Frostborn: The Broken Mage

by Jonathan Moeller

  “There may be defenses?” said Ridmark. “Calliande will still have to face the Devourer alone.” Antenora may have blamed herself, but Ridmark was the fool. He should have been paying better attention. He should have anticipated the trap. But what else could he have done? The Devourer had revealed itself right before his eyes, and he still had not been able to stop the creature. “We have to find a way through the door.”

  “There is no way,” said Antenora.

  A burst of sheer rage went through Ridmark, and he struck his staff against the door again. Once again, it did nothing.

  “I am sorry,” said Morigna. She hesitated, looked away from him, and then back to him. “It…may be best if we leave at once. The malophage is trapped within Dragonfall, and both Mournacht and the Traveler are coming here. Perhaps it would be best to ensure the empty soulstone,” she looked at the bundle of clothing in Mara’s arms, “is well away from here. Else the soulstone may fall into Shadowbearer’s grasp.”

  “As hard as that counsel is,” said Kharlacht, “I fear it is correct. If Shadowbearer takes the empty soulstone, far more lives than ours shall be lost. Calliande would not want to see Shadowbearer triumph.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “You’re right. Go if you will. I will not gainsay you. But I will wait here until she emerges.”

  “Perhaps we should have faith,” said Caius.

  Morigna scoffed. “You think your God shall save Calliande?”

  “I think he already has,” said Caius. “But I do not think she will perish here, and I believe that because I have watched her. She is as brave as any of us, and her magic is strong. More, she is the Keeper, and she was the woman who rallied the armies of Andomhaim and the other kindreds to victory against the Frostborn. If anyone can overcome the Devourer and emerge alive, she can.”

  “I agree,” said Ridmark. “So I will remain here. If any of the rest of you want to leave, go. You can return to the Gate of the West, or ascend the stairs from the assembly chamber and take your chances with the Gate of the East.”

  No one moved.

  “I go where you go,” said Morigna. “You know that.”

  Ridmark nodded, relieved that she had chosen to stay.

  “I will not abandon the Magistria,” said Gavin. “Not while there is hope she lives.”

  “Gavin Swordbearer speaks truly,” said Antenora. “I have come too far and too long to forsake the Keeper.”

  “You gambled everything to save my life at the Iron Tower,” said Mara. “It seems only fair to return the favor for Calliande.”

  The others spoke their agreement as well.

  “How splendid,” said Morigna. “We have all made such stirring declarations. Now what shall we do about them?”

  “First,” said Ridmark, walking from the dais, “we’re going to relieve poor Irunzad of the Key. Then I want to see if the doors of the Vault can be closed and opened from the inside. If they do, we have the perfect defense against the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm. We can wait until Calliande returns from Dragonfall, and then fight our way…”

  He stopped in midsentence, a flash of light in the archway to the main Vault catching his eyes.

  An orcish warrior clad in leather and mail stood there, a short bow in his hands. His face had been ritually scarred and tattooed crimson, giving his features the likeness of a grinning, bloody skull. His eyes met Ridmark’s, turning crimson with rage.

  It was a Mhorite scout.

  Ridmark broke into a sprint, hoping to catch the scout before he fled.

  Chapter 15: Enemies and Enemies

  The Mhorite scout did not flee, but instead took aim with his short bow.

  That was good. Ridmark had a chance of killing the Mhorite before the scout escaped back to inform Mournacht. The Mhorite scout aimed his bow and released, but Ridmark dodged to the side, spinning his staff before him. The staff caught the shaft of the arrow and sent it tumbling to the floor. The Mhorite growled, looked at Ridmark, and then lowered his bow. Ridmark cursed and ran faster.

  Blue fire flickered, and Mara appeared behind the orcish warrior. She had discarded Calliande’s clothing, and for an alarmed instant Ridmark wondered what Mara had done with the soulstone. Her short sword darted forward, but the Mhorite turned at the last moment and spotted her. The orcish warrior jerked back, letting Mara’s point bounce off his armor, and drew a short sword of his own. Mara disappeared again and reappeared a dozen yards away, and Ridmark struck. The orcish warrior managed to parry Ridmark’s first swing, but Ridmark reversed the direction of the staff and caught the Mhorite on the knee. The orc stumbled back with an angry growl, and Ridmark’s next strike hit the Mhorite’s temple.

  The Mhorite collapsed, his sword falling from his outstretched hand with a clang. The Vault of the Kings was a superb echo chamber, and the clang from the dropped sword rebounded off the stone walls and the high ceiling far overhead, reverberating among the piles of gold and jewels upon the tables.

  The seven other Mhorite scouts moving among the stone tables could not miss it. All seven of them turned, their eyes falling upon Ridmark. He gripped his staff, preparing to charge, but the orcs fell back. Three of them lifted war horns and blew long blasts, the sounds ringing through the Vault, and far in the distance Ridmark heard the sounds of answering horns.

  The Mhorite scouts were coming. Perhaps even the main Mhorite host itself had beaten the Anathgrimm to the Citadel. Ridmark watched the scouts sprint back to the throne room, wishing that the Devourer had killed a few of them while it had waited for Calliande to open the doors.

  Mara appeared next to him in a swirl of blue fire. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

  “A considerable amount of it,” said Ridmark. “Where is the soulstone?”

  “I gave it to Jager,” said Mara, “along with Calliande’s other possessions. I can’t travel while holding it. Should we try to close the Vault’s doors?”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “It’s too late. It also might be impossible to open the Vault from inside.”

  “What are we going to do, then?” said Mara.

  That was an excellent question.

  Ridmark looked back as the others joined them. He spotted the leather pouch with the soulstone and Calliande’s daggers tucked into Jager’s belt. Ridmark supposed it would be safe enough there. Though given the number of Mhorites about to come at them, Ridmark supposed that the soulstone would not be safe with anyone.

  “The Mhorites?” rumbled Kharlacht.

  “They’ve seen us,” said Ridmark. “They’ve summoned reinforcements. We’ll have to hold out until Calliande returns from Dragonfall.”

  “If Calliande returns,” said Morigna, looking at the golden doors.

  “She will,” said Ridmark. He would not give up hope now. “When she does, the day will be ours. Both dark elven princes and urdmordar feared to challenge the power of the Keeper in ancient days. If she returns with her power intact, we will win free. Until then, we have to hold here.”

  Another blast of a war horn rang in the distance, answered by at a dozen more.

  “This is an ill spot for a battle against so many,” said Arandar. Heartwarden flickered in his fist, sending pulses of pain through Ridmark’s head in time with the glow. “We will be easily surrounded.”

  “The archway,” said Ridmark, a plan flickering through his thoughts. “We’ll hold them off there.”

  “Perhaps,” said Arandar, “but it is still too wide.”

  “For swords and bows, yes,” said Ridmark, “but we have other weapons. Antenora?”

  The clever woman had anticipated their need. Her staff flickered with fire, and a ball of flame the size of a fist floated over its end, spinning faster and faster.

  “I can hold a wall of flame across the archway,” said Antenora, “and shall I have time to prepare a considerable amount of power. However, any one of the Mhorite shamans I saw in the Vale of Stone Death would be able to dispel it.”

  “I can deal with the sham
ans,” said Mara.

  “As can I,” said Morigna. “If they try to break through Antenora’s spells, they will have no power left to deflect my attacks.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “Mara, Jager, Morigna. Stay here and guard Antenora. The rest of you, come with me. We’re going to lure the Mhorites in.” He looked at Jager. “Don’t let that soulstone out of your sight.”

  “Given what lengths you went to steal it,” said Morigna, “one supposes it is amusing we hand it freely to you now.”

  “Life is just full of these little ironies, isn’t it?” said Jager.

  “Also, take the Key,” said Ridmark. “I don’t want either the Mhorites or the Traveler having the bright idea of locking us in here and waiting until we starve to death.”

  Jager nodded and ran to Irunzad’s corpse to retrieve the Key.

  Ridmark strode through the arch and back to the main chamber of the Vault, his staff in hand, Arandar and Gavin and Kharlacht and Caius following him. The Mhorite scouts might have fled, but they had returned with reinforcements. A large band of Mhorite warriors hurried through the aisles between the stone tables. Ridmark saw no shamans in their number yet, but he knew that would change.

  “The main aisle,” said Ridmark. “We’ll make a stand there. Hold them off as long as you can, and when I give the word, fall back to the archway.” The longer they held out, the longer they gave Calliande to return from Dragonfall.

  If she returned.

  He forced that thought from his mind. Calliande would return from Dragonfall. And if not, Ridmark would make the Mhorites pay in blood for every step they took into the Vault.

  He reached the central aisle, the others around him. More Mhorites came into the Vault, some of them staring at Ridmark, others eyeing the massive quantity of treasure heaped in the room. One of the Mhorites snarled a command, and the orcish warriors turned from the wealth of Khald Azalar, their red-gleaming eyes falling upon Ridmark. Beyond them, through the gate to the throne room, more bands of Mhorites emerged from the Citadel of Kings.

  More Mhorites than they could hope to defeat.

  “Gray Knight!” snarled one of the Mhorite warriors in Kothluuskan-accented orcish. “Surrender yourself. The Voice of Mhor desires your blood. Surrender yourself, and perhaps the great shaman will spare your companions.”

  “I doubt that,” said Ridmark. “Since when has Mhor ever offered mercy to anyone? Mournacht is too good a servant of his false god to spare his enemies now.” Several of the warriors snarled in fury, and more of them moved closer, preparing to spread out around Ridmark and the others. “So if the chosen one of Mhor desires to offer my blood to his false god…”

  “Blasphemy!” roared the Mhorite, and the other orcish warriors bellowed their agreement.

  “If his false god desires my blood!” shouted Ridmark, using the voice he had once employed while commanding men in battle. “If your false god desires my death, then let Mournacht come and claim it! Come, orcs of Kothluusk! Do you think you can take us?” Ridmark gestured at his companions, pointing his staff at Arandar and then at Gavin. “Do you see the soulblades in their hands? You know what Swordbearers can do! Will your false god protect you from the power of a soulblade? Will…”

  “Silence!” roared the Mhorite. “Kill them! Kill them as a blood offering to Mhor! Kill them and lay their heads before the great Voice of Mhor!”

  The Mhorites charged forward, the bulk of the warriors sprinting up the main aisle, while others spread out along the sides. Ridmark ran forward to meet them. He crashed into the charging Mhorites, his staff a dark blur in his hands. The wide space of the aisles gave him ample room to use the full capabilities of the long weapon, and two Mhorites fell dead in the opening moments of the fight, their skulls crushed from heavy blows of the staff. Another Mhorite sprang at Ridmark, stabbing with a sword, and Ridmark swept his staff to the side, his parry breaking both of the Mhorite’s wrists. The orcish warrior dropped his weapon with a howl, and Ridmark reversed his staff and crushed the Mhorite’s throat. Another Mhorite attacked with a battle axe, and Ridmark twisted, hooked his staff behind the axe’s blade, and yanked. The orcish warrior stumbled forward, and stepped right into a blow from Caius’s mace. The Mhorite’s head snapped to the side in a crimson spray, and then the warrior joined his dead fellows upon the floor.

  The battle raged around Ridmark as his friends fought. Caius and Kharlacht battled alongside each other, as had become their custom. The dwarven friar disabled or stunned foes with his mace, and then Kharlacht’s massive greatsword finished them off. Both Arandar and Gavin were like an army unto themselves. With no need to protect themselves from magical attacks, the Swordbearers used the full power of their weapons to make themselves faster and stronger, and it showed. Gavin cut down Mhorite after Mhorite, Truthseeker a blur in his hands. As deadly as Gavin was, Arandar was even more potent, with decades of skill and experience backing up Heartwarden’s power. He left a trail of dead Mhorites in his wake, and soon a ring of slain orcs surrounded Ridmark and the others.

  Another knot of Mhorites charged at Ridmark, and he seized the axe of a fallen Mhorite warrior and flung the weapon. The axe had not been balanced for throwing, but his aim was mostly true, and the Mhorites scattered to avoid the missile. Ridmark charged into their moment of hesitation, driving his staff towards the head of the nearest Mhorite. The warrior started to dodge, but too late, and Ridmark’s staff bounced off the top of the orc’s head. The Mhorite fell, stunned or slain, and a second warrior attacked. Ridmark deflected the sword, and a third Mhorite slashed at him. He stepped into the attack, trusting in his dark elven armor to block the strike. The third orc’s blade rebounded from his armor, the blow sending a surge of pain through Ridmark’s chest. The strike left the Mhorite warrior open, and Ridmark attacked, driving one end of his staff into the Mhorite’s throat with crunching sound, and then twisted and swung the weapon like a club. It smacked into the second Mhorite’s temple, sending the warrior to join the gathering collection of dead orcs upon the floor of the Vault. The first Mhorite tried to stab again, and Ridmark ducked, his staff lashing into the orc’s knee. The Mhorite bellowed and tried to recover, and Ridmark beat aside the warrior’s frantic parry and landed a heavy blow to the skull.

  The Mhorite fell, and Ridmark spun, seeking more foes.

  But the Mhorites had fallen back. Over a score of dead Mhorites lay in a ring around Ridmark and his friends, and not even the most fanatic servant of Mhor wished to throw himself into the jaws of certain death. Yet Ridmark knew the Mhorites had simply gone to summon reinforcements, or maybe even Mournacht himself. Already he saw more warriors pouring through the gate into the Vault, heard the sound of many more rising from the Citadel’s throne room. A troop of Mhorites with short bows hastened into the Vault, no doubt intending to shoot down their enemies from a distance.

  “Gray Knight,” said Arandar.

  “I know,” said Ridmark. “It’s time to go.”

  They ran for the archway leading to the empty hall and the doors of Dragonfall. The Mhorites drew back their bows and released a hail of arrows. Ridmark threw himself to the ground, ducking behind a stone table piled with golden coins. One of the arrows hit the table and tumbled past it, sending a spray of coins against Ridmark. He rolled back to his feet and kept running, more arrows hissing past him as Arandar and Gavin and Kharlacht and Caius scrambled for the archway. An arrow slammed into Ridmark’s side, shattering against his armor, which was just as well, since the resultant stumble knocked him out of the way of an arrow that would have opened his throat. Instead it clipped his shoulder, another burst of pain going through him. He did not let it slow him, but kept sprinting, and soon followed the others into the empty hall. Morigna and Jager and Mara waited there, weapons in hand.

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “The Mhorites are right behind us. We’ll…”

  He blinked in surprise.

  The ball of fire floated above Antenora herself, and it was nearly as wide ac
ross as she was tall, throwing its harsh yellow-white glow across the walls and floor. Belatedly Ridmark realized that he felt the heat of the thing beating against his face. It was so hot that it was becoming painful to stand near her, and he could only guess how much magical force she had bound up in the spell.

  “I had the time,” said Antenora in her calm, rasping voice, “to gather a considerable amount of power for the spell.”

  “So I see,” said Ridmark. “Be ready. The Mhorites are coming.” He hesitated. “Don’t stand in front of Antenora.”

  Jager snorted. “Excellent counsel.”

  ###

  Morigna waited, both hands around her staff, her heart drumming in her ears.

  Part of her mind pointed out that this was futile madness, that there was no way they could hold out against the army Mournacht had brought with him to Khald Azalar. They should have fled while they still could have done so, before the Mhorites had fortified themselves in the throne room. For that matter, it was likely that the Devourer had slain Calliande already, and would emerge from Dragonfall with the Keeper’s powers added to its own.

  But Ridmark had decided to stay and fight, and Morigna had made her choice to follow him to the end, to whatever fate that might be.

  Besides, there was no longer any way out of the Vault of the Kings. To escape, they would have to fight their way to the stairs leading to the Gate of the East or back through the Gate of the Deeps, and they would have to hack their way through the entire Mhorite host in order to do it. They had escaped the battle in the Vale of Stone Death with the aid of the manetaurs, but Morigna doubted that Curzonar would return to offer aid.