Free Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife by Jonathan Moeller Page B

ruins…the elders have always said they are cursed, that evil things dwell within. Yet those evil things never come forth. The elders say if we leave the ruins alone, the evil things within will not trouble us.”
    “Perhaps that was true once,” said Ridmark, “but you recall the omen twenty days ago? Maybe the creatures within the ruin have changed their minds.” 
    That had not occurred to Gavin. The thought of some horror of dark magic creeping out of Urd Dagaash was not a pleasant one. Would Philip be able to keep Rosanna safe it that happened? Philip was a blacksmith, true, and stronger than Gavin. Yet he rarely ventured outside the walls of Aranaeus. What did he know about the dangers of the Wilderland?
    Of course, what did Gavin know, compared to Ridmark and Calliande and the others?
    He thought of the undead kobolds he had fought.
    After that, he knew more than anyone else in Aranaeus.
    “When we get to the gate, sir, let me do the talking,” said Gavin. “The men on watch know me, and they’ll listen. You’re rather…well, outlandish for strangers, and they might not react well.”
    Calliande smiled at him, and Gavin felt himself flush. “So a human, a dwarf, an orc, and a Magistria do not walk up to the gates of Aranaeus every day?” 
    “It is the first time I can recall, my lady,” said Gavin. 
    He led the way through the fields, up the side of the hill, and to the village’s closed gate. Four men stood atop the gate, fingering hunting bows, their eyes moving back and forth over Ridmark and his companions.
    “Stop,” said one of the men, middle-aged with a graying beard, “and identify yourself. Strangers are not welcome in Aranaeus just now.”
    “Mallen!” said Gavin, looking at the elder. “You know me. My father has me help you make chairs in your shop during the winters.”
    “Gavin ran off yesterday,” said Mallen. “Disappeared from sight. You could be one of the beastmen, taking Gavin’s form to beguile us.”
    “If I was,” said Gavin, “would I know about the still in your cellar? The one your wife doesn’t know about, since she thinks you stopped drinking?”
    The other men upon the wall chuckled, as did Caius. 
    “Aye,” said Mallen, “and you had best keep your mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you.” He peered at Ridmark and the others. “And who are these? A brigand, an orc, a noblewoman, and…a short gray fellow?”
    “Good sir,” said Caius, “I am Brother Caius of the order of mendicants, and twenty years ago I heard the word of the Dominus Christus and believed in his good news. I have since come north to preach the gospel to the pagan tribes of the Wilderland. After some peculiar misadventures,” Kharlacht snorted, “I have come to the gates of your fair village, and beg your permission to enter.”
    “Indeed. Where did you find them, Gavin?” said Mallen. 
    “I was making for the ford,” said Gavin. “I wanted to go to Castra Marcaine, to ask the Dux of the Northerland for help against whatever creatures are taking our folk.”
    “Your father’s going to be wroth, boy,” said Mallen.
    His father was always wroth, but Gavin knew better than to say so.
    “The beastmen chased me,” said Gavin. “I think they would have killed me, but Ridmark and his companions arrived to stop them.”
    He did not mention the undead kobolds. At best, Mallen simply would not have believed him. At worst, he would refuse to open the gate. 
    “There you go,” said Mallen. “That’s proof, then, boy. The beastmen are taking our folk, just like your father and Morwen said.”
    “No,” said Gavin. “I wasn’t finished. Someone’s taking the females and young of the beastmen. They think we’re doing it.”
    Mallen snorted, and the other guards laughed. “Why? What would we do with them? They’re too feral to be beasts of burden, and they carry fleas, too.”
    “But…” said Gavin.
    “Enough,” said Ridmark, his voice low. “You don’t have