“Antenora!” said Calliande. “Now! Cast it now! Cast…”
The older woman nodded and spurred her horse forward.
Three metallic clangs rang over the sound of the battle.
Behind the catapult Calliande saw three smaller war engines the dvargir had maneuvered into position. Ballistae, she thought, to judge from their size and shape.
Ballistae that they had pointed right at her.
The realization saved her life.
Calliande swept the staff of the Keeper before her as the first bolt struck the ground in front of her horse. A dome of white light shimmered to life around her as the bolt exploded in a spray of blue-green fire. Her ward stopped the fire and the heat, but it did not stop the explosion from startling her mount. The horse screamed in fear and reared up, its front hooves lashing at the air. Calliande fought to keep her saddle, but the effort of doing so caused her concentration to waver, and the ward flickered for a split second.
The force of the next explosion knocked her from the saddle and threw her horse over. Calliande went tumbling and hit the ground hard, rolling across the torn earth, clutching her staff. She came to a stop against a dead dvargir warrior, her head bouncing hard off his black cuirass. A wave of dizziness went through her. She saw her horse fleeing, the poor beast’s mane wreathed in blue-green fire. Calliande turned her head, trying to stand.
Dark shapes rushed towards her.
Dvargir warriors. She retained enough presence of mind to realize that was very bad.
Calliande thrust her staff. Earth magic flowed through her, augmented by the mantle of the Keeper, and the ground snapped and rippled like a banner caught in a storm. The dvargir warriors went tumbling, but they did not stay down. They surged back to their feet, swords drawn as they charged at her, their bottomless black eyes digging into her.
She scrambled for a defense, and Calliande managed to cast a ward around herself, a flickering sphere of white light shimmering into existence around her. A half-dozen dvargir surrounded her, hammering at the sphere with their swords, and Calliande felt her will starting to crumple. She could barely hold the spell through the haze in her mind, and when the ward failed, the dvargir were going to kill her.
A roar of fury cut into her confused thoughts, and dark shapes sprang upon the dvargir.
Lupivirii charged into the dvargir warriors, shifting to their full wolf forms. Calliande spotted Rakhaag in their midst, bellowing in fury as he attacked a dvargir.
“Fight!” he shouted. “If the Staffbearer falls, the True People shall perish. Fight!”
He pinned a dvargir warrior beneath his gaunt bulk, his jaws closing around the dvargir’s head as his claws rasped against the warrior’s cuirass. The beastmen snarled as the dvargir fought back, stabbing with their swords. The lupivirii had sharp claws and fangs, but dvargirish steel was stronger by far. One by one the dvargir regained their feet, killing the lupivirii that had pinned them. Calliande saw Rakhaag take a sword to the belly, saw the lupivir alpha stumble several steps.
“Rakhaag!” shouted Calliande. “Run! Run! Go…”
A dvargir axe split Rakhaag’s skull, and he collapsed motionless to the ground. The remaining lupivirii fled in all directions, broken by the death of their alpha. Calliande screamed in rage, trying to summon power for a spell, and the dvargir turned back towards her.
###
Ridmark kicked his horse to a gallop and slammed into one of the dvargir advancing on Calliande.
Their surprise was total. The dvargir had been focused on Calliande, upon killing the Keeper, and between her and the lupivirii they had not seen him coming. The dvargir warrior went down beneath the horse’s hooves, and not even the black armor protected him from the weight of the horse. Ridmark jumped from the saddle, casting aside his shield and axe, and drew his staff from over his shoulder. He rushed into the fray, swinging right and left, and drove the dvargir away from Calliande, even as she tried to sit up. Taken off guard by his mad rush, the dvargir started to fall back, but then their training and experience reasserted themselves. They moved in a half-circle around Ridmark, and he retreated, snapping his staff back and forth to deflect their blows. A sword scraped off his armor, and another opened a cut on his right leg. Ridmark stumbled, and barely avoided a thrust that would have opened his throat.
The dvargir closed around him for the kill.
Blue fire swirled behind one of the warriors on his left, and Mara stepped out of nothingness, driving her short sword forward. The dvargir warrior in front of her went down with a surprised scream, his void-filled eyes wide, and Mara disappeared again before the dvargir could strike back. Ridmark charged into the gap, striking down another dvargir.
“Gavin Swordbearer!” shouted Antenora. She sat atop her horse, trembling as she gripped her staff with both hands, its symbols blazing with harsh light. A huge ball of fire rotated over her head, and even from a distance Ridmark felt the heat from it. Antenora could not aid Calliande, not while she held that fireball in place, and Ridmark wondered how much longer Antenora could control it.
White fire flashed, and Gavin charged into the dvargir, Truthseeker blazing in his fist, the bronze sheen of his dwarven shield reflecting the harsh glow of Antenora’s fireball. The dvargir stepped back, daunted by Gavin’s fury, and the young Swordbearer killed one of the warriors with a quick slash of his soulblade. Ridmark attacked as well, tripping one of the dvargir and driving his staff into the warrior’s temple. There was a crack of bone, and the dvargir warriors retreated.
For a moment they were in a clear spot in the battle, but that would not last long. The dvargir were rallying, and the Mhorites and kobolds were rushing into the fray. Before long the horsemen would have to retreat or be overwhelmed.
“Gavin, heal her as much as you can, quickly,” said Ridmark. Gavin nodded and dropped to Calliande’s side, placing his free hand on her forehead as Truthseeker flickered. “Antenora! Now!”
Antenora threw back her head and screamed, thrusting her staff before her.
The huge fireball rolled through the air. It didn’t seem to be moving fast, but that was only an illusion brought on by its vast size. It soared over the battling horsemen, over the ranks of dvargir warriors, and landed directly on the catapult as the cowled shadowscribes ran for cover.
Ridmark had seen Antenora unleash magical fire several times before, and he knew enough to turn his head and cover his eyes, flinging an arm over his face.
Even through his closed eyelids he saw the brilliant flash, like the sun erupting through the clouds on a summer day.
An instant later he heard the deafening thump of the explosion, followed by a gale of hot air that struck him like a giant hammer. The impact knocked him onto his back, his eyes falling open. A huge plume of furious, roiling flame rose from where the catapult had stood a moment earlier, and Ridmark saw the catapult’s arm tumbling end over end like a straw caught in a storm.
“Ah,” croaked Antenora, weaving a bit in her saddle as she tried to stay upright. She shoved the end of her staff toward the ground and leaned upon it like a cane, jamming her boots into the stirrups. “That was more than I expected.”
Another explosion came as the catapult’s store of missiles detonated in rapid succession, blooms of blue-green flame rising to join Antenora’s blaze.
A trumpet blast rang over the battlefield, sounding the recall back to the walls of Dun Licinia. Now was the perfect moment to retreat. The dvargir had been stunned by the explosion, and the catapult had been destroyed. Even the charging Mhorites and kobolds had stopped to gape at the fireball. That would not last. Once Mournacht and the dvargir captains got their men back in order, they would mount a furious counterassault.
Any horsemen left upon the field would be slaughtered.
“More than you expected, but enough for the task,” said Ridmark. “Gavin! Can she walk?”
“I…I think so,” said Calliande, leaning upon the staff of the Keeper as Gavin helped her to stand. Bl
ue fire flickered, and Mara appeared besides her. Hooves rapped against the ground, and Jager rode closer, steering his truculent war horse with a scowl. A nasty bruise marked the side of Calliande’s face, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. “I recovered my power, and still you and the others must save my life, Ridmark.”
“We haven’t saved it yet,” said Ridmark, looking around. His horse was still a short distance away, turning in a circle as the beast looked for foes.
“Rakhaag,” muttered Calliande, looking at the dead lupivirii. “I told him to run.”
“Calliande!” said Ridmark. She blinked at him. “Where is your horse?”
“I…I don’t know,” she said. “It ran off.”
“You can go with Jager,” said Mara.
Jager’s frown deepened. “How will you get back?”
She smiled up at her husband. “I’ll get to the walls before you do.”
Again the trumpet blast rang out, the horsemen turning toward the northern gate of Dun Licinia. A faint grinding sound came to Ridmark’s ears at the gate began to swing open. Sir Joram would hold it open long enough for the horsemen to retreat, but not a moment longer.
“She’ll ride with Jager,” said Ridmark. “Gavin, give me a hand. Hurry.”
Calliande limped to the horse, and Ridmark and Jager helped her to the saddle. A pair of dvargir warriors edged closer, lifting their weapons, but Antenora leveled her staff and loosed a fireball in their direction. That persuaded them to withdraw to a safe distance.
They would recover their nerve before long.
“Come on,” said Ridmark to Gavin as Mara disappeared in a flash of blue fire and Jager turned his mount towards the town. “You’ll ride with me.”
###
Calliande stood on the rampart, leaning upon her staff next to the Dux as the last of the horsemen reached the gate. Antenora waited next to her, occasionally flinging spheres of fire at any kobolds that attempted to pursue the retreating horsemen. For the most part, the enemy army was in disarray. The explosion of the catapult had demoralized them, and they had not yet reformed in good order.
“Pity we cannot ride out now,” said Joram, wiping sweat from his brow, his curly red hair plastered to his head. “With the foe in disarray, we could ride right through them.”
For a moment Calliande hesitated. Perhaps now was the time. Perhaps if they acted now, they could break through the besiegers and force their way to Black Mountain.
Or perhaps Mournacht would rally his warriors and kill them all.
“No,” said Gareth. “No, we shall issue forth on the morrow. We must reorganize and rearm ourselves, and the men need at least some rest. To act hastily now could doom everything. Do you concur, Keeper?”
“I do,” said Calliande. Her heart screamed for her to hurry, but she knew that haste would lead to ruin.
“Tomorrow at noon,” said Gareth. “We shall attack again then, and try to make for the Black Mountain. I…”
Calliande flinched.
Power blazed before her Sight, a storm of dark magic swirling and dancing around the Black Mountain to the north. It was immense and mighty, and she had encountered it before. Most recently in Urd Morlemoch, when the Warden had tried to open his great gate to Old Earth.
And long ago, centuries ago, around the gate Shadowbearer had opened to the realm of the Frostborn.
“What is it?” said Joram.
Far to the north, before the mass of the Black Mountain, a slender column of blue fire stabbed into the sky.
“Dark magic,” said Antenora.
“It begins,” said Calliande. “Shadowbearer is opening the gate.” She tried to focus the Sight upon the maelstrom of dark magic beginning to rotate around the Black Mountain. “He just started. It will take him…another three days, maybe four, to open the gate.”
“Then we ride tomorrow,” said Gareth.
Chapter 15: Mantles of Shadow
Morigna gazed at the ruined house, at the shattered pile of clay tiles and burned timbers, at the charred brick walls. One of the dvargir missiles had landed atop the house, exploding in the top floor. The fire would have consumed the house and killed everyone within, but Morigna had cast her sleeping mist over the flames. Water could not quench that peculiar fire, but her sleeping mist could smother it. That had slowed the fire long enough for the women and children within to escape.
They had thanked Morigna. One of the women had grabbed her arm, sobbing as she clutched a wailing child against her chest, and thanked God and the saints that Morigna had come. One of Constantine’s men-at-arms had ushered the poor woman away, and they had gone to the next fire, but the memory lingered in Morigna’s mind.
It unsettled her.
She had never cared about other people. At best, they were annoyances and obstacles, and at worst, they would become her enemies. She had never sought to rule over others the way that someone like Tarrabus Carhaine did, but she only wanted to be left alone. She wanted to acquire enough power to make sure she would never be threatened again.
Morigna had never wanted to rule others with her power…but conversely, she had never considered using her power to help them.
The memory of the weeping woman and her wailing child haunted her. That woman could have been Morigna, had her life been different. Had Coriolus not murdered her parents and chosen her as his vessel, Morigna would have eventually married some man of Moraime and then borne him children. Perhaps she might even have wound up settling in Dun Licinia.
That was such an alien thought that it was hard to grasp.
Morigna looked down the narrow street running along the northern wall. All the fires had been quenched, and Sir Constantine had sent her to do one last circuit, to make sure that no fires smoldered out of sight. Constantine reminded her a little of Ridmark, though the Dux reminded her of Ridmark as well. Both Ridmark and Constantine had the same aura of authority, of command, that surrounded the old lord. Likely both of the younger men had learned it from him.
Morigna had little in common with most of the women of Dun Licinia, but she shared one thing with them. She had watched a man she loved ride off into battle, knowing she could do nothing to aid him. It was a dreadful feeling, and not one she wished to repeat. Even when they had gone into deadly danger together at Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar, she had been with him, and her spells had saved his life several times.
Boots rasped against the cobblestones, and Morigna turned. Ridmark came towards her, and behind him the eastern sky was starting to brighten. Morigna had lost all sense of time during the fighting. It had been past midnight when Imaria and the Weaver had attacked the keep, and she supposed the fighting had only lasted a few hours.
It felt much longer.
“You are unhurt?” said Morigna, hurrying towards him.
“Aye,” said Ridmark, and she hugged him. He looked tired and strained, and smelled of sweat and blood, but none of it touched his voice. “All our friends made it, though it was a close thing. Antenora burned the catapult.”
“I assumed as much,” said Morigna, “when fire stopped falling from the sky. And when it looked as if the sun had risen in the north for a few moments.”
“Rakhaag fell, and most of the other lupivirii,” said Ridmark. “The dvargir overwhelmed Calliande when she broke the wards around the catapults. If the lupivirii had not intervened, the dvargir likely would have killed her.”
“I am sorry,” said Morigna. She had not much cared for Rakhaag and his feral followers, but she could tell their deaths had pained Ridmark. “They died well.”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. He shook his head. “Better if no one had died at all, but that is impossible in war.” He looked at the ruined house. “Though it seems you saved many lives this day.”
Morigna shrugged. “I put out fires, that is all. A wretched weapon, to fling fire upon the heads of those unable to fight back.”
“Antenora does the same,” said Ridmark.
“Antenora did not go to Kothluusk, f
ind a Mhorite village, and burn down houses full of women and children,” said Morigna, a bit sharper than she intended.
“No,” said Ridmark. “The face of war is a harsh one.”
“I have seen war,” said Morigna. “At the Iron Tower, and in the Vale of Stone Death.”
“True. Yet Iron Tower was a skirmish,” said Ridmark. “The Vale of Stone Death was a battle, but the Vale of Stone Death had been desolate for centuries. There were no…innocents to be drawn into the battle there. No freeholders simply trying to raise their crops. No townsmen trying to practice their trades. No halfling servants trying to go about their business in peace. No one for the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm to hurt but each other.”
“And us,” said Morigna, but she saw what he meant.
“And us,” said Ridmark.
“Perhaps you are right,” said Morigna. “I have not seen such a thing before, but now that I have, I do not care for it.”
“If we defeat Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark, “maybe we can put a stop to it.”
“Where is Calliande?” said Morigna. “Resting?”
“She should be,” said Ridmark, “but you know her. She refused, and is working with the Magistri to heal the wounded. When she sets her will to something, I am no more capable of changing her mind…”
“Then you are of changing mine?” said Morigna.
“You understand,” said Ridmark. “Still, she will save men who would otherwise have perished. She could no more turn aside from their need than water could flow uphill.”
“No,” said Morigna. “What will we do next?”
“The Dux and the horsemen will issue from the southern gate at noon,” said Ridmark. “The Mhorites, dvargir, and kobolds are still in disarray, and the Dux thinks the horsemen can punch through them and reach the Black Mountain.”
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 21