Free Frostborn: The First Quest by Jonathan Moeller Page A

backwards, slashing and snarling, and Ridmark stabbed down, driving his sword through the creature’s heart. He whirled and caught his balance as the other Swordbearer slew another urvaalg.
    Only two of the creatures were left, and both of them charged at the older Swordbearer, roaring with rage and madness. Ridmark stabbed one of them in the back, and the Swordbearer slew the second with a swift thrust. The dead urvaalgs toppled to the white flagstones of the courtyard, and silence fell over the ruins of Urd Morlemoch.
    Ridmark and the Swordbearer stared at each other. 
    “What is this?” said the Swordbearer at last. “Another delusion of the Warden’s magic? A phantasm? Or are you another of the damned urshanes, come to fool me?” He shook his head. “No…no, I’ve never seen you before, and the urshanes steal a man’s memories to weave their lies. You are a Knight of the Soulblade?”
    Ridmark nodded. “I am.”
    “Blast and damnation,” said the Swordbearer. “Then has another fool stumbled into the lies and webs of Ardrhythain?”
    “What do you mean?” said Ridmark.
    The Swordbearer grunted, cleaned his blade on a dead urvaalg’s fur, and returned it to his scabbard. “What is your name, sir knight?”
    “Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii,” said Ridmark. “I am a Knight of the Soulblade, in service in the court of the Dux of the Northerland.” 
    “Ridmark Arban?” said the knight with a grunt. “I know your father. Good man, solid man. My name is Lancelus Tyriar, a Knight of the Soulblade in service to the Comes of Coldinium.”
    “I have never visited Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “and I fear I have never heard your name before. But it is always an honor to meet another Swordbearer.” He looked around at the bleeding carcasses of the urvaalgs. “Especially one who can survive in such a grim place.” 
    “Likewise it is an honor to meet you, sir,” said Lancelus, “and I am grateful for your aid. But I grieve to see you here. I would rather have fallen beneath the claws of the urvaalgs than have seen you in battle.”
    Ridmark frowned. “Why?”
    “Because it means another man has fallen into Ardrhythain’s trap,” spat Lancelus. 
    “Trap?” said Ridmark. “What trap is that?”
    “Let me guess what has befallen you,” said Lancelus. “I suspect one day Ardrhythain showed up in the Dux’s court, cited the Pact, and demanded the service of a Swordbearer to rescue an elven bladeweaver from the ruins of Urd Morlemoch?”
    Ridmark nodded.
    “And you volunteered, I assume?” said Lancelus.
    “Aye,” said Ridmark.
    Lancelus grimaced. “Better that you had not. Much the same happened to me. Four weeks past, Ardrhythain presented himself in the court of the Comes of Coldinium, and made the same demand. The Comes chose me, and I traveled north to Urd Morlemoch. I have been trapped here ever since.”
    “The archmage did not say he sent other Swordbearers into the ruins,” said Ridmark.
    “Nor did he tell me,” said Lancelus. “If my reckoning is correct, I think you are the eighth Swordbearer that deceitful swindler has sent into this hell.”
    “Eighth?” said Ridmark, aghast. “How do you know this?”
    “I have seen their corpses, found their soulblades,” said Lancelus. “Some survived long enough to aid me, but were cut down in the end.” He shook his head. “And a few fell victim to the ghastly traps in the catacombs below. I fear the Warden’s cunning is matched only by his love of cruelty.” He sighed. “I was the only surviving Swordbearer…and I grieve that Ardrhythain has sent another innocent into this deathtrap.”
    “But why?” said Ridmark. “Why would he send eight of us?”
    “Because he can,” said Lancelus, his voice full of bitterness, “and because we mean nothing to him.” He spat. “The lives of the elves are beyond us, Sir Ridmark. They live a thousand years, and an archmage like Ardrhythain can live for thousands more. We must