Or to kill Calliande? She had thought that Arandar was Malahan Pendragon, but Malahan, the first High King of Andomhaim, had died a thousand years ago. How had Antenora survived for so long?
Gavin did not know…but he would not relax his vigilance.
He thought of the dark magic Morigna had wielded in the battle, and his hand tightened against Truthseeker’s hilt.
Chapter 12: Demands Of Honor
Calliande jogged through the forest, following Ridmark and Curzonar.
Ridmark led the way, dodging around trees and weaving around scattered boulders, Curzonar following suit. Calliande was amused to see that even the proud manetaur seemed ready to obey Ridmark. They headed north and east, away from the clearing where they had fought the trolls, the ground sloping down. Calliande realized they were heading towards the icy lake that filled the northern third of the Vale of Stone Death. She wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Both the Traveler and Mournacht had brought armies to the Vale, and armies required fresh water. Perhaps Ridmark thought that any pursuing trolls would run into Mhorite foraging parties.
After an hour Ridmark stopped, holding up a hand as he caught his breath.
“Lord Prince,” he said to Curzonar. “Can you still smell those leaves?”
Curzonar lifted his muzzle and sniffed. “No.”
Ridmark nodded and wiped some sweat from his forehead. “I suspect that we have lost them, though we should remain vigilant.”
Curzonar growled. “A Hunter is always vigilant.” Yet there was no threat to his words. Another memory floated to the front of Calliande’s mind, rising out of the mists of her past. The manetaurs called themselves the Hunters.
Had she known the manetaurs well?
“Beyond all doubt,” said Ridmark, “though I suspect there are as few places as dangerous as the Vale of Stone Death has been the last few days.”
“Indeed,” said Curzonar. “Those leaves you burned. I have rarely smelled such a vile odor. Where did you obtain them?”
“In the Torn Hills to the west of here, not far from the walls of Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark.
Curzonar stiffened, his golden eyes staring at Ridmark. “You lie to me, Ridmark son of Leogrance of Taliand.”
“Do I smell like I am lying?” said Ridmark. “It is well-known that the manetaurs of the Range can smell the sweat when a human is lying.”
Curzonar let out a low, mewling laugh. “You smell of troll slime, sweat, and orc blood. But, no. You speak the truth to me. A strange tale it must be.” He pulled off his helmet and shook his head, his golden mane rippling. Over his head he wore a diadem of red gold, a sign of his rank as a Prince of the Range. “Forgive me. I forget the obligations of honor, and my mind wanders. Without your aid, I would have fallen to the trolls, and I thank you for your intervention. You and the Magistria both.”
“I would not leave anyone to fall to the claws of the trolls,” said Ridmark. “Certainly not a manetaur. Though I confess I was surprised to find a manetaur, and a noble Prince at that, so far from your Range.”
“The demands of honor have driven me here,” said Curzonar, and he growled again. “To the very edge of disaster, it seems.”
“What demands are those?” said Ridmark.
“I do not wish to say,” said Curzonar.
Ridmark raised his eyebrows. “Might I ask why?”
“The Vale of Stone Death has an evil reputation among the Hunters,” said Curzonar. “When the stronghold of the dwarves fell to the cold ones, a great many of the Hunters perished as well, fighting to fulfill the obligations of honor. Since then it has been haunted by trolls and the gorgon spirit bound by the last King of Khald Azalar to…”
Calliande flinched. “The gorgon spirit?” More memories stirred in the mist of her mind, and for the first time she was certain, absolutely certain, that she had been to the Vale of Stone Death and Khald Azalar before. She had known it intellectually, of course. She had put her staff in Dragonfall. Yet for the first time it started to feel familiar.
“You know of it?” said Curzonar, eyes narrowed.
“Maybe,” said Calliande. “I might. I…cannot remember, I fear.”
Curzonar gave a displeased rumble but kept speaking. “In ancient times the stonescribes of the dwarves bound a powerful spirit to the Vault of the North, a small stronghold at the northern end of this Vale. The spirit has the power to turn anyone it sees to stone. The last King of Khald Azalar, I suspect, unleashed the spirit in desperation as his city fell to the Frostborn, and it has roamed the Vale ever since. But I wander from my point.” He gestured with his right hand. “I came to the Vale with my retainers, expecting to deal with trolls and with the gorgon spirit. Instead two armies have descended upon the Vale and are maneuvering for battle, and the trolls have run amok. You shall I understand, I suspect, why I am suspicious that you are here.”
“It is entirely understandable,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps we can come to an accord.”
“What do you mean?” said Curzonar.
“We know why those armies are here,” said Ridmark. “If you tell us why you have come to the Vale, then we can tell you what is happening here.”
Curzonar growled, drawing himself up to his full height, his fur bristling. Calliande had to admit that an angry manetaur made for a formidable sight. “You presume to barter with me, Ridmark son of Leogrance? I am a Prince of the Hunters of the Range, not some bargaining peddler.”
“Not at all,” said Ridmark. “Let us say instead that I suspect we hunt the same prey.”
“Do not the arbiters of the Hunters say,” said Calliande, “that the path of the solitary Hunter ends in death, but the wise Hunter seeks his prey in the company of his comrades?”
Curzonar blinked. “You know something of our ways, then?”
“Apparently I do,” said Calliande.
Curzonar managed to look dubious. “Even for a human female, you are most peculiar, Magistria.”
“You have no idea,” said Ridmark.
Calliande gave him a look.
“You did save my life,” said Curzonar, “and there is a mystery here. Very well. Speak freely to me of your task, and I shall do the same. What has brought such chaos to the Vale of Stone Death?”
“I have, I fear,” said Calliande.
“You?” said Curzonar, the manetaur’s disbelief plain.
“My name is Calliande,” she said, “and I am the Keeper of Andomhaim.”
Curzonar growled again. “Lies. The final Keeper of Andomhaim perished in battle against the Frostborn.”
“No,” said Calliande. “For when the Frostborn were defeated, I learned a dark truth. They had been summoned to this world, just as the dark elves summoned the orcs and the halflings and the others in ancient days. Shadowbearer summoned the Frostborn, and he would do so again when the conjunction of the thirteen moons permitted him to work his spell.”
The mention of Shadowbearer made Curzonar go motionless. Even his tail stopped twitching.
“You’ve met him, then?” said Ridmark.
“Perhaps,” said Curzonar. “Continue your tale.”
“I knew the Frostborn would return, that Shadowbearer would try to summon them once more,” said Calliande. At least, she assumed that she had. “I knew the power of the Keeper was the only way to stop Shadowbearer, and that future bearers of the Keeper’s office might not recognize the danger. So I hid my staff in the depths of Khald Azalar.” Given that she could sense the staff’s presence and that Mournacht and the Traveler had come to claim it, there seemed to be no reason to keep it secret any longer. “I put myself into a deep sleep in a fortress on the borders of Andomhaim, to awaken when the moons aligned and Shadowbearer might try to open the gate and summon the Frostborn once more.”
Curzonar considered this. “Why did you conceal your staff in Khald Azalar? It seems a foolish and risky decision.” He bared his fangs, which sent a shiver of fear down Calliande’s back, but she remembered it was the manetaurs’
equivalent of a smile. “The arbiters of the Hunters would not approve.”
“Because I knew that Shadowbearer would try to kill me,” said Calliande, “or at least render the Keeper unable to threaten him. If I hid myself and my staff in the same place, he might have been able to kill me and claim the staff with one strike.”
Certainly he had come very close to killing her. If not for Ridmark, Shadowbearer would have killed Calliande on the first day she had awakened, and she would have died in ignorance of her identity and her purpose. She felt a surge of gratitude for Ridmark.
Without Ridmark, she would not have gotten very far at all.
“A most implausible story,” rumbled Curzonar. “Yet you smell of certainty. Of conviction. Either you are telling the truth or you are a madwoman who believes your own delusions.”
Calliande shrugged. “Both may be true.”
“Ridmark son of Leogrance,” demanded Curzonar. “Does she speak the truth?”
“She does,” said Ridmark. “I was there on the day she awakened. It was about four months ago, the day blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon.”
“An evil day,” said Curzonar. “An ill omen.”
“It was,” said Ridmark, “but it was more than that. It was a sign of a conjunction of the thirteen moons. For a year and a month after that day, the moons are in the proper position to allow Shadowbearer to open a gate to the world of the Frostborn.”
“Indeed,” said Curzonar. “You, too, have the scent of truth about you. A strange tale…but you believe it, and it explains some things that have happened in the Range. Very well.” He gestured at the trees. “I shall tell you the purpose of my hunt to the Vale.”
“I am eager to hear it,” said Ridmark.
“I am a Prince of the Range, a son of the Red King Turcontar,” said Curzonar. “My father reigns supreme over the Hunters, but he has many sons, and we all compete for power and influence among our kindred. Consequently, there is much violence among us, for only the strongest deserve power.” He shrugged. “I understand the weaker kindreds such as you humans and the halflings find such violence appalling, but hunting and war are in our nature. Perhaps the orcs come the closest to understanding, but even they do not fight as often as we do. I do not boast falsely when I say that my influence and stature among the Hunters is very great, rivaled only by my father and a few others. Among them, my chief rival is my half-brother Kurdulkar.” He growled. “He has grown…strange in the last few years.”
“What do you mean?” said Calliande, an uneasy feeling settling over her. Curzonar’s tale reminded her of Arandar’s tale, how his son Accolon had seen one of the Enlightened of Incariel wielding the powers of darkness.
“We are the Hunters,” said Curzonar, “and we hold to our word of honor. Long ago we signed a pact with your High King, settling the boundary of our Range at the mountains of Caertigris. All other kindred are our proper prey, of course, but some prey are stronger than others. Were we to hunt the subjects of the High King too often, his power would destroy us. So we signed a treaty with the High King, promising not to hunt his subjects, and to grant sanctuary to any of his subjects who visit the trading towns upon our borders.”
“Yet Kurdulkar thinks differently,” said Calliande, taking a guess.
“It is worse than that,” said Curzonar. “Ambition is only right and proper for a Hunter. Yet Kurdulkar is listening to strange and uncouth ideas. Kurdulkar says that we are not strong enough to make the entire world into our Range. Of late he claims that if we follow the power of the dark elves, that if we draw upon the shadows that they once worshipped, we can become strong and hunt the entire world.”
“What?” said Calliande with a chill. That sounded like the Enlightened of Incariel. That sounded identical to the Enlightened of Incariel, in fact. Had something similar to the Enlightened arisen among the manetaurs?
“A prophet has been speaking to Kurdulkar and his followers,” said Curzonar. “A high elf who calls himself the bearer of shadow, with eyes like quicksilver and a shadow that acts of its own will. When he speaks, two voices issue from his mouth. He stinks of corruption and black sorcery. I am amazed that the stench of him does not gag Kurdulkar. Perhaps he has grown inured to it. I have come to smell the same taint upon him and his followers, and rumors among the females claim that Kurdulkar and his followers have begun commanding the shadows.”
“I fear a similar society has arisen among the humans of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark. “They call themselves the Enlightened of Incariel. They worship the shadow of Incariel, which in turn grants them powers over darkness. They think to take over the High Kingdom and to conquer the earth and rule it as they please. Shadowbearer is their master.”
“The same sort of folly, I see,” said Curzonar, his alien voice deepening with fury. “I could watch no further as this cancer spread among the Hunters. I challenged Kurdulkar before the Red King’s court, and both my followers and his came to violence. They were clever enough not to use their shadow powers before the arbiters and the Red King. Lest we destroy the Hunters with our conflict, the Red King and the arbiters set a Rite of Challenge before me.”
“What task did they give you?” said Ridmark.
“To come to the Vale of Stone Death and retrieve the sword of Murzanar,” said Curzonar.
“I do not know the name,” said Calliande.
“He was a Prince of the Hunters who lived a century past,” said Curzonar. “Many manetaurs perished in the fighting below the Gate of the West of Khald Azalar, including six Princes of the Range. Murzanar had a dispute with his brother, and as his own Rite of Challenge he came to the Vale of Stone Death to retrieve at least one of their diadems. He never returned.”
“And you were sent to discover what happened to Murzanar, I take it,” said Calliande.
“You guess correctly,” said Curzonar.
“What went wrong?” said Ridmark.
Curzonar loosed a growl deep in his throat. “Many things. We made our way across the High Kingdom and through Vhaluusk easily enough. I had one hundred of my followers with me, and no one was foolish enough to challenge us.”
“I imagine not,” murmured Calliande. Curzonar was formidable enough by himself. One hundred manetaurs together would be terrifying.
“But as we made our way through the High Pass,” said Curzonar, “we faced numerous foes. First the trolls, but we anticipated that hunt. Then the Mhorite orcs, and they fought like devils. After that we fought strange orcs of a kind I have never scented before, armored in bone that grew from their flesh like tumors.”
“Anathgrimm,” said Ridmark.
“The word is not known to me,” said Curzonar.
“Orcs in service to the Traveler of Nightmane Forest,” said Ridmark. “He used his magic to mutate them, to make them stronger and hardier.”
Curzonar spat in disgust. “Wretched dark elves. They sought to enslave the Hunters, but we defied them to the end. Kurdulkar thinks to turn us into a new version of them.” He shook his head again. “We defeated our foes and made our way into the Vale. The survivors of the fall of Khald Azalar said that the final Hunters made their stand at the Vault of the North, so it seemed likely that Murzanar had made his way there.”
“Then you encountered the gorgon spirit,” said Calliande, “did you not?”
“You guess correctly,” said Curzonar, weariness entering his growling voice. “We came to the Vault of the North, a ruin at the edge of the lake near the base of the mountains. Hundreds of frozen statues surrounded it. We entered…and the gorgon spirit issued forth to take us.” He snarled, his hands clenching into fists. “It was wearing Murzanar’s flesh.”
“What?” said Ridmark.
“It is logical, is it not?” said Curzonar. “It is a spirit, and spirits must enter flesh to harm those of flesh. It had taken Murzanar’s body. The arbiters of the Hunters preserve the scents of all the Princes of the Range, and I recognized Murzanar’s scent at once. His eyes shon
e with green fire, and the light that issued from his eyes turned anyone it touched into a statue.” He growled, his tail lashing with displeasure. “Many of my Hunters were turned to stone, and we had no choice but to retreat shamefully. As we did, bands of trolls attacked us, and the gorgon spirit kept hunting us. The last of my comrades fell a few hours past, and I have been fighting trolls ever since.”
Calliande shook her head, another strange thought coming to her. “Lord Prince, did you notice anything strange about Murzanar?”
“You mean other than the gorgon spirit possessing him?” said Curzonar, something almost like humor in his voice.
“Aye,” said Calliande, thinking hard. God, but she wished she could remember the past clearly! Even if it was horrifying, it would be nice to remember without struggling. “Something like…oh, a jewel, or perhaps a rod or a crown. Something of dwarven make.”
“He wore a helm of dwarven steel, written with glyphs of green fire around the crown,” said Curzonar.
“That’s it,” whispered Calliande, snapping her fingers. “That’s it. I…I remember. I remember it!”
Curzonar gave her a sideways glance, his nostrils flaring. Evidently he still thought her insane, but she did not care.
“Calliande?” said Ridmark.
“I remember,” she breathed. “That helmet, Ridmark. The helmet is the key. The smiths and stonescribes of Khald Azalar made it and bound the gorgon spirit to it. I think…I think Murzanar must have broken into the Vault of the North, put on the helmet, and become possessed by the gorgon spirit. It’s enslaved him ever since. How long ago did you say Murzanar came here? A century?”
“One hundred and fifteen years, to be precise,” said Curzonar.
“And how long has this place been known as the Vale of Stone Death?” said Calliande.
“I don’t know,” said Ridmark. “Kharlacht thought it had been called that for at least a century.”
“What do you propose?” said Curzonar.
“That we find Murzanar and take the helmet, freeing him from the gorgon spirit,” said Calliande. “If we do that, we can save your warriors from imprisonment in stone, lord Prince.” She looked at Ridmark. “We can also give our friends a greater chance.”
Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit Page 17
