“You look worried, Sir Gavin,” said Calliande, partly to distract herself from her own fears.
“I’m wearing dark elven armor,” said Gavin. “almost of us are, come to think of it. Do you think that will offend the dwarves?”
Calliande smiled. “Certainly not. Given that the only way for a human to wear dark elven armor is to win it in battle, I think the dwarves would approve. Why would that worry you?”
Gavin shrugged. “We’ve come all this way to speak with King Axazamar. It would be terrible if they refused to help us because I broke some rule of etiquette I didn’t know existed.”
“Ah,” said Calliande. “A practical concern. Well, if you let me and Ridmark and Caius do the talking, we should be fine. Then if anything goes terribly wrong, you can blame me and not yourself.”
“I’m not sure that would be better,” said Gavin, but he did smile.
“Fear not, Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora. “We shall not offend the khaldari king. If anything, Brother Caius will. I wonder if he and the king are estranged.”
“I don’t know,” admitted Calliande. She respected Caius’s reluctance to speak of his past. But they needed the help of the dwarves to stop the Frostborn. If it came down to it, Calliande could not spare Caius’s feelings on the matter, not if it would make a difference.
She would regret it, but she would do it. Perhaps that was a summary of her time as the Keeper.
“Come,” said Calliande. “If we are fortunate, the time for words will pass, and the hour for deeds will be upon us.”
Gavin nodded, and he and Antenora fell in behind her.
Calliande descended to the common room of the Nobles’ House. In a way, it looked like the common room of every other inn she had ever visited, with the same benches and tables and chairs. Since this was a dwarven inn, the furniture had been wrought of stone, affixed to the floor with cunning mechanisms that allowed the heavy chairs to slide back from the tables depending upon the girth of the chair’s occupant. She spotted Kharlacht and Camorak near the door, Camorak holding a stone cup of dwarven beer. Calliande hoped he didn’t get too drunk. If the Sculptor attempted something, they might well need his healing magic.
Ridmark stood near one of the tables, speaking with Sir Ector. Ector had donned his best armor and a clean surcoat in the green of the House of the Aurelii. Third waited near them, a silent shadow in her dark armor. Ridmark had no finer clothes, but he wore the dark elven armor he had taken from Urd Morlemoch, and the gray cloak Ardrhythain had given him.
In truth, Calliande thought, he had no need of finery. Armor from Urd Morlemoch, a cloak and staff from the last archmage of the high elves, an axe from the Taalkaz of the Dwarven Enclave of Coldinium – what need of finery did he have when he carried these tokens of valor? He looked every inch the warrior, his face hard, his blue eyes cold and clear, his shoulders broad, his hands strong. The brand of the broken sword upon the left side of his face seemed out of place, but even that was further proof of his bravery. Tarrabus Carhaine had forced that upon him, and Ridmark had survived alone for five years in the Wilderland, a feat that few in the history of Andomhaim could match.
“Keeper?” said Antenora.
Calliande realized that she had been staring at Ridmark. She forced down a wave of embarrassment and went the rest of the way down the stairs. Ridmark looked up as she approached, and for a moment, just a moment, he smiled. It always looked good on him. She wished he would do it more.
“Keeper,” said Ridmark. “Are you ready?”
Calliande nodded, putting her own fears out of her mind, and focusing on the task at hand. The fate of many, many lives might depend on what she did in the next few hours. “I am.”
“Your escort is ready,” said Ridmark, and they left the common room, the others falling in around them. They stepped onto the terrace, and Caius, Azakhun, and Calazon awaited them, flanked by Azakhun’s warriors.
“Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Azakhun. “It is my honor to escort you to the Stone Heart and the seat of King Axazamar.”
“The honor is mine, Taalmak,” said Calliande. “Please, lead the way.”
###
Ridmark walked at Calliande’s side and tried not to stare.
The temptation to stare at her was always there, of course, and she did look lovely in the green dress. Ridmark usually tried to keep his mind off that and watch their surroundings, just in case the Enlightened or perhaps the Sculptor’s creatures made another attempt on her life.
And as he watched their surroundings, he tried not to stare at the splendors of Khald Tormen.
He had visited the ruins of the dwarves before, Thainkul Agon and Thainkul Dural and other places. Khald Azalar had towered over them all, and even as a ruin it had been filled with a solemn, ancient grandeur.
But the ruins were nothing compared to a dwarven city at the height of its power, and Khald Tormen was the oldest city of the dwarves upon the face of the world.
They walked through galleries hewn through the mountain, the walls and floors polished and gleaming. Streams of molten stone flowed through channels at the base of the walls, providing light. The heat of the liquid stone should have made the air of the gallery unbearably hot, but the stonescribes had carved glyphs into the sides of the channels, the spells containing the heat.
Ridmark walked through vast caverns filled with ponds of fish and forests of mushrooms, dwarven workers tending to herds of sullen murrag lizards that moved through the tree-sized mushrooms. According to Calazon, the dwarves of Khald Tormen tended to hundreds of such caverns, along with many fortified farms and pastures in the vales of Kothluusk. Ridmark supposed those fortifications explained what had happened to all the stone the dwarves had dug out of the mountain. Keeping the Mhorite orcs away from their farms and pastures would take many walls and towers.
Their path took them through one of the foundry levels of Khald Tormen, a vast chamber filled with dozens of blast furnaces like giant stone beehives. Hundreds of dwarven smiths toiled in the chamber, creating ingots of dwarven steel from ores quarried deep beneath the mountains of Kothluusk.
Other wonders passed before their eyes. Ridmark saw more citadels, fortified and all but impregnable behind siege engines and warded doors of dwarven steel. They walked through a vast library, its stone shelves lined with thousands upon thousands of thin tablets of dwarven steel, their surfaces adorned with glowing glyphs. Elsewhere they saw a wide temple to the gods of stone and silence, filled with hundreds of dwarves contemplating the inevitability of their own deaths. Calazon gave Azakhun a significant look, but the Taalmak did not respond.
Khald Tormen was a fortress strong beyond imaging and filled with busy and industrious people. The dwarves had built wonders and constructed themselves a city all but impervious to any attack.
It was one of the most joyless places that Ridmark had ever seen.
The dwarves never smiled. They never laughed. No one played games, not even the children, who went about their chores with downcast eyes. The khaldari spoke in quiet voices, going about their business with grim efficiency. Ridmark had never seen anything quite like it. Even among the Anathgrimm, enslaved to the will of the Traveler for generations beyond count, there had still been laughter and games. The Anathgrimm liked to celebrate by becoming ferociously drunk while engaging in mock duels and reciting tales of their bloodiest battles. It was a grisly pastime, but it was still a pastime, and the Anathgrimm enjoyed themselves immensely.
It was hard to imagine the gloomy dwarves ever enjoying themselves.
“Do you see?” said Caius in a quiet voice. “This is why the word of the Dominus Christus has found such a ripe field among us. We have no hope, only duty. The teachings of the gods of stone and silence are lessons of stoicism. There are worse things, yes, but those teachings have strangled our nation, and left us joyless and fatalistic.”
“They have made us strong, Prince Azaanbar,” said Calazon. “Other kindreds and nations have fallen i
nto ruin because they succumbed to their emotions, to false hopes and dreams. The khaldari see things as they are, however bleak, and do not flinch from the darkness of the truth.”
“Have we?” said Caius. “Once we dreamed of rebuilding the six kingdoms lost to our enemies. Now we are content to remain within our walls and wait for death.”
Calazon sighed. “Such a matter must be discussed among us.” He glanced at Ridmark and Calliande. “It is not proper that we debate the matter before her.”
“I do not object,” said Calliande with the cool calm of the Keeper. “Nor do I seek to meddle in the internal affairs of the khaldari, and nor do I ask you to interfere in the internal affairs of Andomhaim.”
“Your wisdom does you credit, my lady Keeper,” said Calazon. “The King shall be glad to hear it. And he shall hear it soon, for we have almost reached the Stone Heart.”
They approached a massive pair of dwarven siege doors, two huge stone slabs locked together by mechanisms of dwarven steel and powerful glyphs. A dozen dwarven Taalmaks stood guard before the door, their armor and helmets adorned with golden inlays. Calazon approached and spoke to them for a moment in the dwarven tongue, and the Taalmaks released the doors. The floor shivered as the doors unlocked and swung open.
“The final room before the Stone Heart,” said Calazon. A bit of pride came through his stoic demeanor. “The Armory of the Kings.”
It was another long stone gallery, but dozens of niches lined the walls, and in the niches stood towering suits of dwarven steel armor.
Third sucked in a startled breath, taking a step back as her hands twitched towards the hilts of her swords.
“Yes,” said Calazon. “They are an impressive sight, are they not? It is one the enemies of the khaldari have learned to fear.”
“Those are…” said Gavin. “We saw one in Khald Azalar, didn’t we? It was damaged, but…”
“Aye,” said Calliande. “They are taalkrazdors, the suits of enspelled armor worn by dwarven warriors into battle.”
Each suit of armor stood a dozen feet high. Glyphs of harsh white light shone upon their legs and arms and cuirasses. The helmets were wrought in the image of a stylized dwarven face. Some of the taalkrazdors had hammers for one hand, and others had axes, and others had gauntlets for grasping the giant swords or axes that hung in racks along the walls.
“They are commonly called titans by other kindreds,” said Calazon, “and it is an appropriate term. A warrior wearing a taalkrazdor has the strength of a hundred men, and becomes a living siege engine and a fighter without peer. A warrior in a taalkrazdor can fight an army to a standstill, or punch open a fortress gate, or cover a half a hundred miles in a single day. Their only weakness is that they are difficult to operate in the narrow tunnels of the Deeps or in swampy terrain…and the glyphs upon them can be dispelled by a wizard of sufficient power.” He gestured at the nearest taalkrazdor, a towering figure of bronze-colored metal, the white fire of its glyphs casting harsh shadows across the metal. “Nevertheless, they are the finest work of our stonescribes and our smiths, and they have never been equaled. The blood of the dwarves empowers these weapons, and only the boldest warriors have the strength to wield them in battle.”
Ridmark looked at the silent armored shapes, a flicker of hope within him. If they won the help of the dwarves, the titans could be brought to bear against the Frostborn. Ridmark could think of a score of times in the last year and a half when the power of the taalkrazdors might have turned the tide of a battle or dealt a devastating blow to the Frostborn.
The hope turned into amusement. Did all the ambassadors to King Axazamar’s court pass through the Armory of the Kings? Ridmark supposed that the dwarves of Khald Tormen wanted visitors to their realm to have a proper appreciation for the power and wealth of Khald Tormen.
Azakhun and Calazon crossed the length of the Armory and opened another set of siege doors, and the Stone Heart yawned before Ridmark.
###
Calliande walked through the doors and into the Stone Heart, the vastness of the space opening around her.
She had been here before, centuries ago, to convince Axazamar’s father to join the alliance against the Frostborn.
The centuries since had not lessened the grandeur of the vast chamber.
The Stone Heart was a cylindrical chamber nearly a half a mile across, a great empty space carved from the heart of the mountain, the roof rising nearly a thousand feet overhead and terminating in a broad dome displaying the history of the dwarven kindred in glowing glyphs of fire. Balconies encircled the walls, lined with benches so the dwarves of Khald Tormen could gather to hear the edicts of their king, and Calliande guessed that nearly a hundred thousand dwarves could assemble within the chamber.
A circular pool of molten stone filled the center of the chamber, covering perhaps half of the floor. The light from the lava filled the chamber, providing more than enough illumination. A pedestal of stone rose from within the pool of liquid rock, its base glowing with glyphs.
Atop the pedestal rested the single largest soulstone that Calliande had ever seen.
The thing was the size of the keep of Dun Licinia, and to Calliande’s Sight, it blazed with magical power. The crystal was the usual milky white of most soulstones, and glowed with an inner molten light. The dark elves had crafted the thing long ago, using it to open a stupendous world gate to summon hundreds of thousands of dwarves at once. The dark elves had intended to enslave the dwarves, but the dwarves had rebelled against their would-be masters and founded Khald Tormen.
Briefly, Calliande wondered why Tymandain Shadowbearer had not tried to steal the Stone Heart for his world gate, and then she realized there was no way even Tymandain Shadowbearer could have forced his way through the defenses of Khald Tormen.
Azakhun and Calazon led them to a tall pyramidal dais at the edge of the pool, facing the double doors that led into the Nobles’ Quarter of Khald Tormen. The court of the king stood at the base of the dais, dwarves in ornamented robes like those of Prince Narzaxar or in the sober gray robes of stonescribes. Calliande spotted Narzaxar at the foot of the dais, at the highest place of honor save for the king himself.
Axazamar, King of Khald Tormen, sat upon a throne of gold and dwarven steel, slumped from age and weariness. He wore robes of black adorned with gold, a crown of dwarven steel upon his bald head. Caius looked old and weathered, and Narzaxar looked elderly, but Axazamar seemed ancient. The lines in his face were as deep as canyons, his beard as white as ice. Yet his blue eyes were sharp and clear, and they settled upon Calliande with measuring weight.
She stopped before the dais. Gavin, Antenora, Third, Kharlacht, and Camorak planted themselves behind Calliande, while Caius stood at her left and Ridmark at her right. Azakhun and Calazon stepped forward and bowed before the throne.
“My King,” said Azakhun in Latin. “I have the honor of presenting before you the ambassadors of Queen Mara of Nightmane Forest, Calliande of Tarlion, the Keeper of Andomhaim, and Ridmark Arban, the magister militum of Nightmane Forest.”
“The stonescribes have examined their claims and pronounced them true,” said Narzaxar.
“Thank you, Taalkhan Narzaxar,” said Axazamar. His voice was much deeper than his aged frame would have suggested. “Thank you, Taalmak Azakhun.” He beckoned with one thick, gnarled hand. “Keeper, lord magister, please approach.” The blue eyes shifted to Caius. “And you, Azaanbar. It seems you have fallen in with unusual companions.”
Calliande walked towards the dais and stopped a few yards from Narzaxar, gazing up at the King.
“And so you return, at last, Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Axazamar. “My father spoke highly of you, and your warning that the Frostborn would return. We watched as the Order of the Vigilant rose among your people and as it was destroyed in the war between the five Pendragon princes. It seems that your people forgot the harsh lessons of the war of the Frostborn.”
“Many did,” said Calliande, “but some reme
mbered.” She looked at Ridmark. “The Gray Knight warned the realm of Andomhaim that the Frostborn would return, though I fear that no one heeded him until it was too late.”
“We have learned the lesson anew,” said Ridmark, “and a lesson learned anew is the bitterest of all.”
“Indeed, lord magister,” said the king, his blue eyes shifting to Caius. “And sometimes old wisdom is abandoned for the folly of new ideas.”
“My lord king,” said Caius with a bow.
“Taalkhan,” said Axazamar. “Brother. You have returned. Though it seems that the religion of the humans proceeds your coming.”
“That was not my design,” said Caius, “though I am glad of the outcome.”
“Are you?” said Axazamar, raising one white eyebrow. “No matter. It has been over twenty years. Why have you returned? Did you wish to spread your human religion among us?”
“No,” said Caius. “I do, but that is not the reason I returned.”
“Then you have accepted your grief at last?” said Axazamar. “We all mourned him, you know, and we mourned her. Have you finally understood that all lives end in grief and despair, and there is nothing to do but embrace the oblivion?”
“All lives end in grief,” said Caius. “All lives end in pain. But I do not accept that grief and pain are the end.”
Axazamar sighed. “I am old, brother, and I have little time left before the eternal silence of oblivion claims me. Do not weary my ears with nonsense. If you have not returned to spread your fantasies among our young men and women, then why have you returned?”
“I regret that I come with the storm,” said Caius. “By chance or the will of God,” Calazon’s teeth clicked, “I was with the Gray Knight on the day of the omen of blue fire, and we met the Keeper when she awoke from her sleep. It has been my honor to aid her in her task.”
Axazamar inclined his head. “Noble work indeed.”
“He has been a great help to me, lord King,” said Calliande. “And by his help, I have come to warn you and to ask for your aid. The Frostborn have returned, and if they are not defeated, they will conquer Andomhaim, and then turn their attention to the Three Kingdoms and Nightmane Forest and the Range and everything else they can reach. Now is the hour to stop them, lord King. Already the Anathgrimm struggle against them, and the manetaurs have declared a Great Hunt against the Frostborn and their servants. If you bring the Three Kingdoms to war alongside the Anathgrimm and the manetaurs, we may yet have a chance of victory.”
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 13