Antenora leveled her hand and unleashed her own power. A burst of white-hot flame stabbed from her palm and slashed into the Weaver, ripping down his flank and leaving a charred trench in his flesh. The heat of it bloomed through the room, and Ridmark felt sweat drip down his face to join the blood flowing against his chest. The Weaver’s growl of fury became a scream of pain, and his form exploded into a spray of whirling black threads. The threads leaped away from Ridmark and moved to the corner, solidifying back into the form of the urhaalgar.
The wounds from Antenora’s spell had vanished.
“Now,” said the Weaver, “we…”
A burst of white fire leaped from the bed and slammed into the Weaver. The creature bounced against the wall with an outraged scream, the white fire washing around it. Calliande staggered to her feet, leaning on the staff of the Keeper, her free hand extended. The fire winked out, and Calliande swayed on her feet, looking as if she was about to faint. The Weaver shook himself, trying to recover his balance. Black threads snapped and wavered around him, as if his body was trying to pull itself back together.
“Go!” shouted Ridmark. He grabbed Calliande’s arm. The skin felt cold beneath his hand. Perhaps the Weaver had been draining her strength. “Run!” If they withdrew, they could find the Swordbearers. Whatever strange powers the Weaver possessed, whatever ghastly forms he could take, Ridmark was certain that he could not stand against a soulblade’s wrath.
Calliande staggered after him as they raced from the room.
“Foes!” roared Ridmark at the top of his lungs. “Foes! Foes are loose in the keep. To arms! To arms!”
Morigna and Antenora both took up the cry, and Ridmark headed for the stairs, Calliande half-leaning against him. Ridmark’s side burned with pain, every breath, every beat of his heart sending another wave of sharp agony through him, and he wondered how deeply the Weaver’s claws had cut.
The door to one of the rooms opened, and Kharlacht started to stick his head out.
The Weaver burst from Calliande’s room, wearing the form of an ursaar, a hideous, bear-like creature. He ignored Kharlacht and raced after Ridmark, red-glowing eyes fixed upon Calliande.
###
Morigna hurried after Ridmark and Calliande, trying to keep her balance on the slick stone steps.
“Antenora,” said Ridmark.
Antenora slammed the end of her staff against the floor. A wall of flame rose up, sealing off the stairs. With a sick feeling, Morigna realized that the flames had sealed the Weaver with Kharlacht and Caius and the others.
The sick feeling intensified when the Weaver ploughed through the wall of flames without stopping. Morigna cursed and kept running, stumbling down the stairs after Ridmark and Calliande and Antenora. Antenora whirled, her black coat flying around her, and threw a blast of flame up the stairs. It struck the stone step at the Weaver’s clawed feet and exploded, the force of the blast knocking the creature against the wall. The heat roared past Morigna, so hot it made her eyes water, so hot against her bare legs that it felt as if she had been sunburned. It took a moment for the Weaver to regain his balance, and Morigna and the others kept running.
They stumbled into the great hall, moving across the dais near the curule chair. Dagma and her servants had been efficient, and the plates and chairs and tables had been cleared away. At the moment the great hall was deserted.
“Ridmark,” croaked Calliande. She turned toward the stairs, gripping her staff in both hands. She wavered, and Ridmark grabbed her shoulder. “Don’t let me fall over.”
The Weaver sprang to the bottom of the stairs a moment later, moving with fluid agility despite the great bulk of his ursaar form, and Calliande struck. In the enclosed space of the stairs, the Weaver didn’t have time to dodge, and the white fire of Calliande’s spell hammered into him. The creature’s bellow filled the air like a physical thing, and the creature half-fell, half-rolled into the great hall. The Weaver regained his balance, and Morigna cast a spell of her own. She hadn’t dared to use it in the upper floors of the keep for fears of collapsing the ceiling, but she could use it here. The stone floor rippled and folded beneath the Weaver’s paws, and the creature fell again. Calliande struck with a blazing shaft of white flame, elemental magic and the power of the Well and the strength of the Keeper wrapped together in a single lance of force that howled against Morigna’s magical senses like a storm wind. The spell flung the Weaver against the wall with enough force that the entire keep shook, and the ursaar exploded in a tangled spray of writhing black threads.
For a moment Morigna was sure that that the battle was over, that the Keeper had overcome the Weaver. Yet the maze of black threads reknit themselves, taking on the form of the old man in the white robe once more, though he had a leathery black cloak wrapped around him.
“Better than I expected,” murmured the Weaver. “The centuries have not weakened you, Calliande of Tarlion. I almost regret that we are on opposite sides…”
The doors to the courtyard burst open, and the white flare of a soulblade caught Morigna’s eye. Arandar and Gavin rushed into the great hall, Heartwarden and Truthseeker burning with wrath. Dux Gareth stalked next to them, accompanied by Sir Joram and Sir Constantine and a half-dozen Swordbearers, and the Dux’s stern face turned cold and terrible as he looked at the Weaver.
Perhaps he had hoped to think the best of his daughter to the very end.
“It’s over, Toridan,” said Calliande. “Tell us what you know about the Enlightened and I will let you live.”
“Are you so sure?” said the Weaver, smiling as he flexed his hands.
“You cannot overcome me, not when I am awake,” said Calliande, “and whatever dark powers the Enlightened have given you, they cannot overcome the fury of a soulblade.”
“Mmm,” said the Weaver. “It would have been simpler if you had died now, but no matter. The outcome has been already decided.” He spread his hands. “Farewell, Keeper of Andomhaim. We shall see each other again very soon.”
“Take him,” said Gareth.
The Swordbearers started forward, and the Weaver leaped into the air. His black cape unfolded around him, and Morigna realized that it wasn’t actually a cape.
It was a set of enormous leathery black wings.
The Weaver seized one of the windows and jumped through it, taking to the air. Gavin and Arandar and Constantine sprinted to the window, and Calliande threw another shaft of white fire, but it was too late. Morigna glimpsed a flash of light reflecting off the leathery wings, and then the Weaver was gone.
Silence fell over the great hall.
###
A short time later Ridmark stood in the great hall, fully dressed and armored, while Dux Gareth paced back and forth before the dais.
“I was a fool,” the Dux growled. “A blind fool.”
“Treachery cuts the deepest,” said Calliande, leaning upon her staff, “when it comes from those closest to us.” She had donned her clothes as well, but dark circles still ringed her eyes, and she hadn’t recovered from the Weaver’s chilling touch. “I know that well.”
“The only mercy,” said Gareth, “is that her mother did not live to see this. She was a pious woman, and it would have broken her heart.” He looked at Ridmark. “Though it is a small mercy.”
“It is, my lord,” said Ridmark, thinking of Aelia, thinking of the snarling, mad hatred that had filled Imaria’s voice. He looked at Morigna. He had come within a hair’s breadth of seeing her die in front of him, just as Aelia had been.
“Sir Joram,” said Gareth. “Issue a decree. Both my daughter Imaria and the cultist known as the ‘Weaver’ are hereby accused of attempted murder, treason, blasphemy, and the practice of dark magic. They are to be arrested on sight, to be arraigned before the High King’s court for these crimes.” His face and voice hardened. “If they resist…then they are to be killed.”
“If they can,” said Calliande. “My lord Dux, they are both extremely dangerous. Anyone other than a Swo
rdbearer or a Magistrius should not attempt to fight them. I suspect Imaria and the Weaver could deal with a common man-at-arms with ease, despite his courage and valor.”
“It will not be hard to find them,” said Morigna. She had retrieved her clothes and her tattered cloak. “They will flee to join Shadowbearer and assist him at the Black Mountain.”
“Then we may have to face my sister when we march on the morrow,” said Constantine.
“Antenora,” said Ridmark. The sorceress stood silent by the charred stairs, near Kharlacht and Caius and the others.
“Gray Knight?” said Antenora.
“Thank you,” said Ridmark. “The Weaver and Imaria would have killed us all if you had not intervened.”
“I failed,” said Antenora. “Had I been more attentive, they never would have approached. They have power to cloak themselves even from the Sight. I should have been more attentive.”
“Nevertheless, your friends are still alive,” said Gareth. “Your fierce loyalty is most commendable.”
Antenora bowed her head. “The Dux is too kind.”
“I suggest you get some sleep, if you still can,” said Gareth. “Tomorrow we shall…”
The distant sound of a trumpet rang out from the north.
“What is that?” said Calliande.
“The northern gate towers,” said Joram. “They’ve…”
More trumpets rang out, dozens of them, accompanied by the deep moan of war horns.
War horns, if Ridmark gauged the distance correctly, that were coming from outside the walls.
“The enemy is here,” said Gareth.
Chapter 13: The Host of Shadow
Gavin ran through the street, following Ridmark and the Dux and the others.
Around him Dun Licinia erupted with activity. Men burst from houses or rose from their bedrolls upon the street, donning armor and lifting weapons in haste. Companies of archers ran for the walls, short bows in hand, quivers belted to their waists and slung over their shoulders. Again and again the trumpet blasts rang out, calling the men of Dun Licinia to arms. Gavin heard the deep moan of Mhorite war horns from outside the wall, accompanied by the rattling boom of marching drums.
There were a lot of horns.
Just how many Mhorites were outside the walls? Gavin’s first thought was that the watchmen had spotted a Mhorite scouting band. But the watchmen would not have roused the town to fight off a single band of scouts, would they?
The streets were packed, but they made good time. Men saw the Dux and bowed, making way for the lord of the Northerland. Sometimes the men bowed twice, even after Gareth and Joram had passed. Gavin wondered why, and then with a flicker of alarm he realized that the men were bowing to him. He was a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, and it seemed such men were respected in Andomhaim.
He was never going to get used to that. Perhaps that was just as well. Someone like Tarrabus Carhaine was probably used to having people bow to him.
Antenora gazed to the north, her yellow eyes glimmering.
“What do you see?” said Gavin. “Something with the Sight?”
“Dark magic,” murmured Antenora. “I see dark magic, Gavin Swordbearer. Similar to the powers we saw unleashed in the Vale of Stone Death.”
Mara had killed the Traveler, so that meant…
“Mournacht?” said Gavin. “Mournacht himself is here?”
“The Mhorite warlord,” said Antenora. “I believe so.”
“We should tell Calliande,” said Gavin.
“No need,” said Antenora. “I expect the Keeper already knows.”
They reached the forum below the gate and climbed to the ramparts. Around them men moved to their assigned places. It reminded Gavin a little of Vulmhosk, of when Smiling Otto’s men had hastened to guard the wooden ramparts to defend against the Mhorite raiders. Of course, Vulmhosk’s walls had been of wood, and Dun Licinia’s were wrought of stone. Smiling Otto had employed a ragged band of mercenaries, while Dux Gareth commanded knights, men-at-arms, and seasoned militiamen. Though at Vulmhosk, there had been only a few hundred Mhorite warriors.
There were far more Mhorites outside the walls of Dun Licinia.
Thousands more.
Gavin looked over the ramparts at the enemy army.
“How did they come upon us so quickly?” said Gareth. “The scouts should have given us ample warning. It is impossible to hide such a large number.”
“The scouts have been arriving piecemeal over the last few moments,” said the knight in command of the northern gate. “Those who survived, anyway. The Mhorites concentrated their forces at the base of the Black Mountain, and then forced a march to Dun Licinia. Our scouts were swept before them like a storm, and only just arrived.”
“I suspect many of them might not have made it,” said Jager. His voice was grim, and he looked a little hung over. Likely Jager and his sister had renewed their acquaintance over a considerable amount of wine. But it was not the hangover that made his voice grim. “The scouts were hunted. Look, my lord.”
He pointed. Gavin peered into the gloom. Jager’s eyes were better than his, and for a long moment he saw nothing. Yet there were dark gaps between the columns of Mhorite warriors, and Gavin saw shapes moving in the gaps, dark shapes.
Then his brain made sense of the image, and his hand jerked towards Truthseeker’s hilt.
There were dvargir warriors with the Mhorites.
Thousands upon thousands of dvargir warriors. Gavin had fought dvargir twice before, once in the ruins of Thainkul Dural near Moraime, and once again in the foundry chambers of Khald Azalar. He had no wish to face them again. The Mhorites fought with savage, bloodthirsty ferocity. The dvargir fought with the same intensity, but disciplined and ordered. Gavin would rather face ten disorganized foes than three dvargir warriors operating in harmony.
“The dvargir,” said Ridmark.
“The dvargir of Khaldurmar regard Shadowbearer as a prophet of the great void,” said Calliande. “He must have summoned them to his side.”
“How many?” said Gareth.
“I cannot say, lord Dux,” said Jager, peering into the gloom. “Five thousand, certainly. Likely more.”
“I don’t think it was the dvargir that hunted down the scouts,” said Ridmark. “Look.”
Small gray shapes darted back and forth between the Mhorite orcs and the dvargir warriors. Gavin could not quite make them out, but they looked like some sort of cross between man and lizard. They had spindly limbs, waving tails, and crests of crimson scales that rose from their heads and necks.
“These creatures are unknown to me,” said Antenora. “They look like the trolls we faced in the Vale of Stone Death, but smaller and weaker.”
“Kobolds,” said Ridmark and Calliande in unison. They looked at each other, and Ridmark gestured for Calliande to continue. “They are kin to trolls, but quicker and better organized. They live in villages in the Deeps. Sometimes the dark elves and the dvargir enslave them, and sometimes they live in independent tribes. They only come to the surface to raid for captives, which they use as slaves and for food as the mood strikes them.”
“Are these kobolds slaves or allies?” said Antenora.
“It hardly matters,” said Gareth. “Either way, the dvargir and the Mhorites will employ them as fodder. Send them to die against our walls to wear down our strength, and then bring their main force to bear against us.” He turned to Calliande. “Keeper, we must reconsider our strategy.”
“Clearly,” said Calliande. “Lord Dux, I have erred. I thought Shadowbearer would make for the Black Mountain with his full strength. I did not think he would turn the entirety of his army against us before we had a chance to leave the town.”
“Nothing is certain in war,” said the Dux.
“It is also possible,” said Kharlacht, “that this is not the entirety of Shadowbearer’s force. Perhaps he sent the bulk of it against us, and proceeded with a smaller force to fortify the Tower of
Vigilance.”
Ridmark turned to Calliande again. “How long will it take Shadowbearer to open the gate to the world of the Frostborn?”
“I don’t know,” said Calliande. “The spell requires such tremendous power that he will not be able to work it quickly. A minimum of three days, certainly. Perhaps even as long as a week.”
“Then we must break out and make our way to the Tower of Vigilance,” said Ridmark.
“That will be difficult,” said Joram. “We have seven thousand men here. Unless I miss my guess, I count around twelve thousand of the Mhorites, dvargir, and kobolds outside the wall.”
“It is likely more,” said Caius. “The night will make it easy to conceal them from our sight.”
“This was the foe’s plan all along,” said Gareth. “Shadowbearer knows you are a threat to him, Keeper. So he dispatched my daughter,” his face tightened, “to assassinate you. Then he will throw his army against Dun Licinia while he opens the gate to the Frostborn. In the chaos he shall have ample time to open his gate without interference from us.”
“I fear you are correct,” said Calliande. “I should have anticipated this.”
“If you had not sent your warning to Camorak, Lady Calliande,” said Joram, “we would not have called to the Dux and his vassals for aid. The host outside of our walls would have razed the town, and Shadowbearer would have taken the Black Mountain unopposed. By the time any aid arrived, it would be too late.”
“Very well,” said Calliande. “How should we proceed, then?”
“We can do nothing now,” said Gareth. “Not until dawn. We have a thousand horsemen here, and the foe has no cavalry. Perhaps we can ride through the southern gate, loop around the town, and make for the Black Mountain. Or if the enemy surrounds the town, they will spread their lines thinly, and we can send the horsemen to punch through while the infantry remains to hold the town.”
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 18