FFROSTBORN: THE FIRST QUEST
Jonathan Moeller
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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...
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Frostborn: The First Quest
Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller.
Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.
Ebook edition published November 2013.
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.
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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.
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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 Swordb
earers 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.
H
er 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.
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