Frostborn: The Broken Mage

by Jonathan Moeller

  Ridmark blinked.

  “What?” said Calliande.

  “You…sounded a great deal like Morigna,” said Ridmark.

  Calliande frowned. “I…suppose I did, did I not? Morigna learned most of her Latin from Coriolus, and Coriolus would have been a young Adept when I went into the long sleep. Oh!” She rubbed at her aching head. “I just remembered him. Aye, but he was arrogant and rude, and he had the most appalling bad breath. Little wonder he turned into an Eternalist. I…”

  Ridmark was laughing.

  That was so unusual that it caught Calliande’s attention.

  “What was funny?” said Calliande.

  “He became an Eternalist because of his bad breath?” said Ridmark. “Perhaps that is why he used his magic to steal a different body.”

  It was so absurd Calliande started laughing as well. Antenora looked back and forth between them, bewildered.

  “Forgive me,” said Ridmark. “It has been…an exhausting day, and my mind wanders afar. And I wonder…”

  “What?” said Calliande.

  “Who are you now?” said Ridmark.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande, levering herself to her feet. “I think I am who I always have been. Just more so, now. Hold still.”

  Ridmark shook his head. “You need to rest before…”

  Before he could finish objecting, Calliande reached up, put a hand on his forehead, and summoned the power of the Well, augmenting it with the mantle of the Keeper’s power. He shivered, his muscles clenching as her magic washed through him. Calliande grimaced as she felt the pain of his injuries pass into her, feeling them as keenly if the blades had slashed and bruised her own flesh. He was hurt more than he let on, with some cracked ribs and an arm that likely had a hairline fracture. But she absorbed the hurts, enduring them without flinching, and her magic commanded the wounds to heal.

  She stepped back, catching her breath, and Ridmark wobbled a little and leaned on his staff for balance.

  “That is always a bit of a shock,” said Ridmark. “Thank you.”

  “Where are the others?” said Calliande. “I should tend to them as well. Unless…” A horrible thought occurred to her. “Were they killed?” She had already lost so many friends. All the initiates who had entered the Order of the Magistri with her had been killed fighting the Frostborn. Marius and the Order of the Vigilant had passed away. If only Ridmark and Antenora had survived, that would be a terrible blow…

  “No,” said Ridmark. “We all got out alive, barely. Gavin and Arandar patched up the worst of the wounds, though I’m sure they would welcome healing. They went out to scout. We’re in the Hall of the East, and that’s the Gate of the East. I would have gone with them, but Morigna more or less demanded that I stay here, and Antenora volunteered to keep watch with her Sight.”

  “What happened?” said Calliande. “Something hit me in the head…”

  “A rock, I think,” said Ridmark. “Shadowbearer brought down the ceiling. He buried the entire Vault of the Kings, and sealed off the Citadel for good measure. I suppose Caius won’t have to worry about the dvargir or the deep orcs carrying off the treasures of Khald Azalar.” He grimaced. “Shadowbearer escaped with the empty soulstone. He fled with the Mhorites toward the Gate of the West, and collapsed the gallery behind him. The assembly chamber was about to collapse, and we had to flee ourselves. It was either the Gate of the Deeps or the Gate of the East.” He shrugged. “The Gate of the East put us on the wrong side of the mountains of Vhaluusk, but if we took the Gate of the Deeps, we could have wandered in the Deeps for weeks. At least now we know where we are going.”

  “The Black Mountain,” said Calliande. “Dun Licinia.” She shook her head. “Where all of this began.”

  “He can’t transport himself with magic while carrying the soulstone, can he?” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Calliande. “Travel through magic involves…well, essentially bouncing the physical self against the threshold and redirecting it to another location in the material world. The soulstone has too much magical power to be moved in that way, and it will anchor down anyone holding it. So long as he’s holding it, he cannot travel with magic. He will have to travel to Dun Licinia on foot.” She thought for a moment. “He might find some means of quicker travel, like dominating a wyvern and riding it.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “He’s traveling with the Mhorite host. Mournacht and most of his shamans are still alive, and they withdrew as well. Shadowbearer is traveling to Dun Licinia with an army around him, and it will not surprise me if he picks up additional allies. So long as he has that soulstone, he can’t hide in the shadows any longer. Another dark elven lord like the Traveler might try and take it away from him.”

  “If he has to travel with an army,” said Calliande, “then we can move faster. We can get to the Black Mountain before he does and wait for him.” She swallowed. “Assuming we survive the trip through the northern Wilderland.”

  “It is dangerous,” said Ridmark, “but we’ll have the Keeper with us, will we not?”

  “We will,” said Calliande. “Wait. What happened to the Traveler? Is he pursuing Shadowbearer? Or is he sealed in Khald Azalar?”

  “He’s dead, actually,” said Ridmark. “Mara killed him.”

  “Mara?” said Calliande. For a moment she was so astonished that she could not speak. The Traveler had been a mighty wizard, a skilled wielder of potent dark magic, so strong that Shadowbearer had not been willing to confront the dark elven lord in open battle. “How?”

  “Morigna helped,” said Ridmark. “The shadows she could summon blocked the Traveler’s protective wards. Mara was able to make one jump, and she cut the Traveler’s throat from behind before he reacted. Oh, she still has your dwarven dagger.”

  Calliande shook her head. “She can keep it. Ridmark…in all of Andomhaim’s history, only a few men have slain dark elven nobles in direct combat. Most of them were either Swordbearers, or protected by the magic of past Keepers. For Mara to do that…that is astonishing. The Traveler has been an enemy of Andomhaim ever since the Northerland was first settled. Were the High King to hear of this, he would surely give Mara lands and a title as a noble of Andomhaim.”

  “I doubt she would take it,” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Calliande. “I suppose not.” She rolled her shoulders, trying to ignore her weariness. “We should set out at once.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Ridmark. “We need rest first, and this is as safe of a location to camp as we are likely to find. There are urdmordar in the forests of the northern Wilderland, and I hope to avoid them. Easier to do that if we’re rested and we have our wits about us.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “You’re likely right.” She took a deep breath. “Ridmark. Thank you for saving my life. Again. I recovered my memory and my powers, and you still had to carry me out of there, didn’t you? No, don’t deny it. I just healed your wounds. I sensed the ache in your shoulders.”

  “You saved our lives, as well,” said Ridmark.

  Calliande looked at him and felt a flicker of regret. She had not realized that he had been the only man she had ever kissed. Perhaps it was just as well. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and even if they defeated Shadowbearer and kept the Frostborn from returning, she still had the duty of defending the realm from dark magic

  “Keeper,” said Antenora in a soft, tense voice.

  Calliande looked at her.

  “Now that you have recovered your powers,” said Antenora, drawing back her cowl, “can you remove the curse upon me?” Her gaunt face was tight with fear and hope, her brittle black hair hanging loose and ragged about her head. “Can you let me die at last?”

  Calliande hesitated. “Perhaps.” Antenora’s power would be useful in the battles ahead, and Calliande did not want to lose her help. Yet the poor woman had spent fifteen centuries trying to undo her curse, trying to find a way to redeem that long-ago betrayal. “Let me look at you.”

  Antenora
nodded and went still, her head bowed.

  Calliande focused her Sight upon Antenora. She saw the aura of magical power around the ancient sorceress, the lingering echo of the elemental fire she had called for centuries. The Sight revealed deeper wounds upon Antenora, the marks of the dark magic she had wielded long ago, the scars left when Mordred Pendragon had stolen her magic to fuel his own. Mordred’s death at the hands of the High King had shattered that connection, and the dregs of Mordred’s power had backlashed into Antenora, binding themselves to her spirit. That had kept her alive for all those centuries, chaining her spirit to her flesh in a corrupted form of life that required neither food nor rest. The spell was ancient and profound, one that was beyond Calliande’s skill to unravel. It would have been beyond even Ardrhythain’s power to break.

  But Calliande saw the spell’s weakness.

  “It can’t be broken,” said Calliande. “But it can be undone.”

  “How?” said Antenora.

  “Your curse was created by an act of treachery,” said Calliande. “Therefore it can only be undone by an act of fidelity. You must swear to a task and hold faith with it until the end.”

  “So be it,” said Antenora. “Then I swear by God, the Dominus Christus, and all the saints that I shall follow you, Keeper of Avalon and Andomhaim, until Shadowbearer is defeated and the Frostborn are banished from this world once more.”

  “Are you sure?” said Calliande. “I have no hold over you…”

  “I am your apprentice,” said Antenora.

  “If you wish,” said Calliande, “but this task will be a dangerous one. You saw Shadowbearer’s power, and he will call many potent allies to his side.”

  “It matters not,” said Antenora. “My life ended long ago, destroyed by my folly. All that is left is to atone, to enter the grave I earned long ago. I swear that I will aid you until the end, until Shadowbearer is defeated and the Frostborn no longer threaten Andomhaim. This I swear.”

  The curse binding her seemed to stir, like an old house swaying in a gale, and then went still again.

  “It is done, then,” said Calliande. “I am the Keeper, and you shall be my apprentice.”

  Antenora bowed her head. “I am not worthy of the honor.”

  “Given that my last apprentice tried to murder me,” said Calliande, “I suspect you will do well.”

  “Truly?” said Ridmark, frowning. “Your apprentice tried to murder you?”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “Lydia was one of the first Eternalists. That was one of the things that set me upon this path, one of the things that helped me to realize that Shadowbearer would try to corrupt Andomhaim from within.”

  “I may have to ask you some questions,” said Ridmark. “I have spent the last five years trying to find the answer for the mystery of the Frostborn. We did, in Urd Morlemoch, but there are so many other questions I would like answered.”

  “Of course,” said Calliande. “You can ask me to do whatever you want.”

  Belatedly she realized just how that sounded, and then felt a burst of embarrassment, followed by sadness. Ridmark, thank God, did not notice. Or he was polite enough to pretend that he didn’t notice.

  “The Dragon Knight,” said Ridmark. “Kalomarus. What happened to him? He simply disappeared from the pages of the histories of Andomhaim.”

  “I…don’t know, actually,” said Calliande. He had been a grim and formidable warrior, but nonetheless a good friend. “Ardrhythain gave him the Dragon Sword, containing the power of one of the ancient dragons. After the war, he took me to first Dragonfall and then the Tower of Vigilance…and I don’t know what happened to him after that. I think…”

  The sound of running footsteps interrupted her thoughts.

  Gavin raced into the Hall of the East, using Truthseeker to augment his speed.

  “What’s wrong?” said Ridmark.

  “The Anathgrimm,” said Gavin. “They’re coming up the foothills. They must have retreated through the Gate of the East.”

  Ridmark nodded and started for the gate, staff in hand, and Calliande and Antenora hurried after him. “How many of them?”

  “I think,” said Gavin, “all of them.”

  Chapter 23: The Dead God

  Mara stood alone at the edge of the platform, gazing at the Anathgrimm warriors standing motionless below.

  Well, not alone. Jager was at her side. Hundreds of Anathgrimm warriors stared up at her, probably thousands of them, and Jager had not hesitated to join her. Mara felt a wave of affection for her husband, the man who had accompanied her through so many dangers.

  “So,” said Jager in a low voice. “Are they just going to…stand there? Staring? It’s very strange. Rude, too.”

  “I…don’t know,” said Mara.

  She glanced back towards the massive Gate of the East, a towering façade carved from the face of the mountain. The Gate of the West had opened into a small valley, but a broad flight of stairs descended from the Gate of the East, ending at a hill that had been carved into a fortified platform. Below the stone platform the vast forest began, and the Anathgrimm waited there, stark and forbidding in their steel armor and bone masks.

  Arandar and Gavin and Morigna and the others waited at the base of the stairs, weapons in hand. Mara had stood with them at first, waiting to see what the Anathgrimm would do, but something had drawn her out. Something had made her come out, ignoring Arandar’s and Morigna’s calls to come back, and she had told the others to remain on the stairs.

  The Anathgrimm had not hurt Mara. They had not attacked.

  She did not think they were going to attack anyone.

  Mara watched her father’s slaves. At least, they had been her father’s slaves. He had enslaved them on a deep and profound level, twisting their hearts and minds to regard him as a god. Yet Mara had just killed their god. What would they do now?

  “Look,” murmured Jager.

  A figure moved among the ranks of the Anathgrimm, a towering shape in fine armor, his bone mask stark against his green skin. Mara recognized Zhorlacht, dark wizard and priest of the Traveler. Zhorlacht stepped away from the waiting Anathgrimm orcs and stopped, gazing up at Mara.

  It was hard to judge his expression beneath the bone mask, but Zhorlacht seemed…lost. Sad, even.

  For a moment Mara and Zhorlacht stared at each other.

  “Daughter of the lord Traveler,” said the orcish wizard at last.

  “I have a name,” said Mara. “Mara.”

  Zhorlacht hesitated. “Mara. Yes. Is that not an ancient word from the Old Earth of the humans? It means ‘bitter’, I believe.”

  “It does,” said Mara, surprised that he knew it.

  “Bitter,” said Zhorlacht. “It is appropriate. For you have brought bitterness to our lives, Mara of Andomhaim. You slew our god.”

  “Your god?” said Mara, her exasperation bursting through her self-control. “Your god?” She stepped forward. “He was a monster! He made my mother a slave and forced himself upon her, and she died making sure I wouldn’t become one of his slaves for the rest of my days. He turned all of you into his slaves, twisting your flesh into weapons and warping your minds so you would kiss his boots.” Mara realized that she was shouting, but she was too upset to care. “All of that and he was a coward, too! He hid in Nightmane Forest behind his wards while the urdmordar devoured the rest of his kindred! When you fought the Mhorites in the Vale of Stone Death, he would have hidden behind his precious wards had Mournacht not forced him to fight. He spent your lives by the hundreds to seize the Keeper’s power, and cared nothing for your deaths! Now at last he is dead, and you still think he is your god?”

  She fell silent, shaking a little with anger and sadness.

  “Do you think us fools?” said Zhorlacht. There was no anger in his voice, only weariness. “We know what our god was. We were not blind. Yet he was our god. Our entire purpose was to serve him. What are we now that our god is dead?”

  “Free,” said Mara at onc
e. “You are free of him.”

  “What is freedom?” said Zhorlacht. “It is useless with purpose. Our entire purpose was to serve the Traveler. Without our purpose, we are nothing.”

  “Then what are you going to do?” said Mara.

  “We are going to kill ourselves,” said Zhorlacht.

  “What?” said Mara. “Why? No!”

  “Why not?” said Zhorlacht. “We are without purpose, we are without meaning. Our god has died, and we must die with him.”

  Mara stared at him, and the dark truth occurred to her.

  Zhorlacht and the other Anathgrimm were going to kill themselves because the Traveler had designed them to do it, had used his dark magic to burn a final command into the brains of his mutated orcs. It was his one last, spiteful blow, his final act of malice. If he was ever killed, he would make sure that all his slaves died with him.

  “No,” said Mara. “Don’t you see? This is something else he did to you. You’re not killing yourself because your god is dead. You’re killing yourselves because the monster that pretended to be your god is trying to torture you one final time.”

  “He was our god,” said Zhorlacht. “Our purpose is gone.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Mara, groping for words. God and the saints, but she wished she was more eloquent. “He did this to you. He’s making you kill yourselves out of spite. That’s all! You haven’t lost your purpose.”

  “He was our god,” said Zhorlacht. “Now we have no other reason to live.”

  Mara wanted to scream in anger. They were going to do it. They were going to kill themselves, and the Traveler would have one final victory over those he had tortured for centuries…

  “Wait!” said Jager.

  Mara looked at him, and Zhorlacht and the others followed suit.

  “This is not your concern, halfling,” said Zhorlacht.

  “Of course not,” Jager agreed, brushing some dust from his sleeve. “Not my concern at all. In fact, I don’t even like you all that much. If you want to kill yourselves out of grief for that shrieking coward you called a god, well…far be it from me to stop you.”