The Weaver screamed and erupted into a furious blur of motion, his claws hammering against Gavin’s shield. Gavin had no choice but to retreat, and the Weaver launched a backhand at him. The armored limb struck his shield, and even with Truthseeker to augment his power, the blow knocked him back several steps. Ridmark swung his staff, and the Weaver whirled, the staff striking his shoulder, even as his long serpentine tail hit Ridmark across the torso like a whip. The strike knocked the Gray Knight to the ground, and Gavin caught his footing, intending to aid the older man before the Weaver killed him.
But the Weaver did something unexpected. He leaped backward and exploded again into the maze of threads. The tangle hurtled away, rolling like a ball, and wove itself into something new.
Gavin blinked in surprise.
The Weaver had taken the form of a kindly old man in the white robe of a Magistrius. He looked almost grandfatherly, his smile gentle. Behind him, the battle between the men-at-arms and the dvargir raged. Even with the Weaver’s intervention, the fighting had gone Sir Ector’s way, the remaining dvargir fleeing into the woods beyond the meadow.
Gavin glanced at the others. Ridmark had regained his feet, staff ready. Calliande and Antenora and Camorak walked forward, the glow of spells flickering around their fingers. Blue fire snarled next to Ridmark, and Third appeared with the Gray Knight, dvargir blood dark upon the blades of her short swords.
“Ah,” said the Weaver, his voice as gentle as his appearance. “The Gray Knight and his loyal companions. Shall we talk?”
###
Calliande stared at the Weaver, her mind racing.
He could heal any injury they inflicted on him, and while she suspected that she could destroy him if she inflicted enough damage, he would never hold still long enough for her to kill him. If the battle went against him, he would flee, recover his strength, and wait for a more advantageous moment to strike.
Attacking in the open like this seemed…unusual. He preferred to attack from the shadows, to take his victims off-guard before they could defend themselves.
Just as he had done with Morigna.
Calliande felt her mouth tighten into a hard line, a flare of pain going through her jaw.
“We have nothing to discuss,” said Ridmark.
“That is very shortsighted of you, young man,” said the Weaver. “I think we have a great deal to discuss.”
“Maybe,” said Ridmark. “For instance, where is Imaria? I suspect you’re just talking to buy time for her to arrive and save you.”
The Weaver sighed. “How unimaginative. Imaria Shadowbearer isn’t within a hundred miles of us. She is quite busy, you know. Her office carries so many responsibilities, and she carries them out with such faithful vigor.”
“And what duties are those?” said Ridmark, his anger plain. “Murder and treachery?”
“Why, freedom,” said the Weaver. “Your freedom and mine. Freedom from time and matter, from the rotting prison of this blighted world.”
“Tymandain Shadowbearer said the same thing,” said Ridmark, “and then I freed him by driving a soulblade through his heart. I’m sure Sir Gavin would be happy to give you the same freedom.”
“He understood the truth,” said the Weaver, “long before any of us were born, long before mankind even came to this world. Now Imaria understands. I think of all the Enlightened, only Imaria and I grasp the truth of Incariel and the shadow.”
“And what truth is that?” said Ridmark. “What madness justifies your crimes?”
The Weaver smiled. “My crimes? To which crimes to you refer, Gray Knight? The murder of that proud old fool Uthanaric and his sons? Or maybe one of the others I have killed over the centuries?”
Ridmark said nothing. His face looked as if it had been carved from stone.
“Morigna, perhaps?” said the Weaver with that gentle smile. “Do you know that she called out for you to save her? She had utter faith that the Gray Knight would arrive to save her at the very last minute, and I think she believed that right up until I tore out her throat.”
Ridmark said nothing. He was smart enough to know that the Weaver was baiting him…but Calliande had seen firsthand how much pain and rage Morigna’s death had inflicted upon him.
He might be too angry to care.
The Weaver’s calm eyes shifted to Calliande. “The Keeper thinks that you will protect her, too. Do you think she will believe that right up until I tear out her throat and…”
“Oh, shut up,” said Calliande, and she threw as much power as she could into her next spell.
The shaft of white fire erupted from her staff and struck the white-robed old man in the chest, and he exploded into the tangled skein of black threads. Black threads burst from him in all directions, wrapping around Camorak and Antenora and Gavin, stunning them and knocking them to the ground. Calliande saw the attack coming and raised a ward around herself, the shadowy threads recoiling from the light of the Well’s magic. The symbols on Ardrhythain’s staff glowed as well, shielding Ridmark from the threads.
He was already moving, charging towards the Weaver as the Enlightened reformed into a new shape.
###
Ridmark sprinted forward as the Weaver took a new form.
This time the Weaver reverted to the shape of the sleek ursaar, a hideous bear-like creature, but with some modifications. He was as large as the usual ursaar, but far leaner, meaning he would likely be faster. Plates of bony armor covered the creature’s body, and from those plates jutted razor-edged spikes. The Weaver’s new form looked like a machine made for killing, and without Gavin and Calliande, the Weaver could likely butcher every last one of Sir Ector’s men without breaking a sweat.
Ridmark gripped his staff and set himself, and the Weaver erupted into motion.
The creature blurred towards Calliande, and the Keeper, Camorak, and Antenora all hit him with spells at once, white and yellow fire washing over the dark form. The Weaver faltered, but continued loping towards Calliande on all fours, his red eyes fixed upon her.
Ridmark raced towards the Weaver, staff in his left hand and dwarven axe in his right. He reached the Weaver just as the creature rocked from another blast of white fire, and he drew back the axe and swung. With a one-handed grip, he did not hit as hard as he might have preferred, but the blade nonetheless bit into the plates of black bone. The Weaver whirled, and Ridmark ducked under the sweep of his arm. He struck again, the blade biting deeper into the plates of black armor, black threads snapping and bursting from the wound.
The Weaver swiped at Ridmark, and by then Gavin had closed. He drew back Truthseeker and plunged the soulblade into the Weaver’s back, and the creature roared, leaping away from the soulblade, the black wound glistening in his hide. The Weaver landed a few yards away, and before he could recover his balance, another one of Calliande’s spells hit him. The Weaver stumbled, and Gavin charged. Once again the Weaver rocked from the hit, and Ridmark attacked, dropping his staff to seize his axe’s haft with both hands.
The blow had been aimed at the Weaver’s head, but the creature twisted to the side at the last moment, and instead Ridmark’s blade sheared through the Weaver’s right shoulder. The Weaver screamed in pain, and his right arm fell to the ground, leaking black slime.
The Weaver leaped away, threads of shadow leaking from the torn stump of his arm, and landed a few yards away. The Weaver shot a quick glance around, misshapen head turning, and Ridmark did the same.
The battle was all but over.
Sir Ector’s men had scattered, but that was because the dvargir had broken, fleeing towards the forest. Ridmark hoped Ector remembered to call them back before they got lost among the trees, where the dvargir could regroup and strike with ease.
The Weaver fled to the east, heading into the forest. Ridmark blinked in surprise. Why hadn’t the Weaver taken a winged form and flown away? It would be faster and safer. For that matter, why hadn’t the Weaver changed shape to something faster? His current form had
been injured. Taking a new form would heal all his injuries in the blink of an eye.
Unless…
Perhaps the Weaver had temporarily exhausted his ability to change form. Maybe he needed a few moments to rest before he could change his shape and heal himself.
And this was Ridmark’s best chance to kill the murderous wretch, to avenge Morigna and protect Calliande from him.
He snatched up his staff and sprinted after the retreating Weaver.
###
“Ridmark!” said Calliande, but it was too late. He was already out of earshot, and he vanished into the trees after the wounded Weaver.
Or so the Weaver appeared.
To Calliande’s Sight, the darkness within the Weaver roiled and twisted like a frozen storm. The darkness had been weakened by the power of her magic and the fury of Gavin’s soulblade, but it was still strong. It should have been potent enough to allow the Weaver to change shape or heal himself.
So why hadn’t he healed himself or taken a new form?
Because he was trying to lure Ridmark.
That had been the entire point of the cruel little speech about Morigna’s death. He had been trying to enrage Ridmark, and now he was feigning weakness, luring Ridmark away so he could dispose of the Gray Knight in peace.
Fear rose to choke Calliande.
“It’s a trap,” she said.
“Keeper?” said Gavin, stepping closer.
“He’s trying to get Ridmark alone,” said Calliande.
“I will pursue,” said Third, her blades dark with the blood of the dvargir.
“I shall, too,” said Gavin.
“Come on,” said Calliande. “Camorak!” The Magistrius blinked. “Find Sir Ector and tell him to join us.” Camorak nodded and ran towards the scattered men-at-arms, while Calliande hurried towards the trees, Gavin and Camorak falling in on either side of her, while Third vanished in a swirl of fire.
###
Ridmark ran through the trees, keeping the Weaver’s armored form in sight.
The forest here was old, with towering branches rising high overhead to block the sun. That left plenty of space around the trunks, and Ridmark made good time, pushing himself as hard as he could. Another man might have tripped over the length of the staff, but Ridmark had spent years carrying a similar weapon, and he knew how to keep his balance.
Rage drove him.
Rage, and the excitement of a battle tilting in his direction.
The Weaver was slowing. He could have run on all fours, but Ridmark had taken his right arm, and he hadn’t grown a new one. The Weaver attempted to use his remaining arm to speed himself, but he was slower than he should have been.
The distance between them lessened as the Weaver dodged around a tree and then an old, mossy boulder. The creature slowed further, and Ridmark braced himself. Unable to retreat, the Weaver would have no choice but to turn and fight …
The Weaver pivoted, using his remaining arm to transform himself into a tripod for an instant, and hurtled towards Ridmark. Ridmark was ready for the attack, had prepared himself for it, but he barely reacted in time. He dropped his axe and swung his staff with both hands, hitting the Weaver in his face. The force of the impact knocked Ridmark over, but it also threw the Weaver to the ground, and the creature bounced once, scrabbling to get back to his feet.
Ridmark seized his axe and attacked, hitting the Weaver once, twice, and three times, the blade biting deep with each blow. The Weaver screamed with rage and lashed out with his remaining arm, and the claws raked once more across Ridmark’s chest. His armor stopped the claws from ripping him to shreds, but the fury of the hit knocked him down.
Ridmark coughed out a breath, seized his weapons, and got back to his feet.
The Weaver was gone.
Ridmark turned in a circle, staff and axe ready. He scanned the surrounding trees, looked over the branches above, but saw nothing. The Weaver hadn’t changed shape; he was sure of it. A creature that big could not move without making a lot of noise.
Yet silence had fallen over the forest.
Ridmark turned again, baffled. He stepped to the place the Weaver had fallen. The clawed tracks the Weaver’s armored form had left were plain, as was the imprint of his fallen body upon the forest floor…but there were no footprints leading from the imprint. Ridmark swept his staff through the air over the imprint, fearing that the Weaver had become invisible, but felt nothing.
The Weaver had vanished.
Ridmark heard a crashing sound. He raised his weapons, and Gavin came into sight, Truthseeker burning in his fist. Yet the sword’s fire was already dimming, the soulstone set into the base of the blade no longer shining as brightly. That meant the sword did not sense any dark power.
The Weaver had escaped, but Ridmark could not fathom how.
“Gray Knight,” said Gavin. “Are you hurt? The Weaver?”
“No,” said Ridmark. “Did you see where he went?”
“No,” said Gavin. He shook his head. “I didn’t see anything. I just followed the trail you left.”
“He has to be around here somewhere,” said Ridmark, frustration mixing with his anger.
More footsteps came to his ears, and Calliande and Antenora appeared, Antenora’s staff glowing with magic, white light flickering around Calliande’s fingers. Relief flooded through her expression, and Ridmark felt a flash of guilt. Running off into the woods alone in pursuit of the Weaver had been foolish. Come to think of it, it was possible the Weaver had attempted to lure him off alone for a quick kill.
So why had the Weaver fled? Was this a trick to get at Calliande? Yet Calliande looked unhurt, and attacking the Keeper of Andomhaim in the presence of her powerful apprentice and a Swordbearer would be foolish.
“You’re not hurt,” said Calliande.
“No,” said Ridmark. The bafflement overruled his anger. “No, just confused.”
“The Weaver?” said Calliande.
“I don’t know,” said Ridmark. “He vanished. I can’t explain it.”
Calliande nodded and cast a spell, her face taking the dreamy, half-focused look it gained when she used the Sight. She looked back and forth, up and down, and her gaze lingered on him for a moment, something like longing in her expression.
She blinked, shook her head, and her eyes came back into focus.
“Nothing,” said Calliande. “He’s gone.”
“It does not make any sense,” said Gavin. “Why go to all this trouble and then just…flee?”
“I don’t know,” said Ridmark, frowning at the imprint upon the ground. “Maybe he thought to attack when the dvargir ambushed us. They were clearly planning to ambush us, but Calliande spoiled their plan.”
“No plan ever survives a battle,” said Antenora.
“No,” said Ridmark.
Blue flames flickered next to one of the trees, and Third stepped into sight. She looked around and blinked, which was as much surprise as she ever displayed.
“Where is the Weaver?” she said.
“I was hoping that you might know,” said Ridmark.
Third shook her head. “The men-at-arms have reformed and are preparing to depart camp. I shall see if I can locate the Weaver.”
“Don’t try to fight him if you do,” said Calliande. “He might have regained the ability to heal himself by now.”
Third nodded and disappeared again.
“What now?” said Gavin.
“We return to the camp and get ready to leave,” said Ridmark. He met Calliande’s eyes. “Running around through the woods in pursuit of him is a fool’s errand.”
Calliande inclined her head a little.
“And when he comes for us again, Gray Knight?” said Antenora.
Ridmark shrugged. “Then we fight him. But until he returns…”
Something crashed in the forest, and Ridmark whirled, his weapons coming up.
But it was only Sir Ector. The knight came closer, shield upon his arm and sword in hand, his green
surcoat and steel mail spattered with dvargir blood.
“God and the saints!” he said, wiping sweat from his lined forehead. “You’re safe. I would not want to explain to Prince Regent Arandar and Dux Sebastian how I managed to get the Keeper killed. Especially after everything we survived in Bastoth.”
“Sir Ector,” said Calliande. “How many dead?”
“Five,” said Ector, his relief sobering. “Seven wounded. Magistrius Camorak is tending to them.”
“I will help,” said Calliande. “Antenora. We had better return to camp.”
“Gray Knight,” said Ector. “What shall we do next?”
The blue fire pulsed again, and Ector flinched in surprise. Third reappeared, blinked, and looked around.
“There is no sign of the Weaver for a mile in any direction,” said Third. “Sir Ector, you survived. I thought the shadowscribes slew you.”
“So did I,” said Ector with a grimace. “They killed the man to my left. God save the poor fellow.”
“Let’s go,” said Ridmark. “If the dvargir and the Weaver planned an ambush for us at the Regnum crossing, the way should be clear over the Moradel. We’ll cross and make camp on the other side.”
“So close to the Shaluuskan Forest?” said Ector.
Ridmark shrugged. “The Sight likely has an easier time detecting the ghost orcs than the dvargir, true?”
“It does,” said Calliande.
“Then we shall be at least a little safer there,” said Ridmark.
They left the forest and broke camp, heading west to the ruined village of Regnum and the crossing of the Moradel.
###
The man who had once been named Magistrius Toridan but now thought of himself as the Weaver smiled as Ridmark and his companions departed the forest.
That had gone rather well.
Imaria Shadowbearer had told him to kill the Keeper and to kill the Gray Knight, and the Weaver intended to obey. No one could command him, save for the shadow of Incariel itself, but he listened to Imaria.
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 4