Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (23 page)

“Very well,” said Arandar, drawing Heartwarden. The soulstone in the blade pulsed a little brighter than usual in response to the dark magic around Mournacht. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

Gavin nodded and drew Truthseeker, the soulblade thrumming. They climbed over the barricade and started down the slope. Gavin took care to keep his balance on the rocky hillside, picking his steps carefully. He felt the eyes of hundreds of Mhorites at the base of the hill, the warriors holding swords and spears and axes. A veil of smoke rose from the trees Antenora’s magic had burned, and through the haze Gavin glimpsed more Mhorite warriors. 

Far more than they could ever hope to defeat.

He swallowed and tried to keep the fear from his face, tried to keep his face stern and hard as Arandar did.

A dozen Mhorite shamans waited at the base of the hill, gaunt and wasted, their black eyes glittering with fevered madness, sigils of blood-colored light written upon their flesh. In their midst stood a huge orcish man, nearly seven and a half feet tall. Unlike the other shamans, he was a tower of muscle, his chest and arms huge. The crimson tattoo and stylized skull upon his features seemed to twist his face into a permanent snarl of fury. He wore only trousers, boots, and a broad leather belt, red-painted human skulls dangling on a leather cord from his right hip. In his right hand he held a massive double-bladed battle axe of black steel, taller than Gavin, the thick blades as wide across as his shoulders. More symbols of bloody fire shone upon the blades, and even without drawing upon Truthseeker’s power, Gavin felt the dark magic surrounding the huge orcish shaman. 

Had Mournacht been that strong at Vulmhosk and Coldinium? If Shadowbearer had indeed recruited him, perhaps he had strengthened the Mhorite shaman.

“We have come,” said Arandar, “in response to the renegade Mournacht’s request for parley.”

Mournacht growled. “I am the Chosen of Mhor and the Warlord of Kothluusk. You should speak more gently to me, Swordbearer.”

“Would it bruise your feelings if I did otherwise?” said Arandar, cold and commanding.

“I summoned the Gray Knight,” said Mournacht. “You are not the Gray Knight. I do not know you.” His eyes, hard and black and glimmering with the crimson light of orcish battle fury, turned to Gavin. “You, I know. One of the dogs running after the Gray Knight’s footsteps.”

“Woof,” Gavin said, something defiant flaring within him.

Arandar blinked and let out a quiet laugh. 

“Enjoy your japes while you can, dog,” said Mournacht. “The time for jokes shall soon pass.” The black eyes turned back to Arandar. “Who are you?”

“I am Sir Arandar of Tarlion, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade and a knight of the High King’s court,” said Arandar.

“Ah,” rumbled Mournacht. “I know your name. You slew the shaman Qazamhor in the foothills of Kothluusk ten years past, when he thought to make himself Warlord of Kothluusk and turn Durandis to ashes.” 

Gavin had never heard that story. But Arandar was not the sort of man to boast. 

“Is that why you are here, then?” said Arandar. “To avenge Qazamhor’s death? Your filial piety to your elders is touching.”

“Qazamhor was a fool and deserved his fate,” said Mournacht. “He thought to use the blood moons to make himself the Chosen of Mhor. He was wrong, for I am the Chosen of Mhor, and I shall bathe all the world in blood as a sacrifice to his name!”

The shamans around him snarled their agreement.

“The world is a large place,” said Arandar. “Just how shall you accomplish this?”

“You already know, Sir Arandar,” said Mournacht. “A great power has awakened beneath the mountains, the staff once wielded by the Keeper of Andomhaim. I shall claim that power for myself, and with it I shall sacrifice this world to Mhor.”

“The Traveler might disagree with you,” said Arandar.

“The Traveler!” snarled Mournacht, the crimson glare in his eyes brightening. “The cringing shadow of the Nightmane Forest? He is a relic of the past. The world belonged the dark elves until their folly summoned the urdmordar and brought ruin down upon their heads. Now the future belongs to the sons of Mhor. I shall sweep the Traveler and his pets from my path and trample them beneath my boots. When I do, I shall claim the staff of the Keeper for myself, and all the world shall bow before Mhor.”

“A splendid plan,” said Arandar. “Though I wonder why the great champion of Mhor wastes his valuable time speaking with us.”

Mournacht smiled. It made his scarred face look even more frightening. “Because I have business to settle with the Gray Knight. I know that he and the woman who was the Keeper are with you.”

“Are you so sure of that?” said Arandar. “Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“My scouts have seen the Gray Knight,” said Mournacht. “They have also seen his companions. The ragged sorceress. The impudent halfling rat. The Vhaluuskan orc and the dwarf who worships the pathetic sheep-god of the humans. I know you have taken shelter in the tower.”

“Well,” said Arandar, “I shall pass on your regards. I am sure the Gray Knight will appreciate them.” 

“No,” said Mournacht. “The Gray Knight and the Keeper shall surrender themselves to me.”

“And why should they do that?” said Arandar.

Mournacht’s ghastly smile widened. “Because they are fools. Because they care for the lives of others.”

“How shall that induce them to surrender themselves to you?” said Arandar. 

“Because if they do not,” said Mournacht, “I shall take the tower by storm. The Keeper’s powers are crippled, and the ragged sorceress is not strong enough to stop me. I shall kill the Gray Knight’s dogs in front of him one by one. I will take the Keeper and the sorceress and hand them over to my warriors for their amusement. I shall cook the halfling on a spit and feast upon his flesh. I will crucify the Vhaluuskan and the dwarf in imitation of their precious god. Any other pets the Gray Knight has acquired I shall treat in the same way. But if the Gray Knight and the Magistria surrender themselves to me, I shall let the rest of you go.” 

“Of course you will,” said Arandar.

“The Keeper is a threat,” said Mournacht. “The Gray Knight has irritated me. The rest of you are meaningless. You will fall to Mhor sooner or later. Tell the Gray Knight he must decide now.”

“Very well,” said Arandar. “I will convey your offer to him, and return with his answer.”

He started back up the hill, and Gavin followed. His back itched they climbed, and he feared that the Mhorites would decide to rid themselves of two Swordbearers with a volley of arrows. But the Mhorite warriors watched in silence, and soon Arandar and Gavin climbed over the barricade and back into the ruined tower. 

“Well?” said Morigna. 

“He’s decided that he is the Chosen of Mhor and is going to bathe the world in blood as an offering to Mhor,” said Arandar.

Mara shuddered. “That sounds like the Red Family.”

“He also wants Ridmark and Calliande handed over to him alive,” said Arandar. “Calliande, so she can’t claim the Keeper’s staff. Ridmark, because I gather the Gray Knight annoyed him at some point in the past.”

Jager grinned. “Ridmark does possess a knack for making enemies.” 

Morigna let out a contemptuous little laugh. “He has not realized that Ridmark is not here?”

“No,” said Arandar. “He has promised that if we hand over the Gray Knight and the Keeper, he will let us depart in peace.”

“He will not keep his word,” said Azakhun. “The dwarves of Khald Tormen have fought the Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk for many years. They consider themselves free to break a promise given to anyone who is not a servant of Mhor.”

“It does not matter,” said Morigna, “for we do not have Ridmark and Calliande to hand over, and even if we did, we would not.”

“No,” said Mara. “So what do we do now?”

“We wait,” said Arandar. “We have everything to gain by waiting, and nothing to gain by acting. I don’t know how long Mournacht will wait for us to make a decision, but every moment he waits is another moment the Traveler’s army can arrive or the trolls can make trouble. Then we can slip away or even fight our way through in the chaos.”

“Or,” said Kharlacht, “Mournacht will tire of waiting and assail the tower.”

“That is a possibility, too,” said Arandar. “But we can hold them off for a long time. An army is never more vulnerable to counterattack than when it is assaulting a fortified position. The Traveler might take that moment to attack, giving us our moment to escape.”

“Unless Mournacht himself enters the fray,” said Morigna. “His magic has increased considerably in strength since we faced him in Coldinium.” 

“He is very powerful,” said Mara. “With the Sight…he has potent dark magic at his command. Far stronger than any of the other Mhorite shamans we’ve seen. He would be a match for Valakoth, at least.”

Gavin swallowed. The First of the Devout, the leader of the Warden’s servants, had almost killed them all during the final battle at Urd Morlemoch. 

“So you cannot simply travel behind him and stab him in the back?” said Jager.

“I fear not,” said Mara. “He is powerful enough that I don’t think I could get within ten yards of him. He is also warded against weapons. Neither steel nor dark elven steel could touch him. You’d need a soulblade.” 

“We defeated Valakoth,” said Arandar, “and escaped his master, and we can deal with Mournacht. For now, our best course of action is to wait.”

###

An hour later Gavin stood at the barricade, Truthseeker ready in his fist.

“Come forth!” roared the herald for the third time. “This is your last chance, Gray Knight! Come forth with the Keeper and submit yourself to the power of Mournacht! Else your friends shall drown in their own blood!”

“He’s going to be annoyed,” said Jager, “once he kills us all and realizes that Ridmark was never here.” 

“Why hasn’t he attacked already?” said Gavin, puzzled.

Arandar turned his head to answer, but Antenora spoke first. 

“Because taking the tower will cost many of his warriors their lives,” said the yellow-eyed sorceress, “and he fears this Traveler more than he fears us. If the Traveler attacks while he is trying to seize the tower, it will not go well for him.”

“Precisely put, my lady,” said Arandar. “You know much of war, it seems.”

She shrugged. “I have seen so much war that I cannot remember all of it.”

“Then perish!” roared the herald, and the blast of war horns rang out. A rank of warriors started towards the slope, shields raised and interlocked to stop any arrows or missiles. 

“Here they come,” said Arandar, and Morigna and Antenora hastened up the stairs to the top of the ruined tower, ready to bring their deadly spells to bear. Kharlacht, Caius, Arandar, Jager, and Mara all readied their weapons, as did Azakhun and his four retainers. Truthseeker shivered in Gavin’s hand as the shamans began to cast spells behind the warriors. He desperately wished that Calliande was here. Neither Morigna nor Antenora could cast protective wards, and while Truthseeker would shield Gavin from dark magic, the soulblade would not protect the others. He had seen the sort of withering spells Mournacht had used at Vulmhosk, and he shuddered to think of Kharlacht or Caius or Mara falling victim to that kind of magic.

He took a deep breath, setting himself…and then the Mhorites began screaming. 

Gavin first thought that Morigna had cast a new spell, that she had summoned up a swarm of mosquitos or bees or something to harass them. Yet a ripple of fear went through the Mhorite ranks, and Mournacht’s furious voice boomed over the charred trees. The Mhorites turned to face a new threat, and Gavin realized that the Traveler must have arrived. 

He felt a surge of hope. Arandar’s gamble had paid off. If the Anathgrimm distracted the Mhorites, they could carve their way out…

One of the Mhorites at the base of the hill froze, going motionless.

Strangely motionless…and all the color had leached from him. 

Stone. The Mhorite warrior had been turned to stone. 

Green light flared in the burned trees, and more screams rang out.

“Brother Caius,” said Arandar. “That…”

“That is the gorgon spirit,” said Caius. “It is here.”

Chapter 17: Unworthy

Ridmark walked to the edge of the little valley, stepping past the statue of a petrified troll, and looked across the lake. The waters remained calm, rippling in the cold wind coming down from the mountains. 

The forest beyond the lake, though, looked anything but calm.

A large plume of dark smoke rose from the green pines. At least several acres of the forest had gone up in flames. Ridmark wondered what had happened. Perhaps the Mhorites or the Anathgrimm had figured out that the best way to fight trolls was with fire. Or perhaps Mournacht and the Traveler had met in magical battle and destroyed each other. 

Or maybe Morigna and the others were in trouble. 

His fingers tightened against the black staff. He wanted to go at once to see what was happening, but the fire was at least five miles away. By the time he arrived, the fighting would be over and done. He had to trust that Morigna and the others could look after themselves, that Arandar knew what he was doing, that they would try to remain hidden and make for the Gate of the West. 

Besides, the fire might have nothing to do with them at all. Maybe a Mhorite warrior had accidentally tripped and fallen into his cooking fire. 

Yet Ridmark could not make himself believe that. 

A soft rasp came to his ears. Curzonar walked towards him, crimson helmet tucked under one arm, his claws tapping the stony ground. It was a gesture of courtesy. Had Curzonar wished it, he could have moved so silently Ridmark would not have heard the manetaur until Curzonar’s jaws closed around his throat. 

“Lord Prince,” said Ridmark. 

Curzonar gazed at the smoke to the south. “The signs of battle.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “The Mhorites and the Anathgrimm, likely.”

“We should act,” said Curzonar. 

Ridmark shook his head. “Not yet. I suspect the fighting drew off the gorgon spirit. It will return, sooner or later, and we will have to be ready for it.”

Curzonar considered this for a moment. “I have questions.”

“I thought you might,” said Ridmark. 

“Your staff,” said Curzonar. “It is but wood. Yet it could harm Murzanar, and my axes of steel could not. Explain this.” 

“This staff,” said Ridmark, “was once carried by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain.”

Curzonar hissed through his fangs. “You lie to me.”

“Do I smell like I am lying?” said Ridmark.

Curzonar moved a little closer and sniffed. “No. How did you acquire this staff?” 

“The knowledge we have shared with you about the Frostborn, the Keeper, and Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark, “was acquired at great price. We went to Urd Morlemoch, where the Warden is imprisoned, and challenged him for the knowledge. He told us much that we did not know.”

“That is a place of evil name,” said Curzonar. “Yet clearly you survived.”

“Barely,” said Ridmark. “The Warden’s creatures almost slew us as we made our escape. Ardrhythain aided us, for we sought to stop Shadowbearer, and he has battled Shadowbearer for millennia beyond count. I lost my staff in the fighting, and he gave me this one.” He tapped the weapon against the ground. “I saw him work spells of tremendous potency with the staff, and he carried it long before you and I were born. The magic altered the nature of the staff, giving it the ability to wound creatures of dark magic.” 

“A useful weapon,” said Curzonar. He considered for a moment, the cold wind ruffling at his mane and whiskers. “There is something else I wish to know.”

Ridmark nodded. “I thought you might.” 

“I have seen you fight with great valor,” said Curzonar. “Far more valor than I would expect of a human, for your kindred are born with neither fangs nor claws nor the keen senses of a Hunter.”

Ridmark took care not to smile at that. “A grievous defect, but we carry on as best as we can.”

“Indeed,” said Curzonar. “I know little of the ways of humans, but I recognize the brand upon your face. A broken sword, the mark of cowardice. How did you acquire it?”

“Because I failed,” said Ridmark. 

“You will tell me more,” said Curzonar.

“Why?” said Ridmark. 

“Because we are fighting together,” said Curzonar, “and I am trusting the completion of my Rite of Challenge to your wisdom. If you are in fact a coward and a fool, I wish to know now. If you are, I shall go on my own way and find another method to defeat the gorgon spirit and free Murzanar from its grasp.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. He stared at the smoke. “It was…five years ago. Five and a half now, I suppose. Do you know the name of Mhalek?” 

“I have heard it,” said Curzonar. “Some orcish madman or another.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “He thought himself the incarnation of the old orcish blood gods, and led a great host south from Vhaluusk into the High Kingdom The army of the realm faced him, and its leaders met with him under parley, but Mhalek killed them and attacked.”

Curzonar growled. “A most dishonorable action.”

“I was a Swordbearer then,” said Ridmark, “and I took command of the battle. We defeated the Mhalekites at the Black Mountain, but Mhalek fled southeast to Castra Marcaine. My wife was there, and Mhalek was a sorcerer. He linked himself to her with a blood spell, so when I struck him down, the wound transferred to my wife, and she died as well.”

Curzonar’s growl was so deep it made Ridmark’s skull vibrate. “A most cowardly trick.”

“It was,” said Ridmark. 

He started to say something else, and then fell silent. Telling the story had not been as difficult as he would have thought. He still felt guilty for Aelia’s death, still felt pain for it. Yet it felt…different. As if the pain had become a permanent part of him, rather than a raw wound torn across his heart. 

What had changed? 

Morigna, for one. Ridmark no longer wanted to die in the completion of his quest. And he had learned the truth of the return of the Frostborn…and it had been darker than he could have dreamed. The Enlightened of Incariel were hidden like a cancer within the realm of Andomhaim, and their master Shadowbearer would open the door to summon the Frostborn to this world. 

There was far more at stake than Ridmark and his guilt, and he had spent too long brooding upon Aelia’s death. She likely would have rebuked him herself, had she known. There would be far more deaths than hers if Shadowbearer succeeded. 

He realized that Curzonar was asking a question.

“I missed that, I am afraid,” said Ridmark. 

“The dull senses of humans,” said Curzonar. “Your tale does not explain how you got the brand.”

“There was a man,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus Carhaine, the Dux of Caerdracon, one of the most powerful vassals of the High King. He was in love with my wife, but she chose me over him. He blamed me for her death, as did my wife’s sister. Her father and brothers disagreed, but Tarrabus was powerful, and he brought charges before the High King. His influence was enough to expel me from the Order, strip me of my soulblade, and have me branded as a coward. I did not fight it. I thought I deserved it.”

Perhaps, he thought with a flicker of new guilt, he should have fought his sentence. He could have exposed Tarrabus before the High King’s court. Yet Ridmark had known nothing of the Enlightened of Incariel then, had still thought Tarrabus an honorable but cruel vassal of the High King. Had he resisted, Tarrabus likely would have had Ridmark murdered…and then no one would have been there to help Calliande on the day she had awakened. 

“Grief can madden even the stoutest heart,” said Curzonar.

“Truly,” said Ridmark.

“Your slain mate’s sister,” said Curzonar. “What is her name?”

“Imaria, of the House of the Licinii,” said Ridmark. “She is a Magistria of the Order.”

That elicited another growl from Curzonar. “I know her.”

Ridmark frowned. “You do? How?”

“She has visited the Range as an ambassador of Tarrabus Carhaine several times,” said Curzonar. “In particular, she has visited Kurdulkar quite often.”

Ridmark nodded. “If Kurdulkar has turned to the worship of Incariel, that makes sense. Tarrabus Carhaine is the chief of the Enlightened. Perhaps he seeks allies among the manetaurs to prepare for the day he hopes to seize the throne of the High Kingdom for himself.” 

Curzonar snarled, his tail lashing with agitation. “This plotting and scheming! Pah! Better to fight and slay each other openly, as Hunters should.”

“It would make matters simpler,” said Ridmark.

“Your story rings of truth,” said Curzonar. “And Ardrhythain would not give his staff to a craven.”

“You know him?” said Ridmark.

“I have never encountered his scent,” said Curzonar, “but the arbiters speak of him. In ancient days, the dark elves summoned us to this world, and we fought for them. Ardrhythain came among us, and we realized that the dark elves had enslaved us, turned our own lust for blood into chains of bondage. We rebelled, and fought any who would enslave us, whether the dark elves, the Frostborn, or the urdmordar.”

“That is well,” said Ridmark. “If the Keeper and I fail, if the Frostborn return, your kindred shall have to fight for your freedom once more.” 

“The Keeper,” said Curzonar. “Do you think her plan to trap the gorgon spirit will work?” 

Ridmark shrugged. “I am not the Hunter.”

“I know little of magic and spirits,” said the Curzonar. “Yet her scent was full of anxiety.” 

“As it should be,” said Ridmark. “The gorgon spirit is a powerful foe. Anyone who did not feel some fear upon facing such an enemy, even if he was one of the Hunters, would be a fool.” He gestured. “I will see if she needs any assistance.” 

“Very well,” said Curzonar. “I shall keep watch here, and alert you if any foes approach.”

The manetaur gazed at the narrow path to the forest, and with that, the conversation was over. Ridmark made his way through the small valley of ruins and long-petrified statues and returned to the Vault of the North. The dais and the plinth still glowed with glyphs of green fire, throwing pale, ghostly illumination over the walls and ceiling. Calliande stood at the edge of the dais, her eyes closed, her face stark in the glow from the glyphs. White light played about her right hand as she made small, precise gestures. Her face was tight with concentration, her lips pressed into a hard line. He wasn’t sure what she was doing. Trying to comprehend or unravel the spells upon the dais, most likely. 

At last she gave an irritated shake of her head and looked up, blinking.

“Oh,” she said. “Ridmark.”

“I did not mean to interrupt you,” said Ridmark.

Calliande sighed. “You didn’t interrupt anything, I fear. Other than me staring at those spells in uncomprehending stupor.” 

“Well,” said Ridmark. “You looked more irritated than uncomprehending.”

“Incomprehension leads to irritation,” said Calliande. She gave a vexed shake of her head. “The dwarven stonescribes were masterful. These spells…I cannot begin to understand them.” She rubbed her face for a moment. “How much do you know about mathematics?”

“A little,” said Ridmark. “Young nobles mostly learn the arts of war and rhetoric. Some history. If you gave me a pencil and an hour, I suppose I could calculate the trajectory of a catapult shot.”

“In terms of magic, what I know how to do is like that catapult shot,” said Calliande. She waved a hand at the dais. “This…this is like constructing a cathedral with a five hundred foot spire.” 

“A bit harder than firing a catapult,” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Calliande.

She glared at the dais as if it had angered her.  

“We’ve done difficult things before,” said Ridmark.

“Aye,” said Calliande, “but you helped me. You can’t help me with this. Just as you won’t be able to help me with my duties once I become Keeper.” 

Ridmark frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I will have to be the Keeper of Andomhaim once I find my staff,” said Calliande, “and it will be my task to defend Andomhaim from dark magic. I will have to stop Shadowbearer. If I do that, I will have to root out the Enlightened of Incariel from the nobility and the Magistri. God only knows what other threats we will face.” She shook her head, her hair brushing against her neck. “Ridmark…what if I can’t do this?” 

“The gorgon spirit?” said Ridmark, though he was certain she was no longer talking about that. “If this doesn’t work, then we shall find another way or make one.”

“No,” said Calliande. “What if I am…not able to be the Keeper? What if I am not strong enough? What if I am not wise enough?” 

“You already were the Keeper,” said Ridmark.

She gave a bitter little laugh. “Presumably. And when I was the Keeper, apparently I was the kind of woman willing to seal herself away in the darkness for centuries, willing to awake in a world where everyone I had ever known had died.” She looked at him, her blue eyes haunted. “Ridmark…what kind of woman does that? Was I arrogant enough to think I could shape the future long after I should have died? Or was I cold enough and loveless enough to seal myself away from everything I had ever known without a second thought?”

“You loved your father,” said Ridmark.

“The Warden said that he died,” said Calliande. She folded her arms tight against herself. “That he died and I couldn’t save him, and that was why I became a Magistria, that was why I drove myself to become so skilled at healing.” She shrugged. “Maybe he was the only person I had ever loved.”

“You sell yourself short,” said Ridmark.

She blinked, and he was surprised to see tears in her blue eyes. “Do I? Ridmark…I know what I have to do. I have to find my staff, recover my memory, and take up the mantle of the Keeper. But I don’t know if I can.” She shook her head, glaring at the glowing dais. “I can’t even unravel this spell. How I am supposed to stop the Frostborn and guard the realm from dark magic if I can’t even do this?” 

Ridmark thought for a moment. “Why do you want to find your staff?”

She scowled. “You know why. To stop the Frostborn, to stop Shadowbearer from bringing them back.”

“And why do you need to do that?” said Ridmark. 

Calliande gave him an incredulous look. “Because it is the right thing to do.”