Frostborn: The Broken Mage (3 page)

Calliande summoned more power and cast a spell, white light leaping from her hands to sink into her companions. The spell made them stronger, allowing them to strike with greater force. She felt the weight of holding the spell lying upon her mind like a cord of fire, taking some of her magical strength, but she had power enough to work another spell if needed.

Ridmark and the others cut free of the ring of deep orcs and charged towards the foes waiting in the crossroads. The deep orcs there rallied, drawing short swords and raising spears. There were at least twenty of them, and an idea came to Calliande.

“Antenora!” she said, and the older woman’s yellow gaze turned towards her. “They see heat, not light. If you…”

But Antenora had already grasped her purpose. She drew back her staff, its length suddenly burning with harsh fire, and thrust the weapon forward. A sphere of fire the size of Calliande’s head erupted from the staff, soared over Ridmark and the others, and landed in the midst of the deep orcs. 

It made an impressive explosion. 

Two of the deep orcs collapsed, flames tearing at their clothing and skin, and the rest stumbled back. Ridmark and the others came to a halt, but the deep orcs retreated further. Antenora’s fire had dazzled them, blinding the strange organ that let them sense heat. 

A silent communication seemed to pass through the deep orcs, and as one they turned and fled down the gallery to the east, vanishing out of sight into the gloom.

For a moment the only sound was the crackle of the flames on the dead deep orcs. It made for an unpleasant smell.

“Let them go,” said Ridmark. 

“It is unwise to chase a wounded foe into his native terrain,” said Arandar. “How did you know they were there?”

“I didn’t,” said Ridmark. “But this was a perfect place for an ambush.”

Arandar frowned at Morigna. “So how did you know they were there?”

She smirked at him. “Vile dark magic, sir knight. How else?”

Arandar’s eyes narrowed. 

Ridmark sighed. “Morigna.”

“A spell of earth magic,” said Morigna, gesturing with her staff. “The floors are made of stone. Your weight puts pressure upon the stone, pressure that I can sense through earth magic. The same principles apply to the deep orcs.” 

Arandar grunted, not exactly pleased, but not satisfied, either. Calliande could not blame him. Morigna had been increasingly erratic since she had absorbed some of the Warden’s power at Urd Morlemoch, though she seemed to have herself under control since they had fled the battle between the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm. 

Or she was doing a good job of pretending. 

Calliande pushed aside the thought. It was something else she could worry about once she retrieved her staff and memory. 

“The deep orcs,” said Ridmark. “They must control most of Khald Azalar, if they’re so close to the Gate of the West.”

“Or this portion of the city, at least,” said Caius. “It is possible that other kindreds rule in different parts of the city. Or that different tribes of deep orcs make war upon each other throughout the ruins.” He shrugged. “Or that the deep orcs we fought were simply a scouting party that stumbled upon us. We shall not know until we proceed further.” 

“Morigna,” said Ridmark. “How far does your spell extend?”

She hesitated. “Eighty yards. Maybe ninety, if I concentrate.” 

“That will have to be enough,” said Ridmark. He rubbed his jaw for a moment. “We’ve been walking all day, and the sun has likely gone down by now. We’ll need to find a place to rest before we continue. Someplace we can fortify, yet escape quickly if necessary.” 

“These side galleries, perhaps,” said Kharlacht, gesturing at the pillared galleries stretching away to the north and south.

“No,” said Caius. “They lead to residential areas, but to the best of my knowledge the galleries are the only way in and out.”

“And one would prefer not to escape through a sewer again,” said Morigna.

“We did enough of that in Coldinium,” said Jager. “Hopefully there are no malophages down here, though.”  

“I suggest we proceed to the Dormari Market,” said Caius.

Kharlacht’s brow furrowed below his black warrior’s topknot. “The deep orcs fled in that direction.”

“Probably because a dozen major streets break off from the Dormari Market and spread into Khald Azalar,” said Caius. “The deep orcs could retreat to their stronghold from there easily enough. As for us, there are several buildings of large size within the vault of the Market. We could camp in one, rest for the night, and continue tomorrow. If any enemies come upon us, they would not be able to trap us here.”

“We should not rest long,” said Arandar. “Lady Mara says that the Traveler is drawing closer, and we should assume that Mournacht and his Kothluuskan orcs are even nearer.” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Very well. We shall rest in the Dormari Market, assuming we can find a suitable location. But for no more than six hours. We should also perform a quick search of the Market to see if we can find anything useful.”

“Such as a map?” said Jager.

“Exactly,” said Ridmark. “Calliande.”

She blinked, surprised. “Yes?” Her attention had drifted to the strange feeling of her staff’s presence.

“Is the Dormari Market in the direction of your staff?” said Ridmark.

“I…think so.” Calliande closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. “But I cannot swear to it.” She opened her eyes and waved a vague hand forward. “All I know is that it is beneath us to the east.” 

“How helpful,” said Morigna. “It would been useful if your past self could have left more precise directions.”

Antenora stirred. “You should not speak to the Keeper in such a tone.”

“She’s right,” said Calliande. “I wish I had left myself better directions.” She had, though…but the Tower of Vigilance had been destroyed in the civil war between the Pendragon princes decades ago. “Evidently I did not plan for this possibility.” 

“Then we must improvise,” said Ridmark. “Let’s keep going.”

He beckoned, and they walked deeper into the gloom of Khald Azalar.

Closer, Calliande hoped, to her staff.

Chapter 2: Ruins

They passed through two more massive gates of dwarven steel and granite, each one large enough to seal off an entire gallery.

At least, they had, once upon a time. Now the doors had been reduced to shards of broken dwarven steel and piles of granite rubble, cracks spreading through the nearby walls. Ridmark thought the doors looked like boulders that had cracked in the frozen heart of a bitter winter. When the Frostborn had attacked Khald Azalar, the dwarves had fallen back from the Gate of the West to the Dormari Market, sealing the mighty gates behind them with every step. 

Then the Frostborn had simply used their magic to shatter the gates and force their way onward. 

Behind each of the broken gates lay the marks of an ancient battle. Piles of dwarven bones, the nearby walls chipped and scarred from errant weapon blows. Here and there they saw the crystalline bones and grim, ice-gray armor of a slain Frostborn, radiating cold so intense that Ridmark’s breath steamed in the air when he passed them. Khald Azalar might have been a great kingdom once, but now it served as the mausoleum of its slain people. 

They passed through one more gate, and then stepped into a large cavern.

“The Dormari Market,” said Caius. 

It was a vast space carved from the stone of the mountain, easily as large as the great cathedrals in Tarlion. Terraces lined the walls, and upon each level rested rows of small, square buildings. Archways stood at regular intervals along the wall, revealing entrances to other pillared galleries, streets and ramps leading deeper into the stone maze of Khald Azalar. A large stele covered in dwarven glyphs rose from the center of the Market, supporting a statue of an armored dwarven warrior. 

“It has seen better days,” said Jager. 

Ridmark agreed. At least half of the shops had been smashed into rubble. Heaps of bones lay upon the terraces, orcish and dwarven both, along with the bones of trolls and kobolds. A dozen piles of glittering gray armor marked where Frostborn warriors had fallen long ago. 

“That building,” said Ridmark, pointing at a rectangular house on the eastern end of the Market. It had come through the fighting mostly intact, and a squat tower rose from its center. It looked more ornate than many of the others, its sides adorned with elaborate reliefs. “That looks like a suitable place for a camp. What was it?”

“A Travelers’ House,” said Caius. “Ah…an inn, I believe it is commonly called in Latin. Travelers would stay there while visiting Khald Azalar.”

“Since we are visiting,” said Jager, “it seems appropriate.”

“It would be a good choice for camp,” said Caius. “The tower commands a view of the entire Market, and it has doors in the front and back. If enemies approach, we can retreat with ease.” 

“Good enough,” said Ridmark. “Let’s have something to eat and then some rest.”

“I do hope the landlord has some decent wine in his cellar,” said Jager. “It is so hard to find good wine in these desolate regions.” 

“You and your luxuries, master thief,” said Morigna. “However shall you cope without them?” 

“Well,” said Jager, brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from his sleeve. Ridmark still could not figure out how the man kept his shirts so white in the wilderness. “Adventure is well and good, but if we live through this, I am not traveling more than twenty miles from the nearest tavern ever again.”

Morigna snorted. “An honest answer!”

“Why not?” said Jager. “I am the most honest of all men.” 

“Do you sense anyone hiding in the Travelers’ House?” said Ridmark before Morigna could return Jager’s taunt.

Morigna closed her eyes and concentrated for a moment. “Nothing. I do not believe that anyone is hiding here, whether dvargir, deep orc, or…something else.”

“Keep the spell in place, at least until we get to the Travelers’ House,” said Ridmark. “I would prefer not to be taken by surprise.” 

“Yes,” said Jager. “Better by far to die in full knowledge of our inevitable fate.” 

Arandar coughed out a sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “You, Master Jager, would make jokes before the throne of the Dominus Christus on the day of the Last Judgment.” 

“Well, someone would have to lighten the mood,” said Jager.

They crossed the Dormari Market and came to the doors of the Travelers’ House. Once the doors had been fashioned of fine dwarven steel, but now they lay twisted and broken upon the ground. Within the common room of the House looked much like the common room of countless inns and taverns that Ridmark had visited over the years, albeit that the tables and benches were wrought of finely carved stone. A faint layer of dust covered everything. The windows had a good view of the surrounding tiers of the Market, and it would be difficult for any foes to approach unseen. 

“This is as good as we shall find,” said Ridmark. “We’ll rest here and continue on in six hours.” He slid off his pack and set against one of the benches. “I’m going to have a look around.”

“No need,” said Mara. She gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “I’ll head up the tower and keep watch. I want to think for a while anyway.” 

“One of us will come to relieve you in two hours,” said Arandar. “You need rest as well, Lady Mara.” 

“Do as you think best,” said Ridmark. “I’ll still have a look around. Four eyes are better than two.” 

Mara smiled at that. “I quite agree.” 

The others settled down to eat. There was still coal in one of the stone bins next to a hearth, and Kharlacht got a small fire going. Ridmark climbed the stairs to the House’s second floor, looked through the rooms, and then went to the third floor. He saw no sign of recent habitation, no indication that the deep orcs or anyone else made a habit of staying here, though many of the glowstones still gave off a pale light. Likely the deep orcs passed through the Dormari Market and hastened to their hidden strongholds without pausing here. 

It made Ridmark wonder if stopping here had been a bad idea.

He stepped into one of the rooms, looking through the window at the silent, half-ruined Market, the few functioning glowstones throwing a crazed tangle of shadows and light over the rubble. The silence troubled him. He had traveled in the Deeps before, even in dwarven ruins, but this was different. There, silence seemed natural. Khald Azalar had once been a prosperous place, a city full of people. Its silence was the silence of a tomb…

A footstep rasped against stone, and Ridmark whirled, his staff coming up. 

Morigna stood behind him, her black eyes intense in her pale face. 

“Morigna,” he said. “You startled me.”

She smiled a little. “You said you did not want to be taken unawares. Well.” She stepped closer. “What if you are aware?”

Ridmark said nothing, and she reached up and put a hand upon his cheek. They had not lain together since leaving Khorduk, and her fingers sent a ripple of heat down his nerves. The last time they had gone off together alone for a tryst, in the Torn Hills surrounding Urd Morlemoch, a pack of urvaalgs had almost killed them. Ridmark had not seen any sign of urvaalgs in Khald Azalar so far. 

He had been wrong before, though.

“I thought I had lost you,” she whispered, “when we were separated at the High Gate. I thought I might never see you again. I would have done anything to save you. Even,” she swallowed, “even used the power I took from Urd Morlemoch.”

“I know,” said Ridmark, his voice quiet. 

“So,” said Morigna, a little quaver in her voice. “You are…”

He silenced her with a kiss. 

A few moments later they had each other out of their clothes, and Ridmark spread their cloaks across the floor, elven gray and tattered brown and green. They lay down together, and Ridmark forgot about the danger, forgot about his quest to stop the Frostborn, forgot about his misgivings, forgot everything except the taste of her mouth against his and the heat of her body against his skin and the strength of her limbs as they coiled around him. As she finished she muffled her cry against his shoulder, and he followed suit a moment later, every muscle in his body seeming to contract at once.