Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit

by Jonathan Moeller

  God only knew what awaited them in the High Gate and the Vale of Stone Death.

  “Qhurzal,” said Ridmark. “How far to the other side?”

  “Four or five miles,” said Qhurzal. “It’s straight and the floors are clear. Takes about an hour, an hour and a half if you don’t dawdle. There are side chambers, armories and barracks and such, but they were cleared out long ago. A stairwell goes to a ruined tower on the Vale side, but nothing lives up there. Too cold and desolate, I suppose.”

  “Then let’s not dawdle,” said Ridmark.

  ###

  The flickering light of the torches cast ominous shadows across the walls of the wide tunnel.

  Though it was certainly the most impressive tunnel Gavin had ever seen. The ceiling rose high overhead, much like that of a church. Stone pillars lined the gallery, carved with figures of dwarven warriors in armor. Gavin felt as if their stone eyes watched him, frowning upon his intrusion in their realm. From time to time doors opened in the walls, leading to darkened chambers, likely the barracks and looted armories that Qhurzal had mentioned. Gavin watched the doorways, but nothing emerged from them.

  He was jumping at shadows. The High Gate had been so well concealed that he doubted the Mhorites or the Traveler’s spiny orcs had found it. Yet Qhurzal had mentioned trolls, and as large as the gallery was, Gavin would not want to fight trolls in a confined space of any kind.

  Qhurzal and his men took the lead. Ridmark and Kharlacht came next, followed by Caius and Jager. Gavin and Arandar guarded Mara, Morigna, and Calliande. If attackers came, Gavin would keep them away long enough for Morigna and Calliande to bring their magic to bear and Mara to travel behind their foes.

  “A grim place,” said Arandar in a quiet voice.

  “Aye,” said Gavin. “But we have trod in ruins before.”

  “Urd Morlemoch,” said Arandar. “But that was an evil place. That was always an evil place. The dwarves…they are stern and proud and cold, but they are not malicious. They have built great kingdoms, and now this kingdom lies in ruin.” He shook his head, his gray-streaked black hair sliding around his ears. “Will this happen to Andomhaim, I wonder? The Enlightened of Incariel have eaten into the realm like a cancer. I had hoped to win a better future for my children…but I fear instead they shall inherit a ruin like this.”

  Gavin had no answer for that. Once Calliande regained her staff and her power, perhaps she would have the authority to deal with Tarrabus Carhaine and his band of demon-worshipping madmen.

  “Kindly stop talking, sir knight,” said Qhurzal in a quiet voice. “Echoes can carry quite far.”

  Arandar made a curt nod.

  They continued on in silence, the torches throwing capering shadows across the ancient carvings.

  ###

  “By the blood gods,” muttered Qhurzal. “What is that?”

  Ridmark frowned. “Is something amiss?”

  The gallery continued on, boring into the heart of the mountain. More pillars lined the passageway, square and blocky, stone dwarves gazing out from the carved walls. The flickering light of the torches made the carvings seem alive, the shadows dancing in the deep-cut lines of their eyes and armor. Qhurzal lifted his torch, a pair of his guards flanking him, and Ridmark followed.

  A small dark shape lay upon the floor. Ridmark squinted, and saw that it was a torn belt, likely discarded after it had been broken. Qhurzal picked it up, sniffed a few times, and then tossed it away.

  “Recent,” he said. “It is still damp with sweat. Likely it has been here for only a few hours.”

  “Raiders?” said Ridmark.

  “I do not know,” said Qhurzal. “It is orcish sweat. Human sweat smells far fouler.”

  Ridmark decided not to comment on that. “Could someone have known that we were coming here?”

  “I do not see how,” said Qhurzal. “Save for my men, I told no one that we were traveling to the High Gate.”

  “I doubt we were followed or overheard,” said Caius. “Even if an enemy had overheard us speaking at the tavern and had hastened for the High Gate at once, it would still be a long and hard march. We would have seen signs or tracks.”

  “There are no tracks in here,” said Morigna. “The floor is too hard.”

  “It seems likely that a scout found his way into the High Gate,” said Kharlacht. “Perhaps he went all the way through to the Vale.”

  “And then we’ll meet him on his way out,” said Ridmark.

  “Assuming the inhabitants of the Vale do not kill him first,” grumbled Qhurzal.

  “Let’s keep going,” said Ridmark. “We can deal with a few scouts.” If they were Mhorites or the Traveler’s soldiers, Ridmark did not want them reporting back to their masters. Better to reach Khald Azalar without Mournacht or the Traveler or anyone else noticing.

  “Perhaps we should turn back,” said Qhurzal, the doubt plain on his weathered face.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “To the Vale I intend to go, and to the Vale we shall go. You can turn back, if you wish.

  Qhurzal hesitated. “You paid me to take you through the High Gate. Qhurzal is a man of his word.”

  “And so he is,” said Ridmark. “The High Gate is a straight tunnel. I think we can find our way from here. Your part in this bargain is complete.”

  Qhurzal did not take long to make up his mind. “Very well. This gallery continues for another half-mile. Beyond that is a large hall, with dwarven glyphs carved upon the floor. After that is a flight of stairs, and atop the stairs you will find the door to the Vale of Stone Death. May the human God watch over you, Gray Knight, for you shall surely need his aid.” He grinned behind his beard and tusks. “Perhaps when you return, you shall buy us drinks with the gold you find.”

  “Perhaps I shall at that,” said Ridmark.

  Qhurzal and his men left without another word, the glow of their torches vanishing down the gallery to the west. Jager and Mara already had torches, and the others lit torches themselves.

  “Well,” said Morigna with annoyance as she stared at the retreating torchlight, “he certainly proved eager to abandon us at the first opportunity.”

  “It’s for the best,” said Ridmark. “If it came to a fight, I’m not sure he would have been on our side. If our opponents had offered him more money, Qhurzal might have sided with them.”

  “Treachery,” said Arandar with a shake of his head.

  “Business,” said Ridmark. “This way.”

  He started forward, torch in his left hand, black staff in his right, and the others followed. Qhurzal’s prediction proved accurate. After another half-mile, the gallery ended into a wide stone hall with a lofty ceiling. Hundreds of dwarven glyphs had been carved into the floor, their edges still as sharp and clear as if they had been inscribed yesterday. At the far end of the hall yawned a wide, square gateway. Broad stairs rose beyond it, and Ridmark saw the faintest glimmer of daylight upon the steps.

  The way into the Vale of Stone Death.

  “There,” said Ridmark.

  “Those doorways,” said Mara, pointing. Behind the pillars, a dozen different doorways stood in the walls, the rooms beyond dark. “There are glyphs above the doors. Where do they go?”

  Caius squinted, lifting his torch. “Ah…guard rooms and barracks, I believe. I think the High Gate’s garrison was stationed here.” He pointed. “That door, there. There are stairs beyond it. I believe it leads to the watch tower that Qhurzal mentioned, the one with a view of the Vale.”

  “A garrison?” said Ridmark. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Surely the dwarves wished to guard their secret tunnel from unwanted visitors,” said Jager.

  “Such as thieves?” said Arandar.

  Jager grinned at him. “Precisely such as thieves, Sir Arandar.”

  “But why garrison this end?” said Ridmark. “There wasn’t anything like this at the western end of the High Gate. A garrison would be more effective at the western end, keeping any intruders from
getting into the tunnel at all.” He waved a hand. “If an enemy gets this far, what’s to stop him from climbing the stairs and reaching the Vale?”

  “Ridmark,” said Mara in a soft voice, her green eyes darting back and forth. “Those glyphs. I…think there is a spell upon them.”

  Ridmark froze, looking at the glyphs carved upon the floor, while both Morigna and Calliande cast spells.

  “Mara is correct,” said Morigna, waving her hand as purple fire flickered around her fingers. “Every one of the glyphs carries a spell. The door to the stairs as well, I deem.”

  “I think they’re wards,” said Calliande. “Latent, though. Sleeping. Nothing has triggered them in a very long time. Caius. Can you read what they say?”

  The dwarven friar gave a quick shake of his head. “Not entirely.”

  Morigna scowled. “Can not a dwarf read the script of his own kindred?”

  “A dwarf can,” said Caius, “but the glyphs of our tongue and the glyphs employed by the stonescribes to carve words of magic upon stone and steel are different alphabets entirely. The stonescribes guard their secrets closely. I think, though,” he stared at the floor for a moment, “I think that these are wards against hostile magic. So long as no one casts a spell at them, we ought to be safe.”

  “I suggest we do not dwell upon the matter further,” said Kharlacht, “but instead proceed to the Vale.”

  “A sound thought,” said Ridmark, and he took a step forward just as a figure emerged from one of the darkened doors.

  It was an orcish man, clad in fur and leather and a ragged chain mail hauberk, a sword in his right hand and a round leather shield upon his wrist. His face had been scarred and tattooed into a hideous, stylized crimson skull.

  A Mhorite.

  For a moment the Mhorite stared at them in astonishment. Then the orcish warrior threw back his head and roared, the scream echoing off the walls. Morigna sneered and raised her hand, purple fire flickering around her fingers, but Calliande grabbed her wrist.

  “Don’t,” she said. “You’ll set off the wards.”

  Morigna scowled at her, but nodded and reached for her bow.

  Ridmark raised his staff, and a dozen Mhorite orcs erupted from the doorways, torches and swords in hand. They charged with furious war cries, raising their weapons. Mournacht must have sent out scouting bands as he made his way to the Vale of Stone Death. The trolls had killed the band Ridmark had encountered earlier, but another group had stumbled across the High Gate.

  Or Mournacht had sent them to hunt for Ridmark himself. Then the Mhorites drew near, and Ridmark had no more time for speculation.

  His companions raised their weapons and set themselves. White light pulsed from Calliande, settling around Ridmark to strengthen and protect him. He almost shouted for her to stop, but the glyphs upon the floor gave no reaction. Evidently the ancient dwarven stonescribes had not considered the magic of the Well to be a danger. One of the Mhorites charged at Ridmark and flung his torch with a bellow of fury. Ridmark snapped his staff to the side, knocking the torch out of the air, and flung his own torch. The Mhorite dodged, avoiding the missile, and Ridmark attacked. The Mhorite avoided the first swing of his staff, got his sword up to parry the second, and then Ridmark sidestepped, bringing the weapon around with all his strength.

  The staff smashed into the Mhorite’s skull with crushing force, and the warrior went sprawling to the glyph-carved floor. Ridmark spun, seeking another foe. Even without his torch, he had no trouble seeing. The dropped torches provided ample light, at least for now. His companions had fallen into their usual style of fighting. Kharlacht and Caius fought back to back, the big warrior delivering devastating blows with his greatsword. The dwarven friar’s mace crushed skulls and chests, or stunned the Mhorites long enough for Kharlacht to deliver a killing blow. Arandar hacked his way into the Mhorites, Heartwarden rising and falling, while Gavin and Jager fell back to shield Calliande and Morigna. Calliande raised her hands, white fire dancing over her fingers, her face tight with concentration as she maintained her spells. Morigna had her bow out, her expression focused as she sent arrows at the Mhorite warriors. Blue fire flickered behind a Mhorite charging at Calliande, and Mara appeared behind the orcish warrior, giving him a sharp shove in the small of the back. The Mhorite stumbled with a bellow, and in one smooth motion Jaeger reached up and slashed his throat.

  Ten Mhorites fell in the first few moments of the combat, and the rest reeled back even as more orcs emerged from the darkened inner chambers. Ridmark didn’t know how many Mhorites were here. Too many would overwhelm them. Perhaps it would be best to simply retreat up the stairs to the Vale. Except the Mhorites could follow them, and Ridmark and the others would have to fight their way clear. Worse, the fighting might draw the attention of whatever creatures lurked in the Vale of Stone Death.

  A flare of blood-colored light among the Mhorites caught his attention.

  An older orcish man stood behind the Mhorite warriors, his green skin creased with thousands of wrinkles. He wore only trousers and heavy boots, amulets dangling from his neck and belt, the skin of his chest and arms carved with elaborate sigils.

  A Mhorite shaman, a priest of the blood gods…and he was casting a spell, heedless of the warding spells beneath his feet.

  “Stop, you idiot!” roared Ridmark in orcish. “If you cast that spell, you’ll…”

  The Mhorite shaman laughed and flung his hand at Ridmark, crimson fire and dark shadow writhing around his fingers. Calliande gestured, casting a spell of her own, and the extra strength and speed faded from Ridmark as she drew her power back and reshaped it into a ward. A spitting lance of shadow and flame burst from the shaman’s fingers, only to shatter against the shimmering white haze of Calliande’s magic.

  For an instant nothing happened, and then every single glyph upon the floor blazed with sullen orange-yellow light. The Mhorite orcs looked around in alarm. Another glyph blazed to life upon the ceiling, a huge symbol perhaps twenty yards across, growing brighter and brighter.

  And hotter. Ridmark felt the heat rolling off the thing in waves.

  The huge glyph upon the ceiling flared, and a line of white-hot fire as thick as Ridmark’s leg shot from the symbol and ripped across the floor. It tore through three of the Mhorite warriors, turning them into charred husks, and drilled into the shaman. He simply burst apart in a spray of smoking coals and burning embers, and the shaft of fire winked out of existence.

  The temperature in the hall seemed to have doubled in the last few seconds, and it was still getting hotter. The Mhorites scattered in alarm, and the floor started to shake beneath Ridmark’s boots. Were the dwarves’ ancient defenses going to bring the entire High Gate crashing into ruin around them?

  “Ridmark!” shouted Mara, pointing.

  He looked at the stairs to the Vale.

  The archway was getting smaller. Two enormous slabs of stone, covered in fiery glyphs, were sliding together. The huge doors were at least three feet thick. The Mhorites fled towards the western entrance, away from the closing doors. There were dozens of them, perhaps even as many as a hundred. If that door closed, Ridmark and his companions would be trapped in the High Gate with the Mhorite orcs. In the limited space, they would be surrounded and overwhelmed.

  Ridmark made his decision.

  “Go!” he shouted. “Up the stairs, quickly! Run!”

  ###

  Calliande sprinted across the wide hall, her boots slapping against the glowing glyphs burning across the floor. The symbol overhead blazed brighter, the heat washing over her. She wondered if it would get hot enough to set them all ablaze. The Mhorites fled for the far entrance, ignoring the closing doors and the stairs.

  Morigna was the first through the doors, spinning to face the hall. Then came Jager, and Mara flickered next to him in a pulse of blue fire. Both Swordbearers came next, and then Kharlacht and Caius, both men breathing hard. Ridmark stopped just before the closing doors, turning to face her.


  Calliande gritted her teeth and ran faster.

  Suddenly the floor heaved and she stumbled. She took three or four staggering steps forward and caught her balance, alarm and fear driving her onward. The doors were still a third of the way open. If she sprinted, she could get there before…

  Steel flashed in the corner of her eye.

  Calliande spun as a Mhorite orc lunged at her, sword stabbing for her chest. She jumped back, dodging the blow, and her right hand came up to summon power. A ward against steel sprang to life around her, manifesting as a shimmering shell of white light. The orc struck again, his sword rebounding from the ward, the shock of the impact knocking him back. Calliande turned to run, but a second Mhorite attacked her, his skull-tattooed face twisted in a bloodthirsty grin. She put more power into her ward, and the second Mhorite’s blow rebounded. Yet she saw a third one running at her. Her magic could hold their blows at bay…but it could not hurt them. The Mhorites were living mortals, and the magic of the Well could not harm them. Calliande had two daggers on her belt – the blade Ridmark had given her before Dun Licinia, and the enspelled dagger the Taalkaz had given her in Coldinium. Yet the three Mhorites were stronger and faster than she was, and they were going to overwhelm her and kill her.

  Bronze-colored metal flashed, and suddenly one of the Mhorites collapsed to the glowing floor, a dwarven war axe buried in the back of his skull. The remaining two Mhorites whirled, only to face the blur of the black staff in Ridmark’s hands. Ridmark drove the staff into the next Mhorite’s temple, and the orcish warrior collapsed. The final Mhorite lunged at him, slashing and stabbing. Ridmark danced around the blows, the staff snapping up with contemptuous ease to deflect the thrusts that came near his torso. Then he spun the staff, and its butt end slammed into the bottom of the orc’s jaw. The Mhorite’s head snapped back, and Ridmark reversed the staff and swung it into the orc’s temple. The Mhorite collapsed, gagging around a crushed windpipe, and Calliande stared at the warrior in shock. She knew firsthand how skilled Ridmark was, but he had cut down all three orcs in less than twenty seconds.