Frostborn: The Undying Wizard

by Jonathan Moeller

  And she sensed a dozen unseen pursuers after them.

  “Dvargir!” said Ridmark, raising his staff. “Calliande, your dispelling spell!”

  “They are in front of the keep!” said Morigna, keeping her spell in place.

  Calliande nodded and raised her hands. The familiar pulse of white light washed across the square. Thirteen columns of shadows swirled between Ridmark and the keep.

  And for the first time since childhood, Morigna found herself looking at the dvargir.

  A shiver of fear and rage went through her.

  The dvargir stood motionless in their strange black armor. Their heads had been shaved hairless, and their eyes were like pools of darkness. They carried swords and maces in their hands, as black as their armor. The lead dvargir stepped forward, his armor adorned with red gold, a diadem encircling his gray head.

  Morigna growled, hands hooked into claws, and gathered power for a killing spell.

  But Ridmark only stepped forward, his staff ready in his hand.

  For a moment they stared at the dvargir.

  “I assume,” said Ridmark in orcish, “that you speak this tongue?”

  “Indeed, human,” said the dvargir in red armor, black eyes fixed upon Ridmark. “It is the language of our slaves, and a skilled master knows how to best drive his beasts of burden.”

  “Assuming you do not cut out their tongues,” said Ridmark.

  “This is so,” said the red-armored dvargir. “Since you are the intruder, you will give your name first.”

  “I am Ridmark, son of Leogrance of the House of the Arbanii,” said Ridmark.

  The dvargir gave a short bow. “I thought as much. I am Kzargar, a Dzark of the Great House Tklathar of the city of Khaldurmar.”

  His eloquence surprised Morigna. In her memory, the dvargir were hulking, black-eyed beasts, draped in cloaks of shadow. She had expected bluster and threats, not polite courtesy.

  “You know me, then?” said Ridmark.

  The Dzark’s thin gray lips twitched into a smile. “I have been informed of you.” The bottomless black eyes wandered over them. “The yellow-haired female is known as Calliande. The black-haired female is called Morigna.” His eyes moved past Gavin. “The whelp is not known to me.” A smirk reappeared as he looked at Caius. “And you...the apostate prince?”

  “A prince?” said Gavin. “You are a prince of the dwarves?”

  “The title does not mean the same thing among my kindred,” said Caius, “as it does among the humans. And there are neither rich nor poor nor kings nor peasants in the eyes of God.”

  Kzargar laughed. “Indeed? The dwarves call us apostates for following the truth of the great void, for abandoning the ancient and feeble superstitions of stone and silence from our home world. But the great void has made us strong. You choose instead to follow the sheep god of the humans?” A moment of bafflement made its way through the Dzark’s mocking malice. “Why?”

  “Because there is no hope otherwise,” said Caius. “The gods of stone and silence offer no hope for mortal lives. Only grim and joyless duty, followed by an eternity of lightless silence. And what does the great void offer you? An endless and brutal scramble for power terminated by a bloody death as the hand of someone stronger?”

  “Hope is an empty illusion,” said Kzargar. “The strong embrace life as it is, without yearning for false dreams.”

  “It is not a false dream,” said Caius. “The Dominus Christus offers hope and life to all mortals.”

  Kzargar laughed. “Us as well? Will you try to convert us?”

  “My wish is that you become as I am,” said Caius.

  “Given the fate that awaits you, son of the khaldari,” said Kzargar, “I may have to take that as an insult.”

  “And what,” said Ridmark, stepping closer to the Dzark, “fate is that?”

  “Ah,” said Kzargar, “you haven’t figured it out yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Ridmark, “though I was hoping you could enlighten me.”

  “See?” said Kzargar, glancing at Caius. “Hope is an illusion. Your hopes are disappointed, Ridmark of the Arbanii. You shall not learn my secrets before you die.”

  “I already know many of your secrets,” said Ridmark. “Shadowbearer commanded you to come here, did he not?”

  One of the dvargir stepped forward with a snarl. “Speak not the sacred name of the prophet of the great void!”

  Kzargar raised a hand, and the dvargir warrior fell silent. “And what else, pray? This is most interesting.”

  “You are allied with Jonas Vorinus of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Ridmark.

  “The Enlightened are vermin,” sneered the dvargir warrior who had spoken earlier. “The pets of the great prophet of the void.”

  “Do go on,” said Kzargar.

  “And you were commanded to kill us all,” said Ridmark, “save for Morigna, and to take an object from Calliande.”

  “You are more attentive than I expected, for a human,” said Kzargar. “The empty soulstone the yellow-haired female carries? The prophet requires it to inaugurate the new age.”

  “I suppose,” said Ridmark, “that you’re going to let us go if we give you the soulstone and Morigna?”

  “Not at all,” said Kzargar. “I shall kill you all, and present the empty soulstone to Shadowbearer myself. Shadowbearer desires the soulstone. Shadowbearer’s disciple desires the black-haired female, no doubt for a concubine. But Shadowbearer is the strongest, and his favor is worth far more than the favor of his disciple.”

  “A logical conclusion,” said Ridmark.

  Again Kzargar offered a small bow. “Thank you.”

  “There is a flaw in your logic, though,” said Ridmark.

  “That I need to kill you all first?” said the Dzark. “True, battle is ever risky. But there are thirteen of us, and six of you. You have magic, but we have shadow and strength at arms. Come, then. Shall we see which of us is the stronger?”

  “Before you do,” said Morigna, stepping forward as she summoned power, “you are going to answer a question.”

  Kzargar laughed. “A Dzark of the Great House Tklathar of the city of Khaldurmar does not deign to speak with mere females.”

  “You will speak with me,” said Morigna, her ever-present fury hardening further. “And you will answer my questions, dvargir scum.”

  Kzargar’s lips thinned, but he gestured. “Well, then, sorceress?” The purple flames crackled brighter around her hands. “Ask. Perhaps you will learn something ere you die.”

  “Fourteen years ago,” said Morigna, “dvargir raiders killed a man and a woman living in the hills, a pair of hunters named Litavis and Maria.”

  “And?” said Kzargar.

  “Did you kill them?” said Morigna, her voice hot. “Does their blood lie upon your hands?”

  Kzargar gave an indifferent shrug. “Who can say? There have been so many over the years. Thainkul Dural lies desolate, and many of the Dzarks and Rzarns of Khaldurmar have used it as a base to bring slaves to our city. I have made many trips to the surface in the last century.” He smiled. “Perhaps your mother and father died resisting me. For that is what this is about, it is not? Your long-dead parents? They fought against the slavers who came to take them, and perished?”

  “They did,” said Morigna.

  “Morigna,” said Ridmark, but she ignored him.

  “And you killed them?” said Morigna. “Tell me the truth.”

  Kzargar shrugged. “I know not. There have been so many. And if they fought back and died…then they deserved it, for the weak deserve to be brushed aside by the strong.”

  “Then see for yourself!” said Morigna, summoning all her power.

  She released her spell, and flung out her hands. A wall of white mist plunged into the dvargir, and they rocked back with grunts of pain. Yet by spreading the mist across so many, she had diluted its power, and the spell did little harm to the dvargir. Their strange armor blunted the spell, and shadows sp
rang from nothingness and wrapped around them, turning aside her magic.

  “Ah,” said Kzargar, rubbing at a minor burn across his jaw. “That rather hurt. Kill them all.”

  Six of the dvargir warriors charged, while the others vanished anew in columns of shadow.

  ###

  Ridmark sprinted to meet the attack of the dvargir, Kharlacht and Caius at his side. Gavin, as usual, hung back to protect Calliande. Both Morigna and Calliande began casting fresh spells, white light and purple fire throwing their glows across the stone floor. The Dzark and one other dvargir warrior charged at Ridmark. Kzargar himself hung back, the second dvargir moving to Ridmark’s right.

  Which gave Ridmark an opening on his left and Kzargar’s right.

  Of course, since the dvargir could turn invisible, it was an obvious trap, so Ridmark threw himself into it. His staff blurred out, all his strength and speed behind it, and he felt the weapon’s metal-shod end slam into something hard. A grunt of pain reached his ears, along with the scraping of armored boots against the floor.

  Another pulse of white light washed across the square as Calliande cast her spell. The dvargir warrior Ridmark had struck appeared, one hand raised his face, crimson blood streaming from a broken nose.

  Kzargar bellowed a command, and the three dvargir charged. Ridmark retreated, whipping his staff back and forth to ward off any blows. He just barely managed to stay ahead of their attacks. The dvargir were skilled warriors, better than the assassins of the Red Family, and knew how to coordinate their attacks properly. Worse, their strange black armor was as strong and light as dwarven steel. Ridmark landed a half-dozen minor hits with his staff, but the black armor deflected his blows.

  Only the greater reach provided by his height and the length of his staff kept him ahead of a killing strike.

  He jumped out of reach and risked a glance around the square. Caius and Kharlacht fought back-to-back, the dvargir swarming around them. Kharlacht’s longer reach kept them at bay, and a headless dvargir lay upon the floor, blood pooling over the cold stone. Yet both Kharlacht and Caius had taken wounds, and the dvargir could wear them out through sheer attrition. Unless Ridmark thought of something clever, they were going to lose this fight.

  Calliande finished her spell.

  More white light flared, and Ridmark felt her magic close around him, making his legs and arms faster. Morigna gestured, and a ripple went through the ground. It flowed around him, but knocked the Dzark and his warriors from their feet. Ridmark attacked with spell-enhanced speed, and hammered his staff down with both hands. The weapon slammed into a dvargir’s temple with a hideous crack, and the warrior went motionless, blood leaking from his ears and nose. The other dvargir got to their feet, but Ridmark struck again before they could recover, killing another warrior. Kzargar snarled in fury and attacked, but with the speed of Calliande’s spell, Ridmark drove the Dzark back on his heels, and the dvargir retreated towards the keep. He saw Kharlacht and Caius going on the attack, saw Gavin strike down a dvargir with a quick thrust of his sword. For a moment, the battle had gone their way.

  But the dvargir still had greater numbers, and if they caught their balance…

  Kzargar shouted a command in the dvargir tongue, and the remaining warriors sprinted for the keep. Ridmark hesitated, intending to pursue them, but stopped.

  Why were they retreating? They had the advantage.

  The others stopped as well, breathing hard, and Calliande rushed forward to heal their wounds. As she did, the dvargir retreated into the keep, closing the doors behind them with a resounding clang.

  ###

  Calliande gripped Kharlacht’s arms and gritted her teeth as waves of agony washed through her. The big orc had taken wounds upon his right arm and leg, and for a terrible, endless instant, she felt those same wounds in her own flesh, felt the blades slicing through skin and muscle, and it took every ounce of control not to scream in pain.

  But she endured it, and the agony faded.

  Actually bearing the wounds in her own flesh would have hurt far more. She had to keep reminding herself of that.

  “Thank you,” rumbled Kharlacht.

  Calliande took a deep breath, nodded, and stepped back, her limbs feeling a bit weak. Healing always sapped her strength.

  Fortunately, the dvargir had fled.

  “Why did they run?” said Gavin. “They were winning.”

  “We should withdraw at once,” said Caius. “Back to the surface, if at all possible. I think…”

  Again Calliande heard that metallic screeching combined with the strange insect-like clicking.

  “That noise,” said Ridmark. “What is it?”

  “It’s how the dvargir knew we were here,” said Caius. “It smelled us.”

  “Smelled?” said Ridmark. “You called it a mzrokar. I thought it was a warding glyph.”

  “It’s not,” said Caius. “It is a creature of the Deeps, one that rarely comes this close to the surface. And if the dvargir have one, we need to turn back. They are exceedingly dangerous, and…”

  A dark shape appeared around the edge of the keep.

  The shape flowed around the corner, and kept coming and coming, the noise growing louder.

  “God and his saints,” said Gavin, shaken, “it’s as bad as the spiderlings.”

  The thing looked like a colossal centipede, as thick as two grown men and as long as three oxen. Scores of thin legs jutted from its sides, pulling the creature forward. Its body had been armored in an exoskeleton of black dvargir steel, making it look like a giant shadow. A pair of enormous pincers jutted from the creature’s mouth, a dozen slender antennae waving back and forth above its head. The stench of rotting meat surrounded it, like fumes rising from the marshes above.

  A wave of loathing and fear went through Calliande. The creature was as grotesque as the male urdmordar they had fought in the catacombs below Urd Arowyn. Yet the female urdmordar had their own terrifying, alien beauty. But there was no beauty to this thing or the black steel plates grafted to its hide.

  Or to the scores of slender legs lined with razor edges.

  “What in God’s name is that?” said Kharlacht.

  “That,” said Caius, “is a mzrokar. Scavengers. They lurk in the lower Deeps and eat carrion, and anything too slow to escape them. Sometimes the dvargir turn them into fearsomely effective war beasts.”

  The mzrokar went motionless as only insects could. For a moment Calliande wondered if somehow it had failed to notice them. Yet the huge pincers turned in their direction, the antennae twitching.

  “So Kzargar retreated,” said Ridmark, “to let his pet monster kill us all.”

  “Essentially, yes,” said Caius. “It’s time to run.”

  “Go!” said Ridmark

  The mzrokar loosed its horrid metallic shriek and charged in a tide of black steel and stabbing legs.

  Chapter 16 - Pincers

  Ridmark realized he had made a very serious mistake.

  He had expected the mzrokar to be slow and clumsy, yet the huge creature moved with quick, fluid grace, its legs propelling it forward with terrifying speed. Likely the creature could move with the speed of a galloping horse, and in the broad streets of the highest tier of Thainkul Dural, it would run them down with ease.

  Fighting the beast was not an option. Its long legs gave it a longer reach than even Ridmark’s staff, and its large body meant they could not hit it hard enough to kill it. Taking off its head would likely work, but not even Kharlacht could hew through the thick body with a single blow, and the mzrokar would kill him before he could take a second.

  They had to escape.

  “This way!” said Ridmark, changing direction.

  A house overlooked the square before the keep, two stories tall, its front carved with glyphs and reliefs of dwarven warriors battling dark elves while the gods of stone and silence looked on with grim approval. The house had square windows, and one door in the center.

  A narrow door.
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  Ridmark paused as the others ran through the door. The mzrokar moved through the square so fast it seemed to blur

  He cursed and threw himself through the door after Morigna. A moment later the mzrokar slammed into the wall with such force that the entire house shook, dust falling from the ceiling. A pair of legs lashed at Ridmark, the creature’s pincers snapping a few inches from his back. He lost his balance and fell into Morigna, driving them both to the floor. He landed atop her, and for a moment her black eyes, wide and shocked, stared up into his.

  Ridmark jumped back to his feet, rock chips flying from the doorway as the mzrokar began to push itself through, the plates of black steel grinding at the stone frame. Kharlacht lopped off a pair of legs with a single swipe of his greatsword. The mzrokar screamed in pain, and Kharlacht jumped back as the pincers snapped.

  “It’s squeezing through!” said Gavin.

  He was right. The mzrokar was oozing through the door like a rat squeezing itself through a pipe.

  “I think,” said Morigna, climbing to her feet, “I think I might be able to control it.”

  “How?” said Ridmark.

  “You saw what I can do with birds,” said Morigna. “This creature is just a large animal, is it not? I think…”

  “Do it,” said Ridmark, edging back as the mzrokar heaved forward, cracks spreading through the wall.

  ###

  Morigna set herself, drew on her magic, and concentrated.

  She felt the mzrokar’s mind, such as it was. Ravens and dogs and cats were clever. The mzrokar was not. The creature’s mind was all instinct and reflex, nothing but ravenous hunger and an endless urge to reproduce. Yet the same instincts made it a scavenger, not a hunter. The mzrokar hated and feared light and anything strong enough to fight, and the glowstones of Thainkul Dural should have been enough to force it to flee.

  Yet still it came, filled with mindless rage, and Morigna commanded it to stop.

  The mzrokar froze, but its legs lashed like whips, its pincers opening and closing.

  She felt spikes of magic within the creature’s puny mind, goads of rage and fury and obedience that drove it forward.