Tales of the Frozen City

by JOSEPH A. MCCULLOUGH

  Fear of being exposed to revenge-minded locals provided ample recompense for assisting in Dox’s research, and over time Caelum grew into a fine apprentice for his new master. He never lost sight of what had brought him to the Citadel, never stopped plotting access to Aen. He would find a way to get to her and they could be together. He learned to control his emotions like the elements, when to channel a warm rage, and when to be cold. He learned, and he waited, and he kept his desires close to his chest.

  * * *

  The Order had a much more careful approach to forays into the Frozen City. Their tactics were sound, and they were well armoured, but Sigurd did not want to be here. Every corner, every building, every pit was a darkness. There were simply too many directions from which death could come.

  He would never admit it to his men, but they were the dregs. Too inexperienced or too slow to be of value elsewhere in the empire, they were left to protect the old priests and priestesses – more an indication of the Order’s social status than a vital force. He had made peace with the indignity of it, but he hadn’t been prepared to lead men such as these into battle. He cast an eye on Aen as she held the ancient maps closer to the high priest’s failing eyes. She wouldn’t look at him, even now.

  ‘We need to move on.’ The wearier of his men muttered their disagreement. He ignored them and stared at the priest. ‘We’re too exposed here.’

  A fallen wall had blocked their planned route, and the high priest was dithering over alternatives.

  ‘We have come this far in search of the Prophets’ gifts.’ The old man looked to the sky and toyed with the silver key tied around his neck. ‘They will not fail us now.’

  Sigurd adjusted his vambraces, regretting his decision not to wear steel. It was cold enough that the cold steel wouldn’t have made it much worse. He could feel the chill in the bones of his hands. Gods, he was getting old.

  ‘This way, I believe.’ The priest pointed to his left.

  ‘Right. Finn, lead the way. I’ll take centre guard. Tane and Miller – you bring up the rear.’

  With a glance to the priest for his consent the men got into position. Aen carefully wrapped the tattered looking map in a strip of old hide and secreted it under her cloak, still silent as though it was a vow she had taken. He fell into step as they moved on. For years he had been putting up with this. He deserved better. He was a good man, gods damn it. And he loved her, in his way. She had always been like a daughter to him, but after his wife had died...

  The snarling pulled him back from his thoughts.

  They were in an alley, closed off by ruins on either side. The man in front, Finn, had drawn his sword against the wild dog that crept towards him, muzzle low, teeth bared. The scrawny thing’s ambition outweighed its size. Sigurd drew his own sword and took a step forward when a cry went up from behind him. He turned to see another dog pounce from the ruins onto his men. A third held Miller by the throat and was shaking the life out of him. Tane, to his credit, spun and caught the dog in mid-air with his dagger. It yelped and tumbled to its side, taking the dagger with it.

  Limping, it turned towards Tane, who had taken the second he should have used to draw his sword to glance at Miller instead. The dog leapt again, and Tane swung a right hook, crunching bones in the side which still held the dagger. The animal crumpled.

  All this had happened in the split second Sigurd had hesitated. He rushed towards them as Miller found the strength to seize the dog and pin it to his chest. The life was pouring out of him as the dog tore at the flesh of his shoulder, but Sigurd could read the intent. He raised his sword underhand and sank it through man and beast both until it screeched against the cobblestone. Tane retrieved his dagger and slit the other dog’s throat for good measure.

  Sigurd left his sword in place, drawing Miller’s from its scabbard to find the last beast licking Aen’s hands while the priest treated a wound in Finn’s arm.

  ‘These are war dogs. Who knows how long they’ve spent here since their masters died. He’ll work for us now.’

  It wasn’t a suggestion. He was too surprised at hearing Aen speak to argue.

  ‘Come.’ The priest sounded shaken. ‘We have no time to burn the dead, may the Prophets forgive us.’

  Sigurd retrieved his sword with some difficulty, and kicked the dead dog off Miller’s chest. He placed the man’s own blade alongside him and looked down. That’d have to do. He adjusted his grip and kept his sword drawn as they headed for the square.

  * * *

  As soon as Caelum had mastered a basic illusion spell, he had taken it upon himself to gather as much information about Aen as possible. He wasn’t fool enough to test it against the Order up close, but he knew where his strengths lay. He would steal away from Dox whenever he could to gather information from the servants who worked at the Citadel. Shifting his face he flirted with kitchen maids, bullied stable boys and avoided the guards. Its value was limited. Aen didn’t eat much, she still kept a horse, she was apprenticed to a high priest charged with the upkeep of relics. He got scraps of who she was, but nothing that told him how to get to her.

  Experience told him he was wasting his time with the lower classes, that they would never be trusted with anything of value. He identified several local merchants who supplied the Order, and lost gallantly enough at cards to ingratiate himself with them. This proved a more fruitful endeavour, costly as it was. Proclaiming their own superior status granted plenty of opportunity to let the men ramble about their value to the high priests.

  He had been getting increasingly worried that Dox would discover that he was siphoning money when the opportunity came. One of the merchants sat at the table with a bigger swagger than usual, upping bids and betting blind whenever the fancy took him. Caelum took a little money from him to draw him in, then proceeded to let the man slowly take it all back.

  Caelum shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up, he was told, this man was an old hand. This man had been winning games like this since before Caelum was a mewling babe. This man was respected from the lowest member of society to the highest for his skills and his reliability. This man was the one the Order came to for the finest equipment to protect them from the cold and the fury of Frostgrave.

  As the others had come and gone, Caelum had pressed him harder for information. This man had his throat cut before the night was out.

  A group had already left for the Frozen City, the keeper of relics and his apprentice among them. Aen had already left for the most dangerous place imaginable. Caelum went straight to Dox. He told him of the Order’s quest for a lost relic of the Distant Prophets. He told him how many had left, and when. He told him of the tower on the river’s edge. He didn’t tell Dox how he knew this. There would be some explaining to do, but he hoped the promise of magical treasure would be enough to render him safe for now.

  Dox didn’t waste any time. He went to the roughest bar he could find and demanded to know who the toughest gang was. When the fighting had stopped, he offered an eyebrow-raising amount of gold to the six that remained standing. They left that night to approach the city by the fastest route they could. They left that night and headed for the river.

  * * *

  The square stood empty, dressed in blues and greys of dirty ice and limestone. There were paths leading to it from the easternmost corners while the entire western face opened directly onto the frozen river. Here and there pillars of wood jutted at odd angles from the ice, remnants of an ancient dock, frozen too solid even to rot. The tower stood to the north-west of the square, a pillar of chalky white in the grime which surrounded it.

  The Order finally spilled out from the south-east corner, weapons drawn. Sigurd scanned the walls for any sign of trouble, keeping half an eye on the war dog in Aen’s thrall. The priest only had eyes for the tower.

  ‘Oh Distant Prophets, by thine eyes I have been guided. Let these poor human hands which are not worth of thy gifts serve to magnify your light upon this Earth.’

  The dog b
egan to growl.

  * * *

  Caelum caught sight of the lone priest making his way towards the tower. The others had to be nearby. Damn it, this was not what he had wanted. He had come here to protect Aen, and instead he had led her directly into an ambush. Dox motioned for silence, needing a second to strengthen his resolve. The constant flow of magic to stabilise the ground beneath him had wearied him more than he wished anyone to realise. Maybe Caelum still had a chance to come out of this well.

  He saw the war dog running towards them and realised he was too late. A flurry of crossbow bolts were fired, at least one finding their mark, sending the dog spinning. Dox grimaced as he sent forth a scatter shot of electrical bolts. One finished off the dog, one buckled the priest’s knee and four more sparked towards the south wall. No. Yellowbeard roared and ran towards the square, waving his mace as the other goons reloaded. No, no, no. There was nothing for it. Caelum focused all his energy and called down a snowstorm on the river. Dox threw him a look of bewilderment as Caelum headed for the square, the snow beginning to swirl around them. Then the sky above them began to tear, and Caelum broke into a sprint.

  * * *

  Aen strengthened the shield spell around herself and ran towards the high priest. He was muttering an incantation and there was an ungodly roar. Out over the river a rift appeared in the sky and a huge beast emerged. It was difficult to make out through the snow, a blur of talons and green feathers and limbs. As it fell from the sky the ice shattered beneath it and men were scattered.

  She froze for a second, taking in the sight. The beast thrashed in the water, roaring in agony at the cold. Huge chunks of ice flew in every direction, and one man lay sprawled unconscious where a piece had connected with his jaw. The beast was trying to claw its way back onto the ice towards the square while a panicked wizard threw balls of blue flame at it desperately.

  * * *

  Dox ducked to his left, his face looking more and more gaunt. He had to keep up the assault but this type of magic use had a cost. Every time he tried to freeze the water around the beast it smashed through the ice before it could set. He had never seen anything like this. It was somewhere between an eagle and a panther, a huge monster with claws the size of his head. Keeping his focus on the beast he lost his footing, slipping and sending several of his bolts wide, even at this close distance.

  With snow in his eyes he fired again and again, the dark patches beneath his cheekbones deepening. He caught the beast in the eye and it screeched like a hawk with the timbre of a bear. Sensing his chance he turned to flee. Rearing and kicking in pain, the monster snagged his hood in its talons as it thrashed. Dox’s face went pale as beast and man both tumbled backwards and disappeared into the black water.

  * * *

  Sigurd was bleeding under his armour from that damned magic bolt. Finn had taken a bolt of each type and lay slumped on the cobbles. It didn’t matter who these men were, he was going to butcher them. Butcher them and leave. The sound of bloody murder would attract carrion feeders for a mile in every direction. He walked towards the water’s edge and slid a blade into the first unconscious man he saw. Tane was moving faster and ran to the ice, bludgeoning a thug as he desperately reached for his crossbow. A third struggled to get out of the water and suddenly seemed to be pulled under by the current.

  Tane had done well. Damned well. Perhaps he had been too hard on the boy. When they got through this he would put a stiff drink in his hand and have a word with him about bettering his career prospects. A flash of light focused his attention to the centre of the square. The high priest lay in a bloody mess, while a huge brute staggered clutching his face. A third man was running towards them. Towards Aen.

  Tane nodded and Sigurd went. Tane found a fourth thug clambering up the ice. The man had lost his crossbow but ducked the swing of Tane’s sword, bringing a mailed fist into his face. The ice shifted, and both men lost their footing. Tane ignored his sword and drew his dagger, crawling on all fours to keep steady. He slashed for the man’s throat, catching his cheek instead. They grappled end over end, rolling towards the water which was cold as death. Bracing his knee, Tane halted their momentum and straddled the man, pushing strength against strength to bring the dagger towards his heart. Five withered hands rose from beneath the water as they struggled, and in an instant both men were gone.

  * * *

  Yellowbeard had bludgeoned the bloody priest. And Aen, beautiful, clever Aen, had blinded him to keep him away. Even now she tended to the priest as Yellowbeard staggered, screaming in fury, swinging his mace like a child with a flag.

  ‘Hey! You walking slop bucket,’ Caelum shouted out to him, drawing his attention. ‘All you can kill is an injured old man. You’re pathetic.’

  Another man, a knight by the look of him, was approaching Yellowbeard from the other side. Just as it seemed like the knight was within reach, Yellowbeard spun round at the noise. Caelum took his chance and wrapped the brute in flame. He screamed for a moment then collapsed. The smell of burnt flesh tainted the air.

  The knight stared at the young male apprentice, but Caelum’s eyes were only for Aen.

  She had moved away from the body of the priest and was heading towards the tower.

  ‘Aen.’ Caelum struggled with emotion, with exhaustion, with disbelief. ‘Aen, it’s me. Aen, I’ve come for you. I love you.’

  ‘Aen!’ the knight shouted, ‘We need to leave. Damn the relic, damn the gods and damn the bloody Prophets! We need to leave right now.’

  The dead began to emerge from the river. The ghouls which they had trapped below the ice had followed them on their hike. They poured out of the gouges in the ice like rats from a gutter.

  Aen had reached the tower, and opened the door with a silver key. She stood, head down for a moment, then turned to the men.

  ‘You are something that happened to me. You have no idea who I am.’

  The door of the tower opened as the wind quietened. Aen stepped inside and the door disappeared, as the chalky walls shifted and grew to form a crystal barrier around the tower the colour of the distant stars. The tower became a tomb, and a knife, and a chrysalis. The snow fell and the two men stood in disbelief. Moans were coming from the shattered ice, none of them human. They fled into the night and the claws of Frostgrave closed around them like a fist.

  Duncan Molloy is an Irish writer and game designer based in London. Originally a playwright and live storyteller, he has won award nominations for Storybook and Seven Versions of a Song. This is his first published short fiction. Raised on a diet of dangerous cities from Gotham to Lankhmar, he has really enjoyed getting to know Frostgrave.

  Duncan currently runs the board and card game division of Osprey Games. Further fiction and updates on his other work are available at www.duncanmolloy.com

  MIND OVER MATTER

  Graeme Davis

  ‘I study enchantment, my dear Pentellen, because it is the purest form of magic. Magic and matter are the two constituents of the universe, after all, and everything else is simply a debased form of one or the other. How, then, can any other form of magic be worth studying? Your own mountebank’s tricks, for instance: they create nothing, move nothing – in effect, they are nothing. And yet, you continue to waste your time with them.’

  The patrons of the Frosty Mug were used to Mondasius and his pontificating. Standing a mile outside the gloomy walls of Frostgrave, the tavern was neutral ground by common agreement – and also by means of powerful spells that prevented the use of magic within its walls. Here, wizards and their apprentices could set aside the rivalries that drove them into the Frozen City and gather to eat, drink, and talk.

  It was inevitable, therefore, that much of their conversation should concern the relative merits of different schools of magic, and by now it was almost equally inevitable that the master enchanter would be found at his usual table, holding forth about the inferiority of every other magical art and the supremacy of his own.

  Regulars had learne
d to ignore his loud and self-satisfied drawl, but the two apprentices at the table – Pentellen’s slight and beautiful Agraeria and Mondasius’ burly Isamborg – waited for the debate between their masters to unfold. So did several other patrons, who had longed to see Mondasius on the receiving end of Pentellen’s renowned wit. To their disappointment, the slender illusionist merely smiled affably.

  ‘Forcefully stated, Magister,’ he said. ‘Of course, I cannot agree with you, but I doubt you will be swayed by argument. After all, what are words but hot air? Since I know you are an empirical thinker, permit me to suggest a practical demonstration. Tomorrow, say, at a time and place of your choosing?’ All eyes turned to the two wizards. Surely this would be something worth seeing. The smirk on the enchanter’s face broadened.

  ‘The Museum of Philaxis, an hour after noon?’ he said. ‘I would suggest an earlier time, but I know you are a late riser.’ A slight gasp greeted his choice. The Museum’s enchanted statues had claimed many lives. Mondasius had explored further than most, thanks to his mastery of the same magics that animated them. He would be at a significant advantage there.

  * * *

  The following noon, a colourful throng of magicians chattered and jostled outside the tavern to watch the two combatants set off for the city. Lesser mortals crowded the upper floors of nearby buildings while hawkers cried hot food and drink. Adding to the carnival atmosphere, musicians and mountebanks played for small change while pickpockets quietly worked the growing crowd and other enterprising souls took wagers on the outcome of the challenge. Soothsayers had already set up Wizard Eyes at various points to track their progress.

  Mondasius was the first to arrive, and heads turned to see the composition of his force. The enchanter carried his great forked staff and eschewed robes in favour of heavy boots, stout breeches and a wool jerkin under a heavy leather apron. Despite its plain appearance, it was well known that the enchanted apron was harder than steel. His only other equipment was a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.