Ridmark struggled against the freezing shadows, but he could not move. He could not even turn his head to look at Morigna.
“You know,” said Imaria in a soft voice, “I hated you for a long time. From the moment you first turned your greedy, lustful eyes toward my sister. She was too good for you, Ridmark Arban.” Her lips thinned, the green eyes seeming to blaze with hatred. “Of course both you and Tarrabus loved her. She was perfect. She was perfect, and you killed her.”
But Aelia hadn’t been perfect. Ridmark had loved his wife with all his heart, and she had been a kindly and generous woman, but she had not been perfect. Her self-confidence had bordered on arrogance, and her generous nature had gone hand-in-hand with a desire to control the recipients of her generosity, to dictate every aspect of their lives, and she had expected Imaria to obey her without question. Ridmark hadn’t been perfect, either, but he and Aelia had overlooked each other’s flaws because they loved each other, and both of them had worked to overcome those flaws. He realized that Imaria had some perfect image of Aelia in her head, a perfect image that she desired to revenge.
“Then you killed her,” hissed Imaria. “She was my sister, my best friend, and you killed her. You were too weak to save her from Mhalek, too weak and too stupid.” She shook her head. “I despaired after that. I prayed for God to avenge Aelia, but he did nothing.” Her face twisted with fury. “The priests said that Aelia had gone to glory with the Dominus Christus, that she would dwell in paradise forevermore among the blessed. Useless lies! How did they repay her blood? How did they take vengeance? That was why I took Tarrabus Carhaine into my bed, you know. He saw me as a poor copy of Aelia, but I hoped he would kill you. He failed at that, too. But then Tarrabus introduced me to the Enlightened…and then I understood the truth at last.”
She stepped closer to Ridmark, so close that he felt her hot breath upon her face. Her green eyes glittered with manic intensity. He had seen that same glittering gleam in the eyes of the Mhorite orcs as they charged into battle, as they called out to Mhor, as they killed in his name.
Mhalek had looked the same way in his final moments, and Ridmark wondered if Imaria had gone mad.
“All other gods are false,” whispered Imaria, “for I prayed to Incariel, and its shadow answered me. It filled me! It poured into my mind like water into a desert. I understood. I understood at last! Do you not see? The material shall be consumed in fire. All that remains is the spirit, immortal and eternal. The Enlightened do not understand. Tarrabus does not understand. Not even Shadowbearer understands. But the shadow of Incariel whispers in my mind. I see the truth.”
She seized Ridmark’s chin, pulled his face down, and kissed him hard. He tried to pull away, but he could not. The shadows bound him fast.
“I see the truth,” said Imaria, licking her lips as she stepped away from him, still gripping his chin. Her fingers felt feverish and hot. “I see the truth, but you will not. This is only the beginning, Ridmark. Your death. I see the truth, but you will not live to see it.”
She turned his head, forcing him to look at Morigna. The shadows held Morigna motionless, frozen halfway through the act of casting a spell. He met Morigna’s eyes and saw the fear there, the struggle as she tried to break free from the shadow’s power.
“Look at her,” murmured Imaria. “I want you to look at her. Your Wilderland bitch. My sister has been in her grave only five years, Ridmark Arban, and already you have replaced her. How I wish Aelia could have seen this. How I wish she could have come through that door and seen you mounted atop that woman, so Aelia could at last understand what kind of man you are.” She smiled, reached into her black sash, and drew a dagger. “I think I’ve finally figured out how to repay you for Aelia’s death. You’ll get to watch what I’m going to do next.”
Fear surged through Ridmark, and he strained with all his strength, but he still could not move.
“And no one’s coming to rescue you, either,” said Imaria, stepping towards Morigna as she hefted the dagger. “The Weaver has killed your precious Keeper by now. Did you sleep with her, too? Did you betray my sister in the Keeper’s bed as well?” She grinned. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” The dagger glinted in her hand, the blade reflecting the ghostly lights of the moons. “Watch closely. She won’t be able to scream, but you’ll see the pain in her eyes.”
Imaria stepped towards Morigna, raising the dagger.
Ridmark struggled, but his muscles refused to obey him.
###
A deathly chill washed through Calliande, and her eyes shot open. For a moment she thought the shutters to her small room had blown open, but that was absurd. It was still late summer, and the nights were hot and muggy. She started to sit up, wondering where the chill had originated.
But she could not move.
Thousands upon thousands of shadowy black threads wound around her bare arms and legs, seeming to sink into her flesh without touching her skin. Calliande tried to move again, but the terrible chill leeched away her strength. She summoned magic, but the black threads drained away the power. Fear surged through her, and she blinked, trying to follow the maze of threads to their source.
A man in a white robe stood at the foot of her bed, his face gentle, his blue eyes kindly. He held his arms over the bed, and his hands had…vanished, replaced by thousands upon thousands of delicate black threads erupting from his sleeves.
Suddenly Calliande knew why Imaria had called him the Weaver.
“Ah, Calliande,” said the Weaver. “You’re awake. How very excellent.” His voice was soft, and would not carry through the thick wood of the door. “I’m going to kill you, both because the master commanded it, and because you are an obstacle to the great vision. But before you die, I wanted to remind you who I was.”
She had never seen this man before in her life. She drew breath to scream, but the shadowy threads wrapping her head tightened, draining away her breath.
“Of course, I know you don’t remember me,” he said in that same calm, gentle voice. “I look a little different now. The shadow of Incariel taught me many things. But let us see if I can remember what I looked like when you knew me.”
His head exploded.
Calliande would have flinched, had she been able to move. Instead of blood and brains and bone, his head exploded into a spray of a thousand lashing black threads, every one of them whipping about of their own volition. The threads reknit themselves, weaving into a new shape, the head of a middle-aged man with graying black hair and bloodshot gray eyes, his face lined, but a sardonic smile on his lips.
And that face Calliande did know.
“Ah,” murmured the Weaver. “So you do remember, even after all those centuries.”
She had known him, centuries ago, though he had not been called the Weaver back then. She had known him as Toridan, a Magistrius of the Order, one of the new generation of Magistri that had come of age in the final phases of the long war against the Frostborn. He had also been friends with Talvinius and Coriolus, the Magistri had been the forerunners of the Eternalists and the Enlightened of Incariel, the Magistri who had corrupted Calliande’s apprentice and listened to the deceptions of Shadowbearer…the Magistri who had set Calliande upon the path that had led her to the Tower of Vigilance.
And like Talvinius and Coriolus, Toridan had survived the centuries to threaten Calliande once more.
“Pity,” said the Weaver, and his head exploded again, reforming itself into the shape of the kind-eyed old man. “Pity indeed, Calliande. All those centuries, all that work and danger, and you die here because you neglected to set a ward upon your door.” The shadow of Incariel shimmered before her Sight, obvious as the Weaver drew upon the dark power within him. “But your death is necessary. The Shadowbearer has foreseen it. I…”
The door burst open.
Antenora stood in the hallway outside, her gaunt face tight with rage, her staff smoldering with harsh fire. The Weaver turned to look at her, his expression amused
.
“What’s this?” he said. “Some freak of dark magic you found in the Wilderland?”
“You will release the Keeper, shadowed one,” said Antenora.
“It can talk!” said the Weaver, laughing. “But not for long.”
He waved his right arm, and half the threads holding Calliande leapt from her skin and flew at Antenora. Some of Calliande’s strength returned, and she tried to summon magic, tried to draw enough power for a spell, but the remaining threads wrapped around her were more than enough to disrupt it.
The threads from the Weaver’s right arm leaped towards Antenora, starting to curl around her. The sigils upon Antenora’s staff blazed brighter, and the threads recoiled, vanishing as they touched the fiery light. For the first time a hint of annoyance went over the Weaver’s expression, and he waved his right arm again, more threads leaping across the small room to coil around Antenora.
The ancient sorceress snarled and struck the end of her staff against the floor.
Fire blasted from her, the black threads shriveling and vanishing in the flame, and yellow-orange light swallowed the room.
###
Morigna struggled against the shadows binding her.
It was useless. That madwoman Imaria might not have the raw power of Shadowbearer, but Morigna could still not move. If she could have reached Ridmark’s staff, the high elven weapon would have protected her from the shadows.
She considered reaching for the dark magic trapped within her. Even as the thought crossed her mind, the cold shadows seemed to sharpen. They were feeding on the dark magic within her, yet making the dark magic stronger at the same time. Morigna knew the dark magic could slice through the shadows, at least long enough for her to work a spell. Imaria moved closer, the dagger shining in her hand.
Morigna had no choice left. She started to reach for the dark magic…
The door exploded.
There was a roar and a wash of heat, and the door ripped off its hinges, tumbled through the air, and smashed against the wall. Imaria whirled, her mouth hanging open in surprise. A fire blazed in the hallway outside, Antenora standing in its midst, her staff shining as the fires crackled around her.
As Imaria stared at the Keeper’s apprentice, the shadows wavered.
Morigna launched herself at Imaria, slamming into the Magistria. Imaria let out a furious screech, trying to raise the dagger for a blow, but Morigna was stronger. Her weight overbalanced Imaria, driving her to the ground, and she landed atop the Magistria. Morigna slammed Imaria’s wrist against the ground, knocking the dagger away. She snatched the weapon up, intending to drive it into Imaria’s throat.
Shadow swirled beneath Morigna, and Imaria vanished. Morigna’s bare legs slapped against the stone floor. Imaria had traveled away, using the shadow of Incariel to disappear as Shadowbearer had within Khald Azalar.
“Are you all right?” said Ridmark. The staff of Ardrhythain was in his hand, the symbols in the black wood giving off a pale white glow. There was a deadly fear in his eyes, coupled with terrible rage. Morigna had thought Ridmark might be relucant to attack his dead wife’s sister, but she was now certain that if Imaria had still been in the room, Ridmark would have killed her without hesitation.
“Yes,” said Morigna. “I…”
“Gray Knight!” screamed Antenora. “Aid me! The Keeper’s life is in danger. Aid me!”
Chapter 12: Threads
Ridmark burst through the ruined door, the stone floor hot against his bare feet.
Antenora stood in the corridor, her staff thrust before her. Flames blazed around the staff, forming a shimmering dome of yellow-orange light. Antenora’s face was tight, her yellow eyes wide, her lips peeled back from her teeth in a snarl of rage. The woman usually seemed emotionless, even apathetic, and Ridmark could only think of one thing that would rouse her to such fury.
Someone had threatened Calliande’s life.
The door to Calliande’s room stood open, and inside Ridmark saw…
Threads?
Thousands upon thousands of shadowy black threads poured forth from the room, trying to wrap around Antenora like a living spider’s web. The threads recoiled from the fiery light of Antenora’s staff. Yet the threads were inching closer and closer to her, and Antenora’s arms were staring to shake with fatigue.
Ridmark ran to her side, holding out his staff. The symbols cut into the length of black wood had already started glowing in Imaria’s presence, and now they shone brighter, so bright they were almost painful to look at. A pool of white light seemed to fall around Ridmark's feet, and the shadowy threads recoiled, withdrawing back into Calliande’s room.
Morigna staggered out of the bedroom, her staff in hand.
“Stay close behind me,” said Ridmark, and he stepped forward, lifting the glowing staff. As he did, the shadows recoiled, drawing back through the door.
He took three sharp steps into Calliande’s room. Calliande lay upon the bed, wearing only a shift, countless shadowy threads wrapped around her. Facing the door stood the white-robed priest that Imaria had called the Weaver, his pale blue eyes narrowed with annoyance.
Thousands of the shadowy strands poured from his sleeves, wrapping around Calliande and pouring towards Ridmark.
“How,” said the Weaver, annoyance in his gentle voice, “are you doing that?”
“Let her go,” said Ridmark.
“Or what?” said the Weaver, raising his white eyebrows. “You’ll beat me to death with your glowing stick? I can assure you that is very unlikely.”
“He is one of the Enlightened, Gray Knight,” said Antenora. “A powerful one.”
“Obviously,” said the Weaver. “I see Imaria has failed. I suspect she paused to indulge in a monologue. A childish mistake.” He smiled. “Though I am guilty of the same thing, I fear. It will make no difference the end. The outcome has already been determined.”
“And what outcome is that?” said Ridmark, gauging the distance to the Weaver. He did not think the strange Enlightened could stop him before he struck, not if Ardrhythain’s staff kept the dark threads from touching him.
“Why, the shadow of Incariel shall devour all things and free us from the crude world of matter,” said the Weaver. “My boy, do you still think this is really about the Frostborn? How very provincial of you.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Ridmark, and he surged forward, whipping the glowing staff toward the Weaver’s head. The threads rippled away, and his staff impacted the side of the Weaver’s skull with bone-crushing force. The blow would have killed a young, strong man. It should have turned the skull of a man the Weaver’s age into jelly.
Instead, the Weaver’s head exploded in a spray of black threads.
Ridmark stumbled as his staff passed through the threads, and the Weaver leaped backwards, landing in the corner of the room. The threads withdrew, spinning and flowing as the Weaver started to change shape. Ridmark caught his balance, and the threads merged and pushed together, taking a new form.
The Weaver had turned himself into an urhaalgar.
Or, at least, a creature that looked something like an urhaalgar. Most of the urhaalgars Ridmark had fought were short, spindly creatures, shorter than even Jager, their thin limbs covered with spines. The thing that the Weaver had become stood seven feet tall, his limbs heavy and thick with muscle, spines jutting from his limbs as long as daggers, their edges serrated, his flesh covered with glistening black scales. A scorpion’s tail rose over the Weaver’s spiked shoulders, the stinger dripping with venom.
It was exactly the kind of creature Ridmark would not have wanted to fight in an enclosed space.
Calliande tried to sit up and slumped back against the pillow, breathing hard, her blue eyes fixed on the nightmarish creature.
The Weaver lunged, claws reaching for Ridmark’s midsection, the scorpion tail shooting over his shoulder towards Ridmark’s face. Ridmark dodged, deflecting the tail with a sweep of his staff, and brought the weapo
n down upon the Weaver’s outstretched arms. The staff flashed as bone cracked, and the Weaver stepped back with a hiss of pain. His arms exploded into black threads, and when they reformed into their clawed shape all trace of the broken bones had vanished.
“You know, when I was a Magistrius I found this sort of melee fighting quite distasteful,” said Weaver. His voice was still calm, the voice of a kindly old monk instructing children in arithmetic or Latin grammar. “But over the last century I’ve found it most pleasurable. I’m going to enjoy ripping off your head and drinking your blood.”
Ridmark shot a glance to the side. Morigna and Antenora stood in the doorway, their magic ready. They didn’t have a clear shot at the Weaver as long as he was in the way. He looked back at the Weaver, his mind racing, his pulse thundering in his ears.
“Imaria will be upset,” said Ridmark, “if you kill me.”
The Weaver made a chiding noise. “If Imaria wanted to kill you herself, she should have done so already.” Ridmark took a step to the left. “Certainly she has had every opportunity, but delayed to indulge her hatred of you. Ah! There I go again. I talk entirely too much.”
He shot forward in a blur, again raking with his claws, the scorpion tail shooting forward. Ridmark dodged, but not fast enough, and one of the claws slashed across the right side of his chest, pain exploding through his torso. Yet the scorpion tail missed him, and the stinger struck the wardrobe behind him, getting stuck in the thick wood. Ridmark sidestepped and swept his staff in a low swing, striking the Weaver across the legs. The Weaver lost his balance and fell, and Ridmark threw himself towards the bed.
“Morigna!” he shouted. “Now!”
Morigna cast her spell, a veil of acidic mist rolling over the prone form of the Weaver. The Weaver snarled in fury, ripping his tail free from the wardrobe as his scales started to char and smolder beneath the acid.
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 17