“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.”
“True,” said Ridmark. “You also need to do it because the Frostborn attempting to return. That implies they aren’t already here. And the reason they are not here is…”
He let her work out the train of thought for herself. “Because they were stopped.”
“Because you stopped them,” said Ridmark. “You heard what else the Warden had to say. The Keeper was the architect of the victory against the Frostborn the first time, along with the Dragon Knight and the Swordbearers of old. All the histories I learned as a child said the same thing. The Keeper united the nations to stand against the Frostborn, to defeat them and drive them back. That Keeper was you, Calliande. You did it once before. I know you can do it again.”
She stared at the floor, blinking hard, and then shook her head and smiled. “You…can give quite the encouraging speech when you set your mind to it.”
“I told you noble children study rhetoric,” said Ridmark. “Besides, you have given me the same speech enough times.”
Calliande blinked. “What? When?”
“Ridmark Arban, stop blaming yourself for your wife’s death,” said Ridmark. “Ridmark Arban, you don’t deserve to get yourself killed. Ridmark Arban, don’t throw your life away in a futile battle.” He smiled. “It’s time I paid you back in your own coin, would you not say?”
Calliande laughed, wiping at her eyes. “Harsh, but fair.”
“And you won’t be alone,” said Ridmark. “We were there for the start of this on the day of the omen of blue flame. We shall see this through to the end, together.”
“Thank you,” said Calliande. She sighed and let out a long breath. “Though if I cannot find a way to deal with the gorgon spirit, it might be moot.”
“If you’re a catapult stone and the spells upon the gorgon spirit are a cathedral,” said Ridmark, “then you’ve one advantage.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a lot easier to knock down a cathedral than to build one.”
She laughed a little at that. “True. The trick is not to get yourself killed when you pull down the cathedral.” She waved a hand at the glowing symbols upon the dais and the plinth. “The spells can defend themselves. I think the dwarves built this as a defense against the sorcery of the dark elves. If I try to dispel the glyphs, if I even try to probe them too deeply, it will trigger a defense.”
“Like the one that killed the Mhorite shaman in the High Gate?” said Ridmark.
“Exactly,” said Calliande. “Or it might turn everyone in the Vault to stone. I can’t be sure which until I try, and I don’t want to find out. If any alien magic touches the glyphs – the magic of the Well, the magic of the dark elves, dark magic, anything – the defenses are triggered.”
“What about dwarven magic?” said Ridmark, frowning.
“That wouldn’t trigger the defenses,” said Calliande. “I think it would instead trigger a…a recall, for lack of a better word, summoning the gorgon spirit back here. Unfortunately, I am not a stonescribe and do not have the ability to work dwarven magic.”
“You may not be a stonescribe,” said Ridmark, “but we do have some dwarven magic with us.”
“We do?” said Calliande.
In answer, he reached for her belt. A strange expression came over her face, and then vanished as he tapped the pommel of one of the two daggers at her side. Specifically, the dagger of dwarven steel the Taalkaz of the Dwarven Enclave of Coldinium had given her, its blade written with the glyphs of the dwarven stonescribes.
Calliande’s eyes got wide, and she drew the dagger. The glyphs upon the blade flickered with yellow-orange light.
“We do,” said Calliande. “Oh, that’s clever. I should have seen it earlier, but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.”
“Someone once told me that feeling sorry for myself was a waste of time,” said Ridmark. “She said it over and over and…”
“I didn’t use those exact words,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath and looked at the glyphs upon the dais. “You should probably tell Curzonar to get back here. I think I know how to summon the gorgon spirit back.”
Chapter 18: Dark Magic
Gavin held Truthseeker and watched the chaos outside the tower.
The gorgon spirit seemed to be turning the Mhorites to stone at random. Already a dozen pale statues stood scattered at the base of the hill, and the rest of the Mhorites were withdrawing. Gavin could not see the gorgon spirit, and realized that he had no idea what such a creature would look like. Was it invisible and immaterial? Or did it have a physical body?
If the creature attacked the Mhorites, well and good. But the gorgon spirit would not discriminate. It defended the Vale in the name of the King of Khald Azalar, and the gorgon spirit would view both the Mhorites and Gavin and his friends as intruders.
“Brother Caius,” said Arandar. “What will the creature look like?”
“I do not know,” said Caius. “I have never seen one, for they are unleashed only in the most dire circumstances. It would require a body, that I do know. Likely it has possessed one of the Mhorites.”
“We should go,” said Kharlacht. “We sought a distraction, and here it is.”
“It will do us little good to escape the tower only for the gorgon spirit to turn us to stone,” said Morigna.
“My soulblade can likely protect me from its power,” said Arandar, “and Gavin’s as well. When the time comes, we shall go first, and draw the creature’s attention if necessary. I just want to see what the thing looks like before…”
A gaunt shape moved through the trees, bronze metal flashing in the afternoon sunlight, and Gavin saw the gorgon spirit.
It was one of the strangest creatures he had ever seen. It had the lower body of a lion, albeit a lion that had almost starved to death, its ribs visible beneath the patchy fur. The creature had the torso and arms of a man, its upper body just as emaciated and wasted as its lower. A sword rested in a leather baldric over the creature’s back, and a full helm of bronze-colored dwarven steel concealed its head. A ring of dwarven glyphs, written in green fire, encircled the crown of the helmet, and the eyeholes of the masked helm flashed with green light.
Every time those eyeholes flashed with green light, another Mhorite warrior turned to stone.
“What is that?” said Gavin. “I’ve never seen a…a half-man, half-lion creature like that.”
“Manetaur,” said Arandar. “From the plains of the east, a place the manetaurs call their Range. They are absolutely deadly in battle. I wonder how the gorgon spirit possessed a manetaur. We are
a long way from the Range.”
“Observe,” said Antenora. “The creature’s power is limited. It can only turn one of its foes to stone at any given moment.”
“That is a relief,” said Mara. “I feared it could simply glance in our direction and turn us all to stone.”
"Though it is able to do so quickly," said Morigna as more warriors turned to stone.
A group of Mhorite warriors found their courage and charged at the gorgon spirit, attacking with swords and spears. It did little good. The withered creature wore no armor, yet the swords shattered against its hide and the spears splintered against its ribs. The gorgon spirit whirled, the eyes of its helm flashing, and one of the Mhorites turned to stone. It reached out with one clawed hand and ripped the head off a second. Its front legs lashed out and slammed into the chest of another Mhorite, and Gavin heard the sound of all the Mhorite warrior’s ribs snapping at the same time. The orcish warrior tumbled across the smoking ground like a rag doll and went limp. Three more turned to stone in as many heartbeats, the gorgon spirit's eyes blazing with green flame.
Mournacht himself roared a battle cry and stalked forward, raising his massive axe. The gorgon spirit whirled to face him, its eyes blazing with emerald light. Mournacht staggered in mid-stride, the symbols of bloody fire shining upon his chest and arms as his warding spells turned aside the gorgon spirit’s powers. The gorgon spirt went rigid, the light in its eyes shining brighter, and Mournacht staggered forward step by step. Another Mhorite warrior lunged at the spirit, and it reached out and tore off the Mhorite’s head, its deadly gaze never wavering from Mournacht. The other Mhorite shamans raised their hands and unleashed bolts of bloody flame and shafts of shadow at the gorgon spirit. The symbols upon its helmet shone brighter, and none of the destructive magic touched the creature.
“We must go,” said Kharlacht. “This is likely to be our best chance.”
“Aye,” said Mara. “We…”
She frowned and looked up.
“Oh,” she said.
“What is it?” said Arandar.
Gavin followed Mara’s gaze and saw a dark shape circling over the tower, a slender, black-armored woman with great wings spreading behind her like leathery sails.
Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit Page 25