Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit

by Jonathan Moeller

  Only to discover that it was not as much of an effort as she expected.

  Holding a spell in place was like carrying a bucket of water up a flight of stairs. She could do it without much difficulty, and the longer she did it the more tired she became. Yet it was much easier than it had been. The amount of magic she had used at the Iron Tower during the desperate battle against the Artificer had made her stronger…and the amount of power the Warden had used within her flesh had magnified her strength further. Once holding two spells in place like this had been an effort. Now it was no more onerous than carrying a pair of daggers.

  Perhaps she had gotten stronger…or perhaps the power of the Keeper was asserting itself.

  That thought disturbed her. Maybe it shouldn’t have. The Keeper was who she really was. Calliande wondered again what kind of woman she had been.

  She pushed the entire mess out of her mind. A battle was not the place for such contemplations.

  But by the time they reached the valley, the battle was over.

  Mara might have seen six or seven orcs, but a dozen orcs carpeted the ground, some of them still moaning. A pair of trolls moved over them, their hides rippling green to match the carnage on the ground. The blood of orcs was dark green, and the talons and the fangs of the trolls glistened as they feasted.

  A hideous scream of agony came to Calliande’s ears.

  They were eating the orcs alive.

  Calliande took a deep breath, focused upon the spells. Ridmark, Arandar, Gavin, and Kharlacht started forward. Morigna came to Calliande’s side, trading her bow for her sigil-carved staff, while Caius and Jager moved in front of them, ready to shield them should the trolls recognize the danger of Morigna’s magic and attack. Mara walked to Jager’s side, a short sword of dark elven steel in her right hand.

  The trolls looked up and let out a coughing, wheezing laugh.

  “What folly is this?” said the nearest troll in orcish with a thick accent. A memory stirred in Calliande’s mind, something she had learned before she had gone into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance. The trolls had their own secret language, one never shared with others. “Humans, a dwarf, and an orc, all traveling together?” It clicked its jaws, its serrated fangs making a rasping sound as they rubbed against each other. “A most peculiar meal, but I shall not object.”

  “You’re a long way from your mountains,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps you ought to return to them before you try to eat something that disagrees with you.”

  “The world is about to change,” hissed the troll. “The great power stirs below the mountains, and the demons in the deep awaken.” Calliande blinked at that. Did it mean the Keeper’s staff? “The stench of the change fills my nostrils. This world shall change, and we shall feast upon you and your kindred.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about that?” said Ridmark.

  The troll’s blunt features twisted into a sneer. “You lesser kindreds. You require so many words. Such fools you are! Do you not understand? The hunger is the one true master, and we shall devour you! Your screams shall…”

  Blue fire flickered, and Mara appeared behind the troll, the short sword flashing in her hands. The troll’s diatribe ended in a furious scream, and it whirled as Mara disappeared, reappearing next to Calliande in the usual swirl of blue flame.

  “A splendid rebuttal, my dear,” said Jager.

  “Why, thank you,” said Mara.

  In the troll’s moment of confusion, Ridmark, Arandar, Gavin, and Kharlacht charged, weapons raised. The second troll roared in fury and broke into a run, its hide rippling, and Kharlacht went left and Gavin went right. Kharlacht’s massive greatsword, a broad length of gleaming blue dark elven steel, ripped through the troll’s leg. Gavin slashed, Truthseeker glowing in his fist, and the soulblade pierced the troll’s thick scales like cloth. The troll stumbled forward, its heavy claws raking for Arandar. The High King’s bastard son snapped his shield up, and the claws rebounded from the oak and steel. Heartwarden blurred in his fist. The blade pierced the troll’s skull, and the creature went into a twitching dance. Arandar ripped the soulblade free, and Kharlacht stepped past him, raising his greatsword and bringing it down like a man chopping wood. The troll’s head rolled away, the jaw still working, and the slime-coated stump of its neck bubbled as a new head started growing from the damaged flesh.

  “Morigna,” said Calliande, but the sorceress was already moving. A ball of mist rolled over the stump of the troll’s neck, burning the wound, and the half-formed head burst into flames. Kharlacht went to work opening the troll’s chest and taking out its heart, while Gavin and Arandar ran to aid Ridmark. The Gray Knight wheeled around the troll, dodging its furious blows and landing strike after strike with his black staff. The troll’s right leg looked misshapen from the barrage, a shard of slime-coated bone jutting from the damaged limb. Ridmark stepped back, and Gavin and Arandar attacked. The troll roared and reached for Gavin, and the young Swordbearer dodged, causing the troll’s injured leg to buckle beneath it. The troll stumbled, and Arandar plunged Heartwarden into its chest. Ridmark slammed the end of his staff against the side of the troll’s skull. There was a crack, and the troll went limp, the wounds on its leg and chest already healing.

  Arandar brought Heartwarden down, taking off the troll’s head. At once Morigna cast her mist over the spurting stump of its neck, and Ridmark drew his dwarven axe and started opening its chest.

  Calliande let out a sigh and released her spells.

  The fighting was over. She suspected they would encounter trolls again, perhaps this very day. So far no one had taken injuries in the fighting, but Calliande doubted that would last. The trolls had been overconfident, and they had so far encountered only small groups of trolls.

  Could they take ten at once? Twenty?

  Calliande hoped they would not have to find out.

  She stepped forward, looking at the fallen orcs. She wondered if any of them were still alive, if…

  Then her eyes saw their faces, and she froze in alarm.

  ###

  Ridmark wiped yellow slime from his axe and returned the weapon to his belt. More of Morigna’s mist swirled over the fallen trolls, making sure that they would not rise again. Ridmark stepped towards the fallen orcs, wondering if any of them had survived.

  It didn’t look as if any of them had, which was likely a mercy. The trolls had been taking bites from the orcs almost at random, like fat merchants sampling a platter of appetizers. Some of the orcs had been reduced to nothing more than mangled piles of bloody meat.

  Ridmark stopped, blinking in surprise.

  One of the orcs had a scarred face. That was not unusual. Kharlacht had scars. So did Ridmark. Yet this warrior’s scars had been carved into the shape of a stylized skull that covered his face. The green skin of his head had been tattooed red, which made it seem as if the warrior’s face had been covered with a crimson skull.

  A crimson skull was the symbol of the orcish god Mhor, the blood god of death and slaughter. That meant that the dead orc had been a Mhorite, a fanatical follower of Mhor from the mountains of Kothluusk to the southwest.

  Ridmark had encountered those orcs before.

  “Mara,” he said, and she stepped to his side. “These orcs. Do you know who they are?”

  She shrugged. “Vhaluuskan pagans, I assume.”

  “You’ve never seen Mhorites, then?” said Ridmark.

  “Mhorites?” said Mara with alarm. “These are the orcs Jager told me about? The ones that tried to kill you at Vulmhosk and Coldinium?”

  “You were with the Red Family,” said Ridmark. “They worship Mhor, too. I’m surprised you’ve never encountered the Mhorites.”

  Mara shook her head. “The Matriarch kept me away from them. I suspect she feared I would try to take control of them.”

  “A far more pertinent question,” said Morigna, “is why there are Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk in the forests of Vhaluusk.”

  “We are a long way fr
om Kothluusk,” said Caius, frowning at the mutilated dead.

  “Aye,” said Morigna. “Perhaps there is an alliance between the Mhorites and the orcs of Vhaluusk.”

  “No,” said Kharlacht and Arandar at once. They glanced at each other in surprise, and Arandar gestured for Kharlacht to continue. “The orcs of Vhaluusk worship many gods, but the Kothluuskans hold Mhor supreme. Furthermore, they are murderous fanatics, and think nothing of killing and enslaving other orcs.”

  “When they cannot raid in Durandis and Rhaluusk,” said Arandar, “they turn against other orcish tribes.”

  “But to come this far?” said Kharlacht. “It seems unlikely.”

  “Perhaps they came here for the same reason that the Traveler has come here,” said Calliande, her voice tight. “To claim the power in Dragonfall.”

  “We don’t know why the Traveler is here,” said Ridmark, “and as for the Mhorites…”

  “Gray Knight.”

  The voice was a furious, hissing rasp. Ridmark whirled, fearing that one of the trolls had healed from Morigna’s mist. The trolls’ carcasses remained motionless, but one of the fallen orcs got to his knees, his leather cuirass wet with blood, the right side of his face gleaming with gore.

  He held a dagger clutched in his right hand.

  “I know you, Gray Knight,” rasped the Mhorite, black eyes glittering with the scarlet light of orcish battle rage. “I saw you. When you dueled the great Voice of Mhor below the walls of Vulmhosk. You should have fallen there. You shall fall.”

  “The Voice of Mhor?” said Ridmark, a dark suspicion falling into his mind.

  “I think,” said Morigna, “that he means Mournacht.”

  That was an alarming thought. Mournacht was an orcish shaman, a priest of Mhor, a wielder of powerful dark magic. He was also a formidable warrior, and used his dark magic to enhance to combat prowess to deadly effect. Ridmark had dueled him twice, once at Vulmhosk, and again at Tarrabus Carhaine’s domus in Coldinium, and both times Ridmark had barely escaped.

  “The female speaks truly,” snarled the Mhorite, staggering forward. “The Voice of Mhor is here. He has gathered tribes of Kothluusk to his side, and he has marched forth with the might of the followers of great Mhor behind him. He has come to claim the great power for himself, and to bring the world beneath the heel of Mhor.”

  “The power?” said Calliande with alarm.

  “The great power awakening beneath the mountains,” said the Mhorite warrior. “The Voice of Mhor shall claim it and pour out Andomhaim upon Mhor’s altar as a blood offering.” He laughed. “He shall be pleased, most pleased, to find you again, Gray Knight. He owes you a debt of pain and suffering.”

  “Does he, now?” said Ridmark. “Tell him that he is welcome to try and collect, if he wishes.”

  The Mhorite started to answer.

  Suddenly both Heartwarden and Truthseeker blazed with white fire, and a jolt of pain went through Ridmark’s head from his broken bond with Heartwarden.

  “Beware!” shouted Arandar. “A…”

  A blur shot behind the Mhorite orc and drove the Kothluuskan warrior to the ground. The orc just had time to scream, and then a hunched, misshapen form appeared over him as the blur melted away. The creature pinning the Mhorite looked like a twisted cross between a wolf and an ape, its body corded with muscle, greasy, lank black fur hanging from its body. Its eyes burned like dying coals, and its fanged mouth yawned wide.

  It was an urvaalg, one of the war beasts of the ancient dark elves, a creature immune to steel and vulnerable only to magic.

  Before Ridmark could react, the urvaalg’s jaws crushed the Mhorite’s skull with a single vicious snap.

  “They’re around us!” said Gavin, and a half-dozen more blurs appeared, resolving into the shape of urvaalgs. The scent of the spilled blood must have drawn them. The urvaalgs charged in a ring, claws bared, fanged maws yawning wide. Almost anyone would have fallen to such a vicious onslaught.

  But Ridmark had two Swordbearers with him, and the soulblades had been forged to fight creatures of dark magic.

  Gavin and Arandar moved in a blur, their soulblades leaving a trail of white fire in the air behind them. The Swordbearers crashed into the charging urvaalgs, leaving two of the creatures dead in their wake. Calliande shouted and cast a spell, and a blast of white fire slammed into another urvaalg, throwing the beast to the ground. The creature screamed as the white fire of the Well’s magic chewed into its flesh. The urvaalg crouching atop the dead Mhorite snarled and sprang forward.

  Ridmark met its attack with a two-handed blow of his staff.

  His old staff would have been useless. That staff had burned in the destruction of the Torn Hills as the aftermath of the Warden’s furious spells erupted around them. Instead, Ardrhythain had given Ridmark his old staff. The archmage of Cathair Solas had carried the staff for so long and worked so many spells with it that the staff had taken on some magic of its own. Symbols of white fire flared up the staff’s length as Ridmark struck, and the weapon smashed against the urvaalg’s yawning jaws. Fangs shattered and bones cracked, and the urvaalg stumbled with a furious yowl. Before the creature recovered, Ridmark swung again, his staff hammering against the side of the urvaalg’s skull.

  This time the creature went down and stayed down.

  Ridmark spun, seeking another foe, and saw a second urvaalg preparing to spring.

  There was no way he could reach it before the beast jumped, and it was too close for him to avoid the lunge. Ridmark got both hands around his staff and braced himself, hoping he could strike the urvaalg in midair with enough force to divert its motion.

  But the urvaalg did not move, its body trembling with tension.

  Ridmark had an instant of confusion, and then his instincts screamed for him to move. He raced forward, whipping the staff around, and brought it down with all his strength. The urvaalg started to get to its feet, but by then it was too late. The black staff of Ardrhythain slammed into the urvaalg’s skull with the snap of bone, and the creature collapsed to the bloody ground.

  He whirled, seeking new foes, but the battle had ended. Arandar cut down the final urvaalg, Heartwarden blazing with white fire. Ridmark remembered what it had felt like to have Heartwarden burning in his fist, the sword’s power flowing up his arm and filling him with strength. He also remembered what it had been like to have his connection to the sword severed, agony flooding through him. He still had a sharp headache whenever he looked at the sword or drew too close to it.

  None of that mattered right now.

  “Is anyone wounded?” said Ridmark.

  “I don’t think so,” said Calliande, looking around.

  “Seven urvaalgs and not a scratch,” said Caius. “Truly, God was with us.”

  “God,” said Jager, offering a grand bow to Gavin, “and two men with soulblades. You know, Sir Arandar, as annoying as you are, you are quite a useful fellow to have around.”

  “Such high praise,” said Arandar, his tone half-amused, half-annoyed.

  Gavin said nothing, staring hard at Morigna. She glared right back at him. Ridmark wondered what that was about, and decided that he could worry about it later.

  “The spilled blood must have drawn the urvaalgs,” said Kharlacht. “They are likely one of the few creatures in Vhaluusk that can defeat a troll in combat.”

  “It is not a mystery why the urvaalgs were here,” said Caius. “I am more concerned about the Mhorites.”

  Jager shrugged. “It is not such a mystery. I daresay we rather annoyed Mournacht during our last meeting, and I’m certain the Gray Knight in particular vexed him a great deal. Well, Morigna and her rats, too.” Calliande shuddered a little at that. She hated rats.

  “But to gather a host and march upon Vhaluusk?” said Arandar. “Vhaluusk is a long way from Kothluusk, and to march so far for vengeance…”

  “He’s not here for vengeance,” said Calliande. “You heard that Mhorite orc. Mournacht is here to claim the power
below the mountains. He’s here to take the Keeper’s staff for himself.”

  “How could he possibly know that?” said Jager. “No one knew where the damned thing is, not even you, and you’re the one who hid it!”

  “The Warden knew,” said Caius.

  “Aye, and we almost got ourselves killed asking him,” said Jager. “I cannot see Mournacht taking the same risks, or the Warden sharing the secret out of charity.”

  “Shadowbearer,” said Kharlacht.

  They all looked at him. Save for Calliande, Kharlacht was the only other member of their group who had met their ultimate enemy.

  “From what we have seen, Shadowbearer prefers to work through emissaries and proxies,” said Kharlacht. “He used Qazarl and my kin to claim the soulstone and Calliande, and when that failed, he used the Enlightened of Incariel and the Red Family. We defeated them both, so now Shadowbearer has chosen a different proxy.”

  “How could he know to send Mournacht here?” said Calliande. “How would the Traveler know to come here?”

  Mara shrugged. “Perhaps he watched us from afar.” She considered that for a moment. “Or maybe we awakened the staff of the Keeper.”

  “Awakened?” said Calliande. “What do you mean?”

  “I wonder,” said Mara, “if when you learned of the staff’s location, it…woke up. Started calling to you, the way the auras of the dark elven lords call to me.”

  “I can’t hear or sense anything like that,” said Calliande.

  “I fear it is possible,” said Mara, “that you have forgotten how to do so.”

  “But the Traveler and Mournacht,” said Ridmark, “might know how to hear the staff.”

  “Others, too,” said Jager. “If my clever wife is correct, and she usually is, that means anyone who can hear the staff’s call will hasten to claim it. Like pouring out a bag of coins in the forum on a festival day.”

  “Then our task is all the simpler,” said Ridmark.

  “How?” said Calliande.

  “It is a race,” said Ridmark. “We simply find Dragonfall and your staff before the Traveler, Mournacht, and anyone else who tries to claim it.”