Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit

by Jonathan Moeller

  But that was not the worst thing about him.

  He looked so much like Mara.

  Gavin realized that the urdhracosi did not look like Mara, not really. Mara and the urdhracosi looked like their father. Yet not even the urdhracosi had the malign cruelty that seemed to saturate the Traveler’s features, like an ancient blade that had been soaked in the blood of a thousand victims.

  The dark elven lord scowled in fury, white lips peeling back from his white teeth. Then he twitched, some of the fury draining from his features, and a smile stretched his mouth.

  “What have we here?” said the Traveler in perfect Latin, his voice inhumanly deep and melodious. Gavin would have thought the voice beautiful, had he not been so frightened. “A strange assortment. A motley assortment. An orc, a dwarf, a halfling, two human females, and two human males. A very strange group of companions.” Suddenly rage flashed over his face. “And two of them bearing soulblades! The cursed weapons of the cowardly high elves, the tools of the fool Ardrhythain!” He snarled and took a step forward, raking his hand through the air as blue fire danced around his fingers. “Treachery! You have come to kill me! Miserable humans! I defied Ardrhythain and the Warden and the urdmordar. Do you think to crush me?” The urvaalgs growled, inching forward, and the Anathgrimm raised their weapons. Gavin tightened his grip on Truthseeker, preparing himself for the last stand.

  “I should point out,” said Arandar, “that you invited us here. We did not seek this meeting, Traveler.”

  The Traveler blinked. “What? I…yes, that sounds right. Yes. So I did, did I not?” The rage vanished as quickly as it had come, and suddenly the Traveler reminded Gavin of the Warden, all smooth control and power. “Then you have answered my summons as I commanded, Swordbearer of Andomhaim. What is your name?”

  “I am Arandar, knight of the Order of the Soulblade, in service to Uthanaric Pendragon, High King of the realm of Andomhaim,” said Arandar, his voice ringing as he recited off his titles.

  “The second Swordbearer?” said the Traveler, his terrible eyes turning towards Gavin.

  Gavin realized that the Traveler expected him to answer. “Gavin of Aranaeus.”

  “Young, for a Swordbearer,” said the Traveler, gazing up at nothing. “But they were all young, once, when the urdmordar almost devoured your kindred as they devoured mine. And you are all young. So young. I wonder if your kindred had yet learned how to make marks upon clay when I was already ten thousand years old. You are like flies, dying so quickly.” Again blue fire flashed around his fingers. “So very quickly. Perhaps right now.”

  Arandar’s calm did not waver. Gavin wondered if he had learned that kind of poise in the High King’s court. “Did you bring us here simply to kill us?”

  The Traveler drew himself up. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I have heard rumor, yes,” said Arandar.

  “I am the Lord of Nightmane Forest, the master of the Anathgrimm, and the rightful ruler of your realm of Andomhaim,” said the Traveler. “Your kindred may know me as the Traveler. For I am the wisest and the greatest of the dark elves.”

  Mara made a faint sound. Gavin was not sure if she was gagging or trying to suppress a scornful laugh. Her hand gripped Jager’s, but the other opened and closed into a fist over and over again.

  “Truly?” said Arandar. “How did you become the greatest of your kindred?”

  “I survived,” spat the Traveler. “All the others died or were enslaved. I survived. When the door between the worlds opened and the urdmordar came forth, I fled. I established my stronghold in Nightmane Forest and ringed it with wards of my magic. I wrought the Anathgrimm to defend me, and summoned other war beasts to serve me. For thousands of years I have ruled Nightmane Forest. Once realms of the dark elves covered this entire land. Now they are all gone, and only I remain. I alone am immortal. I alone am eternal. I am alone am the true god.”

  “Then what would such a puissant being,” said Arandar, “have need of us? Your magic can accomplish all that you desire. Your servants can defend you and claim whatever you want. So why did you summon us?”

  “Because,” said the Traveler, “I wish for you to answer my questions. For I can compel you to do whatsoever I wish, but I cannot compel you to answer my questions from afar.” He threw back his head and howled with laughter, the force and power of his voice seeming to press against the inside of Gavin’s skull. Mara staggered back a step, gritted her teeth, and shook her head.

  “So,” said Arandar, his aloof calm unwavering, “what question did you wish to ask of us?”

  “A great power has awakened beneath the mountains to the east,” said the Traveler, waving his armored gauntlet in that direction. “A powerful magic alien to this world, yet nonetheless potent. Perhaps you know of it, Sir Arandar of Tarlion.”

  Arandar offered a shrug. “I am but a humble knight, Traveler. Such matters of magic and sorcery are beyond my meagre wisdom.”

  Gavin stifled a smile at that.

  “It is a power I had thought lost to this world, destroyed by the Frostborn,” said the Traveler. “The power of the Keeper of Andomhaim, a magic that preserved your realm from the powers of my kindred for five centuries until the wretched Ardrhythain gave you the magic to create the Swordbearers and the Magistri.”

  “A notable occurrence,” said Arandar. “Though I am curious why such a matter is of interest to you. I suspect the Keeper’s power would be…inimical to your kindred.”

  The Traveler’s face twisted with something like glee. “There is no magic like it upon this world, and against its power there can be no defense. How do you think the Keeper defied my kindred and the shamans of the orcs and the kobolds for all those years? Her power cannot be matched. I had thought the final Keeper slain at the hand of the Frostborn two centuries past…but instead the power has awakened beneath the mountains, in the rat-tunnels of the dwarves of Khald Azalar.”

  “As I said,” said Arandar, “I am but a simple knight and know little of such matters.”

  “Where is the Keeper?” said the Traveler. “She must be here. Else the power would not have awakened.” The void-filled eyes narrowed. “Neither of your women is the Keeper. Yet she must be here. Where is she?”

  “I fear I do not know where the Keeper is,” said Arandar. That, at least, was entirely true.

  The Traveler shuddered in fury, his eyes growing wide, and blue fire snarled around his fingers. “You lie to me, Swordbearer? Do not think to deceive me!”

  “Very well,” said Arandar. “I swear upon the name of Dominus Christus that I do not know where the Keeper is.”

  The Traveler’s flames faded a little at that. “You would swear it by the name of your crucified god? Yes. You must speak the truth, for fear of his wrath. Then tell me! Why have you come to the Vale of Stone Death?”

  “The High King has charged me with a task,” said Arandar.

  The Traveler snarled in fury. “To kill me, yes? Your High King has sent you to kill me! For I am his greatest foe.”

  “He has not,” said Arandar.

  “Then why?” said the Traveler. “Why are you here? Why do you stand before me with those wretched soulblades?”

  “My task from the High King brought me here,” said Arandar. “I confess that I did not anticipate finding you in these mountains.” He considered for a moment. “Nor did I think to find Mournacht and his Mhorite followers.”

  The transformation his words worked over the Traveler was nothing short of terrifying.

  The dark elven lord stepped forward, his face a feral mask, and blue fire blazed around his fingers and ran up his armored arms. Shadows writhed and crawled around him, and Truthseeker chimed in Gavin’s hand as it reacted to the dark magic surging through the air. The Traveler howled in fury and flung a bolt of flame and shadow. Gavin started to lift the blade, calling up its power to shield him, but that proved unnecessary. The bolt slammed into one of the Anathgrimm, withering the orcish warrior’s flesh to ash and send
ing his heavy bones tumbling across the ground.

  "The orcs are mine!” screamed the Traveler. “Mine! They are my slaves!” He flung another bolt, killing a second Anathgrimm. The other orcish warriors dropped to their knees, bowing their heads before their god. “They are slaves, cattle! I was there when we summoned them, when we opened the door to their world and made them into our slaves. And this upstart mortal maggot thinks to defy me? He will pay for his impudence!” Three more Anathgrimm died in as many heartbeats as the Traveler raged. “He will suffer!”

  “My lord and god,” said Zhorlacht from his knees. “Stay your wrath, and turn aside your fury, and we shall gladly hunt down and kill this rebel blasphemer for you.”

  “Why?” sneered the Traveler. “You have failed to do so thus far.” He shuddered, and the fury drained from his face. His voice was calm, dead, eerily so. “But there is no need to waste your lives. Your deaths may serve me later. Rise.”

  The Anathgrimm orcs stood again, and Gavin watched the Traveler with growing alarm. Neither the Artificer nor the Warden had ever engaged in such a wasteful display of pique. It was like watching a child throw a tantrum, albeit a child armed with dark magic of dreadful potency. Mara had been right. The Traveler was indeed insane, and not fully in control of himself. He might decide to kill them all for no good reason.

  “Swordbearer,” said the Traveler in that cold, emotionless voice. “You will perform a task for me.”

  “And what task is that?” said Arandar. “We are not your servants.”

  “No,” said the Traveler, “but this task is one your oaths would have bound you to perform anyway. More importantly, it is well within your capabilities. If I let you go, you shall find Mournacht and kill him. He blocks my access to Khald Azalar and the power hidden within. My magic should have crushed him, but he has become far stronger than a mere orcish shaman should be.” A flicker of the manic fury returned to him. “Likely the work of the bearer of Incariel’s shadow, I deem. My kindred were fools to listen to him. Why should an orc be any wiser?”

  “And if we refuse?” said Arandar.

  “Then my servants will kill you,” said the Traveler. “You cannot overcome them, especially if my daughters take the field against you.” He gestured at the seven urdhracosi. “Do you find them fair, Swordbearer? Do they please your eye? They are mine to do with as I please, fathered upon the women of your kindred. They are useful slaves, but they are not worthy of names. No. I simply call them by the order they were born…First, Second, Third, and the others. And if you do not do as I command you, Sir Arandar of Tarlion, they will…”

  He went silent, his helmeted head tilting to the side.

  His black eyes were staring at Mara.

  “That woman,” he hissed. “That woman. Who is she, Sir Arandar?”

  “I believe,” said Arandar, “that she has the right to speak for herself. Especially to you, Traveler.”

  Mara stepped to Arandar’s side, her eyes stony. Jager followed her, hands on his weapons.

  “Who are you?” said the Traveler. “I know you…”

  “My name is Mara of Coldinium,” Mara said.

  “Mara,” said the Traveler. “A word from a language of Old Earth. ‘Bitter’, I believe.”

  “My mother loved me,” said Mara, “but my birth was bitter to her, for she hated my father.”

  “You are one of mine,” hissed the Traveler. “Yes, I remember now. One of my concubines escaped, and took one of my spawn with her. Is my concubine with you, Mara of Coldinium? If she is, she will be made to suffer for her rebellion.”

  “No,” said Mara. “She died to let me escape from you.”

  “Pity,” said the Traveler. “Pity indeed. She died for nothing. For you are no longer Mara of Coldinium. You are mine, and henceforth you shall join the ranks of my daughters,” his left hand gestured at the seven urdhracosi, “and you shall be known as the Eighth.”

  His right hand shot forward, and a bolt of shadow and blue flame burst from his palm. It struck Mara with terrific force, wreathing her in its ghostly light. Gavin had seen the Artificer use the same spell at the Iron Tower, designed to force Mara into her final transformation.

  The dark magic washed over Mara, and did absolutely nothing.

  For the first time the Traveler looked surprised. Alarmed, even.

  “You cannot transform me, father,” said Mara, “because I have already been transformed.”

  “What are you?” said the Traveler. “Something new? Very well. I have no objections to a new slave. It shall be entertaining to see your limits.”

  He gestured, and the sense of dark magic around him grew sharper, the air itself seeming to become colder. Truthseeker’s white fire burned hotter, and Mara swayed a little on her feet. Jager caught her elbow, and she straightened up.

  “Come to me, Eighth,” said the Traveler.

  “No,” said Mara.

  The Traveler blinked, frowning as if he could not understand what she had just said. “You will come to me.”

  “I will not,” said Mara.

  Again the Traveler looked baffled.

  “I have transformed,” said Mara, “but I am my own. You cannot command me.”

  “You dare to defy me?” said the Traveler, rage creeping back into his voice.

  “Yes,” said Mara. “I do hope that is clear to you by now, father.”

  “You are mine,” said the Traveler. Rage was warring with confusion upon his face, but it was clear that rage was about to win a resounding victory. “Mine!”

  “I am not,” said Mara. “Not now, not ever.”

  “You are Eighth,” said the Traveler, “and you shall obey me!”

  “I am Mara of Coldinium,” said Mara in that same cold calm voice, “daughter of Sarah, husband of Jager of Coldinium, and baptized daughter of the church. You might kill me, father, but I shall never be yours.”

  “Husband?” said the Traveler.

  Jager grinned at the dark elven lord and gave him a jaunty little salute.

  And that sent the Traveler exploding into rage.

  Again blue fire and shadow swirled around the Traveler, and he lifted his face to the sky and screamed in fury. Every last one of the urvaalgs turned their heads to stare at Mara and Jager, and the urdhracosi stirred, their bottomless black eyes turning towards the halfling and the half-elf.

  “I don’t think he likes me,” said Jager, his voice casual, though his knuckles shone white as he gripped the hilt of his short sword.

  “A halfling!” bellowed the Traveler. “You have taken a halfling into your bed? The halfling kindred are vermin! Rodents suitable for only the most menial of tasks. You are of my blood, the blood of the dark elven kindred, the rightful lords and masters of this world…and you have defiled yourself by taking a halfling as your lover?”

  He screamed the final sentence with such force that Gavin’s ears threatened to split from the noise.

  “Husband,” said Mara. “There is a difference, father. Though I expect that a man who has enslaved as many women as you have over the millennia may not be capable of seeing the difference.”

  “And perhaps the Traveler is right to criticize me as vermin,” said Jager with that insouciant smile. His deep voice fairly buzzed with amusement as he stared at the Traveler. “After all, I have stayed hidden within Nightmane Forest for centuries as my kindred were slaughtered and enslaved. I am so equated with cowardice that my peers named me in mockery of my inability to leave my moldy old forest.” He tapped his lips with his free hand. “Wait, wait. I may be confused. Am I still talking about myself? Or some doddering old fossil in gaudy armor?”

  Morigna stared at him with her jaw hanging open. Gavin had to admit he sometimes found Jager annoying, but the halfling did not want for courage. He shared a look with Arandar and Kharlacht and Caius, and the older men raised their weapons. Gavin supposed that there had been no way to avoid this fight. They would either defeat the Traveler’s minions and escape or die fighting<
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  He waited for the Traveler to erupt with rage, for the Anathgrimm and the urvaalgs and the urdhracosi to attack.

  Instead the Traveler went motionless, the rage and fury draining from him.

  “Very well,” he said, his voice toneless and dead again. “A new bargain for you, Sir Arandar. You will give the half-breed and her pet halfling to me, and I shall teach them new meanings of suffering. In exchange…”

  “You’ll let us live?” said Arandar. “Is that it?”

  “You are correct,” said the Traveler. “In addition…I will not make you watch as I torture my prisoners to death in front of you.”

  Morigna stiffened. “Prisoners?”

  Gavin knew what she thought, and he shared her fear. The Traveler must have found Ridmark and Calliande and taken them captive. The Traveler beckoned, and the ranks of the Anathgrimm parted. Gavin braced himself, expecting to see Ridmark and Calliande in chains.

  Instead he saw five short figures with bags over their heads, clad in elaborate armor of bronze-colored metal, their wrists bound with rope behind their backs. Bright scratches and splashes of blood marred their armor of dwarven steel. Whoever they were, they had put up a fight. Gavin wondered what dwarves had been doing in the Vale of Stone Death. Perhaps Khald Azalar was not abandoned after all. Or perhaps the dwarves had come here in search of lost relics from the ruins. The dwarves of the Enclave of Coldinium had mentioned that they purchased relics from the treasure hunters of Vhaluusk. Maybe the dwarves had decided to cut out the middlemen.

  Instead, they had run into the Traveler and his minions.

  “Dwarves,” said Caius. “You brought them with you?”

  “I found them here,” said the Traveler, his malevolent gaze turning to Caius. “They thought to visit the ruins of their lost forefathers. Instead they found me, and they shall serve me with their deaths. Are they known to you, apostate? Oh, yes, I know what you are. A son of the khaldari who turned against the gods of stone and silence to pray to the Dominus Christus. Do you think it will comfort my prisoners to see you before they die?” He beckoned, and several of the Anathgrimm stepped forward. “Or perhaps they are known to you already.”