“Well,” said Morigna. “You did blow up a half-dozen assassins of the Red Family in the process.”
“What?” said Arandar.
“I haven’t heard this story,” said Jager.
“There were only four of them,” said Ridmark. “And one of the Enlightened of Incariel. Rotherius got away, which was why we had to fight him at Tarrabus’s domus in Coldinium.”
Mara’s green eyes widened. “You blew up Rotherius? I knew him when I was part of the Family. Jager said you had killed him, but…”
Both Morigna and Antenora looked to the right, deeper into the gloom of the foundry chamber.
“What is it?” said Ridmark.
“Someone is coming,” said Antenora. “Someone cloaked in a form of dark magic.” The light of her staff flickered. “At least a dozen of them.”
“I think they are dvargir,” said Morigna, her words hard and clipped.
“Calliande,” said Ridmark.
She nodded and started summoning power, directing and forcing the magic into a spell. The dvargir, like the dark elves and the Enlightened of Incariel, could use some of the power of the shadow of Incariel to their own ends. Her magic, the magic of the Well in Tarlion’s heart, was directly opposed to the power of Incariel. While she could neither hurt nor harm a living mortal with her magic, she nonetheless could wield her powers against things of dark magic.
Calliande clapped her hands and gestured. White light flashed around her, seeming to expand and spread into a dome for a hundred yards in all directions. A dozen columns of darkness swirled next to one of the blast furnaces, and resolved into a group of black-armored dvargir warriors, their strange armor seeming to drink the light from Antenora’s staff.
The dvargir froze, then glanced at each other and started forward.
Both Antenora and Morigna started casting spells, and Calliande followed suit as the others prepared their weapons, but Ridmark stepped forward, striking the butt of his staff against the floor with a resonant crack.
“Hold, warriors of Khaldurmar!” said Ridmark in the orcish tongue.
Calliande hesitated. Perhaps Ridmark could talk his way past the dvargir, the way he had talked his way past the deep orcs above.
###
“I will speak with your Dzark,” said Ridmark, using the title the dvargir bestowed upon their minor nobles, similar to the landed knights of Andomhaim. “Come! Do you not have a Dzark among you? Or are you Houseless rogues, wandering the ruins of your ancient enemies in search of a few gold coins?”
The dvargir stared at him. Unlike the dwarves, the dvargir shaved their heads hairless, making it seem as if their features had been carved from blocks of gray granite. The bottomless black pits of their void-filled eyes only reinforced that illusion. Idly Ridmark wondered why the dvargir shaved their heads. Perhaps it was a sign that they had rejected the gods of stone and silence, or a symbol of their devotion to the great shadow of Incariel.
If he lived through this, he would have to ask Caius.
One of the dvargir stepped forward. Unlike the others, his armor bore blood-colored bands of rank at the edges, bands that somehow did not detract from the armor’s ability to blend with the shadows. The dvargir carried a sword in his right hand and bore a dark shield upon his left arm.
“And who are you, human?” said the dvargir noble in a growling, deep voice. “Who are you to demand such a thing?”
“I am Ridmark, son of Leogrance of the Arbanii, Dux of Taliand and vassal of the High King of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark. The dvargir were as cruel and brutal as the Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk, but they were far more orderly, and considered themselves bound by their laws. Rank and birth impressed the dvargir, and perhaps Ridmark could bluff his way past the Dzark and his men.
The dvargir inclined his head in a tiny bow. “And I am Rzorgar, a Dzark in service to Great House Mlurzar of Khaldurmar.” He gestured with the sword. “Now, then. Since the introductions are out of the way, shall we kill you, or shall you surrender peacefully? Khaldurmar is ever in need of slaves.”
“Or you could let us pass,” said Ridmark.
Rzorgar’s white teeth flashed in his gray face in an expression halfway between a snarl and a smile. “Now why should I do that?”
“Because you’ve already seen battle,” said Ridmark. “Repeatedly. I see the marks on your armor. Those two dvargir have been wounded.” He gestured at some of the dvargir standing behind them. “And I have allies.”
“There are more of us than there are of you,” said Rzorgar, that half-snarl, half-smile reappearing.
“Maybe,” said Ridmark. “But I have a Magistria. I also have two sorceresses capable of wielding elemental magic. I have also have two Swordbearers, Knights of the Order of the Soulblade. Perhaps you have heard rumor of their order?”
A low, uneasy murmur came from the dvargir. Rzorgar raised an armored hand, and the murmuring stopped at once. The Dzark stared hard at Ridmark, his eyes narrowed.
“So,” he said at last. “What do you want?”
“To pass without having to kill you all,” said Ridmark.
“No,” said Rzorgar. “Why are you here? Your company is a strange one. Humans, a dwarf, a halfling, a Magistria, and two Swordbearers travelling together. You are here upon an errand of urgency. Perhaps a quest important to the High King himself, if he sent two Swordbearers and a Magistria with you. So important that he would give command of the task to a branded exile,” Ridmark felt the weight of the Dzark’s gaze upon the scar on his left cheek, “and send you with two sorceresses of elemental magic, the practice of which is outlawed in Andomhaim.”
“You are most knowledgeable about the High King’s realm,” said Ridmark.
“A man must know his enemies,” said Rzorgar. “So, Ridmark of the Arbanii, what has brought you to Khald Azalar?”
“Perhaps we are simply passing through,” said Ridmark.
“No,” said Rzorgar. “you are not. If you were simply brigands…you would be heading with us in chains to Khaldurmar, or the other dangers of this place would already have slain you. You’ve come here to claim the great power, have you not?”
“And what great power is that?” said Ridmark. “Tell me of it.”
Rzorgar snorted. “You are poor liar even for a human. You know of the great power that has awakened in the heart of Khald Azalar. The shadow priests of Khaldurmar sensed it at once, and for days they spoke of nothing else. The Council of Rzarns decreed that Khaldurmar would seize this great power, and overthrow all our enemies and lay them waste.”
“I see,” said Ridmark, alarmed. “Then shall we expect an army of dvargir to descend upon Khald Azalar?”
“No,” said Rzorgar. “The dvargir are a prudent and cautious kindred, unlike the bestial orcs or the arrogant dark elves, whose hubris led to their destruction. No, the Council decreed than an expedition would be sent to learn the truth the shadow priests’ divinations. I was chosen for the honor of that command…”
“And it hasn’t gone very well, has it?” said Ridmark.
Rzorgar said nothing, his black eyes narrowing.
“We found dead dvargir on a higher level of the city,” said Ridmark. “Dvargir usually don’t leave their dead behind, so you were forced to retreat. You ran into more trouble than you planned. I suspect the Council of Rzarns were not the only ones interested in this great power.”
Still Rzorgar remained silent.
“We’re not the only ones coming,” said Ridmark. “There are two armies behind us. One, a host of Mhorite orcs from Kothluusk, led by a shaman of Mhor who wishes to claim the power for himself.”
“Orcs,” spat Rzorgar. “They are vermin. Fit as beasts of burden or as slaves for the fighting pits, but for nothing else.”
Kharlacht said nothing, though his black eyes glimmered with a hint of red.
“There is a second army as well, opposed to the first,” said Ridmark. “An army of orcs led by the Traveler, the dark elven prince who rules the Nigh
tmane Forest. Perhaps you have heard of him as well.”
Again a murmur came from the dvargir warriors, and again Rzorgar raised his hand to silence them.
“Ridiculous,” said Rzorgar. “The Traveler is a coward. It is well-known that he has not left his stronghold for millennia.”
“This great power that awakened in Khald Azalar?” said Ridmark. “Would that be enough to draw him out?”
Rzorgar hesitated. “Perhaps it has. If you came from the surface, you would have had to fight your way through his bone-armored orcs. But it does not matter. Khaldurmar will not claim the great power within Khald Azalar, but neither shall the orcish vermin of the surface or their dark elven masters.”
“And just why is that?” said Ridmark.
“Because the guardian of the power is too great,” said Rzorgar. “A creature fell and terrible, faster than the wind and stronger than a mountain, able to take any shape it chooses and kill with a touch.”
“The Devourer,” said Ridmark.
“The ignorant deep orcs worshipped it as a god,” said Rzorgar. “I know not what it is, whether urdmordar or trolldomr or some worse beast, but it fell upon us like an avalanche, and half of our company and most of our war beasts were slain in the first few moments. We fled its wrath, and the creature’s deep orcs assailed us repeatedly, and we barely escaped with our lives. We have regrouped here, ere we depart this miserable place and return to Khaldurmar.”
“So be it, then,” said Ridmark, though the he wondered again what manner of creature this Devourer was. “You have suffered some losses, and there is no need for us to fight each other. You return to Khaldurmar, and we proceed to be devoured by the Devourer. Reasonable, is it not?”
Rzorgar smiled, and Ridmark’s fingers tightened against his staff.
“It is very reasonable,” said Rzorgar, “save for the fact that I have no wish to return to Khaldurmar as a failure.”
“The Council of Rzarns will execute you for your failure?” said Ridmark.
“Not at all,” said Rzorgar. “The Council is ever merciful. Those who fail are not executed. But the Council’s displeasure causes a great loss of status…and those who merit the Council’s displeasure tend to suffer unexpected accidents at surprising moments.”
“I see,” said Ridmark. “Assassination must be a lucrative business in Khaldurmar.”
“All nations have their unique customs,” said Rzorgar, a brief smile going over his grim face. “My expedition here has certainly been a failure. However, if I return with two soulblades and the head of a Magistria as trophies, well…the Council might look upon that rather more favorably.”
Antenora snarled and lifted her staff, the fiery light shining brighter from its sigils. “Threaten the Keeper again, little gray worm, and I shall roast you inside your armor like a pig upon a spit.”
“You should heed her,” said Ridmark. “There are more of you than there are of us…but my companions are veteran fighters, and we have powerful magic as well. I imagine the Council’s goodwill means nothing to a dead man.”
Rzorgar’s cold smile widened. “You have powerful magic, but I have something better.” He lifted his sword hand again, and the blade suddenly shone with jagged dvargir glyphs, radiating a pale blue fire.
As it did, a hideous metallic shriek echoed through the foundry chamber, a shriek that sent a cold chill down Ridmark’s spine.
He had heard a sound like that before.
Ridmark turned just as the mzrokar climbed to the top of the nearest dome.
The creature looked like a colossal centipede, as thick as two grown men and as long as four 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 the creature. The mzrokars were the scavengers of the darkest caverns of the Deeps, but sometimes the dvargir enslaved them with the magic of their shadow priests, using them as powerful war beasts.
“Antenora,” said Ridmark. “The mzrokar.”
Antenora gazed at the mzrokar for a moment, utterly unsurprised. Perhaps she had seen more frightening things upon Old Earth. She gripped her staff with both hands, closing her eyes, and a tiny ball of fire spun over the end of her staff, growing faster and larger and hotter with every revolution.
She was preparing a powerful spell. She could not heal and ward as Calliande could, or command animals and stone and the earth as Morigna did, but neither Calliande nor Morigna could match the sheer furious destruction that Antenora’s magic unleashed. Ridmark had never seen such destructive power from a human wielder of magic.
He was reasonably sure that the dvargir had not as well.
“Ah,” said Rzorgar. “Do you like my little pet? Well, one other survived. Perhaps you will like it as well. Come!”
More dvargir emerged from the darkness behind Rzorgar, armed and armored in their strange black steel. One of the dvargir carried a long black chain shining with jagged blue glyphs. At the end of the leash walked a massive greenish-gray lizard the size of a horse, its six legs slapping at the floor with wet, sticky noises, its long, slender tail lashing back and forth in obvious irritation. Claws that gleamed with poison tipped its feet, and a barbed stinger twitched at the end of its tail. A collar of black dvargir steel encircled its slender neck, and a hood of black cloth covered its long, pointed head.
Ridmark had never seen a basilisk before, at least not one that was still alive and in one piece, but he recognized the giant lizard nonetheless.
“If your pet lizard turns us to stone,” said Ridmark, “you will have a difficult time carrying the Swordbearers’ soulblades back to Khaldurmar. Stone swords are not as fine as trophy as steel ones. Though I suppose you could not touch a soulblade without it burning you.”
The fireball above Antenora’s staff was now the size of Ridmark’s head. The last time she had conjured a fireball like that, it seemed like she had set half the trees in the Vale of Stone Death on fire. Ridmark wondered what would happen if the fireball ignited one of the blast furnaces. Or if it impacted one of the carts of coal. Or if there was more coal dust upon the ground that he could not see…
Calliande and the others accused him of talking mad risks, and it was time to take another.
“Fear not, Ridmark of the Arbanii,” said Rzorgar. “The basilisk is only as a last resort. The mzrokar will tear you apart, and then we shall take the trophies from your shredded flesh. I do hope we manage to leave the Magistria’s pretty head intact. It would look striking when preserved in a jar of brine.” He beckoned with his sword to his warriors. “Wait for the mzrokar to do its work, and then finish off the survivors.” He pointed his sword at the twitching mzrokar. “Kill them! Kill them all!”
The mzrokar loosed a horrible metallic scream and leaped from the top of the furnace’s dome, landing with a metallic clang of its armor plates.
“Antenora!” shouted Ridmark. “Now!”
Antenora drew back her staff, her long black coat whipping around her in the sudden hot wind, and thrust the staff. The white-hot fireball shot forward like a comet, moving even faster than the mzrokar’s scuttling charge. The fireball slammed into the mzrokar’s maw as its deadly pincers yawned wide.
The explosion was impressive.
There was a thunderclap and a flare of blinding white light, and a gale of hot air knocked Ridmark back a step. The mzrokar tumbled backwards, flipping over and over, its body blazing. The armor covering its carapace had contained the fire, channeling it back through its flesh. Rzorgar bellowed a command, and the dvargir started to move, but it was too late. The burning mzrokar landed in their midst and exploded, spraying plates of red-hot steel and burning flesh in all direction. Six dvargir died in an instant, ripped apart by the plates of hot steel. One of the plates struck the dvargir warrior holding the ba
silisk’s leash and took off his head, no blood spurting from the cauterized wound.
The tumbling plate ripped away the basilisk’s hood and severed the chain of its leash.
Ridmark caught a brief glimpse of the basilisk’s head, of its flaring nostrils, of its long fanged maw, of its enormous yellow eyes, full of malice and predatory hunger.
“What?” said Rzorgar. “No! You fools! Get the chain. Get…”
The basilisk surged forward, its eyes flaring with yellow light as the damaged leash fell away. The light from its eyes fell over Rzorgar and three other dvargir, seeming to sink into their flesh. In an instant they vanished, replaced by statues of pale gleaming stone, their expressions forever frozen in horror.
The basilisk charged at Ridmark, the yellow light in its eyes brightening once more.
Chapter 8: Stone Eyes
Frantic, Calliande summoned all her power, white light burning around her fingers.
Arandar and Gavin charged with terrific speed, the soulstones in their swords pulsing with white fire as the blades’ magic shielded them from the terrible power of the basilisk’s gaze. They would be safe from the basilisk, but none of the others would be shielded from its power. Calliande did a quick calculation. She had enough strength to ward five of her companions from the basilisk’s power. Arandar and Gavin could protect themselves. Ridmark, Caius, Kharlacht, Jager, and Mara were closer to the basilisk and the scattered dvargir warriors.
Calliande, Morigna, and Antenora would just have to look after themselves.
She cast her spell, white fire bursting from her hands to sink into Ridmark, Caius, Kharlacht, Jager, and Mara. A horrible sense of strain went through Calliande’s mind as the basilisk turned its power against Ridmark, Caius, and Kharlacht, but she held the ward in place. She had endured worse magical trials, notably when she had challenged the Artificer at the Iron Tower and Imaria Licinius in Coldinium. For that matter, the basilisk was not nearly as powerful as the gorgon spirit that had possessed poor Murzanar, and Calliande had held her ward against the gorgon spirit’s power.
Frostborn: The Broken Mage Page 11