Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Thousands of interlocking sigils of blue light hovered over the stone table, and they gave off an ominous humming sound. To Calliande’s Sight, the assemblage of interlocking spells blazed with magical force. She was certain that the Sculptor had almost finished his work. Another few moments and his spells would only need a link to a soulstone to activate.

  The backlash might well destroy Khald Tormen, but the Sight showed her that the Sculptor’s plan would work. He would open a weak world gate, long enough to escape this world, and when the spell collapsed it would leave havoc in its wake.

  She had to stop it.

  A distant horn rang out.

  The Sculptor’s head snapped up from the table, his void-filled eyes narrowed, and Calliande released the trickle of magic that she held. At once relief flooded through her as the terrible pain vanished, though she felt weak and sick from the effort. She remained motionless, fearing that the Sculptor would realize what she had been doing, and the dark elven lord stared at her with obvious annoyance.

  But she had not inspired his annoyance.

  “Interruptions,” he snarled. “Always with the damned interruptions.”

  Footsteps rang against the floor, and Calazon strode into the hall. The false stonescribe rippled and blurred and resumed the form of the Cutter, her misshapen mask reflecting the light of the sigils.

  “What is it?” said the Sculptor. “All my servants were instructed not to attack Khald Tormen.”

  “I do not know, master,” said the Cutter. “The call originated from the Gate of the Deeps. The rest of the sentinels took up the cry. Khald Tormen is preparing itself for an attack.”

  “Do you know the reason for the alarm?” said the Sculptor.

  “I do not, master,” said the Cutter. “None of your servants are stationed near the Gate of the Deeps. They have all withdrawn to the Stone Heart to prepare for the opening of the world gate. Shall I dispatch some to investigate?”

  The Sculptor thought it over, his armored fingers tapping against the stone table.

  “No,” he said at last. “The nature of their flesh dictates that the dwarves are conservative and take few risks. They will prepare themselves for battle, but they will not act rashly. Let us return to the Stone Heart and consider the situation. If necessary, we can trigger the defenses and seal the chamber.”

  “That shall draw the attention of every dwarven warrior and every stonescribe in Khald Tormen, master,” said the Cutter. “It will not take them long to disarm the defenses and storm the chamber.”

  “Are the urshanes still disguised as the Keeper and her apprentice?” said the Sculptor.

  “They are, master,” said the Cutter. “They are holding the attention of King Axazamar. Shall I order them to strike?”

  “It does not matter,” said the Sculptor. “The spell is almost prepared. Soon I can open the gate, and the dwarves will have far larger problems when the Stone Heart explodes. Come.” He turned and walked away from the table, beckoning. “Let us assess the situation.”

  Both the dark elf and the urdhracos cast spells, dark magic flaring around them. The Cutter took the form of another stonescribe, while the Sculptor donned the guise of Calazon once more. With the Sight, Calliande saw how the spell wrapped around them, settling so close to their skin that her Sight had been fooled. It had been clever. Had she detected the slightest hint of a spell around Calazon, she would have become suspicious.

  She would have rebuked herself for walking into the trap, but the trap had been masterful.

  The disguised Sculptor and the Cutter walked from the hall, and Calliande returned her attention to her shackles.

  This was her last chance.

  ###

  Ridmark and the others ran into the Stone Heart.

  The pool of molten stone illuminated the vast chamber, throwing its reddish glow over everything. The Stone Heart itself gave off its fiery glow, banishing the shadows. King Axazamar sat upon his dais, surrounded by the nobles and stonescribes of his court. Ridmark saw Calliande and Antenora standing near the dais, Calliande speaking to the King.

  There was no sign of Calazon. That was just as well. If Ridmark could warn Calliande in time, there was no way the Sculptor could capture her while she was on her guard.

  He ran around the edge of the molten pool, Kharlacht, Caius, Gavin, Third, Camorak, Sir Ector, and Prince Narzaxar following him. The dwarven court looked as they approached, and Calliande caught his eye, a broad smile going over her face.

  “What is the meaning of this interruption?” said Axazamar, rising to his feet. “Brother, you have returned sooner than I expected. Has Thainkul Morzan fallen to our forces?” He looked at them, tired and dusty from the hasty journey. “Or has some other misfortune befallen us?”

  “My lord king,” said Narzaxar. “We are in danger. We…”

  He fell silent, and Ridmark turned his head.

  Calazon and a second stonescribe approached, descending from the balcony above. Calazon stopped at the edge of the court, frowning, and looked at Ridmark.

  A flicker of the Sculptor’s customary annoyance went over Calazon’s expression.

  “Well,” said Calazon. “Isn’t this unexpected?”

  Chapter 19: Blood of the Dark Elves

  Gavin’s hand hovered near Truthseeker’s hilt.

  He hadn’t drawn the sword because he was in the presence of the king, and he suspected the Taalmaks of Axazamar’s guard would react badly to a drawn sword in the king’s presence. Yet if Ridmark was right, if Calazon really was the Sculptor, then a deadly foe stood in the Stone Heart.

  Gavin needed to be ready to fight.

  Calliande stood at the foot of the king’s dais, her expression imperious and remote as she gazed at Ridmark. Antenora stood next to her, the sigils upon her staff dark. Her yellow eyes moved over Gavin without interest and kept scanning the room. Gavin felt an odd twinge of pain at that, and then pushed it aside.

  There were far more important things to worry about.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff at Calazon. “Unexpected, is it? You expected those urshanes and urvaalgs to kill me, I’m sure.”

  Calazon spread his hands, his steel-colored robe stirring. “Alas, Gray Knight, I have no idea what you are talking about. I rejoice that you have returned unharmed from the dangers of Thainkul Morzan. With the thainkul fortified against the Sculptor’s forces, the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms can join the war against the Frostborn.”

  “You want to play a game, is that it?” said Ridmark.

  “I’m afraid I still have no idea what you are talking about,” said Calazon.

  Gavin looked at Calliande and Antenora, waiting for the Keeper to act, but both women stared at Calazon as if waiting for him to do something.

  “That man,” said Ridmark, still pointing at Calazon, “is an impostor.”

  “I fear that I have always been myself,” said Calazon.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “He killed Calazon and took his place.”

  “Do you really think an urshane could walk about undetected in the very heart of the dwarven kingdoms?” said Calazon. “Our defenses have been honed and built over thousands of years. Not even a dark elven lord himself could escape the power of the dwarven defenses.”

  “You’re not an urshane,” said Ridmark. “You’re the Sculptor himself.” He looked at Calliande. “He refuses to fight against the Frostborn. He’s here to murder you and use your magic to empower a small world gate, one just large enough for him to escape. He doesn’t care that it will kill tens of thousands of dwarves when the chamber collapses around us. All he wants is to escape, and to use your magic to do it.”

  Calliande said nothing, her imperious expression unchanging.

  “Ridiculous,” she said at last.

  Gavin flinched, but Ridmark only nodded to himself.

  “Lord King,” said Calliande, looking at Axazamar. “I feared this would happen. Of old the dark elves used spells of madness upon their v
ictims, twisting their minds so they could not tell delusion from reality. This has been done to the lord magister of Nightmane Forest and his companions.”

  “You are mistaken, my lady Keeper,” said Narzaxar. “The Gray Knight speaks the truth. I have seen these things with my own eyes.”

  “The spell has taken hold in your brother’s mind as well, my lord King,” said Calliande. She let out a sorrowful sigh. “The most likely explanation is that their warriors were all slain, and the Sculptor took them captive. He sent them back with their minds twisted to spread dissension among us.”

  “No,” said Narzaxar. “Why would you say these things, Keeper? My mind has not been twisted. I…”

  Ridmark and Caius shared a look.

  “Because,” said Caius. “I think the Keeper has been replaced with an urshane. Her apprentice, too, at a guess.”

  Neither Calliande nor Antenora said anything.

  “Impossible,” said Axazamar.

  “I fear the Keeper’s explanation is correct,” said Calazon. “Their minds have been twisted by the Sculptor. Such things have happened before, and the accounts are recorded in the annals of the stonescribes. I suggest we isolate them and permit the Keeper to examine them. Perhaps her lore knows of a way to cure their minds.”

  “This counsel seems good to me,” said Axazamar.

  “I can prove that the Keeper and her apprentice are urshanes,” said Ridmark.

  Calazon said nothing, but his eyes narrowed.

  ###

  Calliande drew a trickle of power, feeding the mantle of the Keeper’s magic into her spell.

  Every instinct, every fiber of her body, screamed for her to hurry. The urgency was matched only by the agony that the shackles sent pulsing through her in response. Any more and her muscles would have seized up, and she would have been in too much pain to continue. As it was, her vision was starting to black out, and she wanted to fall over and scream until she fell unconscious.

  But she knew pain, as she had told Morigna. She had known physical torment as she healed wounds, again and again and again. She knew how to fight through the pain, to ride it like a ship upon a turbulent sea, and she did so now, channeling the iron power of the Keeper’s mantle into the shackles.

  Then the spells shattered all at once. The chains corroded into rust, and the shackles around her wrists and ankles shriveled like leaves tossed into a fire. With her hands freed, Calliande clawed at her throat, and the collar crumbled away.

  The pain vanished.

  Calliande let out a shuddering groan of relief and collapsed to the floor, breathing hard, sweat dripping down her. The simple absence of pain was like the finest wine she had ever drunk. She wanted nothing more than to lie here and rest.

  Instead, she heaved herself to her feet, holding out her hand and working a spell, and the staff of the Keeper leaped from the floor. The worn, ancient wood slapped against her palm, and she leveled it and cast another spell. White fire snapped from the end of the staff and raked across the cylinder of blue light holding Antenora.

  The power of the Keeper shattered the dark magic of the imprisonment spell, and Antenora staggered from the cylinder as it unraveled. At once, her staff came up, already flaring with fiery light.

  “Keeper, forgive me,” said Antenora in her raspy voice. “I failed you. I did not see the trap coming, I…”

  “Do not blame yourself,” said Calliande, heading for the door. “If anything the blame is mine. But we must act. Khald Tormen is in danger.”

  “And Gavin Swordbearer and the others,” said Antenora. “The Sculptor may have them captive or imprisoned.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande in a flat voice.

  She knew, most probably, that Ridmark and the others were dead, that they had walked into the Sculptor’s trap. It was possible that the Sculptor had kept them alive as potential tools and raw materials, but Calliande knew that was an unlikely possibility. The Sculptor planned to abandon this world and start over somewhere else. He might well not have bothered to keep Ridmark and the others alive.

  If he hadn’t…

  Calliande forced aside her emotions.

  If he hadn’t, Calliande might not be able to save Ridmark, but she would avenge him.

  The door opened, and she strode onto the balcony just as a flare of light burst from the king’s throne.

  ###

  Ridmark stared at the false Calazon, the cold readiness of battle falling over him.

  The Sculptor undoubtedly had the real Calliande hidden away somewhere, preparing to use her magic to open his gate. That was good because that meant Calliande was still alive. The Sculptor wouldn’t risk killing her while he still needed her power. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Ridmark and the others to escape from Thainkul Morzan so soon, and Ridmark knew how to unmask the dark elven lord before the dwarven court.

  But he didn’t know what kind of fight the Sculptor could give them.

  Someone like the Warden could have killed everyone in the Stone Heart without much effort. Did the Sculptor have that kind of brutal power? For that matter, the false Calliande and the false Antenora standing near the dais had to be urshanes. How many other creatures did the Sculptor have hidden in Khald Tormen?

  Ridmark knew that he was about to find the answer to those questions the hard way.

  “Very well,” said Axazamar. He did not sit back down, and he shifted his grip upon his cane, preparing to use it as a club. The Taalmaks of his personal guard moved to the base of the dais, interposing themselves between the king and any potential violence. The stonescribes raised their steel batons, the glyphs carved into the length of the weapons glowing, and the dwarven nobles gripped their weapons. “If you can prove your case, lord magister, then prove it.”

  “Magistrius,” said Ridmark.

  Calazon’s eyes narrowed again, his right hand flexing.

  Camorak knew what to do. He stepped forward and flung out his palm, white fire bursting from his fingers. A narrow bar of white fire swept from his outstretched arm and into the dwarves. Calliande could have unleashed a far more powerful blast of magical fire, but it was enough. The white fire passed through the dwarves without harming them, though the dwarves flinched in surprise.

  The fire touched Calliande and Antenora, and both women screamed, stumbling as the flames washed up their limbs and left smoking burns. Calliande caught her balance, her face twisted with agony, and a shiver of guilt went through Ridmark as he saw her in pain.

  But it passed quickly.

  “That proves it, lord King!” said Ridmark. “The fire of the Magistri comes from the magic of the Well of Tarlion, and that power cannot harm living mortals, only creatures of dark magic.” The dwarves already knew that, and a ring of warriors moved to surround Calliande and Antenora, their swords drawn. “Those are disguised urshanes, not the Keeper and her apprentice.” He swung his staff to point at Calazon again. “And that is not the stonescribe Calazon, but the Sculptor himself, using his magic to masquerade as the man he murdered.”

  “Lies!” hissed Calliande. “The Gray Knight lies, the scoundrel! He…”

  “No,” said Axazamar. He looked at Camorak. “Magistrius, if you please. Prove who Calazon really is.”

  Camorak cast the spell again, hurling a shaft of fire at Calazon. The stonescribe reacted at once, his right hand snapping up in the gesture of a spell. Blue fire and shadow burst from his fingers, wrapping around him in a shell, and Camorak’s spell shattered against it like a snowball against a stone wall.

  “That was not the power of a stonescribe!” cried one of the stonescribes in alarm. “Lord king, that was dark magic! The Gray Knight speaks truth!”

  Calazon let out an irritated sigh. “Interruptions. Will interruptions never cease? So be it.”

  He gestured again, more blue fire flickering around his fingers, and Calazon vanished.

  The Sculptor stood in his place, a towering figure in blue armor and a black cloak, a winged helmet of blue dark elven steel under
his arm. A ripple of alarm went through the dwarves, and the urshanes masquerading as Calliande and Antenora changed, taking their sleek, black-scaled true forms. One of the stonescribes near to the Sculptor blurred and the Cutter appeared, walking to join her master.

  “So it seems the nature of your flesh demands resistance, and we shall have to do this the hard way,” said the Sculptor. “I am indifferent to any loss of life among the khaldari, though I would not go out of my way to harm you. But since you have chosen to set yourself in my way, I am afraid I am going to kill you all.”

  “No,” said Axazamar, his voice hard as dwarven steel itself. “No, you have overreached yourself, Sculptor. You have been an enemy of the Three Kingdoms of the khaldari since we were still nine kingdoms, and the deaths of thousands of our people are on your hands. This time you will not escape.”

  The Sculptor sighed again and placed the helmet upon his head.

  “You are mistaken,” said the Sculptor. “Escape is the entire point of the matter. The Frostborn are coming, and they cannot be stopped. Your flesh is not strong enough to stop them, your blades not sharp enough, your magic not powerful enough. The Frostborn shall conquer this world, and you shall be enslaved or destroyed. But I shall not remain behind to share your fate.”

  “That is correct,” said Axazamar. “You shall not. Your sorcery may be powerful, but we are many, and you are few. All Khald Tormen is roused, and you will not escape.”

  The Sculptor drew a sword of dark elven steel from his belt, the blade starting to burn with blue fire and crawl with fingers of shadow. “Do you really think…”

  A blast of white fire screamed down from beneath the balcony and slammed into the Sculptor’s back. The dark elven lord grunted with pain, staggered forward several steps, and caught his balance, his void-filled eyes wide. Blue fire and shadow flared around him, rebuilding his warding spell, and he whirled to face the balcony.

  Two women stepped from the stairs, one in black, the other in green.

  Antenora’s staff burned with elemental fire, a sphere of flame already whirling above its end. Calliande did not look like the illusion the urshane had presented a few moments earlier. She was exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, her dress and hair soaked with sweat. But her eyes blazed with fury, and white fire snarled around the staff of the Keeper.