The Anathgrimm orcs yanked away the bags, revealing the gray-skinned faces of dwarves. All of them looked young, at least young by the standards of dwarves, with black hair and eyes like polished stone. Gavin did not recognize four of them. The fifth dwarf, though, he knew. The dwarven warrior had black hair and a close-cropped black beard, his eyes like disks of polished malachite, a red gash marring the gray, granite-colored line of his jaw and forehead. He was a Taalmak, the dwarven equivalent of a knight, in service to the King of Khald Tormen.
“Azakhun?” said Caius, astonished, and Azakhun’s green eyes turned towards Caius.
“My lord Taalkhan?” croaked Azakhun in Latin, shaking his head. “It…it cannot be. What are you doing here?”
“You know each other?” said Arandar, surprised.
“Aye,” said Jager. “We all met at Coldinium. We hadn’t found you yet.”
“The young Taalmak is an acquaintance of yours, I see,” said the Traveler in that dead voice. “All the better. It may amuse you to watch him tortured to death. Or will it displease you? The lesser kindreds do not have the dark elven appreciation for the subtleties of the fine art of cruelty. But the deer that provides the venison has little understanding of the cook’s art, I suppose.”
“You will release them to us,” said Arandar.
“Will I?” said the Traveler. “Perhaps I shall. But only if you surrender my rebellious daughter and her halfling pet to me, so I might properly chastise them for their folly. Then you may take your wayward khaldari and go.”
“You know,” said Arandar, “how I must answer that question.”
“Yes.” Emotion came back into the Traveler’s face and voice, a malicious, terrible glee. “I look forward to watching the answer.”
Gavin adjusted his grip on Truthseeker, taking deep breaths. Around him the others raised their weapons, and Morigna began a spell, purple fire crackling around her fingers. The Anathgrimm drew sword and maces and axes. The wings of the urdhracosi unfurled, and the urvaalgs prowled forward, snarling, their hellish eyes like burning coals.
There were so many of the enemy. Not as many as had been at Urd Morlemoch. Of course, they hadn’t won that battle themselves. Ardrhythain’s power had destroyed the Warden’s creatures, but Gavin doubted the archmage of Cathair Solas would come to their aid this time. He looked at Truthseeker and felt a stab of guilt. Now Arandar’s son and daughter would never know what had happened to their father. They would mourn him for the rest of their lives.
Would anyone ever mourn Gavin? Would anyone in Aranaeus still remember him?
He would never know.
One of the urvaalgs came closer, preparing to spring, and Gavin readied himself. Then the urvaalg stopped and looked towards the dwarven ruins atop the pine-cloaked hill, and Gavin had the distinct impression that the creature was puzzled. Several more urvaalgs looked up, and one of the urdhracosi turned with a frown.
“Father,” said the urdhracos in a voice of inhuman melody and beauty, “something is wrong.”
“Do not be absurd, Second,” said the Traveler. “Attack and…”
Several of the Anathgrimm shouted.
In that instant the hillside started to move, rippling like a banner caught in the wind. For an awful moment Gavin thought a landslide was about to bury them all alive. The rippling looked wrong for that, though, and the ground wasn’t shaking. He glanced at Morigna, wondering if she had somehow cast a mighty spell, but the sorceress looked just as surprised.
Then his eye managed to resolve the rippling motion, and a fresh bolt of fear burned through him.
Trolls.
Scores and scores of trolls raced down the hill on all fours, their scaly hides changing color to match the color of the terrain around them.
Everything happened at once.
Arandar raised Heartwarden and shouted, the Traveler screamed a command, and the trolls crashed into the Anathgrimm and the urvaalgs. The urdhracosi took to the air, and the Traveler began casting a spell. An urvaalg shot forward, jaws yawning as it sprang towards Morigna, and Gavin killed the vile creature with a swing of Truthseeker, the sword thrumming with power as it fought against the urvaalg’s dark magic. His mind raced. Perhaps in the chaos they could seize Azakhun and his warriors and flee…
The top of the hill exploded.
There was a brilliant flash of hellish light, so bright it was as if a second sun had risen in the dwarven ruins atop the hill. The thunderous sound came a moment later, followed by a gale of hot air that howled past him. The earth trembled beneath his boots, and bits of burning debris rained around him, setting patches of the forest floor aflame as the trolls and the Traveler’s servants fought.
Two thoughts occurred to Gavin at once.
First, he knew how all those fires in the Vale had started.
Second, the trolls weren’t attacking the Traveler’s servants. They were fleeing from whatever had unleashed the firestorm atop the hill, and the Traveler just happened to be in the way.
Which meant that the trolls, the vicious, formidable trolls, found the Traveler less frightening than whatever enemy hunted them atop the hill.
Gavin wondered what that creature would think of him and his friends.
Chapter 10: The Prince
Ridmark ran through the trees.
Again that mighty roar rang out, proud and furious, answered by the snarling, rasping cries of the trolls. There were at least two or three, to judge from the cries. How many manetaurs did the trolls face? Ridmark had only heard one so far. A single manetaur was a formidable foe, a whirlwind of muscle and fang and claw, and unlike the lupivirii that manetaurs did not disdain the use of weapons. Yet the manetaurs did not have the trolls’ hideous vitality, and the trolls would wear down the manetaurs sooner or later.
Ridmark darted around a tree, coming to the edge of a clearing, and saw the fight.
A single manetaur stood in the center of the clearing, war axes in both hands. The manetaur was a good two feet taller than Ridmark, and the flanks and limbs of his leonine body were heavy with muscle. Over its human-shaped torso the manetaur wore a cuirass of crimson steel, a helmet upon his head, and a coat of crimson mail over his lower body that looked a great deal like the barding of a knight’s horse. The helmet concealed his mane, but a dyed crimson crest rose from the helmet, making it look as if his mane had been painted the color of blood. The manetaur seemed uninjured so far, but his flanks heaved with the draw of his breath, and a faint shudder went through his muscled arms.
Three trolls moved around him in a slow, wide circle. All three of the trolls bore hideous axe wounds that shrank even as Ridmark looked, their jaws snapping as they snarled at the manetaur. Ridmark guessed the trolls’ tactics easily enough. One of them would dart in, attacking, and draw the attention of the manetaur. The others would rush him until the manetaur’s fury drove them back, and then they would retreat out of reach until their wounds healed and they attacked again. It was a devilishly effective plan.
So. Three trolls.
“Calliande,” he murmured. “Your augmentation spells. Can you do anything else while you concentrate upon them?”
She shrugged, watching the circling trolls. “Simple things. Nothing complex. What do you have in mind?”
“Give me everything that you can,” said Ridmark. “Then set something on fire and start making torches.”
“You have a plan?” she said, raising her hands, white light glimmering around her fingers.
“I really hope so,” said Ridmark.
She sighed, put her hands on his chest, and cast her spell. White light flared around him, sinking into his flesh, and at once he felt stronger and faster. Calliande usually divided her power among them all, but now she could put everything into him, and it made him feel almost superhuman. He quickly crushed the feeling. For all that she accused him of recklessness, he rarely acted without a plan, and overconfidence could kill a man faster than any sword.
One of the trolls rushed t
owards the manetaur, and Ridmark moved.
He shot forward, the ground blurring beneath his legs, the staff of Ardrhythain gripped in both hands. The trolls started to turn, but their full attention had been upon the manetaur, and they did not react to Ridmark until it was too late. He swung the staff, all his strength and Calliande’s magic driving the blow. The staff slammed into the nearest troll’s right leg with enough force to turn the knee to pulp, yellowish slime splattering from the damaged limb. The troll let out a shocked scream of furious pain, its massive jaws snapping, and its leg gave out. Ridmark whipped the staff around and turned the top half of the troll’s skull to mush, and the creature toppled over.
At once the devastating wounds Ridmark had dealt the troll began to heal.
The other two trolls spun and charged. Ridmark dodged, and even with the tremendous speed granted by Calliande’s magic, he barely managed to stay ahead of the trolls’ claws and fangs. The trolls spread out on either side of him, driving him back. Ridmark managed to land a few hits with his staff, but not enough to do any serious damage.
Fortunately, the manetaur was a cunning enough warrior to take advantage of the distraction.
The manetaur sprang forward in a blur of crimson armor and golden fur. He buried the axe in his left hand between the shoulders of the troll on Ridmark’s right, and the creature let out a furious, howling snarl, its thick tail lashing at the manetaur like a whip. The manetaur danced aside with contemptuous ease and swung the axe in his right hand once, twice, three times. The heavy blade sliced the troll’s head from its shoulders in a burst of slime, and the gray-scaled body collapsed to the ground, thrashing and twitching.
Thick bubbles appeared in the stump of its neck as the troll began growing a new head.
Ridmark spun, landing heavy blows on the troll on his left. The creature fell back, looking back and forth between Ridmark and the manetaur. Yet the troll that Ridmark had crippled earlier regained its feet, its wounds almost healed. The manetaur whirled with fluid grace, his axes spinning as he loosed a challenging roar. One axe took off the troll’s right hand, and the severed appendage flopped and twitched like a disoriented spider as it spun through the air. The other axe ripped through the thick hide of the troll’s belly, its viscera spilling forth and flooding the air with its stench. Neither wound seemed to bother the troll very much, and it shoved its entrails back into its torso with the stump of its right hand and kept slashing at the manetaur with its left.
Ridmark ducked under the slash of a troll’s claws and thrust his staff. The butt of the weapon slammed into the troll’s neck with a hideous crunch, and the troll stumbled, choking and wheezing. He swung his staff again, and the length of black wood slammed into the troll’s temple with another crack. The creature wobbled, and Ridmark sidestepped and struck again, catching the troll behind its knees. Its thick tail struck Ridmark across the chest, knocking him back, but the troll fell and thrashed, shaking its head as its unnatural vitality healed the damage to its skull and windpipe.
The troll the manetaur had beheaded previously got back to its feet, its new head wet and glistening. The troll the manetaur had been fighting lay in a bloody heap, its hands regenerating and its wounds shrinking, so the manetaur whirled to face the new threat. Ridmark and the manetaur had held their own against the trolls, but that would not last. They had no way to kill the trolls or even permanently injure them.
Fortunately, Ridmark had no intention of remaining here.
He risked a glance back and saw a spreading fire. Calliande had started a blaze at the base of one of the pine trees. She thrust a branch into the fire, its end taking flame.
“Manetaur!” shouted Ridmark.
The manetaur turned, his eyes like brilliant golden coins. Ridmark felt a twinge of unease beneath those predator’s eyes, but he did not look away. One did not show weakness in front of a predator.
“We cannot prevail!” said Ridmark. “Not with the weapons we carry.”
Belatedly he hoped that the manetaur understood Latin. Yet the golden eyes shifted to Calliande and her fire, and the manetaur nodded. Ridmark sprinted for the flames, and the manetaur followed with easy, loping strides, yellow slime dripping from the blades of his axes.
A moment later all three trolls were in pursuit.
Ridmark reached the trees and spun, his back to the fire. The manetaur loosed a furious roar at the trolls, so loud that it felt like a solid thing against Ridmark’s ears. The trolls faltered for a moment, but their serpentine eyes did not turn from Ridmark and the manetaur.
“Calliande,” he said. “The burning branches. You will know when to use them.”
She nodded and picked one up. The manetaur glanced at her, shrugged, and then turned back just as the trolls charged. Ridmark ran to meet them, the manetaur loping forward. Two of the trolls veered towards the manetaur, while Ridmark met the third. He spun his staff through a blurring series of attacks, landing hits upon the troll’s wrists and elbows. Its claws raked across his torso, and though the blow hurt, his armor of dark elven steel turned aside their razor edges. At last the troll stumbled, and Ridmark dropped his staff, yanking the dwarven war axe from his belt.
Three swings later, he had the troll’s head off its shoulders.
“Calliande!” he shouted.
She ran forward, a burning branch in her hand, and shoved it into the glistening yellow stump of the troll’s neck. There was a harsh sizzling noise, and the tiny head that had started to grow from the wound shriveled. Ridmark ran to aid the manetaur. The leonine warrior had dealt heavy wounds to both trolls, but the creatures kept driving him back, pushing him towards the spreading flames. Ridmark attacked from behind, sinking his axe into the nearest troll’s neck. He ripped the blade free, and the manetaur seized the opening, a sweep of its weapon taking off the troll’s head.
Calliande thrust another burning branch into the ragged neck, and the troll fell to the ground with a wet thump. The manetaur bellowed as Calliande ran back to the fire, and Ridmark and the manetaur faced the final troll. The manetaur drove his axes into the troll’s torso again and again, and Ridmark circled from behind and cut off its head with his axe.
Another burning branch sizzled against the wound, and silence fell over the clearing, save for the crackle of the fire and the manetaur’s heavy breathing.
“Humans,” said the manetaur. His voice was a deep thrum, somewhere between a resonant purr and a mewling growl, the Rs of his words peculiarly extended. “Thank you for your aid. These beasts would have overcome me, if not for your assistance.”
“Your prowess is great, noble Hunter,” said Ridmark, trying to remember what he could of the manetaurs’ code of protocol. “One troll is a fell opponent. Even a Swordbearer would have difficulty holding off three at once.”
He looked at the fallen trolls. They were not dead, and he did not want to linger here. On the other hand, an insulted manetaur might prove more deadly than the trolls.
“Truly,” said the manetaur, drawing himself up. “I am Curzonar, a prince of the Range, son of the Red King Turcontar of the Hunters.”
Calliande blinked, and Ridmark barely kept the surprise off his face. Curzonar was a son of the Red King of the manetaurs? Of course, the Red King had scores of concubines and sired children with most of them. Likely there were dozens if not hundreds of Princes of the Range. Yet it was still a rank with respect among the manetaurs, which made Ridmark wonder what Curzonar was doing here, so far from the Red King’s Range.
“I am Ridmark son of Leogrance Arban of Taliand of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark, thinking fast. “This is Calliande, a Magistria of the Order.”
“Your mate, then?” said Curzonar, his golden eyes shifting to her.
Calliande turned a little red.
“Ah,” said Ridmark. “No.”
“You are not a Swordbearer,” said Curzonar, “though you move like one. You bear the brand of cowardice,” he growled the word like a curse, “upon your face, yet you fight as fi
ercely as one of the Hunters. A curious tale.”
“Calliande’s magic gave me strength and speed,” said Ridmark. “The tale of my brand we can tell you later. Forgive me, noble Prince, but we must be away from here. The trolls will not be immobilized for long.”
Curzonar let out a basso growl. “You would have me abandon a hunt? You would have me show my back to the prey?”
“The trolls are not prey, lord Prince,” said Calliande. “The manetaurs are fierce hunters, yes. But are there not fiercer predators upon this world? Does not a pride of hunters fare better than a lone warrior against such foes?”
Curzonar looked at her, at the trolls, and back at Ridmark. “The Magistria speaks wisdom. Let us be gone from this place, and speak further once we are downwind of our foes.”
One the fallen trolls twitched, the slime dripping from its wounds and severed neck.
“Come, if you please,” said Ridmark, walking back to Calliande’s fire. It had spread further, more of the dry needles going in flame. He half-feared they would wind up burning down the entire forest. That was one way to deal with the Mhorites and the Traveler, he supposed. Still, most of the trees looked too well-watered to catch fire easily.
He reached into his belt pouch and drew out a handful of the dried leaves.
Curzonar growled. “What is that vile stench? It is fouler than the trolls.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to get worse,” said Ridmark, dumping the leaves into the flames. “You hunt by scent, true, but so do the trolls, and I fear their noses are keener than yours.” The greenish-gray smoke rose from the fire, filling Ridmark’s nostrils with their scent, and Curzonar let out an offended growl.
“That will prove effective to baffle their noses,” said Curzonar.
Calliande waved a hand in front of her face. “I wish it would baffle mine.”
“Come,” said Ridmark. “We can speak more once I am confident the trolls are not upon our trail.”
He led the way around the clearing to the east, and they headed into the trees.
Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit Page 15
