and competence rarely go hand in hand. Isn't that right, Jonas Vorinus?"

"Master," said Jonas. Unlike Coriolus, he simply looked terrified. "I will do as you bid."

"But you have done well, Coriolus," said Shadowbearer. "The Gray Knight and the Magistria are far more dangerous than you know."

"Forgive me, Master," said Coriolus, "but like you, I knew Calliande in the days before the defeat of the Frostborn. I knew just how dangerous she was, and I did not take her threat lightly."

"It appears not," said Shadowbearer. "You have pleased me, Coriolus. Soon I shall join you, and you will present the empty soulstone to me. And if you have indeed imprisoned Ridmark Arban and Calliande as you said, I shall reward you most richly."

"And if I have not," said Coriolus, "my life is forfeit?"

"I am pleased that we understand each other."

"He could not have done it without my help, Master!" said Jonas. "I lured Ridmark Arban into his path, I..."

"I am sure you were most effective," said Shadowbearer, a mocking note in that twofold voice. "Tell me. Of the six brothers of the Red Family who accompanied you to Moraime, how many yet live?"

A muscle worked in Jonas's jaw. "One. Maybe. I am...uncertain what became of Rotherius. He might have survived."

"Indeed?" said Shadowbearer. "I care only for results. But the Red Family might grow a touch irritated with you, Jonas. The Dux paid a great deal of gold to those assassins. I imagine both the Matriarch of the Family and the Dux will be quite annoyed with you. But fear not. I am sure they are most forgiving of weakness."

Jonas said nothing, the muscle still twitching.

"I shall do as you say, Master," said Coriolus.

"Your new host," said Shadowbearer, and Morigna's skin crawled. She felt an unseen presence focusing upon her. A malignant will and power, regarding her with eyes wrought from something other than flesh. "I see you have not claimed her yet."

"No, Master," said Coriolus. "It seem only proper to inform you of my victory before claiming the spoils."

"Indeed," said Shadowbearer. "Let us take a closer look, shall we?"

Coriolus's shadow rotated and fell over Morigna.

She screamed. She had loathed the touch of Coriolus's fingers upon her bare skin as he painted the sigils upon her legs and stomach. But the shadow felt worse, far worse, as if some vast creature of nightmare was staring at her through a keyhole, a creature that would snuff her out like a candle if it could just open the door.

Coriolus was strong, but he was nothing next to Shadowbearer's power.

Part of her mind marveled at the power, and wondered what she could do if she wielded it herself, and for a moment she heard the shadow whispering in her ears...

"So you are the next vessel?" said Shadowbearer. "It is almost a pity you are about to claim her, Coriolus. If you could but see the shadows her past throw upon her future...ah, indeed."

"With all respect, Master," said Coriolus, "I am afraid I must insist upon claiming her as my vessel." Jonas gaped at him. "If she has some quality you require, I will of course seek out another individual possessing that quality after I have claimed her."

"Have no fear, Coriolus," said the double voice, the strange shadow sliding off Morigna's skin. She closed her eyes and shuddered in relief, grateful that the terrible thing was no longer touching her. "I have no wish to claim your prize. Clothe yourself in new flesh, and await my coming."

"It shall be as you say, Master," said Coriolus.

His shadow rippled and stretched, and then shrank back to normal.

"I cannot believe that you dared to be so impudent to the Master," said Jonas, getting to his feet once more.

"That is because you are young and weak," said Coriolus, raising his white eyebrows. "If you manage to survive long enough, you will come to understand that Shadowbearer cares only for success. Anything that furthers his goal of reshaping the world is worthy. Anything that hinders it...is to be removed."

Jonas scowled, but nodded.

"Maintain watch," said Coriolus. "I do not anticipate interference, but the amount of magical power I am about to summon may draw unwelcome attention. The corporeal undead and the wraiths should be more than capable of dealing with any intruders, along with my newest creation."

"It is a...formidable creature," said Jonas. "And after? Once you take your new body? What then?"

"We shall await Shadowbearer," said Coriolus. "The Frostborn are soon returning, and the shape of the world will change. The Enlightened of Incariel shall rise high...along with those who have proven themselves to Shadowbearer. Perhaps even you, Jonas Vorinus, if you learn from your mistakes. Now do as I have commanded."

Jonas hesitated, nodded, and then departed.

"How very gracious of you," said Morigna. "I thought you would kill him."

Coriolus shrugged. "Even the wisest man was once a young fool. And he may be useful to me in the future. Though if he annoys me too much I will simply kill him." He picked up his pot and brush. "Meanwhile, I have work before me. Ah, but my knees ache. It will be good to be young again."

He began painting a fresh row of sigils upon her stomach and arms. Morigna did not even bother to struggle. She knew it was over. He would expel her spirit from her flesh, and then take her body like a man donning a new suit of clothes.

What would happen to her then? Perhaps her spirit would dissipate into oblivion. Or perhaps Caius and Calliande were right in their faith, and her spirit would join her parents and Nathan and the Dominus Christus in paradise.

She rather doubted that. And even if it was true, she had hardly led a just life.

Morigna closed her eyes and waited for the end.

***

## Chapter 19 - Riddles

Calliande drifted in her sleep, and her sleep she dreamed.

And as ever, the dreams frustrated her.

She saw things, but could never recall them.

A white city sitting by the sea, its walls and towers tall and strong and proud, the red dragon banner of the Pendragons flying from the ramparts. A great domed chamber of white and gold, a well of light at its heart. An old woman, kindly and wise, a staff of twisted oak in her right hand. A man, short and ugly and scarred, but a warrior with the courage and might of a dozen lions, and a voice like a trumpet that rallied armies to his shout.

He reminded her of Ridmark. Or did Ridmark remind her of him?

Sometimes those images brought joy and grief to her mind, though she knew not why.

But she saw darker things at well, and those images brought neither joy nor grief.

Only dread.

Giants clad in armor the color of gray ice, their skin like crystal, their eyes glowing with blue flame. Legions of twisted creatures marching before them, worshipping the icy giants as their gods. Cities burning to ash as snow fell upon them, and men and women and children freezing, collapsing as their blood turned to ice.

She would stop it, she vowed. She would make sure it never happened again, no matter what she had to do, no matter the cost to herself...

And then she saw the shadow.

It followed her thought the mists of the past, long and black and strong. It had hunted her across the centuries. It would never stop hunting.

"Calliande," hissed the shadow, and she recognized that eerie double voice.

Shadowbearer.

"You are mine," said Shadowbearer. "He said he had trapped you, but I believed him not. Yet here you are at last."

Terror filled Calliande, and for a moment she quailed, remembering when the Mhalekite orcs had held her naked and helpless before him. But her courage rallied. She was done running. She would help Ridmark stop the Frostborn from returning, and then she would defeat Shadowbearer once and for all.

"You cannot," he said. "Once, that was within your power. But you maimed yourself. You made yourself weaker. And now you cannot stand against me."

The fury filled Calliande.

"Come and face me, Incariel!" said Calliande. "I stopped you once before, and by God and the Dominus Christus, I shall stop you again!"

"No," said Shadowbearer. "You shall not."

The dream shivered and shattered into a thousand fragments.

When they reassembled, Calliande found herself standing alone upon a plain of featureless gray mist. It stretched endlessly in all directions, rippling and undulating.

No. Not alone.

She turned and looked upon the Watcher.

The spirit gazed back at her, his heavy eyes sad beneath gray eyebrows. He wore the white robe of the Magistri, tied about the waist with a black sash. He had left a message for her in the vault below the Tower of Vigilance, and had spoken in her dreams after her magic returned. He had warned her of the dangers of Urd Arowyn, of facing Agrimnalazur in battle.

"Watcher," said Calliande.

The old man sighed. "You do have a knack for getting into trouble."

"Apparently I have not changed from my previous life," said Calliande, "when you knew me yet."

"About that," said the Watcher, "I cannot say."

The Watcher could tell her of the present, and speak of generalities from the past. But he was forbidden from speaking about her past, specifically.

Apparently Calliande herself had forbidden him before she had gone into her long sleep, though she could not remember it.

"It was a perfect trap for you," said the Watcher. "You could never turn aside from those in need. It seems that your Gray Knight cannot either. The undead to lure you in. The terrified townsmen asking for your protection."

"And there was Coriolus, waiting for us," said Calliande.

The Watcher nodded, his gray beard rusting against his shoulders. "I fear so."

"I knew him," said Calliande. "From before. Did I not?"

The Watcher said nothing, which was as good as an actual answer.

"Tell me about him," said Calliande.

"You know I am forbidden to speak of your past," said the Watcher.

"But the Eternalists arose after I went into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance," said Calliande. "Therefore I know nothing of them, and you are free to speak."

The Watcher bowed. "Fortunately, Calliande, your recklessness is matched only by your cleverness. Little wonder you are so taken with the Gray Knight. You have finally found someone whose recklessness is a match for your own."

"Tell me of the Eternalists," said Calliande. This was not the time to consider the twinge she felt whenever she thought of Ridmark.

"They are fools," said the Watcher. "All men will one day die and face the judgment of their creator. The Eternalists denied this truth, and sought to use magic to change the nature of man, to make themselves immortal and eternal. Magic can extend life, true. So can sober living and regular exercise. But no magic can conquer death. The Eternalists sought to do this, and instead of immortality, they created horrors."

"They tried to extend their lives, didn't they?" said Calliande.

"They did so at first, successfully and in secret," said the Watcher. "But no corporeal body lasts forever. In time, their mortal flesh started to fail...and so they had to claim the bodies of others."

"As Talvinius did to that kobold, and tried to do to me," said Calliande.

"Aye," said the Watcher. "Some were more skilled than others. Talvinius, as you saw, could not manage to possess another human body, and had to claim a kobold. Others were more powerful. They grew reckless and desperate, fearing that death would claim them, and their experiments became bolder. Finally they drew notice, and the High King and the Magistri and the Swordbearers joined forces to expel the cancer from Andomhaim. The Eternalists were mostly killed, and those that survived fled into the Deeps or the Wilderland. It was a proud moment for the realm, when it was still strong to defend itself from foes within the walls." The spirit slumped, as if weary. "But then the Enlightened of Incariel took root. The old High King died and the war of the five Pendragon princes began. And the Tower of Vigilance burned and I perished within it."

"You're telling me about my past now," said Calliande.

"Not your past," said the Watcher. "My past. You were asleep for that part."

"I'm sorry," said Calliande. "All that you say, the civil war and the Enlightened and the Eternalists...were they the work of Shadowbearer?"

"Yes," said the Watcher. "Forgive me, Calliande, but you should not have gone into the long sleep. Shadowbearer has labored unceasingly for centuries while you slept. If you had not entered into the sleep like..."

"What?" said Calliande. "What would have done?"

"Forgive me," said the Watcher, "but I cannot tell you. You..."

"Have forbidden it with my own words, yes, I know," said Calliande. She thought for a moment. "The spell to claim the body of another. How does it work?"

"I do not know for certain, and am glad of that," said the Watcher. "Nevertheless, I understand some of the general principles. It requires a tremendous quantity of magical power, more than most wizards can summon unaided. Additionally, it is extremely difficult to sever the bonds between the soul and the flesh without killing the new body. I suspect that is why Talvinius was able to possess a kobold, but not a human. Kobold souls have a different...geometry, for lack of a better word, than human souls. Likely Talvinius could master one kind of geometry and not another. Like a student able to learn one arithmetical equation but not two."

"And that is why Coriolus killed Morigna's parents and raised her," said Calliande. "To...prepare her for a transference. To make solving the equation easier."

"I fear so," said the Watcher. "His crimes against the dark child are immense. He taught her magic, not to benefit her or to protect her, but to augment her magical ability so it would be easier to possess her. The dark child possesses strong magic, but insufficient skill to defend herself from Coriolus's attack. You, too, would make a suitable host for the Eternalist, which is why Talvinius tried to possess you. But you have recovered the full powers of a Magistria, and you know how to use them. If Coriolus tried to possess you, he would be repulsed and likely killed."

"You call her the dark child," said Calliande. "Why?"

"Because she is dangerous, and you should not trust her," said the Watcher. "She has much magic but little conscience. The only thing that has kept her from abusing her power has been a lack of opportunity. She would turn on you in a moment, I am sure, to increase her own magic."

Calliande frowned. "She is what she is because of Coriolus's blight upon her life. And she has seen him for the liar that he is."

"A rabid wolf did not choose its affliction," said the Watcher, "but is dangerous nonetheless."

"Enough," said Calliande. "I do not like her, I admit that. But she does not deserve this. She did not deserve to have her parents murdered, and did not deserve to be turned into an empty vessel for a scoundrel like Coriolus. If it is within my power, I will save her."

The Watcher shook his head. "I suspected you would say that. Ah, Calliande." He smiled. "Your heart blazes like a torch, like a brand in the darkness. Fearlessly you risk yourself, even for those who do not deserve it."

"Fearlessly?" said Calliande. "Perhaps you do not know me that well. I am terrified."

He smiled. "But you do not flee."

"Not that it matters," said Calliande. "I have no way to help Morigna. I cannot even break free of Coriolus's damned trap."

The Watcher gazed into the mists for a moment.

"Do not," he said, "be so sure of that."

"You can help me?" said Calliande. "You have magic that can break the trap? Or you can show me how to do it?"

"Neither, I fear," said the Watcher. "But I can tell you this. The Eternalist will have to go to a place of power to work his spell, someplace to magnify and focus the dark magic he will summon..."

"The standing circle," said Calliande at once. "Where Sir Nathan Vorinus died."

"There," said the Watcher, "you will find Morigna and the Eternalist. But you must reach them before midnight. The thirteen moons will soon reach the exact configuration he requires, and he will claim her flesh for his own."

"Then I know where to go," said Calliande, "but not how to get there."

"I do not think," said the Watcher, "that will pose a problem."

"Why not?" said Calliande, but before the spirit could answer, the dream vanished in a blaze of golden fire.

###

Dark visions floated before Ridmark's eyes.

He saw himself facing Gothalinzur, the ancient urdmordar gathering villagers to serve as her larder before the Frostborn returned. Ten years before Agrimnalazur and Aranaeus, and he had known. The Frostborn had been destroyed centuries ago, defeated by the Dragon Knight and the last Keeper of Avalon. Yet somehow they would return.

He did not know how. He did not know when. He only knew it would be soon.

His mind drifted through memories. Meeting Aelia for the first time in the great hall of Castra Marcaine. The first time he had fought Tarrabus Carhaine at arms practice, the arrogant young heir to Caerdracon just as strong and skilled as Ridmark. The wedding in the great hall of Castra Marcaine, when Ridmark had taken Aelia's hands and pledged to honor and love and defend her until the end of his days.

He had.

At least until the end of her days.

The darker memories came then. The Mhalekite horde coming down from the Wilderland. The treachery at the foot of the Black Mountain, and the shattered armies rallying under Ridmark's command. The great victory at Dun Licinia, and Ridmark's pursuit of Mhalek himself to Castra Marcaine.

Aelia's screaming, her blood pooling across the black and white tiles of the great hall.

No, Ridmark did not want to remember that...but he saw it every time he closed his eyes.

Then he saw again his long journey to Urd Morlemoch, the quest he had undertaken for the high elven archmage Ardrhythain in hopes of gaining enough renown to win Aelia's hand. Suddenly Urd Morlemoch itself floated before his eyes, a vast, half-ruined fortress of white stone, its angles and lines pleasing to dark elven sensibilities but alien and strange to humans. Three ribbons of blue flame writhed around its massive central tower and lashed at the black sky, dancing across the darkness.

For it was always night near Urd Morlemoch.

The image blurred, and Ridmark saw the highest tower rising from the heart of the ruins, and atop that tower stood the Warden.

The Warden was tall and gaunt, clad in a long blue coat with black trim upon the sleeves over black trousers and a tunic. His head was hairless and bone white, elven ears rising alongside his long, lean face, a diadem of blue steel encircling his brow. His eyes were utterly black and empty, colder and darker than the eyes of the dvargir, darker than the shadows that had swirled around Jonas Vorinus. Rings of blue dark elven steel glittered upon his long, bony fingers.

The Warden stood in a ring of standing stones atop the massive tower, gazing into an archway of rough stone. Images flickered and danced within the arch, showing the past and the present and the future.

"Disappointing," said the Warden, his voice deeper and more melodious than any human. He turned to regard Ridmark, his long blue coat rippling in the cold wind rising from the sea. "I thought you would be the one, Ridmark of the Arbanii. Instead you shall die in the darkness alongside your friends."

"Tell me," said Ridmark. "You said the Frostborn were returning, that the omen of blue fire was a herald of their return. Tell me how."

The Warden laughed his wild, thunderous, mad laugh. "How should I know? This is only a dream, a mosaic of images dredged up from your memory. You are talking to yourself." He walked to the altar at the center of the stone circle. A massive blue soulstone sat there, glowing and pulsing in time to the ribbons of azure flame dancing across the sky, a ring of lesser soulstones surrounding it.

"A very specific dream, then," said Ridmark.

The Warden waved a dismissive hand, the rings of blue steel glinting upon his thin fingers. "Or the spell of that petty rodent of a necromancer disconnected your mind from your flesh, and since I was watching you anyway, we are having this conversation. Or you are simply dreaming. It is no concern of mine."

"The Frostborn are returning," said Ridmark.

"So determined," mused the Warden. "Tell me. Do you think such dedication will bring back your dead wife? Or honor her memory? After all, even if you defeat the Frostborn and save the rotten shell of Andomhaim, she will still be dead and you will still blame yourself."

"I asked," said Ridmark, "about the Frostborn."

"Such zeal," said the Warden. "But I suppose I cannot blame you. Given that I planted the seed in your head."

"Enough word games," said Ridmark. "Tell me how they will return."

"No," said the Warden. "This is just a dream. If you want the truth, you shall have to confront me once more." He looked at the black sky and the writhing ribbons of flame. "Meanwhile, you are about to wake up."

"Tell me..." started Ridmark, and then golden light consumed the world.

###

Ridmark's eyes shot open, the strange dream dissolving into nothingness.

He still stood within the entry hall of Thainkul Dural, curtains of ruby light blazing from the glyphs of Coriolus's trap. Yet the ruby light sputtered and flickered, and a few heartbeats later it winked out entirely with a crackle and a puff of smoke.

And he could move again.

Ridmark took a deep breath and turned, his staff coming up as he prepared to attack Coriolus and Jonas.

But they were gone, as was Morigna.

Belatedly Ridmark realized he did not know how long he had been unconscious.

He turned and saw the others. Calliande shook her head, blinking. Caius took a deep breath and looked around, while Gavin had his shield raised and his sword out as he looked for foes. Kharlacht held his greatsword ready, though he looked groggy.

"What happened?" said Kharlacht, blinking.

"Perhaps Shadowbearer has come to take us," said Gavin.

"No," said Ridmark. "He wouldn't have released us from the spell." He looked at Calliande. "You must have figured out how to break it."

"No," murmured Calliande, rubbing her face. "No, I did nothing."

"Perhaps the trap was flawed, then," said Caius.

"It was not," said a tremendously deep voice, so deep that the floor vibrated beneath Ridmark's boots. "This one broke the corrupted magic upon the sigils, man of water."

Ridmark turned his head as the trolldomr Rjalfur rose from the stone floor like a man surfacing in a lake. The massive gray figure looked down at them, the golden fires in his eyes shining.

Golden fire, Ridmark thought, like the golden light that had dissolved the strange dream.

"You broke the entrapment spell," said Ridmark. "Thank you."

It was hard to read expressions on the alien, rocky face of the trolldomr, but Rjalfur seemed amused. "Of then ten lepers, man of water, you wish to be the one to give thanks?"

Ridmark shrugged. "What is the point of a lesson if you do not follow it?"

"This is so," said Rjalfur.

"While we are grateful for your aid," said Ridmark, "I am curious. Did you not say that your kindred refuse to interfere in the affairs of others, save for self-defense?"

"This one did say that," said Rjalfur. "And it is so. But this one remains curious about your kindred, about why the orc and the dwarf carry the sign of the cross. So this one followed you, man of water, and watched as you were deceived. If the bearer of the great shadow kills you, then this one will never understand the mystery. So this one shattered the spell of the corrupted one and set you free."

"Thank you," said Caius. "I am pleased we have piqued your curiosity."

"I would not want to fall into the hands of Shadowbearer once more," said Calliande.

A deep rumbling filled the hall, so loud that Ridmark feared the ceiling was about to collapse.

But Rjalfur was growling.

"The trolldomr prefer to keep to themselves," said Rjalfur. "But the bearer of the great shadow is the enemy of all. The trolldomr listen to the song of the earth, the groan of the mountains and the pulse of her molten heart. The bearer of the great shadow would end the song before its appointed hour, and bring darkness and silence and death everlasting. That is another mystery this one does not understand, the riddle of the corrupted one."

"The corrupted one?" said Ridmark. "You mean Coriolus?"

"This one did not understand him," said Rjalfur. "The Old Man dwelled in the hills for many years, and then he changed. But now this one understands. The spirit of the corrupted one entered him. But why?"

"He fears death," said Ridmark, "and so will do anything to prolong his life."

"But why?" said Rjalfur again, and for an absurd moment Ridmark felt like he was talking to a giant stone child, a child that repeated the same question over and over again. "It is the nature of mortal men to die, man of water. To deny this is simply absurd. As well say that the sun does not exist, or that the world does not have thirteen moons circling overhead."

"We men of water," said Ridmark, "are quite good at deceiving ourselves."

"And why does he choose to serve the bearer of the great shadow?" said Rjalfur. That seemed to agitate the trolldomr more than anything else. "The great shadow is the enemy of all things. Why would he serve it? As well might a sheep choose to serve a wolf."

"Perhaps he thinks," said Gavin, gazing up at the trolldomr, "that the wolf will eat him last. My father...I fear my father thought that way for many years."

"It is folly," said Rjalfur, "and this one does not understand. Nor does this one understand why you follow the Dominus Christus. Yet that inspires you to boldness and bravery."

"Like the missionary you saw die," said Ridmark.

"You understand, man of water," said Rjalfur. "This one does not understand why you follow the Dominus Christus or why the corrupted one follows the great shadow...but his devotion inspires only treachery and death."

"Because he serves himself, perhaps?" said Calliande. "He wants to live forever. Most likely he sees his service to Shadowbearer only as a means to an end."

"But he will not live forever," said Rjalfur. "He may extend his life for many centuries, but all things mortal one day end. Surely he must know this. Man of water, can your kindred deceive themselves so thoroughly?"

"We can, alas," said Ridmark.

"And the mystery of evil is a great mystery indeed," said Caius. "All mortals have evil in their hearts, yet we must resist it. The great saints and the great tyrants are made from the same material."

"A mystery indeed," said Rjalfur. "This one will watch you further, and perhaps gain wisdom. What course of action will you take now, man of water?"

"I shall go after Morigna and Coriolus," said Ridmark, "and stop Coriolus, if I can."

"And we must retrieve the empty soulstone," said Calliande. "It cannot fall into the hands of Shadowbearer, for if it does, he will use it to work tremendous evil."

"The one you call Morigna is a child of dark magic," said Rjalfur, "and while saints and tyrants may both be made of common men, this one suspects she has more of the tyrant within her."

"Nevertheless," said Ridmark. "She is what she is because Coriolus made her that way. I will not let Coriolus destroy her, not while it is in my power to stop him. And Jonas Vorinus is a traitor to his family and his neighbors. They must be warned against him."

"The corrupted one is far stronger than you, man of water," said Rjalfur. "You may not be able to defeat him."

"He might kill me," said Ridmark, "but perhaps I will take him off guard and kill him. But I will not abandon Morigna to him."

"Then you believe," said Rjalfur, "that your strength gives you a duty?"

"It does," said Ridmark.

"This one understands," said Rjalfur, "and your words have given this one much to consider."

"Before you go," said Ridmark, "how long were we imprisoned?"

"Not long," said Rjalfur. "Perhaps five of your hours. Go, man of water, and face the task to which you have set yourself. Perhaps your God will indeed watch over you."

He turned, sank back into the floor, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Silence fell over the hall.

"Well," said Gavin at last. "It's a good thing that he likes us."

"Truly," said Calliande. "If he had not freed us, we would have been helpless before Shadowbearer."

"Then let us depart before Shadowbearer arrives," said Ridmark. He thought for a moment. "Coriolus will likely have taken Morigna back to his cottage to prepare his spell. If not, perhaps we can follow his trail to..."

"That will not be necessary," said Calliande. "I know where he is going." Ridmark looked at her. "He will have to perform the spell at the standing stones north of his cottage."

"As Vlazur tried to do with you," said Kharlacht.

"Aye," said Calliande. "He'll need the standing stones to focus and summon the amount of power he needs to work the spell. I am certain he is there."

"And I am certain," said Ridmark, "that he will have guards. More undead, and Jonas and his tricks with shadows."

Kharlacht grunted. "Walking corpses and a mad wizard. It cannot be any worse than walking into a dark elven ruin ruled by an urdmordar and her spiderlings."

"We had best hurry," said Calliande. "Coriolus will likely start the spell when the moons reach a specific position in the sky."

Ridmark nodded, turned toward the doors, and stopped.

"What is it?" said Kharlacht.

He heard the clatter of boots upon the stairs leading back to the barracks. But how? The flood trap had sealed off the gallery, and nothing could get past it, unless...

"Caius," said Ridmark. "How long did you say it would take to drain the flood trap?"

"I don't know," said Caius. "But depending on the design...five hours might have been enough."

"Then defend yourselves," said Ridmark, gripping his staff. "Kzargar and his warriors are coming for us."

And this time, they did not have Morigna to detect the invisible warriors.

***

## Chapter 20 - Breach

Calliande braced herself, summoning magic to dispel the shadow-granted invisibility around the dvargir. Without Morigna's ability to detect them, Calliande would not know where to direct the dispelling magic. She would have to guess, would have to cover as large of an area as possible...

But her worries were unnecessary.

Kzargar of the Great House Tklathar of the city of Khaldurmar walked into the hall, followed by seven of his warriors. The Dzark carried a fearsome-looking war helm under his right arm, wrought in the shape of a snarling, fanged skull. His warriors had already donned their helms, and looked like short, solid statues of black steel.

Ridmark stepped forward, and Kzargar stopped a dozen paces away. Calliande's mind worked, wondering what spell to cast. She could ward her friends against attacks, but dvargir steel was more resistant to magic than normal weapons. Perhaps she could make her companions stronger and faster instead. But the dvargir were skilled and strong, and used to fighting in a group. They had almost lost to Jonas and the Red Brothers below Coriolus's cottage, and only Ridmark's cunning had snatched a victory from certain death.

Did he have another trick up his sleeve?"

"Dzark," said Ridmark at last.

"Gray Knight," said Kzargar in orcish. "You killed my mzrokar."

"I did nothing of the sort," said Ridmark. "I walked into the flood trap, and your pet followed me in. It is hardly my fault the beast triggered the trap."

Harsh laughter came from a few of the dvargir warriors, and even Kzargar smiled. Briefly.

"True," said Kzargar. "And the beast was an expensive nuisance to maintain. Useful in fighting in the tunnels of the Deeps, though." His smile returned. "And it was most enjoyable to watch you flee in terror from my mzrokar."

"I'm sure," said Ridmark.

Kzargar craned his neck. "I see no trace of Coriolus. Am I to assume that you actually managed to slay the disciple of the prophet?"

"Maybe," said Ridmark. "How much did you know of his plan?"

"All of it," said Kzargar. "We have come at his bidding before, for the prophet commanded it of us. Yet the disciple is an odious, cringing fool, arrogant and brash. We dvargir are the strongest, the worthiest, yet the disciple had the temerity to treat us as lackeys."

Ridmark took another step closer, and Calliande saw that familiar glint in his cold blue eyes.

He had an idea. She hoped it was a good one.

"I take it," said Ridmark, "that you did not approve of his plan?"

"And why should I tell you?" said Kzargar.

"Because," said Ridmark, "you want to know what happened here. Perhaps we can trade information before we kill each other. A man should not die curious."

"True," said Kzargar. "Very well. I thought that the disciple's plan was idiocy. The prophet of the void wanted the empty soulstone and the rest of you dead, and the disciple wanted his foolish apprentice so he could transfer his spirit into her flesh. So the disciple concocted this ridiculous scheme with undead and false trails and a trap upon the floor. Better simply to enter Moraime unseen at night, murder you in your sleep, and take the soulstone. Then the prophet could receive the soulstone, and the disciple could take his new body at leisure."

"That...would have worked," said Kharlacht.

Kzargar made an impatient gesture. "Obviously. I told him, but the proud fool would not listen. He was too ambitious. He thought to trap you alive and present both you and the soulstone to Shadowbearer. So he hired us, and raised the undead to lure you in here. We were to let you pass. Once you entered Thainkul Dural, the disciple would come and activate the trap. Then we would drive you back to the entry hall, and you would blunder into his spell."

"I see," said Ridmark.

"Now," said Kzargar. "What happened here? Where is Coriolus?"

"He left," said Ridmark. "We blundered into his trap, as you said. Coriolus gloated for a few moments, then took Morigna and left."

"He left?" said Kzargar, and for just a moment his voice rose. Then he mastered himself once more. "How did you get out of the spell?"

"I'm afraid," said Ridmark, "that information will cost you a bit more."

"He left," said one of the dvargir warriors to the Dzark. "He left without paying us a single copper coin!"

"Did he leave payment?" said Kzargar.

Calliande could not believe that the Dzark had actually just asked Ridmark that. But it matched what she knew of the dvargir. They were merciless and ruthless, worshipping strength as fervently as did any other servants of the great void. Yet they admired order, and enforced laws with just the same fanaticism as their dwarven cousins.

If Coriolus had indeed promised to pay the dvargir, and he had broken his word, they could use that to their advantage.

Suddenly Ridmark's plan began to come clear. What was the proverb he had quoted? Safer to deprive a lioness of her cub than to cheat a dvargir?

"He seemed relieved, if anything," said Ridmark. "He said the flood trap meant he would not have to deal with you."

"What?" said Kzargar, his anger growing.

"Apparently," said Ridmark, "he did not think the flood trap would drain so quickly. I suspect he plans to possess Morigna, take the soulstone, and depart before you can find him."

"He betrayed us!" thundered one of the dvargir. "The wretch took our money and left! I told you, Dzark! I told you he would..."

"Be silent," said Kzargar. "He could be lying to us." His malevolent black eyes turned to Ridmark. "Are you lying to us?"

Ridmark shrugged. "You have no way of knowing. But you have eyes, and you can see the truth for yourself. We are here, and free of the trap. Coriolus and Morigna are gone. And there is no payment, and once Coriolus clothes himself in Morigna's flesh, I somehow doubt he will descend into the Deeps to settle accounts with you."

For a long moment Kzargar stared at Ridmark.

Then the dvargir spat a furious phrase in his native tongue. Calliande did not speak the dvargir language, but she could guess at the meaning easily enough.

"We have been betrayed," said Kzargar to his warriors. "The wretched disciple has broken his contract with us."

A rumble of displeasure went up from the warriors. Calliande wondered why Kzargar was still speaking in orcish. Then she saw that gleam in Ridmark's eye.

Oh, but he was clever.

"I assume the dvargir kindred regard a betrayal of contract as a grave matter?" said Ridmark.

Kzargar growled. "Indeed we do, Gray Knight. The gravest matter. The dvargir are always true to their given word. And the penalties for betraying a contract are most severe."

"Such as?" said Ridmark.

Kzargar's smile showed teeth and absolutely no mirth. "Death."

Calliande thought it ludicrous that Ridmark could turn Shadowbearer's servants against each other so easily. Yet it made a twisted sense. Shadowbearer taught his followers to revere strength, that the strongest had the right to take what they wanted.

Little wonder Coriolus had been willing to deny the dvargir their payment.

And little wonder the dvargir were willing to kill Coriolus for it.

"So you're going to kill Coriolus, then?" said Ridmark.

"We shall," said Kzargar. "One does not betray a contract with the dvargir without the direst consequences."

"As it happens," said Ridmark, "I have a quarrel or two of my own to settle with Coriolus."

Kzargar showed his teeth. "Do you propose to hire us, Gray Knight? That would require a contract, and we would expect payment promptly."

"Not at all," said Ridmark. "I have nothing to pay you with in any event. But since we are attacking the same man, we may as well cooperate. We tried to kill each other, true...but we have not broken contracts with each other."

"True, you are an enemy of the great prophet of the void," said Kzargar, "but Coriolus's betrayal is a more serious matter. I see no reason why we cannot...stay out of each other's way."

"Very well," said Ridmark. "Then let us proceed at once. The sooner we find Coriolus, the less likely it is we'll have to kill him twice."

"Indeed," said Kzargar. "I assume you know where he is?"

Calliande started to open her mouth to answer, but Ridmark spoke first.

"I do," said Ridmark, "though as you yourself have said, Dzark, everything has its price."

Again Kzargar showed his teeth. "And what price might you require for this information?"

"Simply that after we slay Coriolus," said Ridmark, "we agree to a truce. We shall not lift our hands against each other for three days after Coriolus falls."

"Very well," said Kzargar.

Calliande shook her head in stunned relief. She had thought that the dvargir would kill them, but instead Ridmark had talked them around into becoming tentative allies.

At least for now. They were still servants of Shadowbearer, and Calliande had no doubt they would try to take the soulstone for themselves.

"Of course," said Kzargar, "for all his folly, the disciple has considerable magical power. He might well kill us all."

Ridmark shrugged. "Everyone dies."

The dvargir laughed, and they strode from the entry hall.

###

A short time later Ridmark stepped back into the valley, his friends and the dvargir following him.

He let out a long breath. They had almost died in the darkness below the hills. Ridmark had no fear for his own fate. But he did not want to lead Gavin and Kharlacht and Caius to their deaths. And he did not want Calliande to fall. If he could have left her behind in Dun Licinia, he would have. Dying without ever learning the truth of her past seemed a particularly cruel fate.

He remembered Aelia's death. He had failed to save one woman, and he had no desire to repeat the experience.

Of course, if Calliande had stayed behind at Dun Licinia, then Ridmark would likely have died at Urd Arowyn.

He pushed the tangle of thought and emotion out of his mind. He could brood upon it later, assuming they survived the next few hours.

"Too damned bright," muttered Kzargar, shading his black eyes.

It was, in fact, almost sunset, the light fading and shadows falling over the steep hills. Ridmark saw no trace of any watchers upon the rocky hills or hiding among the pine trees lining their slopes.

Coriolus had not bothered to leave any guards behind. Not surprising, given that he thought Ridmark and the others imprisoned within his spell and the dvargir sealed behind the flood trap.

He doubted the standing stones would be left unguarded.

"The ring of dark elven standing stones to the south of here," said Ridmark. "That is where we are going. Coriolus will need to cast his spell there."

Kzargar grunted. "Very well. Watch, Gray Knight, and learn the consequences of betraying the dvargir."

Ridmark nodded. Given word or not, he strongly suspected that Kzargar planned to kill both him and Coriolus, and then to take the empty soulstone and present it to Shadowbearer.

So be it. Ridmark doubted he could defeat Coriolus without help, and Kzargar was willing to fight against the ancient Eternalist.

"He will likely have raised undead to guard the hill," said Ridmark.

Kzargar laughed. "The dvargir are no strangers to necromancy. Our weapons are proof against undead, even immaterial undead. Coriolus's walking corpses will not save him."

"I hope not," said Ridmark, and he led his friends and the black-armored dvargir from the valley.

###

Morigna could not stop shivering.

The air grew colder as the sun vanished behind the hills to the west, but that was only part of it. Coriolus had covered every inch of her exposed skin with those painted sigils, and they crawled with dark magic. That chill she felt against her mind and heart, not her flesh, and she shivered beneath its touch. It felt horrible, and she could only imagine what it would feel like to wield that dark power.

"How can you do this to yourself?" whispered Morigna through her trembling jaw. "It...it..."

Coriolus glanced down at her. "One final lesson, child. There is no power without pain."

He lifted his hands and began to speak a spell, his voice rising into a chant. Green fire burned around his fingers, and Morigna felt the dark magic swirling around him, stronger and stronger. His voice echoed across the circle, as if the standing stones were chanting a counterpoint to his incantation. Morigna felt as if some malevolent, malignant presence had awakened within the stones, a cruel will that now regarded her with unseen eyes.

The Old Man's voice rose to a shout, and he clapped his hands.

Green fire blazed to life upon the menhirs, illuminating the glyphs and reliefs carved into their sides. The dark magic around Morigna doubled, and then doubled again, and she felt like a fly pinned within a web of spells.

"Excellent," said Coriolus, his lined face ghostly in the green light. "Only a few more steps, now."

He stepped to his table, raised his hand, and cut his left palm with a dagger. Blood dripped from his hand, and he caught the droplets in the golden chalice, the rubies adorning its sides gleaming sickly in the light of the menhirs. Coriolus healed the wound upon his hand, and then cut Morigna's palm. The pain burned through her arm, and her blood fell into the chalice to mingle with his before he healed the wound.

"You wouldn't want a new body with a wounded hand," spat Morigna, flexing her fingers.

"Of course not," murmured Coriolus. "But we are almost finished." He began to add powders and elixirs to the chalice, consulting the scroll upon the table from time to time. "I shall drink of your blood, and you shall drink of mine. And then my spirit shall populate your flesh, and yours shall be expelled into nothingness." He smirked at her. "Perhaps the tattered ghosts of your mother and father await to escort you into paradise, surrounded by choirs of singing angels."

Morigna spat at him and missed. Coriolus only laughed.

She slumped against the altar, trying not to weep. Perhaps Coriolus had been right after all. The strong did as they chose, and he had been strong enough to kill her parents, deceive her, defeat Ridmark, and take her flesh for his own, all without suffering any consequences.

Because he had been strong enough to do as he pleased.

She closed her eyes, shivering.

"What?" said Coriolus.

Morigna opened her eyes and saw a flash of white light.

***

## Chapter 21 - Dead Flesh

"I hope," said Caius, "that we are not too late."

Ridmark nodded, gazing at the hill.

Or, more specifically, at the green light that blazed around the menhirs crowning the hill.

The standing stones formed a double circle, the larger one encircling the smaller. A low mound rose from within the center of the inner circle, a block of black stones and a few smaller menhirs atop it. All of the black stones glowed with an eerie green flame, illuminating the grisly scenes and sigils carved upon their signs. The nights in this part of the Wilderland were chilly in spring, yet it felt cold, terribly cold at the foot of the hill.

A side effect of the dark magic Coriolus had summoned.

Ridmark saw a dark figure moving around the altar. Coriolus himself, perhaps? Their best hope for victory was to take the Eternalist off-guard before he could bring his potent magic to bear against them.

But the shapes moving along the hillside would make that difficult.

Dozens of undead orcs prowled the hill and guarded the path leading to the standing stones, their empty eyes dancing with blue fire. Ridmark saw the shadowy forms of a half-dozen wraiths as well.

"It appears," Ridmark said, "that Coriolus was not such a fool as to abandon all precautions."

Kzargar spat upon the ground. "If he was not a fool, then he would have paid us."

"Truly," said Ridmark.

"He's almost ready, Ridmark," said Calliande, her voice strained as she cast the spell to sense the presence of magical power. "His spell...it is even more potent and complex than the one in Thainkul Dural. It's almost in alignment. He just has to wait for the moons to take their proper position, and then he can cast the spell."

Ridmark looked at the night sky. Seven of the thirteen moons were out tonight. Depending on which moons rose, the night sky could shine with blue light or green light or light the color of blood, but tonight their glow mingled together to create a pale white radiance. Each moon influenced or enhanced a different aspect of magic, and combined together they could create potent effects.

Such as ripping Morigna's soul from her body and installing Coriolus's in its place.

"If we are to save her," said Calliande, "we must do so quickly."

"I have no interest in saving the disciple's dupe," said Kzargar.

"I expected nothing less," said Ridmark, his fingers tightening against his staff.

"We shall need a plan," said Caius.

"I would be glad to hear of it," said Kzargar with a sneer.

"There's no way we can take Coriolus unawares," said Ridmark.

"My kin and I can turn invisible," said Kzargar.

"But you know that Coriolus can sense your presence, even when invisible," said Ridmark. "So we have to attack. Calliande can enspell our weapons..."

"She will not," said Kzargar, "touch us with her filthy high elven magic."

"She would not want to touch you with her fingers," said Calliande, "let alone her magic." Both Kharlacht and Gavin chuckled.

"She can enspell our weapons," said Ridmark before the discussion could degenerate into violence, "and make them effective against the undead. Your weapons require no such enhancement, and you can also make yourselves unseen. Does your power work against the undead?"

"No," said Kzargar. "The sight of the undead extends into the shadow realm, the place your Magistri call the threshold. They will see us regardless of what we do."

"Not unless their attention is elsewhere," said Ridmark.

"Explain," said the Dzark.

"My companions and I will attack the corporeal undead," said Ridmark. "Undoubtedly Coriolus instructed them to guard the hill. Once we have their attention, you can circle around and attack the wraiths. Then we can make for the top of the hill, and hopefully overwhelm Coriolus before he kills us all."

Kzargar considered this. "A solid plan. I see how you outwitted my mzrokar."

"Hardly a compliment," said Caius. "A mzrokar is not that bright."

"Indeed," said Kzargar with a thin smile. "Your plan is sound, Gray Knight. Shall we?"

"One more thing," said Ridmark. "Coriolus likely has Morigna restrained. If possible, free her. Her magic is strong...and she has motivation to fight against Coriolus."

Kharlacht grunted. "Understatement."

"Very well," said Kzargar. "We shall await your attack."

He donned his skull-masked helm, and gestured. Shadows swirled around him and the other dvargir warriors, and together they vanished. The grass rustled and a few pebbles bounced as they moved toward the hill, but Ridmark otherwise saw no trace of the dvargir.

"Do you think they will betray us, sir?" said Gavin.

"Probably," said Ridmark. "But they want Coriolus dead, and they can't do it without our help. Once we stop Coriolus, they will likely try to kill us to claim the soulstone."

Of course, even with the help of the dvargir, they might not be able to overcome the Eternalist.

"Come," said Ridmark, raising his staff.

###

Calliande took a deep breath and summoned magic, gathering the power of the Well.

She dared not cast her spell too soon. She did not know how much of Coriolus's concentration had to go to his mighty spell, but she suspected most of it. Yet he might have enough power left to sense her spell, enough power to strike back at them.

Then the undead saw them.

Dozens of blue-burning eyes turned in their direction, and the undead orcs raced down the slope, ancient weapons in their skeletal hands. Behind them Calliande saw the dark, rippling shapes of the wraiths, flowing like smoke.

Ridmark raised his staff and Kharlacht lifted his greatsword, and they were out of time.

Calliande thrust her palms and cast the spell. The white light appeared with a brilliant flash, and it sprang from her hands and wrapped around the weapons of the others. As always, she felt the weight of maintaining the spell, but she had grown accustomed to the strain, and worked another, sheathing her friends in a protective ward.

Then the clash of battle filled her ears, and she focused on maintaining the twin spells.

###

The first undead came for him, and Ridmark swung his staff. The glowing weapon cut a white line in the darkness, and the impact knocked the orc's tusked skull from its rotting neck. The blue flames winked out, and the skeletal creature collapsed into a pile of bones. Around him Kharlacht hewed the undead into pieces, and Caius smashed skulls with his dwarven mace. Gavin used his shield as a weapon, rocking the undead, and landing blows with his orcish sword before they recovered.

The undead orcs were dangerous, but Ridmark and the others had overcome them before, and the creatures were not nearly as skilled as the brothers of the Red Family or the dvargir warriors.

Ridmark waded into their midst, striking right and left. He forced a path through the undead, breaking up their charge, and Kharlacht and the others destroyed any that got past him. Ridmark tripped one undead with his staff, and then shattered the creature's skull before it caught its balance. Another thrust at him with an ancient sword, and Ridmark dodged, swept aside the second thrust with his staff, and then whipped his weapon around in a tight circle. Again his blow shattered a skull, and the undead went down.

They broke through the mass of orcish undead, leaving smashed bones and rusted weapons in their wake. The path leading to the top of the hill was clear, the green light in the standing stones brightening. Then a wave of darkness swept across the path, resolving into the shapes of a half-dozen wraiths.

Ridmark raised his glowing staff. Already he felt the horrible, life-stealing chill radiating from the shadowy creatures. If he stood it in for too long, it would kill him, and with six of the wraiths, he doubted he could endure their aura for more than a few moments. The wraiths rushed toward him, as if drawn to the magic around his staff.

Then a deeper darkness swirled behind the wraiths, and the dvargir stepped out of nothingness.

The wraiths started to turn, but it was too late. The skull-masked dvargir attacked, the glyphs upon their weapons seeming to bleed black light. The dvargir struck in unison, and three of the wraiths disintegrated into smoke, ripped apart by the dvargir attack. Ridmark charged into the chaos, Kharlacht and Caius at his side, and raked his staff through the ghostly form of a wraith. The creature hissed, and Kharlacht and Caius swept their weapons through it. The wraith unraveled into nothingness, and the terrible chill started to fade.

Ridmark whirled and ripped his staff into another wraith, and Gavin slashed, plunging his sword into the creature's immaterial chest. The wraith shrieked in fury and melted away, and then Ridmark and the others were alone with the dvargir. He heard Calliande run up behind them, but his eyes remained on the black-armored warriors. For an instant he was sure that Kzargar would attack them...

"A good fight," said Kzargar.

"Aye," said Ridmark, "but it is not done yet. Not until we find Coriolus."

"Agreed," said Kzargar. "Let us find that traitorous scoundrel."

They turned, and the hillside started to shake.

###

Morigna blinked as another burst of white light flashed at the base of the hill.

Coriolus frowned, put down his goblet, and walked to the edge of the mound. The sounds of fighting reached her ears, of swords crunching into the bones of the corporeal undead.

For a moment the Old Man stood motionless, the green glow playing across his features.

"Impossible," he muttered.

"Coriolus!"

Jonas sprinted toward the altar, sword in hand, shadows spinning around the blade.

"It's him!" said Jonas. "The Gray Knight and his followers."

"Impossible," said Coriolus. "Nothing could have broken out of that trap."

"Then someone has cast a remarkably convincing illusion," said Jonas.

Coriolus closed his eyes and whispered a spell, and then his eyes opened wide.

"Damn it," he muttered.

Morigna felt a tiny flicker of hope. Had Ridmark and Calliande found a way out of the trap? For a moment she could not make sense of it. If they had broken free, why had they come here? Why not continue on to Urd Morlemoch to finish their quest?

Had they come for her?

For a moment the thought so overwhelmed her that she almost started to cry.

"Damn it!" spat the Old Man. "There are dvargir with them. How did they get through the flooded gallery? It should have taken days to drain. And how did Calliande get out of my trap? No one has the arcane power to break the spell from within, no one! Unless...." For the first time a glimmer of fear went over his face. "Unless she has recovered her memory."

"Perhaps," said Morigna, "you are not as clever as you believed yourself."

Coriolus bellowed in fury and slapped her across the face. Her head bounced off the altar, and she spat some blood from her mouth. Jonas gaped at the Old Man, looking back and forth between them.

"Very clever," said Morigna. "Now when you possess me, you can wake up to a mouthful of blood."

"Just as well," said Jonas, "that you reported your success to Shadowbearer. You..."

"Do not dare to mock me, fool boy," spat the Old Man, his voice iron. "The Gray Knight and Calliande wish a fight? Fine! I shall give them a fight. I shall show them what death truly looks like."

"Then you had better act now," said Jonas, looking down the hill. "They are winning."

"Let us see," said Coriolus, "if they can win against this!"

He flung out his hands, shouting a spell, and blue fire rippled around his fingertips.

The hill shuddered, and a rasping roar rang over the slopes.

###

"What was that?" said Kzargar.

The cry came again, a hideous, brassy bellow full of agony and insane rage. Ridmark had heard it before when the swamp drake had attacked them in the marshes. But this cry sounded wrong, twisted.

"Swamp drake," said Ridmark.

The hill trembled again, and a shape from a nightmare came lumbering down the path with terrifying speed.

And suddenly Ridmark knew just what had happened to the carcass of the swamp drake they had killed upon the causeway.

The undead drake staggered down the path, lacking the serpentine grace it had possessed in life. Yet it moved even faster. An iron collar glowing with sigils of blue fire bound its wedge-shaped head to its neck, which explained how Coriolus had reattached the beast's head to its body. More rings of iron encircled its arms and legs, glowing with sigils of their own.

"Stand fast!" said Kzargar, and the dvargir lined up around him, raising their weapons. "Let us teach the disciple that..."

"No!" shouted Calliande, and the glow faded from Ridmark's staff as she began casting a spell. "No, don't, it's..."

The drake's legs flexed, and the creature sprang into the air like a colossal insect and landed amongst the dvargir. Two of the black-armored figures went down at once, crushed by the drake's clawed forelegs, and a third died an instant later when the drake bit off his head in a spray of crimson blood.

The battle might have been over then and there, but Calliande cast a spell. A lance of white flame slammed into the drake, throwing the creature back. The drake landed upon its back with a scream of fury. Its head reared back, and then darted forward, breathing a blast of flame in her direction. Ridmark cursed, hoping to push her out of the way, but Calliande gestured. A dome of white light flared into existence before her, and the flame rebounded from it.

"Attack!" roared Kzargar. "Take its legs!"

The surviving dvargir scattered around the undead drake, lashing with their weapons, and Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin followed suit. Ridmark's staff could not penetrate the creature's heavy scales, so Ridmark dropped his staff and snatched the orcish war axe from his belt. The drake bellowed its rage and started to turn, but there were too many foes for it to track at once. The undead were often strong and fast, but usually mindless and stupid, unable to think beyond the bounds set by their masters.

The drake, for all its strength, was no different. Ridmark swung with both hands, and the heavy steel blade bit into the drake's left foreleg. The creature shuddered, ripping the blade free from its leg, and its head whirled to face him. Ridmark threw himself to the path and rolled as a blast of searing flame shot over his head, so hot it made his eyes water. He jumped back to his feet as the others attacked, landing blow after blow.

But nothing they did slowed the creature at all. Even as Ridmark struck again, he saw the first wound he had carved into the drake's leg closing. The creature could heal itself faster than they could damage it. Calliande flung another blast of brilliant white fire into the drake. It rocked back several steps, shrieking, and trembled as it did so. For a moment the wounds did not close as fast, and Ridmark went into a frenzy, hacking at its neck in an effort to sever its head before the creature recovered.

But the drake snapped its head around, and the side of its neck slammed into Ridmark's chest. He fell backwards, and only just managed to roll to the side before the drake's claws raked at the ground. Calliande's magic was powerful, but not strong enough to destroy the necromancy binding the monster. Coriolus must have infused his most powerful spells upon the drake.

Ridmark's eyes went to the metal rings around the drake's legs, and the collar behind its head. Kharlacht had severed the beast's head, but Coriolus had reattached it with that collar.

So what would happened if someone took off the collar?

It was time to find out.

Ridmark sprinted forward, and the drake bellowed and opened its mouth, spraying flames as it whipped its head back and forth. The blast caught two of the dvargir and threw them back, their armor smoldering as it fought to hold back the flame. Calliande responded with another blast of white fire. The creature reared back with a scream of pain, stumbling as Calliande's magic fought against the necromantic sorcery binding its undead flesh.

Ridmark flung himself upon the creature's back, catching one of the bony spines with his left hand. He heaved himself forward, driving the axe into thin gap between the collar and the drake's head. The orcish blade sank deep, and the drake threw back its head and screamed. Ridmark ripped the axe free as the drake heaved and drove it down once more.

The drake's head struck the ground and bounced away, black slime and flame spurting from the stump of its neck. The body snapped like a bowstring, and Ridmark fell from its back, the axe tumbling from his hand. He rolled away to avoid the blurring lash of the drake's tail, and saw the iron collar fall from the bloody stump.

A blast of white flame drilled from Calliande's hand and struck the collar. It writhed and twisted like a leaf thrown into a bonfire, and then crumbled into ash.

The drake's headless corpse twitched once and went motionless.

Ridmark staggered to his feet as Calliande ran toward him.

"Are you all right?" she said, grabbing his arm.

"Splendid," said Ridmark, coughing. The stench of the drake's blood, hot metal mixed with rotting flesh, filled his nostrils. "Never better."

"I wish we didn't have to kill that thing twice," said Kharlacht.

"A fierce beast," said Kzargar, looking at the carcass. "Why did you kill it twice?"

"It attacked us in the marshes, maddened by Coriolus's undead," said Ridmark, "and it appears Coriolus thought to turn it into his champion."

"You have wounded," said Calliande, looking at the injured dvargir. Some had taken slashes from the undead drake's talons, and others had been burned. "Let me heal them. I..."

"No!" said Kzargar, the Dzark's voice hardening. "You will not touch us with your corrupt magic."

"Corrupt?" said Calliande. "That..."

"No," said Ridmark. "If the Dzark doesn't want your help, fine. There will be more than enough need for your magic in the next few moments."

Calliande nodded and took a deep breath. "Very well."

"Come," said Ridmark to Kzargar. "Let us finish this."

He looked at the glowing crest of the hill. Because they would finish this in the next few moments.

Either Coriolus would die...or he would kill them all and take Morigna's body.

###

"It didn't work," said Jonas, a whine of fear in his voice. "It didn't work! What are we going to do?"

The flicker of hope in Morigna's breast grew brighter. Ridmark had defeated the undead? Could he yet free her from the altar and end this?

The Old Man stepped into her sight, and her hope faded.

"Why have you not paid heed to the teaching of the Enlightened?" said Coriolus, his voice dripping with amusement. "Strength is only demonstrated through struggle. And I shall demonstrate my strength when I crush the Gray Knight and the Magistria."

"I thought you said she had regained her memory," said Jonas.

"She didn't," said Coriolus, his confidence plain. "Otherwise we would already be dead. Now, watch, fool – and you shall see power."

Green fire blazed around his hands, and his shadow grew longer and black, rotating around him like the shadow of a sundial.

Jonas stepped back in shock. "How...how you are doing that? You're not one of the Enlightened, but those are the powers of an Initiated of the Fifth Circle..."

Coriolus laughed. "I learned these powers before the Enlightened even came into being, from Shadowbearer himself! Calliande could not defeat my native magic. When I call upon the shadow, I shall crush them utterly."

Morigna strained against her bonds. She had to break free, had to find a way to help Ridmark and the others.

But she could not move, and Coriolus summoned death in his hands.

***

## Chapter 22 - Eternity

Ridmark stopped at the edge of the outer circle.

Fingers of ghostly green light crawled up and down the black menhirs, outlining the grotesque carvings. The air here was even colder, and a malignant presence seemed to radiate from the standing stones. Within the circle stood another, smaller ring of menhirs, also ablaze with green fire. A low mound rose within the ring, topped by a few more standing stones and an altar of black stone.

Morigna lay naked upon the altar, bound wrist and ankle. Lines of crimson sigils had been painted up and down her legs and arms, stark against her pale skin. Her head turned, and her black eyes widened as they saw Ridmark. In that moment, he was unable to look away from her.

Guilt flickered through him as he thought of Aelia and, oddly, Calliande. Ridmark pushed the thought out of his mind.

The very real possibility that they all were about to die made it easy to do so.

He watched as Coriolus strode to the edge of the inner circle. The Eternalist still wore his ragged, long coat, his watery eyes serene in his lined face. Jonas walked at his side, and the Initiated of the Second Circle looked anything but calm. His sword rested in his right hand, shadows swirling around the blade, his face a study in feral rage.

For a moment they regarded each other in silence.

"Tell me," said Coriolus at last. "How did you break my trap?"

"The shoddy workmanship, of course," said Ridmark.

"No," said Coriolus. "The trap was perfect. How did you get out of it?"

Ridmark shrugged. "I could not say." That was truthful enough.

"Likely not," said Coriolus. "Did the dvargir release you? The miserable traitors. I know you are there, Kzargar. Do not think to hide from me in the shadows."

Columns of darkness swirled at the edge of the outer circle, and Kzargar and his remaining warriors appeared.

"You miserable traitors," said Coriolus. "You dare to defy the will of Shadowbearer? You will pay. You..."

"The will of the great prophet," said Kzargar, "is that the empty soulstone come into his grasp." Ridmark tightened his grip upon his staff. "The prophet cares nothing for you or your wretched life, and you were foolish enough to betray us. You promised payment, worm, and you dared to cheat us!"

"You blind, miserly fool," said Coriolus. "The world is about to change, and you whine about gold? Stop wearying my ears with your nonsense! You want gold? There is a chest of it hidden beneath the hearth of my cottage. Go and claim it, and bother me no more."

"Indeed?" said Kzargar. "I have a better idea, traitor. We will kill you and climb over your corpse to claim the gold and the soulstone. Then I shall keep your ugly head as a warning to those who cross the dvargir..."

"Idiot," said Coriolus. "The Frostborn are returning and the new order comes, and you haggle over a few coins?"

"This is the pride of the dvargir!" said Kzargar. "You dare to insult us! Then you will suffer for it! You shall..."

"Oh, do shut up," said Coriolus, his bloodshot eyes turning back to Ridmark. "I will give you one chance, Gray Knight. Turn around and leave. Or stay and die alongside these dvargir fools."

"No," said Ridmark. "Release Morigna, and return the soulstone to us."

Coriolus laughed. "And you think I would do either? She is the next step on the path to my immortality, and..."

"You're not immortal," said Calliande, her quiet voice cutting into his tirade.

He glared at her. "I have lived as long as you have, Calliande of Tarlion, and I shall live on long after you are dead."

"Maybe you will," said Calliande. "Maybe you'll live for another thousand years. But it doesn't matter. It will never be enough. You can live for ten thousand years, but you only need to die once. And you'll always be afraid of it. You'll always know that it will only take one mistake, one error, to turn you from an immortal to a corpse." She smiled at him. "Maybe even something as simple and foolish as refusing to pay the dvargir out of sheer spite."

"I will kill the others," said Coriolus, his voice soft. "You, I will keep alive, just so I can see that icy pride melt when I present you to Shadowbearer."

"Enough talk!" said Kzargar. "If you are going to kill us, stop talking and do it, you preening fool."

"As you wish," said Coriolus. The Eternalist flung out his hands, and Jonas charged.

Darkness erupted from the earth within the circle.

###

Morigna strained against her bonds, cursing her helplessness.

A score of wraiths rose from the earth at Coriolus's command, images of black smoke and eerie blue light. They looked as if they had once been orcish shamans, their heads shaved, their chests and faces and arms adorned with bronze rings and elaborate tattoos. Coriolus gestured again, and the wraiths attacked the dvargir and Ridmark and the others.

She wondered how Ridmark had managed to talk the dvargir into fighting Coriolus.

The Dzark and his warriors bellowed cries in their native tongue and attacked the wraiths, their weapons bleeding darkness. Kharlacht and Gavin and Caius charged with them, fighting alongside the black-armored shapes, and Morigna lost sight of Ridmark in the mayhem. Brilliant white light flared around Calliande as she began casting spells.

But Coriolus began another spell of his own, darkness and green flame dancing around him, and Morigna felt power of the Old Man's magic.

She fought against the ropes, cursing herself for her weakness. Bound to a mad sorcerer's altar, and waiting for a knight to save her! She was like the insipid heroines in the sort of songs that an oaf like Gavin would enjoy.

But Ridmark needed her help, and Morigna tested both her ropes and the spell inhibiting her magic, seeking for any weaknesses.

But there were none.

###

Calliande drew upon the magic of the Well, filling herself with as much power as she could hold.

She would need every bit of it.

Coriolus was not as strong as Agrimnalazur, nor as potent as Shadowbearer. But he was still strong, and he could wield the magic of the Well alongside dark magic and the earth magic Morigna used. Worse, he was skilled and experienced. Summoning that many wraiths would be a strain on any necromancer, yet Coriolus still had enough power left to direct an attack her way.

If she made a single mistake, he would crush her.

Calliande cast a spell, imbuing the weapons of her friends with magic to oppose the wraiths, and Coriolus attacked.

A gout of pale blue flame raked from one hand, a spell to suck away her life and leave her a withered, crumbling corpse. Calliande blocked the attack with a ward, an aura of white light shuddering and sparking around her. Coriolus followed with a burst of shadow similar to the one Jonas had used, one to disrupt her concentration and leech away her magic. But she knew how to turn aside the spell, and poured more power into her ward, head ringing with the effort of it.

She struck back with a lash of white flame that attacked the shadows swirling around the Old Man, the magic of the Well straining against the power of the void. Coriolus hissed and staggered back, his gray coat billowing around him. Yet the power of his dark magic held against her assault, even with his concentration divided in so many different directions.

He struck her again, a combined barrage of blue flame and writhing shadows, and it took all of Calliande's concentration to hold her wards in place. She stumbled, caught her balance, and gathered more power.

From the corner of her eye she saw another flicker of shadow.

Jonas Vorinus stood next to one of the menhirs, hand raised as shadows gathered in his palm. He was about to repeat the attack he had used against her before, the lance of shadow to break her control and disrupt her magic. If both Coriolus and Jonas struck her at the same time, she doubted she could withstand their attacks.

Jonas gestured at her, and then a gray blur shot between her and at the Initiated of Incariel.

###

Ridmark drove his glowing staff for Jonas's head, intending to land a killing blow.

He almost did. At the last moment Jonas jerked back, and the staff's edge clipped his right temple. Jonas stumbled with a bellowed curse, and Ridmark reversed his weapon and jabbed, but Jonas ducked behind the nearest menhir. Ridmark's staff bounced off the standing stone, and the weapon grew hot in his hand as Calliande's magic struggled against the menhir's dark power.

He stalked after Jonas as the younger man caught his balance. Around them chaos reigned as the screaming dvargir threw themselves at the wraiths. Kharlacht and Caius fought in their midst, striking with mace and sword. Ridmark had lost sight of Gavin, and hoped that the boy was safe. Calliande held Coriolus's full attention, the Magistria and the Eternalist hurling spells at each other, the air between them crackling and snarling with magical power. With Coriolus focused upon Calliande, perhaps Ridmark could get close enough to land a surprise blow.

But first he had to keep Jonas from interfering with Calliande.

"Come, Sir Jonas," said Ridmark, lifting his staff as Jonas retreated. "Shall we not settle this?"

"Do not think to challenge me," said Jonas. "I am a knight, and you are a ragged vagabond with a coward's brand! I am an Initiated of the Enlightened of Incariel, and you are nothing. Nothing!"

"Then," said Ridmark, pointing his staff, "it should be all the easier to kill me, should it not?"

Jonas screamed in fury, and shadows boiled from his hands. They wrapped around him like a translucent second skin, sinking barbed veins into his flesh. His screams turned to ones of pain, and Ridmark seized the opening to strike.

But Jonas's sword snapped up, moving inhumanly fast, and blocked Ridmark's swing. Ridmark stepped back to prepare another blow, but Jonas went on the attack, moving with greater speed and power.

The shadows, it seemed, had given him strength.

###

Calliande gritted her teeth as a torrent of shadow rippled around her. At last the attack ended, and she struck back with a lance of white fire. Coriolus crossed his arms before his chest, and the darkness hardened around him, his magic blunting the force of Calliande's attack. His ward winked out, and the Old Man began another spell of his own. Yet he looked exhausted, his face gray, his hands trembling. The battle had taken its toll on even his strength. For that matter, the effort of preparing the spell to possess Morigna must have been immense. Yet Calliande was just as exhausted. The last few days had been draining, and the battle with the Eternalist was a tremendous strain. Sooner or later her strength would falter. Yet she dared not weaken her wards, and she dared not release the spell upon the weapons of her friends. Without aid, the wraiths would overwhelm the dvargir, and then Coriolus would kill them all.

So she kept fighting, trying to summon power through the exhaustion.

###

Jonas swung, and Ridmark raised his staff in a high parry.

It almost ended his life.

The thick wood of the staff blocked the sword, but the shadowy halo had augmented Jonas's strength to superhuman levels. The sheer power of the blow forced Ridmark's legs to buckle, and he landed on his knees before Jonas. The Initiated howled with glee and raised his sword, and Ridmark threw himself to the side. The steel blade slammed into the earth, and Ridmark scrambled to his feet. Jonas kept after him with inhuman speed, the sword weaving a blur before him.

"Do you see the power of Incariel?" screamed Jonas. "I am the strongest! Lie down and die!"

Ridmark backed away as the melee raged around him. The dvargir and his friends struggled against the wraiths, while Calliande and Coriolus flung blasts of power at each other. The Eternalist seemed stronger, and the fury of his attacks were wearing down Calliande bit by bit. If she did not receive some assistance soon, Coriolus was going to kill her.

But the wraiths occupied the others, and Jonas pursued Ridmark with fury.

Jonas struck, the shadow lending his limbs inhuman speed, and Ridmark barely stayed ahead of the blows.

###

Morigna tried to test the spell binding her magic, watching the furious battle as she did so.

Jonas Vorinus dueled Ridmark, his shadow-wreathed sword and Ridmark's glowing staff a blur of light and darkness. Blue and white fire snapped back and forth between Calliande and the Old Man, the air burning with the fury of their magic. The wraiths swarmed around the dvargir, and Morigna saw Kharlacht's greatsword rising and falling in mighty sweeps.

The Old Man had to be vulnerable with all his power focused upon Calliande.

Yet Morigna was bound here like a goat trussed for slaughter.

She cursed in fury, and a dark shadow fell over her. A shadow in mail, a shield upon his left arm and a heavy orcish sword in his right...

A shadow with curly brown hair and wide brown eyes.

"Gavin?" said Morigna.

"Yes," said Gavin, his eyes desperately turning back and forth as he tried not to look at her. She wondered what was wrong, and then remembered that she had no clothes. "The Gray Knight said to cut you loose, and..."

"Then stop talking and cut me loose!" said Morigna.

"Yes, yes, of course," said Gavin. He lifted his sword, and she started to admonish him to take care. But his flustered state had not affected his hands, and in four quick slashes he cut the ropes holding her to the altar. Morigna pushed away from the altar and got to her feet, her heart hammering against her ribs with elation and terror.

And as she did, she smudged the sigils the Old Man had drawn upon her forehead and jaw. The spell blocking her magic wavered and died, and once more she felt the power of the earth beneath her feet.

"Gavin," said Morigna, glaring at the Old Man.

"Aye?" said Gavin. He had forgotten about her already, and was watching the battle.

"Thank you," said Morigna.

He nodded.

"Can you keep the wraiths away from me?" she said.

"I think so," said Gavin.

"Then," said Morigna, "I have a score to settle with the Old Man."

She started forward, and Gavin raised his shield and followed her.

###

Ridmark dodged another blow, then another.

And in Jonas's fury he saw a weakness.

Jonas could use his shadow magic to make himself stronger and faster, but he could not use it to improve his skill with the sword. Ridmark had dueled with the master swordsmen of the High King's court in Tarlion, had studied under the finest blademasters his father's gold could hire, and had fought and learned in the Northerland, facing pagan orcs and kobold raids and dvargir attacks.

And he had even sparred against Tarrabus Carhaine and come out on top about half the time, and Tarrabus was the best swordsman Ridmark had ever seen.

Jonas did not even come close.

But he was much faster and stronger than Tarrabus. Ridmark's hands and arms ached and throbbed from the effort of deflecting Jonas's strikes, and his breath came hard and fast. Jonas was not even winded, his shadowy shell driving him forward with terrific speed. But he had fallen into a pattern with his attacks, repeating the same series of thrusts and swings over and over.

It was sloppy. As a younger man, Ridmark would have been embarrassed to have been hard-pressed by such a poor swordsman. Of course, as a younger man, he could have used Heartwarden's magic to make himself stronger and faster.

But now all he had was his staff.

Jonas repeated his attack, and Ridmark saw the opening. He thrust, and Jonas easily avoided the blow, laughing. He dodged exactly as Ridmark expected, putting his feet where Ridmark knew he would place them.

And as he did, Ridmark sidestepped, sweeping his staff around with all his strength. Jonas's sword plunged past his shoulder, but Ridmark's staff slammed into Jonas's right knee. Ridmark heard the hideous crack of snapping bone and tearing muscle, and Jonas screamed in agony. Ridmark jabbed his staff at Jonas's face, and the knight reacted on instinct, stepping back.

Putting all his weight upon his damaged knee.

Jonas screamed again, his right leg buckling, and Ridmark brought his staff around once more.

It struck the crown of Jonas Vorinus's head with another hideous crack.

All Ridmark had was his staff, but that was more than enough. As he had learned long ago, a skilled man with a staff could defeat a man with a sword.

Even a swordsman aided by dark magic.

Jonas slumped dead to the ground, blood pouring from his ears and nose, and the shadows around him vanished.

Ridmark raised his staff, preparing to force his way through the wraiths and attack Coriolus.

But there was no need. All the wraiths had been destroyed. Kzargar and four of the dvargir were still on their feet, darkness swirling around the blades of their weapons. Kharlacht and Caius stood side by side, weapons ready, while white light burned around Calliande. Ridmark looked for Gavin, and found him walking from the altar mound, his sword and shield ready.

Morigna followed him, her black hair loose and ragged around her shoulders, her pale limbs and torso marked with elaborate crimson sigils. She looked wild and fierce, and for a strange instant Ridmark could not look away from her. She looked back, and something electric seemed to pass between them.

But more urgent matters forced him to look away.

For Coriolus stood surrounded in the ring of his foes. Shadow and fire crackled around the hands of the Eternalist, his fingers hooked into claws, his lips curled into a sneer. Morigna looked fiercely beautiful, but Coriolus looked enraged, like a rabid bear brought to heel by a pack of hunting hounds.

"It's over," said Ridmark.

"Do you think so, gray vagabond?" said Coriolus.

"Lie down and die with dignity," said Kzargar, raising his sword. "Do not think to grovel."

"And what of you, my dear Morigna?" said Coriolus. "I raised you, and you turn on me now? Ungrateful, ungrateful child..."

"Shut up," said Morigna. Ridmark would have expected rage, but her voice was low and cold and deadly. "I have had a lifetime to listen to your poisoned words. In fact, we both have."

"And why is that?" said Coriolus.

"Because your lifetime," said Morigna, "is about to end."

"Oh, is it?" said Coriolus. "Is that what you think is about to happen?"

Despite his vast magical power, Coriolus could not prevail against all of them. He would kill several of them, certainly, but in the end he would be overwhelmed and defeated.

"You cannot win, Coriolus," said Calliande.

"Let me guess," said Coriolus, smiling. "You will kill me, eh? Perhaps darling little Morigna will rip off my head in vengeance for her brutish parents. And then you'll stride over my corpse and retake Shadowbearer's prize." He reached into his coat and withdrew the leather pouch holding the soulstone. "Let me spare you the trouble. Go ahead, take it."

He tossed the pouch, and Calliande caught it.

"If you think to escape while we fight over the soulstone," said Kzargar, "do not trouble yourself. We will kill you, and then we will kill the Gray Knight and claim the soulstone from his companions."

"Actually," said Coriolus, "neither of those things will happen. First I will kill you all. Save for you, dear Morigna. You were raised as a fattened calf, and you shall meet your fate. And then, when I wear your flesh as mine, I shall stride over your corpses, take the soulstone, and present it to Shadowbearer myself. What do you think of this plan, hmm?"

"You shall not live," said Morigna, the cords in her neck and arms standing out as she flexed her hands, purple flames curling around her fingers, "to see this plan come to fruition."

"Are you so sure of that?" said Coriolus. His shadow started rotating around him, darker and faster. "Did Jonas's little tricks disturb you? The little fooleries of an Initiated of the Second Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel?"

"Jonas is dead," said Ridmark. Perhaps he ought to strike before Coriolus could finish his spell. Coriolus would strike him down, but Calliande and Morigna could unleash their magic while he was distracted. "I doubt yours will serve much better."

"Mine," said Coriolus, "are not tricks. I understand the great void, Ridmark of the Arbanii and Calliande of the Magistri. Jonas learned what he knew from another fool like himself. I learned the truth of the great void from Shadowbearer."

"And that truth, Old Man?" said Morigna. "What truth is that?"

"That the darkness allows us to transcend our limitations," said Coriolus, "to ascend beyond them."

Ridmark opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it again. On the mound behind Coriolus, seven menhirs stood around the altar.

There had been only six a moment earlier.

And the new menhir was gray, the same gray as a trolldomr's skin.

Rjalfur had come.

Would the trolldomr interfere in the battle? Or would he simply observe and ponder, much as he had all those centuries ago when the missionary had perished in the orcish village?

Ridmark didn't know, but he suspected that he was about to find out.

"And what limitations are those, Old Man?" said Morigna, her white teeth bared in a snarl in her painted face. Ridmark's tutors had told him that the ancient Celts of Old Earth had gone into battle naked to show their courage, painting their bodies with elaborate designs. In that moment, Morigna reminded Ridmark of that ancient tale. "The folly of your feeble wits?"

Coriolus laughed, long and loud. "Observe, then."

His shadow swirled around him once more, and then seemed to shrink into him.

"Stop him!" shouted Calliande. "He's going to..."

And as she spoke, Coriolus changed.

He swelled in size, in an instant standing twice the height of a man, and then thrice. His pale skin hardened and darkened, and soon a carapace of gleaming, razor-edged obsidian covered him from head to toe. Extra limbs sprouted from his sides, their length covered in cutting edges. Three heads erupted from his neck, each one looking like a ghastly mixture of insect and squid, barbed tentacles lashing back and forth. Yet his human face remained embedded in the center of his chest, mouth open in a combination of a laugh and a scream. Great black wings of shadow sprouted from his side.

It was perhaps the single most ghastly creature Ridmark had ever seen. The urdhracos he had fought in Urd Morlemoch had been deadly, and Gothalinzur and Agrimnalazur had both been terrifying. Yet all three had possessed a peculiar beauty, alien and terrifying and lethal, but beauty nonetheless. The thing that Coriolus had become was utterly hideous, an abomination to the eyes.

But Ridmark was sure it was no less deadly than the urdmordar.

"Behold!" all three of the alien heads shrieked in buzzing, grating unison. "Behold the might of the darkness!"

"Impossible," breathed Kzargar, taking a step back. "You cannot take the form of a Great Herald of the Void. You cannot!"

The human face embedded in the creature's chest grinned, and the alien heads rotated to look down at Kzargar.

"You should have run," thundered Coriolus, "when you had the chance!"

He moved forward in a blur of darkness and shadow. Calliande and Morigna both flung spells at the creature, and Ridmark struck with his staff, but Coriolus barely seemed to notice.

Kzargar bellowed and attacked, but Coriolus struck first. His clawed limbs wrapped around Kzargar, and a moment later bloody pieces of the Dzark fell to the earth. Kzargar's head tumbled free from his skull-masked helmet and rolled away, his black eyes glaring up at the night sky. The other dvargir attacked Coriolus, but he moved through them in a blur, his arms sweeping like a farmer's scythe.

A few heartbeats later, the remaining dvargir were dead.

"Now!" boomed Coriolus, turning towards Morigna. "Let us..."

Ridmark charged to attack, and struck his staff against Coriolus's left leg. The white light of Calliande's magic flared brighter around the weapon, and the hulking creature hissed in sudden fury. Little wonder the dvargir had not been able to stand against Coriolus. The same shadow magic that infused their weapons also empowered Coriolus, and fire could not fight fire. But Calliande's magic, the magic of the Well at Tarlion's heart, was opposed to the darkness of the void.

Coriolus spun, snarling in fury, and Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin rushed into the fray. Kharlacht's greatsword carved a deep gash into Coriolus's armored carapace, the orc's black eyes flaring red with battle fury. A hammer blow from Caius's mace cracked against Coriolus's side, while a swing of Gavin's sword severed some of the clawed fingers.

Yet Coriolus spun again, and one of his armored legs slammed into Ridmark and threw him to the ground.

He rolled away from a slash of black claws...and as he did, an idea came to him.

###

Calliande struck at Coriolus again and again, the white fire drilling into the hideous thing that the Old Man had become. Every blast caused the creature pain, the armored carapace crackling and sizzling in the fury of her magic, the aura of shadow around him flickering and writhing.

But none of it did him lasting harm. The shadows swirled around him, growing thicker and darker, and the wounds carved into his armored exoskeleton shrank and closed. Kharlacht had cut off one of his arms, but a new one, wet and shining, forced its way free from his flesh.

Her wards had turned aside Jonas's attack, and she knew how to hurt Coriolus.

But Calliande lacked the power to kill him. Her magic was not strong enough, and her magic was the only weapon they had that could wound the transformed Eternalist. If one of them had carried a Soulblade, the power of the enchanted weapon would have been enough to kill Coriolus.

But they had only Calliande's magic, and her strength was starting to fail. The effort of maintaining the spell upon the weapons had grown, and she felt a stabbing pain behind her eyes. She could not maintain this pace for much longer.

And even her full strength had not been enough to defeat Coriolus.

She forced herself to summon more magic, trying to think of a way to stop him.

But no ideas came.

###

Morigna flung her full strength at Coriolus, a wave of acidic mist washing over him. The gleaming black plates of his carapace sizzled and crackled, and he screamed in fury, all three of his heads shrieking metallic cries. Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin swarmed beneath the misshapen creature's legs, hacking and stabbing and swinging.

But creature's wounds healed as fast as they could deal them, and not even Kharlacht's heavy sword dealt lasting injuries.

Coriolus was going to kill them all.

Morigna felt herself snarl, her fear replaced by fury. She would not give him the chance to take her flesh, she vowed. She would force him to kill her. He might have murdered her mother and father, might have blighted her entire life with his deceptions. But he would not live on through her body. Let him find another host.

She drew herself up, preparing to fling herself at the creature and attack it with her bare hands, magic crackling around her fists...

Then Ridmark darted around Coriolus and ran to her side.

"Come with me," he said, "now."

"What?" said Morigna. "Why..."

"He wants you," said Ridmark. "Killing us is only secondary. But if he wants you, he'll have to chase you. Run!"

He pushed her forward, and Morigna had no choice but to run. They raced into the inner circle and up the grassy mound, past the menhirs, and back to the altar. Morigna's skin crawled with revulsion at the sight of the thing, at the golden chalice Coriolus had intended to hold her blood.

She heard the furious roar, felt the weight of his gaze as Coriolus realized what had happened.

"Get behind the altar," said Ridmark.

"Why?" said Morigna. "It..."

"Do it!" he said, his voice iron, and she moved behind the altar before she knew what had happened. Ridmark sprang atop the altar, staff and orcish axe in hand, the gray cloak billowing behind him.

"Coriolus!" he shouted. "Coriolus, you cowardly rat! Come here!"

All three of the alien heads rotated to face him, and the creature raced up the mound.

###

Ridmark made himself stand motionless, his expression contemptuous. Every instinct screamed for him to attack the misshapen horror racing up the hill, or to run and flee until his heart burst.

He wondered if Coriolus would hesitate, or if the creature would simply kill him.

But Coriolus hesitated. The Old Man had not survived for all these centuries by taking foolish risks, and Ridmark's actions implied confidence. The creature stopped at the edge of the mound, towering over the altar and Ridmark like a pillar of shadow and talons.

"It's over, Coriolus," said Ridmark.

"Oh?" boomed the creature. The human face embedded in the Eternalist's chest grinned like a madman. "Is it?"

"It is," said Ridmark. "I defeated Agrimnalazur. I slew Gothalinzur. I went to Urd Morlemoch and returned, and defeated the Mhalekites in the shadow of the Black Mountain."

The others scrambled up the mound, ready to attack, but Ridmark waved them away. He saw the exhausted tension on Calliande's face, the battle fury on Kharlacht's. If this went wrong, hopefully they could get away.

"Did you indeed?" said Coriolus. He circled the altar, the ground shaking beneath his clawed feet. Ridmark turned to keep him in sight, sweat trickling down his back. "And why recite this litany to me, gray vagabond?"

"Because," said Ridmark, "you are next."

Coriolus roared with laughter. "Am I? How will you slay me, fool? You have no magic that can kill me. A Soulblade could have slain me, but you are an exile and an outcast."

"This is true," said Ridmark.

"And you, Morigna," said Coriolus, one of his heads pivoting to look at her. "Hiding behind the stone like a little child? Do you think to beg?"

Morigna glared up at him. "I will cut my own throat before I let you touch me again!"

"Actually, there is no need for you to kill yourself," said Ridmark. He eyed Coriolus. Just a little farther... "Coriolus will never touch you again."

"And why is that, hmm?" said Coriolus, circling the altar once more. A hint of impatience had entered his tone. Perhaps he had realized that Ridmark was bluffing. "Because you will slay me?"

"Yes," said Ridmark, watching as Coriolus took another few steps, moving with deadly, serpentine grace despite his armored bulk.

A gloating note entered the inhuman voice. "And how will you do that?"

"Because," said Ridmark, "I know something you don't."

The others stared at him. He saw their tension, their confusion.

"And what," hissed Coriolus, "is that?"

"The menhir at your right," said Ridmark, "isn't actually a menhir."

One of Coriolus's heads turned, while the other two gazed down at him.

Then all three snapped to the right.

"What?" roared Coriolus. "How did you..."

The gray menhir shifted, and resolved into the form of an ancient old man. Rjalfur's golden eyes opened, and the trolldomr started to speak, but Coriolus acted first. His clawed arms came up, and shadows and blue flame erupted from his talons and exploded into Rjalfur with terrible force. A gale of hot wind swept over the standing circle, and Ridmark braced himself, cloak billowing around him.

The glare and the wind faded away, leaving Rjalfur untouched.

Coriolus backed away, his limbs twitching.

"You should not have attacked this one," said Rjalfur, raising his stony hand.

Golden light washed over the hilltop, and Coriolus screamed. The darkness around him unraveled, shredding away like soap dissolving in water. Coriolus's black-armored form shrank, and then he became a gaunt old man in a gray coat once more, trembling with fear and shock, hands raised in a warding spell.

Yet the golden light blazed over him, pinning him in place. Coriolus tried to move, but the golden light held him. He flung an attack of shadows at the trolldomr, but the golden light scattered it like dust.

"Why did you attack this one?" said Rjalfur.

"What did the Gray Knight promise you?" said Coriolus. "What do you want? I can pay you more, I have the ear of Shadowbearer himself, I..."

Rjalfur growled, and for the first time the trolldomr sounded angry. "Do not speak of the bearer of shadow! The Gray Knight gave this one nothing. He did not lift his hand against this one, as you did."

"I...I..." Coriolus sputtered, staring at Rjalfur, and then glared at Ridmark. "He tricked me! He tricked me into attacking you. Strike against him, not me!"

"The Gray Knight only spoke the truth," said Rjalfur. "Long has this one pondered the mystery of humankind. They are mortal and must die, yet some give away their lives freely, even joyfully. Why?"

"You dare not lift your hand against me!" said Coriolus. "You will earn the wroth of Shadowbearer! You..."

"And from you, this one at last understands," said Rjalfur. "It is for love that they sacrifice their lives. Love for their kin, their God, their friends in arms." The burning eyes of gold shifted to Ridmark. "It is why the Gray Knight risks himself again and again, for he believes himself unworthy of the love of his lost wife."

Morigna and Calliande both looked at him, and Ridmark said nothing.

"Listen to me," said Coriolus, "I can..."

"It was for love of him that the others followed the Gray Knights," said the trolldomr, ignoring Coriolus's frantic pleas, "and this one understands you well, disciple of the bearer of shadow. There is no love in you, save for yourself."

"Let me go," said Coriolus, "and I will trouble you no further. I will not lift my hand against you, I..."

"This one will let you go," said Rjalfur, "for the trolldomr do not kill. But you have done terrible evil, Coriolus of the Eternalists. You have used dark magic, and twisted yourself and others. There is no love in your mind, and your heart is blighted. You will not repent, even after this one could have slain you, and you will continue your wicked course until you are at last stopped."

A crafty look came over Coriolus's face. "But you will let me go?" The fear started to fade, and he grinned at Morigna.

"This one will," said Rjalfur. "But you lifted your hand against this one. The trolldomr only fight in self-defense. Therefore this one shall undo the magic you have worked, the crimes you have committed against the song of the earth. All of them."

A surprised hiss went through Morigna's teeth.

"Very well," said Coriolus, still smiling. "I accept. You..."

And then he understood, and his eyes went wide with terror.

"No," he said, "no, no! Stop! Stop! Stop..."

Rjalfur closed his fist, and the sheet of golden light tightened into a blazing shaft that pierced the Old Man's chest.

Coriolus screamed as his spells were unraveled, his wards collapsed.

Including the spell that bound his spirit to his stolen body.

He was already old, but he aged before Ridmark's eyes, fifty years passing in a heartbeat, another fifty a moment after that. The golden light winked out, and Coriolus looked impossibly ancient, his body nothing more than rags of skin draped over bone, a few wisps of hair still clinging to his wrinkled scalp.

He turned toward Morigna, his eyes filled with horror, and took one staggering step.

Then he collapsed onto his back and did not move again, his unblinking eyes gazing at the moons of the night sky.

The green fire of the menhirs faded away, and darkness fell over the hilltop at last.

"You killed him," whispered Morigna, gazing at the withered corpse.

"This one did not," said Rjalfur. "This one merely unraveled the damage he had caused with his dark magic. Some of that damage had extended his life to unnatural length." The trolldomr paused. "It would have been better for him if he had died long ago, before he could darken his soul with so many crimes."

"Yes," said Morigna, "yes, it would have."

"You should learn from his fate, child of dark magic," said Rjalfur. "It could yet be yours."

Morigna scowled, but said nothing.

"Thank you for your aid once again," said Ridmark. "Without it, he would have killed us all."

"Perhaps he was right," said Rjalfur, "and you did trick this one into aiding you."

Ridmark shrugged. "I spoke no word that was untrue. And had he left you alone, you would not have intervened."

But Ridmark had been fairly sure that Coriolus would panic and attack the trolldomr.

And he had been right. It had been a hideous gamble...but he had been right once again.

"This is so," said Rjalfur. "He was the author of his own destruction. Thank you, Gray Knight. You have given this one much to think on."

The trolldomr turned and vanished back into the ground.

Ridmark let out a long breath and turned to the others.

"It seems," said Caius, lowering his mace, "that the Lord has seen fit to grant us victory once again."

"You have the soulstone?" said Ridmark.

Calliande nodded. "Here." She patted the pouch at her belt. "I cannot believe he simply threw it at me."

"As the Gray Knight said," rumbled Kharlacht. "The wizard's arrogance was his undoing."

"That was good work," said Ridmark to Gavin, "untying her."

Gavin shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. And you did tell us to free her if we could."

"We should to return to Moraime now," said Ridmark. "Abbot Ulakhur and Sir Michael will want to know that the undead have been defeated and the farmers can return to their fields."

"In the morning," said Caius. "It has been a long and trying day, and some rest would be welcome."

"Just not here," said Gavin, glancing at the menhirs.

"Agreed," said Calliande, turning toward Morigna. "But we should find your clothes first."

But Morigna had already vanished.

***

## Chapter 23 - Omens

"He died when the trolldomr broke his spell," said Ridmark.

Old Abbot Ulakhur shook his head, his tusks jutting from his white beard like daggers rising from a fall of snow. "An astonishing tale."

"I would scare believe it myself," said Sir Michael, his voice heavy with grief, "if I had not seen the undead for myself. And it explains much of Jonas's...erratic behavior these last few months."

They had reached Moraime by afternoon, and had gone at once to the monastery of St. Cassian. The brothers had escorted them to the abbot's austere study, and there Ulakhur and Michael Vorinus had listened as Ridmark had told them the tale of their fights, with occasional comments from Calliande and the others.

"It was all about us," said Ridmark. "The Old Man was sworn to Shadowbearer, and Shadowbearer wanted Calliande dead for escaping his grasp in the past. The undead were raised to draw me in, and the Old Man prepared his trap for us."

"A wicked plan," said Ulakhur. "Several innocent men and women of Moraime died in the attacks of the undead, and a half-dozen brothers when the undead burst from the crypts below the monastery."

"It is our fault," said Ridmark. "I fear that we brought this evil upon you."

"No," said Michael with some heat, his face angry and flushed behind his beard. "No, it is not. You knew nothing of your peril, and you came to our aid without asking reward, a fact both the Old Man and my wretched brother knew to exploit. The blame is my brother's. He lied to us for years, all while he was plotting with that old sorcerer in the hills and worshipping that demon Intar...Instar..."

"Incariel," said Calliande, voice quiet.

"Yes, that...that thing," said Michael. "My own brother, worshipping that demon in the shadow of our monastery." He shook his head and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Lying to our faces for all those years...God, it makes me furious!"

"Remember, praefectus," said Ulakhur. "Wrath is a sin, and I fear Sir Jonas faces judgment from authority higher than our own."

"Indeed," said Michael. "But those 'merchants' he brought up from Coldinium...assassins of the Red Family? I thought they were but legend. Jonas brought those men to walk around our town, to sleep in our inn..." He sighed, paced back and forth a few times. "Shall we close our gates to all strangers?"

"I would not advise that," said Calliande. "There are many honest men and women in Coldinium, I am sure. But I would exercise great vigilance. The Enlightened seem to be a power in the High King's realm, and they may send men to learn of Sir Jonas's fate. Best to be on your guard."

"We know to do that, at least," said Michael. "Our ancestors left the High King's realm and the High King's protection, so we know how to fend for ourselves. But Jonas and his hired murderers lurked right under our noses."

"Then we shall have to be more vigilant," said Ulakhur.

"Yes," said Calliande, her voice distant. She had slept for centuries beneath the Tower of Vigilance, but the Order of the Vigilant had been destroyed long before she had awakened.

Their vigilance had not been enough.

"You have our thanks, Gray Knight," said Ulakhur. "I assume you shall continue your journey to Urd Morlemoch?" Ridmark nodded. "Then we shall equip you with supplies and horses, whatever you need or require."

"That would be most welcome," said Ridmark. "It is a long way to Urd Morlemoch, and the supplies shall be useful."

"You are of course welcome to stay here, all of you," said Ulakhur, "for as long as you like. In truth, your aid would be welcome. But I doubt I can dissuade you."

"I fear not, lord abbot," said Ridmark. "My mind is set."

"And we mad fools," said Kharlacht, "will follow him."

Ridmark looked at them, at Calliande and Caius and Kharlacht and Gavin, and felt a wave of gratitude. For love of him, Rjalfur had said, they followed him to Urd Morlemoch. He wished they wouldn't, wished he had found a way to persuade them to stay behind.

But he was grateful for their presence nonetheless.

"So be it," said Ulakhur. "I expect you will depart in the morning."

Ridmark nodded. "After a good night's rest."

Michael grunted. "Lord abbot. There is one other matter to discuss."

"Yes." Ulakhur sighed. "The matter of the witch of the hills, the Old Man's apprentice."

"What of her?" said Ridmark.

"Do you know where she is?" said Ulakhur.

"No," said Ridmark. "She fled as soon as Coriolus was slain." He was not sure why. Perhaps the death of the Old Man had been too much for her, and she would vanish into the Wilderland, preferring a life far away from humans and orcs and dwarves or anyone else.

"Suspicious," said Michael.

"You suspect her further?" said Calliande. "Most likely Coriolus arranged your brother's death. He used that stone circle for his ritual, and it would not surprise me if he commanded the urvaalg to kill Sir Nathan."

"No," said Michael. "I fear I did her an injustice, but only in that. The Old Man was responsible for Nathan's death, the cruel bastard." He took a deep breath. "But from this day forward Morigna is forbidden from ever setting foot in Moraime again."

"Why?" said Ridmark.

"She was hardly welcome before this," said Calliande, a touch of anger in her voice. Ridmark had not expected Calliande to speak in Morigna's defense.

"Indeed not," said Ulakhur, "but I fear we must think of the town. She is dangerous."

"She helped defeat Coriolus," said Calliande.

"The Old Man trained her," said Ulakhur. "Trained and shaped her from youth. To be a vessel to save his soul from its inevitable and well-deserved damnation, but a mirror image of himself nonetheless. To be blunt, I fear her, and I fear what she may yet become."

"Does not the Dominus Christus forgive all who repent?" said Caius with a frown.

"He does," said Ulakhur, "but I suspect Morigna will not repent."

"It is your decision," said Ridmark, though it annoyed him, "and we have no right to gainsay it." Morigna had been deceived all her life, yet for all that she was brave, facing the undead and the dvargir both without flinching. She deserved more than this.

But perhaps she knew it had been inevitable. Perhaps she had gone off into the Wilderland to make a new life for herself elsewhere, free from the dark burden of her past.

Ridmark wished her well.

"So be it, then," said Calliande, though Ridmark could tell she was not pleased.

"Very well," said the abbot. "Please, join us in the hall tonight for dinner before you continue your journey."

"We shall be glad of it," said Ridmark, "but first we must warn you."

"Of what?" said Michael. "The dvargir? Did the Old Man have another student?"

"No," said Ridmark. "The Frostborn."

Both the abbot and the praefectus looked at him in silence.

"They are returning," said Ridmark. "I don't know how yet. If I return from Urd Morlemoch, hopefully I can tell you more. But they are returning, and Moraime and the monastery of St. Cassian must be ready."

"The Frostborn were destroyed," said Michael, but there was doubt in his voice. "By the Dragon Knight and the Keeper of Avalon, two and a half centuries ago."

"Once I would have agreed with you," said Ridmark. "But I have seen too much. I have heard urdmordar speak of their return. The Warden himself was certain of it. And Coriolus said that they would return, that the Enlightened of Incariel are involved somehow, that a new order is rising and the Frostborn are the heralds of it."

"Coriolus was a lair," said Ulakhur.

"He was," said Calliande, "but he acted as if the Frostborn were returning, my lord abbot."

Ulakhur and Michael shared another look.

"You have persuaded me, Gray Knight," said Ulakhur. "We shall be vigilant." Calliande stirred at the word. "We shall keep watch for any sign, any sign at all, of the return of the Frostborn, and if we have news we will send it to you at once."

"Thank you," said Ridmark. He was glad they believed him. No one in the realm of Andomhaim had. "But do not send news to me. This is the one thing I ask of you, lord abbot, save for the supplies. If you learn of the Frostborn, send word to the realm of Andomhaim. To the Dux of the Northerland, Gareth of the House of the Licinii. Or to my father, Dux Leogrance Arban of Taliand. They will both listen and prepare."

"We shall," said Ulakhur, "do as you ask, I swear it. Is there anything else you would ask of us?"

"Only," said Ridmark, "a meal and a bed."

###

That night Calliande returned alone to the women's guest cottage and took a bath, enjoying the hot water as she scrubbed away the grime of their journey through the marshes and the Deeps.

She wondered what had happened to Morigna. Part of her was relieved the sorceress had departed. She was dangerous, and Calliande feared the effect she would have on Ridmark. He was prone to grim, fatalistic moods, to throwing his life away to atone for the death of his wife five years past. She could only imagine the effect Morigna would have upon him when he was in one of his dark moods.

Another part of her felt guilty over her relief. Morigna was prickly and unpleasant, but the Old Man had done that to her. Coriolus had indeed twisted her life, lying to her every day for over fourteen years. No one deserved that.

And a small part of her, a very small part, whispered that it was good Morigna had left, that she would not draw Ridmark's attention away from Calliande...

She rebuked herself for the thought. For all Calliande knew, she had a husband sleeping below another ruin of the Order of the Vigilant. And Ridmark was mourning for his dead wife. If she walked up to him and kissed him this very night, she knew he would gently push her away and say something polite, all while his blue eyes took on the pained look they gained whenever he thought of Aelia.

Calliande shoved aside the tangle of emotions with disgust. The Frostborn were returning, and such maudlin ruminations were a wasteful luxury. She finished her bath and went to bed, sighing as she pulled the warm blankets close.

It might be a long time before she could sleep in a proper bed once more.

Calliande slept, and the Watcher appeared in the gray mist of her dreams.

"Watcher," said Calliande.

The old man smiled at her. As ever, he looked tired and sad. But there was a gleam of something in his eye that had not seen there before.

Hope, maybe?

"You have done it again, Calliande," said the Watcher. "Coriolus was one of the strongest Eternalists, and the list of his crimes would have filled many books. You did well to stand against him."

"I thought," said Calliande, "that you wanted me to stop interfering with the problems of others, to devote myself to finding Dragonfall."

The Watcher shook his head. "I still wish that. But you are who you are, Calliande. You could no more turn aside from someone in need than a river could choose to flow uphill. And the Eternalists were a blight upon the realm, a precursor of the Enlightened of Incariel. To rid the world of Coriolus's evil was a noble deed."

"It was Ridmark's victory, not mine," said Calliande. "He talked the trolldomr into aiding us, and he fooled Coriolus into striking against Rjalfur." They had survived by only the thinnest of threads, but once again Ridmark had snatched victory from certain defeat, just as he had done in Urd Arowyn against Agrimnalazur.

Just as he had done against Mhalek and his horde before Calliande had even met him.

"Perhaps," said the Watcher, "but he could not have done it without you."

"I suppose not," said Calliande. "But if not for him, Vlazur would have killed me upon the Black Mountain. Or Shadowbearer's kobolds would have slain me at the ford of the Moradel."

"I would not have wished," said the Watcher, "for your fate to have become entangled with such a man, but so be it."

"Why?" said Calliande, growing angry. "Because of his coward's brand? He does not deserve that and you know it."

"Because he seeks death," said the Watcher. "And he might bring you to your death as well. Freeing the villagers of Aranaeus and defeating Coriolus were noble deeds, yes, and you should not regret them. But if you are slain, there will be no one to stop the Frostborn from returning."

Calliande made an exasperated noise. "Then just tell me where Dragonfall is already."

The Watcher closed his eyes. "I cannot, because..."

"Because I forbade it of you, before I went into the long sleep below the Tower," said Calliande. She thought for a moment. "Why?"

The Watcher blinked. "Mistress?"

"Why?" said Calliande. "Why did I forbid you to tell me of my past when I awoke? It was a foolish and stupid thing to do. Can I rescind my command?"

"Not until you find Dragonfall and claim your staff," said the Watcher.

"A stupid plan," said Calliande, rubbing her forehead. "But...I must have thought that when I woke up, the Order of the Vigilant would still be there. I thought someone would be there to tell me what to do, where to go, how to find Dragonfall and my staff." She looked back at the Watcher. "But the war of the Pendragon princes burned the Tower...and you told me that Shadowbearer instigated that war."

The Watcher nodded.

"As he created the Eternalists and the Enlightened of Incariel," said Calliande.

Again the Watcher nodded.

"Why?" said Calliande.

"To kill you and destroy the Order of the Vigilant," said the Watcher.

"But why?" said Calliande. "My death is the means to an end, but what is the end? What does he seek?"

"You forbade me to tell you," said the Watcher.

"I know," said Calliande, thinking hard. "The Frostborn. It has something to do with the Frostborn. He knows I would try to stop the Frostborn from returning. So that is why he is trying to kill me, why he destroyed the Order of the Vigilant. He wants the Frostborn to return."

The Watcher said nothing. He often did that when Calliande had reasoned something out on her own, something that was true but that he could not confirm.

And all at once, it clicked.

"And that is why," said Calliande. "My lost memory...it has something Shadowbearer needs or fears. Some power, some spell, some knowledge of magic. Something he would either destroy...or claim and wield for himself." She felt her hands curl into fists. "That is why I removed my memories. They hold dangerous knowledge, and I was afraid that Shadowbearer would claim them and kill me the moment I woke up. He tried to do it, too, when he found me at the Tower."

"You removed your memory, mistress," said the Watcher, "for good and proper reasons."

"Which means that in my memory," said Calliande, "is either the means to defeat Shadowbearer...or to allow the Frostborn to return."

Again the Watcher said nothing, and suddenly red light flared in the gray mists.

"Shadowbearer," said the Watcher. "He must have learned of Coriolus's death. Now that Coriolus has failed, he will send new servants after you...and ones more dangerous than the Eternalist. You must be ready, Calliande. You must find Dragonfall and reclaim your staff. Only then can you hope to prevail against Shadowbearer. Though as you draw nearer to Urd Morlemoch, you may gain a respite from Shadowbearer's servants."

"Why?" said Calliande, watching the blood-colored light flare and burn in the depths of the mists.

"Because," said the Watcher, "the only thing Shadowbearer fears more than your memory is the Warden of Urd Morlemoch."

Calliande sank into a dreamless sleep then, but did not feel rested when she awoke the next morning.

###

Ridmark walked through the western gate of Moraime and looked behind him.

The town seemed peaceful behind its walls, the monastery of St. Cassian standing atop its crag. He hoped it would remain that way.

But he knew it would not. The Frostborn were returning, and if they were not stopped, the world would freeze even as the cities of men burned.

Still, for now, Moraime was safe, and the undead would trouble it no further.

"Are donkeys all such stubborn beasts?" said Gavin, grumbling as he tugged at the reins of their baggage train. Michael had given them a pack train of eight donkeys, laden with food and useful supplies. The beasts would slow their progress, unfortunately. But the further west they went, the harder it would be to find supplies. And in the spell-haunted wastes of the Torn Hills in the shadow of Urd Morlemoch's towers, there was no food or drink to be had. At least none that was safe for mortal men to consume.

Ridmark remembered that well.

"I fear so," said Caius. "Donkeys are stubborn and willful beasts, and require a strong hand and firm discipline. Much like mortal men in our fallen state."

"You would turn everything into a sermon," said Kharlacht.

"Our eyes must be ever toward God," said Caius.

"True," said Kharlacht, "but you could give the boy some useful advice."

"Such as?" said Caius.

"That donkeys bite."

Gavin jerked forward as the donkey's teeth snapped shut a few inches from his arm, and Kharlacht and Caius laughed, while Calliande smiled and shook her head.

"Where is the path now, Ridmark?" said Calliande.

"Northwest," he said, pointing. In that direction rolled the fields and pastures of the townsmen of Moraime, but beyond them rose the dense and ancient forests of the Wilderland. "We'll pass through the forests, and then come to the foothills of the mountains of the Three Kingdoms. Perhaps we'll see some kindred of yours, Caius."

"Pagan orcs raiding down from Kothluusk is more likely," said Kharlacht.

"Then onto the Torn Hills, haunted by the ghosts and spells of battles long past," said Ridmark. "Another three weeks, I think, and we shall see the walls of Urd Morlemoch."

And then at last he would have some answers.

Or the Warden would kill them all.

"Then may God lend our limbs strength and speed," said Caius, "for our cause is just."

"Let us hope he sends us warm beds and dry roads as well," said Kharlacht.

"Come," said Ridmark, and he led the way from Moraime.

***

## Chapter 24 - Ravens

Thirty-seven days after it began, thirty-seven days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark rose from his blanket, walked past the smoldering coals of their dying campfire, and looked at the morning sky through the gap in the trees overhead.

He stared at the sky for a while, watching and listening. He heard Caius rise, the dwarven friar beginning to sing the twenty-third Psalm in Latin as he did every morning.

A little later he heard the rustling as Caius's singing woke the others, as Gavin started to prepare breakfast. Then he felt a presence next to him.

"What is it?" said Calliande, looking at the sky. "Birds?"

Ridmark nodded and watched the black speck circling overhead.

"Just birds?" said Calliande, flexing her fingers. "Not wyverns? Drakes? Or, God forbid, an urdhracos?"

"No," said Ridmark. "Ravens, in fact."

Calliande frowned.

"I think," said Ridmark, "we shall have a visitor today."

"Perhaps we should move, then," said Calliande.

"No need," said Ridmark. "With her spells, she could find us anyway. To say nothing of Caius's singing."

"Perhaps we should convince him of the virtues of silent prayer," said Calliande.

Ridmark laughed, and a surprised smile spread over Calliande's face. "Perhaps. But, for now, it is no use. We have been found. And I am curious to see what she shall do when she shows herself."

They broke camp and continued northwest, making their way through the trackless forest of the Wilderland. Few dwelled in this part of the Wilderland. The forest often served as a battleground between the orcs of Vhaluusk and the orcs of Kothluusk and the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms, and the creatures of the dark elves lurked in the trees, ready to feast upon the unwary. There were entrances into the Deeps, and old, undead-haunted ruins left from many ancient wars.

But for now the trees were quiet, and the late spring weather was pleasant and mild.

Ridmark saw a raven fly overhead and perch upon a tree, and raised his hand for a halt. The others stopped, Gavin muttering threats at the donkeys, and Ridmark looked at the raven. The bird gazed back at him with an unblinking black eye.

"You may as well come out," said Ridmark. "I know you're there."

For a moment nothing moved.

Then Morigna appeared from behind one of the trees. She wore her previous costume of leather and wool, a dagger and a variety of pouches at her belt. In her right hand she carried a long staff that had been carved with a number of odd sigils. Her black hair had been pulled back by a ring of bone, and her black eyes were stark in her pale face.

She stopped a dozen paces away from Ridmark and took a deep breath.

As if she was nervous.

###

Morigna stared at Ridmark Arban.

She could not tell if he was glad to see her or not. His hard face gave away nothing, his cold blue eyes unblinking. Caius seemed pleased to see her, and Kharlacht indifferent. Gavin alternated between scowling at her and at the donkeys.

She was reasonably certain that Calliande was not happy to see her.

"How did you know that I was following you?" said Morigna.

"Your ravens," said Ridmark.

"There are many ravens in the forest," said Morigna.

"This is true," said Ridmark. "It is also true that the same raven tends not to fly in a circle over a group of travelers over and over again."

Morigna sighed. "One would suppose that rather gave the game away."

"And what game is that?" said Ridmark. "I assume you followed us for a reason?"

Morigna hesitated, trying to find the words for what she wished to say.

"Is it because of what happened in Moraime?" said Calliande. Morigna still did not like the woman, but found that she could respect the Magistria. Few would have had the strength to survive that long in a battle of spells with the Old Man, but Calliande had.

"What happened in Moraime?" said Morigna. "Did the Old Man work some evil there before Rjalfur slew him?"

"No," said Calliande. "Abbot Ulakhur and the praefectus have forbidden you from the town."

Morigna nodded, indifferent. "No matter. I have no desire to return to Moraime for any reason."

"Then what do you want?" said Ridmark.

"I..." Morigna opened her mouth, closed it, and started speaking. "I left the hill, after Coriolus died, because...I did not know what to do next. It was all...simply too much."

"That is understandable," said Caius.

Morigna did not want sympathy from him or anyone. "I intended to leave Vhaluusk entirely, to make my way across the realm and see it with my own eyes. I know how to hunt and move through the wilderness, and with my magic I can go anywhere I wish."

Ridmark nodded. "So why didn't you?"

Again Morigna did not know how to answer.

"Because," said Calliande, her voice quiet, "you are lost. You trusted Coriolus for most of your life, and he betrayed you."

"I am not lost," snapped Morigna. She would be damned before she would show weakness before Calliande. Though all of Ridmark's companions had seen her naked and tied to that altar. How much more weakness could she show than that? "I know exactly where I am."

"But you are uncertain," said Ridmark, "of what to do next."

"Yes," said Morigna. "I thought about retreating into the Wilderland, but I confess the life of a hermit holds no appeal for me."

"This from a woman who spent years living in the marshes?" said Ridmark.

"I prefer to spend most of my time alone," said Morigna, "but that does not mean I never wish to hear another voice."

"Then I suppose you have a chance that few ever receive," said Calliande, "to make of your life whatever you will."

"If you like," said Ridmark, "I could write to the Dux of the Northerland, and ask him to find you a place."

Morigna said nothing. She had hoped that he would ask her to come with him, but he would not ask anyone to come with him, believing that he would die on the journey to Urd Morlemoch. Likely Calliande and the others had invited themselves along.

"That is...that is kind," said Morigna, "but when I said I did not know what to do next, I was not entirely truthful. There is something I must do first. I have a debt I must pay."

"To who?" said Ridmark.

He truly didn't know? "To you."

"You owe me nothing," said Ridmark.

"You saved my life," said Morigna, "and you defeated Coriolus."

"Rjalfur did that," said Ridmark.

"The trolldomr would have done nothing but philosophize and watch as Coriolus possessed me," said Morigna, "had you not intervened." She shook her head. "You didn't have to help me, either. You could have continued to Urd Morlemoch, and no one would have blamed you. Instead you came back for me." She swallowed and forced herself to say the next words. The Old Man would have believed them an admission of weakness...but he was dead and she was not. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," said Ridmark.

"I would not stand by and let an Eternalist possess an innocent victim," said Calliande.

Kharlacht shrugged. "Where the Gray Knight goes, I follow." Caius and Gavin nodded their agreement.

"And this is how I shall repay my debt to you," said Morigna. "I will come with you, and help you succeed in your task."

Ridmark met her eyes, and she forced herself not to look away. Odd that his gaze had such an effect on her.

"You know where I am going," said Ridmark. "Even Coriolus was frightened of Urd Morlemoch, and in this if nothing else, he was right. There is a very good chance the Warden will kill us all."

"I know this," said Morigna. She lifted her chin. "You face certain death, this is so. But with my help...perhaps you will have a chance of survival."

A ghost of a smile appeared on his hard face. "Miniscule."

"Indeed," said Morigna.

"You are set on this, then?" said Ridmark.

Morigna nodded.

Ridmark sighed. "I set out for Urd Morlemoch alone, and now I have a...a..."

"Party," said Caius.

"Warband," said Kharlacht.

"Retainers," said Gavin.

Calliande smiled. "Friends."

"So be it," said Ridmark. "One condition, though. You will do as I say, and you will not instigate fights with the others. Is this understood?"

"Those are two conditions, but they are understood," said Morigna. Though if she had to act for Ridmark's own good without his knowledge, Morigna had no qualms about that.

"Very well," said Ridmark. "One question. What is that staff? You didn't have it before."

"I made it," said Morigna, "some time ago, from the wood of an elderoak. The high elves, the Old Man told me, could make staves from the wood with magical properties. He took the staff when I made it, claiming it was dangerous, but I know that was a lie. With it, I suspect I will have command over trees and perhaps even items of wood."

"That could be useful," said Kharlacht, "when facing bowmen."

"Indeed," said Ridmark. He glanced at the sky. "Let us be on our way. Even with the pack beasts, we should be able to make another eight miles today."

He led the way, and the others followed. Morigna fell in with them, and Calliande nodded at her. She nodded back, the staff smooth and cool against her fingers. She would repay her debt, she vowed. She would see Ridmark safely into Urd Morlemoch and back, to continue his quest against the Frostborn.

She would find enough power to make it so.

###

Ridmark considered their new companion as he walked.

Morigna was dangerous, but they were going to a dangerous place. And if they were to go into Urd Morlemoch and succeed in wresting any knowledge from the Warden, Ridmark would need help.

He would have gone alone, had he the power to manage it...but it seemed the he did not.

And for all that, he was grateful for the others nonetheless.

They walked on through the forest, drawing ever closer to the Torn Hills and Urd Morlemoch beyond them.

***

## Epilogue

Tarrabus of the House of the Carhainii, Dux of Caerdracon, stood upon the dais in the great hall of the Iron Tower and listened as the assassin Rotherius gave his report.

Other than Tarrabus and Rotherius, there were two other men in the hall. The first wore the armor of a knight of Andomhaim, gleaming steel plate beneath a surcoat adorned with the heraldry of Caerdracon, a black dragon's head upon a field of blue. He had black eyes and brown hair and mustache he styled and trimmed every day. Sir Paul Tallmane was both the Constable of the Iron Tower and a fool. Nonetheless, he was loyal fool, and had no qualms about doing whatever Tarrabus asked of him, no matter how bloody. He was much like the Iron Tower itself, Tarrabus mused – the castra was far from Caerdracon, but Tarrabus had put it to good use.

The Enlightened of Incariel housed many of their secrets, treasures, and useful prisoners within the Iron Tower's vaults.

"And that was it," said Rotherius, kneeling before the dais. The Red Brother had removed his skull mask, and beneath it he had a narrow face beneath a tangle of graying yellow hair. "The fool Jonas led nearly all my brothers to their deaths. I returned to report our failure to the Matriarch, and she bade me to bear the news to you, my lords."

Tarrabus held Rotherius's gaze for a moment, and then looked to the second man.

Of course, the second man wasn't really a man at all.

The high elf wore black boots, trousers and tunic beneath a long, black-trimmed coat the color of blood. His skin was the grayish-white of a corpse, and black veins throbbed beneath his hands and face, like fingers of corruption digging into rotting flesh. His bloodshot eyes were the color of mercury, of quicksilver, and whenever Tarrabus looked in his direction, he saw his distorted reflection in the irises of the high elf's eyes.

The creature had many names, but Tarrabus's father had called the high elven wizard Shadowbearer, and Tarrabus used that name. It had been Tarrabus's father, the Dux Samothus Carhaine, who had introduced Tarrabus to both Shadowbearer and the teachings of the Enlightened of Incariel. The strong would rule over the weak, Samothus had said, and Tarrabus would be strong, not matter how cruel the lessons, no matter how much torment it took.

Or else.

But Tarrabus had learned his father's lessons well.

So well, in fact, that he had murdered the old tyrant and taken the title of Dux of Caerdracon himself shortly before Mhalek's invasion of the Northerland. His father had been right. The old faith and the old morality were deluding lies, and the strong ruled and the weak suffered. Tarrabus had never doubted this, never wavered in his faith in the new order.

Except for when he spoke to Aelia Licinius and watched her tend to the orphans and widows of Castra Marcaine.

She had made him question.

His sword hand curled into a fist. Even now, after five years, he still felt pain and rage at her death.

She never should have married Ridmark Arban. The wretched Swordbearer had been too weak to save her, in the end.

"You are displeased, my lord Dux?"

Shadowbearer's strange voice was deeper and more resonant than any human voice, yet carried a strange, reverberating echo. As if two voices were trying to speak through the same mouth at once.

Tarrabus realized that his thoughts were wandering, that a scowl had come over his face, and he smoothed his expression back to calm. He was the Dux of Caerdracon, and the Dux did not show his emotions before lesser men.

As did the High King. And within the next two years, Tarrabus Carhaine would be High King of the realm of Andomhaim, once the decrepit Pendragon and his foolish sons had been consigned to the grave.

The first steps had already been taken.

"No," said Tarrabus, turning his mind to the task at hand, "no, I am not displeased."

"You are not, lord Dux?" said Rotherius. "The Red Family failed to kill the exile."

"Disappointed, if not surprised," said Tarrabus, descending from the dais toward one of the hearths. It was cold this far north, even in the end of the spring. "The exile is a formidable foe, even without a Soulblade. Perhaps you are fortunate to be alive at all."

Rotherius scowled. "Aye, my lord Dux. That trickery with the marsh gas...clever business. But fear not, my lord. Ridmark Arban has slain too many of our brothers. He has earned the lasting enmity of the Red Family, and the Matriarch has decreed that we shall hunt him down." He paused. "With no additional charge to you, my lord Dux."

"How very gracious," said Tarrabus, his voice dry. "Go about your business."

Rotherius bowed and left the hall of the Iron Tower. Tarrabus stood in silence for a moment, Paul waiting at his right hand. A distant, faint scream rang out from the depths of the Tower's dungeons. The Enlightened of Incariel kept many prisoners here, those too useful to kill. Many of Tarrabus's personal enemies had ended up in the dungeons below the fortress

Given that he was the Initiated of the Seventh Circle of the Enlightened, his enemies were their enemies.

"I thought you said," said Tarrabus, "that this wretched Eternalist of yours would prove more than a match for Ridmark and Calliande."

"I did," said Shadowbearer, walking from the dais. "Alas, it seems my faith was misplaced. Victory was in his hand...and then he neglected to pay his hirelings. A simple, foolish, spiteful mistake, but enough to ruin all."

"Now what?" said Tarrabus. "We must have that empty soulstone for the new order to arise. Otherwise the next opportunity will not arrive for another century and a half." He fully intended to be alive then, of course, but he had no wish to wait that long. "Can't you simply find another?"

"No," murmured Shadowbearer, his shadow pointing in the wrong direction as he approached. "I barely stole that one from the caverns of Cathair Solas. Ardrhythain will not allow the lapse again. It must be the soulstone Calliande carries."

"You should have killed her yourself," said Tarrabus, "when you had the chance."

Paul flinched. No one else would dare to speak to Shadowbearer like that. But the Enlightened of Incariel were Tarrabus's to command, and he would soon be the High King of Andomhaim. He would not display weakness before anyone, not even Shadowbearer himself.

"Plainly," said Shadowbearer. Paul let out a relieved sigh. "Even I am not infallible, Tarrabus Carhaine." He looked to the east. "Not yet, anyway. Alas, at the time Ardrhythain was hunting for me, and this would be a most inconvenient time to die. He continues his hunt for me, and I must move on."

"Here?" said Tarrabus. "He is coming here?"

A ripple went through the ancient wizard's shadow.

"Indeed," said Shadowbearer, "and you will be glad that I shall lure him elsewhere, for the battle between us would turn the Iron Tower to smoking slag. But fear not. I shall return, and there is yet a year to open the way."

Without another word, he turned and disappeared in a swirl of darkness.

"The wizard is...mercurial," said Paul at last.

"He is," said Tarrabus. "And we must have that soulstone, Sir Paul. The new order cannot arise without it. Ridmark Arban will die for his crimes, of course, and we shall dispose of that...tattered anachronism that calls herself Calliande. But all things in due time." Ridmark had spent five years warning of the return of the Frostborn. Let him see the depths of his failure. Let him know the utter dregs of final despair before death. "But first we must have the soulstone."

"But how, my lord Dux?" said Paul. "If Shadowbearer fears to confront Calliande, and his minions have failed to overcome Ridmark...how shall we obtain the soulstone?"

"Main force has failed," said Tarrabus, "so the soulstone shall be stolen away."

Paul frowned. "That would require the skill of a master thief."

"Yes." Tarrabus glanced at his right hand, where his signet ring had once been. "And I know just where to find one."

Another scream rang out from the dungeons.

THE END

Thank you for reading FROSTBORN OMNIBUS ONE. If you liked the books, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice.

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***

## Bonus Chapter from FROSTBORN: THE MASTER THIEF

An excerpt from the chronicles of the High Kings of Andomhaim:

In the Year of Our Lord 538, Malahan Pendragon and the Keeper of Avalon led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon's realm through a magical gate to a new world, a world far from the reach of the heathen Saxons. Here Malahan founded the new realm of Andomhaim and raised his citadel at Tarlion, and in time his new kingdom spread far and wide.

And the knights of Andomhaim encountered the kindreds of this new world, the orcs and the manetaur, the dark elves and the dvargir, and waged many wars against them.

Yet not all the kindreds they encountered were foes.

For the orcs and the dark elves kept the halflings as slaves. Slender and short of stature, the halflings were nimble and stealthy, yet lacked the strength of men and orcs and dwarves. Therefore they were easily enslaved, and the pagan kings of the orcs kept vast numbers of halflings to toil in their fields and serve in their citadels.

Yet the High King overthrew the orcish kings of Khaluusk. And in joy and gratitude, the halflings of Khaluusk swore solemn oaths to the High King and his nobles, to serve forever as free servants in their fields and houses. Thus were the men of Andomhaim free to pursue war against the many foes that threatened them.

And so the halflings joyfully labor for their masters to this day, grateful to serve their liberators.
CHAPTER 1 - WINGS

Forty-one days after it began, forty-one days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban moved alone through the forest.

Something felt wrong, and he wanted to have a look around.

The forest was quiet, the gray light of dawn just brightening the trees. It was the end of spring and the beginning of summer, and new green leaves whispered in the breeze. He moved in silence through the trees, his boots making no sound against the forest floor, his heavy staff ready in his right hand. The forest was quiet, but it did not mean it would stay that way. Warbands of pagan orcs might come down from the hills of Vhaluusk to the north or the mountains of Kothluusk to the west. Packs of lupivirii prowled the forest, and bands of dvargir and kobolds raided from the Deeps in search of captives and loot.

And there were older dangers in the woods. The wild forest had been the site of many wars over the centuries, battles amongst the tribes of orcs, between the orcs and the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms, between the men of Andomhaim and the urdmordar.

Between the men of Andomhaim and the Frostborn.

Ridmark looked northwest. He saw nothing but trees in that direction, trees and boulders and fallen leaves.

But he knew what waited for him to the northwest. The spell-haunted Torn Hills and the massive ruined citadel of Urd Morlemoch, the fortress rising like a tower of bones jutting from the earth. The undead Warden, ancient and mighty and cruel.

And the answer Ridmark had sought for so long.

The secret of the return of the Frostborn.

But he could not learn the secret if some creature in the forest killed him first.

So Ridmark kept going, remaining watchful.

Something uneasy rattled in his mind. Of course, he was never at ease, not really. Not since the day he had pursued Mhalek to the great hall of Castra Marcaine, had seen Aelia's blood spill upon the black and white tiles of the hall...

He pushed that out of his mind. This was not the time to dwell upon it.

Given that a more immediate danger might lie at hand.

Ridmark had spent the last five years wandering from one end of the Wilderland to another, seeking answers about the Frostborn and finding very little. Yet he had grown familiar with the forests of the Wilderland, and this one felt wrong.

Too quiet, and no sign of any animals. Ridmark could think of any number of reasons for that, and none of them were good. The creatures of the dark elves haunted the woods, urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things. If Ridmark encountered one, he would die. He had no weapon that could harm a creature of dark magic. Once he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden into battle, but he had lost that, too, through his own folly. Though there were any number of more mundane predators that would frighten away animals – fire drakes, swamp drakes, wyverns, manticores, and others.

He stopped and stood in silence, listening.

Perhaps he was simply being paranoid.

But he had not survived this long by ignoring his instincts, and his instincts told him that something was wrong.

Ridmark needed a better look around, and he knew where to find one.

He moved at a quick, silent run through the trees, weaving around boulders as the ground grew rockier. The terrain sloped upward, and the trees cleared to reveal a tall, stony hill jutting from the earth. Atop the hill rose a half-ruined tower of rough stone. Ridmark had no idea who had built it. Perhaps an orcish war chief had used it as a stronghold. Or maybe a group of fleeing dwarves had constructed it as a hasty, temporary refuge. Or perhaps the knights of Andomhaim had raised it in the past as a stronghold against the dark elves or the urdmordar or the Frostborn.

But whoever had built the tower had been dead for centuries, and it stood abandoned atop the hill. Yet its crumbling shell still had a commanding view of the surrounding forest.

Ridmark made his way up the path to the top of the hill, staff ready in his hand. The tower had been abandoned when he had last passed here, but someone or something might have claimed occupancy since. Yet the tower remained undisturbed. Flowering bushes grew around its base, and the interior was empty. Half-rotted timbers slumped against the walls, covered with lichen and mushrooms, and a rough stone staircase wound its way to the tower's top. Ridmark climbed the stairs, taking care to keep his balance upon the uneven stones. It would be a grim joke to have survived Urd Morlemoch, two female urdmordar, a renegade Eternalist, and a crazed orcish shaman only to trip and break his neck upon a loose step.

He reached the tower's top and found that he could see for miles, the green forest spreading like a mottled carpet over the ground. To the northeast he saw the distant grim shapes of the mountains of Vhaluusk. Kharlacht had shown little interest in ever returning to his homeland, and having visited, Ridmark could not blame him. To the west he glimpsed the massive, white-crowned shapes of the mountains of Kothluusk. The pagan orcs of Kothluusk lived among the vales and slopes of those mountains, while the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms maintained their fortresses beneath the mountains, forever at war with the orcs.

And to the northwest, Ridmark just made out a faint white haze.

The mist rolling through the spell-ravaged lands of the Torn Hills, haunted by spirits and urvaalgs and worse things.

Urd Morlemoch waited beyond those hills.

It was not much farther now. Another ten days to Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark thought. Then they could enter the ruined citadel and confront the Warden. For all his power and magic, the Warden was imprisoned within Urd Morlemoch, and the Warden was bored. He enjoyed games, lethal, cruel games. Ridmark had survived one of the Warden's games, and he thought he could so again.

Just as he had thought he could save Aelia from Mhalek.

Ridmark stood motionless, watching the sun rise.

There was no sign of anything unusual.

Then why did he feel so ill at ease?

Ridmark scratched as the stubble on his jaw in irritation, and then started back down the tower. It was past time to get back to camp. He had left Kharlacht on watch, and he trusted the orcish warrior. But Brother Caius would soon rise to greet the dawn by singing the twenty-third Psalm, as was his custom. Morigna would complain at the noise, and she and Gavin might start quarreling. Calliande would take Gavin's side, and the entire thing would degenerate into an argument.

If not for his presence, Ridmark suspected, his companions would all be at each other's throats within a day.

A flicker of guilt went through him. They followed him. He had saved each of them at one point or another, and in gratitude they would follow him to Urd Morlemoch. He wished he could have dissuaded them, convinced them to remain behind.

Especially Calliande.

Ridmark reached the base of the tower and stopped. A flash of color caught his eye among the gray stones of the tower's foundation. Staff ready in hand, he stepped closer. A small green bush flowered at the foot of the tower, dotted with deep red berries.

He blinked in surprise, went to one knee next to the bush, and plucked one of the berries. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, and then put the berry into his mouth. Surprise flooded through him at the sweet taste, and he smiled.

Well. He had expected to find an urvaalg or a next of rock drakes, not this. Ridmark drew a dagger and cut the berries from the bush, securing them in a pouch. He straightened up and looked around one final time.

It still seemed too quiet.

The sooner he returned to camp, the sooner they could depart, and hopefully leave behind whatever was making his instincts twitch.

He started down the hill.

###

Calliande tended the campfire, lost in thought.

To her surprise, she knew how to make a fire. As it happened, she knew how to do a great many things. She knew how to tend to the donkeys Sir Michael Vorinus had given them. She knew how to treat wounds, how to use herbs and roots to make medicines to treat numerous illnesses. She could speak Latin and orcish and the dark elven tongue, among other languages.

And she knew how to wield the magic of the Magistri, how to heal and ward and drive back creatures of darkness.

But she could remember learning none of those things.

She remembered nothing that had happened before the last forty-one days, before the day the blue fire had filled the sky. Before she had awakened in the vault below the Tower of Vigilance, alone in the silent darkness.

A Tower that had been burned and abandoned ninety years past.

Calliande had no idea how old she was.

She didn't even know who she was.

But she had learned some things. A spirit called the Watcher spoke in her dreams, giving her what counsel he could. She needed to find her staff at a place called Dragonfall, and once she found the staff she could recover her memories. And she had to recover her staff and her memories, because without them she could not stop the return of the Frostborn. It was her responsibility, her duty, and she would not flinch from it.

That was why she followed Ridmark to Urd Morlemoch. The Warden had warned him about the omen of blue flame, nine years before it had happened. The Warden would know how the Frostborn would return and how to stop them.

And if they learned how to stop the Frostborn, then perhaps Calliande could find Dragonfall, her staff, and her true identity.

She moved alone through the camp, humming quietly to herself as she tended to the donkeys. Ridmark had gone to scout alone, as he often did. The others had been concerned about leaving Calliande alone in the camp, but she had calmed their fears. In truth, with her magic, she had a better chance of defending herself than did the others.

Especially if Shadowbearer came for her.

Her humming faltered as a chill went down her spine, and her hand strayed to the pouch at her belt that held the empty soulstone. Shadowbearer had tried to kill her and bind her power within that soulstone. Ridmark had saved her from that, but Shadowbearer and his servants had pursued her and the soulstone. Her friends were brave, but they could not stand against the power of Shadowbearer's magic.

Even Calliande could not stand against the wrath of Shadowbearer's spells.

At least if he came for her this morning, she would be alone.

"Morbid thought," muttered Calliande.

Well, work was the best cure for worry. She brushed down the donkeys and made sure they were fed, and then turned to the fire. Kharlacht and Morigna were confident they could bring back a deer, and the fresh venison would be welcome. Still, they had an ample supply of sausages from Moraime, and Calliande could fry them up with the mushrooms Gavin had found last night.

She turned back to the donkeys, intending to retrieve a pan, and Ridmark appeared out of nowhere.

The man could move like a ghost through the woods. And his gray cloak had been given to him by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain himself, in gratitude for saving the bladeweaver Rhyannis from the pits of Urd Morlemoch.

"Ridmark," said Calliande.

"Did I startle you?" said Ridmark. "I fear stealth is a hard habit to unlearn."

She smiled. "Only a little."

He did not smile back. He hardly ever smiled. He was tall and strong, with close-cropped black hair and eyes like shards of blue ice, cold and unyielding. The brand of a broken sword marred the lines of his left cheek. He did not deserve that, no more than he deserved the burden of guilt he carried, but it was there nonetheless.

"Where are the others?" he said. "Is something amiss?"

"Nothing," said Calliande. "Morigna's ravens spotted a deer. She and Kharlacht thought they could catch it, and Caius and Gavin went with them."

He frowned. "They left you alone?"

Calliande shrugged. "I am safe enough. As safe as I can be, I suppose. With my magic I can defend myself better than any of us. If Shadowbearer comes for me, I don't think it will matter if I am alone or not."

"Nevertheless," he said, his frown unwavering, "they should not have left you alone."

She raised an eyebrow. "You are one to talk. Where did you wander off?" He opened his mouth, and she pointed at him. "And don't tell me you know what you are doing. I might have stayed in the camp alone, but you are the one who has walked into a nest of drakes, challenged an urdmordar, lured a mzrokar into a trap, and God knows what else."

He snorted. "I suppose I cannot argue that. I wanted to have a look around. This section of the forest is too quiet for my liking." He rubbed his chin. "It heartens me that Morigna's birds saw a deer."

"You think something like an urvaalg frightened the animals away?" said Calliande.

"Perhaps." Ridmark shrugged. "Or maybe I am overcautious. That reminds me." He reached for the pouch at his belt. "I have something for you."

"Really," she said.

"Have you ever had a stoneberry?"

Calliande shook her head. "Not that I recall." She sighed. "Which is hardly conclusive. But I don't remember having eaten one."

"Not surprising," said Ridmark, drawing a number of red berries from the pouch. "They mostly grow in the south, along the banks of the River Moradel near Tarlion and Taliand. I have never seen one this far north. Try one – they're quite pleasant."

Calliande gave the berry a dubious look. "It does not look...healthy."

To her surprise, Ridmark laughed. "They do look poisonous. But I imagine that's to scare off scavengers." He ate one of the berries. "Try it. I suspect you will like it."

"You only suspect? You're not sure?" said Calliande, but she grinned as she said it. "Very well." She took one of the berries from his callused hand and popped it into her mouth. The sweet, sharp taste flooded her tongue. "That's...not bad. It would..."

She staggered back, her eyes widening.

"Calliande?" said Ridmark. He grabbed her arm. "What's wrong?"

"I..." she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, "I..."

Images burned through her mind, a memory ripped from the past. It often seemed that her memory was a landscape cloaked in a thick mist that never lifted. Sometimes Calliande caught glimpses of shapes from her past, like mountains draped in fog, but never more than outlines. It often frustrated her to the point of rage.

But now, for just an instant, she remembered things.

The River Moradel lapping at its blanks, broad and wide as it flowed into the southern sea.

White towers rising on the far side of the river, the High King's proud citadel upon its crag, the red Pendragon banner flying from its ramparts.

A middle-aged man, his face kindly and seamed from the sun, a coil of rope in his hand and a set of scaling knives at his belt.

She sat next him on a dock, her feet dangling in the water as they ate berries together...

The very same berries she now tasted upon her tongue.

"Ridmark," whispered Calliande. She grabbed his arms for balance and looked up at him. "I...I remember these..."

"From before, you mean," he said.

"Yes," said Calliande. "My father...I think he was a fisherman. The...the stoneberries, I would pick them for him, and then...and then..."

She closed her eyes, trying to pull more from the mist choking her memory.

Nothing came. She remembered her father, the berries, the dock as they ate together.

But nothing else.

"That's it," she said. "That's all I can remember. My father's face."

"I'm sorry," said Ridmark.

"No, don't be," Calliande said. "I can remember my father's face. Ridmark, I couldn't remember anything else before." She let out a deep, shuddering breath. "If I can remember that...maybe I can remember more."

"The berries," said Ridmark. "They must have been a strong memory for you. Enough to pull the recollection from your mind, regardless of what has happened to you."

Calliande nodded, for a moment too overcome to speak.

Her father's face. How could she have forgotten that? She had done it to herself, or so the Watcher claimed. But how could she had forgotten something so important?

"If the berries triggered a memory," said Ridmark, "then in time perhaps other things will recall additional memories to your mind."

Calliande worked moisture into her dry mouth. "Maybe I ought to wander around the forest eating things at random."

A faint ghost of a smile flickered over his lips. "I would not recommend that."

Calliande laughed. "Nor would I. But, Ridmark...thank you."

"For what?" said Ridmark. "The memory? That was not my doing."

"But you brought me the berries," said Calliande. "That was...that was kind of you, even if you could not know what would happen. And I can remember my father's face again. I had lost everything...but I can at least remember a piece of my past now. Thank you."

"You will get your memory back," said Ridmark. "After we return from Urd Morlemoch, after we stop the Frostborn. We will find Dragonfall and your staff."

"I have more confidence of that now," said Calliande.

She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, the stubble rough beneath her lips.

Ridmark stared down at her without blinking.

She realized that she was still holding on to his arms, that he had not released her either. They were alone in the camp, and the others would likely not return for some time.

And as her heart hammered against her ribs, she realized that none of those things troubled her.

"Ridmark," she said, her voice a faint whisper, and then he pulled her close and kissed her.

Calliande went stiff, and then melted against him, her lips parting to accept the kiss. Her heart beat faster, a warmth spreading from her chest and into her arms and legs. Some small part of her mind realized that this was a bad idea, that Ridmark was poisoned with grief from his dead wife, that for all Calliande knew she had a husband and children asleep beneath some other ruined tower.

But right now she did not care about anything but the taste and feel of his mouth against hers.

She broke away from him with a little gasp, still breathing hard. Ridmark stared down at her.

"Calliande," he said, his voice hoarse. "I..."

She never found out what he intended to say.

A harsh metallic scream drowned out his words.

For a furious, irrational moment Calliande wanted to curse in frustration.

And then her mind caught up to her ears, and she realized that they were likely in deadly danger.

Ridmark was already moving, his staff in hand as he turned in a slow circle. Calliande summoned power, preparing spells to ward against harm or to drive off creatures of dark magic, her hands glimmering with white light.

Again that terrible brassy scream rang out, farther away than before.

"Fool," muttered Ridmark, "fool, fool, fool."

For a moment she was stung, and then realized that he was rebuking himself.

"I should have realized," he said, looking at the sky, "that's what scared all the animals away. They have better noses. Smelled it a ways off."

Again the metallic scream filled Calliande's ears. "Is that a drake?" she said, remembering the fire drakes on the slopes of Black Mountain and the swamp drake they had fought near Moraime. The drakes' cries had sounded a bit like the metallic screams.

"No," said Ridmark. "Not a drake."

"Oh, that's good," said Calliande, watching the trees for any sign of movement.

"A wyvern," said Ridmark.

Calliande blinked. Wyverns were some of the most dangerous predators of the Wilderland, and preyed upon both humans and orcs with ease. Even the dark elves had not always been able to tame wyverns and use them as war beasts, and more than one proud dark elven wizard had met his end beneath the talons of an irritated wyvern.

"That's much worse," said Calliande.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "Helped kill a wyvern, once. Hunting party from Castra Marcaine, when I was still a Swordbearer in the Dux's court." He shook his head. "The beast took down three men before we killed it. And that was only a young male."

Calliande heard another shriek, so close she looked over her shoulder, fearing that the wyvern had somehow crept up behind her. "What do we do?"

Ridmark looked at the sky again. "They only scream when trying to flush out prey." The donkeys stirred, tugging at their tethers as they tried to flee. "It likely scented the donkeys. Get ready to run. Once a wyvern decides to take a kill, it kills anything that gets in its way. The pack animals are not worth your life."

"And if it decides to come for us instead of the donkeys?"

"Then we'll have to fight," said Ridmark, one hand straying to the orcish war axe slung at his belt. "We'll have only one chance. Eyes and the throat are its weak points. The scales get stronger as it ages. If I can't kill it immediately, we're finished."

Calliande nodded. "I will use a spell to enhance your speed, and..."

A black shadow fell over the clearing, and the wyvern soared overhead.

The creature was enormous. The fire drakes nesting upon the Black Mountain had been the size of large dogs, and the swamp drake near Moraime had been horse-sized. The wyvern dwarfed them both. Its body had the bulk of an adult ox, the limbs heavy with muscle and topped with razor-edged talons. Its wings spread like the sails of a ship, and fierce yellow eyes gazed from a head crowned with a bony crest. Its greenish-black scales looked as tough as steel, and the wyvern's long, thick tail ended with a barbed stinger glistening with black slime. A wyvern's poison was one of the most lethal substances in the world, and could kill a strong man in moments. Though given the creature's size, strength, fangs, and talons, the poisonous stinger seemed redundant.

At least the wyvern could not breathe flames as a drake could.

The beast swooped over the clearing and rose higher, its massive wings flapping. Calliande wondered why Ridmark had not tried to put an arrow into the creature, and then realized her folly. His arrow could not penetrate the thick scales. The wyvern might not even notice the attack.

Or the arrow would just draw its attention.

The wyvern screamed again and banked over the clearing, moving with terrible speed as the donkeys brayed in terror. Ridmark tensed, and Calliande expected the wyvern to swoop upon the donkeys. Yet the beast flew away to the east, its head turning back and forth upon the long, serpentine neck.

And it kept going.

"Why didn't it attack us?" said Calliande, puzzled. "We would have been easy prey. The donkeys are even tethered."

"Because," said Ridmark, watching the wyvern's receding shape, "it must have spotted something else. Something easier. They're predators, but they're not above scavenging. Or driving wolves or cougars away from their kills. It must have smelled blood. Fresh blood, and..."

She came to the realization at the same time that he did.

"Morigna's deer," said Ridmark.

"She shot it, the wyvern smells the blood, and it's coming after them," said Calliande.

"We'd better run," said Ridmark, and he ran into the trees, Calliande following.

_Follow this link to continue readingFrostborn: The Master Thief_ (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5007) _._

***

## Other books by the author

The Demonsouled Saga

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.

Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.

But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.

The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.

The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael's power can hope to defeat them.

The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.

To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.

Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.

For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.

Unless Mazael can stop him.

Read Demonsouled (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=880) for free. Mazael's adventures continue in Soul of Tyrants (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=911), Soul of Serpents (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1287), Soul of Dragons (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1727), Soul of Sorcery (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1845), Soul of Skulls (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2808), and Soul of Swords (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3599), along with the short stories The Wandering Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3073), The Tournament Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3677), and The Dragon's Shadow (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2635). Get the first three books bundled together in Demonsouled Omnibus One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4442).

The Ghosts Series

Once CAINA AMALAS was the shy daughter of a minor nobleman, content to spend her days in her father's library.

Then sorcery and murder and her mother's treachery tore her life apart.

Now she is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, an elite agent of the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar. She is a master of disguise and infiltration, of stealth and the shadows.

And she will need all those skills to defend the Empire and stay alive.

Corrupt lords scheme and plot in the shadows, desiring to pull down the Emperor and rule the Empire for their own profit and glory. Slave traders lurk on the fringes of the Empire, ready to seize unwary commoners and sell them into servitude in distant lands. Yet both slave traders and cruel lords must beware the Ghosts.

The Magisterium, the Imperial brotherhood of sorcerers, believe themselves the rightful masters of the Empire. With their arcane sciences, they plan to overthrow the Empire and enslave the commoners, ruling all of mankind for their own benefit. Only the Ghosts stand in the path of their sinister plans.

And the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend and terror, waits in the shadows, preparing to launch a war upon the gods themselves. She will make the gods pay for the suffering of mankind...even if she must destroy the world to do it.

Caina Amalas of the Ghosts opposes these mighty enemies, but the cost might be more than she can bear.

Read Child of the Ghosts (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1057) for free. Caina's adventures continue in Ghost in the Flames (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1265), Ghost in the Blood (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1383), Ghost in the Storm (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1931), Ghost in the Stone (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2520), Ghost in the Forge (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3181), Ghost in the Ashes (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3932), Ghost in the Mask (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4231), and Ghost in the Surge (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4637), along with the short stories Ghost Aria (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3243), Ghost Claws (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3930), Ghost Omens (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4235), The Fall of Kyrace (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4258), Ghost Thorns (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4639), Ghost Undying (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4662), Ghost Light (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5653), and Ghost Dagger (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2371). Get the first three books bundled together in The Ghosts Omnibus One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4484), and get the first four short stories bundled together in a World of the Ghosts Volume One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5669).

The Ghost Exile Series

Caina Amalas was a nightfighter of the Ghosts, the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar, and through her boldness and cunning saved the Empire and the world from sorcerous annihilation.

But the victory cost her everything.

Now she is exiled and alone in the city of Istarinmul, far from her home and friends. Yet a centuries-old darkness now stirs in Istarinmul, eager to devour the city and the world itself.

And Caina is the only one that stands in its way...

Read Ghost in the Cowl (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4903), Ghost in the Maze (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5090), Ghost in the Hunt (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5244), and Ghost in the Razor (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5553), along with the short stories Ghost Sword (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4911), Ghost Price (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5105), Ghost Relics (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5265), Ghost Keeper (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5481) and Ghost Nails (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5504).

The Third Soul

RACHAELIS MORULAN is an Initiate of the Conclave, the powerful order of mighty mages. But to become a full Adept of the Conclave, she must first survive the Testing. Those who survive the Testing never speak of the trials they endured.

Those who fail the Testing are never seen again.

And now the Magisters of the Conclave have come to take Rachaelis to undertake the Testing. And there she shall face perils to both her body and her sanity.

And creatures that yearn to devour her soul.

If Rachaelis survives the Testing, she will face even more dangerous foes. The demons of the astral world watch the world of mortal men, desiring to rule it for themselves.

And some Adepts of the Conclave are eager to help them.

Read The Testing (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1538) for free. Rachelis's trials continue in The Assassins (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1540), The Blood Shaman (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1542), The High Demon (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1544), The Burning Child (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2756), The Outlaw Adept (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3341), The Black Paladin (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3343), and The Tomb of Baligant (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3345). Read the entire series in The Third Soul Omnibus One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4021) and The Third Soul Omnibus Two (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4061).

The Frostborn Series

A thousand years ago, the last grandson of Arthur Pendragon led the survivors of Britain through a magical gate to a new world, a world of magic and high elves, of orcs and kobolds and stranger, darker creatures. Now the descendants of the exiles rule a mighty kingdom, peaceful and prosperous under the rule of the High King.

But a shadow threatens to devour the kingdom.

RIDMARK ARBAN was once a Swordbearer, a knight of renown. Now he is a branded outcast, stripped of his sword, and despised as a traitor.

But he alone sees the danger to come. The Frostborn shall return, and unless they are stopped, they will cover all the world in ice and a neverending winter.

CALLIANDE awakens in the darkness, her memories gone, and creatures of terrible power hunting her.

For she alone holds the secret that can save the world...or destroy it utterly.

The secret of the Frostborn.

Read Frostborn: The First Quest (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4439), followed by Frostborn: The Gray Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4069), Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4437), Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4776), Frostborn: The Master Thief (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5007), Frostborn: The Iron Tower (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5183), Frostborn: The Dark Warden (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5330), and Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5330), along with the short stories The Orc's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5661), The Mage's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4784), The Thief's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5012), The Assassin's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5186), and The Paladins's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5328). Read the first three books combined in Frostborn Omnibus One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5671).

Mask of the Demonsouled Trilogy

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK has prevailed over terrible foes and now rules the Grim Marches with firm justice. Yet ancient evils are stirring in the shadows, freed at last by Mazael's own hand. Unless Mazael fights with all his strength, the world will fall.

SIGALDRA is the last holdmistress of the Jutai nation, the final defender of her people. Now the darkness comes to devour the final remnant of Sigaldra's home and family. Even Sigaldra's courage may not be enough to turn aside the darkness.

Read Mask of Swords (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5429) along with the short story The Ransom Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5446).

The Tower of Endless Worlds

THOMAS WYCLIFFE just wants to finish his dissertation in peace and quiet. So when a man in a black robe appears in his closet, claiming to be the last of the Warlocks, Wycliffe figures it is a bad joke.

But he soon realizes the last of the Warlocks can give him power beyond imagining.

And all it will cost is his soul.

SIMON WESTER needs a job. Badly. So when a rich and powerful Senator offers him employment, he jumps at the chance. Sure, Simon expects to find some corruption, some shady deals.

He doesn't expect to find black magic.

LIAM MASTERE is a Knight of the Sacred Blade, defender of the mortal races. But can swords stand against guns? As bullets and bombs destroy his kingdom, Liam must risk everything to save his homeland's one chance of salvation.

By daring the horrors of the Tower of Endless Worlds...

Read The Tower of Endless Worlds (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2073) for free. The saga of the Tower continues in A Knight of the Sacred Blade (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2076), A Wizard of the White Council (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2078), and The Destroyer of Worlds (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2080).

***

## About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

<http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed>

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on his Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189).

***
