Frostborn: The Broken Mage (2 page)

“What a peculiar custom,” said Morigna.

“I imagine it would cause considerable scarring of the lungs,” said Calliande. 

“It did,” said Antenora. “I would not recommend it. It usually caused eventual death.”

“But not as quickly,” said Ridmark, “as whatever killed these dwarves.”

The heavy gray bones of dwarves covered the floor. Some of the skeletons were still intact, but others had been scattered. Caius moved among them, his face solemn. 

“They must have fallen when the Frostborn broke through the Gate of the West,” said Caius. 

“They have neither weapons nor armor,” said Gavin. 

“Dwarven steel, like dwarven bone, is remarkably tough,” said Caius. “I suspect scavengers from Vhaluusk carried off everything they could find decades ago.”

“But not everything,” said Ridmark. “Look.”

A pile of armor lay against one of the pillars, breastplate and greaves and a full helm crowned with spikes. The armor had a peculiar, rough look, and it reminded Ridmark of gray ice in the grip of winter’s deepest chill. White mist swirled around it, and he realized that the strange cold radiated from the armor. Within the armor lay bones of white crystal that glimmered and flashed in the light of Antenora’s magic. 

“What is that?” said Gavin.

“Unless I miss my guess,” said Ridmark, “that is the armor and bones of a slain Frostborn.”

“It is,” said Calliande, her voice distant, the way it was when she recalled something from her past. “I’ve seen armor like it before.” 

“Likely it has been here since the fall of Khald Azalar,” said Caius. “At least my kindred took some of their foes with them.” 

“I wonder why no one has looted the armor,” said Jager. “Surely is it is valuable.”

“Because a single touch would likely freeze the blood in their veins,” said Antenora. “It is not of this world, nor are the bones. Even after two centuries, the armor yet retains its power.” 

“She is correct,” said Mara. “I can see the armor’s power with my Sight. Elemental magic yet lingers within it, magic of frost and ice.” 

“Then don’t touch it,” said Ridmark, “and stay well away from it.” He tapped a tusked skull with the end of his staff. “Some of these bones are newer. Only a few years old, I deem.” 

“Orcish bones,” said Kharlacht. “Likely scavengers from Khald Azalar.”

“Not this one,” said Gavin, pointing at one of the skulls. It was indeed an orcish skull, with tusks and the broad, flat features common to orcs. Yet where the eye holes should have been, Ridmark saw only an unbroken sheet of bone. “It looks like the orcs we fought outside Thainkul Dural.” 

“Deep orcs,” said Ridmark. He took another look. Deep orcs possessed considerable skill at stealth, and could move as silently as a shadow. He saw no sign of deep orcs, at least living ones, but that didn’t mean anything. 

The deep orcs would have heard them coming long ago.

“Khald Azalar had multiple entrances to the Deeps,” said Caius. “Anything could have wandered up in the centuries since the defeat of the Frostborn. Deep orcs. Kobolds. Dvargir. Mzrokars or basilisks or other creatures. We shall have to be ready for almost anything, I fear.”

“You’ve been here before,” said Ridmark. “Do you know where we should go next?”

Caius shrugged. “This is the Hall of the West. When important guests arrived, the King of Khald Tormen greeted them here, along with his chief taalmaks and taalkazs…ah, his chief knights and nobles. Beyond was a gallery, a market, and some residential areas the dwarves of Khald Tormen called the Dormari Quarter – the Foreign Quarter. Beyond that, though…” He shook his head. “I fear I only visited the Hall of the West and the Dormari Quarter, and never entered any deeper into Khald Azalar.”

Ridmark looked at Calliande. “If Dragonfall was a secret entrusted to the Kings of Khald Azalar, it makes sense that it would lie deeper within the city, perhaps at its heart.” 

She nodded. “The staff…it’s down and to the east, somewhere further within the mountain.” 

“If this place is as great a maze as you say,” said Arandar, “it is possible we could wander for weeks without finding anything.”

“Not necessarily,” said Caius. “There would be maps. I can read those, along with any dwarven glyphs we find. Every gallery and chamber and tunnel would have its own name, Sir Arandar, just as every street and forum within Tarlion’s walls has its own name. If we can find a map, perhaps we can reach Dragonfall and escape from Khald Azalar long before the Traveler or Mournacht locate us.” 

“Very well,” said Ridmark, and they continued onward.

###

They left the Hall of the West and entered a high pillared gallery, and Calliande felt a peculiar sense of disappointment.

She knew it was entirely irrational. After escaping Urd Morlemoch, all her thoughts had been upon reaching Khald Azalar and Dragonfall, of recovering her staff and her memory at last. She had known that her staff would be buried deep within Khald Azalar. It would not be waiting for her just beyond the Gate of the West. Her past self would not have left any clues or secrets waiting in the Hall of the West.

Yet the disappointment was there nonetheless.

A dark sort of relief went with the disappointment. Calliande knew that she had once been the Keeper of Andomhaim, the woman who had led the High Kingdom to victory against the Frostborn. Yet she remembered nothing of it, and she dreaded the return of that memory. That woman had been willing to seal herself away in darkness for centuries, to lose everyone and everything she loved to awaken in the distant future. Calliande could not imagine the kind of woman that could make such a cold choice. 

Yet she had been that woman, and she had made that choice. 

They walked in silence down the gallery, the harsh light from Antenora’s staff throwing back the darkness. Here and there dwarven glowstones shone from the pillars, treated in chemical salts that made them luminous for centuries. More bones lay scattered upon the floor, both ancient dwarven bones and the more recent bones of Vhaluuskan orcs and deep orcs. Calliande wondered what had killed them. The Vhaluuskan orcs had probably been scavengers from Khorduk to the west, and they had likely killed each other in a quarrel over spoils or fallen to the arrows of the deep orcs. 

The deep orcs, though…what had killed them? 

Calliande knew some things about deep orcs, things that she had likely learned before hiding her memory in Dragonfall. The deep orcs lived in tribes in the Deeps, some independent, some enslaved by the dvargir or the dark elven princes. Granted, that information wasn’t useful just now. Anything could have killed these deep orcs. Other tribes, the Vhaluuskans, some horror that had wandered up from the Deeps…anything at all, really. 

Another pile of the strange gray armor lay in a heap against a pillar, radiating terrible cold, a faint white mist crawling over the crystalline bones of a slain Frostborn. Calliande felt a strange crawling sensation as she looked at the bones. She was certain, absolutely certain, that she had seen armor like that before coming to Khald Azalar. 

She just couldn’t remember when. 

“Keeper?” said Antenora in her worn voice. “Is anything amiss?” 

Calliande was still not sure what to do about Antenora. The woman had been the apprentice of the first Keeper, the Keeper who had helped Malahan Pendragon lead the survivors of the High King’s realm from Old Earth to Andomhaim. Antenora had remained upon Old Earth for centuries, cursed by her betrayal. She wanted redemption, wanted to be released from her curse, and Calliande had no idea how to do that.

Perhaps Calliande would remember once she had recovered the staff of the Keeper.

In the meantime, Antenora’s powerful fire magic might well help Calliande to reach the staff.

“Nothing just now,” said Calliande.

“Ah,” said Antenora. “I fear that means many things are amiss, but you can do nothing about them at the moment, so you carry on as best you can.” 

“Something like that, yes,” said Calliande.

“It is a familiar feeling, Keeper,” said Antenora. “I remember that…” 

“Stop,” said Ridmark. 

For a moment Calliande thought that Ridmark had grown irritated at the conversation, but one look at his expression proved otherwise. His hard face had gone tight, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, the black staff of Ardrhythain ready in his hand. 

Ahead she saw the reason for his alarm. 

They had come to a crossroads. The gallery continued ahead, glowstones shining here and there from the pillars. Another gallery intersected it about thirty yards ahead, and it looked as if a great deal of fighting had taken place there. Both orcish and dwarven bones lay upon the ground, and Calliande saw more of the frozen armor of a Frostborn. 

It was the perfect spot for an ambush. If Calliande saw it, Ridmark would definitely notice it. 

“Brother Caius?” said Ridmark. 

Caius frowned. “The gallery straight ahead continues to the Dormari Market, I believe. The galleries to the right and to the left go to residential areas, where visitors and foreigners were housed when visiting Khald Azalar.”

“You believe?” said Jager.

Caius shrugged. “It has been two hundred years since I last passed the Gate of the West. My memory is not as clear on the matter as I might wish.” 

Ridmark said nothing, the fingers of his right hand drumming against his staff. 

“Morigna,” he said at last.

“Aye?” she said, stepping to his side. She carried her bow in hand, an arrow ready at the string. Her face was its usual cold, somewhat mocking mask, but her black eyes softened as she looked at Ridmark, and he seemed less grim when he looked at her. A flicker of jealousy went through Calliande, and she pushed it aside. 

“The spell you cast in Thainkul Dural,” said Ridmark. “The day we escaped from the mzrokar.” Morigna nodded. “I think you should cast it right now.” 

Calliande stiffened, and then began summoning the power of the Well for a spell. Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin all raised their weapons. Mara, Jager, Arandar, and Antenora all looked confused.

“Trouble?” murmured Jager.

“I think so,” said Calliande. “I think there are foes nearby, and they can overhear us. Be ready to strike.” 

Antenora said nothing, but the white flame crackling atop her staff grew brighter, the sigils carved into the wood beginning to glow. Calliande looked around, readying herself to release power. She saw no sign of any enemies, but that meant nothing. The dvargir could use their powers over shadow to turn themselves invisible. Deep orcs could move with inhuman stealth. Calliande glanced at the ceiling, remembering how the children of the urdmordar could climb overhead, but saw nothing. Her eyes swept over the walls, past the pillars carved with blocky dwarven glyphs and reliefs, and…

The pillars.

A cold chill swept through her. 

She was certain something was hiding behind one of the pillars, and suddenly she knew what had triggered Ridmark’s alarm.

Morigna slung her bow over her shoulder and lifted her staff, muttering a spell as she did so. Purple fire flashed up and down the staff, and her eyelids fluttered. Morigna’s power over earth magic let her sense the presence of people standing upon the stone floor. Not even the dvargir could hide themselves from that spell.

Morigna’s eyes shot open.

“Ridmark!” she said. “They’re behind the pillars!”

“Defend yourselves!” said Ridmark, and the others spun into a ring, moving to shield Calliande, Antenora, and Morigna so they could work their spells.

As they did, shapes appeared from behind the pillars. 

They looked orcish, albeit far different from the orcs that dwelled upon the surface. Most of the orcs of the surface world were like Kharlacht, tall and strong with their skin a deep green color. These orcs were shorter and thinner, their skin a sickly yellow, their ears the size of a grown man’s palms, their nostrils wide and black. The deep orcs had no eyes. In lieu of eyes, a strange band of knotted, veined flesh encircled their heads like a blindfold. The organ gave them the ability to sense heat the way that the human eye detected light, allowing them to move in perfect darkness. 

A ring of a dozen deep orcs appeared around Calliande and the others, stepping from behind the pillars, and more appeared in the crossroads ahead, all of them moving with eerie silence. The deep orcs carried blowguns. The darts within were likely treated with a sleeping drug, and the deep orcs would take them captive as slaves.

Or possibly as food.

As one the deep orcs lifted the blowguns to their tusked mouths, and Calliande cast a spell. 

Once such a spell would have been beyond her. Her powers had grown greatly in the last few weeks, first after her battle with the Artificer in the Iron Tower, and then after the Warden’s malevolent spirit had possessed her at Urd Morlemoch. Even with her new magical strength, if the deep orcs had been using crossbows or longbows, she couldn’t have managed it. Yet their darts were not heavy or moving very fast. 

The deep orcs unleashed their darts, and white light pulsed from Calliande’s hands, and a dome of shimmering light erupted from her and expanded over the others. It passed through them and the deep orcs without harm, but the light of the warding spell deflected the poisoned darts. 

For an instant the deep orcs were stunned, their eyeless heads turning back and forth in confusion.

“Now!” shouted Ridmark. “Strike!”

He dashed forward, his black staff spinning in a circle. The end of the weapon slammed into the side of a deep orc’s head with a bone-splitting crack, and the orc fell in a limp heap to the ground. The others followed his lead. Gavin and Arandar surged forward, moving with the superhuman speed granted by the power of their soulblades. Morigna cast another spell, and the stone floor rippled and folded, flinging three deep orcs from their feet. Jager darted into the fray, using the short sword of dark elven steel he had taken from the Warden’s armory. One of the deep orcs raised his blowgun, taking aim at Calliande. Blue fire swirled behind him, and Mara appeared out of nothingness, her face calm and detached as she slashed the deep orc’s throat with expert skill. The deep orc fell, and Mara disappeared again. Caius and Kharlacht fought side-by-side, Caius covering the orcish warrior’s back as Kharlacht’s greatsword rose and fell, killing with every blow.