Frostborn: The Iron Tower (19 page)

But Morigna had other ways she could hinder the beasts. 

She swept her free hand before her, her mind reaching to command the roots of the trees beneath their boots. The roots exploded from the earth like dirt-caked tentacles and wrapped around the urvaalgs. The thin roots did not hold for long against the strength of the urvaalgs, but the effort to rip free slowed them.

And in that moment, the others struck.

Ridmark attacked an urvaalg, ripping his axe through its leg. The beast stumbled, and Kharlacht stepped forward and hewed off the urvaalg’s head in a single sharp blow. Black slimed jetted across the melee, a few drops splattering on Morigna’s boots. Caius dodged the slash of jagged talons and struck with his mace, the bronze-colored head glowing with white light, and the snap of breaking bone filled Morigna’s ears. The urvaalg screamed, and Gavin drove his orcish sword into the creature’s chest once, twice, three times, and then the urvaalg collapsed with a gurgling snarl. 

Again Morigna summoned roots from the ground, slowing the creatures. Calliande leveled her hand, face tight with strain as she held the augmentation spell in place, and struck. A shaft of dazzling white fire burst from her fingers and drilled into the nearest urvaalg, sinking into its muscular chest and erupting from its back in a burst of cinders. The urvaalg fell in a twitching heap, the scent of burning meat flooding Morigna’s nostrils. Morigna turned, gathering power for a spell…

The air in front of her blurred, and the urvaalg came out of nowhere.

The creature drove her to the ground before she could react, her staff bouncing from her hands. Its heavy paws pinned her shoulders in place, and its maw yawned, vile breath washing over her face like a wind as the urvaalg’s jaws descended toward her…

Then the urvaalg threw back its head and screamed. Morigna glimpsed Mara dashing around the urvaalg’s haunches, a glowing dagger in her hands. Even as Morigna watched, Mara hamstrung the urvaalg’s other leg with the cool precision of a weaver cutting cloth. The urvaalg screamed again, twisting around to reach for her.

Jager stepped forward, daggers in either hand, and drove both weapons into the urvaalg’s eyes. The urvaalg reared up with a shriek of fury, exposing its chest and neck, and Mara buried her dagger between the urvaalg’s ribs. 

The hulking beast shuddered and fell off Morigna, and she scrambled to her feet, looking around for any other attackers.

But the fighting was over. 

Ten dead urvaalgs lay scattered beneath the trees. Two of the horses had been killed, and Caius and Gavin were hurrying to calm the remaining animals. Morigna turned in a circle, but none of the others had been hurt. 

“Morigna!” said Ridmark, stepping towards her. He looked relieved. “You are wounded?”

She shook her head, still stunned. 

“Check for any other urvaalgs,” said Ridmark.

She nodded, cursing herself as a fool, and cast the spell. She sensed the weight of the others upon the earth, but no others. 

“None,” said Morigna. “At least not within a hundred yards.” 

“Urvaalgs tend to hunt in packs,” said Kharlacht. “Likely that was all of them.”

Morigna nodded.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Do not thank me,” Ridmark said. “Thank Jager and Mara. By the time I could have gotten to you, that urvaalg would have slain you.” There was a haunted look in his eye.

Morigna nodded and turned to see Jager pulling his daggers out of the dead urvaalg’s skull, while Mara cleaned her blade with the economical motions of long practice.

“Bloody hell,” said Jager, looking at his blades in dismay. “This black slime. It will etch the steel.”

Mara smiled and put her dagger away. “That is why you clean the blades immediately, my love.”

Jager sighed and began wiping down his blades. “I bought these from the best smith in Coldinium. And now they have urvaalg slime on them. Truly, I have gone down in the world.”

“Mara,” said Morigna.

The shorter woman smiled. “Yes?” Her calm surprised Mara. Morigna supposed one could not survive as an assassin of the Red Family for ten years without keeping a cool head in a crisis.

“Thank you for my life,” said Morigna. “That urvaalg would have killed me.”

Mara made a dismissive gesture. “I simply stabbed it in the back.”

“It is my favorite way to fight, I confess,” said Jager, squinting at his daggers. 

“You did stab it in the front,” said Mara. 

“Well, it was a risk,” said Jager, “but it was entirely worth the risk, just to see Morigna shocked into silence for even a moment.”

Mara giggled, actually giggled, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh! My pardons, Morigna…”

“You,” said Morigna, pointing at Jager, “are an odious little man, and she is entirely too good for you.”

“I completely agree,” said Jager. 

Mara gave him a fond smile. “Fortunately, I happen to like odious little men.”

Morigna opened her mouth, closed it again. She could not reconcile Mara’s cheerful attitude with her grim fate. And if Morigna could have worked her will, she would have killed Mara three days ago outside the Iron Tower. 

And then the urvaalg would have killed Morigna. 

Perhaps Ridmark had been right. Perhaps it was foolish to assume they knew the future beyond all doubt. 

Morigna swallowed and went to help calm the terrified horses. 

###

An hour later, Ridmark led the way to the gate of Vulmhosk. 

A round tower of rough stone rose from the edge of the Lake of Battles, surrounded by crumbling stone ruins. Once the stronghold of an orcish chieftain, it had fallen in one of the endless wars fought on the shores of the lake. Waves lapped at the tower’s base, ruined walls and pillars jutting from the waters. 

A maze of ramshackle wooden structures sprawled at the foot of the tower - an inn, a marketplace, and a dozen warehouses. A stout wooden palisade ringed the entire complex, incorporating the ruined stone walls here and there. Tough-looking men with crossbows stood atop the walls, keeping a careful watch over the woods.

Ridmark stopped a dozen paces from the gate and folded his arms. “Quintus!”

A grizzled, middle-aged man with a crossbow stood over the gate. “I’ll be damned. Ridmark Arban, is it?”

“Aye,” said Ridmark.

“You’d best get out of here,” said Quintus. “There’s an urvaalg pack in the woods north of here. Smiling Otto isn’t letting anyone in or out of Vulmhosk until the fanged devils move on.”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Ridmark.

“You killed them,” said Quintus, his disbelief plain.

“All ten.”

Quintus’s scowl deepened. “But you haven’t been a Swordbearer for years.”

Ridmark looked at Kharlacht, who nodded, reached into one of the packs, and drew out a wrapped bundle.

He held up the head of an urvaalg.

“God and the saints!” said Quintus. “You killed them?”

“I believe I just said that,” said Ridmark. 

“I’ll be damned. Never thought to see you again. Smiling Otto’s boat came back,” said Quintus, “and told tales of all sorts of trouble in Coldinium. Figured Dux Tarrabus would have killed you. Or the Constable of the Iron Tower would have hung you. Or that Mournacht would have made a drinking goblet out of your skull.”

“I do have a knack for making friends,” said Ridmark. 

“What brings you back here?” said Quintus. “I don’t think Smiling Otto will be glad to see you.”

“Oh, he will be,” said Ridmark. 

“Why is that?” said Quintus. 

“Because,” said Ridmark, “I am here to propose an enterprise that shall make us all wealthy men.”

Or it would get them killed.

But Ridmark had no other choice.

Chapter 13 - Haggling

Armed orcs filled most of the empty space within the walls of Vulmhosk.

Morigna looked around warily, her magic ready. After a moment, she realized the orcs were not from the Wilderland or Kothluusk. The pagan orcs of Vhaluusk tended to wear fur and leather in battle, while the pagan orcs of Kothluusk tattooed their faces into the hideous image of a red skull in honor of Mhor. Yet these warriors wore leather and chain mail, each man’s armor identical. Their tents had been pitched in orderly lines, their supplies stacked and guarded. And many of the warriors wore wooden crosses similar to Kharlacht’s and Caius’s.

“I’ve never seen orcs like this before,” said Morigna.

“You wouldn’t have,” said Ridmark, looking around as Gavin and Caius guided their surviving horses through the gate. “They’re from Rhaluusk.”

“Rhaluusk?” said Morigna.

“One of the three orcish kingdoms of the south,” said Calliande, her voice growing distant, “that accepted both the High King as their overlord and the baptism of the church. The orcs of Rhaluusk keep to their old ways, but with some changes. They form warbands, but instead of raiding each other, they wage war against the orcs of Kothluusk, or the kobolds and dvargir and other creatures of the Deeps. Or they take mercenary service where they can find it.”

“And how do you know all that?” said Morigna.

“I don’t know.” Calliande blinked. “It must have been true two hundred years ago.”

“It still is,” said Ridmark. “I wasn’t expecting to find them here. This is a good sign. Hopefully I have not offended their commander in the past.” 

Morigna almost asked if Ridmark customarily offended orcish mercenary commanders, then remembered the vast constellation of enemies that he had collected. Compared to the Dux of Caerdracon, the Enlightened of Incariel, and Shadowbearer, an orcish mercenary commander was somewhat less daunting.

Yet the orcish warriors themselves recognized Ridmark. They began speaking to each other in low voices. Caius and Gavin finished herding the horses through the gate, Kharlacht bringing up the rear, and more orcs began to speak. 

One of the orcish warriors stepped forward, a tall man with green skin, his tusks polished, his black hair bound in a warrior’s topknot.

“I know you, do I not?” said Ridmark. “I am sure of it.”

“Aye, Gray Knight,” said the orc in accented Latin. “I was at Dun Licinia, and we arrived upon the day of the great battle.”

Alarm shot through Morigna. If those orcs had been at Dun Licinia, that meant they were Mhalekites. Perhaps they had even followed Qazarl, had tried to kill Calliande and Ridmark a few months past. Morigna started to summon magic, but Ridmark laughed.

“I remember now,” said Ridmark. “Crowlacht’s warband, no?”

“This is so,” said the warrior. “The headman will want to speak with you.”

“I expect so,” said Ridmark. “Lead on.”

The warrior bowed and turned to go, and Ridmark followed. Morigna looked at the others, shrugged, and followed Ridmark deeper into Vulmhosk. More of the orcish tents lined the street, and Morigna wondered if the Rhaluuskan mercenaries had simply taken over the village. Or perhaps Smiling Otto had decided to hire an army. 

They reached the tavern where Morigna, Ridmark, and Gavin had first met Jager. Several of the orcish mercenaries stood on the tavern’s broad porch, drinking beer and speaking to each other. In their midst stood a towering orcish man of middle years clad in gleaming steel plate armor that did not quite manage to conceal his paunch. His iron-gray hair was bound in a warrior’s topknot with a steel ring, and his yellowing tusks jutted from his gray beard, rising past the scars that marked the leathery green skin of his face. One hand rested upon the handle of a massive iron warhammer that looked as if it outweighed Morigna. 

“Headman,” called the warrior who had recognized Ridmark.

“Aye, lad, what is it?” said the old orc in a rasping, snarling voice, and then his black eyes widened. “Well, damn me. The Gray Knight himself.”

“Crowlacht,” said Ridmark. “It has been a long time.”

The big orc grunted and descended from the porch, the boards creaking beneath his steel-armored boots. A massive scowl darkened his craggy features, and Morigna tensed. For a moment the two men stared at each other, and Morigna braced herself for violence.

Then Crowlacht let out a booming laugh and clapped Ridmark on the shoulders. 

“Damn me, boy, I thought you were dead!” said Crowlacht. “It is good to see you. You ought to have come with me back to Rhaluusk. We always need strong men to fight off the Mhorites and the kobolds. And it would have been worth it to see the expression on that preening jackass Tarrabus’s face.” 

The other orcs laughed. 

“I had things to do,” said Ridmark.

“Yes, the Frostborn,” said Crowlacht, sobering. “We saw the omen of blue fire, just as you said would come to pass. The lords ought to have listened to you.”

“It is not too late,” said Ridmark, “which is why I have come here.”

“Pardon,” said Calliande, “but how do you know each other?” 

Crowlacht gave Calliande the approving smile older men often gave pretty young women.

“You have followers, Ridmark?” said Crowlacht. “A warband of your own?” He craned his thick neck. “An…eclectic group.”

“They are,” said Ridmark, turning towards Morigna and the others. “This is Crowlacht, a headman of Rhaluusk and a sworn liegeman of the King of Rhaluusk. The King of Rhaluusk sent warbands to fight alongside the High King’s armies against Mhalek and his followers at Dun Licinia, and Crowlacht and his men were foremost among them.” 

“Ha!” said Crowlacht. “The battle was your victory, my boy. If you hadn’t taken charge, the lords and the knights would have chased each other in circles.”

Ridmark ignored the compliment. “This is Calliande, a Magistria of the Order. Kharlacht, a warrior of Vhaluusk.”

Crowlacht’s eyes narrowed. “A follower of the blood gods? Or of that old fraud Mhalek?” A hint of the red orcish battle fury came into his black eyes.

“Neither,” said Kharlacht. “My mother had me baptized, and I hold to the teachings of the church.” 

“Good man,” said Crowlacht. 

“Morigna of Moraime, an expert hunter and tracker,” said Ridmark. He did not mention her magical abilities. Likely Crowlacht and his men would not have responded well. “Caius, a brother of the mendicant order.”