“This is so,” said Curzonar. “Fortunately, the path itself is short. No more than a mile. Beyond is a low hollow at the base of the mountains, containing some dwarven ruins. The Vault of the North lies in their midst. If we encounter Mhorites or Anathgrimm or trolls, we can fight our way through. The gorgon spirit, though…that may be harder.”
“Your nose and ears will are keener than ours,” said Ridmark. “Can you smell it?”
“I can,” said Curzonar, his voice deepening into a disapproving growl. “It smells…rotten. It has inhabited Murzanar’s body for a very long time, and I fear that Murzanar is decaying. I will be able to smell him a long way off.”
“How quickly can you raise a ward against the spirit’s power?” said Ridmark.
Calliande took a deep breath. “Quickly enough. A few seconds. But to ward all three of us will take the bulk of my power, for the spell is complex. If we come under attack, I will be able to ward you against the gorgon spirit, but I will not be able to aid you in the fight.”
“The ward will be aid enough,” said Curzonar. “Perhaps enough to allow us to stand against Murzanar and free him of this curse.”
“Let’s find out,” said Ridmark.
He led the way along the stony shore, past the statues, and onto the path. The path was smooth and level and hard beneath his boots, and he carried his staff slung over one shoulder so it would not tap against the rock, taking care to keep his footfalls quiet. Curzonar’s paws made no sound as he padded forward with liquid grace. Calliande did her best, and could usually move quietly enough in the forests, but every so often her boots clicked against the stone path. She always winced, but Ridmark suspected that it did not matter. The narrow path offered little in the way of cover, and if they came under attack, they would either have to stand and fight or retreat up the steep slope.
But no foes showed themselves, though dozens of statues littered the path.
After a mile, the path took a sharp turn to the west, opening into a small valley at the base of the mountains. Dwarven ruins filled the valley, tumbled walls and crumbling towers standing almost at random. It looked like the other ruins Ridmark had seen scattered throughout the Vale of Stone Death, and it put him in mind of a boulder that had cracked in the deep cold of a bitter winter. The valley ended in a sheer cliff of rocky stone. A large arch, perhaps twenty feet high, had been carved into the cliff, leading to a dark chamber beyond. Massive doors of dwarven steel, impervious to both rust and weather, stood half open, and Ridmark glimpsed the floor of the chamber beyond.
Hundreds of statues stood amongst the tumbled ruins, orcs and humans and kobolds and trolls and other kindreds.
“The Vault of the North,” said Curzonar. He growled and shook his head, the crimson plume of his helmet waving.
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Calliande. Can you raise the ward now?”
“I…would rather not,” said Calliande. “The spell will take a great deal of power, and I am uncertain how long I can maintain it. We should wait until we are certain the gorgon spirit is here.”
“Very well,” said Ridmark. He picked his way over the ruins, making his way past the ancient statues with their expressions of fear and horror. Silence ruled in the little valley, and they reached the great doors without incident. Beyond Ridmark glimpsed a long stone hall, much like the vaulted hall of the High Pass, the walls carved with reliefs and dwarven glyphs. Calliande raised her hand, and a sphere of pale white light appeared over her palm. They stepped into the Vault of the North, and Calliande raised her hand, the white light brightening.
The hall was perhaps forty yards long and twenty wide, the vaulted ceiling supported by thick square pillars adorned with reliefs of armored dwarves. A square dais rose in the center of the hall, supporting a small, elaborately decorated plinth.
Bones carpeted the floor, orcish bones and dwarven bones both.
“There,” murmured Ridmark. “Likely Murzanar found the helmet there.”
“The fool,” muttered Curzonar, picking his way over the bones. “Magic is a business for the arbiters. It is not the place of a Hunter to wield magical relics. He should have left the thing here, or taken it back to the Red King’s court for the arbiters to examine.”
“Ridmark,” said Calliande, casting a spell with her free hand. “Don’t touch that dais. Nor you, lord Prince.”
“Why not?” said Ridmark.
“There are spells on it,” said Calliande. “Active, powerful spells. Look.”
Her free hand moved in a spell, and suddenly hundreds of glyphs began glowing upon the dais and the plinth, shining with the sullen light of a blacksmith’s fire. Ridmark remembered the magical defenses within the High Gate and tensed, but Calliande’s spell had not triggered any wards.
“What is it?” said Ridmark.
“I think,” said Calliande, her brow furrowing, “I think it is part of the spell controlling the gorgon spirit.” Her frown deepened further. “I think the gorgon spirit itself might be bound within that dais.”
“What?” said Curzonar. “That is impossible. I saw the gorgon spirit attack my Hunters with my own eyes.”
“The helmet,” said Calliande. “I suspect the power of the gorgon spirit is too much for mortal flesh to house, like trying to keep fire in a cloth bag. Think of the dais as a…a reservoir, and the helmet as a channel that pours the spirit into Murzanar.”
“Could you break the spells here?” said Ridmark. “Banish the gorgon spirit back to the threshold or wherever it came from?”
“I don’t think so,” said Calliande. “These spells, Ridmark…they’re complex. Not as complex as what the Warden could do, but close. If I touch those glyphs the wrong way, I think the released energy might turn us all to stone. Or blow up the Vault. A pity Caius isn’t here.”
“He’s not a stonescribe,” said Ridmark.
“He might at least know what some of these symbols mean,” said Calliande. “I don’t.” She shook her head. “Evidently the Keeper of Andomhaim is not trained in the meaning of arcane dwarven glyphs.”
“Lord Prince,” said Ridmark, “can you smell the gorgon spirit?”
Curzonar let out a growl and shook his head. “Yes. And no. This place is heavy with his scent. He is near. Yet…I cannot tell…”
The manetaur took two steps, the slow, controlled motions of a predator whose instincts screamed of danger. Ridmark was not a manetaur, but he had survived in the Wilderland for five years and had been in more fights than he could recall, and he had something of the same instincts. He had the feeling that something was wrong, the same way he had felt before the fight at the Iron Tower, before they had walked into Urd Morlemoch. But what? What was…
A dark thought occurred to him.
The gorgon spirit inhabited Murzanar…and Murzanar, like Curzonar, was a predator. And how did predators prefer to attack?
From ambush.
Ridmark looked up and saw a withered shape clinging to the ceiling.
“Calliande!” he shouted.
Calliande looked up, sucked in a shocked breath, and started casting a spell.
The creature hanging from the ceiling moved.
It looked like a manetaur, albeit a manetaur that had been mummified. Curzonar was heavy with muscle and moved with grace and power. The thing on the ceiling was a skeleton draped in withered, ragged hide, its fur piebald and brittle. It carried no weapons that Ridmark could see and bore no armor, but instead wore a heavy masked helm of bronze-colored dwarven steel.
Glyphs encircled the crown of the helm, glyphs that started to shine with a sharp green light.
“Beware!” thundered Curzonar, drawing his axes. “It is the spirit!”
The gorgon spirit’s legs flexed, and the manetaur flipped off the ceiling and plummeted. Cats always landed on their feet, or so claimed the proverb, and that apparently applied to manetaurs. The gorgon spirit landed upon the dais, its withered legs flexing, and as it did the glyphs upon the dais changed from sullen yell
ow-orange to the harsh green radiance of the masked helm.
Calliande kept working her spell, the white fire around her fingers brightening.
“Prince Murzanar!” said Curzonar. “I know your scent. You are a Prince of the Range! Free yourself of this vile spirit.”
“Humans,” said Murzanar in a raspy, weak voice as withered as his body. “Humans.” The steel mask turned towards Curzonar. “You…are a Hunter. You should not have come here. You…should not…”
Another voice thundered from the mask, a deep voice like two slabs of stone sliding together. It said something in the dwarven tongue, the harsh syllables thrumming against Ridmark’s ears, and green fire blazed from the eyes of the helm.
The air around Ridmark grew…harder, somehow, and the gorgon spirit’s power closed around him.
###
Calliande drew on all her power, the magic of the Well filling her.
Even with her newfound strength, the spell was demanding. It would take all of her power to ward Ridmark and Curzonar and her own flesh against the gorgon spirit’s petrifying aura. She thought her magic could strike at the spell binding the spirit into the ancient manetaur’s flesh, but she could not ward against the spirit’s power and attack at the same time. The green light washed over them, the mask’s eyes shining like emerald stars, and Calliande cast her spell. White fire sprang from her fingers, sinking into her flesh and reaching out to strike Ridmark and Curzonar. The white light wrapped around them, creating a gentle glow that repulsed the harsh radiance coming from the gorgon spirit.
“Fools!” roared the gorgon spirit. It was speaking the dwarven tongue, and Calliande realized that she could understand it. Evidently she had learned it as the Keeper. She just had time to think it odd that she could understand the dwarven tongue but not read their glyphs, and then the gorgon spirit kept speaking. “Be gone from this place! This Vale is under the protection of the King of Khald Azalar! Turn aside or be destroyed by his power!”
Calliande shuddered, feeling the spirit’s power hammer against her wards. It took every bit of her strength to keep the spirit’s power from transmuting their flesh into lifeless stone. Yet her ward held. She did not think she could have managed to maintain the spell three months ago, but the trials of her journeys had made her stronger.
Ridmark looked at her and nodded in gratitude, and she offered him a weak smile.
She could defend them from the spirit’s power…but she could not help Ridmark and Curzonar against it.
“No,” croaked Murzanar in Latin, once the spirit’s tirade had ended. “No. You…you should not be here. Another Hunter. Another Hunter! I…I have killed so many of them already. You must go. You must go!”
“I am here on a Rite of Challenge,” said Curzonar, “to learn your fate and to bring word of it back to the court of the Red King. I did not know that you had been enslaved by this mad spirit. Come! Remove the helmet and you can be free of it. You can return to the Range, and…”
“The Range?” whispered Murzanar. “I…I do not remember the Range, prince. I do not remember the taste of flesh upon my fangs or the hot blood running down my throat. I do not remember the joy of the hunt, nor the thrill of battle, nor the pleasure of taking mates for my harem. There is only stone. There is only death. I have slain manetaurs. Was it today? Or a thousand years ago? I can no longer remember. I have slain manetaurs in combat, red with tooth and claw, and that is honorable and right. Yet this spirit…this spirit slew others, freezing them in stone, and I cannot stop it. Flee while you still can! It is no dishonor to withdraw before a creature of magic.”
“Cast aside that helmet,” said Curzonar. “You can be free of the spirit! Be…”
“No,” said Murzanar, shaking his masked head. “No. It…I am dead already. You are an intruder. This is the land of the King of Khald Azalar, one of the Nine Kingdoms of the khaldari.” His voice deepened and roughened, the glowing glyphs upon the dais seeming to pulse in time to his words. “You are an intruder. Intruders must be destroyed.” Suddenly he shifted from Latin to the dwarven tongue as the gorgon spirit took control once more. “Intruders shall be destroyed!”
The withered manetaur took a step forward, raising his arms. Calliande glimpsed a leather baldric over his bony chest, holding a sheathed sword against the back of his torso. Then the glimpse vanished as green fire burned to hot life in the eyes of the grim dwarven mask. Again Calliande felt the petrifying power wash out from Murzanar in a wave as the gorgon spirit exerted its will. Again her ward strained and shivered under the pressure, but her magic held.
“How?” snarled the gorgon spirit. “How do you resist my power? All mortal flesh is mine to reshape as I like!” The blazing green eyes turned towards Calliande. “You! You bring magic and defiance into the realm of the King of Khald Azalar. Perish for your impudence!”
Murzanar leapt from the dais and raced towards her, moving with inhuman, terrible speed.
###
Ridmark was ready for the gorgon spirit’s attack.
As the ancient manetaur sprinted for Calliande, Ridmark spun, his staff gripped in both hands. He did not move very fast, but he didn’t need too. He had carefully positioned himself as Curzonar and Murzanar argued, anticipating that the gorgon spirit might try to attack Calliande. Now his foresight paid off. His staff slammed into the manetaur’s front right leg, and the crack of the impact echoed through the stone hall. The force almost ripped the staff from Ridmark’s hands, but he spun with the motion and turned, coming out of his spin to bring his staff down upon the manetaur’s rear right leg.
Murzanar stumbled with a cry of pain.
Curzonar charged into the fray, his axes in either hand, moving so fast he seemed like a blur of crimson and gold. The manetaur Prince’s jaws yawned wide, and he loosed a roar like thunder. He brought both of his axes hammering down in a blow that should have taken Murzanar’s head off his shoulders and opened his ribcage like a book.
But the massive axes rebounded from the withered manetaur’s patchy hide as if it had been made of steel.
Curzonar stumbled with a catlike yowl of frustration, and Ridmark whirled, bringing his staff up for another blow. His staff had been wielded by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain for decades, perhaps centuries, and so much powerful magic had flowed through the staff that its nature had changed. It could wound creatures of magic, like the urvaalgs and the ursaars. Curzonar’s axes were deadly weapons, but they were not magical.
Apparently the gorgon spirit was powerful enough to protect its host from weapons of mere steel.
Murzanar punched, and his fist struck Curzonar’s armored chest with a clang. Murzanar’s arm was like a stick draped in patchy fur, but he struck Curzonar with enough force to throw the bigger manetaur into the air. Curzonar tumbled back a dozen paces and managed to land on his feet.
Ridmark swung at Murzanar, and the manetaur danced aside, his legs crackling and writhing as the gorgon spirit repaired the broken bones. Murzanar turned and lashed at him with a clawed hand, and Ridmark dodged, striking back with the staff. He drove the end of his staff at Murzanar’s sunken chest. Murzanar growled and seized the staff with both hands, yanking Ridmark forward. He let himself get pulled from his feet, twisting the staff as he did, and his weight and his momentum jerked the weapon from Murzanar’s hands. Ridmark hit the floor and spun, bringing the staff down onto Murzanar’s right front leg. Once again the bone cracked, and Murzanar jerked back. Ridmark rolled to his feet as Curzonar stalked forward, axes ready in his fists.
“Your weapon?” growled Curzonar. “It can wound him?”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Long story. We live through this, I’ll tell you.”
Curzonar jerked his head to the side as Murzanar backed away, his masked helm twitching back and forth between them. Ridmark saw the strategy at once. Curzonar would attack, holding Murzanar’s full attention. While he did that, Ridmark would strike, hopefully landing crippling blows with his staff.
But Mur
zanar and the gorgon spirit saw through the plan.
Murzanar thrust out a hand, the gorgon spirit rumbling words in the dwarven language.
“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande. “It’s…”
The ground at Murzanar’s feet folded and rippled, as it did in Morigna’s spells, and the rippling wave rolled towards Ridmark. He took his best guess at a defense and fell before the wave reached him, rolling towards Murzanar. The floor heaved and then rose beneath him, the sensation disturbingly like a ship rolling upon the waves. Curzonar had never seen such an attack before, and it caught him flat-footed. Perhaps his two additional legs made him more vulnerable to losing his balance. He stumbled and fell, his armor clattering.
Ridmark kept rolling and came to one knee just as Murzanar loomed over him for the kill. He drove the end of his staff into the Murzanar's belly, and the manetaur’s breath exploded from his lungs. Ridmark used Murzanar’s hesitation to get to his feet and went on a rapid attack, landing hits on Murzanar’s chest and arms and forelegs. The manetaur retreated, trying to block Ridmark’s strikes, at least until Ridmark broke his right arm in two places. Ridmark would not be able to keep up this rate of attack for long, though. Already he felt his breath racing, sweat dripping down his face. His momentum was going to play out, and then the gorgon spirit would heal Murzanar’s wounds and strike back. He hoped to disable Murzanar long enough to take off his head with a blow of the dwarven axe. Yet Murzanar kept retreating, though Ridmark had already given him a beating that would have killed a dozen men.
Then a blow from Ridmark’s staff clipped the side of Murzanar’s helmet. The manetaur reacted out of all proportion to the glancing blow, and the gorgon spirit loosed a howling scream of fury. The glyphs upon the helmet’s crown pulsed and flashed, and the symbols of green fire on the dais and the central plinth flickered.
“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande. He saw her standing wrapped in the white fire of her magic. Curzonar wobbled to his feet before her, growling and shaking. “Get the helmet off of him! That’s the link! Get the helmet off…”
Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit Page 20