Frostborn: The Iron Tower

by Jonathan Moeller

  “And if it does not?” said Gavin.

  “Then the Gray Knight and his companions are likely dead,” said Crowlacht. Mara felt a ripple of fear-tinged admiration for Jager, walking so boldly into the place where he had suffered so much.

  “He will succeed,” said Gavin.

  “Most probably,” said Crowlacht, and Kharlacht nodded. “Your Gray Knight has performed some remarkable feats.” He stretched. “The waiting before the fighting, that is the hardest part.”

  Calliande caught Mara’s eye and beckoned, and Mara went to join the Magistria. They walked away a few paces.

  “How do you feel?” said Calliande.

  “Well enough,” said Mara. “Cold. But the shadows haven’t tried to overwhelm me, and I haven’t felt the Artificer’s presence in days.” She wondered at that. Surely the Artificer would have tried to break through Calliande’s spells. Perhaps the Magistria’s magic had been enough to drive off the malevolent spirit.

  Or perhaps the Artificer was busy with something else.

  “Nothing at all?” said Calliande.

  Mara shook her head.

  “That tower is crawling with dark magic,” said Calliande. “I can sense it from here. Even Morigna would not have missed that, which means the power has awakened since we departed from here. The Artificer is doing something.”

  Mara nodded. “I shall be careful.”

  “Are you sure you do not want to remain here?” said Calliande. “If the Artificer is preparing some dark magic for you, it will be harder for him to reach you outside the walls.”

  “You are risking your life on my behalf, as are the others,” said Mara. “I cannot wait in safety while you do that. And,” she shrugged, “if I transform, if the shadows overwhelm me…you’re the only one who can kill me. I need to be near you for that.”

  Calliande said nothing.

  “I know it weighs heavily upon your conscience,” said Mara. “But you had every reason to kill me when we met…and even more reason to do so if I transform. Please. If it comes to it…kill me quickly, before I have the chance to hurt or kill anyone. I was an assassin of the Red Family for years.” She spread her hands. “There is already enough innocent blood upon my hands, and I want to spill no more upon them before I face the last judgment.”

  “You have my promise,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath. “But only if it becomes necessary. And not a moment sooner.”

  “Thank you,” said Mara.

  “Stay near me,” said Calliande. “If the Artificer’s spirit comes for you, I might be able to ward it away. And do not fight, not unless it is necessary. I suspect violence would…excite the shadows.”

  “You suspect correctly,” said Mara. She had always avoided fighting unless absolutely necessary, preferring to take her targets from ambush and surprise. Yet it had always been easier to draw the shadows around her when in combat.

  But she did not have the bracelet to keep them at bay now.

  “Once the Tower is secured, we will locate the bracelet,” said Calliande.

  “You should find the soulstone first,” said Mara.

  “There’s no danger that the soulstone will transform and kills us all,” said Calliande.

  She had a point. “But I know where the bracelet is. It’s in the tower of iron itself. We will have to repel the Artificer’s magic to obtain it.”

  “Leave that to me,” said Calliande, flexing her fingers.

  “He is powerful,” said Mara.

  “I know,” said Calliande, “but without a body through which to channel his magic, his powers are not nearly as potent. If we do this, if we take the Iron Tower and reclaim the bracelet and the soulstone, we can send Crowlacht with a message to the Comes in Coldinium. Let the Iron Tower be abandoned, and let the Artificer’s spirit slumber for eternity in its iron prison.”

  Mara said nothing, and Caius joined them, solemn in his brown robes.

  “Magistria,” he said. “We should join Crowlacht and the others. Ridmark will have the gate open soon.”

  “You are awfully certain of that,” said Mara, thinking of Jager.

  “I am,” said Caius. “The Gray Knight will prevail.”

  “Faith, Brother?” said Calliande.

  “Of course,” said Caius. “I believe faith is a requirement of my vows, yes. Faith in God, true. But we must also have faith in each other. We…”

  “You can preach the sermon after the battle is won,” said Calliande, though she smiled as she said it. “Let us ready ourselves.”

  Mara walked with Calliande and Caius to Crowlacht and the others.

  “Well, Brother?” said Crowlacht. “Shall God be on our side in this battle?”

  “He will,” said Caius, “for we may truly say that our cause is just. Still, no man knows the day or the hour of his death, and the responsibility for victory lies in our hands.”

  “Cheering,” said Kharlacht.

  Calliande opened her mouth to say something, and then fell silent.

  A fire burned atop the western tower of the gate.

  “Look,” said Mara.

  Even as she spoke, she glimpsed a flicker of movement in the shadows of the gate’s arch.

  The gate was opening. Ridmark had done it. Jager had done it.

  “The hour has come,” said Kharlacht.

  “Aye,” said Crowlacht, and he began to shout, his raspy voice booming through the trees. “Charge! To the gate! Form up once you’re in the courtyard. I will take a squad to secure the gatehouse. If they try to stop you, cut them down! Forward, lads! For God and the High King!”

  “For God and the High King!” roared the warriors of Crowlacht’s warband, their deep voices thundering through the forest. Otto’s mercenaries simply cheered, though no less loudly. Crowlacht brandished his huge hammer and started forward at a jog, and around them the mercenaries surged forward, weapons in hand.

  It seemed mad, charging towards the fortified wall in a ragged mass, but it was madness with a method. If the mercenaries could seize the walls, they need not fear crossbow quarrels or bolts from the ballistae. If they got a foothold within the courtyard, Paul Tallmane would never drive them out again.

  “Stay with me,” said Calliande.

  “I will,” said Mara, and they started running after the orcs, Kharlacht, Gavin, and Brother Caius flanking them.

  ###

  Ridmark dropped the bar into place and stepped back, retrieving his staff.

  “The other door is barred,” announced Jager, running back to the levers in the center of the room. “But it won’t stop a determined man with an axe, and I suspect our new friends will be most determined.”

  “Your winning charm, no doubt,” said Morigna, purple fire flickering around her fingers as she held a spell ready.

  “I make friends wherever I go,” said Jager.

  “Can you hold the doors with a wall of mist?” said Ridmark. “As you did when we fought the undead upon the slopes of the Old Man’s hill?”

  Morigna blinked. “Aye, I can. But only one of the doors. I can’t split my concentration that much.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “Which requires more effort, acidic mist or the sleeping mist?”

  “Acidic,” said Morigna.

  “Then use sleeping mist to seal off the western door,” said Ridmark, pointing. “You might need your strength for later.” And Ridmark did not want to kill more of the men-at-arms than he already had. He did not know if all of them were Enlightened of Incariel, or if some of them were simply loyal men trying to serve their lord.

  Morigna cast the spell, and a rippling curtain of white mist covered the western door. Anyone who stepped through it would fall asleep at once.

  An instant later, the sound of axes striking wood came through both the western and the eastern doors.

  Ridmark headed for the eastern door, wishing he had been able to bring his bow, or that he had thought to take a crossbow from the guard room. He cast off his blue cloak and tos
sed it to the floor, freeing his limbs for battle, and kept a light grip upon his staff, the dwarven war axe waiting at his belt.

  “Here we go again,” said Jager. “Fighting together against impossible odds. First Mhorites and Red Brothers, and now men-at-arms. Could we not have a battle where the odds are in our favor?”

  An axe blade bit through the eastern door.

  “Apparently not,” said Ridmark.

  “And this time Morigna cannot conjure a horde of rats to save us,” said Jager.

  “I suggest, master thief,” said Morigna, her voice tight with strain as she held the spell in place, “that you focus upon staying alive. Though if you do fall, I shall rejoice in the silence.”

  Jager grinned and moved to the side of the door, his short sword and dagger gripped to stab.

  Ridmark raised his staff, and the eastern door exploded open.

  Three men-at-arms stormed inside, the first man carrying a heavy axe. Ridmark could not block the heavy weapon with his staff, so he struck first, his staff landing across the man’s wrists, shattering bone and sending the axe clanging to the floor. The man-at-arms shouted in pain, and Ridmark sent him sprawling with a sweep of his staff. The other two men attacked, and Ridmark backed away, parrying and dodging. The men were quick and skilled, but Ridmark’s longer weapon gave him the better reach, which he put to good use by driving the butt of the staff against the knee of the man on the left. The man-at-arms groaned, and Ridmark struck again, his staff hitting the side of the man’s head with a loud crack. The man-at-arms on the right took a step forward and then let out a gurgling scream as Jager buried his blades into the his back. The man-at-arms collapsed, blood pooling around him, and Ridmark turned to face more foes.

  Five men-at-arms rushed into the lever room, and more clogged the guard room behind them.

  ###

  Morigna held her spell in place, and laughed as the men-at-arms stormed through the western door.

  Or tried to, anyway.

  The first man collapsed as he took a breath of the mist. He sprawled to the floor, his sword bouncing away. The second man followed and fell atop the first, followed in short order by the third. It was like some sort of absurd children’s tale.

  By the fourth man, the rest of them figured out that something was wrong, and stopped in the guard room, trying to peer through the mist. For the moment, the western door was secure, so long as Morigna held her spell in place.

  She risked a glance over her shoulder.

  She spotted Jager first, his short sword and dwarven dagger wet with blood. He kept to the edge of the fray, and used his shorter height to good effect, dodging in and out of the fight and vanishing behind his larger opponents, turning their size against them. It helped that he was quicker and more agile than most humans. He always struck from behind, and Morigna had to approve of his prudence.

  But Ridmark held the attention of the men-at-arms, as he held Morigna’s.

  He moved through them like a wolf through sheep, his staff snapping right and left to block his enemies’ attacks and strike telling blows of his own. He made good use his staff’s longer reach and the narrow walls of the room, forcing his foes to attack him two at a time. Whenever Ridmark landed a hit, his opponent staggered beneath the force of the blow, and Jager was there to ram his sword and dagger between their ribs. Or Jager hamstrung a foe, and Ridmark landed the killing blow with skull-crushing force. Or Ridmark simply knocked his foes from their feet and struck home.

  Moraime had been a wild town, and most of the men Morigna had met knew how to fight out of simple necessity. Yet she had seen only a few who could hope to match Ridmark Arban.

  What must he had been like, she wondered, with an enchanted soulblade in his hand?

  But despite his prowess, his foes were too many, and step by step they forced themselves into the room, advancing over their dead and wounded. Morigna gritted her teeth, trying to summon more power. She had to keep the wall of mist in place, but unless she summoned extra power to aid Ridmark, the men-at-arms would overwhelm him.

  And then they would kill her.

  She started to lift her hand, and heard the metallic ratcheting sound coming from the mist-blocked western door.

  A crossbow.

  Morigna snapped her head around and lifted her staff, drawing upon its power. Her thoughts reached out, and she felt the wood of the crossbows in the hands of the men-at-arms outside the door. Morigna swept her staff before her, commanding the wood of the weapons to shatter, and she heard the cry of dismay as the crossbows fell apart.

  But as she did, her concentration wavered, and the wall of mist vanished.

  A knight in gleaming steel plate rushed the door, sword aimed at her heart.

  ###

  Mara had been trained to kill in silence, to strike from the shadows and vanish back into them when the target was slain.

  Yet she found herself yelling with the orcs as she ran for the Iron Tower’s gate.

  It was almost intoxicating. Terror pulsed through her, but a wild sort of excitement burned alongside it. She wanted to run away, yet kept sprinting forward with the others.

  The first orcs reached the gate and raced into the castra, and Mara heard the ring of steel on steel. Crowlacht roared a command and then a battle cry, and plunged through the gate himself, his massive hammer rising high over his head. A chorus of screams rang out, and a war horn wailed in the distance.

  Then Calliande hurried through the gate, and Mara followed her into the courtyard of the Iron Tower.

  A knot of men-at-arms and knights stood below the gate, struggling against Crowlacht’s howling warriors. Crowlacht’s men were rested and ready, while Mara suspected that the men-at-arms had been roused from their beds. Many of them were only half-dressed. And the black eyes of Crowlacht’s men gleamed red as the battle fury of their orcish blood came upon them. The men-at-arms gave way, falling back beneath the assault.

  And Ridmark’s companions were formidable.

  Kharlacht waded through the melee, his massive sword of blue dark elven steel flashing, and he left a trail of severed heads and limbs in his wake. Gavin and Brother Caius fought back to back. Gavin covered the dwarven friar with his shield, and Caius struck with his heavy bronze-colored mace. Or Caius stunned their foes with blows of his mace, and Gavin’s sword darted home.

  Calliande trailed after them, tending to the wounded. Her eyes narrowed as she healed the wounds of those who had been injured. Mara knew that a Magistria had to endure the pain of the wound as it healed, that many Magistri could not cast healing spells because they could not handle the pain. Yet Calliande never flinched, white fire flaring around her hands as she healed wound after wound. The men-at-arms began to break, falling back towards the drum towers as more mercenaries poured through the opened gate. Mara risked a look up at the ramparts, saw knots of men struggling at the entrance to either of the gate towers.

  Jager was up there. Possibly fighting for his life.

  “Calliande,” said Mara.

  Calliande looked at the walls. “My lord headman!” Crowlacht glanced at her, the head of his hammer matted with pieces of someone’s head. “We need to secure the gate. If they get back into the gatehouse…”

  Crowlacht bellowed a command, and several squads of mercenaries broke off from the melee, running for the stairs.

  ###

  The knight lunged at Morigna.

  He was too close to hit him with a spell of acidic or sleeping mist. She could command the stone beneath his feet to ripple, but the spell might accidentally bring the ceiling crashing down upon their heads. And because they were indoors, she could not summon any roots to entangle him. Nor did he bear any weapons made of wood.

  His scabbard, however, was made from polished wood and gleaming brass.

  Morigna’s will flowed down her staff as the knight raised his sword for a killing blow. The scabbard shattered, and the knight stumbled, his eyes widening as he looked for the source of the sound. That ga
ve Morigna the time she needed to take several steps back and unleash as much magic as she could muster. A wall of billowing white mist appeared before her and rolled to the west. The knight collapsed as the white mist filled his lungs, as did the men-at-arms who had followed him. Yet it was too much space for Morigna to fill, and the mist dissipated as her control wavered.

  The mist cleared away, leaving a half-dozen sleeping men in its wake, and revealing a score more waiting in the guardroom.

  ###

  Ridmark whirled, dodged, struck, and struck again, his blue tabard and armor speckled with blood. His arms and chest burned from the exertion of fighting, his breath coming in a short, steady rasp. He had held his own against the men-at-arms, but his endurance was flagging. Already he had been hit several times, and though the chain mail had turned aside the edge of the swords, the blows had still hurt. He had been forced to the levers that controlled the gate, and soon he would be back to back with Morigna, who flung spell after spell at the western door. Jager dared through the melee, bleeding from several cuts, his weapons wet with blood.

  They had fought well, but they were about to be overwhelmed.

  Calliande had warned him over and over again about throwing his life away. It turned out that she had been right, though she would never get the satisfaction of telling him so.

  Another man-at-arms attacked, his flanged mace rising. Ridmark ducked and retreated, knowing better than to try and block the heavy weapon with his staff. The attack forced him towards the gears and chains upon the wall, leaving him with no room left to retreat. Ridmark jabbed with his staff, but the man-at-arms danced around the blow, bringing his mace back to strike.

  Then Crowlacht appeared behind the man-at-arms, his steel plate spattered with blood, his hammer coming down. Ridmark had a brief glimpse of his opponent’s stunned face, and then his head vanished in a crimson spray between the wall and Crowlacht’s massive hammer. The headless corpse slid to the ground, blood and brains pooling upon the floor.

  “Good timing,” said Ridmark, catching his breath.