So that was it. Morigna would make her stand here with the others.
They would either triumph, or they would die.
“Antenora,” said Ridmark in a low voice. “Don’t release your spell immediately. Wait until a good number of Mhorites have gathered in the main Vault. The more we can take down, the longer we have, and time works to our advantage.”
Antenora nodded, the huge ball of flame over her head wobbling a bit. “Give the word when you wish, Gray Knight, and I shall release the fire. Make sure you are well away from the archway. I may not be able to control the fire once I have summoned it.”
Morigna, who had seen Antenora wield her fury against the creatures of the threshold and against the trolls of the Vale of Stone Death, took a prudent step away from the ancient sorceress. Not that it would matter. If Antenora lost control of that much power, it would likely kill everyone in the hall.
The first Mhorite scouts sprinted through the archway. The dark magic whispered beneath the edge of Morigna’s thoughts, murmuring that with its power she might have victory, that she might save her life and Ridmark’s life…
She pushed aside the thoughts. The dark magic would transform her, and if she was going to die then she would die as herself, as Morigna of the Wilderland, not as some twisted horror like the thing Coriolus had become in his final moments.
Instead of the dark magic, she drew upon earth magic and cast a spell, the stone floor heeding her command. The ripple shot through the stone and sent the Mhorites tumbling. Ridmark and the others charged, taking advantage of the Mhorites’ distraction to attack, and killed half a dozen of the orcish warriors before they could recover. More Mhorite warriors rushed through the archway, and Morigna cast another spell. She threw a wave of sleeping mist through the Mhorites, commanding it to roll past them and into the main Vault proper. Spread out among so many, it did little, but it stunned them for a moment, making them groggy and disoriented, and Ridmark and the others were too experienced not to let such an advantage pass. Ridmark’s staff crushed throats and cracked skulls, while the Swordbearers drove their blades through flesh and bone and armor alike. Kharlacht struck deadly blows with his greatsword, and Caius’s mace turned limbs to bloody pulp. Mara flickered through the melee with flashes of blue fire, circling around the edges of the battle. Jager struck whenever she tripped or crippled a Mhorite warrior, calmly driving his short sword into backs and necks. Morigna would have preferred that he stay out of the battle entirely, given that he carried both the soulstone and the Key, but she supposed the common Mhorite warriors were too stupid to recognize the value of those items.
More and more Mhorite orcs poured through the archway, and horns rang out from the Vault proper as more arrived.
“Ridmark!” shouted Morigna. “You can’t hold them!”
“Antenora!” said Ridmark, killing another Mhorite and stepping back. “Now!”
Ridmark disengaged from the fight and ran to Antenora’s left, and the others followed him, breaking away from the melee. That did not deter the Mhorites, and they surged through the archway, dozens of them, weapons in hand and scarred faces livid with battle rage.
Their expressions changed when Antenora thrust her staff.
The ball of fire struck the floor a few yards in front of her, and for a terrible moment Morigna was sure that Antenora had made a mistake, that the huge fireball was about to explode. Instead the sphere rolled forward like a massive boulder, and it passed through the charging Mhorites, leaving a trail of charred corpses in its wake. The stench of burned flesh flooded the hall, drowning out the smell of blood and sweat. The Mhorites scrambled backwards, but they were too densely packed together, and the fireball rolled through them, wobbling a bit as it did so. The Mhorite attack collapsed as they fell backwards, trying to get away from the flames, and the sphere rolled into the Vault proper.
Then it exploded.
A blast of hot air struck Morigna and sent her sprawling to the floor, her staff bouncing away from her grasp. The roar of the flames filled her ears, and she saw a pair of Mhorites go tumbling overhead, wreathed in fire. Morigna grabbed her staff and pulled herself to her knees, and saw a firestorm raging through the central Vault. A wall of flames sealed off the archway, and she glimpsed screaming Mhorites running back forth, trying frantically to quench the flames that chewed into their flesh. Ridmark and all the others had been knocked over by the gale. Only Antenora still stood upright, her long black coat flapping behind her in the heat, the symbols upon her staff burning as she directed her will at the magic.
At last she gasped and stumbled, leaning upon the glowing staff for support.
“Too much,” she croaked. “Too much. I cannot…I cannot control it.”
Some of the Mhorites within the hall had survived the explosion, and staggered slowly to their feet, lifting their weapons.
“Ridmark!” said Morigna, drawing on the earth magic. A ball of acidic mist appeared around the nearest Mhorite warrior’s head, and the Mhorite managed to scream before his lungs drew in the deadly vapors. The Mhorite tottered and collapsed, and Morigna summoned power for another spell, but by then it didn’t matter. Ridmark and Gavin regained their feet, killing the Mhorites who had survived the explosion. Together they helped get the others to their feet and away from the fire, and Morigna ran to assist them.
“That was,” said Caius, wiping sweat and blood from the gray dome of his balding forehead, “a most impressive explosion.”
“It was like the High Gate all over again,” said Gavin.
“A bit more than we probably needed, though,” said Jager. “Though given the number of Mhorites who want us dead, anything that kills more of them is a good thing.”
“I summoned more power than I intended,” said Antenora, her yellow eyes fixed upon the fire. “I told you the fire was often uncontrollable once summoned.”
“No,” said Ridmark. “You did well. Very well.” He shook his head. “If I had been aided by a sorceress with your power at the Black Mountain…well, that battle might have gone differently indeed.”
“Thank you,” said Antenora. “For you are the Keeper’s strong right hand, and your praise means much.”
Morigna found herself annoyed by that description of Ridmark, and pushed the thought aside. They had larger problems.
“The fire,” said Ridmark. “How long can you maintain it?”
“Perhaps another quarter hour at the most,” said Antenora. She was not sweating in the fire’s heat, but she never sweated. She did look increasingly tired, her face tight with strain. “It will take a considerable amount of power to hold.”
“What if you cooled it down?” said Ridmark.
“I do not understand,” said Antenora.
“That fire is hot enough to kill anyone who touches it,” said Ridmark, wiping some of the sweat and grime from his forehead. “It doesn’t need to be that hot. Just hot enough to set their clothes afire.”
“That…is prudent,” said Arandar. “That is often the best use of fire on the battlefield, to confuse and misdirect and frighten.”
“The longer the Mhorites remain confused and frightened,” said Ridmark, “the longer Calliande has to return with her memory and powers.”
If she returned. Morigna glanced at the distant golden doors on the other end of the hall, but they remained closed.
“Very well,” said Antenora. “Additionally, I shall be able to maintain a cooler fire for much longer.”
“How much longer?” said Ridmark.
“Indefinitely.”
She closed her eyes and gestured with her staff, and the snarling curtain of fire dimmed and lowered. Beyond Morigna saw the carnage that Antenora’s fire had wrought. Hundreds of burned Mhorites lay scattered beyond the arch, and the gold coins and bars upon the stone tables had melted and run down upon the floor.
“God and the apostles,” muttered Jager. “Remind me never to ask you to heat up a cup of tea. You’d blow up the building.”
“Now we wait,” said Morigna, “for the Mhorites to get their courage back.”
Ridmark looked at the dead Mhorites through the curtain of flames. “I fear we shall not have to wait long.”
###
Mara closed her eyes, listening to the song in her head.
The song that had been growing steadily louder.
“I think,” said Mara, opening her eyes, “we might have another problem.”
“Oh,” said Morigna, watching the flames. “Just the one?”
Power blazed before Mara’s eyes, invisible to the gaze of most mortals, but sharp and harsh before her Sight. The ancient glyphs that ringed the Vault of the Kings were shields of frozen light, implacable and invincible. The flow of elemental power from Antenora to the wall of flames seemed like a stream of fire. The mighty wards around the golden doors to Dragonfall blazed like a net of solid light, magic unlike any Mara had encountered before.
All that was secondary to her attention right now, though.
The song in her head kept getting louder.
“The Traveler?” said Ridmark. He had spent most of the last hour watching the curtain of fire, but his eyes kept straying back to the gates to Dragonfall.
“Yes,” said Mara. “He is very near.” She concentrated for a moment, trying to make sense of the peculiar sensation. “Within two miles. Maybe less than a mile. I suspect all the solid rock and the glyphs are disrupting his aura. But he is almost here.”
Arandar gave a shake of his head. “The last time were caught between the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm, we were almost killed.”
“Perhaps they will do us a favor and kill each other off,” said Jager.
“We kept saying that in the Vale,” said Morigna with a sour scowl, “and it never seemed to happen. One suspects the Traveler and Mournacht shall join hands in brotherly amity to first kill us, and only then try to slay each other.”
“Why?” said Arandar.
“Because, Sir Arandar,” said Morigna, “of the essential perversity of the cosmos. Why else does every damned thing always seem to go wrong?”
There was silence for a moment.
“That is actually a good theological argument,” said Caius, “for the fallen nature of the world…”
“If we live through this, we can debate theology later,” said Ridmark. “We can assume that the Traveler and Mournacht will come to battle, and whoever is victorious will try to force their way in here. I wonder if there is something we can do to prolong the battle. We need to play for time.”
“Perhaps Antenora can lower the wall of flame and we can sortie out,” said Gavin. “Throw them into disarray.”
“A bold plan,” said Kharlacht
“It is,” said Antenora. “But I may not be able to conjure the wall of flame fast enough to keep the worshippers of Mhor or the spiny orcs from storming this hall. We…”
Her eyes narrowed, and she fell silent.
“What is it?” said Mara, even as she saw the corrupted haze of dark magic swirling in the central Vault.
“Beware!” said Antenora. “One of the shamans of Mhor summons power to undo my spell.”
“That settles it,” said Gavin. “We shall have to charge.”
“No,” said Mara, “I can deal with it.”
She stepped forward, blocking out the Traveler’s song, and reached instead for the fire within her, the song of her fused soul of human blood and dark elven power. Blue fire swallowed her, and when it cleared Mara stood in the central Vault, the stone floor still radiating terrible heat beneath her boots. Bands of Mhorite warriors moved through the aisles, hundreds upon hundreds of Mhorite warriors. The Mhorite shaman stood a short distance away, a gaunt, skeletal orcish man wearing ragged trousers, sigils burning upon his chest and arms and back, bloody fire dancing around his fingers as he summoned power to contest Antenora’s fire.
Mara was in plain sight of the orcish warriors, and they bellowed in fury, but not before she slashed the shaman’s throat with her sword. The warriors charged, avoiding the cooling pools of melted gold, and Mara drew on her song again, the blue fire depositing her next to Antenora. She took a moment to catch her breath. Using the power of her blood to travel had gotten easier with practice, but it was still exhausting.
Jager was at her side in an instant. “One less Mhorite shaman, I take it?”
“Yes,” said Mara, taking deep breaths to slow her heart and still the fire of the song in her mind. “There was just one for now. More shall arrive soon.”
“Well done,” said Ridmark, and to Mara’s surprise, she felt a flicker of pride at the complement. Ridmark knew how to lead people. It was his talent, even more than his prowess with weapons. It explained why Morigna and Arandar had not killed each other, why Arandar and Jager were amicable companions rather than bitter enemies, why the peculiar group that had formed around Ridmark and Calliande had held together.
Mara wondered how that would change if Calliande regained her memories, how Calliande herself would change.
More dark magic flared before her Sight.
“Another one,” said Antenora.
Mara nodded and reached for her song again.
“I will handle this one,” said Morigna, and she squinted into the flames, purple fire burning along her staff. Mara recognized the familiar pattern of the earth magic in Morigna’s spells, and even over the snarl of the flames she heard the sudden agonized scream of a Mhorite shaman as the acidic mist chewed into his flesh.
An agonized scream, but a brief one.
“The fool did not think to ward himself before attacking,” said Morigna with a satisfied smirk.
“The next one will not be so imprudent,” said Arandar.
“Or they will attack in groups,” said Mara. “A group of shamans to dispel the flames, and then bands of warriors to charge through when the spell collapses.”
“Best we continue to wait, then,” said Ridmark.
Arandar shook his head. “In war, fortune favors the commander who takes the initiative.”
Morigna started to spit out a retort, but Ridmark spoke first.
“We’re also outnumbered a thousand to one,” said Ridmark. “If we attack, we shall be killed in short order. Better, I think, to force our enemies to act, and then we can counter them. The attacker always has a harder task than the defender, and this is the best defensive position we are likely to find.”
“It is the only defensive position we are likely to find,” said Kharlacht, “given that there are no other exits from this chamber, and we cannot enter Dragonfall.”
“No,” said Arandar. “We might as…”
A sudden scream drowned out his words.
Mara whirled, seeking the source of the scream, wondering if one of the Mhorites had somehow gotten into the hall. Her brain caught up with her ears, and she realized that the scream was actually hundreds of voices raised as one, that she now heard the sound of fighting and clashing steel through the curtain of flame.
Her father’s song, dark and proud and malevolent, thundered inside of her skull.
“It sounds like a battle,” said Jager.
“It is a battle,” said Arandar. “The Anathgrimm have arrived.”
“They have,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “My father is out there, I am sure of it.”
“Then it seems,” said Caius, “that we shall face the victor of the struggle.”
“Let us hope the victor is considerably weakened,” said Caius.
“I should go have a look,” said Mara. Dark magic flared and burned and snarled before her Sight. Dark wizards were battling one another. Likely the Mhorite shamans and the wizards of the Anathgrimm unleashed their powers against one another. Or perhaps even the Traveler and Mournacht were locked in battle.
“No,” said Ridmark and Jager in unison. They looked at each other, and Jager gestured for Ridmark to continue. “If you travel into the midst of a battle, you might land right in the path of an arrow. Or some Anathgrimm might
get lucky and stab you before you get your bearings.”
“Very well,” said Mara.
Then a huge surge of dark magic blazed before her Sight, a dark vortex of malevolent power.
“Beware!” said Antenora. “The enemy comes. The…”
Blood-colored flame blazed in the midst of the fiery curtain, and Antenora stumbled back as her spell shattered, the light from her staff sputtering and flickering. A huge figure strode through the archway, an orcish shaman over seven feet tall. Unlike the other shamans, he was a tower of muscle, his chest and arms huge. The crimson tattoo and stylized skull upon his features seemed to twist his face into a permanent snarl of fury. He wore only trousers, boots, and a broad leather belt, red-painted human skulls dangling on a leather cord from his right hip. In his right hand he held a massive double-bladed battle axe of black steel, taller than Ridmark, the thick blades as wide across as his shoulders. More symbols of bloody fire shone upon the blades, and Mara saw the tremendous dark magic at the shaman’s command.
It was Mournacht.
After him came his elite guard, towering Mhorite warriors in crimson plate armor adorned with skulls, axes and swords in hand.
“Oh, hell,” muttered Jager.
Mournacht looked them over. He was breathing hard, his chest and axe spattered with blood, none of it his own. His guards looked battered as well. Mournacht’s eyes turned back and forth, and then his scarred face lit up in a gleeful smile as he saw Ridmark.
“Gray Knight!” thundered Mournacht, lifting his black axe. “How splendid that you are still alive. Thrice you have escaped me. Now I have you caught like a rat in a trap, and you will not escape a fourth time.”
“Make what taunts you like,” said Ridmark, his staff ready in his hands. “You are Shadowbearer’s puppet and nothing more.”
Mournacht rumbled a laugh. “Shadowbearer? You speak nonsense. I am the Chosen and Voice of Mhor, his champion and his strong right hand, and with the power hidden in this ruin I shall lay all of Andomhaim upon the altar of Mhor as a blood sacrifice.” He pointed the enormous weapon at Ridmark. “Staring with you, a sacrifice that will give me great pleasure.”
Frostborn: The Broken Mage Page 22