Tales of the Frozen City

by JOSEPH A. MCCULLOUGH

  ‘Come,’ the wizard said, ‘there is shelter to be had within the ruins. It is an ancient sanctuary that even the beasts of this city must respect.’

  Hrothgar felt eyes boring into him. He turned to see Vanyssa, her face swaddled against the elements, green eyes questioning why they were here. Hrothgar knew to trust the girl’s instincts. If she was uneasy, so was he, but they had come this far. Hrothgar sighed, and jerked his head towards the ruins. It was late, they were wounded and tired, and the weather was turning. They would see this mission through to the bitter end.

  * * *

  Atop a platform of stone beneath the curling stone fingers of the abbey’s sundered tower, a fire was crackling and meat was roasting. Bolivar regaled the companions with tales of his adventures in the Ruby Isles, where the women were mysterious, and assassins lurked in the shadows of ivory towers. Stornric and Finreir laughed at the big man’s tall tales, and Hrothgar forced a smile. But not Vanyssa. She stared into the fire, her face a mask. The wizard was already busying himself with charms and sigils, casting a strange green light into the dark corners of the ruin. The snow swirled about outside the cloister of stone, not settling within the circle. Gereth’s charms no doubt. Hrothgar wished the wizard could hold back the wind too. A chill breeze whistled into the camp, probing at every seam of Hrothgar’s furs with icy fingers. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and hunched closer to the fire.

  ‘These ruins are sparse indeed. Where lies this fabled treasure, wizard?’ Hrothgar called over to Gereth. ‘Are there vaults beneath our feet?’

  ‘Vaults? Aye, and more besides,’ said Gereth. ‘If we are lucky, you shall find what you seek without need for further bloodshed.’

  ‘Pah!’ Bolivar grunted. ‘Where there are dungeons, there are beasts, traps... and sorcery. If there’s treasure to be had, it’s to be fought for.’

  ‘There is more to this place than meets the eye, Bolivar,’ said Gereth. ‘But it will wait until morning. Uncovering the entrance to the catacombs is not a task for these conditions.’

  ‘Too right, wizard,’ grumbled Finreir, grunting with pain as his brother threaded catgut into his thigh to close the wound left by the Trolls. ‘It’ll be a miracle if I can even walk come morning.’

  Hrothgar grinned inwardly as Stornric rolled his eyes at his brother’s belly-aching.

  ‘This is why,’ said Gereth, ‘I have prepared a charm to restore our vigour.’ He stepped into the centre of the circle and emptied a pouch of silvery powder into the cauldron of stewed-nettle tea that bubbled over the fire.

  ‘What is that?’ Hrothgar frowned. The wizard had been presumptuous by not asking Hrothgar’s leave; and if there was one thing the captain could not abide it was presumptuous wizards.

  ‘‘A potent brew, Hrothgar – one that can mend wounds and lend strength to tired limbs. Come morning, you will feel like a new man.’

  Gereth set about ladling the strange-smelling brew into ration cups, distributing them amongst the party. All eyes fell upon Hrothgar, to see if the captain would drink. Hrothgar eyed the wizard, who himself took a swig of the brew. Satisfied, Hrothgar drank, and the others followed suit. All save one.

  Vanyssa sat motionless. The mug of steaming brew went untouched by her feet.

  Hrothgar felt warmth building within him, until at last even the troublesome wind failed to make him shiver. The warmth spread to his limbs, to his fingers and toes, and with it came strength. But something more, too; a feeling of repose, of peace.

  ‘This potion is good,’ Stornric declared. ‘I feel like I could take on more Trolls even now. Perhaps we should find these catacombs while the strength flows through our veins.’

  ‘No, Stornric,’ Gereth said. ‘You must rest for it to do its work. The treasure will still be there come morning.’

  ‘About this treasure,’ Bolivar spoke up. ‘It must be great indeed for you to brave Frostgrave alone. I think you know more than you have told us, wizard. What manner of riches are we to uncover on the morrow?’

  Gereth smiled thinly. ‘The wealth of Stonefall Abbey is beyond value,’ he said. ‘And it is beyond the petty value that can be placed on gold and trinkets.’

  ‘Eh?’ Finreir frowned, forgetting his pain as the brew warmed him. ‘No gold? So what then? Gems? Enchanted steel?’

  ‘More valuable even than those, friend Finreir, though I fancy you won’t understand until you see it with your own eyes.’

  ‘This had better not be a pile of old scrolls, wizard,’ Bolivar growled. ‘Damned wizards and their scrolls!’

  ‘Bolivar is right,’ Hrothgar said. ‘Scrolls and tomes have value, certainly, but they rarely put food on the table. You promised riches in this abbey, and we had better find them.’ The captain pointed his enchanted sword tellingly at the wizard. Gereth’s eyes flicked first to the blade, and then to Hrothgar.

  ‘Do not worry, my captain,’ Gereth smiled. ‘You will all get what you’re owed.’

  ‘Ha!’ boomed Bolivar. ‘Trust Hrothgar to get a promise out of this one. Here, a toast to the captain, who’s never steered us wrong.’

  The toast was met by all but Vanyssa, who remained silent. Her intuition was keen, and her unease threatened to return the chills to Hrothgar’s bones. But he felt the brew working. His limbs began to feel heavy, his head thick with the haze of sleep. He yawned.

  ‘Hrothgar has the right of it,’ Bolivar said. ‘But before I rest my head, I’m going to take a leak.’ The big man stood and grabbed his axe. ‘Just in case,’ he grinned, and stepped out of the circle of light.

  Hrothgar at once felt a cold creep aback his head. Something felt wrong, as though the firelight had shrunk in on itself. He fought to keep his eyelids from closing. Twice at least he drifted away, and when he awoke the darkness was closer still. Bolivar had returned, sitting motionless, a grey figure in half-light, staring into the fire that now seemed so inadequate.

  It was all the effort Hrothgar could muster to drag another log onto the flames, before sitting back on his bedroll and nodding off again.

  When Hrothgar’s eyes opened again, he felt alone. He was dimly aware of the grey forms of his companions sitting motionless in the dark, the smell of smoke from the guttering fire, and something else. Movement, outside the camp. A swift, sweeping motion, skittering between the thick stone pillars that marked the boundary of their little circle.

  Hrothgar contemplated feeding the fire again, but his limbs were leaden. Something black moved past the largest stone pillar, somewhere in the darkness behind Bolivar. Hrothgar tried to lift a hand to point, but by the time his arm so much as twitched, the figure had gone, and only snowflakes moved outside the circle, like motes of dust. Hrothgar’s eyelids drooped closed again. He felt sleep come for him. He did not fight it.

  Hrothgar dreamed of a time long ago, when he had been a stripling youth back in Vaylholm, being pursued by warhounds in his first battle. Their jaws snapped at his heels. He slipped in the mud of the battlefield, falling into the embrace of dead soldiers, fighting desperately as the hounds pounced, teeth sinking into his flesh, hot breath at his face, sticky blood running down his arm as he opened up the beasts with a dagger. The largest dog clamped onto his shoulder, dragging him across the plain; dragging him towards its master’s army.

  When Hrothgar woke, it was in a cold panic, his hand touched to the jagged scar upon his face. He felt himself being shaken and pulled from his bedroll, and for a moment believed his life up to now had been a dream, fearing he was still upon the battlefield at Vaylholm, far away, in the jaws of a powerful hound. He grasped for his sword, seeing the dull glow of its mystical gemstone near to him, and in its red caste was Vanyssa’s face, her eyes pleading urgency.

  ‘By the gods, wake up!’ she hissed.

  Hrothgar’s senses flooded back to him like a stream through a sundered dam. His hand closed around the sword hilt, and the fug of enchantment washed away as strength flowed from its thrice-blessed steel and into his body. The
sword, Foedrinker, had been gifted him by a grateful noble years ago, for the rescue of his youngest daughter.

  The captain sat bolt upright. The fire was almost dead, red embers glowing dully. Figures sat motionless in the shadows. The snow had blown into the circle of the crumbling tower, forming drifts between the pillars. The cold bit at Hrothgar’s flesh.

  ‘Listen to me!’ she hissed. ‘Gereth has enchanted us. The others... they are not themselves. They left the camp and returned... changed. We have to get out of here.’

  Hrothgar rubbed at his head. ‘Where is the wizard now?’

  ‘Gone. I saw him further down the slope, talking to someone – some... thing. Then I lost sight of him.’

  Hrothgar saw the shadowed figures in the camp move for the first time. Bolivar stood and turned to them. His eyes gleamed in the half-light; there was something unsettling about them. Hrothgar had not become captain and survived so long by being indecisive. And he trusted the girl’s instincts almost as much as his own. He stood at once, his legs unsteady beneath him.

  ‘Speak, brother, that I may know you are my friend.’

  Bolivar said nothing, his towering form standing silent sentinel in the dark. But a voice responded, from behind Hrothgar and Vanyssa – a thin, gravel-throated voice.

  ‘You have no friends here, captain. But you will.’

  Before Hrothgar and Vanyssa could turn, rough hands grabbed them from behind. Bolivar shambled forward, a flagon held in his hands.

  ‘You... will... drink,’ he croaked. He clamped a large hand around Hrothgar’s jaw, and in an instant the flagon was pushed to the captain’s lips. Bolivar was the strongest of the company, but there was little of the man Hrothgar knew behind those glassy eyes.

  Hrothgar felt warm liquid pass into his mouth. For a moment, he felt his body may betray him, his strength fail. But as he struggled, he tightened his grip on his sword once more, and felt its strength.

  All at once, Hrothgar spat the brew into Bolivar’s face. He pushed back into Stornric, crushing the warrior against the pillar, and raised his legs to Bolivar’s chest, kicking hard. Bolivar staggered backwards, Stornric grunted in pain and slackened his grip on Hrothgar’s arms; this was enough. The captain braced himself, leaned forward, and slammed the back of his head onto the bridge of Stornric’s nose. He was free.

  Bolivar leapt forward, brandishing a large branch as a club. Hrothgar ducked, and the blow hit Stornric hard on the shoulder instead. Hrothgar was dimly aware of Vanyssa struggling free of Finreir and dashing for her bow. He had no time to see more; Bolivar swept the club down at him again. The captain rolled aside. He looked into Bolivar’s eyes and saw nothing – no humanity, no mercy. The gemstone on Hrothgar’s sword glowed red, thirsting for blood, feeding off the captain’s battle-rage. He swept the blade low, hacking halfway through Bolivar’s thigh and putting the big man down. The sword hissed as Bolivar’s blood dissolved into the metal. Hrothgar saw a flash of steel to his right as Stornric struggled to his feet and lunged at his blindside. The captain’s sword was faster, stabbing backwards and impaling Stornric through his gut. As he looked up, he saw Finreir stumble after Vanyssa, and quickly drop to his knees as an arrow pierced his throat from short range. A bloody gurgle sounded in Finreir’s throat, and the warrior fell.

  Bolivar rolled on the ground, clutching his wound. Hrothgar dug his heel into the giant’s leg and was surprised when Bolivar made not a sound.

  ‘Why, Bolivar? Why turn on us?’

  Bolivar looked up at Hrothgar impassively.

  ‘Hrothgar, listen!’ Vanyssa said.

  Carried on the wind, through the muffling snow, came a low chanting. Gereth.

  ‘Wizard, show yourself!’ Hrothgar yelled, turning this way and that, squinting against the swirling snowstorm. And then he stopped, because there was movement behind him.

  Finreir began to stand, the green-fletched arrow still protruding from his neck. Stornric too was rising to his feet, blood pumping from his stomach. Bolivar straightened his leg, the bone almost visible through the wound as he stood upright. And more than this, beyond the ancient stone circle, black shapes loped and sniffed in the darkness.

  ‘Take them alive, my children!’ Gereth’s voice sounded again. ‘Make them drink. Make them join us!’

  Vanyssa turned at once to face the darkness. ‘That way,’ she said. ‘We kill the wizard, we end this.’ She was gone before Hrothgar could stop her, leaping into the night with bow drawn.

  Hrothgar saw no point in staying to fight his old comrades, who even now shuffled towards him bearing wounds that should have put them in their graves. He barged past Stornric and followed Vanyssa into the storm.

  Hrothgar called into the darkness, but received no reply. He was aware of vague pursuers coalescing from the shadows around him, of ghostly jaws snapping at his heels. He thought of the hounds, and urged his legs to move faster.

  He skidded to a halt as a solid rock face loomed out of the storm. Above him, green light danced about the rocks. The sound of steel on steel rang into the night. A cry of pain. Vanyssa’s shortsword fell from above, landing in the snow somewhere behind Hrothgar. He stepped backwards and looked up to see Vanyssa, prone on the rocks, and above her Gereth, raising aloft his staff and conjuring some fell, incandescent spell.

  Vanyssa looked about desperately, until she saw Hrothgar. She was out of reach, but her eyes fixed upon the captain’s sword. She reached out desperately.

  ‘Your sword, quickly!’ she shouted. ‘The magic will slay him!’

  Hrothgar didn’t hesitate. He threw the sword up to the outcrop, hilt-first, and Vanyssa caught it nimbly. Vanyssa thrust forwards with the sword, sinking its blade deep in Gereth’s chest. The wizard’s robed figure fell to the ground, dead.

  Behind Hrothgar, his pursuers fell into the snow. The shadow-creatures shrank away into the darkness with a hiss. The captain exhaled in relief.

  He reached up a hand and helped Vanyssa down from the outcrop.

  ‘Well done, girl,’ he said. ‘The enchantment is broken. I don’t know what was happening, but we need to leave this accursed place.’

  ‘No, captain. We won’t get far tonight. I say we stay a while longer.’

  ‘Stay? Don’t be foolish. The wizard spoke of vaults – who knows what lurks beneath our feet. Let’s get back to familiar territory; to blazes with this storm. Here, give me back my sword.’

  He reached out a hand, but Vanyssa shrank back, and brandished the blade menacingly.

  ‘No, Hrothgar, we will stay. Indeed, you will not leave here at all. Not ever.’ Her voice was changed; it was sneering and thin. She sounded like... no!

  ‘What is the meaning of this, Vanyssa?’ he demanded.

  ‘I am not Vanyssa,’ she snorted. ‘The transfer was complete before the sword pierced my old body. I merely needed to wrest this treasure from you, so that you too can fall under my spell.’

  ‘Gereth?’

  ‘Oh no, something far older than him; although his body served me well. This form is much more comely though, don’t you think? I’ll be able to ensnare much stronger stock now. Just as your company now gives form to my brethren – my shadow army – so will all who venture to Stonefall.’

  Hrothgar reached for his dagger, but was at once held by grasping hands as if from nowhere. Bolivar, Stornric, Finreir, and now Gereth too, all back from the dead, holding him in a firm grip.

  Behind Vanyssa, shadows gathered, taking gangrel form, eyes shining in the night.

  ‘Ah, my brethren compete for you, Hrothgar, for you are strong indeed. A fitting vessel for the mightiest of the ancient dead.’ She held up a vial of strange, glowing liquid, and uncorked it. Hrothgar struggled as the smell hit his nostrils, but without his sword he felt weak.

  ‘Now, my captain, you will drink. And be reborn... ’

  Mark A. Latham is a writer, editor, history nerd, frustrated grunge singer and amateur baker from Staffordshire, UK. A recent immigrant to rural Nottinghamshi
re, he lives in a very old house (sadly not haunted), and is still regarded in the village as a foreigner.

  Formerly the editor of Games Workshop’s White Dwarf magazine, Mark dabbled in tabletop games design before becoming a full-time author of strange, fantastical and macabre tales. His debut novel, The Lazarus Gate, is out in October 2015, published by Titan Books.

  Visit Mark’s blog at thelostvictorian.blogspot.co.uk or follow him on Twitter @aLostVictorian.

  IN DARK PLACES

  Martin J. Dougherty

  ‘Sun’s setting,’ Gee declared.

  Jasper nodded absently, fiddling with his gloves as he eyed the tunnel entrance. Something had melted the ice that had covered and blocked it, leaving a trail of semi-frozen meltwater twisting down to the gulley bottom. It looked like it had happened recently and quite quickly.

  Jasper had a bad feeling about the way the ice had melted, or maybe it was the dark tunnel that led slightly upwards through the gulley side. There was something disturbing about the odd smoothness of the floor. Someone had been chucking elemental magic around; magic powerful enough to melt the tunnel rocks as well as the ice.

  Jasper took a deep breath and pulled his hat down more firmly. ‘I’m quite aware of that,’ he said, once he realised that Gee was expecting a reply. He’d go on expecting one all night, at least until he got sick of waiting and exploded in rage. Best to avoid that. Gee’s fury was an incredible thing, but best witnessed from a distance.

  ‘Be dark soon,’ Gee added. In the twilight his pockmarked skin looked even more like the stone he was nicknamed for. Nobody knew his real name, and it was dangerous to call him ‘Granite’ to his face. Jasper called him Gee and hadn’t been stomped for it. Not yet, anyway.