Frostborn: The Iron Tower

by Jonathan Moeller

  Again she strode through the blue fire and appeared behind the Artificer, but the wizard flung a blast of invisible force that knocked her to the ground.

  ###

  Calliande gritted her teeth, trying to hold the ward in place.

  The shadows hammered at it, trying to break down the ward so they could feast upon her life. Yet her ward held them off, the shadows flowing around her like a stream flowing around stone. It was a considerable strain in her exhausted state, and she did not have enough strength left to strike at the Artificer.

  But she did have enough strength to ward some else.

  Her eyes focused on Ridmark’s prone form, and she cast the spell.

  ###

  White light blazed before Ridmark’s eyes, and all at once the terrible coldness vanished. His limbs still ached, the cuts on his arms burned, and his chest throbbed from the blows his chain mail had turned aside. But the terrible chill was gone, and he could move again.

  He rolled to his feet, snatching up the dwarven axe, and saw the white glow shimmering around him.

  Calliande must have warded him. He spotted her behind the fallen warriors and men-at-arms, sheathed in a white glow her own, her face tight with strain. She looked as tired as he felt, and he did not know how much longer she could hold the ward.

  Best to make that time count.

  The Artificer and Mara danced in their mad battle, Mara disappeared and reappearing in flashes of ghostly blue flame. The Artificer, for his part, showed no sign of tiring. Despite his battered and bloody armor and clothing, all his wounds had healed, and Paul Tallmane’s body looked the picture of vigorous health. He threw bolts of shadow and blue fire at Mara, who disappeared whenever he cast them at her. She reappeared near him, managing to land minor hits with her daggers, but the Artificer always forced her to retreat, and his wounds always closed in short order.

  But a jagged maze of molten gashes now covered the face of the tower of iron, bright enough to banish the night. None of them ever healed, and the tower was starting to look battered. What would happen if it took too much damage and collapsed under its own weight?

  Ridmark did not know, but he wanted to find out.

  The Artificer turned, spinning to track Mara, and his black eyes widened to see Ridmark on his feet. Ridmark charged, all his speed and strength driving the dwarven axe forward. The Artificer had discarded Paul’s sword to cast his shadow-spell, and the ancient wizard had no way of blocking the attack…

  The Artificer gestured, and Paul’s sword leapt from the flagstones to land in his right hand, blue flames bursting to life around the blade once more. Ridmark’s axe hurtled towards his chest, and the Artificer snapped his sword up in time to deflect the blow. Ridmark stumbled as he overbalanced, and he barely dodged the Artificer’s answering thrust, the blade tugging along his shoulder to draw blood.

  Ridmark expected more boasts, more taunts, but the Artificer remained silent, jumping back as Mara appeared next to him. The Artificer slashed his sword to the side, deflecting Mara’s stab, and swung for her head. Her eyes, bloodshot and ringed with dark circles of exhaustion, widened in alarm, and she disappeared in a swirl of blue flame to reappear a dozen yards away.

  She stumbled and caught her balance. Exhaustion was taking its toll on her, too.

  The Artificer turned and came at Ridmark, and he backed away, losing all hope of landing an effective blow as he struggled to hold back the Artificer’s attacks.

  ###

  Slowly, slowly, Morigna swam back to consciousness.

  She lay upon her back, her borrowed leather armor heavy against her, the smooth wood of her staff pressed against her palm. She saw the night sky overhead, and then turned her head and saw yellow-orange light spilling across the flagstones.

  Flagstones. Why was she lying on flagstones?

  The memories swam back to her mind. The stolen soulstone. The raid upon Sir Paul Tallmane’s camp. The shadows wrapping around Mara. Vulmhosk and the urvaalgs.

  The kiss she had shared with Ridmark in Vulmhosk.

  And on the tail of that memory came a darker image, the Artificer’s spirit possessing Paul’s body, the ancient wizard’s spell throwing her across the courtyard…

  Morigna blinked. Apparently the Artificer had failed to kill her after all.

  She got to her feet, leaning upon the staff for balance, and saw that the battle was lost.

  Crowlacht’s warriors, Otto’s mercenaries, and Sir Marcast’s men-at-arms lay sprawled upon the ground. Dead or alive, she could not tell. A vortex of shadow swirled around them and through them, centered upon the Artificer. Only Ridmark remained upon his feet, wielding the dwarven axe with both hands as he fought. He was battered and bloody and looked on the edge of defeat.

  The tower of iron blazed like a torch over them, its surface marred by dozens of molten cuts.

  Blue fire flashed, and Mara appeared out of nowhere, slashing at the Artificer with a pair of daggers. The Artificer dodged, but one of the daggers scraped his cheek, and an identical gash ripped across the surface of the tower of iron. The Artificer stabbed at her, but Mara vanished in a pillar of blue fire, reappearing a half-dozen yards away, her chest heaving and her body trembling from exhaustion.

  Mara had never been able to do that before. The vortex of shadows reached towards Morigna, the same shadows that had killed or incapacitated the others. Morigna had no way to ward that kind of magic, no defense. It would kill or overwhelm her.

  But she had one second left in which to act.

  Her magic could do nothing against the Artificer himself, not with the kind of warding spells around him.

  But the ground beneath his feet enjoyed no such protection.

  Morigna flung all her power in a single spell, and then the cold shadows washed over her.

  ###

  Ridmark retreated, and then the ground rippled beneath his feet.

  Or, rather, the ground around him rippled. The Artificer, his attention fixed on Ridmark, never saw it coming. He stumbled and fell to one knee, his battered armor clattering.

  And Ridmark had his last chance.

  He threw himself at the Artificer with all his remaining strength, the axe raised high over his head, and brought it plunging down. The dwarven steel ripped through the weaker metal of the Artificer’s cuirass and sank into his chest, tearing through skin and muscle and shattering bone. The Artificer’s black eyes widened, his arms twitching. No matter how powerful his healing magic, no matter how skillful, no one could shrug off a blow like that.

  A huge vertical gash appeared in the tower of iron.

  The Artificer started to rise, and Mara appeared behind him, sinking both of her daggers into his neck.

  The top of the tower of iron cracked, molten metal spraying from its sides.

  The Artificer let out a croak of pain and fell back to his knees, even as Mara pulled her daggers free and the wounds in his neck started to close. Ridmark put one boot upon his chest and ripped the axe free, the motion sending the Artificer falling upon his back, his wounds shrinking even as he fell.

  Ridmark raised the axe again and let it fall.

  This time the entire blade sank into the Artificer’s chest, and he let out a gurgling scream.

  Another huge gash appeared in the tower of iron, crossing the one Ridmark had made a moment earlier. The entire tower quivered, crimson lightning bursting from the molten tears to lash at the sky. The ground began to shake, and the vortex of crawling shadows around the Artificer began to unravel and fray.

  “What have you done?” hissed the Artificer. The tower shuddered again.

  “As it happens,” said Mara, her voice soft, “your mastery of magic is not as profound as you thought.”

  The tower of iron fractured with a thunderous crack. Great slabs fell from the side of the tower, smashing into the keeps, the molten core shining hotter. The red lightning grew brighter, and the Artificer screamed. Ridmark felt a pulse of uncanny power through the handle of his dw
arven axe, and he tore the weapon free from the Artificer’s chest, the sigils glowing through the blood coating the blade. At once the Artificer’s wound started to shrink, and Ridmark raised the weapon again.

  But the Artificer kept screaming.

  “I am immortal!” he shrieked. “I defied death itself! I am immortal! Immortal! Immortal!”

  With a second thunderous crack, the tower of iron shattered, collapsing on itself in a burst of molten sparks, the ground trembling and heaving, and a net of red lightning spread across the sky. One of the bolts arced down and coiled around the Artificer, his screams redoubling. His back arched as the last of his wounds closed, and something dark and shadowy, almost like a hooded wraith robed in shadows, erupted from him.

  The net of lightning pulled it up and ripped it apart, a final scream echoing in the air.

  The glow from the tower of iron faded, leaving it as a jagged, twisted stump. The red lightning vanished, and the shadowy vortex unraveled.

  One by one men started to rise from the ground, looking around in amazement.

  “It’s gone,” said Mara. Ridmark looked at her. “The song, I mean. The Artificer’s song. I think…I think he’s truly gone. I think the spells upon the tower broke and cast his spirit into the void.”

  A groan came to Ridmark’s ears.

  He looked down and saw Sir Paul Tallmane staring up at him, his eyes returned to their normal, human black, his face twisted with terror. He started to sit up, and Ridmark rested the blade of the axe upon his throat.

  “I accept,” said Ridmark, “your surrender.”

  Paul managed a feeble nod.

  “We won,” said Mara. She sounded stunned.

  “We did,” said Ridmark.

  “Was this…was this your plan?” said Mara.

  “Not at all,” said Ridmark.

  “Then…then you really are just a madman with a stick, aren’t you?” said Mara. She began to laugh, and then covered her face. “Oh, God. Ridmark Arban. Thank you. Thank you. If you had not convinced them to spare me, I would have…I would have…”

  “I do not fully understand what happened to you,” said Ridmark, “but I think you saved yourself.”

  “Mara!”

  Jager raced towards them, and Mara flew into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. Kharlacht and Caius regained their feet, and Calliande ran toward them, Gavin following.

  “You’re alive,” said Calliande, relief in her voice.

  Ridmark nodded. “Thanks to you and your spells.”

  Morigna came next, leaning on her staff, followed by Crowlacht and Sir Marcast.

  “It seems we are victorious,” said Crowlacht.

  “And the traitor has been captured,” said Marcast, glowering at the prone Paul.

  “The Iron Tower is yours,” said Ridmark to Crowlacht. “Take whatever you wish from it, save for the possessions of Sir Marcast and his loyal men. Oh, and send word to Otto so he can take his share of the loot.”

  “And you will take nothing?” said Crowlacht.

  Ridmark shook his head and glanced at the leather pouch on Calliande’s belt. “We have what we came to find.”

  “Was there not talk of a bracelet of jade?” said Crowlacht.

  “I think,” said Mara, her voice filled with wonder, “that I will never need it again.”

  ###

  Paul Tallmane stared up at Ridmark, the hate and terror bubbling within him.

  He had been beaten, his fortress taken, his men driven back. He had been made the Artificer’s thrall, made a prisoner within his own flesh. If Ridmark had not destroyed the Artificer’s spirit, Paul would have been a prisoner forever. But the destruction of the Artificer’s spirit had also destroyed Paul’s connection to the great void. He could no longer command the shadows, was no longer an Initiated of Incariel.

  He was doomed. That damned orc headman would drag him back to Coldinium, and Paul would be executed for treason against the High King. Or the Dux and Shadowbearer would have him killed before he could reveal the secrets of the Enlightened.

  Either way, Paul’s life was in ruins.

  And it was all Ridmark Arban’s fault.

  Paul was finished…but there was still a way he could revenge himself upon his enemy.

  The Artificer’s magic had healed his wounds, and Paul felt fresh and rested despite the loss of his power over the shadows. Even better, Ridmark’s attention was on his friends.

  And Paul still had a dagger on his belt.

  Inch by inch he drew his hand back, his hand coiling around the dagger’s hilt.

  Yes, his life was finished…but this was going to be sweet.

  In one smooth motion he sprang to his feet and drove the dagger towards Ridmark’s back.

  ###

  “Ridmark!” shouted both Morigna and Calliande.

  Ridmark spun and saw Paul standing behind him, teeth bared in a snarl, a dagger raised to stab. Ridmark jumped back, raising his axe to parry, but Paul remained motionless, a tremor going through his body.

  Blood bubbled over his teeth.

  Ridmark saw the point of a short sword jutting from Paul’s throat, a hand wrapped around the wrist of his dagger arm.

  “I would tell you,” said Jager, twisting his short sword, “to greet my father in the next world.” Paul’s black eyes rolled back and forth, filling with terror. “But I am quite certain that your final destination is very different from his.”

  Jager pulled the sword free, and Paul collapsed dead to the ground.

  For a moment they stood in silence as Crowlacht’s warriors dispersed to commence looting.

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. “I wasn’t paying attention. He would have killed me.”

  Jager grinned and cleaned his sword blade. “Well, you did save my life. It seems only fair, you know.”

  Chapter 23 - The Assassin and the Thief

  The next morning, Mara sat against the curtain wall and let Calliande examine her.

  “I don’t understand it,” said Calliande again, shaking her head.

  Mara shrugged. “I cannot blame you. I do not understand it myself.”

  The half-ruined Iron Tower buzzed with activity. Crowlacht’s men and Otto’s mercenaries looted the treasuries and the apartments in an organized fashion, piling the valuables in the center of the courtyard for equitable distribution. Smiling Otto actually smiled when he looked at the pile of loot. It seemed Tarrabus Carhaine had kept a great deal of money and jewels within the Tower for safekeeping.

  Ridmark descended into the old dungeons of Urd Mazekathar and freed the prisoners. Tarrabus had also kept numerous prisoners at the Iron Tower, men and women and even children who had crossed him or who would make useful hostages to ensure the compliance of their powerful relatives, just as Tarrabus had used Mara as a lever to bend Jager to his will. The prisoners agreed to accompany Crowlacht back to Coldinium and testify against Tarrabus Carhaine and the Enlightened of Incariel.

  Perhaps Tarrabus would find his power hampered. Though knowing what she did about the nobles of Andomhaim, Mara doubted it.

  Few of them were men like Ridmark Arban.

  “I suspect,” said Calliande, “that you have acquired the Sight.”

  Mara looked at the taller woman, and saw the pale glow of the magic of the Well waiting within her.

  “I think I know what you mean,” said Mara. As she looked at Calliande, she saw flashes of other things, of gray mist and a vault of stone, of a twisted staff and a grinning dragon’s skull. “But I don’t understand what the Sight is.”

  “A magical talent,” said Calliande. “Incredibly rare. In ancient days, the Keepers of Avalon were alleged to have it, until they perished fighting the Frostborn. I have to cast a spell to sense the presence of magic, but you do not. You need only to look to see the presence of a spell, to discern its nature and kind. And sometimes the Sight grants glimpses of the past or the future or far-off places. It is…little understood.” She tilted her head to the si
de, frowning.

  “What is it?” said Mara.

  “I did not know that I knew that,” said Calliande. She sighed. “Evidently I had forgotten.”

  Mara frowned. “Is it dangerous?”

  “Anything can be dangerous if misused,” said Calliande. “But I don’t think the Sight poses any immediate danger to you. You might see things that will disturb you.” Mara’s eyes wandered to the jagged, half-melted stub of the tower of iron. She saw see the residual dark magic clinging to the ruined tower. “But I don’t think it can hurt you. The traveling, on the other hand…”

  Mara lifted her hand, listening to the burning song inside of her head. If she concentrated, if she drew on the song, the veins beneath her skin started to glow, and she could step into the fire and let it carry her somewhere else.

  “I don’t think I can go more than thirty or forty yards at a time,” said Mara. “And the farther I go, the harder it is. It’s like…piling rocks, I suppose. The first one is the easiest, but every one after gets harder unless you rest.”

  Calliande considered that. “The use of magic is much the same way. I suspect you have gained the ability to transport yourself using the power of your dark elven blood. Ridmark told me the Warden could cast such a spell within the walls of Urd Morlemoch. And Shadowbearer can travel wherever he wishes with his magic. It might be dangerous. Traveling too far using magic can drive a human insane, but if you cannot move more than thirty yards at a time…”

  “And I am not fully human, anyway,” said Mara. “I suppose that it is an effective tool.”

  “As the Artificer found out,” said Calliande.

  Mara got to her feet with a grunt, and they stood in silence for a moment, watching the warriors and the men-at-arms sort the loot.

  “What am I?” said Mara at last.