Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit

by Jonathan Moeller

“Aye.” Qhurzal finished his beer and then called for one of the serving women to bring him another. “Three times.”

  “How have you survived?” said Calliande.

  The big orc grinned at Calliande. “By being clever, madam. And stealthy. The biggest mistake raiders make when they go to the Vale is…well, making too much of a fuss. They hire teams of mercenaries to guard themselves, trains of pack horses and mules to carry out all their treasures. That draws the notice of the guardian and the creatures of the Deeps. I went by myself, alone and stealthily. I also made sure to go when bigger expeditions were making for Khald Azalar.”

  “So the bigger expeditions distracted the guardian and the denizens of the Deeps,” said Ridmark, “and you crept in and carried away whatever you could.”

  “Clever, yes?” said Qhurzal. “That was their mistake, you know. They just got greedy. You can’t spend gold when you’re dead.”

  “Moderation is a virtue,” said Caius, “and it seems to have preserved your life as well.”

  “Truly,” said Qhurzal. One of the women returned with another cup of beer, and Qhurzal took a long drink and belched.

  “We wish to go to Khald Azalar,” said Ridmark, “and were hoping you could guide us.”

  “Too risky,” said Qhurzal at once. “The guardian is stirred up. And for some reason, it seems as if the Vale is drawing visitors. The trolls have gone berserk and are attacking everyone they can find. Bands of crazed Mhor-worshipping orcs are making for the Vale, along with these odd spiny orcs I’ve never seen before.”

  Spiny? Gavin wondered what that meant.

  “Orcs in the service of the Traveler,” said Mara, expressionless, “the dark elven monarch of Nightmane Forest.”

  “Dark elves are bad business,” said Qhurzal. “They once ruled the world and kept my kindred as slaves, until they summoned up the great spider-devils and became slaves themselves. If some dark elven prince thinks to enter the Vale, let him. He can fight it out with the guardian.”

  “If the Mhorite orcs and the Traveler distract the guardian and the other creatures of the Vale,” said Ridmark, “we have all the better chance to reach Khald Azalar.”

  “True,” said Qhurzal, considering the matter. “Very well. We shall compromise. I have no wish to return to Khald Azalar, and even less desire to enter the Vale. But I shall guide you to the Vale itself in exchange for a reasonable payment.”

  Gavin wondered what Qhurzal would consider a “reasonable” payment.

  “While I appreciate your offer,” said Ridmark, “I wonder what benefit it offers us. The pass to the Vale of Stone Death is not hard to find. If I were to climb upon the roof of this tavern and look over the walls, I could see it from here. I wonder why I need you to guide me to something I can already see.”

  “A prudent question, Gray Knight,” said Qhurzal. “You can see the pass. So can the Mhorites, the spiny orcs, the trolls, and everyone else who’s decided to descend upon the Vale. The pass shall be crowded. You alone might have a chance of sneaking past, but all nine of you? No.”

  “You have another route, then?” said Ridmark.

  “I do.” Qhurzal looked smug. “The High Gate.”

  “Ah,” said Caius.

  “You know what it is?” said Ridmark.

  “I suspect it is another way into the Vale,” said Caius. “My kindred believe in being thorough. The High Pass would be the main route into the Vale. But the kings of Khald Azalar would have built another path into the Vale, a way through the mountain. Specifically, a way under the mountain.”

  “I thought you had been here before,” said Morigna, scowling at him. “Why did you not mention the High Gate before?”

  “Because I didn’t know if it existed,” said Caius. “I visited Khald Azalar once, as a young man, before the Frostborn destroyed it. I was little more than a common soldier at the time, and the king of Khald Azalar did not see fit to share his secrets with me.”

  “Truly?” said Qhurzal. “You saw Khald Azalar in its glory? That would have been two hundred and fifty years ago. You’re that old?” Caius nodded. “To hell with that. Living that long with knees like mine doesn’t sound pleasant.”

  “Back to the point,” said Ridmark. “You know where the High Gate is? And it is still accessible?”

  “Aye and aye,” said Qhurzal. “It’s been open for years. It doesn’t open to the Deeps, but sometimes trolls lair inside of it. Or urvaalgs.” He glanced at Arandar and Gavin. “Though with your friends, urvaalgs or ursaars won’t prove much of a problem.”

  “This hidden path of yours sounds too good to be true,” said Morigna, her suspicion plain. “How do we know you shall not lead us into a trap?”

  “You don’t,” said Qhurzal. “But I am not spinning you a pretty story. The High Gate exists, and while it is dangerous, it is presently less dangerous than the High Pass.” He shrugged. “Go to the High Pass if you wish and get slaughtered by the Mhorites or eaten by the trolls, or wander the foothills looking for the High Gate until you starve to death. It is no concern of mine either way.” He waved a hand at Arandar and Gavin. “And robbing you? The skill of the Gray Knight is famed, and those two scowling fellows by the short blond girl are both Swordbearers. What sort of madman attacks Swordbearers? I am a man of business, not an idiot.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “What sort of fee would you consider reasonable for your services?”

  “Well, then,” said Qhurzal, leaning closer. “Let us drink together and discuss the matter.”

  After that, it was all over but the haggling.

  ###

  Several mugs of beer later, Ridmark agreed on a price with Qhurzal. They would meet at the gate of Khorduk at first light tomorrow and head for the High Gate, which lay a half-day’s climb into the hills.

  The peculiar tavern with its skull-lined walls was reasonably clean, and Ridmark and his companions had not slept under a roof since leaving the ruins of the Iron Tower, so he paid for rooms as well. He retreated to his room on the tavern’s second floor while the others sat down to dinner. The room was small, but the bed was clean and the floor was free of vermin. Ridmark had spent months at a time sleeping outdoors, but he would not object to a bed. In fact, right now a bed sounded more pleasant than a hot meal.

  He had no sooner propped his staff in the corner then the door opened.

  Ridmark turned, reaching for the dwarven war axe at his belt, but it was Morigna.

  “Oh,” he said, and smiled at her. “Is everything all right?”

  She licked her lips, grinned at him, seized his collar, and kissed him.

  Ah. That was what she wanted.

  He kissed her back, his hands curling around her hips and pulling her closer, all thoughts of sleep retreating from his mind. They broke apart, and a moment later they were out of their clothes, and a moment after that they were in the bed together.

  After, Ridmark lay on his back, gazing at the ceiling, head pillowed on his left arm. Morigna lay on her stomach next him, her fingers tracing slowly across his chest. His right hand rested upon the small of her back, the skin warm and soft beneath his fingers.

  “Do you think we can do this?” she murmured at last.

  “Again?” said Ridmark. “I need a little time to recover first.”

  She blinked, and let out a startled laugh. “I have no doubts on that score, Gray Knight. No.” Her smile faded. “Do you truly think we can go to the Vale of Stone Death and come out again?”

  “I think it can be done,” said Ridmark. “Aye, there might be many foes in the Vale…but they all hate each other. Mournacht will not submit to the Traveler, and the Traveler will try to clear the Mhorites from his path. The trolls will prey upon them both, and I suspect this guardian of Qhurzal’s will prey upon anything it can catch. With luck, we won’t have to fight anyone. We can slip past them and make our way to Khald Azalar while they fight it out.”

  “Then,” said Morigna. She fell silent and considered her words for a
moment, and he felt her tense a little. “Then this is not about death?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You kept talking about how you did not deserve to live after what had happened in Dun Licinia,” said Morigna. “Now you are about to head into danger once more. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  Ridmark started to snap at her, annoyed, but stopped himself. There was no accusation in her tone, no anger. She just wanted to know.

  It was a fair question, given some of the reckless things he had done in the past.

  “No,” he said at last. “I would not be doing this if I did not think it necessary, and if I did not think we have a reasonable chance of success. When I left Dun Licinia, after…”

  “After Aelia died,” she said, voice quiet.

  He was grateful he did not have to say it. “I was looking for the Frostborn, for how they would return. Both the Warden and Gothalinzur warned me of it, but no one had taken that warning seriously. I had nothing else to do with my life, and that seemed a worthy task.” He shrugged. “And if I was killed in the process, well…it was no less than I deserved.”

  “Ridmark,” she said.

  “But we succeeded,” he said. “We found how the Frostborn are returning. We don’t know why Shadowbearer is trying to summon them back…but we know what he needs to do to summon them, which means we know how to stop it.” His free hand curled into a fist. “We find Calliande’s staff and keep the soulstone from him for another ten months. Then the window is lost, and he will not be able to bring the Frostborn back for centuries.” He took a deep breath. “So, no, I am not trying to get myself killed. I am trying to win a battle and keep the Frostborn from destroying the world. If I am slain in the process, so be it…but I want to be victorious. And if I am victorious and I live, all the better.”

  “What changed your mind?” said Morigna.

  His hand traveled up her back. “What do you think?”

  She smiled at him. She smiled so rarely. Of course, he rarely did, either. She often smirked, usually while answering one of Jager’s barbs or taunting poor Gavin about something or another, but she hardly ever smiled. But when she did, some of the hard edges seemed to fall from her face. It made Ridmark wonder what she would have been like if the dvargir had not murdered her parents and Coriolus had not taken her as an apprentice, if her life had not been marred by the Old Man’s dark magic. Likely she would have married and settled in Moraime, and he might well never have met her.

  “Such words of flattery, Gray Knight,” said Morigna. “Shall you write me poetry next? Or perhaps find a lyre and sing songs of my beauty?”

  “I cannot compose poetry and I have no ear for music,” said Ridmark, “and saying that you do not make me want to fling myself into the jaws of death hardly counts as flattery.”

  Her smile faded. “You have not answered my question. One thinks that you do not wish to answer it.”

  “What am I to say?” said Ridmark. “That a naked woman in my bed makes me want to survive? Am I really that simple?”

  “Apparently,” said Morigna. “But that still does not answer my question.”

  “Since you must hear it, very well,” said Ridmark. “I do not want to get myself killed. I want to stop the Frostborn and live. I want to come back to you. Can I not be clearer?”

  “No,” said Morigna, and she rolled onto her side and kissed him for a long moment. She pulled away and gazed at him, black hair hanging loose around her pale face. “If anyone can stop the Frostborn, Ridmark Arban, you can. With my help, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Ridmark. He hesitated. “How have you been?”

  A lazy smile went over her thin lips. “You should know. You were there.”

  “The power you took from the Warden’s soulstones,” said Ridmark. Her smile vanished. “It hasn’t…”

  “Done what?” said Morigna, going rigid. “Twisted me into a monster?”

  “Harmed you,” said Ridmark.

  Morigna let out a long breath. “No. Nor have I used it. Do you fear me so?”

  “No,” said Ridmark.

  She lifted her chin. “If not fear, what do you feel for me?”

  “I’ll show you,” said Ridmark.

  He rolled her onto her back, and her eyes went wide with sudden surprise. Then she grinned and pulled him close.

  Chapter 4: The High Gate

  A cold wind blew over the rocky slope, and Calliande shivered and pulled her green cloak closer.

  Though it was not that cold. They were not yet in the mountains proper, and tough little bushes and pine trees clung to the slopes. The mountains rose overhead, bleak and massive, their crowns topped with snow, their flanks rocky and barren. Somehow, under all that stone, the dwarves of Khald Azalar had built a city large enough to house tens of thousands. It was a stupendous feat of engineering.

  Within the ruins of the dwarves waited Dragonfall and her staff.

  A flicker of anticipation and terror went through her. The office of Keeper was a tremendous burden and responsibility. Could she be equal to it?

  Perhaps the woman she had been, the woman who had been cold enough to seal herself in darkness and lose everyone she had ever known, had been strong enough to wield such power.

  Perhaps she would be that woman again.

  That thought frightened her.

  She pushed it aside. She hadn’t gotten her staff back yet. She hadn’t even gotten to Khald Azalar. It would be a cruel irony if one of the Mhorites killed her while she was fretting about her staff, especially while it lay so close at hand.

  Calliande looked around, trying to keep watch over their surroundings.

  Qhurzal had been true to his word, waiting for them at the gate of Khorduk with a half-dozen grim, silent, well-armed orcish men. All of them had the shaved green heads and black topknots of warriors, and they carried a wide variety of weapons. The orcs remained wary and watchful, their hands hovering near their sword hilts. Calliande feared treachery, but the orcs were not watching her or the others.

  They were watching the hills. That was probably good, given how dangerous the trolls were. Ridmark and Qhurzal walked at the head of the line, speaking in low voices. Morigna walked a short distance behind him. She looked smug, the way she always did after she and Ridmark went “scouting” together. Calliande knew that shouldn’t bother her. There was no reason for that to bother her. She had no right for it to bother her.

  But it did. Maybe a little.

  She laughed at herself. The fate of the world hung in the balance, the lives of countless thousands were at risk, and she was jealous. God and his saints, but she was thinking like a foolish child.

  “My lady Calliande?”

  She looked up. Gavin walked a short distance away, clad in leather and wool and his blue dark elven steel cuirass, his hand resting on Truthseeker’s hilt.

  “Is something amiss?” he said. “You were laughing.”

  “I hope I have not become so grim that laughter seems out of place.”

  He had been solemn ever since they had left Urd Morlemoch, ever since he had taken up Truthseeker to become a Swordbearer. She could understand. Nevertheless, her remark made him smile, if briefly.

  “No,” said Gavin.

  “We mortals are ridiculous creatures, are we not?” said Calliande. “We want what we cannot have, and focus on trivialities in the face of dangers.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” said Jager, strolling behind her. “I want to have hot biscuits and fresh bacon in bed with my wife, but instead I am strolling into the cold mountains to face monsters.”

  Calliande glanced at Ridmark and then down at Jager.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  ###

  As Qhurzal promised, they reached the entrance to the High Gate shortly after noon.

  Ridmark and Morigna both had a great deal of experience at tracking, and Kharlacht knew his way around a forest. Nevertheles
s, they could have searched for weeks without finding the High Gate. A narrow set of stairs, cleverly carved into the face of a cliff, climbed up the sheer stone face. Unless Ridmark had been standing in exactly the right place, he never would have seen them. The stairs crawled back and forth up the front of the cliff, stopping at a broad ledge three hundred yards above. Boulders ringed the ledge, concealing it from observation from below.

  Behind the boulders, carved into the face of the cliff, yawned a gate.

  It had been built in the same fashion of the gates of the other dwarven ruins he had visited, a square stone arch flanked by bas-relief carvings of dwarven warriors in full armor, shields upon their arms and axes in their fists. Dwarven glyphs had been carved into the lintel and above the arch.

  Beyond stretched a gallery of stone, lined with columns, columns that vanished into the darkness beneath the mountain.

  “That also reminds me of Thainkul Dural,” said Gavin in a quiet voice.

  “Or Thainkul Agon,” said Calliande, coming to Ridmark’s side. Her face was still, but her blue eyes did not blink as they stared at the gate.

  “Just how many dwarven ruins did you people visit before you met me?” said Jager.

  “More than I care to recall,” said Ridmark. “And have you forgotten Thainkul Balzon beneath Coldinium?”

  Jager sighed. “I was trying to forget, but then you had to remind me, didn’t you?”

  Caius stared up at the glyphs above the gate, his brow furrowed.

  “What does it say?” said Ridmark.

  “That we are entering the domain of the King of Khald Azalar,” said Caius, “and that the Vale beyond and all the Deeps beneath the mountain are his domain and subject to his law.”

  “Really?” grunted Qhurzal, wheezing from the climb. “I’ve always wondered what it said.” He took a deep breath. “Too damn old to climb up all those damn stairs. Easier when I was younger.” He waved a hand at his warriors. “Light the torches. The sooner we deliver the Gray Knight to the Vale, the sooner we can get paid and go home.”

  The orcish warriors went about their tasks. Each man lit a torch in his left hand and drew a sword in his right. The torches were not strictly necessary. Both Morigna and Calliande could summon light with their magic, and Gavin’s and Arandar’s soulblades glowed when they drew upon the sword’s power. Yet Ridmark preferred that Morigna and Calliande save their strength for a crisis.