Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit

by Jonathan Moeller

  “That’s it?” said Jager, and he laughed. “Simplicity itself!”

  “The best plans are always simple, are they not?” said Ridmark. “If this is a race, then let us win it.”

  They left the valley and the dead Mhorites, trolls, and urvaalgs, climbing higher into the foothills.

  ###

  A few hours later Gavin saw Morigna walking alone at the rear of the column, her eyes half-closed as her ravens circled overhead, watching for trolls and Mhorites and God knew what else.

  He made up his mind, took a deep breath, and walked to her.

  Her eyes, hard and black and deep, stared at him. Again he wondered what Ridmark saw in her. She was brave and clever, true. She was also pretty, and when he had seen her unclad at Coriolus’s altar near Moraime, he was honest enough with himself to admit that it had been hard to look away. Yet there was a cold arrogance within her that seemed dangerous.

  “Well, Sir Swordbearer,” said Morigna in her usual mocking tone. “Come to keep me company, hmm? Perhaps to reminisce about your childhood in Aranaeus, oblivious as everyone around you worshipped spiders?”

  “I know what you did,” said Gavin.

  “Oh, just what is that?” said Morigna. “I ate breakfast, I helped save your lives from some trolls…”

  “You used dark magic,” said Gavin, his voice quiet enough that no else could hear it, “to control that urvaalg in the battle.”

  Morigna’s eyes narrowed into black slits. “So sure of that, are you? Are you a Magistrius now, to…”

  “I felt it,” said Gavin. “During the battle. It was the same spell you used during our fight against the Warden’s creatures. I only felt it because I was standing a few feet away from you. I think you made it weaker so that Sir Arandar and Lady Calliande would not sense it.”

  Morigna stared at him. He could almost guess the thoughts behind those dark eyes. She was contemplating lying to him. Or perhaps attacking him.

  “So you think to bully me, boy?” said Morigna. Apparently she had decided to threaten him. “You think that sword gives you the right to command me? Sir Gavin the Wise, then?”

  “Why?” said Gavin. “You told the Gray Knight you would not use the dark magic again.”

  “I did it to save Ridmark’s life,” hissed Morigna. “That urvaalg would have taken him unawares, and neither of you mighty Swordbearers were close enough to aid him. I will not lose someone else to those damned urvaalgs.”

  Gavin hesitated. He knew that dark magic was dangerous. He had seen what happened to those who turned to dark powers, Paul Tallmane foremost among them. Morigna was playing with fire, was creating a weapon that would one day turn upon her. Yet he could not find the words to articulate his thoughts.

  “You should be careful,” said Gavin at last. “You are playing with dangerous things.”

  She sneered. “I have been playing with dangerous things since long before you were born.”

  “You are five or six years older than me at most,” said Gavin. “If you were playing with dangerous things then, you must have been a most foolish five-year-old.”

  She almost smiled at that. “So, my brave Swordbearer. What shall you do with the vile witch in your midst? Denounce me to Sir Arandar and the Magistria?”

  “No,” said Gavin. “I’m not going to tell anyone. You should think on something, though.”

  “Do enlighten me,” said Morigna.

  “You used a spell to control an urvaalg,” said Gavin. “The Old Man used an urvaalg to kill your Sir Nathan. What kind of spell do you think the Old Man used to command the urvaalg? The same one you’re using, perhaps?”

  Her face went blank, but her dark eyes flashed with rage, and for a moment Gavin thought she might strike him. Then she scowled and looked away, but he saw a flicker of chagrin on her face. Perhaps she had listened to him. Perhaps she was putting on a show for his benefit.

  But he would watch her closely nonetheless.

  Chapter 3: Khorduk

  The next day they reached Khorduk in the middle of the afternoon.

  “That,” said Gavin with surprise, “looks a lot like Thainkul Dural.”

  Ridmark nodded, watching the village.

  They were high in the foothills now, almost to the mountains proper. The peaks rose up overhead like fists of gray stone and white ice, their snow-topped caps glinting in the sun sinking towards the western horizon. Somewhere beyond those peaks, he knew, lay the Vale of Stone Death and the gates to the ruined dwarven city of Khald Azalar.

  With luck, they would find aid within the walls of Khorduk.

  The village was a peculiar mixture of dwarven and pagan orcish architecture. A stockade of sharpened logs and piled stones encircled the village, and most of the houses within were round with thatched roofs, much like the dead village Ridmark and Morigna had seen yesterday. Yet the gate’s twin watch towers were built of massive blocks of perfectly worked stone, and stood twice as tall as the stockade itself. The blocky shape of dwarven glyphs marked the towers’ sides, along with the stylized, angular bas-beliefs the dwarven kindred preferred for artwork. Within the heart of the village rose another blocky dwarven tower, twice as high as the watch towers. Khorduk was a strong place and would be difficult to take by storm. To judge from the crossbow-armed guards standing atop the wall, it hadn’t fallen to the trolls. If the Traveler and Mournacht had both brought armies to enter Khald Azalar, they would find it wiser to go around Khorduk.

  “Aye, Sir Gavin,” said Caius, gazing at the towers. “It was once one of the outer watch towers of Khald Azalar, with a signal fire to warn the others. Likely it fell when the Frostborn stormed Khald Azalar itself.”

  “If it is a watch tower,” said Morigna, “then would it not open to the Deeps? Perhaps we can enter Khald Azalar through a tunnel and avoid our foes entirely.”

  Caius shook his head. “A sound thought, but the outer watch towers would not link to the Deeps. The approaches to Khald Azalar within the Deeps have their own strong points.”

  “You seem most familiar with Khald Azalar, Brother Caius,” said Arandar with surprise.

  “I visited it once,” said Caius, his deep voice distant. “Long ago, before it fell to the Frostborn, when the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves were still the Four Kingdoms. Certainly long before any of you children were born.”

  “You shall make a useful guide, then,” said Arandar.

  “Not as much as I would wish,” said Caius. “It was long ago, and I only visited the top levels of Khald Azalar. I had no idea the Keeper would conceal her staff there…or even who the Keeper really was.” He smiled. “Had I but been a little older, I could have met Calliande in person centuries ago and saved us much trouble.”

  Calliande smiled back. “How dare you have been born too late, Brother Caius.”

  “We can hire a guide with more recent knowledge here,” said Kharlacht.

  “This village looks like a den of iniquity,” said Arandar.

  “It is,” said Kharlacht, “but the orcs here worship neither the blood gods nor the Dominus Christus, but only profit. They will not kill us in the name of Mhor.”

  “No,” said Jager. “Though they might kill us in the name of all the armor of dark elven steel that we are wearing. Such relics are valuable.”

  “That is a possibility,” said Kharlacht. “But only if we look like easy prey.”

  “Well,” said Ridmark. “Let us find out if we are appetizing or not.”

  He strode towards the gates of Khorduk, the others following. The Vhaluuskan orcs upon the stockade straightened up, lifting their crossbows. They didn’t precisely aim at him, but Ridmark knew they could bring the crossbows to bear easily enough. He stopped a dozen paces from the gate and lifted his hands.

  For a moment the orcs stared at him.

  “If you’re looking to sell those women,” said one of the guards, a tough, grizzled orcish man with skin like battered green leather, “you might find a buyer.”

  “You
could not afford me,” said Morigna with a smirk.

  “We’re treasure hunters,” said Ridmark. “We want to take some relics from the ruins of Khald Azalar.” That part, at least, was true.

  “You picked a foolish time to come, stranger,” said the orcish guard. “The trolls are stirred up, and there are devils loose in the Vale of Stone Death. It seems as if every warlord with a petty army is marching on the Vale for some reason.” He cackled, a bit of spittle dangling from his yellowed tusks. “Perhaps they all hope to die in the Vale.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Ridmark. “I wish to speak with a man named Qhurzal.” Kharlacht had given him the name. “I want to propose a joint venture. My followers and I shall make no trouble within your walls.”

  “Very well,” said the guard. “Though if you make trouble, we’ll sell that fine armor of yours.”

  The gates to Khorduk swung open.

  ###

  Gavin had never been in a tavern of pagan orcs.

  He had talked to pagan orcs before, of course. Occasionally small groups had launched raids upon the outlying farms of Aranaeus, but more often they came to trade. The pagan orcs prayed to demons and false gods, but they still needed to eat and drink and buy and sell. The Vhaluuskan orcs were grim and taciturn, hard-dealing but fair. Rather like Kharlacht, now that Gavin thought about it, though Kharlacht had been baptized and brought into the church.

  Though Gavin supposed that all the fanatical Vhaluuskans, all the ones like Mournacht and his followers, had marched to their deaths at Dun Licinia.

  The tavern was unlike any Gavin had ever seen. Of course, he hadn’t seen all that many taverns in his life, which struck him as absurdly funny. For all the wonders and the horrors that he had seen since leaving Aranaeus, there was so much of the world he had not seen, so much of life he did not understand.

  Still, it was a strange tavern. It was a large round room walled in stone, a larger version of the orcish houses, the thatched roof held in place by old wooden beams. A firepit blazed in the center of the room, smoke rising through an oculus in the center of the roof. Skulls lined the walls of the tavern, troll skulls, skulls of kobolds and murrags from the Deeps, and even a few urvaalg skulls, the bones glistening and black. Benches and tables circled the firepit. Orcish women moved back and forth among the tables, carrying trays of food and drink. They looked as tall and fierce and muscular as most of the orcish men, and either they were in a foul mood or a scowl was their customary expression. Orcish men and a few orcish women sat at the tables, eating and drinking. Most had the rough look of mercenaries or bandits, and all of them cast quiet glances at Gavin and the others like wolves contemplating the prospect of prey.

  Ridmark, Kharlacht, Jager, Caius, Calliande, and Morigna sat at one of the tables, while Gavin, Arandar, and Mara stood guard. Gavin felt better having Arandar to back him up. He also felt better having Mara nearby, which made him feel a rueful sort of amusement. He had never thought such a diminutive woman could make himself feel safer, but she did.

  Though given that both Mournacht and the Traveler were loose in the foothills, he supposed any sense of safety was an illusion.

  A deep, gurgling laugh rang through the tavern.

  The orcish man they had come to see sat at the head of the table, between Ridmark and Caius. Like Kharlacht, he was nearly seven feet tall. Unlike Kharlacht, he had run to fat, his tusks rising before thick jowls, his broad gut straining against his leather jerkin. Yet he looked as if he knew how to use the weapons hanging at his belt. He also wore a peculiar variety of symbols – a wooden cross, a red skull of Mhor, symbols of the other blood gods, blocky glyphs that Gavin thought belonged to the dwarven gods of stone and silence, and other symbols he did not recognize. The big orc’s symbol-laden chest positively clanked every time he lifted his cup of beer.

  “You bear, master Qhurzal,” said Caius, “a most curious array of symbols.”

  “Well,” rumbled the big orc, “one man says his god is supreme, and another says that his rules over the heavens. Who is to say which man is correct? Gods are powerful things, and I have no wish to earn their enmity. So I burn a handful of incense to the Dominus Christus, sit in silence for an hour in honor of the gods of stone and silence, and sprinkle a pinch of blood on Mhor’s altar on days of the blood moons. I pay my respects to all the gods, for a man must have many friends.”

  Arandar gave a faint shake of his head. “Polytheist,” he said in a soft voice.

  Gavin blinked. “A what?”

  “Polytheist,” said Arandar.

  Gavin thought back to his lessons with Father Martel in Aranaeus. “You mean…a figure of more than three sides?”

  Now Arandar looked confused. “What?”

  “I think you mean a polygon,” said Mara. “A polytheist is someone who worships more than one god at once.”

  Morigna gave them an irritated glance and made a shushing gesture, but fortunately Qhurzal seemed not to notice.

  “A pious attitude,” said Caius, “though the Dominus Christus and his Father are supreme above all other gods.”

  “And that,” said Qhurzal, “is why I burn incense, to avert their wrath. But, come! I am curious how a dwarf of Khald Tormen became a priest of the god of Andomhaim…but Kharlacht tells me you came all this way to talk business, yes?”

  “We did,” said Ridmark.

  “I enjoy war as much as any orc,” said Qhurzal, rubbing his thick hands together. “But business is more profitable by far. So! What brings such a peculiar band of travelers,” he glanced over them all, “to the gates of Khorduk?”

  “We wish to enter Khald Azalar and retrieve a particular item,” said Ridmark.

  Qhurzal considered that for a moment.

  “Kharlacht my boy,” he said, “I thought you seemed a sensible lad, at least until you fell in with that lunatic Qazarl and his pack of Mhalekite madmen.”

  “He was kin,” rumbled Kharlacht.

  “The bonds of blood are sacred, this is so,” said Qhurzal. “But if you want to follow this madman into Khald Azalar, then you are indeed a fool. Oh, I know who you are, Gray Knight. Tales of you have come this far north. But even you cannot go into Khald Azalar right now and live.”

  “Why not?” said Ridmark.

  “Because,” said Qhurzal, “strange things are going on in the Vale of Stone Death.”

  “What manner of strange things?” said Ridmark.

  Qhurzal took another drink of beer, the fingers of his free hand drumming against the planks of the table.

  “The ruins,” he said, “are waking up.”

  “Waking up?” said Ridmark. “They’re stone and steel. How can rock and metal awaken?”

  “More precisely,” said Qhurzal, “their ancient guardians are awakening. How to begin?” He thought for a moment. “There is a pass through the mountains near here. It goes into a vale in the heart of the mountains. On the far end of that vale is one of the main gates to Khald Azalar, specifically the Gate of the West. We call the vale the Vale of Stone Death. Do you know why?”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “I suspect the story is not a pleasant one.”

  Qhurzal smiled, showing yellowed teeth in the gray tangle of his beard. “It’s not. There is…something in the Vale, some manner of creature that can turn its victims to stone.”

  Caius sighed. “The ancient defenses. I feared we might encounter something like this.”

  Qhurzal grunted. “You know what it is, dwarf?”

  “When the Nine Kingdoms of the dwarves were founded many millennia ago,” said Caius, “my kindred were at war with the dark elves. The dark elves wielded mighty magic and terrible weapons, and we feared defeat in that war. We had no wish for our engines and magic to fall into the hands of our enemies, so our stonescribes prepared defenses of…surpassing potency, let us say, only to be activated if our kingdoms fell.”

  “What kind of defenses?” said Ridmark.

  “Something that can turn living men into dead stone, appar
ently,” said Caius.

  “A basilisk?” said Ridmark.

  Qhurzal grunted again, impressed. “You’ve seen a basilisk, Gray Knight? How are you still alive?”

  “Not a basilisk, but its eye,” said Ridmark. “Years ago, in a dark elven ruin. Even that almost killed me.”

  “I doubt it was a creature of flesh and blood,” said Caius. “Likely it was some kind of spirit creature, summoned and bound through the lore of the stonescribes. When Khald Azalar’s fall became inevitable, its king would have released the final defenses.”

  “The Frostborn army that attacked Khald Azalar was utterly destroyed,” said Calliande, her voice tight. “Khald Azalar itself fell and its people were wiped out, but the Frostborn army perished as well.”

  “It was,” said Qhurzal with less concern. Gavin supposed it was ancient history to him, but for Calliande it had been part of her life, even if she could not remember it. “So the Vale of Stone Death is littered with dwarven ruins, to say nothing of Khald Azalar itself. From time to time some of the tribes of Vhaluusk or an enterprising rogue organizes an expedition into the Vale and Khald Azalar in search of treasure. Some of them come back rich. Most do not come back at all. Yet there are gold and jewels to be found in the ruins, and items of dwarven steel fetch a fine price anywhere.”

  “What makes the Vale so dangerous, Master Qhurzal?” said Jager. “This…guardian creature?”

  “That,” said Qhurzal, “and the ways to the Deeps are open from Khald Azalar. So anything that wishes to visit the surface can do so. Kobolds, dvargir, deep orcs, deep trolls…and deep trolls make the mountain trolls look like frolicsome kittens. To say nothing of the guardian, this creature that turns its victims to stone. The creature seems to sleep on occasion, sometimes for years at a time, but when it awakens it goes on rampages. So few of those who enter the Vale of Stone Death ever return.”

  “You did, though,” said Ridmark.