Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife Read Free

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