Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit

by Jonathan Moeller

  He stepped back to retreat, only to realize that he was running out of room to do so. The Anathgrimm orcs had encircled them. Blue fire flickered through the Anathgrimm ranks as Mara made trouble, and Morigna’s spells slowed them, but the bone-armored orcs advanced step after dogged step. Gavin looked around in alarm, his arm throbbing. Arandar and Caius and Kharlacht had all taken wounds. They would leave many slain Anathgrimm orcs piled upon the ground, but in the end they would be overwhelmed and killed. Gavin parried another blow and struck back, his mind racing. Perhaps Mara could get away and tell Ridmark what had happened, though he knew that she would not abandon Jager.

  Then the Anathgrimm orcs stopped and backed off a few paces.

  Gavin looked back and forth, sweat dripping into his eyes, Truthseeker thrumming in his fist.

  “Hold!” said Zhorlacht, his voice booming over the warriors. Gavin saw the wizard standing behind the warriors, watching them. “Hold, Swordbearers! You have fought well and valiantly. Perhaps we can come to some accord.”

  “And what accord is that?” said Arandar.

  “My master the Lord of Nightmane Forest wishes to meet you,” said Zhorlacht. “He wars against the upstart worshipper of Mhor, and the Swordbearers are enemies of the servants of Mhor, are they not? Perhaps you can rid my master of this upstart shaman.”

  Arandar laughed. “You seriously expect us to work with a dark elven lord?”

  Zhorlacht grinned behind his bone mask. The strange masks, Gavin noted, did not inhibit the movement of the mouths and jaws of the Anathgrimm. Likely that was necessary to allow them to eat and speak and breathe. “Indeed not. The enemy of my enemy may be an ally, but that does not make him my friend. Yet if you meet the Mhorites, you shall oppose them. My lord would wish to discuss matters of mutual interest with you.”

  “And if we refuse to speak with him?” said Arandar.

  Zhorlacht shrugged his massive shoulders. “Then we shall kill you.”

  Gavin looked at the others.

  “No,” said Mara in a low voice. “Do not trust him. The Traveler is a dark elf, and the dark elves delight in treachery. Look at what the Artificer did to Paul Tallmane. If we let him, my…the Traveler will do the same to us.”

  “If we are to die here,” said Kharlacht with a shrug, “so be it.”

  “Pursue death if you wish,” said Morigna, “but I would prefer to achieve our goals first.”

  “If we fight here we are dead,” said Jager. “Should not a knight choose a battlefield to his liking, Sir Arandar? If we follow along for now, we may find some advantage.”

  He and Morigna shared a disturbed look, as if alarmed to find themselves on the same side of an argument.

  “I will not commit an act of treachery,” said Arandar.

  “Against pagan orcs?” said Morigna with a sneer. “I thought a son of the church was not bound by promises to pagans and worshippers of demons.”

  “Honor is honor, regardless of a man’s faith,” said Arandar. He raised his voice. “What are your terms, Anathgrimm?”

  “We shall escort you to the presence of our god,” said Zhorlacht. “We pledge not to strike you until we arrive or our lord commands otherwise, and you promise to not strike at us unless we attack first. If we encounter more of the trolls or those wretched Mhorites, we shall work together to repel them, and then proceed to the presence of our lord.”

  Arandar dropped his voice. “I see no other alternative. Does anyone object?” He reconsidered that. “Does anyone have any better ideas?”

  No one did.

  “Very well, Anathgrimm,” called Arandar. “We accept your terms.”

  “Very good, sir knight,” said Zhorlacht. “Let us proceed at once. My lord shall be most eager to meet you.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Gavin saw Mara swallow.

  Chapter 8: Stone Death

  Calliande dreamed, and in her dream she came to a place she had seen before.

  Her dreams were almost always haunted. She saw many things in them, wreathed in the mist that choked her past. An assembly of old men and women in white robes with black sashes, listening as she made a speech before them. A scarred warrior, grim and hard, yet with a kindly smile. Cities burning, desperate men and women fleeing with their children in hope of salvation. Legions of twisted creatures racing across the land, hunting and killing, men dying as their blood turned to ice in their veins.

  Giants clad in armor the color of old ice crossed a frozen wasteland, their skin like crystal, their eyes glowing with blue flame.

  The Frostborn.

  She understood her dreams better now. They were glimpses of her past. She had been the Keeper of Andomhaim, and she had fought the Frostborn. She had defeated the Frostborn. That should have cheered her, but it did not. The Frostborn were returning, and she would have to fight them again. Perhaps she would not be victorious this time.

  Sometimes she did not dream of the past. Sometimes she saw Ridmark in her dreams, and those were more vivid and intense than anything from her mist-choked memory.

  Now, though, she dreamed of neither the past nor of Ridmark. She stood upon a featureless plain, mist swirling around her.

  The Watcher awaited her.

  The spirit wore the white robe of the Magistri, bound about his waist with a black sash. His eyes were sad beneath heavy gray eyebrows, and a tangled gray beard and a mane of gray hair encircled his head. He had awaited her in the darkness below the Tower of Vigilance, leaving a message for her once she awoke, and he had counseled her ever since.

  “Watcher,” said Calliande.

  “Calliande,” he said in his tired voice. “It is good to see you.”

  “I thought I might never see you again,” said Calliande. “Not after what the Warden did to me. What he did to us.”

  “We had a very narrow escape,” said the Watcher, shaking his gray head. “You could have been easily trapped within the soulstone forever, bound to power the Warden’s gate to Old Earth.”

  “I know,” said Calliande. The Warden had played them for fools. He had spent nine years manipulating Ridmark, planting the seeds of the idea in the Gray Knight’s mind. The Warden had foreseen Aelia’s death, had foreseen that in his grief and pain Ridmark would try to find the secret of the return of the Frostborn, that he would return to Urd Morlemoch with Calliande. “It was a horrendous risk. But it paid off. I know who I am now.”

  “Who are you?” said the Watcher.

  “I am the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Calliande, “the realm’s guardian against dark magic.”

  The Watcher nodded. “And what must you do?”

  “I must retrieve my staff and memory from Dragonfall,” said Calliande.

  The Watcher nodded a second time. “And where is Dragonfall?”

  “Hidden within the ruins of Khald Azalar,” said Calliande.

  The Watcher closed his eyes, a strange expression coming over his bearded face, and for a horrible instant Calliande wondered if she had been wrong, if the Warden had lied to them and sent them to die on a fool’s errand.

  Then she realized the Watcher’s expression showed relief.

  “Thank God,” said the Watcher. “Thank God, the Dominus Christus, and all the saints. Oh, thank God. You found the truth. You found the truth on your own.”

  “Then you knew?” said Calliande. “This entire time?”

  “Yes,” said the Watcher. “But I was forbidden to tell you…”

  “By my own command,” said Calliande. She shook her head. “I really hope I had a good reason for doing that.” She remembered some of Morigna’s jibes. “Otherwise I have caused myself a great deal of trouble for no good reason.”

  “No,” said the Watcher. “You reasons were excellent. For the staff awakened as soon as you knew where it was.”

  “It did?” said Calliande, surprised. “How is that possible?”

  “Because you are linked to the staff of the Keeper,” said the Watcher. “The bond was never severed, and the o
ffice of the Keeper is resigned only upon death. When you learned of the staff’s location, it could reach out and touch you, and it has awakened.”

  “Then…that was why I removed my memory?” said Calliande. “Because I knew that when I awakened, the staff would call out to me once I learned where it was?”

  “In part,” said the Watcher. “Your plan was for the Order of the Vigilant to escort you to Dragonfall and reclaim your staff, and only tell you the location once you had arrived. Alas, Shadowbearer engineered the destruction of the Order, and we were not there to guide and protect you as we swore.”

  “You have guided me nonetheless,” said Calliande

  “You must act quickly,” said the Watcher. “The staff of the Keeper has awakened…but you are not the only one to hear its call. Those with power enough to sense the staff will try to claim it for themselves.”

  “The Traveler,” said Calliande. “He must be here to seize the Keeper’s staff for himself. And Mournacht, too. Though I am surprised an orcish shaman would have that kind of magical power.”

  “Likely Shadowbearer is using Mournacht as his tool,” said the Watcher. “He prefers to use dupes and proxies to achieve his goals, rather than showing himself openly.”

  “Could the Traveler be Shadowbearer’s emissary as well?” said Calliande.

  “Unlikely,” said Traveler. “Most of the dark elves remaining in Andomhaim and the Deeps hate and fear Shadowbearer, just as the Warden and the Artificer did. The Traveler remained in Nightmane Forest for centuries partly because of his fear of Shadowbearer. Likely the Traveler sensed the staff’s awakening, and hopes to seize its power and make himself supreme over all his foes.”

  “Could they actually use the staff?” said Calliande.

  “I doubt it,” said the Watcher. “The magic is meant for a human wielder. But if they take the staff, they will deny its power to you…and you must take up the staff, Calliande. Otherwise Shadowbearer might well succeed in killing you, reclaiming the empty soulstone, and summoning the Frostborn to this world once more.”

  “Why?” said Calliande. “Why does he want to summon the Frostborn? Simply to destroy the High Kingdom?”

  “This is so,” said the Watcher.

  “But why destroy Andomhaim?” said Calliande. “Simple spite? Malice? He must have some greater goal.”

  “He does,” said the Watcher, “but I cannot yet tell you of it.”

  “Because I know what it is,” said Calliande, “but the memory is locked away.”

  The Watcher nodded. “I can do this much for you. I can restore your ability to sense the staff of the Keeper, just as Shadowbearer and the Traveler are able to sense it.”

  “How?” said Calliande.

  “The staff is joined to you,” said the Watcher, “and…”

  “Calliande.”

  It was not the Watcher’s worn, tired voice. This voice was harder and colder.

  Ridmark.

  The dream shattered, and Calliande’s eyes shot open.

  She was lying on the ground, in the rocky hollow Ridmark had found for their camp, wrapped in her green cloak. Ridmark knelt next to her, one hard hand clamped over her mouth, his face lowering towards her. For a moment confusion gripped her. What was he doing? He needn’t have put his hand over her mouth. She wouldn’t have fought him if he lain down next to her. She would have eagerly let him do whatever he wished …

  Then the absurd fantasy vanished as her mind reasserted itself, and she realized that something was very wrong.

  Ridmark lowered his mouth to her ear.

  “Do not make any noise,” he breathed. “Do not speak. Get up and follow me as quietly as you can.”

  In the distance she heard a pair of harsh, snarling voices raised in argument.

  Troll voices.

  Calliande went rigid, and then gave a shallow nod.

  Ridmark rolled to his feet in perfect silence, black staff in hand. Calliande stood somewhat less gracefully, but at least kept from making any noise. Ridmark looked around and beckoned, and she followed him as he glided down the side of the rocky hill. It was still dark out, with six of the thirteen moons shining overhead, their light combing to create a pale, hazy glow. Stars gleamed like jewels overhead, and in their faint light Calliande saw the dark mass of the pine forest filling the Vale of Stone Death.

  She also saw the sullen crimson glow of several fires. Campfires, perhaps? Or had the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm set the forest ablaze?

  The trolls’ voices rang out again, closer this time.

  Ridmark went motionless, and she saw the gleam of his blue eyes as they darted back and forth. Then he nodded and gestured again, and they hurried between a pair of boulders. Ridmark ducked behind the boulder, reached into his belt, and drew out a fistful of something that looked like torn paper. He dropped the little pile on the ground, produced a dagger and a piece of flint, and made a spark. The pile of torn paper caught flame, and a sudden vile stench flooded Calliande’s nostrils.

  Her stomach gave an unsteady lurch. The smell was very bad.

  Ridmark beckoned, and she followed him as he hurried away from the little flame and its reeking smoke. Her mind sorted through plans, wondering what she could do against the trolls if they attacked. Ridmark could break their bones with his staff and deal hideous wounds with his axe, but those wounds would heal, and Calliande had no magic that could harm the trolls. The best she could do was to enhance their speed so they could get away, but even with her magic she doubted they could outrun the trolls.

  Yet the trolls’ rasping voices grew fainter.

  ###

  Two hours later, the sun started to rise over the mountains to the east, and Ridmark came to a stop.

  “That should be far enough,” he said, speaking for the first time since he had heard the trolls. They had reached the base of the foothills, and the pine forest spread before them, stark and green and silent. In the distance a plume of black smoke rose against the craggy backdrop of the mountains. The air smelled clear and crisp, heavy with the odor of resin.

  “Do you think we lost the trolls?” said Calliande, taking an uneasy glance at the foothills to the west.

  “I think so,” said Ridmark. “If they were hunting for us, they would have caught us by now. I don’t think they knew that we were there.”

  Calliande frowned. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because,” said Ridmark, “we heard them talking. If they were stalking us, we wouldn’t have heard a sound.”

  Calliande shivered a little. “That paper you burned. What was it?”

  “Not paper,” said Ridmark. “Dried leaves. I took them from one of those stinking bushes in the Torn Hills. Remember how foul they smelled?” Calliande nodded. “Enough predators with a taste for human flesh hunt by scent that I thought they would come in handy.”

  “So they did,” said Calliande. “Thank you.”

  “Let’s move,” said Ridmark. “If the Mhorites and the Traveler’s soldiers are fighting each other in the forest, that will draw the trolls’ attention. I fear they will prey upon the wounded and the injured…but if we make haste, we can elude them all.”

  Calliande said nothing, her eyes fixed upon one of the mountains on the far side of the Vale of Stone Death.

  “What is it?” said Ridmark.

  “I…can feel it,” said Calliande.

  “The Traveler’s magic,” said Ridmark. “Or Mournacht’s?” A more alarming thought occurred to him. “The guardian creatures?”

  “No,” said Calliande, her voice soft and wondering. “The staff of the Keeper. My staff. I think…I think I can feel it.” She pointed at the peaks. “It’s there, under that mountain.”

  “Ah,” said Ridmark. “Good.” She looked at him. “I would have hated to think that we were on the wrong trail.”

  She smiled a little. “That would be unfortunate.” She took a deep breath. “I can feel the power. I hope…I hope I am worthy of it.”

  Ridmark bli
nked. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

  Calliande looked at him, opened her mouth, closed it again.

  “I could cite your bravery and kindness, but you would ignore that,” said Ridmark. “Instead I will remind you of all the wounds you have healed with your magic. I know you have to endure the pain of the wounds to do so, and I know how much you have suffered to heal me and the others. If I would choose anyone to wield that power, it would be you.”

  Calliande blinked and looked away. “Thank you.” She smiled up at him. “And you, Ridmark Arban…I agree with Morigna about one thing. The nobles of the High Kingdom have not treated you justly.”

  Ridmark shrugged. “What is done is done. Let us be on our way. We can exchange compliments after we have found the others and recovered your staff.”

  “Sound counsel,” said Calliande.

  Ridmark took one step towards the forest, and then stopped.

  “What is it?” said Calliande.

  Ridmark stared hard at the trees, at the white shapes he had spotted at the edge of the forest.

  “I think,” he said, “I think those are statues.”

  “Statues?” said Calliande. “The Vale of Stone Death.” She swallowed, flexing her fingers in preparation for a spell. “They didn’t just…appear, did they?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Ridmark. “I’ve seen them for a while. I thought they were patches of snow from a distance. But it’s too warm down here for snow, and I haven’t seen any rocks that color anywhere else in the Vale.”

  “Should we go around them?” said Calliande.

  “Actually,” said Ridmark, “I think we should take a closer look.”

  She gave him a look. “You’re being reckless again.”

  “We are about to enter an ancient dwarven ruin after sneaking past two battling armies,” said Ridmark. “Reckless is perhaps not a sufficient word to describe our actions these last few months.”