Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit

by Jonathan Moeller

  “It’s clear,” he said. “You can come up.”

  Calliande nodded, released the spell, and followed him up the stairs. A stray memory flickered through her thoughts of the day of the omen of blue fire, the day she had awakened below the Tower of Vigilance. Then she had been alone and naked and terrified, her memory gone and her knowledge lost.

  Oddly, the thought cheered her. She was stronger now, with the power of a Magistria, and she knew who she was and what she had to do. Now all she had to do was reclaim her staff and memory.

  She only hoped she was strong enough for it.

  Calliande climbed through the opened trapdoor and into a ruined watch tower. The tower rose a good fifty feet overhead, but the roof had been ripped off, and the naked sky was visible overhead. Debris lay heaped about the floor, which had no doubt blocked the door.

  “Dwarven masonry is usually sturdier than that,” said Calliande, looking at the damaged walls. “The wind and the ice of mountains must have worn it down.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “Look at the cracks. Something hit the top of the tower. Some terrible weapon or spell, I think.” He looked down at her. “Did the Frostborn have such weapons?”

  “They must have,” said Calliande. “I don’t remember it.” She would, though, once they entered Khald Azalar and Dragonfall.

  “The histories I’ve heard said the Frostborn wielded terrible sorcery,” said Ridmark. “Spells to turn entire armies to ice and rip down walls of stone.”

  “They must have,” said Calliande again. “In tens of thousands of years, both the dark elves and the urdmordar only managed to destroy five of the nine dwarven kingdoms. The Frostborn destroyed Khald Azalar in a few years.”

  They would destroy far more if they returned again.

  “The door’s blocked,” said Ridmark.

  “I can cast the spell again,” said Calliande, eyeing the heaped slabs before the door.

  “No need,” said Ridmark. “The windows are clear.” He scrambled up the pile with the ease of a lion, and jumped to the window. Calliande hesitated, and then followed him up. He caught her hand, and then helped her to the windowsill. Ridmark braced himself and then jumped to the snowy ground six feet below.

  Calliande hesitated again.

  “Don’t worry,” said Ridmark. “I’ll catch you.”

  Calliande grinned and jumped from the window. True to his word, Ridmark caught her around the waist, lowering her to the ground without much of a shock. Even without her augmenting magic, he was very strong. It left her a little breathless, but she banished that line of thought at once.

  The cold helped with that. It was cold up here, much colder than the foothills of Vhaluusk had been, even colder than the ghostly desolation of the Torn Hills outside the walls of Urd Morlemoch. Calliande pulled her green cloak closer, shivering a bit.

  “The Vale of Stone Death,” said Ridmark.

  Calliande looked down the mountain slope, past the foothills, and to the green valley below. It was a large valley, perhaps two days’ journey in length. A large blue lake filled the northern third of the valley, and the rest lay beneath a pine forest.

  “Fires,” murmured Calliande. Black plumes of smoke rose from here and there in the forest, like smears of charcoal across green cloth.

  “There is fighting the forest,” said Ridmark, raising a hand to screen his eyes. “Look. That road, there, making its way down the mountainside.” From this height, the road looked like a pale thread against the gray stone, albeit a pale thread covered in tiny dark shapes. “The Mhorites, I think. An entire army of them.”

  Calliande shivered, and not just from the cold. “It was well we took the High Gate instead of the High Pass, then.” There was no way they could have fought their way through that many Mhorites.

  “Who are they fighting?” said Ridmark.

  “It must be the trolls,” said Calliande. “Fire is one of the ways to stop their vitality, and not everyone can conjure acidic mist as Morigna can.”

  “A lot of trolls,” said Ridmark, shaking his head. “Perhaps the Traveler’s orcs as well, these ‘spiny’ orcs.” He rubbed his jaw. “I should have asked Mara more about them. I’ve heard tales that the Anathgrimm orcs of Nightmane Forest are twisted and deformed, but I’ve never seen one myself.”

  “Spines or not,” said Calliande, “it will take a large number of foes to overcome two Swordbearers. Should we try to find the others? We’re higher than they are, and we might overtake them.”

  Ridmark hesitated. She could tell he wanted to go after them, that he wanted to find Morigna and the others before they walked into the Mhorites or the trolls or whatever other creatures lurked in the Vale of Stone Death. Yet he gave a shake of his head. His mind usually overruled his heart. Unless Morigna was involved.

  Though, Calliande thought sourly, perhaps something other than his heart and his mind governed him when it came to Morigna.

  At once she felt a pulse of shame. That had been an unworthy thought.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “We have no way of knowing where the High Gate opens. I can guess, based on the position of the tower, but if it’s as well-concealed as the other entrance we could wander for days and never find it. No, we’ll stick to the plan and make for the Gate of the West. Morigna and Kharlacht know how to move unseen in a forest, and as you’ve said, they have two Swordbearers. We’ll reach the Gate of the West and meet them there.”

  “I agree,” said Calliande.

  “Then let’s move,” said Ridmark. “If we hasten, we should be able to reach the foothills by dark. It’s too cold to spend the night up here.”

  “Aye,” said Calliande, and Ridmark started to pick his way down the slope. The ancient dwarves, thankfully, had left a path, though it was narrow and worn by time and wind. “Have you ever noticed that disaster always seems to strike when we’re alone together?”

  He froze for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and turned, his face solemn.

  “You mean,” he said, his voice quiet, “when we kissed?”

  “What?” said Calliande. The realization flashed through her, followed immediately by mortified embarrassment. “No, no. I meant…I meant the wyvern. The last time we were alone together was the day you found the stoneberries and I remembered my father. And then…”

  “Oh,” said Ridmark, blinking. “Yes. Of course. The wyvern. That was disastrous.”

  “That is what I meant,” said Calliande. “The kiss, it was…” She groped for words. “Not disastrous.”

  “High praise,” said Ridmark.

  “You know what I meant,” said Calliande.

  “Aye,” he said. “You tease me enough. Perhaps I am entitled to retaliation from time to time.” The hint of levity faded. “But perhaps it is just as well. The kiss might have been disastrous.”

  “What do you mean?” said Calliande.

  “Like kissing a bishop,” said Ridmark.

  She gave him a level look. “How was it possibly like kissing a bishop?” Another thought occurred to her. “Have you kissed a bishop? I hope not.”

  “That…may have been an infelicitous choice of words,” said Ridmark. He turned and continued down the path, and Calliande followed him.

  “Clearly,” she said. “You didn’t answer the question, though.”

  “Like kissing the High Queen, then,” said Ridmark.

  “How?” said Calliande.

  “When we…back then, we didn’t know who you were,” said Ridmark. “You might have had a husband, children, sleeping in some other ruin of the Vigilant. Now we know. You are the Keeper of Andomhaim, heir to the Keepers of Avalon upon Old Earth…and you are beyond me.” He glanced back at her. “I am a branded outcast, but even when I was still a Swordbearer and a knight of the realm, you would still have been beyond me.”

  “Beyond me?” said Calliande, confused.

  “Beyond me,” Ridmark repeated. “Just as a kiss from the High Queen would be beyond the reach of a simple freeholder o
r common laborer.” His smile was a little sad. “To put it simply…the Keeper of Andomhaim is too good for a branded outcast.”

  “I…see,” said Calliande. She had not considered it in that light, and she did not like it at all. Again it made her wonder what kind of woman she had been two hundred years ago. Had she been so cold, so aloof, that she had been willing to lose everyone she had ever known to slumber beneath the Tower of Vigilance? “You do not give yourself enough credit. The high and mighty Keeper of Andomhaim would be dead on an altar if not for that branded outcast.”

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. He hesitated. “And…the kiss, if you must know, was most certainly not disastrous.”

  They stared at each other. Calliande felt uncomfortable, but not nearly as cold as she had a moment earlier.

  “You know,” said Calliande, “if my calculations are anywhere near correct, I have to be at least two hundred and twenty years old. Probably closer to two hundred and forty.”

  “You don’t look it,” said Ridmark with a small smile.

  “Thank you,” said Calliande. “But my point is that even two hundred and forty years is insufficient age to discuss matters of the heart without feeling like a foolish child.”

  To her surprise, he laughed, maybe harder than she had ever heard him laugh. “Perhaps we are all fools in the end. My brother Tormark will be the Dux of Taliand one day, and is a stern and grim knight…yet if his wife touches his hand in public, he turns as red as an apple. Come! Fools we may be, but let us not linger. No sense in being dead fools.”

  “I could not agree more,” said Calliande, and they continued down the path.

  Chapter 7: Anathgrimm

  Darkness fell, and Gavin and the others made camp in a gully at the edge of the forest.

  Arandar forbade a campfire, and for once Morigna did not argue with him. They needed rest after the fighting in the High Gate, and blundering around the forest in the dark was a recipe for disaster. Arandar, Gavin, Kharlacht, Jager, and Caius took turns at watch while Morigna and Mara slept. Both Morigna’s magic and Mara’s strange abilities were taxing, and Arandar wanted them rested in case their powers were needed.

  Gavin did not sleep well when his turn to rest came. Every sound in the forest stirred him to alarm, every breath of wind and every creak of the trees. The smell of pine needles and burning sap filled his nostrils, and from time to time he heard a distant noise that he was sure was the battle cry of a hunting troll.

  Yet neither trolls nor orcs nor the gorgon spirit found them, and the sun rose without incident.

  “We must decide how to proceed from here,” said Arandar when they had awakened. Ridmark would have laid out a plan, listened to any suggestions or objections, and then set off. Gavin suspected Arandar preferred to first achieve consensus and then act.

  He looked at Morigna and Jager. Achieving consensus might prove harder than Arandar had thought.

  “We must avoid the road if at all possible,” said Caius. “The Mhorites are using it for their march, and I have no doubt the Traveler’s orcs will do so as well.”

  “Obviously,” said Morigna. “We must make our way through the forest.” Her face was tighter than usual, the lines harsher, her black eyes ringed by dark circles. Likely she had not slept well either. “Avoiding Mournacht and his followers will prove challenging.”

  “There will be ruins where we can take shelter, if necessary,” said Caius.

  “Ruins?” said Arandar. “What kind of ruins?”

  “This wasn’t always a pine forest,” said Caius. “Before Khald Azalar fell, this entire valley was farmland. The pine trees have grown up in the centuries since. But there were barns for storing the crops and barracks for housing the workers.”

  “And I assume,” said Arandar, “that these barns and barracks were built with the same durability as other dwarven stonework?”

  Caius blinked. “Of course. My kindred are not ones for doing things halfway.”

  “I’m sure the orcs and the trolls have noticed the ruins as well,” said Jager, “along with what marvelous strongholds they would make.”

  “Trolls have little need for shelter,” said Kharlacht.

  “Just Mhorite and Anathgrimm orcs, then,” said Jager. “See? Already our odds improve.”

  “The road runs east to the Gate of the West,” said Arandar. “Do we make our way through the forest north of the road or south of the road?”

  “South,” said Morigna at once. “That lake is north of the road. It will be a convenient source of water for our foes, and one suspects that they shall send scouting parties there on a regular basis.”

  Kharlacht’s customary frown deepened. “We are already north of the road. To cross it seems an unnecessary risk.”

  “So does remaining near the lake,” said Morigna.

  “I fear crossing the road to the south is a greater risk,” said Mara. “Even if there is not a source of fresh water there, both Mournacht and the Traveler will send scouting parties to the south. We will have to elude them, just as we must elude any foraging parties sent to the lake. I agree with Kharlacht. Crossing the road seems an unnecessary risk.”

  “Your reasoning is sound,” said Arandar. “We shall make our way through the woods to the north of the road.”

  “I shall bind some ravens and set them to circling us,” said Morigna.

  Arandar frowned. “Would not Mournacht be able to detect the spell? Or perhaps the Traveler?”

  “I doubt it,” said Morigna, and she grinned without humor. “I commanded a hundred rats to attack Mournacht in Coldinium, and he could do nothing to stop them.”

  “Rats?” said Arandar with a flicker of disgust.

  “I have seen the spells she uses to command birds with my Sight,” said Mara. “The amount of power is very small. I do not think even the Traveler would notice unless one happened to land upon his shoulder.”

  “They will also keep watch for Ridmark and Calliande,” said Morigna. “We are seven, but they are but two, and Ridmark knows how to move quickly and quietly. He might well overtake us.”

  “Let us hope so,” said Arandar, and they set off to the east.

  ###

  Silence hung over the little battlefield.

  Gavin looked around, his hand resting on Truthseeker’s hilt. He did not draw the sword, not yet. Truthseeker almost always glowed when he drew the blade, the sword’s glow turning into white fire when confronting creatures of dark magic. There were not any foes in the clearing, but Gavin did not want to take the risk of Truthseeker’s light drawing any eyes.

  Five dead Mhorite orcs lay scattered around the small clearing. All of them had wounds raging from severe to obviously mortal, their blood seeping into the pine needle-coated earth. Some of the wounds had come from swords and axes. Other appeared to have been inflicted by claws, or perhaps some sort of heavy spiked weapon like a pickaxe. After his months traveling with Ridmark, Gavin had seen enough fighting that the sight of corpses no longer shocked him.

  Should the sight have shocked him? He did not know.

  The mystery of dead trolls kept him from brooding on it.

  Two trolls lay dead near the Mhorites, the stench of their charred flesh drowning out the smell of spilled orcish blood. Both trolls had been burned from head to toe. Gavin looked them over, grimacing at the vile reek coming from their corpses. The fire had been hot enough to burn away their leathery, scaled hides, char their flesh to a stinking black mass, and turn their bones to smoking coals. The ground around them was blackened, and two of the nearby pine trees had burned as well.

  “The Mhorites could not have done this,” said Mara.

  “Perhaps they learned of the trolls’ weakness to fire,” said Arandar.

  Mara shook at her head. “There are not enough ashes. Those trolls looked as if they were thrown into Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace. How could the Mhorites have created a fire that hot without fuel?”

  “Pine logs would not burn that hot,” said C
aius. “And had the Mhorites made a fire that hot, it would have burned down half the forest by now. Certainly the trolls would not meekly submit to it.”

  “They did not,” said Morigna, circling the troll carcasses. “Something…hit them, I deem. Look there, and there. It is like they were hit by shards of molten metal that burned their way through the flesh.” She scowled at Caius. “Have the Mhorites uncovered some dwarven weapon of power? Or does this gorgon spirit of yours have other capabilities?”

  “Neither,” said Caius. “Some of our most potent traps could do this, but they would be in the heart of Khald Azalar, even if they were still functional. And the gorgon spirit turns its victims to stone. It does not burn them alive.”

  “The Mhorites did not fight the trolls,” said Morigna, scowling at the ground. “Look at the tracks. The trolls came here first, and then someone slew them. The Mhorites arrived a short time later, likely drawn by the fire, and were overwhelmed and slain.”

  “Can you tell who killed them?” said Arandar.

  Morigna shrugged. “Large men wearing boots, to judge from the tracks. At least a score. Likely the spiny orcs belonging to the Traveler.”

  “They are most welcome to prey upon each other,” said Arandar.

  “Though I would like to know what killed the trolls,” said Jager. “I do not want to be eaten, and I definitely do not want to be cooked before I am eaten. A dragon, perhaps?”

  Caius shook his head. “The histories of the high elves say the last true dragons perished before the elven kindred sundered into the high elves and the dark elves. Some other creature could have done this. A hydra, perhaps?”

  “Hydra?” said Morigna.

  “A serpent that dwells in the Deeps,” said Caius. “It has many heads, and each head can breathe fire…but, no. I do not think a hydra have summoned such a potent flame.”

  “An urdhracos, maybe?” said Jager. “We saw them breathe fire at Urd Morlemoch.”

  “An urdhracos’s fire would not be that hot,” said Mara, her eyes distant. Gavin knew her well enough by now to realize that she had an idea.