Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12)

by Jonathan Moeller

  The Weaver considered the Sculptor’s offer. Imaria had sent him to kill Ridmark Arban and Calliande both. She had wanted him to kill Ridmark first because she believed that Calliande had fallen in love with the Gray Knight and would be crippled by his loss. Given what the Weaver had seen since leaving Regnum, Imaria’s logic had not been in error. That said, they both had to be killed to remove the threat they represented.

  “What about the Gray Knight?” said the Weaver.

  “A human with no magical ability represents no threat to my plans,” said the Sculptor, but there was doubt in that irritated voice.

  “Tymandain Shadowbearer thought the same,” said the Weaver.

  He half-expected the Sculptor to take offense at that, but the dark elven lord nodded. “So he did, and now he is no more. The lesson should be obvious. Ridmark Arban should be no threat. A Swordbearer without a high elven soulblade? Yet he carries the staff and the cloak of Ardrhythain. He defeated the Artificer, escaped the Warden, and was there when the Traveler was slain. These things cannot be overlooked.”

  “I saw him fight at Castra Durius, master,” said the Cutter. “He fought well. He might even make a suitable mate before I bore of him and feed him to the koballats.”

  “No,” said the Sculptor. “He is too dangerous to leave alive.” The void-filled eyes stared into the Weaver. “Kill him.”

  “I shall,” said the Weaver.

  “Good,” said the Sculptor, rising to his feet. “It shall be interesting to observe you in battle. Your physical configuration is very nearly unique.”

  He waved an armored hand, and both he and the Cutter vanished.

  The Weaver let out a long breath. That had been an unusually productive conversation. It was clear that the Sculptor had his own goals, and the Weaver cared nothing for them. But the Sculptor’s method of reaching those goals would involve killing Calliande of Tarlion, and the Weaver cared a great deal about that.

  So long as he stayed out of the Sculptor’s way, the Weaver suspected the dark elven lord’s presence would only aid his task.

  He smiled and walked back to the Hall of Relics to rejoin the banquet.

  Chapter 12: The Deeps

  The next morning Ridmark left Khald Tormen in the company of a thousand dwarven warriors.

  Caius, Kharlacht, Camorak, Third, and Gavin accompanied him, while Narzaxar served as commander of the force and Azakhun as his second-in-command. Sir Ector and his men-at-arms waited nearby on foot since their horses would not survive the trip into the Deeps. Ridmark wanted to leave Ector and his men behind to guard Calliande, but Calliande pointed out that she was surrounded by thousands of dwarven warriors. Ridmark also had wanted to leave Camorak and Gavin behind to protect Calliande, while she had argued in turn that she wanted them to go with him. Camorak could heal wounds, and if they encountered any creatures of dark magic, Gavin’s soulblade and skill at arms would prove invaluable. Ridmark relented, relieved that at least Antenora would remain behind to protect Calliande.

  He stood in the Hall of the Deeps and watched the dwarven warriors prepare themselves for battle.

  The hall was far less ornate than the Hall of the Great Gate, and the Gate of the Deeps was smaller but much more heavily fortified than the Great Gate. Given the number of enemies that the dwarves had in the caverns of the Deeps, that made sense.

  Dwarven warriors moved back and forth, loading carts with supplies and the components of siege engines. A breed of murrag Ridmark had never seen before pulled the carts. They were lizards the size of cows, their sides covered in loose, scaly skin, bony shields covering their necks and heads, their yellow eyes staring with indifferent placidity. Narzaxar strode among his warriors, giving commands, while Azakhun inspected them for any sign of laxness. Narzaxar commanded with the iron confidence of a veteran captain, while Ridmark saw the same thing developing in Azakhun. The younger dwarf would one day become an excellent commander.

  Ridmark only hoped the Frostborn would be defeated by then.

  Gavin and Kharlacht seemed lost in their own thoughts, and Gavin kept glancing up towards the ceiling. Caius spoke little. Perhaps the gloominess of his kindred had worn off on him, or perhaps remembering Nerazar’s death had subdued him. Only Third seemed unchanged, her face calm as she watched the laboring dwarves.

  “How are you feeling?” said Ridmark.

  Third grimaced. “I have a headache, but that is thanks only to my own folly. I should have realized the potency of the dwarves’ drink.”

  “Drink lots of water,” said Camorak. “That is always the key the next morning.”

  “I hope I did not do anything foolish,” said Third. “I have little memory of the banquet.”

  “You did talk more than usual,” said Ridmark.

  Third frowned. “I hope I said nothing inappropriate.”

  “Oh, nothing inappropriate,” said Camorak. He seemed the worse for wear, his eyes bloodshot, his face shaded with stubble, but he usually looked like that. “You were just honest, that’s all.”

  “Good,” said Third.

  Ridmark glared at Camorak.

  The Magistrius answered with a cheerful smirk. “In wine lies the truth, as the Romans of old said.”

  Kharlacht snorted. “If wine contains truth, then that dwarven whiskey must contain the entirety of knowledge.”

  Camorak laughed. “No, just a headache or three. I'm impressed how the dwarves have managed to avoid hangovers.”

  Third rubbed her forehead. “Also true.” Then to Ridmark’s lasting surprise, she laughed.

  She never laughed. Not ever.

  “What’s funny?” said Ridmark.

  “Aside from the obvious,” said Camorak.

  “I got drunk at a banquet thrown by the King of Khald Tormen,” said Third. “My father would have been furious. The thought pleases me. I shall have to tell it to my sister when we return to Nightmane Forest.”

  Ridmark was spared from having to answer when Narzaxar approached, followed by Calliande, Antenora, and Calazon. Narzaxar wore armor of suitable magnificence for a Taalkhan of Khald Tormen, inlays of gold and silver adorning the plates of dwarven steel. His helmet included a mask wrought in the shape of a bearded dwarven face. It looked a great deal like him. Perhaps he had been the model.

  “Lord magister,” said Narzaxar. “We are ready to depart.”

  “As are we,” said Ridmark.

  Narzaxar nodded and went to take charge of his men.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “Please, be careful.”

  “Always,” said Ridmark.

  She smiled. “Liar.” It was a conversation they had shared a dozen times before. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and stepped back. “By the time you get back, I will have convinced the King to send us aid against the Frostborn.”

  “Fear not, Gray Knight,” said Calazon. “The Keeper shall be in good hands while you are gone with the Taalkhan. I look forward to learning many things from her. I have no doubt that you shall be victorious. The mind must be shaped by the flesh, and from what I have seen of your mind you shall win a great victory.”

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. It was an odd compliment, but he nodded once more to Calliande and walked with the others to Sir Ector’s men.

  They followed the dwarven column as it marched through the Gate of the Deeps. It was a double gate, with the inner gate opening into a massive octagonal courtyard, and the second gate, twice as thick as the first, on the courtyard's far side. The stonework was smooth, and Ridmark saw the hidden nozzles that would allow the dwarves to fill the courtyard with burning oil, and the balconies that housed siege engines to rain destruction upon any intruders. The outer gate swung open on silent hinges, and beyond yawned a vast, gloomy cavern, a broad lake upon one side and pale light coming from clusters of glowing mushrooms.

  The Deeps opened before them…and in their depths, Ridmark knew, the Sculptor and his creatures awaited them.

  ###

  “Have to admit,�
� said Camorak, “that I don’t care for the Deeps at all.”

  “Neither do I,” agreed Gavin, “and I’ve been in them before.”

  They walked with the dwarven column through the caverns, following the twists and turns of the tunnels. The caverns were spacious, with ghost mushrooms providing gloomy light. Caius said that the dwarves of Khald Tormen had mapped the Deeps near the Three Kingdoms thousands of years ago, and the paths were well-known. Gavin regularly saw dwarven glyphs carved into the walls, or milestones counting the distance from the inscription to the Stone Heart back in Khald Tormen.

  “Aye, I was with you,” said Camorak. “At Shakaboth and the Labyrinth below the Range.”

  Gavin shook his head. “I had been in the Deeps before that.”

  “Really? When?” said Camorak.

  “Well,” said Gavin. He had to think for a moment, which was just as well since it took his mind off Antenora. “The first time was on the way to Thainkul Dural, near Moraime in the Wilderland.” He wondered what Morigna would have thought of Khald Tormen, and tried to put that thought out of his mind. “Then we passed through a portion of the Deeps near Urd Morlemoch, and then the Deeps beneath Khald Azalar. That was probably the worst trip. There were dvargir and mzrokars, and we had to steal a key from a nest of basilisks. I really hope we don’t see any basilisks down here.”

  Camorak grunted. “I suppose the dwarves would have wiped them out a long time ago. I wouldn’t want basilisks hanging around my front door.”

  “No,” said Gavin. “You would not.”

  He walked in silence for a while, bringing up the rear of the dwarven column near the murrag-pulled wagons. The big lizards grumbled and wheezed as they walked, but they seemed tireless and kept plodding along.

  “You’ve been a lot of places for such a young man,” said Camorak. “When I was your age, I had just joined the Dux as a man-at-arms. I hadn’t even left Durandis yet.”

  Gavin laughed. “I haven’t been that many places.”

  “Khald Azalar and Urd Morlemoch,” said Camorak. “Those are places of legend.” He grimaced, scratching at his stubble-shaded jaw. If it bothered him so much, he ought to have shaved it. “And Bastoth and the Range. Not many men of Andomhaim have been to those places.”

  Gavin shrugged. “I’m a Swordbearer, but I’m not really a man of Andomhaim. I was from a village in the Wilderland. I’ve never even seen the Tower of the Sword in Tarlion.”

  “If we live through this, you will,” said Camorak. “Both Tarlion and the Tower of the Sword are impressive sights. Though the charm of Tarlion wears off after the first few days. Then it's just crowded and smells bad.”

  “I would like to see them, though,” said Gavin. “I can’t go back to Aranaeus, and…well, if I am a Swordbearer, I suppose Tarlion is my home.”

  Camorak laughed. “Feeling homesick, are we?”

  What he felt was confused about Antenora, but he didn’t want to talk about that with Camorak. “Something like that.”

  “What you need,” said Camorak, “is a woman. There wasn’t a girl back in Aranaeus, was there?”

  “Well,” said Gavin. “Yes. No.”

  Camorak laughed. “A story, then.”

  “Her name was Rosanna,” said Gavin. “She was engaged to the village smith in Aranaeus, and…well, I wish she wasn’t.”

  “What happened?” said Camorak.

  Gavin shrugged. “An urdmordar tried to eat our village. After it was all over, the urdmordar was dead, Rosanna married Philip, and I left with the Gray Knight to go to Urd Morlemoch. That was that.”

  “Too bad,” said Camorak.

  Gavin shrugged again. “It seems like it was a very long time ago.” It hadn’t been, in truth. It had been barely two years. But like Camorak said, Gavin had traveled a long way since Aranaeus and seen many strange and terrible things. He didn’t think about Rosanna very often, but when he did, he hoped she was happy with Philip.

  “What you should do,” said Camorak, “is find yourself a woman. If you find the right one, then home is wherever she is.”

  “Profound,” said Gavin.

  Camorak scratched his jaw again. “I’m a philosopher.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Gavin found himself thinking about women often. But when he did, his thoughts turned to Antenora, and then his thoughts turned to confusion. Such a relationship wasn’t possible between them. She was half-dead, sustained only by the power of the curse upon her. If they were victorious, if the curse was lifted, she would undoubtedly die.

  The thought filled him with sadness…but so did the thought of looking for another woman.

  He shook his head and forced himself to pay attention and watch for foes. Not that he needed to do so, not really. This close to Khald Tormen, surrounded by a thousand dwarves, they were as safe as they could be anywhere.

  That was a dangerous assumption to make, so Gavin made himself stay vigilant. His vigilance was rewarded an instant later when Third stepped out of a pillar of blue fire and walked to join them.

  “Sir Gavin, Magistrius,” said Third. “The Gray Knight would speak with you. It seems there are foes in the tunnel ahead.”

  ###

  Ridmark, Caius, Kharlacht, and Sir Ector listened as the scout made his report to Narzaxar and Azakhun. The scout was a weathered-looking dwarf of middle years, a scar twisting his bearded lip into a perpetual scowl. Unlike most of the dwarves, he wore a peculiar sort of grayish chain mail that seemed to blend into the colors of the rocks around him. Perhaps the dwarven stonescribes and smiths had been inspired by the scales of the trolls and the koballats.

  “What news, Malzuraxis?” said Narzaxar.

  The weathered scout turned his head and spat on the dust of the cavern floor. “Kobolds. Nearly a thousand of them.”

  “We could take a thousand,” said Azakhun, “but we would suffer losses.”

  “We’d suffer severe losses, lord Taalmak,” said Malzuraxis. “They’ve dug in ahead, built themselves fortifications. Crude things, aye, and we could knock them down with our siege engines, but they will fire back while we do.”

  “Which cavern have they claimed?” said Narzaxar.

  “The Silent Gallery,” said Malzuraxis, and the other dwarves nodded. The dwarves of Khald Tormen had given names to all the major landmarks in the Deeps for a hundred miles in all directions.

  “What is this Silent Gallery like?” said Ridmark.

  Narzaxar glanced at him. “The cavern is about a mile long, and three hundred yards across at its widest point. The entrance is about forty yards across.”

  “The kobolds have built fortifications there,” said Malzuraxis, “and worse, they have prepared a rockfall trap. If we force the gate of their fortifications, they will withdraw, and bury us alive in an avalanche.”

  “The tribe,” said Caius. “Did you see which tribe of kobolds? There are many in this section of the Deeps.”

  “The Blue Skulls,” said Malzuraxis. “They tattoo their heads with a pattern of a blue skull.”

  “Distinctive,” said Ridmark. He could imagine what Calliande would think.

  “They do that to show their allegiance to the Sculptor,” said Narzaxar. “They are his allies, and come to war at his call. Undoubtedly the Sculptor summoned them to secure the Silent Gallery and his route to Khald Tormen.” He looked back at Malzuraxis. “What do you suggest?”

  The scout spat into the dust again. “We could make a frontal assault, lord Taalkhan, but it would be bloody, and we’d lose a lot of men. We would win, but at a steep cost.”

  “Could we go around?” Ridmark.

  “We could,” said Azakhun, “but it would take an additional three days to reach Thainkul Morzan. Worse, it would leave the Blue Skulls in our rear, and they could attack at will.”

  Ridmark turned as Third, Gavin, and Camorak approached. It looked as if they had been listening for some time, and Ridmark shared a glance with Third. She gave a slight nod, and he turned back to Narzaxar.

&
nbsp; “I think,” said Ridmark, “that I may have another way.”

  “I will listen to any suggestions,” said Narzaxar.

  “Then I suggest,” said Ridmark, “and Third and I sneak into the kobold fortifications and trigger their rockfall trap.”

  Silence answered him.

  Malzuraxis whistled. “That would do it. The scaly rats are camped under their own trap. I figure they want to lure us in and then drop the trap on our heads. Of course, that means they’re under their own hammer. If we trigger it, we’ll wipe most of them out, and our lads can deal with the rest of them.” His hard eyes turned towards Ridmark. “But sneaking into their walls would be a neat trick. They’re watching for us.”

  “I’ve had some practice,” said Ridmark, gesturing to so Third, “and she’s had even more practice.”

  “I cannot ask you to take this risk on our behalf, lord magister,” said Narzaxar.

  “I know,” said Ridmark, “but I volunteer for it nonetheless.”

  It was a risk, he knew, but it was a calculated one. Taking an extra three days to reach Thainkul Morzan would mean another three days back, and an extra six days would give the Frostborn that much more time to strengthen themselves. For that matter, the detour would leave them vulnerable to attacks from the kobolds. A frontal assault would save time, but it would cost the lives of hundreds of dwarves, and Ridmark did not want that on his conscience.

  Not when there was a better way.

  “Very well,” said Narzaxar. “We shall await your success or failure.”

  “Should I come with you?” said Gavin.

  Ridmark shook his head. “Third and I can move more quietly alone.”

  Gavin started to speak again, but Kharlacht spoke first.

  “Do not worry, Sir Gavin,” said Kharlacht. “The Gray Knight and Third have done this before.”

  “Aye,” said Caius. “Remember the camp of medvarth and khaldjari west of Castra Marcaine about a year past? Third and Ridmark lured them into a valley, and the Anathgrimm took them. We didn’t lose a single fighter that day.”