He seized her hand and yanked her forward.
“Go!” he yelled.
Calliande sprinted after him, the twin slabs of the doors sliding closer and closer together. She saw the others staring at her and Ridmark in alarm. They were going to make it. Just a little further…
“Ridmark!” said Morigna.
The two doors slammed together with a sound like the hammer of God. Calliande staggered to a stop a few paces away. The slabs fitted together so closely that she could barely see the crack.
“Ah,” said Ridmark when the echoes faded away. “Damn.”
Calliande summoned power and cast a spell, probing the wards upon the door. Their sheer power staggered her. An individual dwarven glyph could not contain very much magical power. But thousands upon thousands of glyphs had been carved upon the double doors, and they interlocked, fitting together like a pair of gears. There was no possible way she could dispel the warding glyphs, and even if she did, the doors were three feet of solid granite.
“I’m sorry,” said Calliande. “I should have run faster. I…”
Ridmark shook his head. “You were the farthest away from the doors when that idiot shaman cast his spell. You would have made it if not for the interruption.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, looking around the hall. “We can’t stay here.”
“We can’t leave the others, either,” said Calliande.
“We don’t have a choice,” said Ridmark. “Sooner or later those Mhorites will figure out we’re still here, and I can’t fight all of them. We…”
Blue fire swirled next to them, and Mara appeared out of nothingness.
She blinked, staggered, and wavered on her feet. Ridmark moved to her side and caught her arm.
“Oh,” she said, blinking several more times. “That really hurt.”
“What did?” said Calliande.
“Traveling through those wards,” said Mara, waving a vague hand at the doors.
“I thought you can only travel to places in your line of sight,” said Ridmark.
“Usually,” said Mara. “But the door…I thought I could make it through. Those wards, though.” She shuddered. “Like spikes.”
“Does Caius know if there is a way to open the door?” said Calliande.
“There isn’t,” said Mara. “He says the spells will release themselves after a day.”
“We cannot wait here that long,” said Calliande.
“Can you make it back to the others?” said Ridmark.
“Yes,” said Mara. “I think so. But after that, I don’t think I can manage another trip through those wards without some rest.”
“Good,” said Ridmark. “This is what I want you to do. Tell Caius and Kharlacht and the others to make for the gates of Khald Azalar, the Gate of the West. From what Caius said, they’re on the other side of the Vale, and he’ll remember the way. Try to avoid any fighting. Once you get to the gates, wait for us there. We will meet you as soon as we can.”
“How are you going to get out of here?” said Mara.
Ridmark pointed at one of the darkened doorways across the hall. “That ruined watch tower Caius mentioned. We’ll take the stairs to the watch tower and make our way down the mountainside.”
Mara took a deep breath, and Calliande saw the cool calculation flash over her face. She had made the same judgment that Ridmark had and had come to the same conclusion. “Very well. I will tell them. God go with you, Ridmark.”
“And you, Mara,” said Ridmark.
“I would tell you to be careful,” said Mara, “but I know you would not listen.” She looked at Calliande. “God be with you, Magistria.”
“Don’t let Jager do anything too foolish,” said Calliande.
Mara smiled. “It’s part of his charm.” She nodded to them, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.
Then she vanished in a swirl of blue fire.
Ridmark was in motion at once, beckoning her forward.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Eventually some of those Mhorites are going to regain their courage and come back here, if only to loot their fallen comrades.”
“Do you think this will work?” said Calliande.
“We don’t have any other choice,” said Ridmark, walking towards the orcs he had killed. “If we wait for the spells on the doors to release, the Mhorites will kill us. If the others wait for us on the other side, the guardian creature or God knows what else might stumble upon them and kill them. A moving target is harder to hit.”
“Can we make it down the mountain?” said Calliande.
“We’ll have to,” said Ridmark. “You’ve spent two hundred years waiting to get your staff back. Are we going to let one mountain and some Mhor-worshipping orcs stop you?”
His determination cheered her. This was a man who had spent five years hunting for the mystery of the Frostborn, who had not let urdmordar, dvargir, assassins of the Red Family, or even the Warden of Urd Morlemoch stop him.
“Not if you won’t,” said Calliande.
To her surprise, he smiled at that. “Do you remember the day we met?”
Calliande raised an eyebrow. “Given that I was naked, tied to an altar, and about to die, it was a hard day to forget.”
“Five minutes after we met,” said Ridmark, “we had to run for our lives.” He glanced at the doorway to the west. “Looks like we’ll get the chance again.”
She laughed. “At least I have clothes this time. Running in bare feet is not pleasant.”
He smiled again, and then his face settled into its usual grim mask. He pulled the dwarven war axe from the dead Mhorite’s skull, wiped the weapon off and returned it to his belt, and then they ran for door to the watch tower stairs.
Chapter 5: Swordbearers
“We should go back,” said Morigna.
“There is no way to open the door,” said Brother Caius, his deep voice calm.
They kept climbing the stone stairs. The tunnel sloped upward, the sunlight at the end of the stairs growing brighter with every step.
“Your damned kindred should have left a way to open it,” said Morigna. Unlike Caius, she looked nowhere near calm. Gavin was half-afraid that she might try to strike the dwarven friar. “All marvel at the renowned craftsmanship of the dwarves, yet you cannot build a door that can be opened from without.”
“That is the point of a secure door, I believe,” said Caius. “And Ridmark and Calliande are not trapped. They can escape through the watch tower, and we shall meet them at the gates of Khald Azalar.” He scratched at his beard. “Specifically, the Gate of the West.”
“You are so certain of that?” said Morigna. Her dark eyes were hard, her face tight with fury. “Perhaps the stairs are choked with rubble. Perhaps your kindred sealed off the tower to stop the Frostborn. Perhaps there are already Mhorite orcs in the Vale, or that guardian spirit of yours in lairing in the watch tower, and they shall walk right into…”
“Morigna,” said Mara. “The Gray Knight knows what he is doing. So does Calliande. They will win free of the High Gate, and we’ll wait for them at the Gate of the West.”
Morigna all but snarled at Mara, but the shorter woman remained cool. For once Jager had the wit to keep his observations to himself. At last Morigna looked away and gave the barest fraction of a nod, though she all but radiated fury.
Gavin understood her anger. She was in love with Ridmark, and she could not help him. Gavin had felt the same way when he had seen Aranaeus burn from the walls of Urd Dagaash, knowing that Rosanna was in danger and he could not aid her. Of course, Calliande was with Ridmark, which would not improve Morigna’s mood. For a brief instant Gavin felt a flicker of jealousy that two beautiful women were in love with Ridmark. On the other hand, Calliande was the Keeper, a centuries-old figure of legend, and Morigna was a dark sorceress with a temper like an injured badger.
That made the jealousy turn into sympathy.
“Almost there,” said Arandar. “Once we reach the top, we should leave this place at
once. Since the Mhorites learned of the High Gate, they might have placed watchers here.”
“Thank you for that counsel, sir knight,” said Morigna. “Are all Swordbearers trained to point out of the obvious? One wonders if Gavin shall now announce that the steps are made of stone.”
Arandar scowled, but Kharlacht spoke first.
“Sir Arandar has a point,” said Kharlacht. “The top of the stairs would be an ideal place for an ambush.”
“I’ll travel up and look,” said Mara. She looked tired, her face paler than usual, her eyes glittering. Gavin didn’t understand how the strange power of her dark elven blood worked, but it had taken a great deal of her strength to travel through the massive door.
“It is too risky,” said Jager.
“Not really,” said Mara, squinting up. “It’s a straight line, and anyone who sees me will be too startled to react. I’ll travel up, look around, and come right back.”
“Be careful,” said Arandar.
“Oh, you know us, Sir Arandar,” said Jager. “We are the paragons of prudent caution.”
Mara nodded and vanished in a swirl of blue fire. Gavin dropped his hand to Truthseeker’s hilt, staring at the end of the stairs a few hundred yards ahead. He heard nothing, but if the slightest sound of a fight came to his ears, or Mara took too long, he would draw upon the soulblade’s power and run to her aid.
But it did not prove necessary. The blue fire flickered once more, and Mara reappeared.
“It’s clear,” she said. “The arch opens onto a ledge. Some dwarven carvings and ruins. A very good view of the Vale. No orcs, trolls, or guardian spirits that I could see.”
“Let us proceed, then,” said Arandar. There was a tone of command in his voice. Gavin supposed that made sense. Arandar was a Swordbearer, and before that he had been a knight in the service of the High King. He would have led men in battle before. The thought reassured Gavin. Perhaps Arandar knew what he was doing.
Though to judge from the glare she sent his way, Morigna did not agree.
He wondered if they would come to blows. Morigna had never bothered to hide her disdain for Arandar in particular or for the Swordbearers and the High Kingdom in general, and Arandar was convinced that Morigna was a dangerous renegade and a wielder of dark magic. Nor was the Swordbearer entirely wrong. In fact, loyalty to Ridmark was the only thing that had held this group together.
And if Ridmark was dead…
Gavin wondered what he would do if Arandar and Morigna fought, and realized that he did not know.
Maybe it wouldn’t come to that.
At last the stairs ended, and they stepped out onto a broad mountain ledge, cold wind whistling past them. The archway to the stairs looked much the same as the gate on the other side of the mountain, with the same carvings and glyphs. The ledge looked as if it had once been part of a fortified tower. The ground beneath his feet was paved stone, and tumbled walls of half-fallen stone ringed the ledge. Caius crossed to one of the walls, heaved himself atop a boulder, and peered over the rubble.
“Ah,” he said. “It seems were are not the only visitors to the Vale.”
“Mhorites?” said Arandar.
“You had better come and see,” said Caius.
Arandar and the others walked to the ruined wall, and Gavin followed them.
Despite the name, the Vale of Stone Death looked quite pleasant. The gray slopes of the mountains descended to a broad, bowl-shaped valley. The valley itself was a vibrant green, its floor filled with pine trees. A wide, cold-looking lake filled the northern third of the Vale, its waters still and icy blue. Far to the east Gavin saw another towering wall of mountains. He suspected it would take about two days on foot to cross from one end of the Vale to another, longer if the pine forest concealed rough terrain. He glimpsed numerous dwarven ruins scattered throughout the Vale – more towers and small fortresses upon the slopes of the mountains, and here and there at the edge of the forest he saw houses that looked a great deal like the Dwarven Enclave in Coldinium. A road descended from the mountains to the south, vanishing into the forest.
The road held the entirety of Gavin’s attention. Or, rather, the men marching down the road.
Mhorite warriors. Thousands upon thousands of Mhorite warriors.
“That,” said Jager, “is a lot of Mhorites.”
“At least five thousand strong, I deem,” said Kharlacht. “Maybe six.”
“Those are only the ones that we can see,” said Jager. “It looks like their vanguard has already reached the forest, and there are likely more in the mountains behind.”
“God and his saints,” said Arandar, shaking his head. “Mournacht could have brought ten thousand Kothluuskan orcs here. How did he gather such a strong force? It should be impossible.”
“Given that he is here and the orcs stand before us,” said Morigna, “one thinks your grasp of the impossible is tenuous.”
Arandar gave her a hard look. “No one shaman or chieftain has unified Kothluusk in centuries, and Mournacht must have convinced many tribes to follow him. Did he have these kind of numbers when you faced him last?”
“He did not,” said Jager before Morigna could answer. “At least, we only saw him with a few hundred at most.”
“He must have gone for reinforcements the minute he fled Coldinium,” said Caius.
“But why come here, then?” said Arandar. “If he wanted vengeance against all of you for eluding him in Coldinium, why march for Khald Azalar?”
“Perhaps it is as we feared,” said Kharlacht, “and Shadowbearer is directing his actions.”
“I think we can all agree,” said Mara in her quiet voice, “that the Gray Knight was wise to choose the High Gate.”
Gavin started to object, and then realized that she was right. True, they had been forced to fight and separated by the High Gate’s defenses. Yet if they had made for the High Pass, they would have run right into the Mhorite column. They would have been surrounded and overwhelmed in short order.
“Aye,” he said.
“Look,” said Jager, pointing. “Something is burning.”
Thin plumes of black smoke rose from the pine forest. Even as he looked, a small band of Mhorite orcs, scouts most likely, emerged from the forest and hastened to the main column.
“It looks like they’re skirmishing with someone,” said Arandar. “Perhaps raiders from the Deeps, or…”
“Or the Traveler’s soldiers,” said Mara.
“Qhurzal said he had seen spiny orcs in the foothills,” said Arandar. “Would those be the Traveler’s orcs?”
“Probably,” said Mara. “They match the description, certainly.”
“What did he mean by spiny?” said Gavin. “Do…the orcs have spines coming out of their flesh?” It was not outside the realm of possibility. The Devout, the orcs in the service of the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, had been augmented and made stronger over the generations through the Warden’s dark magic. The mutations made their blood and eyes glow with ghostly blue light, the veins shining beneath their skin.
“Not quite,” said Mara. “The orcs in the Traveler’s service call themselves the Anathgrimm, which is the dark elven tongue for ‘deadly slaves’ or ‘fierce hounds’, depending upon context. The Traveler has used his magic to alter them.”
“Alter them?” said Arandar. “How?”
“You must know from your histories, Sir Arandar,” said Mara. “Andomhaim has skirmished with the Traveler’s forces before. The orcs…he causes their skeletons to continue growing until the bones extend outside their bodies. Masks of bone cover their faces like helmets, and an extra set of ribs wrap around their torsos. Spikes of bone come out of their elbows and knees like claws they can use in combat. The Traveler shelters within his fortress of wards, and so he turns his orcish slaves into mobile fortresses to use in his defense.”
“That sounds like a cumbersome defense,” said Kharlacht.
“It’s not,” said Mara. “The Anathgrimm run slower
than other orcs, but the Traveler gives them extra muscle to compensate for the weight of the bone armor, and the bones themselves are harder and more resilient than those of a normal orcish man. The Anathgrimm are very hard to kill.”
“You’ve never spoken of this before,” said Jager.
Mara shrugged, her eyes haunted. “I don’t like to speak of Nightmane Forest. It was not a pleasant place.”
“Then forgive me for asking another question,” said Arandar. “The Traveler himself. Do you think he is nearby?”
Mara closed her eyes and concentrated, her eyes twitching behind he closed lids. “I…think so, yes. It is hard to gauge. I’ve never really done this before. But I think he’s in the Vale already.”
“Then it seems likely the Traveler reached the Vale first,” said Caius, “and the Mhorites are hot on his heels.” He looked at Mara. “Is the Traveler powerful enough to compel Mournacht to obey him?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mara. “The dark elves can dominate urvaalgs and ursaars and the other creatures formed through their dark magic. Orcs are living mortals with free will. The Traveler cannot dominate Mournacht, and from what you’ve said of his magic, Mournacht is strong enough to fight back.”
“That would explain the fires, wouldn’t it?” said Jager. “If the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm are already skirmishing.
“That will work to our advantage,” said Arandar. “If Mournacht and the Traveler are focused on each other, we can slip past them and make our way to the Gate of the West. Brother Caius. I assume you know the way?”
“I do,” said Caius. “We simply need to follow the road, though I suggest we keep to the trees and stay out of sight. The Gate of the West is hard to miss.”
“No,” said Morigna.
Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit Page 8
