“It has,” said Morigna, a flicker of dread running through her. The Old Man had been a scoundrel and a liar, but he had always said power was the foundation of everything, and Morigna had never seen anything to disagree with that. He had never warned her, though, that power itself might turn on her. “I can see in the dark.”
Jager frowned. “It’s not that dark in here.”
Morigna started to snap back at him, and then swallowed the insult. She needed Mara’s help, and insulting Jager was not the best way to go about it. “It is dark enough. And I can see better than I should.” She pointed. “That archway there, on the far side of the Market. Can you see it from here?”
“I can,” said Jager, and Mara nodded.
“Can you make out any of the details above the arch?” said Morigna.
“No,” said Mara. “It’s too dark.”
“I can,” said Morigna. “There are several rows of dwarven glyphs carved into the rock. A crack in the stone below it. Just further up the gallery I see a broken gate of dwarven steel. Likely the Frostborn broke it during their attack.”
“I can’t see any of that,” said Jager.
“Nor can I,” said Mara, turning back to Morigna with a thoughtful expression. She did not look alarmed, at least not yet. “When did this start?”
“A few moments ago,” said Morigna. “Ridmark and I had…” She stopped talking, trying to think of a way to phrase it. “We had just…”
“I understand,” said Mara. Jager smirked, damn him.
“We had just finished,” said Morigna. “Then I felt something…shift inside my head, and suddenly I could see everything in the room around me, even though it was dark.”
“Did you tell Ridmark?” said Mara.
“No,” said Morigna. “He fell asleep. I went looking for you.” She took a deep breath. “I think I may be transforming.”
“Transforming?” said Jager. “Into…what?”
“The way I did,” said Mara, her voice grave. “The way the dark magic in my father’s blood transformed me into what I am now, the way it almost turned me into an urdhracos like my sisters.”
Sisters? For a moment Morigna did not understand, and then she remembered the urdhracosi who had guarded the Traveler.
“She doesn’t have dark elven blood the way you do,” said Jager. “Morigna isn’t going to turn into anything.”
“She doesn’t have to be dark elven,” said Mara. “Urvaalgs and ursaars have no dark elven blood, but were created through dark magic. You almost turned into a creature of dark magic, husband. If you had kept using the Matriarch’s soulcatcher, it would have turned you into an urhaalgar eventually.”
“Oh,” said Jager, his voice subdued. “I had forgotten about that.”
“Do you think I am transforming?” said Morigna.
Mara shrugged. “You’ve changed a little. My Sight showed me that much, and your night vision proves it.” She hesitated. “Do you hear any songs?”
“Songs?” said Morigna.
“Inside your head, I mean,” said Mara. “I can hear the Traveler’s song in my head. It’s how my mind interprets the aura of power around him, and it’s how the dark elves compel their creatures to obey them. Can you hear it as well?”
“No,” said Morigna. “Nothing.”
“That’s good, at least,” said Mara.
“What are we going to do?” said Jager. “We should ask Calliande for help.”
“No!” said Morigna.
“Why not?” said Mara. “Morigna, I am not a Magistria. This is beyond me, and you may be in real danger.”
“Because if you tell Calliande,” said Morigna, “she will tell Ridmark. And if she does, Arandar might hear about it…and if Arandar knows about this, he will try to kill me.”
Mara and Jager shared a look.
“She’s probably right about that,” said Jager.
“I agree,” said Mara. “Sir Arandar and Morigna likely would have come to blows in the Vale of Stone Death if we had not faced an enemy.”
“If Arandar tries to kill me, Ridmark will stop him,” said Morigna. “Ridmark might kill him. Or they might kill each other. If we fight amongst ourselves now, it will be disastrous.” Morigna had spent many long nights blaming herself for Sir Nathan’s death. She did not want Ridmark’s blood upon her conscience as well.
“All right,” said Mara. “We won’t tell anyone.”
“We won’t?” said Jager. “Why not?”
“Because she’s right,” said Mara. “Sir Arandar would try to kill her if he knew. Antenora might, as well.” Morigna had not considered that. Antenora had the Sight, and if Mara could see the changes in Morigna, then Antenora could. Though Antenora would likely do nothing unless Calliande told her to act. “When Arandar and Morigna squabbled the last time, it almost got us killed. Here and now, in Khald Azalar with two orcish armies chasing us, it would almost certainly be fatal. And if we fail, there will be no one stop Shadowbearer from bringing the Frostborn back to this world.”
“Thank you,” said Morigna.
“One condition, though,” said Jager.
Morigna scowled. “And who are you to bargain with me?”
“Why, I’m the man you just told a secret,” said Jager with a smile. “And it’s for your own good. If we live through this, if Calliande recovers her staff and becomes the Keeper of Andomhaim again…you have to tell her.”
Morigna’s scowl deepened. “Why?”
“Because,” said Mara. “Jager is right. Calliande might be able to help you. Who knows what kind of magical knowledge the Keeper of Andomhaim had? Because you do need help, Morigna.”
Morigna swallowed. She had come to that conclusion on her own, but hearing Mara lay out the facts in her calm voice made it all the worse. “Do you think the transformation is…irreversible?”
“Probably,” said Mara. “But it doesn’t have to go any further. I couldn’t stop it because I was half dark elven, and the dark power was woven into my very blood and bone. But you…you just stole some dark magic. Stop using it. That should arrest any further progress in the transformation. I know you used it several times in the Vale of Stone Death to control urvaalgs. You had better stop before it changes you further.”
“I may not have a choice,” said Morigna.
“There is always a choice,” said Mara.
“No, there is not,” said Morigna. “Not always. If I had not used the dark magic to distract the urvaalgs, we would all have been killed.”
“Stop talking,” said Mara, turning around.
“What?” said Morigna, surprised. “I did what I had to do. You cannot judge me for it. We would have perished at Urd Morlemoch if I had not taken that power, and the urvaalgs would have killed Ridmark, and…”
Mara put her right hand over Morigna’s mouth. Morigna was so shocked that Mara would touch her that she fell silent. Anger bubbled up in her, but then she saw Mara’s face. It was tight and hard, her green eyes darting back and forth, and Morigna’s anger turned to chagrin and then to alarm.
Mara had noticed something wrong.
“Down,” hissed Mara, and she dropped to her knees behind the stone railing. Morigna and Jager followed suit.
“What is it?” said Jager.
“Saw something moving,” said Mara. “There, near the gallery leading back to the Gate of the West. Might have been a deep orc. Wasn’t sure.”
“Well, you have the eyes full of dark magic,” said Jager. “Might as well use them.”
Morigna opened her mouth to argue, and then realized that Jager had a point. She shrugged and peered through the gaps in the railing, looking at the far end of the Market. Nothing moved in the shadowy darkness. Maybe Mara hadn’t seen anything at all. Then Morigna saw the leather-clad figure moving from wall to wall. The leather-armored figure was an orcish man, sword and mace at his belt, a short bow slung over his shoulder. His green face had been gruesomely scarred and tattooed, twisting his features into the likeness of
a crimson skull. The crimson skull was the sign of Mhor, the ancient orcish blood god of death, and the orcs of Kothluusk carved and tattooed his sigil upon their faces.
That meant the orcish warrior was a Mhorite scout.
“Damn it,” whispered Morigna.
“For once I agree with you,” said Jager. “Do you see any others?”
“No,” said Morigna. “How did you even spot that one?”
“That broken wall near the gallery arch,” said Mara, her eyes glinting like disks of jade in the shadows. “A clever scout would use it for cover when entering the Market. I kept an eye on it while we were talking. Saw the glint of light on his tusks. He really should have darkened them.”
“We cannot let him warn the others that we are here,” said Morigna. If a Mhorite scout was here, that meant the main strength of the Mhorite host was close behind. Perhaps Mournacht was even now striding through the Gate of the West. It was less than an hour’s walk from the Gate to the Dormari Market, and Mournacht had enough warriors to surround the Travelers’ House completely. He had enough warriors to seal off the vast Dormari Market. “You should travel behind him and kill him at once.”
“No,” said Mara. She shook her head. “He’s too far away. I could travel behind him and cut his throat…but I’m not sure I can be accurate enough over that distance. If I make a botch of it, he’ll see the light from the blue fire. If he sounds the alarm and others are close enough to hear it…”
“I shall put him to sleep,” said Morigna. “Then you can finish them off.”
“I’ll rouse the others while you deal with him,” said Jager. “Quietly, of course.”
Mara nodded and kissed Jager, and he vanished down the tower stairs in total silence.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Mara.
Morigna took a deep breath and concentrated, drawing magic from the stone beneath her. Purple fire flared around her fingers as she gestured, and the Mhorite’s head snapped around as he spotted the light. By then, it was too late. White mist swirled around the Mhorite, and the orcish warrior staggered, reeling on his feet as if drunk.
Mara disappeared in a swirl of blue fire and reappeared a few yards from the Mhorite, her dark elven short sword in her hand. The Mhorite turned towards her and dropped to one knee as Morigna’s sleeping mist took hold. Mara disappeared and reappeared again, this time behind the Mhorite.
The short sword flashed in a spray of crimson across the Mhorite’s throat, and the orcish warrior fell to the ground.
Morigna let out a long breath, and a few heartbeats later Mara reappeared upon the balcony, breathing hard, the veins beneath her skin seeming to pulse and flicker with blue fire. Her strange power, her ability to travel short distances in the blink of an eye, always seemed to exhaust the small woman, though she recovered quickly.
“Done,” said Mara. “Thanks for your help.”
“Thank you,” said Morigna. “For…listening. There have been very few people…very few in whom I would confide.”
“Well.” Mara grinned. “Me, too.”
Morigna opened her mouth to answer, and the groaning wail of a war horn rang out from the gallery leading to the Gate of the West.
“The light,” said Morigna. “From my spell and your power. It must have been visible further up the gallery.”
More horns rang out, and Morigna heard the distant tramp of running boots.
“We’d better run,” said Mara, and they raced down the stairs.
Chapter 3: Siege Doors
Ridmark’s eyes shot open and he sat up, snatching the dagger from its place next to his head. For a moment he could not remember where he was, and memories burned through his mind, images of the Wilderland and the darkness of the Deeps, the Torn Hills and the wreckage of the Iron Tower.
Then he remembered. He was in a room at the Travelers’ House in the ruins of Khald Azalar.
Where had Morigna gone?
Jager stood in the door, blinking at the dagger.
“Ah,” said Jager. “Did I startle you? I do apologize. Please do not stab me in retribution.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” said Ridmark, and his sleep-fogged mind snapped back into focus. Jager wouldn’t have awakened him unless something was amiss. “What’s wrong?”
“Mhorite scout,” said Jager. “Mara and Morigna are dealing with him, but there will be others. We should move the camp.”
“You’re right,” said Ridmark, getting to his feet and pulling on his clothing. He bit back a curse. He had not expected the Mhorite host to reach the Gate of the West so quickly. Though it was possible the main Mhorite force was still climbing the road to the Gate, and Mournacht had sent ahead scouts to map the path. It was also possible that Mournacht had discarded caution and charged into Khald Azalar with his entire force.
“I’ll go wake the others,” said Jager. He hesitated, glanced at the cloaks upon the floor as Ridmark donned the dark elven armor he had taken from the Warden’s armory. “Ah…about you and Morigna.”
“What?” said Ridmark. It was fairly obvious what he and Morigna had been doing. All the others knew, even if Ridmark and Morigna did not discuss it front of them. Yet this reticence was unlike Jager. “What is it?”
“Gray Knight, you’re a good and valorous man,” said Jager. “You would have been within your rights to kill both me and Mara several times, yet you never did.”
“Thank you,” said Ridmark, hanging his dwarven war axe from his belt and slinging his gray elven cloak over his shoulders. “What is your point?”
“You could…probably do better than Morigna,” said Jager.
Ridmark frowned. “Are you playing matchmaker now?”
“No,” said Jager. “But I do owe you my life, Mara and I both. So…I suppose it is upon my conscience to warn you. I think…”
“For God’s sake, there is no time for games like this,” said Ridmark, picking up Morigna’s cloak. “Just say what you mean to say and have done with it.”
“I think Morigna is dangerous and she’ll turn on you eventually,” said Jager.
Ridmark started to ask what Jager meant, and then he heard the distant moaning wail of a Mhorite war horn.
“Of course,” said Jager, “it appears we have more immediate problems.”
“Go,” said Ridmark. Jager raced into the hallway, and Ridmark followed him, running down the stairs and back into the common room of the Travelers’ House. The others were already awake and on their feet. Arandar and Gavin stood guard at the main doors, soulblades in hand, and Ridmark felt the faint headache he suffered whenever Arandar used Heartwarden nearby. Antenora waited behind the Swordbearers, her black staff already starting to smolder with her magic, while Calliande stood nearby. She glanced at Ridmark as he came down the stairs, and for a moment she looked sad.
Then another wail from the horn rang out, and her eyes snapped back to the doors.
Kharlacht and Caius emerged from the back room. Caius carried an old, dusty parchment scroll, and the dwarven friar squinted at it.
“We should not have stopped here,” said Kharlacht.
“Apparently not,” said Ridmark. “Is that a map?”
“Aye,” said Caius. “It’s a map of the Dormari Quarter and the surrounding streets, with the shops labeled. I think the taalvar of the Market – ah, the magistrate – would give copies of it to visitors.”
“We need to go,” said Ridmark, wondering where Mara and Morigna had gone. He glanced out the windows at the tiers of the Market, but saw no sign of movement. “Does the map show the best way out of the Market?”
“Probably straight east from here,” said Caius, squinting at the map. “That leads to the Citadel of the West, one of the major strongholds within Khald Azalar. I think we would have the best chance of eluding the Mhorites there, or holding them off if necessary.”
“Does it happen to show the layout of the rest of the city?” said Ridmark. They still had no idea where Dragonfall was. Given that the Mhorites
would soon flood the ruins, followed in short order by the Anathgrimm, Ridmark wanted to find the staff as soon as possible.
“No,” said Caius. “My kindred guard their secrets well. Foreigners would only have been allowed in the Dormari Quarter, and any foreigners caught outside the Quarter would be killed. Outsiders could pay a toll to travel under the mountains of Vhaluusk from the Gate of the West to the Gate of the East. Few did, though, since the Gate of the East opens into the Wilderland around the Moradel valley, which is infested with…”
Blue fire swirled in the center of the common room, and Mara appeared out of nothingness, breathing hard and blinking. A moment later Morigna ran down the stairs, her staff in hand. She looked at Ridmark, her face hard and tight, and he tossed her the tattered cloak. Morigna nodded her thanks and pulled it on, the tattered strips of brown and green swirling around her legs.
He wondered where she had gone after he had fallen asleep. It was probably just as well, given that she had helped spot the Mhorites.
“There’s a Mhorite scouting party coming from the gallery back to the Gate of the West,” said Mara. “At least twenty of them. Maybe thirty. I think they might have a shaman with them.”
“One of their foolish little wielders of dark magic?” said Antenora in her raspy, worn voice. The smoldering light from her staff pulsed brighter. “Their dark god did not save them from the fire in the Vale of Stone Death, and I doubt he will save them here.”
“Like Elijah and the prophets of Baal?” said Caius.
Antenora’s yellow eyes turned towards him. “Yes. I do not claim to wield the fires of God’s wrath. But the fire I do command shall be hot enough for the purpose at hand.”
“We should flee at once,” said Calliande.
“How much time until they reach the Market?” said Ridmark.
“Three or four minutes at most,” said Mara.
Frostborn: The Broken Mage Page 4