“Zhorlacht,” muttered Jager.
Ridmark glanced at the halfling. “You know him?”
“He’s an Anathgrimm warrior and a dark wizard,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “He also believe my father to be a god, and considers himself a priest.”
“Come forth, Gray Knight!” said Zhorlacht in Latin. “I wish to take counsel with you. Perhaps together we can discern the path of wisdom.”
Ridmark made up his mind, settling upon a plan.
“Very well, Zhorlacht of Nightmane Forest!” said Ridmark. “I shall come forth momentarily.” He turned and lowered his voice. “Morigna. When I give the word, cast your sleeping mist over the Anathgrimm.”
“It will not be effective for long,” said Morigna. “When we faced him earlier, Zhorlacht was able to dispel my magic with ease.”
“We won’t need long,” said Ridmark. “Calliande, cast your spell to make us faster. Antenora, anything you can do to distract the urvaalgs will help.”
“They are not fond of fire,” said Antenora, another fireball spinning to life atop her staff. “Over such a large area, I shall not be able to conjure much fire, but I shall hurt them.”
“Good,” said Ridmark. “When I give the signal, run for that blast furnace, the one with the broken chimney and the breach on its side.” He jerked his head at the direction of the blast furnace. Three carts full of coal sat just in front of the entrance. “And push the carts in with you.”
“Why?” said Arandar.
“Shall we throw coal at the Anathgrimm?” said Jager. “That will discourage them, I’m sure.”
Calliande sighed. “You’re going to do something reckless, aren’t you?”
“Probably,” said Ridmark. “Be ready.”
He turned to go, but Morigna gripped his shoulder.
“Be careful,” she said.
Ridmark nodded, squeezed her hand, and then eased out of her grip. He walked past Kharlacht and Caius, stopping halfway between his friends and the waiting Anathgrimm. Zhorlacht likewise stopped a few yards away from Ridmark, a tower of steel armor and black bone over green flesh, the fire around his left hand reflecting in his stark black eyes.
“Planning to cast a spell on me?” said Ridmark.
Zhorlacht smiled. The bone mask did not impede his mouth or lips. Likely that was to allow unrestricted eating and breathing. “Our god offers many gifts to his loyal servants. Perhaps you, too, should become his servant.”
“I already have a God,” said Ridmark, “and am not looking to change.”
“This is a pity,” said Zhorlacht. “My lord the Traveler was most impressed how you snatched the Keeper away from his grasp during the battle in the Vale.”
“Impressed?” said Ridmark. “I suspect he flew into a rage.”
“Our god has many different ways of showing his approval,” said Zhorlacht.
“I’m sure,” said Ridmark. “I imagine he was most keen on showing his approval after Mournacht won the battle.”
Zhorlacht frowned. “A temporary setback. The orcish rabble and their false god will not prevail over our lord the Traveler. He shall seize the power in Khald Azalar, and he shall rule over all of Andomhaim. You shall embrace your true purpose as the Traveler’s slave, as shall all your kindred. Then you shall know both joy and peace.”
“If that is joy and peace, I shall settle for strife and discord,” said Ridmark. “What do you want?”
“To propose a deal,” said Zhorlacht. “The followers of the false god Mhor repulsed us once. They shall not do so again. The forests favored the Mhorites' undisciplined, feral style of fighting. The narrow corridors and galleries of Khald Azalar shall favor my brother Anathgrimm.”
He wasn’t wrong about that.
“What is that to me?” said Ridmark. “Go fight the Mhorites. You have my blessing, not that you need it.”
“Our god the Traveler wishes to make you an offer,” said Zhorlacht. “As I said, he was most impressed when you eluded his servants during the battle. Furthermore, you snatched the Keeper out of his grasp, and he is most desirous to claim the Keeper.”
“His taste for human women is well known,” said Ridmark, “but I see no reason to indulge it.”
“The Keeper shall be no mere concubine,” said Zhorlacht. The orcish wizard seemed offended at the prospect. “She shall be transformed into an instrument of our god’s power. So shall his wayward daughter, who I suspect is still among your company. The lord Traveler desires her as well, so he might understand and employ her power.”
“Ah,” said Ridmark. “Let me guess. If I surrender myself, the Keeper, and Mara over to you, you’ll let us go.”
“Of course not,” said Zhorlacht. “You shall become a warrior in the lord Traveler’s service. He has recognized your skill, and we will have need of it once he claims the power in Khald Azalar and rules Andomhaim. He has a use for the Keeper and his wayward daughter as well.”
“This is not,” said Ridmark, “a terribly compelling offer.”
“It should be,” said Zhorlacht. “For if you submit, the lord Traveler shall permit your other companions to depart Khald Azalar freely. Even the Swordbearers, though he greatly desires their deaths. If you do not agree to submit…well, you and the Keeper and our god’s errant daughter shall be claimed by force, and then your companions will be killed in front of you. Slowly, through torture.”
“That might not be wise,” said Ridmark. “If the Traveler stops to amuse himself with torture, Mournacht might slip past him and claim the power of Khald Azalar. What do you imagine Mournacht will do then? Leave the Traveler his amusements? No, he will take the power and destroy the Traveler.”
“Our god cannot be defeated,” said Zhorlacht.
“Maybe not,” said Ridmark, “but he didn’t do a very good job of defeating Mournacht, did he? The Mhorites won the first battle.”
“The lord Traveler cannot be overcome,” said Zhorlacht. “In time, he shall crush the Mhorites utterly. Perhaps that is even part of his plan.”
Ridmark realized that he was talking to a madman. Zhorlacht believed that the Traveler was a god, and there was nothing Ridmark could do or say that would change his mind. If the Traveler tripped and broke his neck, Zhorlacht would proclaim it part of the dark elven lord’s brilliant plan. The worst thing was that Zhorlacht hadn’t chosen to regard the Traveler as his god. No rational man of any kindred would look at the erratic, half-crazed Traveler and worship him. Instead, the Traveler had made his slaves worship him, had engineered them so the Anathgrimm would regard him as a god and his every word as law. The Anathgrimm were prisoners, and they didn’t even realize it.
A wave of pity went through Ridmark.
That would not, however, stop Ridmark from killing them.
“No,” said Ridmark. “We are not surrendering to the Traveler. We are going to claim the power before your false god and Mournacht, and then we are going to escape Khald Azalar while you and the Mhorites kill each other.”
“Very well, then,” said Zhorlacht. “It appears the time for talking is over.”
He moved fast, faster than Ridmark would have thought someone that large could have moved. His sword swept for Ridmark’s neck in a smooth blow that would have opened his throat. Ridmark had anticipated the attack, and snapped his staff up. Zhorlacht’s sword, razor-sharp and well-forged, might have sliced through a staff of normal wood. Whatever Ardrhythain’s magic had done to the staff had made it stronger than normal wood, and Zhorlacht’s blade redounded from it. Zhorlacht sprang backwards, drawing back his sword to strike again while his left hand came up, crackling with dark magic. Ridmark threw himself to the ground, rolling as Zhorlacht’s withering lance of blue fire shot over his head, and came back to his feet and sprinted for his waiting friends.
Zhorlacht shouted, and the Anathgrimm bellowed in answer and began running forward with a clatter of armor, while the urvaalgs waiting behind the blast furnaces loosed their wailing battle cries and charged.
Both women cast spells. A rippling wall of white mist appeared behind Zhorlacht, engulfing the charging Anathgrimm. The bone-armored orcs stumbled, their precise formation disintegrating as Morigna’s sleeping mist took effect. A pack of urvaalgs bounded from between two blast furnaces, but Antenora cast her spell. The fireball shot from her staff and erupted between the furnaces, the narrow space intensifying the blast. The fire was not nearly as hot as some of the blasts Antenora had conjured, but it was hot enough to set the urvaalgs’ greasy fur alight, and the beasts came to a halt, snarling and screaming as they tried to beat out the fires.
“Go!” said Ridmark, and the others started running for the damaged blast furnace. Arandar and Gavin reached it first, and began using the augmented strength granted by their soulblades to push the coal carts into the dark furnace. Calliande cast a spell, and Ridmark felt a burst of strength as her magic augmented his speed, making him faster. He surged forward as the others ran into the blast furnace.
Behind him Zhorlacht snarled a spell, and a pulse of shadows and dark fire shot out from him. The dark fire shattered Morigna’s mist, and the Anathgrimm straightened up and resumed their pursuit.
Ridmark dashed into the blast furnace just as Calliande entered ahead of him, glowing with white light as she maintained the spell of speed. Gavin and Arandar finished heaving the final cart into the blast furnace. The domed interior reminded Ridmark of a small wayside chapel, the sort of place that offered travelers in the High King’s realm a place to rest and pray.
His eyes roamed over the walls, and he found what he sought.
“There,” said Ridmark, pointing at a breach in the wall. He returned his axe to his belt and slung his staff over his shoulder from its leather strap. “Go through that hole, and then run for the far end of the foundry level as fast as you can. Caius, I assume the entrance to the next gallery will be there?” The dwarven friar nodded, and Ridmark shoved over one of the carts. Coal spilled everywhere, a cloud of black dust rising into the air round it. “Start running. Go!”
“What are you doing?” said Calliande as Jager and Mara went for the hole in the wall.
“Making a mess,” said Ridmark as he reached into his belt pouch.
He tossed the flat tile of the activation stone to himself.
“Oh,” said Caius. “That…will make quite a mess.”
“Better run,” said Ridmark.
Both Calliande and Morigna gave him disapproving looks, and for a moment they looked so alike that Ridmark had to fight the absurd urge to laugh.
“We must go,” said Caius. “Gray Knight, the stone will activate the glyphs of fire quickly. You will have, at most, only a few seconds to get clear.”
“I know,” said Ridmark. “Go.”
The others climbed through the breach in the wall. Ridmark kicked over another cart of coal and climbed into the breach, bracing himself with his left hand, his right holding the activation stone. He spotted the matching glyph inscribed upon the floor, not far from the door.
He tossed the stone to himself once more, gauging its weight.
A moment later the Anathgrimm appeared before the entrance to the blast furnace. Before they could pour inside and cover the glyph upon the floor, Ridmark tossed the activation stone with a flick of his wrist. It landed upon the glyph, and seemed to click into place like an iron nail caught by a lodestone.
The glyphs upon the walls and the floor burned with fiery light, and a wave of heat washed over Ridmark.
The Anathgrimm edged away from the door in alarm, and Ridmark threw himself backward, hit the floor, and started sprinting.
The explosion came a few heartbeats later. The wall of hot air hit Ridmark like a giant blow, and he stumbled forward, barely keeping his balance. Fire blossomed from the blast furnace’s door, sending the Anathgrimm stumbling away, while gouts of flame erupted from the furnace’s damaged walls and roof. The coal dust and the coal itself went up a moment later, fueling the fire.
The terrible heat and the light made an excellent distraction.
Ridmark sprinted across the foundry chamber, coming at last to the far wall. Another channel of sluggish lava flowed below the wall, perhaps four yards wide, the air rippling over its surface. Calliande and Morigna and the others waited, weapons in hand or spells ready.
“You appear unburnt, mostly,” said Jager.
Morigna said nothing, but she looked relieved.
“Let’s go,” said Ridmark. “The light will throw off the Anathgrimm, and the smoke will confuse the urvaalgs’ noses. I want to be gone from here by the time the confusion wears off.”
A bridge arched over the canal of lava, opening into another high gallery, and Ridmark and his friends crossed the bridge and vanished into the darkness.
Chapter 10: Vault of the Kings
It took a day and a half to traverse the lightless black labyrinth of Khald Azalar’s mines.
If Jager had not found another map, it might have taken much longer. The gallery from the foundry chamber ended in a vast natural cavern, no doubt part of the upper Deeps. Equipment filled the cavern, tables holding pickaxes and helmets and carts and lanterns containing small glowstones, and scaffolding built of dwarven steel covered the walls. A dozen different mine tunnels led in all directions, vanishing into the bowels of the earth. As Ridmark and Caius discussed what to do, Jager found the map of the mines upon a table.
“I believe this is accurate,” said Caius, examining the map. “The date…this was drawn the year that Khald Azalar fell.”
“The mines may have changed since then,” said Calliande. “The dvargir or the deep orcs might have dug new tunnels. Or there could have been flooding or cave-ins…”
“All this is true,” said Caius, “and the mines open to the Deeps anyway. Only God and the saints know what might have wandered up from the darkness. But it is still our best path to reach the Citadel and the Vault of the Kings before Mournacht and the Traveler.”
“We can also lose any pursuers in the mines,” said Ridmark. “Those Anathgrimm and their urvaalgs will be on our trail, and they might figure out where we went. Harder for them to find us in the mines.”
“Agreed,” said Caius, considering the map. Ridmark could make neither heads nor tails of it. It looked like a maze of random lines, marked by dwarven glyphs in dozens of places. “I think our best route is…that way.”
He pointed at one of the tunnels, a rough-cut passageway of stone that vanished into utter blackness.
“Then let us not dither,” said Ridmark.
There were neither glowing glyphs nor dwarven glowstones in the mine tunnel. Ridmark asked Antenora to conjure light, and again she made her staff dance with flickering torchlight, allowing Calliande and Morigna to save their powers for any attackers. As a boy Ridmark had visited the mines upon his father’s lands, but the dwarven mines were far better constructed than the tin mines on the northern edge of Taliand or the iron mines of the Northerland. The tunnel widened, small corridors shooting off in random directions, but Caius kept them marching forward. A draft of warm air struck Ridmark’s face, and he saw a glimmer in the darkness ahead, the pale blue glow of ghost mushrooms.
The mine tunnel opened into a vast cavern of the Deeps. A forest of stalagmites rose from the floor, reaching towards the stalactites hanging from the ceiling far overhead. Glassy-smooth lakes dotted the ground, and thick clusters of glow mushrooms grew at their edges. The silence of the cavern was absolute.
“The Deeps,” murmured Jager, looking around. “A peculiar sort of beauty, to be sure, but one I did not hope to see firsthand.”
“If I am reading this map correctly,” said Caius, “the natural caverns should connect with a different mine about five or six miles in that direction.” He waved a hand at the far end of the cavern, towards the dark, jagged outline of another tunnel. “We can make our way through the city’s reservoir, and then enter the quarter around the Cita
del of Kings from there.”
“It seems peculiar, does it not,” said Morigna, “that the old kings of Khald Azalar would have built their Citadel so close to the Deeps. Did they not fear invaders?”
“They did,” said Caius, “but the Citadel of Kings would have had the strongest defenses in Khald Azalar…and almost certainly the Frostborn destroyed them. Given the number of deep orcs and dvargir we have seen, it seems likely the way through the Deeps is passible.”
“It would explain those petrified kobolds,” said Calliande. Ridmark looked at her. “Does it not strike you as odd? We have not encountered any living kobolds in Khald Azalar, nor did the dvargir or the deep orcs mention them. I want to know where those kobolds came from and why. Either the dvargir used their basilisk to petrify them…”
“Or there are other basilisks loose in Khald Azalar,” said Ridmark, “or lairing in the nearby caverns of the Deeps.”
“One finds that an exceedingly unpleasant thought,” said Morigna.
“Remain watchful,” said Ridmark. “Caius.”
Caius consulted the miners’ map once more and led the way into the caverns of the Deeps. They passed through tunnels so narrow that they had to go through in single file, through caverns like soaring cathedrals, their floors covered with forests of ironstalk mushrooms. Here and there Ridmark saw signs of the dwarven mining work – abandoned tools or carts, doorways and arches of worked stone, half-finished tunnels that went nowhere. From time to time he saw the signs of the other denizens of the Deeps. Kobold tracks marked sandy patches on the floor, and murrag bones and skulls lay scattered about. One they saw a dead mzrokar, curled up upon the cavern floor while ironstalk mushrooms slowly consumed its carcass.
At last they came to the reservoir of Khald Azalar, a vast underwater lake so wide that Ridmark could not see the far end. A narrow spit of stone worked its way around the edge of the lake, the stone wall wet and damp, mushrooms and strange, glowing lichen clinging to the rock. It was not a comfortable place, but it was defensible, and Ridmark decided to camp there for the night. The others fell asleep almost at once, and Ridmark kept first watch, listening to the lapping of the vast underground lake.
Frostborn: The Broken Mage Page 14