Frostborn Omnibus One

By Jonathan Moeller

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Feb 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311517920

Jonathan Moeller

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" trilogy of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write the "Ghosts" sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the "$0.99 Beginner's Guide" series of computer books, and numerous other works.Visit his website at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.comVisit his technology blog at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

Book preview

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

Reviews for Frostborn Omnibus One

[OgbemiKesiena · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

really really really good book, loved it immensely, keep it up

[anthony young · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

it's worth reading. not the greatest in the genre but a fun book to read.