Frostborn: The First Quest

by Jonathan Moeller

  Chapter 8 - An Eye of Stone

  The door swung open, and Ridmark and Lancelus stepped into a domed chamber filled with statues of gray stone. Ridmark saw more of the strange, gray statutes, the statues that Lancelus suspected had once been living men. There were orcs, men and women both, their expressions full of fear and horror. He also saw halflings, their eyes bulging with terror. There were dwarves and beastmen, manetaurs and trolls, dwarves and kobolds, hundreds of statues standing in successive rings.

  “This is ghastly,” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said Lancelus. “The Warden seems like the sort of man to enjoy making an example of his enemies.”

  “It’s worse than that,” said Ridmark. “Kill a man to make an example of him. But this…this is monstrous. To keep these people imprisoned forever as statues…that is an appetite for cruelty beyond anything human. I have never seen a dark elf, but both our histories and Ardrhythain said they delighted in cruelty. It seems they were right.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lancelus, looking at a statue of an orc.

  Ridmark moved through the statues with caution, watching for any sign of attackers. More urvaalgs or urshanes might wait among the statues. If Lancelus’s suspicions were right, if the statues had originally been men and women of flesh and blood, whatever creature had turned them to stone might lurk here. Ridmark had never heard of such a creature, but there were legends in the books of Old Earth, tales of the Medusa and the Gorgons, and he had heard that both the halflings and the dwarves told tales of similar creatures.

  Then he heard the voice.

  A woman’s voice, one of otherworldly beauty. Was it another urdhracos? The urdhracos’s voice had been full of amused contempt and cold hunger.

  Fear and terror filled this voice.

  “I heard you!” said the voice, speaking in Latin. “You must…you must be men of Andomhaim, yes? Humans? Or another trick of the Warden’s magic? Another one of his games?” She started to weep. “God, God, I don’t know. Please, if you’re real, please don’t leave me here, please, please…”

  Ridmark hurried through the statues and came to the center of the chamber.

  A round dais rose there, topped by a stone throne. The gray statues surrounded the dais like supplicants approaching the seat of a king. A young woman, clad in only a shift of thin white cloth, sat upon the stone throne, chains binding her wrists and ankles. She had the alien features and glimmering golden eyes of the high elves.

  She looked at Ridmark and Lancelus in wonder.

  “Who are you?” said the high elven woman. “Are you a dream? If you are one of the Warden’s phantasms, you are strange, for I have never seen men such as you before.”

  Lancelus snorted. “Such high praise.”

  “We are real, I assure you,” said Ridmark. “I am Ridmark Arban, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, and this is Sir Lancelus Tyriar, a knight of the same Order.” He paused. “And I assume that you are Rhyannis, a bladeweaver of the high elven city of Cathair Solas?”

  The woman blinked, tears in her golden eyes. “Yes. I…I am. But how do you know me?”

  “The archmage Ardrhythain sent us to rescue you,” said Ridmark.

  Rhyannis started to weep. “I was a fool. Such a fool. I should never have come here. I should have listened. I should…”

  “My lady, you can rebuke yourself later,” said Ridmark. “First, we must escape while we still can. We…”

  He stepped towards the dais, intending to cut her free.

  “Stop!” said Rhyannis. “Don’t come any closer!”

  Ridmark froze. “You are guarded by a spell?”

  “No,” said Rhyannis. “Something worse. One of the Warden’s fell creatures.”

  “Ridmark,” said Lancelus. “Look. There. Around the top of the dais.”

  Ridmark stopped, frowning. He saw a faint blur, a ripple, around the top step of the dais, and he wondered if an urvaalg waited there. But the blur was too long and too slender for an urvaalg. It wrapped around the entirety of the round step. A magical trap? Heartwarden might have the power to pierce it. Ridmark moved to the side, hoping to get a better look…

  Then, all at once, he saw it.

  A massive serpent lay coiled around the top step of the dais, its scales blurring and rippling to match its surroundings. The thing was as thick as Ridmark’s thigh, and as motionless as one of the undead orcs. He saw its unblinking yellow eyes watching him.

  “What is it?” said Ridmark.

  “The creature is called a sthanos,” said Rhyannis. “The dark elves brought them to this world long ago. Most were wiped out in the war with my kindred, but some of the creatures yet remain, and the Warden keeps a few as pets. The serpent’s bite turns its victims into stone.”

  “Hence all of this,” said Ridmark, waving at the gray statues.

  “Yes,” said Rhyannis. “Sometimes when men and women of the lesser kindreds dare to enter Urd Morlemoch, the Warden amuses himself by having his sthanos turn the trespassers to stone.” She looked at one of the statues and shuddered. “The Warden has dwelled within Urd Morlemoch for a very long time.”

  “Then let us slay the serpent,” said Ridmark, lifting Heartwarden, “and be on our way.”

  “No!” said Lancelus and Rhyannis in unison.

  Ridmark frowned.

  “Do not,” said Rhyannis. “I beg of you, do not. The creature is faster than you can imagine, faster that you can move. Only a single scratch from its fangs is enough to turn you to stone.”

  “Then why has it not already struck?” said Ridmark.

  “Because it does not think for itself,” said Rhyannis.

  “Like the undead orcs,” said Lancelus.

  “Aye, sir knight, you say it true,” said Rhyannis. “The sthanos is a mindless beast, and acts only as the Warden’s spells compel it. If you try to free me, it will strike. If you attack it with a drawn weapon, it will strike.” She shook her head. “Do you have any magic? Other than in the swords you carry?”

  “None,” said Ridmark. “We are not Magistri.”

  “Then you cannot free me,” said Rhyannis. “Go, quickly, before the Warden discovers you are here.”

  “No,” said Ridmark.

  “Perhaps she speaks sense,” said Lancelus. “We cannot free her. Better that we escape than that all three of us die here.”

  “Heed your elder’s wisdom, I beg of you,” said Rhyannis. “Let my folly bring punishment upon my own head. Do not compound it by staining my hands with your blood.”

  “If we die, the blood will be upon the hands of the Warden, not you,” said Ridmark. He stepped away from the dais, trying to think. “And I will not leave anyone in this foul place. Not when I can still save them.”

  “You cannot save me,” said Rhyannis.

  She had a point.

  But to have come so far, to have defeated so many obstacles, only to turn back within sight of the woman he had come to rescue? Ridmark could not allow that.

  Lancelus laughed again, high and wild, and Rhyannis gave him an odd look.

  “What now?” said Ridmark.

  “You truly are inexorable, Sir Ridmark,” said Lancelus. “You set your mind to free this woman, and you will not turn from your course, though all the hosts of hell should bar the way.”

  “I am a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade,” said Ridmark, “and I told Ardrhythain that I would rescue Rhyannis from Urd Morlemoch or learn of her fate. A Swordbearer should keep his word.”

  “And you have learned of her fate,” said Lancelus. “It is time to withdraw.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “Go if you want, but I shall remain.”

  Lancelus scowled. “Do what? Try to think of something clever and join these other statues? Stand here until the Warden comes and kills us all?”

  “Hopefully,” said Ridmark, “neither.”

  “Young fool,” said Lancelus with a shake of his head. “So certain of your invincibility, so certain that you will find
a way.”

  “Every man dies,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes, but you do not believe it,” said Lancelus. “Not in your bones. Not yet.”

  Ridmark scowled. “Unless you have something useful to say, be silent and let me think.”

  Lancelus snorted, but stopped talking.

  “Please,” said Rhyannis, “you must…”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “Let me think.”

  He stepped away from the dais, looking over the hundreds of statues of orcs and dwarves and manetaurs in armor, weapons in hand. He stepped closer a the statue of an orcish warrior holding a massive double-bladed axe over his head, frozen in mid-swing, the warrior’s mouth yawning in a silent, eternal battle cry. Odd that both the warrior’s armor and weapons had been transmuted to stone along with him. Perhaps the sthanos’s power extended to everything its victim touched, creating these eerie, lifelike statues.

  Lifelike…

  Some of these statues must have been here for centuries. Yet they did not look even the slightest bit eroded. He saw every line and wrinkle in their faces, the bulge of veins in their temples and hands, the individual rings of chain mail.

  And the edge of the weapons.

  Ridmark frowned, returned to the statue of the orc with the double-bladed axe, and brushed a finger against the weapon's edge.

  It was still razor-sharp.

  Ridmark looked at the sthanos, and then back at the axe, and an idea came to him.

  “Sir Lancelus,” said Ridmark, sliding Heartwarden into its sheath. “Help me move this statue.”

  Lancelus grunted. “Why?”

  “Because,” said Ridmark, grasping one of the statue’s arms. “I’m going to tip it over onto the sthanos and kill it with that axe.”

  “That won’t work,” said Lancelus. He blinked, rubbing his beard. “Will that work?”

  “I…I do not know,” said Rhyannis.

  “If I stand behind the statue and push it so the axe lands upon the sthanos,” said Ridmark, “the serpent will not see it as an attack. Or if it does, it will try to bite the orc…”

  “And since the orc is already stone,” said Rhyannis, her golden eyes widening, “the sthanos cannot harm him further. I don’t know if it will work, I…”

  “Let’s find out,” said Ridmark.

  “This is folly,” said Lancelus. “We…”

  “Just help me move the damned statue,” said Ridmark, tired of arguing with the older knight. “I can push it over by myself, but I can’t move it. Once I get it in position, you can stand back and I will push it. If the sthanos turns me to a statue, you can tell me that you were right.”

  “Little pleasure that will bring me,” said Lancelus, “since you will spend eternity as a statue and cannot hear me.” He sighed and stepped forward. “If you are set upon this, I will not gainsay it.”

  Lancelus slid his soulblade into its scabbard and helped Ridmark wrestle the statue forward. At last they stopped about nine feet from the dais, the serpent rippling atop the step. Ridmark looked at the motionless sthanos, at the head of the battle axe, and gauged the distance. If he shoved the statue over, the axe ought to land right behind the snake’s head.

  Or so he thought.

  It was time to find out.

  “Stand back,” said Ridmark.

  Lancelus took several hasty steps back.

  “Sir Ridmark,” said Rhyannis, trembling. “I thank you for this. You are putting yourself in grave peril upon my behalf.”

  “Don’t thank me,” said Ridmark, gripping Heartwarden’s hilt, “until we see if this works or not.”

  He took a deep breath, drew on Heartwarden for strength, and then shoved his hands against the small of the statue's back, his arms and legs straining.

  For a moment the statue did not move. Then it started to tip forward, slowly at first. Ridmark strained, gritting his teeth.

  Then the statue fell.

  It happened so fast he barely saw it. One moment the statue was wavering. Then it struck the floor with a mighty crash, the axe slamming into the dais. The entire coiled body of the sthanos snapped like a cord under pressure, and its head tumbled through the air, yellow eyes still staring.

  The head vanished into the forest of statues, and the long body stopped its thrashing.

  Ridmark let out a long breath.

  “My God,” said Lancelus, stunned. “It worked. It really worked.” He laughed his wild laugh. “Truly, you are a worthy warrior, far worthier than I expected.”

  “The sthanos must not have seen the falling statue as an attack,” said Ridmark, still surprised. He shook his head. “The Warden must have failed to foresee the possibility.”

  Lancelus frowned. “Not even the Warden can foresee everything.”

  “You did it,” said Rhyannis. She rose from the stone throne, as beautiful and as graceful as a queen despite her simple shift. “You did it, Sir Ridmark. You saved me. Oh, come and take me from this terrible place.”

  She looked beautiful, so beautiful. The lines of her face and pointed ears were alien, yet they had an otherworldly beauty. Ridmark felt his heart beat faster, his pulse rushing through his ears. He took a step towards the dais, and Rhyannis smiled and spread her arms, inviting him to embrace her. He wondered what her lean body would feel like in his arms, what her lips would feel like against his.

  “What happened to the chains?” he said instead.

  “Chains?” said Rhyannis, her golden eyes blinking. “What chains?”

  “You were chained to that throne, wrist and ankle,” said Ridmark. “But they’ve vanished.”

  “They must have been part of the spell,” said Rhyannis. “They vanished when you slew the sthanos.”

  “Why would they be part of the spell upon the sthanos?” said Ridmark. “That doesn’t make any sense. For that matter, why chain you to the throne at all? You couldn’t have gotten past the snake. And how long have you been here? What have you eaten? Where did you relieve yourself?”

  “For God’s sake, boy!” said Lancelus. “You rescued the damned elven girl! Now take her and let us escape before the Warden realizes that we are here!”

  “Take me,” said Rhyannis. “I am yours, my knight. Take me from this evil place, and I will serve you for the rest of your days.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “Come to me and we shall depart.”

  Rhyannis hesitated. “Please, sir knight. Take me from here. Please.”

  Ridmark drew Heartwarden.

  “What are you doing?” said Lancelus. “Have you gone mad? All this effort to rescue her, and you are going to strike her down?”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “There’s something wrong. I shall find out what it is.”

  He drew on Heartwarden’s power, intending to use the sword’s magic to break a spell with a touch. The sword flared with white light, and he started towards Rhyannis, planning to tap her with the sword and break whatever spell was upon her.

  Before he could reach the top of the dais, she and the throne vanished.

  In her place stood a pedestal of white stone, a fist-sized sphere of yellow crystal sitting upon it. The sphere had a black center, and it looked like a baleful eye.

  “What is that?” said Ridmark.

  “That,” said Lancelus, “is the eye of a basilisk. A close relative to the sthanos. They came from the same world, I believe, though I cannot say for certain. The bite of a sthanos turns its victim to stone. The basilisk, I fear, is rather more potent. Merely looking into its eyes is enough. Fortunately for you, the effect is less potent when the basilisk is dead. Then you would have to physically touch the eye to fall under its power.”

  Ridmark turned, Heartwarden still in his fist.

  Lancelus stood watching him, a faint smile on his face.

  “How do you know that?” said Ridmark.

  “Had you touched the illusion of Rhyannis covering the eye,” said Lancelus, “we would not be having this conversation.”

  “How,” said Ri
dmark, pointing his sword at the older knight, “how do you know all this?”

  Lancelus smiled. “What do you think, Sir Ridmark of the Order of the Soulblade?”

  “I think the reason you survived,” said Ridmark, “when all the other Swordbearers perished is that you made a pact with the Warden. I think you have been working with him. I think this is all part of the Warden’s games. Your life in exchange for…this.”

  “Well,” said Lancelus. “You are half-right. I am afraid I have lied to you, Sir Ridmark. There were no other Swordbearers.”

  “Just you, then?” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Lancelus. “You were the only one Ardrhythain sent. I must say I was impressed. I did not think Ardrhythain would find a warrior of such quality among the humans.”

  “If you are not a Swordbearer,” said Ridmark, his mouth dry, “then who are you?”

  “Why, you have not figured it out already?” said Lancelus. “No? Let me enlighten you.”

  He snapped his fingers and disappeared.

  In his place stood a tall, gaunt figure, clad in a long blue coat with black trim upon the sleeves over black trousers and a tunic. The figure’s head was hairless and bone white, elven ears rising alongside the long, lean face, a diadem of blue steel encircling the brow. The eyes were utterly black and empty, colder and darker than the eyes of the urdhracos. Rings of blue dark elven steel glittered upon the long, bony fingers.

  “Who are you?” said Ridmark.

  “I think you know,” said the dark elf. His voice had grown deeper, far deeper and more melodious than any human voice.

  “The Warden,” said Ridmark. “You’re the Warden. What did you do with Sir Lancelus?”

  The Warden’s thin lips twitched.

  “No,” said Ridmark, “there never was a Sir Lancelus, was there? He was only a fiction, a disguise you created.”

  “Very good,” said the Warden.

  “Why?” said Ridmark. The dark elven sorcerer stood a mere dozen paces away. If Ridmark struck at once, perhaps he could land a blow before the Warden cast a spell. “Some sick game for your amusement?”

  “Indeed,” said Warden, “but I have a greater purpose. A far greater purpose. I have been looking for someone like you for a long time, Ridmark Arban, and…”

  Ridmark charged, drawing as much of Heartwarden’s power as he could manage.

  The Warden snapped his fingers again.

  And the domed chamber erupted with black fire. A horrible chill ripped through Ridmark, and he screamed in pain.

  The darkness swallowed him, and everything went black.

  ***