“That building,” said Ridmark, pointing at a rectangular house on the eastern end of the Market. It had come through the fighting mostly intact, and a squat tower rose from its center. It looked more ornate than many of the others, its sides adorned with elaborate reliefs. “That looks like a suitable place for a camp. What was it?”
“A Travelers’ House,” said Caius. “Ah…an inn, I believe it is commonly called in Latin. Travelers would stay there while visiting Khald Azalar.”
“Since we are visiting,” said Jager, “it seems appropriate.”
“It would be a good choice for camp,” said Caius. “The tower commands a view of the entire Market, and it has doors in the front and back. If enemies approach, we can retreat with ease.”
“Good enough,” said Ridmark. “Let’s have something to eat and then some rest.”
“I do hope the landlord has some decent wine in his cellar,” said Jager. “It is so hard to find good wine in these desolate regions.”
“You and your luxuries, master thief,” said Morigna. “However shall you cope without them?”
“Well,” said Jager, brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from his sleeve. Ridmark still could not figure out how the man kept his shirts so white in the wilderness. “Adventure is well and good, but if we live through this, I am not traveling more than twenty miles from the nearest tavern ever again.”
Morigna snorted. “An honest answer!”
“Why not?” said Jager. “I am the most honest of all men.”
“Do you sense anyone hiding in the Travelers’ House?” said Ridmark before Morigna could return Jager’s taunt.
Morigna closed her eyes and concentrated for a moment. “Nothing. I do not believe that anyone is hiding here, whether dvargir, deep orc, or…something else.”
“Keep the spell in place, at least until we get to the Travelers’ House,” said Ridmark. “I would prefer not to be taken by surprise.”
“Yes,” said Jager. “Better by far to die in full knowledge of our inevitable fate.”
Arandar coughed out a sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “You, Master Jager, would make jokes before the throne of the Dominus Christus on the day of the Last Judgment.”
“Well, someone would have to lighten the mood,” said Jager.
They crossed the Dormari Market and came to the doors of the Travelers’ House. Once the doors had been fashioned of fine dwarven steel, but now they lay twisted and broken upon the ground. Within the common room of the House looked much like the common room of countless inns and taverns that Ridmark had visited over the years, albeit that the tables and benches were wrought of finely carved stone. A faint layer of dust covered everything. The windows had a good view of the surrounding tiers of the Market, and it would be difficult for any foes to approach unseen.
“This is as good as we shall find,” said Ridmark. “We’ll rest here and continue on in six hours.” He slid off his pack and set against one of the benches. “I’m going to have a look around.”
“No need,” said Mara. She gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “I’ll head up the tower and keep watch. I want to think for a while anyway.”
“One of us will come to relieve you in two hours,” said Arandar. “You need rest as well, Lady Mara.”
“Do as you think best,” said Ridmark. “I’ll still have a look around. Four eyes are better than two.”
Mara smiled at that. “I quite agree.”
The others settled down to eat. There was still coal in one of the stone bins next to a hearth, and Kharlacht got a small fire going. Ridmark climbed the stairs to the House’s second floor, looked through the rooms, and then went to the third floor. He saw no sign of recent habitation, no indication that the deep orcs or anyone else made a habit of staying here, though many of the glowstones still gave off a pale light. Likely the deep orcs passed through the Dormari Market and hastened to their hidden strongholds without pausing here.
It made Ridmark wonder if stopping here had been a bad idea.
He stepped into one of the rooms, looking through the window at the silent, half-ruined Market, the few functioning glowstones throwing a crazed tangle of shadows and light over the rubble. The silence troubled him. He had traveled in the Deeps before, even in dwarven ruins, but this was different. There, silence seemed natural. Khald Azalar had once been a prosperous place, a city full of people. Its silence was the silence of a tomb…
A footstep rasped against stone, and Ridmark whirled, his staff coming up.
Morigna stood behind him, her black eyes intense in her pale face.
“Morigna,” he said. “You startled me.”
She smiled a little. “You said you did not want to be taken unawares. Well.” She stepped closer. “What if you are aware?”
Ridmark said nothing, and she reached up and put a hand upon his cheek. They had not lain together since leaving Khorduk, and her fingers sent a ripple of heat down his nerves. The last time they had gone off together alone for a tryst, in the Torn Hills surrounding Urd Morlemoch, a pack of urvaalgs had almost killed them. Ridmark had not seen any sign of urvaalgs in Khald Azalar so far.
He had been wrong before, though.
“I thought I had lost you,” she whispered, “when we were separated at the High Gate. I thought I might never see you again. I would have done anything to save you. Even,” she swallowed, “even used the power I took from Urd Morlemoch.”
“I know,” said Ridmark, his voice quiet.
“So,” said Morigna, a little quaver in her voice. “You are…”
He silenced her with a kiss.
A few moments later they had each other out of their clothes, and Ridmark spread their cloaks across the floor, elven gray and tattered brown and green. They lay down together, and Ridmark forgot about the danger, forgot about his quest to stop the Frostborn, forgot about his misgivings, forgot everything except the taste of her mouth against his and the heat of her body against his skin and the strength of her limbs as they coiled around him. As she finished she muffled her cry against his shoulder, and he followed suit a moment later, every muscle in his body seeming to contract at once.
After, he rolled onto his back, and she curled up next to him, sweating and breathing hard. He knew it was wrong to lie with a woman who was not his wife, that the knight and Swordbearer he had been five years ago would be appalled to see him now.
But Morigna took some of the bleakness from his mind.
“Rest,” Morigna whispered. “Rest. You deserve some rest, if only for a little while. It…”
She fell silent, staring into the shadows.
“What is it?” murmured Ridmark.
“Nothing,” said Morigna. She rested her head against his chest again. “Sleep.”
He drifted off to sleep.
###
Mara sat curled up on the edge of the square tower’s balcony, her eyes scanning the darkness of the Market.
She waited with perfect patience. Mara had waited patiently many, many times, first in the years she had spent alone in the wilderness after her mother’s death and their escape from Nightmane Forest, and then after the Matriarch had recruited her into the Red Family. So often Mara’s very survival had depended on her ability to watch patiently and quietly, and she had gotten very good at it.
Not that there was much to watch. The Market was as silent as the grave, and the only sounds that came to Mara’s ears were the low rumble of Kharlacht’s and Arandar’s voices as they discussed the day’s events. Despite the fire Caius had started, none of the smoke issued from the roof. Knowing the prowess of dwarven engineers, they likely had a system of elaborate stone shafts that funneled the smoke to a narrow vent three miles up the slope of the mountain. Not that it mattered, since it was almost impossible to hide from a deep orc. Had a deep orc prowled through the Market, he likely could have smelled Mara’s sweat, could have heard the beat of her heart from halfway across the tier. They could not hide from the deep orcs, but Mara could
at least warn her friends of any attack.
Yet for now, the Dormari Market was quiet, and they were as safe as they were likely to be.
Which was a pity, really. It gave Mara a chance to think, and her thoughts wandered through dark places.
She heard someone coming up the stairs to the tower and recognized Jager’s footfalls. They brought a brief smile to her face. Jager was perfectly capable of moving without sound. He wanted her to know that he was coming, so he walked with deliberate noise.
It was a thoughtful gesture. That, and he knew better than to sneak up on a woman who had been an assassin of the Red Family.
A moment later Jager stepped onto the balcony.
“Couldn’t sleep?” said Mara.
“Not particularly,” said her husband, frowning at the armor of dark elven steel he wore over his usual white shirt and black vest. “It’s a bit like sleeping in a tomb, which I never really had a taste for.” He tapped his armor. “You know, it’s a pity this doesn’t come in black. It would look better. I do not care for this shade of blue.”
“The dark elves had an alien sense of aesthetics,” said Mara. Idly she wondered if Jager had come up here to seduce her. She hoped that he had. He was quite good at it, and they had not been alone together for some time.
And it would take her mind off other things.
“They could have learned a thing or two from the dwarves,” said Jager. “The dwarves seemed fond of…square things. Square houses, square glyphs, square gates.” He stared into the ruined Market for a while, frowning. “You’re worried about something.”
“We are walking into an ancient dwarven ruin in search of a long-lost relic of tremendous magical power,” said Mara. “Only God knows what’s in here with us. Meanwhile, an army led by an orcish shaman is chasing us, and the Traveler and all his slaves are pursuing both the shaman and us. Something would be wrong if I was not at least a little bit worried.”
“No, that’s not it,” said Jager. “You’re worried, yes, but this is at least as dangerous as Urd Morlemoch. No.” He fell silent for a moment. “No…you feel guilty about something, I think.”
Mara looked up at him in surprise. How had he known? Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. For all his mocking manner, her husband was not a stupid man.
“Yes,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “Why shouldn’t I feel guilty? I’ve done many terrible things.”
Jager snorted. “That’s not it. You did what you had to do to survive, and as for the things you did while part of the Red Family, you’ve said your prayers to the Dominus Christus for forgiveness and that’s that. You’re not the sort to dwell on the past, my wife. So,” he scratched his chin, “so it’s something that you didn’t do. Something with the Traveler.”
“The Anathgrimm orcs,” Mara heard herself say. “They worship him as a god.”
“Because he made them to do it,” said Jager. “It’s not their fault. Just like a book isn’t to blame for what’s written upon its page. The fault lies with the author, not the book.”
“And my father is the author of so much evil,” said Mara. “I was thinking about my sisters, if you must know.”
“Sisters?” said Jager. “You don’t have any…oh. You mean the Traveler’s urdhracosi.”
“We were once the same,” said Mara. “The daughters of his concubines, half human and half dark elven. Our fate was to be devoured by our dark elven blood, to become monsters in his service. That was what he intended for me. I should have become an urdhracos like the others.”
“But you didn’t,” said Jager. “You had help, aye, but you fought to the very end of your strength.”
“I know,” said Mara. “I just wish…I wish there was something I could do to help them. Both the Anathgrimm and the urdhracosi and all my father’s other slaves. He twisted the Anathgrimm so they would worship him as a god, and he turned my half-sisters into monsters. I escaped from him and from Nightmane Forest…but I fear they will never escape him.”
“Well, one cannot see the future,” said Jager.
“What do you mean?” said Mara.
“You thought you were going to turn into an urdhracos or an urshane or something,” said Jager. “You thought that your entire life. It didn’t quite turn out that way.”
“No,” said Mara. “I suppose not.”
“And look at Calliande,” said Jager. “She had a plan too, didn’t she?”
Mara frowned. “What do you mean?”
“When she was still the Keeper two hundred years ago,” said Jager. “She must have had some big plan for stopping the Frostborn from returning. I’m entirely certain her grand plan did not involve waking up naked and getting captured by Mhalekite orcs.”
Mara laughed despite herself. “I suppose you would focus upon her lack of clothing at the time.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Jager. “I am a married man. Besides, she is much too tall for a woman. But we wander from the point. We cannot see the future. Nor should you rebuke yourself for escaping from the Traveler. The alternative was to stay and die, or stay and become an urdhracos.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Mara, closing her eyes for a moment. The Traveler’s strange song thundered through her thoughts. He was coming closer, surrounded by his Anathgrimm orcs and his creatures of dark magic. “He already has so much power. He cannot have the Keeper’s staff. I shudder to think of what he would do with it.”
“Easily solved,” said Jager. “We steal away the staff before he finds it, and then he’s come all this way for nothing.”
“I think the staff belongs to Calliande,” said Mara. “Technically, claiming it for her would not be stealing.”
“Precisely,” said Jager. “Why, we are merely helping Calliande to reclaim her lost property. I think Brother Caius could explain at great length why that is a meritorious deed.”
Mara laughed and got to her feet, taking his hands. “You are too hard on Brother Caius. He is a kindly man.”
“Just because I am hard on him doesn’t mean I don’t like him,” said Jager. “He is, however, quite fond of his own voice. Especially when he and Kharlacht start talking about theology.”
Mara laughed again. “Well, he is a preacher, husband. I expect that preaching is a skill that must be practiced to be kept, much like any other.” She kissed him. He was easy to kiss, since he was only an inch or two shorter than she was. She had never understood why some women wanted tall husbands. Having to crane her neck every time she wanted to kiss Jager would be exhausting, though perhaps she would feel differently if she were taller. “Thank you. I feel better.”
The guilt was still there, though. Yet she could do nothing about it, so there was no reason to dwell upon it.
“Good,” said Jager. “We should…”
He fell silent, frowning as he looked at the stairs. Mara heard the rasp of quiet footsteps. A moment later Morigna came into sight, her staff in hand, though she had discarded her tattered cloak of brown and green strips.
She looked…unsettled. Maybe even a little frightened.
And to Mara’s Sight, something seemed to have changed within her.
“Why, Morigna,” said Jager. “Such excellent timing.”
Morigna did not answer Jager’s barb, which alarmed Mara. Morigna always had a sharp answer for everything.
“What’s happened?” said Mara.
“I think,” said Morigna, her voice a little unsteady, “I think that something is wrong with me.”
###
Morigna leaned against the stone railing, her fingers tight against it.
Physically, she felt fine. A little tired, but the last several days had been busy. Her legs were a bit weak from her recent exertions with Ridmark, but that was not unusual. He had a knack for wearing her out.
Her vision, though…
She saw Mara and Jager clearly. Normally that would not have concerned her, but given the lack of light in the cavernous tiered hall of the Dormari Market, she s
hould not have been able to see them clearly. She should not have been able to see the Market itself clearly.
Yet she could.
“Jager,” said Morigna. “Leave.”
The annoying little man folded his arms over his chest and jutted his chin at her. She had known a few halfling servants in Moraime who had worked for the praefectus and the abbot, and they had been nothing like Jager.
“I would prefer to talk with Mara alone,” said Morigna.
“Really,” said Jager. He smirked, but his amber-colored eyes were hard as stone. “You were using dark magic during our fights with the Anathgrimm and the Mhorites…and after that you expect me to leave my wife alone with you? Truly, if you think I am that gullible, why not splash some yellow paint across a wooden cup and try to sell it to me as a golden chalice? You might at least make some profit from the effort…”
“Jager,” said Mara before Morigna could answer, and Jager subsided. “Morigna, I will help you if I can, and I will even hold something in confidence if you wish it. But I will not keep secrets from my husband.”
“Fine,” said Morigna.
“Though if you are sick or injured, you should see Calliande,” said Mara. “She’s a physician, and she has the healing magic of the Well. I just kill people.”
“And I steal things,” added Jager, unhelpfully.
“I cannot,” said Morigna. “It…use your Sight, please, and look at me. Tell me if something has changed.”
Mara shrugged, and then stared at Morigna for a moment. She was quite a bit shorter than Morigna, and her green eyes seemed huge and luminous in her pale, delicate face. Even without the points of her ears, Mara never managed to look quite human. She tilted her head to the side in one direction, and then another, a concerned frown coming over her features.
“What is it?” said Morigna.
“Something has changed,” said Mara. “You’ve always had a magical aura, ever since I gained the Sight. Earth magic, which looks like,” she made a vague gesture, “like light made of rock and stone. Which is an inadequate description, but the best I can do. After Urd Morlemoch, you had dark magic within you from that soulstone.” She shook her head. “And now…it’s changed, somehow. I’m not sure how. I haven’t much practice with the Sight. But if I were to guess, I would say that some of it has soaked into you. Altered you, a little.”
Frostborn: The Broken Mage Page 3