Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (21 page)

Arandar’s eyes narrowed, but his tone remained calm. “Heartwarden does not belong to me, nor to Ridmark, or to anyone else. Nor does Truthseeker belong to Tarrabus Carhaine or Judicaeus Carhaine or even Gavin. The soulblades belong to the Order, to defend the realm from the powers of dark magic. We only hold them in trust for this responsibility.” 

“Or do you command us by virtue of your blood?” said Morigna. “Such as it is. The High King’s bastard? Do you expect us to bow and scrape at your every word, no matter how foolish?”

Gavin stifled a wince. Arandar was almost always levelheaded, but the topic of his father was a sore point. The High King had never acknowledged Arandar, and he had risen in the world upon his own courage, from man-at-arms to knight to Swordbearer. The High King had done his bastard son no favors…which had to sting, given that Arandar’s own children were in danger from Tarrabus Carhaine. Uthanaric Pendragon had done nothing to help them, either. 

“Have you seen war, Morigna of Moraime?” said Arandar, his voice hard. “I have. Have you led men into battle, knowing that no matter what choice you made, no matter how complete your victory that some of them would die, that you would have to carry the news to their widows and orphans? I have done all this, and I have made decisions when I know that every choice might lead to disaster. Our best choice is to go to the Gate of the West.”

“Perhaps if you had led those men better,” said Morigna, “you would not have created so many widows and orphans.”

Arandar went very, very still.

“Sir Arandar,” said Caius.

“No,” said Arandar. “Maybe she is right. A captain must make decisions in battle with his reason, rather than allowing emotion to cloud his vision.” He pointed at Morigna again. “As you are.”

“What nonsense is this?” said Morigna. 

“You are allowing your regard for the Gray Knight to affect your judgment,” said Arandar. “You know we cannot find him. You know as well as I do we need to make for the Gate of the West. Yet you are acting like a lovelorn maiden rushing off into the woods! Do you think Ridmark is running in circles trying to find you? No. He is going to the Gate of the West.” His voice grew harder, colder. “You might have seduced him in a moment of weakness, one he will certainly regret, but he will not let folly twist his decisions as you have.” 

Morigna said nothing, but Gavin saw a pulse of pale purple flame in the sigils of her staff, and Antenora took a deep breath, flexing the fingers of her free hand. 

“Especially since your judgment might be corrupted by dark magic,” said Arandar.

Morigna snarled. “Is that how it is to be, Swordbearer? The righteous knight against the dark witch?”

“I saw you using dark magic,” said Arandar.

Azakhun and his retainers looked at her.

“I only have that dark magic,” said Morigna, “because I took it when I freed you from the Warden’s trap in Urd Morlemoch. Would you rather I have left you there to rot, Swordbearer? I am beginning to think that would have been the course of wisdom.”

“What is done is done,” said Arandar. “It is what you might do that alarms me. You are wielding the same sort of magic that the Mhorites and the Traveler use.”

“And what concern of that is yours?” said Morigna. 

“If we were in Andomhaim,” said Arandar, “then I would have you arrested and turned over to the Magistri without a moment’s hesitation.”

Morigna drew herself up, her tattered cloak hanging lose around her, her eyes blazing. 

“Then,” she said, her voice soft and calm and quiet, “do you want to settle our differences right now, sir knight? For I am willing, if you…”

“Shut up!” said Gavin. “Both for you!” They looked at him. “For God’s sake! Are you trying to get us killed? Are you going to stand here bickering until you bring the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm down on our heads?”

“Do not presume to lecture me, boy,” said Morigna. “I…”

Antenora sighed. “The Keeper’s choice in companions, it seems, is perhaps questionable.”

“We need to decide what we’re doing, right now,” said Gavin. “All of us.” 

“We should go to the Gate of the West and wait for Ridmark and the Keeper,” said Arandar.

“No,” said Morigna. “We shall go and find them.”

“Fine,” said Gavin. “We all know what you think. Kharlacht?”

Kharlacht frowned. “I believe Sir Arandar is correct. We should go to the Gate of the West and wait. If the Gray Knight and the Magistria do not arrive within two or three days, we should go in search of them.”

“Brother Caius?” said Gavin.

“I agree with Kharlacht,” said Caius.

“Jager?” said Gavin.

“We should move and continue bickering somewhere else,” said Jager, looking over his shoulder. Mara still stood perched upon the wall. As far as Gavin could tell, she had ignored the entire argument. “This is a heist, and only a fool lingers too long in one place during a heist.” 

“Heist?” said Morigna. “What idiocy is this? We are not burgling some fat merchant’s strongbox.”

“No,” said Jager, “we’re not. We are burgling a magical artifact of incredible power from the fortified ruins of a dwarven kingdom surrounded by hostile armies. This is burglary on a scale even I, the Master Thief of Coldinium, never dared to conceive. But I still know a thing or two about it. We should move. After that…I am not a captain or a soldier. Both plans seem good to me. Perhaps Morigna could go in search of Ridmark while the rest of us go to the Gate.” 

That wasn’t a bad idea, actually. At the very least it would keep Morigna and Arandar from killing each other. 

“Taalmak?” said Gavin. 

“I fear I must agree with Morigna,” said Azakhun. “The situation is too chaotic. It would be best to find the Gray Knight and the Magistria, withdraw from the Vale of Stone Death, and try to enter Khald Azalar another way. Perhaps if we circle over the Vhaluuskan mountains and use Khald Azalar’s Gate of the East.” 

“Maybe Master Jager’s suggestion is best,” said Caius. “Morigna can go in search of Ridmark while we reach the Gate. Once she finds him and Calliande, they can head for the Gate of the West themselves.” 

“We are more effective in battle as a group,” said Kharlacht.

“One hardly thinks two Swordbearers of such puissance require my assistance,” said Morigna.

Arandar frowned. “You might need ours. Especially if you run into a group of urvaalgs. Or if one of the Traveler’s urdhracosi takes an interest in you.”

“I can move stealthily enough,” said Morigna.

“Enough to avoid urvaalgs?” said Arandar. “Or trolls, for that matter? If we are attacked by trolls, we might need your acidic mist to put them down.”

“You shall not,” said Morigna. “Antenora’s fire will be far more effective.”

Arandar blinked. “That’s right, isn’t it?” He turned and bowed to Antenora. “Forgive me for neglecting your counsel.”

“I am easily forgettable,” said Antenora, a dry note in her worn voice. 

“What do you suggest we do?” said Arandar. “If you are as old as you claim, you have seen more conflict and battle that all the rest of us put together.”

“More battles than you can imagine, I fear,” said Antenora, her yellow eyes flashing, “and fought with weapons of war that could turn this Vale to poisoned ashes.” Gavin remembered the Warden’s visions and shuddered. “But the principles of battle remain the same, though the weapons may change. I am going to find the Keeper, regardless of what the rest of you choose to do. To find the Keeper, it seems best to wait for her at the Gate of the West for her. If she is like the Keeper I knew, she will find her path, though hell should bar the way.”

Caius chuckled. “You may not have met Calliande, but it seems you understand her already.”

Morigna scowled.

“But,” said Antenora, “the sorceress has a point. Mischance rules us all. Some evil fortune might have befallen your Gray Knight and the Keeper. The sorceress should go in search of the Gray Knight and the Keeper while the rest of us follow the knight to the Gate.” She shrugged. “That is my counsel. The rest of you may do as you wish. But if you continue this useless squabbling, then I shall find the Keeper alone.” 

“A compromise, then,” said Morigna. “One that satisfies no one, so it must be reasonable. What do you say then, Swordbearer?” 

Arandar started to speak, and then blue fire swirled before him, solidifying into Mara. She had her short sword in hand, the blue dark elven armor covering her thin form, and for an absurd instant Gavin thought she had decided to assassinate the Swordbearer. Her face was cold and hard, and…

No. She had seen something. 

“You’ve had enough time to argue,” said Mara. “We have to go. A group of thirty Mhorites are headed right for us, and there are more behind them.”

Chapter 16: A Hard Bargain

Gavin moved in haste, affixing his battered shield to his left arm and drawing Truthseeker with his right. The soulblade gave off a pale, shimmering light, with none of the rage it showed in the presence of dark magic. That was good. The Mhorites had brought no shamans with them.

Or the shamans were far enough away that the soulblade had not yet sensed their presence. 

“Are they coming for us?” said Arandar. Around him the camp dissolved into chaos as Azakhun’s dwarves donned their armor and Kharlacht and Caius and Jager readied their weapons. Mara disappeared again, no doubt to watch the progress of the advancing Mhorites. Morigna cast a spell, and Gavin glimpsed the flap of dark wings overhead.

He felt a stab of annoyance. Perhaps if she had sent her ravens to watch instead of picking a fight with Arandar, the Mhorites would not have taken them unawares. On the other hand, perhaps Gavin should have been keeping watch instead of observing the argument. 

Mara reappeared next to Arandar. “They aren’t. Else they would have brought more warriors. I think their scouts saw this tower and Mournacht decided to seize it as a strong point.”

Arandar scowled. “That means the Traveler must be moving his host as well.”

“Splendid,” said Jager. “Perhaps they’ll slaughter each other and leave us in peace.” 

“We should be so fortunate,” said Arandar. He turned to Antenora. “Will you fight alongside us?”

“These Mhorites,” said Antenora. “What are they, exactly?”

“Warriors of the orcish kindred,” said Arandar. “They worship Mhor, one of the old blood gods of the ancient orcs. Mhor delights in slaughter and carnage, and the Mhorite orcs kill in his name. Their shamans are frequently dark wizards of considerable power.” 

“The Keeper has faced them before, too,” said Gavin. “We think one of the Keeper’s enemies sent the Mhorites to kill or capture her.” 

“Very well,” said Antenora. “I shall do what I can against them.” 

“Enough talk,” said Mara. “Sir Arandar, I strongly suggest that we leave right now.” 

“From what direction are the Mhorites approaching?” said Arandar.

“From the south,” said Mara.

“We should head east,” said Morigna. “The Anathgrimm were to the southwest when we last met. If they march to counter the Mhorites, we can be well away before the battle starts.”

“Very well,” said Arandar, pulling on his heavy helm. “Let us depart.” 

They walked through the archway. Gavin and Arandar took the front, soulblades in hand. Kharlacht and Caius followed, and then Mara and Jager. Morigna and Antenora came after, both women carrying their staffs, and Azakhun and his retainers brought up the back. The five dwarves still had their bronze-colored armor of dwarven steel, though the Anathgrimm had taken their weapons. Fortunately, they had seized weapons in their rapid escape from the battle between the Traveler and the trolls, and now Azakhun and his men carried a mismatched assortment of swords, axes, and maces of orcish make. The Traveler, alas, had not seen fit to arm his soldiers with weapons of dark elven steel. Perhaps it was just as well. Gavin knew firsthand how well armor of dark elven steel held up to abuse, and he would not want to face foes armed with the same metal.

Truthseeker shivered in his hand, the soulstone in the sword’s blade shining a little brighter. 

“Sir Arandar,” said Gavin.

“I know,” said Arandar. “A shaman is with them.”

They descended the steep hill and reached level ground, the pine forest stretching before them. Gavin saw dark shapes moving beneath the trees, heard the sound of harsh voices speaking the orcish tongue with Kothluuskan accents. 

The Mhorite war party had arrived. 

“Now!” shouted Arandar. “Strike quickly. Cut through them!”

Gavin nodded and drew on Truthseeker’s power, filling himself with strength and speed, and hurtled forward. The ground blurred beneath him, and he sprinted into the trees. Beneath the shadows of the pines he saw a dozen Mhorite warriors moving forward, their weapons in hand, the crimson scars of their stylized tattoos stark against the green skin of their faces. They were spread out loosely, and looked wary, but not alarmed. 

That was about to change.

Gavin charged towards the Mhorite on the left, bringing up Truthseeker. The light from the sword’s fire fell across the Mhorite’s tusked face, and the orcish warrior snarled and raised a mace. Gavin dodged the mace, Truthseeker lending him speed, and struck. His sword ripped across the Mhorite’s right thigh, and the warrior stumbled. Gavin followed with a quick thrust, driving Truthseeker through leather and wool and into the Mhorite’s chest, and the warrior fell dying to the ground.

He had just ripped the blade free when another warrior came at him, screaming the name of Mhor. Gavin caught the slash of a sword upon his shield, his arm aching from the strike, and then another, and then another. The orc shifted to Gavin’s right, trying to move past Gavin’s guard, and Gavin turned to keep the shield between them. Another Mhorite ran to support Gavin’s foe, and his first attacker’s momentum played out as he stepped to the side to allow the second orc to strike. 

Truthseeker’s magic filled him, and Gavin lunged forward, whipping the soulblade around in a blur of white fire. The first Mhorite got his sword up to block, and Truthseeker struck with a resounding clang. The impact wrenched the orc’s arm sideways, and Gavin hammered Truthseeker’s pommel into the Mhorite’s temple. The orc staggered with a bellow of fury, and Gavin wheeled to meet the second warrior’s attack. The Mhorite held a heavy axe, and at the last minute Gavin realized the weapon would tear through his shield like kindling. He threw himself back, and even with Truthseeker’s speed, the edge of the axe clipped his chest. The armor turned the sharp edge, but the weight of the strike knocked him back. The Mhorite raised the axe in both hands for another blow, his black eyes shining red with orcish battle fury, and Gavin ignored the pain and threw himself forward. His hasty slash tore a gash across the orc’s arm, and the blow that would have split Gavin’s skull in two went wild. Gavin dodged and brought Truthseeker around, the blade sinking a third of the way into the Mhorite’s throat. The orcish warrior went into a death dance, and Gavin yanked his sword free and turned as his first attacker rose, sword flying. He parried once, blocked on his shield, parried again, and then saw his opening. Truthseeker stabbed, sinking into the Mhorite’s heart, and Gavin retracted the soulblade, seeking for new enemies.

It always stunned him to realize how little time passed while he was fighting. The heat of combat felt like an eternity. 

Arandar had crashed into the orcs like a storm, and four of them lay dead at his feet, Heartwarden shining in his fist. Kharlacht and Caius fought together in smooth unison as they usually did, Caius stunning orcs with blows from his mace, and Kharlacht’s greatsword taking limbs or even heads from the Mhorites. Jager and Mara hung back, keeping watch over the sorceresses, while Morigna cast spells, roots rising from the ground to entangle the Mhorites. Antenora did nothing, though her staff remained grasped in both hands, the sigils smoldering with fiery light. Gavin wondered why she did not bring her powers to bear, and then recalled the firestorms he had seen her conjure against the trolls. Perhaps she could not control her fire with a great deal of accuracy. 

Nearby Azakhun and his retainers fought as a unit, moving with the smooth, economical efficiency of warriors who had trained together for a long time. Even with the inferior weapons of Kothluuskan steel, the dwarven warriors held their own. They chanted in the harsh dwarven tongue as they fought, here and there interspersed with a cry to the Dominus Christus and St. Michael. They formed a pillar of defense against the Mhorite orcs swarming through the woods, orcs that…

Gavin blinked as two more Mhorites ran at him, weapons raised.

Mara had counted a warband of thirty orcs, but Gavin was pretty sure he saw more than thirty.

The blast of a horn rang out, echoing through the trees. The nearest orc attacked, chopping his mace down for Gavin’s skull. Gavin got his shield up high, catching the blow, and stabbed with Truthseeker, plunging the sword into the orc’s belly. The Mhorite howled, and Gavin whirled to meet a second warrior’s attack. There was no time to get his shield up to block properly, so he didn’t even try, calling instead upon Truthseeker to grant him strength. He surged forward, slamming the shield before him. The Mhorite stumbled, and Gavin whipped Truthseeker around, driving the sword upon the crown of the warrior’s head. Green blood washed over the crimson skull tattoo, and the Mhorite fell dead at Gavin’s feet as he pulled his sword away. 

Another blast of a war horn thundered through the trees, and another. 

Gavin saw Mhorites running through the forest, dozens of them. Over the cry and din of battle he heard shouting voices and the tramp of heavy boots. With a surge of cold alarm he realized that the warband Mara had spotted had been just an advance guard. The entire Mhorite host was on the move. 

And if Mournacht was moving his army, that meant that the Traveler would move to counter. Gavin and his friends were right in the middle. Had Mournacht and the Traveler been planning to fight over the ruined watch tower?

He shouted and threw himself into the fray, fighting alongside Azakhun and the dwarves. Arandar and Caius and Kharlacht fell back to the dwarves, and blue fire flickered around the edge of the fighting as Mara disappeared and reappeared. She tripped and stabbed and pushed orcs, and Jager darted past the dwarves to land killing blows. The ground rippled and heaved, throwing Mhorites from their feet, and thick clusters of roots burst from the earth to pull them down. Curtains of billowing white mist rolled over them, eating into their flesh with a sizzling hiss. 

Yet still they kept coming. They were fighting the entire Mhorite host, and there was no way that Gavin and the others could prevail against so many. Already his arms and shoulders ached, and with a burst of surprise he felt blood trickling down his temple and onto his cheek. He could not even remember taking the hit. The sheer number of Mhorite warriors was pushing them back step by step. Worse, some of the orcish warriors were starting to flank them, circling behind the sorceresses and the dwarves. Morigna shifted her spells in that direction, throwing the Mhorites from their feet, but it would not hold them back for long.  

Truthseeker shuddered in Gavin’s fist.

Another Mhorite orc appeared behind the warriors. This orc was thin and wasted, his ribs stark against the green skin of his chest, his arms and torso marked with elaborate ritualized scars. The sigils of his scars began to burn with crimson light, and the orc lifted his hands, his mouth moving as he spoke, red fire and shadow snarling around his fingers.

He pointed at Gavin. 

Gavin called upon Truthseeker for protection, and the Mhorite shaman finished his spell. A lance of fire-wreathed shadow burst from the shaman’s hands just as a shell of white light appeared around Gavin. The spell slammed into him, Truthseeker vibrating in his hand, and the impact rocked him back several steps. 

It also gave the Mhorite warriors an opening to charge. 

Gavin barely got his shield up in time to deflect the first thrust. The blade bounced off the rim of his shield, which gave a second warrior a chance to stab. The sword struck his chest with terrific force, the point deflecting off his armor. The blows rocked him back on his heels, and before he could recover one of the Mhorites swung a mace at him. Gavin jerked back, and the blow that would have turned his skull to mush instead struck his chest.

That hurt. Quite a lot. 

He heard something snap and realized that it was one of his ribs. Gavin forced up his shield arm despite the pain in his chest and deflected the next strike of the mace, Truthseeker’s magic giving him the strength to stand fast. He bellowed a wordless battle cry and went on the attack, drawing on his soulblade’s power for speed and strength. Even with the sword’s magic, the agony in his chest still slowed him. He killed one of the Mhorites, but the rest avoided his blows. Behind them he saw the shaman beginning another spell. Gavin did not think he could manage to protect himself from the shaman’s magic while holding off the warriors. Arandar and Kharlacht and Mara and the others were engaged, fighting for their own lives, and could not aid him. 

Arandar had told him that in ancient times Swordbearers fell upon the field of battle so often that new Swordbearers were created upon the spot. 

Perhaps that would be Gavin’s fate.

He set himself, preparing to charge into the Mhorites, and then a hot wind blew past him.

Antenora stepped past Morigna, her staff extended, the fiery sigils shining brighter. The hot wind was blowing towards her, into her. A small sphere of white light hovered an inch above the top of her staff, painfully bright against Gavin’s eyes. Then he realized that the sphere was actually made of white-hot fire.

The Mhorite shaman raised his hands, bloody fire burning around his fingers, and Antenora thrust her staff at him.

The sphere flew in a straight line from her staff and struck the shaman’s forehead. It burned through his skull like a droplet of molten metal through a sheet of paper, reducing the top half of his head to charred ruin. Gavin expected the sphere to dissipate, its energy spent, but it kept going and struck the earth behind the shaman.

The explosion came a half-second later.

A pillar of fire erupted from the ground with a thunderous roar, and a hot gale roared past Gavin, pine needles and dust rolling through the air. A dozen Mhorites died at once, incinerated in the inferno, and a dozen more ran wailing into the trees, the flames chewing into their flesh. The blast knocked a score of Mhorites to the ground, and the rest froze, staring in shock at the fire. Gavin was shocked himself. He had seen the explosion that Antenora had unleashed in the dwarven ruins near the Traveler’s camp, but standing so close to such a blast…

His combat experience and training overrode his shock, and Gavin charged with a yell, cutting down one of the Mhorites and wounding another before the rest fell back. A dozen pine trees burned, and the scent of smoke filled the air. The fires were spreading rapidly, pooling across the dry needles on the forest floor. All was chaos and blood and fire around him, but everywhere he looked, he saw Mhorites either fleeing the flames or advancing forward to kill him.