“I shall ride with you,” said Morigna.
Ridmark hesitated. She could guess his thoughts well enough. He would try to find a way to convince her to remain behind.
“You need my help,” said Morigna. “Calliande needs my help. Shadowbearer would have killed her in Khald Azalar if I had not distracted him. How many times have I saved you with a spell?” She gripped his hands. “We shall see this through to the end, together.”
“All right,” said Ridmark in a quiet voice.
Morigna nodded, and they looked at each other for a moment.
“I suppose,” said Ridmark at last, “that the Keeper needs her apprentices about her in battle.”
“That,” said Morigna with an irritated sigh, “is a particularly vexing lie.”
“A necessary one, though,” said Ridmark.
“True,” said Morigna. “Your Dux seems like a fair-minded man, but I doubt even he would accept a sorceress from the Wilderland in his lands.”
“No,” said Ridmark. “The apprentice of the legendary Keeper, though, is different. I suppose you will have to endure Calliande telling you what to do, at least in public.”
Morigna laughed, which made Ridmark blink in surprise. “She already tells me what to do in public. You, too, Gray Knight. The Dux listens to her as well. Even that sour old knight with the hammer.”
“Sir Tagrimn Volarus?” said Ridmark. “He is not the most pleasant fellow, true, but he is a steady hand in a fight.”
“We shall need every one of those that we can find,” said Morigna. “We ride at noon?”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “We’ll need to be at the southern forum by then. I am going to find someplace to lie down and get a few hours of sleep.” He looked towards the northern gate, the octagonal towers rising overhead. “The northern forum, I think. It should be quiet enough.”
“Unless the Mhorites attack again,” said Morigna.
“If they do, sleep shall be the last of my concerns,” said Ridmark.
“Truly,” said Morigna. “I shall come with you. Conjuring sleeping mist again and again is tiring work, and…”
She fell silent.
Ridmark’s face had gone hard, and for a wild moment she wondered if she had somehow upset him. Yet he was not looking at her, but at the northern gate.
“What is it?” said Morigna.
“Something is wrong,” said Ridmark.
###
The dying man screamed.
The wounded filled Dun Licinia’s church, lying on blankets upon the stone floor. Groans and whimpers and occasional screams echoed off the walls, while the air smelled of blood and waste despite the open windows. It reminded Calliande of the Mhalekite siege months past, when she had helped the women of the town treat the wounded militiamen. She had made bandages and poultices, cleaned wounds and stitched cuts, doing everything she could to cure the wounded men.
Now, as a Magistria and the Keeper of Andomhaim she could do far more.
The man-at-arms lying on the blanket before her had been wounded three times, twice in the abdomen and once through the chest. He had a matter of hours before he died, his every breath agony. He would have been screaming constantly, save that Calliande doubted he had the strength left.
She took a deep breath, gathering her will and drawing magical power through the tired buzzing that filled her mind.
“I’ll do this one,” said Camorak in his rusty voice.
“Are you sure?” she said. The Magistrius looked as tired as she felt, his eyes bloodshot, his face gray beneath the thick crop of stubble on his chin and jaw. Yet as tired as he looked, Camorak had not stopped working from the time that Calliande had returned from the fighting. All Magistri could heal wounds, though they were limited by their native magical strength or by how much pain they could endure.
Camorak had been the only one of Dun Licinia’s Magistri able to keep up with Calliande.
“Sure enough,” said Camorak.
Before Calliande could protest, Camorak dropped to one knee next to the dying man, raised his hands, summoned power, and cast the healing spell. He blazed with the magic of the Well before Calliande’s Sight, the power pouring through him. The dying man went rigid, his mouth opening in a silent scream. Some of the Magistri screamed when they healed, for they had to take the pain of the wounds into themselves. Camorak only gritted his teeth, the veins in his temples bulging, the cords standing out in his neck.
The power drained away, and the dying man slumped to the floor. Except he was no longer dying. His wounds were hideous, crusted things, but they were no longer fatal, and they looked as if they had been healing for weeks. All the man needed now was time and a lot of rest.
“God almighty, that stings,” muttered Camorak, shaking his head and getting to his feet.
“A great feat of magic,” said Antenora in a quiet voice. She stood a few feet away, keeping watch over Calliande.
Camorak only grunted in response to the compliment. “Who’s next?”
Calliande looked around…but they had worked their way through the wounded. As the best healers, Calliande and Camorak had dealt with the most grievously wounded, and there were none left. The less severe wounds would be healed by the other Magistri, and then nothing was left for the wounded men to do but rest.
“It seems we have healed with them all,” said Calliande.
“Huh,” said Camorak. “I’ll be damned. Want a drink?”
“No,” said Calliande.
Camorak shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
A short time later Camorak sat on the front steps to the church, sipping from a metal flask that gave off an unpleasant smell. Calliande sat next to him, taking a moment to rest. Soon they would return to the southern forum, and they would ride to battle, hoping to breaking through the Mhorite lines and reach the Black Mountain.
“You know,” said Camorak, sipping from his flask, “ever since I heard your voice in my head, things have just gone to hell.”
Antenora scowled. “You will not address the Keeper in such a tone.”
“What tone? This tone?” said Camorak, and he stuck his tongue out at Antenora. She looked so incredulous that Calliande had to laugh. “I’ve learned something as a Magistrius. Doesn’t matter if you’re a lord or a knight or a freeholder or a servant. All men are flesh, and all flesh dies. A Comes and a beggar look pretty much the same when they’re bleeding to death, or lying in their own filth as the flux takes them.”
“You are quite an unusual Magistrius,” said Calliande, though he reminded her a little of her mentor Marius, who had become the Watcher.
Marius had not been quite so blunt, though. Nor had he drank as much.
“What?” said Camorak, blinking. “I don’t go around with my nose in the air, babbling about the gift of magic and the depths of my learned lore?” He glanced at his callused hands, which he had washed a hundred times in the last few hours until they were raw and red. “The Magistri are jackasses, Lady Keeper, but at least I’m an honest jackass.”
“So how does an honest jackass become a Magistrius?” said Calliande.
“About ten years ago,” said Camorak, “I got really drunk and insulted the Prince of Cintarra. For my punishment, I was sentenced to the Magistri.”
Calliande waited.
Camorak sighed. “All right. Ten years ago, I was a man-at-arms in service to the Dux Kors of Durandis. Had a wife and a baby girl. They got sick, I galloped to Castra Durius to get a Magistrius. He came back with me, but by then it was too late. Few years after that, we fought off some Mhorites attacking a dwarven noble from Khald Tormen. One of the lads was wounded in the fighting, and I was so…angry. The magic came to me then, and I healed him. After that, it was the Magistri for me, whether I liked it or not.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” said Calliande.
Camorak grunted. “It is what it is. Truth be told, I’m not a very good Magistrius. I’m bad at wards, and that thought
-speaking spell you used on me, I’m even worse at it.”
“But you can heal,” said Calliande.
“That I can do,” said Camorak. He took another sip. “Well, that and drink.” He squinted up at Antenora. “Out of curiosity, what’s wrong with her eyes? They shouldn’t be that color.”
“I was the apprentice of the last Keeper of Avalon upon Old Earth, fifteen centuries past,” said Antenora. “I betrayed her, and the dark magic of Mordred cursed me to immortality. Ever since I have sought the Keeper to atone for my crimes and achieve the peace of death at last.”
“Oh,” said Camorak, blinking. “Fifteen centuries, you say? You don’t look a day over seven hundred and fifty.”
“Thank you,” said Antenora gravely.
“Rest, Magistrius Camorak,” said Calliande, getting to her feet. “I fear there will be more wounded to come.”
“There always are,” said Camorak, taking another drink.
Calliande headed for the keep. She wanted to rest for a few hours before the Dux rode from the southern gate. She did not want to return to her rooms. Antenora’s fire had damaged the furnishings, and after the Weaver’s attack, she would not feel safe there. Likely she could grab a few hours of sleep beneath a bench in the great hall.
“You should rest, Keeper,” said Antenora.
“I should,” agreed Calliande. “I think…”
Antenora stiffened, looking to the north.
“What is it?” said Calliande, following the older sorceress’s gaze. “I…”
Darkness writhed around the northern gate of Dun Licinia. For a moment Calliande could not make sense of the strange sight, could not understand why the people filling the streets did not shout in alarm. Then she realized they could not see it, that they did not possess the power of the Sight.
The shadow of Incariel twisted around the gate.
“Keeper,” said Antenora. “The enemy returns.”
“Imaria,” said Calliande, and she broke into a run.
###
“What is it?” said Morigna.
Ridmark hurried along the street towards the northern gate, thinking hard. Had his eyes fooled him, or his tired mind played a trick upon him?
No. He still saw the man-at-arms walking towards the gate’s western tower, moving at a casual stroll.
“Ridmark,” said Morigna, hurrying after him. “What is it?”
“That man-at-arms,” said Ridmark.
“What about him?” said Morigna. “I have never seen him before.”
“I have,” said Ridmark.
“You know him, then?” said Morigna.
“No,” said Ridmark. “But I saw him die a few hours ago fighting against the dvargir. I’m absolutely certain of it.”
“Then what is he doing here?” said Morigna.
“A very good question,” said Ridmark. “Let’s find out.”
He moved forward as fast as he dared, not wanting to draw the attention of the man-at-arms. Perhaps the man-at-arms was an impostor, a spy sent to infiltrate the town and cause havoc. Or maybe he was a creature of dark magic. Urshanes could take different forms, and Ridmark had no doubt Shadowbearer and Mournacht commanded enough dark magic to bend the creatures of the dark elves to their wills. If the urshanes had copied the corpses left behind on the field, and then crept into the town…
He crossed into the forum, looking around. As ever, the forum was packed with people, mostly men-at-arms resting from the mad sortie against the siege engine. Women and children went about their errands, carrying fresh quivers of arrows to the archers or rolls of bandages to the impromptu infirmary Calliande and the Magistri had arranged in the church. The man-at-arms stopped at the base of the tower at the left-hand side of the northern gate, gazing at it with a blank expression. As he looked closer, Ridmark was certain that he had seen that man die, his skull caved in by a dvargir warrior’s axe. Yet here he was, strolling about the forum.
Or something that looked a lot like him.
The man-at-arms opened the door at the base of the gate tower and stepped inside, vanishing from sight.
“What do you suppose he wants in there?” said Morigna.
Ridmark shrugged, his mind racing.
“If he is a spy, perhaps he has come to scout our defenses,” said Morigna.
“Waste of time,” muttered Ridmark. “It’s a stone wall with two gates, northern and southern. No secret entrances or tunnels or wells. There’s nothing to scout. But the gate is important. It…”
The answer came to him in a horrifying rush.
The man-at-arms wasn’t here to spy upon the gate.
The man-at-arms was here to open the gate.
“To arms!” shouted Ridmark at the top of his lungs. “To arms! The enemy is at the gate! To arms, to arms!”
Even as he shouted, he heard a rumble of noise from outside the walls, the sound of thousands of feet rushing forward at once. Shadowbearer’s army was charging at the gate. They knew that the northern gate was about to open, that they could surge into the town with impunity.
Unless Ridmark put a stop to it.
Confusion spread across the forum as the men-at-arms and militiamen armed themselves. One of the men had the presence of mind to sound a trumpet, calling the alarm. Ridmark raced to the door and threw it open, jumping into the guard room at the base of the tower.
At least, he thought he jumped into the guard room.
Darkness engulfed him instead.
Ridmark stumbled, and the staff of Ardrhythain flared with white fire in his hand, its symbols glowing. A pool of white light fell around his feet, just as it had when he had faced Shadowbearer. Morigna gasped and stumbled to a stop next to him, leaning on her staff as she entered the small circle of light.
“Ridmark,” she said, “it is the same kind of shadow that Imaria used, that Shadowbearer…”
Ridmark’s fingers tightened against his staff as his eyes made out shapes in the gloom.
He was in the guard room, and six men-at-arms sat motionless at a round table. All of them were dead, either slain from crushed skulls or slashed throats. The shadowy haze had held them paralyzed, just as Imaria’s shadows had done, and then something had killed them.
The man-at-arms Ridmark had followed stood against the far wall at the base of the stairs, smiling at them. His right hand had become a monstrous clawed pincer, similar to the claw of a scorpion. Fresh blood gleamed upon it, reflecting the gleam of Ardrhythain’s staff.
“You,” said Ridmark.
“Well,” said the Weaver, his stolen face spreading in a gentle smile, “aren’t you the persistent one?”
There was a gleam of white at the top of the stairs, and Imaria appeared, the shadowy haze swirling and dancing around her.
“Ah,” said Imaria, “the shadow of Incariel is gracious. Ridmark and his whore have been delivered to me again.”
“Come closer and say that,” said Morigna, thrusting her staff. Purple fire flared up its length, and a column of acidic mist swirled around Imaria. The shadows pulsed, a shell of them surrounding the traitorous Magistria, and the acidic mist dissolved into nothingness.
“I shall do so,” said Imaria, “and do worse. Perhaps it is better this way. You shall see this town die as you die, and then you will know that Shadowbearer has triumphed, that the Frostborn shall return and the shadow of Incariel will devour all living mortals of this world.” She looked at the Weaver. “Kill them.”
The Weaver exploded into a maze of black threads, reknitting himself into the form of the giant, hulking urhaalgar. Imaria cast a spell, shadows dancing around her fingers, and Ridmark heard a clanging groan.
The gates were opening.
The sound of the charging Mhorites and dvargir came to Ridmark’s ears.
The Weaver surged forward like a blur of armored darkness, and Ridmark lifted his staff.
Chapter 16: Falling
Ridmark dared not move more than a few feet. The light from the black staff allowed him
to move without the shadows draining his strength, but Morigna had no such protection. If he moved too far from her, the shadows would immobilize her, and then the Weaver would kill them both in a few moments.
Considering what Imaria might do to them, falling to the Weaver’s claws might prove a mercy.
“Stay close to me!” Ridmark shouted. He glimpsed Morigna’s nod, and then he jumped to meet the Weaver’s attack, the staff spinning in his hands. He deflected one sweep of the Weaver’s claws, ducked under a thrust of the venomous tail, and slapped the staff against the Weaver’s armored legs. The hulking creature leaped backwards, avoiding the next swing of his staff.
Morigna cast another spell, the floor folding beneath the Weaver. Despite the creature’s inhuman speed and balance, the Weaver stumbled. Ridmark brought his staff down on the top of the Weaver’s head. There was a crack of shattering bone, and the Weaver stumbled back. Ridmark raised his staff for another blow, and the Weaver exploded into a writhing tangle of shadowy threads. Ridmark lunged forward, raking his staff through the threads, but the weapon seemed to have no effect on the Weaver in this form. The maze of threads jumped to the other side of the guard room and reformed at the base of the stairs, taking the form of the huge ursaar.
That was bad. The only way to fight an ursaar was with speed and agility, avoiding the creature’s mighty paws and ripping fangs. Here, in the guard room, with obstacles everywhere, it would be child’s play for the Weaver to pin him and rip him apart.
Yet the Weaver made no move to attack, remaining motionless at the base of the stairs.
“Come, creature,” said Morigna. “Why do you not attack?”
“Because he’s delaying,” said Ridmark. “There is a mechanism that controls the gates. I wager that Imaria opened the gates, and is now jamming them open. Once the gates are open, he can kill us at his leisure.”
“Ah,” said the Weaver, his voice distorted and thick through the ursaar’s massive jaws. “You are more intelligent than Imaria claimed. Though her judgment is clouded by her hatred of you.” The ursaar’s hulking shoulders shrugged. “It will cease to be a problem when she kills you in a few minutes.”
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 22