The Soulblade's Tale Read Online Free PDF Page B

were always the clever one.” He shook his head. “The Dux’s letter said I was to treat this Caius with all honor. And if he has gotten himself killed in the Wilderland…”
    “The Dux can hardly blame you for that,” said Ridmark.
    “Nevertheless, I was his host, and he was my guest,” said Joram. 
    “Very well,” said Ridmark. “I will find him for you.”
    Joram blinked. “That’s it? I thought you would take more convincing.”
    “Why not?” said Ridmark. “The dwarf seems valiant, if foolish, and does not deserve to die alone in the Wilderland. I will either find him and bring him back to you, or tell you of his fate.”
    Or die trying. 
    “Will that not take time from your…other task?” said Joram. “The search for the Frostborn?”
    “Haven’t you heard?” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn are extinct.” He knew better, but continued speaking. “Joram, you were always a friend to me, and you have shown me kindness now. I know you wished to persuade me…but I have been persuaded. I will find Brother Caius for you.”
    And, perhaps, he would find his death. But that did not trouble him. He had ranged over the length and breadth of the Wilderland, following the long-dead urdmordar’s prophecy of the Frostborn, following the warning the undead dark elven wizard had given him…and he had defeated every foe he had faced in that time. 
    But perhaps hunting for this strange dwarf would kill him.
    And then, at last, he would have peace.
    “Thank you,” said Joram. “You will have whatever help you require.”
    “Good,” said Ridmark. “This is what I need.”
     
    ###
     
    An hour later Ridmark walked to Dun Licinia’s northern gate, staff in his left hand, gray cloak hanging from his shoulders, and a pack of fresh supplies on his back. The men-at-arms he had confronted earlier gave him wary glances, but Ridmark ignored them. He stepped through the gate and gazed north, at the flowing River Marcaine, the cultivated fields, the tree-choked slopes, the narrow road…and the great dark mass of the Black Mountain. A mile tall, the Black Mountain stood like a dark fist thrusting from the earth. The high elves of old had considered it cursed, along with the orcs and the beastmen and the halflings and the manetaurs and every other kindred to cross through the lands that became the High King’s realm of Andomhaim. 
    And Brother Caius had gone to that mountain, intending to preach the word of the Dominus Christus to the orcish tribes living in its northern foothills. 
    Ridmark shook his head, half in admiration, half in annoyance, and started walking. The road lead to the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance, burned during the civil wars of the Pendragon princes fifty years past. It was a logical place for Caius to make camp, though bandits or orcs or other renegades might have taken shelter in the ruins. 
    He kept walking, and the fields began to thin out, patches of bristly pine forest appearing here and there. Ridmark supposed hardly anyone took the road north. Dun Licinia was the very northern edge of the Northerland, and beyond lay the vast Wilderland, with all its unknown lands and dangerous creatures. 
    Only a madman or a fool ventured into the Wilderland.
    So Ridmark kept walking.
    “You!” 
    He stopped, left hand tightening around his staff. 
    A stocky middle-aged man in the rough clothes of a freeholder climbed onto the road, his face red with anger. He carried a spear, its head worn but still sharp. The man held his weapon competently, but it would have been the easiest thing in the world for Ridmark to swing his staff and break the freeholder’s wrists.
    Instead he said, “Have I wronged you in some way?”
    “You’ve been taking my pigs,” said the freeholder.  
    “I have not,” said Ridmark.
    The freeholder sneered. “Aye, you have. I’ve seen you lurking in the woods, snatching my pigs when my back is turned. Outlaws, I knew it! Sir Joram’s constable wouldn’t listen to