Truthseeker shuddered in Gavin’s fist.
Another Mhorite orc appeared behind the warriors. This orc was thin and wasted, his ribs stark against the green skin of his chest, his arms and torso marked with elaborate ritualized scars. The sigils of his scars began to burn with crimson light, and the orc lifted his hands, his mouth moving as he spoke, red fire and shadow snarling around his fingers.
He pointed at Gavin.
Gavin called upon Truthseeker for protection, and the Mhorite shaman finished his spell. A lance of fire-wreathed shadow burst from the shaman’s hands just as a shell of white light appeared around Gavin. The spell slammed into him, Truthseeker vibrating in his hand, and the impact rocked him back several steps.
It also gave the Mhorite warriors an opening to charge.
Gavin barely got his shield up in time to deflect the first thrust. The blade bounced off the rim of his shield, which gave a second warrior a chance to stab. The sword struck his chest with terrific force, the point deflecting off his armor. The blows rocked him back on his heels, and before he could recover one of the Mhorites swung a mace at him. Gavin jerked back, and the blow that would have turned his skull to mush instead struck his chest.
That hurt. Quite a lot.
He heard something snap and realized that it was one of his ribs. Gavin forced up his shield arm despite the pain in his chest and deflected the next strike of the mace, Truthseeker’s magic giving him the strength to stand fast. He bellowed a wordless battle cry and went on the attack, drawing on his soulblade’s power for speed and strength. Even with the sword’s magic, the agony in his chest still slowed him. He killed one of the Mhorites, but the rest avoided his blows. Behind them he saw the shaman beginning another spell. Gavin did not think he could manage to protect himself from the shaman’s magic while holding off the warriors. Arandar and Kharlacht and Mara and the others were engaged, fighting for their own lives, and could not aid him.
Arandar had told him that in ancient times Swordbearers fell upon the field of battle so often that new Swordbearers were created upon the spot.
Perhaps that would be Gavin’s fate.
He set himself, preparing to charge into the Mhorites, and then a hot wind blew past him.
Antenora stepped past Morigna, her staff extended, the fiery sigils shining brighter. The hot wind was blowing towards her, into her. A small sphere of white light hovered an inch above the top of her staff, painfully bright against Gavin’s eyes. Then he realized that the sphere was actually made of white-hot fire.
The Mhorite shaman raised his hands, bloody fire burning around his fingers, and Antenora thrust her staff at him.
The sphere flew in a straight line from her staff and struck the shaman’s forehead. It burned through his skull like a droplet of molten metal through a sheet of paper, reducing the top half of his head to charred ruin. Gavin expected the sphere to dissipate, its energy spent, but it kept going and struck the earth behind the shaman.
The explosion came a half-second later.
A pillar of fire erupted from the ground with a thunderous roar, and a hot gale roared past Gavin, pine needles and dust rolling through the air. A dozen Mhorites died at once, incinerated in the inferno, and a dozen more ran wailing into the trees, the flames chewing into their flesh. The blast knocked a score of Mhorites to the ground, and the rest froze, staring in shock at the fire. Gavin was shocked himself. He had seen the explosion that Antenora had unleashed in the dwarven ruins near the Traveler’s camp, but standing so close to such a blast…
His combat experience and training overrode his shock, and Gavin charged with a yell, cutting down one of the Mhorites and wounding another before the rest fell back. A dozen pine trees burned, and the scent of smoke filled the air. The fires were spreading rapidly, pooling across the dry needles on the forest floor. All was chaos and blood and fire around him, but everywhere he looked, he saw Mhorites either fleeing the flames or advancing forward to kill him.
“Go!” shouted Arandar, his deep voice rolling over the battle. “Cut through them while we still can!”
Blue fire shivered next to him, and Mara appeared. “We can’t! There are too many of them, Sir Arandar. The entire Mhorite host is upon us.”
Arandar took his own look around the battlefield, his face hardening. “Then we fall back to the west, back towards the High Pass.”
“They’re too close,” said Mara. “They’ll run us down.” Already the blast of more horns rang through the burning trees, hoarse voices barking commands in the orcish tongue. The Mhorites were hunting for them, moving to cut off any route of retreat.
“The tower,” said Gavin. His voice sounded thick, his breath raspy, and he wondered how badly that mace strike had injured him.
“Fall back!” shouted Arandar. “Fall back to the tower!”
“They will surround us there,” said Morigna. “We must go!”
But there was no conviction to her words. She, too, could see the truth.
“The foe shall swarm us the minute we try to enter the tower,” said Kharlacht. “We may need a distraction.”
“Fear not, green warrior,” said Antenora, the sigils upon her staff beginning to burn again. “I shall provide the necessary distraction.”
“Green warrior?” said Kharlacht, nonplussed.
“Well,” said Caius, shaking blood from the head of his mace, “you are.”
“Go,” said Arandar.
The others started up the slope to the ruined tower. Both Caius and Kharlacht had been wounded, and Kharlacht was limping heavily. Arandar brought up the back, Heartwarden in hand.
“Sir Gavin,” he said.
“I’ll keep watch over her,” said Gavin. “We’ll join you shortly. Go!”
Arandar nodded and escorted the others to the tower.
“You shall guard me, then?” said Antenora, her yellow eyes upon the flames spreading through the forest.
“I don’t want an enemy to catch you if your strength is depleted,” said Gavin, remembering the fight with the trolls in the dwarven ruin. “It would be a cruel fate to have spent fifteen hundred years seeking for the Keeper only to die a few miles from her.”
Dozens of Mhorites moved cautiously through the trees.
“It would be no less than I deserve,” said Antenora, taking her staff in both hands.
Gavin looked back and forth. “You did save my life. I couldn’t have shielded myself from the shaman and fought off the warriors at the same time.”
“That?” said Antenora. Another ball of white flame shimmered to life atop her staff. The air rippled around it, the heat beating against Gavin’s face. Antenora was not even sweating. “I would have done it sooner, but it is difficult to gather that much fire at once. It is also difficult to focus and concentrate that much power. Heat follows its own rules of conduction, heedless of the power of magic.” The little sphere of fire grew, swelling to the size of Gavin’s fist. It was bigger than the one that had killed the shaman. “I imagine the Keeper would be annoyed if I accidentally burned all of you to death.”
“I would be, too,” said Gavin.
The Mhorites charged. They would cut down Gavin and Antenora with ease, and then swarm up the hill to storm the tower.
Antenora flicked her staff, almost as if she was shaking droplets of water from it.
The sphere of fire leapt through the air in a white arc and landed in the midst of the charging warriors.
The explosion must have killed at least twenty of the Mhorites, stripping the flesh from their bones and leaving only charred husks in their place. Another score were knocked from their feet by the blast, a gale of hot wind whipping over the hillside. Gavin braced himself against the wind, his eyes and face stinging. A few Mhorites were ahead of the blast, and charged at Antenora. Gavin ran to meet them, trying to ignore the pain in his chest, and caught a thrust on his shield. He twisted, Truthseeker’s point opening the throat of a Mhorite warrior. A sword got past Gavin’s guard, opening a wound
upon his left arm. He growled and struck again, taking the hand from the Mhorite that had wounded him, and then stabbing the warrior through the chest.
A third Mhorite charged at Antenora. She wheeled and thrust her staff, and a gout of flame licked from the end, a cone three feet wide and twelve long. It did not burn with the furious intensity of her previous spells, but it hardly needed to do so. The Mhorite screamed in agony as his clothes and hair and skin went up in flame Gavin stepped closer to her. All around them the pine forest burned. He saw hundreds of Mhorite warriors moving beyond the edges of the fire, but for now, the flames kept them at bay.
“We need to go,” he said.
Antenora nodded, wobbled a little, and leaned upon her black staff. “Yes. A…a moment. That took more out of me than I thought.”
“It has to be now,” said Gavin, grabbing her elbow. Even after all the fire magic she had worked, she still felt icy cold through her heavy coat. He felt the eyes of the Mhorites upon him through the flames. Sooner or later one of the warriors would have the bright idea to use a bow. He didn’t know if Antenora had warding spells to repel an arrow, but standing out in the open was not the time to find out.
“Yes,” said Antenora again, and they hurried up the slope, through the archway, and into the ruined tower. Caius, Jager, Azakhun, and the others dwarves were already hard at work, piling some of the loose stones to form a barricade across the archway. Kharlacht leaned upon his greatsword while Arandar rested on one knee next to him, his left hand flaring with white light as he used Heartwarden’s power to heal Kharlacht’s leg. It wasn’t nearly as effective as Calliande’s powerful healing magic, but it would seal the wound and keep Kharlacht from bleeding to death. Gavin took a ragged, burning breath and drew on Truthseeker’s magic. The sword’s power began to heal the agony in his chest and the pain in his arms and legs, but slowly. Calliande said that healing magic always worked better when used upon another, and that also applied to the power of the soulblades.
He didn’t feel much better, but it was better than nothing.
“You are wounded,” said Antenora.
Gavin nodded. Now that the fighting was over, exhaustion crashed into him, and he wanted to sit down, close his eyes, and sleep for a week. That was not possible. They had killed a lot of Mhorites in the fighting, but there many more, and they would want vengeance.
As soon as the fire burned down, they would be back.
“I’ve been hurt worse,” said Gavin. He had taken bad wounds in the fighting at the Iron Tower, and he had nearly died in the frantic final moments of their escape from Urd Morlemoch.
“Ah,” said Antenora. “Your sword contains a healing aura. A most useful ability for a knight, I imagine.”
“Aye,” said Gavin, turning towards Arandar.
“We must be gone from here as quickly as possible,” said Kharlacht, limping a bit on his healed leg.
“It’s too late,” said Mara. “The Mhorites have already encircled the hill. I suspect they’re waiting for the fire to die out before storming the tower.”
“How many are out there?” said Arandar.
“At least five hundred,” said Mara. “More of them are moving through the forest. I think we’re right in the path of the entire Mhorite host.”
“Then we are doomed,” said Azakhun. The dwarven Taalmak accepted the news with his usual stoicism. “There is no way out, and we cannot fight our way free from this trap. It seems were are to die here. It is just as well we were baptized and can commend our souls to the hands of the Dominus Christus.”
“While I applaud your faith,” said Arandar, “we are not finished yet. The Mhorite army is moving west, not east.”
“Why is that significant?” said Azakhun.
“Because,” said Caius, “the Gate of the West is on the eastern edge of the Vale of Stone Death.”
“And Mournacht is here for the staff of the Keeper,” said Gavin. “If he’s going the wrong direction…then he’s marching to fight the Traveler.”
“I suspect as much,” said Arandar. “If we were able to scout further west, I think we would find the Traveler and the Anathgrimm marching to meet the Mhorites.”
“And here we are, stuck in the middle between them,” said Jager. “While I certainly have no objections to watching the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm pound each other to bloody pulp, I would prefer to watch from a much more comfortable seat. Or at least a more distant one.”
“We need only to hold out for a time,” said Arandar. “If the Anathgrimm attack, Mournacht and his followers will be busy. We can cut our way free, and hasten to the Gate of the West without fear of the Mhorites or the Anathgrimm.”
“No,” said Jager. “Though we’ll still have to worry about the trolls and the gorgon spirit.”
“Compared to being trapped between two opposing armies,” said Mara, “that is almost safety.”
Jager grunted. “Almost.”
Morigna sighed. “What other choice do we have? We must hold out.”
“If the sorceress and the knight are in agreement,” said Antenora, “then clearly the situation is dire.”
Arandar ignored the barb. “I don’t suppose you could simply blast a path through the Mhorites?”
“Possibly,” said Antenora. “However, there is a fair chance I would kill all of you in the process. The magic of fire is the only one left to me…and it is not the most controllable power, alas. Once it is summoned, it is most difficult to direct.”
“Better to use your powers against the Mhorites when they try to attack,” said Morigna. She looked at Arandar. “This tower is a strong place. If you and the others hold the Mhorites at the arch, Antenora and I can bring our spells to bear freely upon the slope.”
“Very well,” said Arandar. “We shall hold out until a better opportunity to escape presents itself.”
“It is not,” said Kharlacht, “as if we have any other choice.”
###
The day wore on.
Twice the Mhorites launched raids on the tower, but Gavin and the others were well prepared. Mara kept watch from the tower’s top, while the ravens Morigna summoned circled overhead. As the war parties of Mhorites charged up the slope, Morigna sent ripples through the ground, slowing the orcish warriors long enough for Antenora to unleash gouts of flame at them. True to her word, she did not have enough time to summon the sort of tremendous firestorms she had used earlier. Instead she sent snarling cones of flame through the archway, sweeping them back and forth over the stony ground. The Mhorites caught fire and fled, and the rest retreated, trying to avoid Antenora’s wrath.
Fire was a terrifying weapon. After the second raid, the Mhorites seemed content to watch the tower. Their host encircled the hill, thousands upon thousands of warriors. Mara’s original guess of ten thousand seemed accurate. If the Mhorites met the Anathgrimm, Gavin was not sure who would win. The Traveler wielded mighty magic, but the Traveler was a coward. The Anathgrimm were tough and fanatic fighters, but so were the Mhorites. Jager had been right. Gavin would not have minded watching the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm fight to death.
He just would have preferred to do so from a distance.
“Do your ravens see anything?” said Arandar.
“Quite a few Mhorites,” said Morigna, her eyes moving behind closed lids.
“Any sign of the Anathgrimm?” said Arandar.
Morigna made an irritated sound. “There are numerous trees in the way, sir knight, and ravens cannot see through branches. For that matter, they are frightened of the Anathgrimm, and I cannot compel them to go any closer.”
Antenora turned her head and gazed out the archway.
“Something’s coming,” said Mara from the top of the tower at the same instant.
“Another raid?” said Arandar.
“No,” murmured Antenora. “Some power of dark magic, such as I have not seen for centuries.”
Mara flickered into existence between Morigna and Arandar. “Something armored
in dark magic and blood spells. A powerful wizard, I think.”
“The Traveler?” said Arandar.
“No,” said Mara. “I would recognize him at once. This is someone else.”
“Mournacht,” said Gavin.
“Or Shadowbearer,” said Jager, “if he is indeed commanding Mournacht.”
“I doubt it,” said Kharlacht. “Shadowbearer does not like to show himself openly.”
“We may have a problem,” said Morigna. “I cannot ward away Mournacht’s magic, and I doubt Antenora can, either.”
“No,” murmured Antenora. “He is stronger than I am. I can see it.”
Arandar started to say something else, and then a harsh voice rang out from the forest.
“Come forth!” snarled the voice in Kothluuskan-accented Latin. “Come forth! Mournacht, the Chosen of Mhor and the Warlord of Kothluusk, demands that the Gray Knight come forth for parley. Do not cower, Gray Knight! Your safety is guaranteed by the Chosen of Mhor until you return to your ruined tower.”
“The Gray Knight?” said Antenora. “This Mhorite shaman has a grudge against the Gray Knight?”
“And me, too, likely,” said Morigna, “if he remembers that I threw the rats in his face at Tarrabus Carhaine’s domus.”
“Rats?” said Antenora.
“Long story,” said Gavin.
“The Mhorites we fought earlier sought Ridmark,” said Mara. “Mournacht might be here for the staff of the Keeper, but I doubt he would hesitate to settle a grudge along the way.”
“We can be confident that the Gray Knight and the Magistria have eluded Mournacht so far,” said Arandar. “Else Mournacht would not be asking after Ridmark.”
“Now we need only worry that they have been taken by the Anathgrimm or the gorgon spirit or the trolls,” said Morigna.
“Optimistic as ever,” said Arandar. “I shall go out and parley with him.”
“I will come with you,” said Morigna.
Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit Page 23
