Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Aye,” said Gavin. “Barely.”

  “That was good work with the ursaar,” said Arandar.

  Jager grinned. “Though after facing down an urvuul, I suppose an ursaar is a small challenge.”

  “I’d rather not face either,” said Gavin, stepping forward. Jager had a nasty gash on his left arm, and Gavin raised his free hand and drew on Truthseeker’s power to close the wound.

  “Thanks,” said Jager, grimacing and flexing his fingers. “The damned urvaalg nearly took my head off.”

  “We must go,” said Azakhun, leaning upon his orcish sword like a cane. “We might have fought our way free, but we cannot linger.”

  “Aye,” said Arandar. He looked at Morigna. “What happened to you?”

  She gave him a sickly little smile. “I overexerted myself.”

  Arandar grunted, his eyes narrowed, but said nothing else.

  “We must go,” said Azakhun again.

  “Yes,” said Arandar, shaking his head, “but I think it’s too late.” He pointed. “Look. See there?”

  “More Mhorites,” said Jager, squinting through the pine trees.

  “No,” said Arandar. “Not Mhorites. Anathgrimm warriors.”

  Morigna frowned, took a step forward, and leaned on her staff to keep from pitching over. “But…that is to the east. The Mhorites are behind us. Which means…”

  “Which means that the Traveler flanked Mournacht,” said Arandar. “And that means we are trapped between two armies about to begin a battle.”

  Gavin looked around. Every one of his friends looked exhausted, and many had taken wounds, even if the soulblades’ power had healed them.

  And now they were trapped between two armies within no chance of escape.

  Chapter 19: Lures

  “You are certain,” said Curzonar, “that this plan will work?”

  “Not at all,” said Calliande, scrutinizing the symbols of pale white light she had written upon the Vault’s floor.

  “Good,” said Curzonar. The manetaur prince’s lips curled back from his fangs in a fearsome snarl. Of course, the manetaurs’ leonine faces did not convey expressions as a human face did. They had angry snarls, or threatening snarls, but this was a pleased snarl.

  “How is that possibly good?” said Calliande, looking at the symbols. They glowed in a ring between the Vault’s massive doors and the dais.

  “Only a coward fights without risk,” said Curzonar, “and only a craven goes to battle when victory is utterly assured.”

  “I thought that the manetaurs preferred to hunt from ambush,” said Ridmark. He stood a short distance away, staff in hand, his gray elven cloak seeming to blur with the shadows of the Vault every time he moved.

  “Of course,” said Curzonar. “But there is no hunt without danger. The prey may turn and fight. Hooves can open a throat just as readily as claws and fangs. Chance might rule any battle. And we hunt a prey more dangerous than ourselves by far.”

  “Truly,” said Ridmark.

  Calliande cast one final spell, checking the wards she had layered across the floor. The idea had come to her as she examined the dwarven glyphs. She could not carve symbols into rock and enchant them as the stonescribes did, but she could cast wards. Usually she had to concentrate to maintain those wards, feeding her power into them, but that was when her wards were over living flesh. She had bound power into the blades of her friends, but then dismissed it as soon as the fighting was over.

  It had never occurred to her to try casting a ward upon an object.

  To her surprise, the ward held without her concentration. The dwarven stonescribes had prepared their wards and spells carefully, and consequently their glyphs endured for millennia. Calliande’s hasty wards would last no more than a day at most.

  But that was enough for what she had in mind.

  She hoped.

  “We’re ready,” said Calliande. Ridmark nodded, and Curzonar moved closer to her. It still amazed her how the big manetaur could move in absolute silence. “I should cast the warding spells over all of us now.”

  Ridmark frowned. “I’ll be the only one confronting the gorgon spirit, and you may need to bring your powers to bear.”

  “There is no telling what might happen when the spirit arrives,” said Calliande. “It might ignore you. It might try to kill you. Or it might run right past you and attack us. We can’t take the chance. It can petrify you an instant, far more quickly than I can cast my wards. Better to be prepared now.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark, and Calliande cast a spell, drawing upon all her power. White fire sprang from her fingers, wrapping around her and Ridmark and Curzonar, sinking into their flesh and leaving behind a faintly visible shell of white light. It looked like a fragile shield, but it would deflect the gorgon spirit’s power.

  “Go,” said Calliande.

  Ridmark nodded. “Count to three hundred, and then begin.”

  “God go with you, Ridmark,” said Calliande.

  “If the god of the humans rewards courage,” said Curzonar, “then he shall be with us today.”

  “Let us hope you are right,” said Ridmark, and jogged for the doors to the Vault as Calliande started counting. Ridmark entered the ruins in the little valley and disappeared from sight. Calliande turned and walked to the side of the dais, the weight of the warding spell heavy upon her mind, her heart beating faster with fear. Odd that the prospect of a fight should still frighten her. She had seen many fights in the three and a half months since she had awakened, and as the Keeper she must have seen terrible battles. Yet the fear persisted. Perhaps it was just as well. Perhaps only overconfident fools and madmen went into battle without fear.

  The glow of the wards pulsed in time to Calliande’s heartbeat, and she reached three hundred.

  At once she knelt next to the first step of the dais, drawing the dwarven dagger from her belt. The weapon shivered a little in her hand, as if responding to the presence of the glyphs upon the stone. Calliande pressed the dagger to one of the green-glowing glyphs and sent a flicker of power through the blade, as much as she could spare while holding the ward in place.

  The result was impressive.

  A sound like a clanging gong came from the plinth, and the smooth stone floor shuddered beneath Calliande’s knees. The glyphs upon the dais went from harsh green to fiery yellow-orange, and another clanging noise filled her ears. More glyphs blazed to life upon the ceiling, and for a horrified instant Calliande was sure that she had miscalculated, that the glyphs were about to destroy her just as they had destroyed that Mhorite shaman in the High Pass.

  Instead a third clang rang out.

  Her gambit had worked. She had summoned the gorgon spirit back to its lair. Calliande scrambled to her feet and took several quick steps to the side, moving behind the dais and the plinth. Curzonar moved as well, concealing himself behind one of the massive doors of dwarven steel.

  Calliande waited. The dais was between her and the doors of the Vault of the North. The ward trap she had cast upon the floor lay between the dais and the doors. When the gorgon spirit returned, it would likely head straight for her…and walk right into the magical trap.

  And then she would see if the spell would be strong enough to hold it.

  ###

  Ridmark stopped at the edge of the lake, gazing across the waters to the narrow path and the forest.

  The thick plumes of smoke he had seen earlier had thinned, though black streaks still rose against the blue sky. Either the fire was still spreading, or someone had started new ones. That troubled Ridmark, but the sounds coming to his ears, even over the faint splash of the lake’s waters, concerned him a great deal more.

  He was almost positive he could hear the sound of a battle.

  There was no sound like it in the world. The tramp of charging boots, the clang of blade upon armor and helmet and shield, the furious cries and the terrified screams of the wounded. It was a sound a man never forgot…and Ridmark suspected he could
hear it from across the lake.

  A mere skirmish wouldn’t make that much noise. The only possible explanation was that the Traveler and Mournacht had at last led their hosts to battle. How many warriors did the dark elven lord and the Mhorite shaman have between them? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Ridmark wondered where Morigna and the others were. Hopefully they had gotten well clear of the battle and were drawing near the Gate of the West. With the Mhorites and the Traveler’s soldiers locked in battle, it would be an ideal time to run for the Gate. Even the trolls would be drawn to the fighting, ready to pick off stragglers and consume them…

  A green flash caught his eye, and Ridmark pushed aside his worries.

  He had his own battle to fight.

  A blurring shape moved along the path, and Ridmark spotted Murzanar. The glyphs upon the crown of his helmet blazed with emerald fire, and the withered manetaur moved so fast that it seemed as if a comet of green fire trailed from his forehead. Calliande had been right. The presence of the dwarven dagger’s magic had been enough to summon the spirit back to the Vault. Of course, they had summoned it once before by accident, and it had left again anyway. Ridmark did not know what instructions the King of Khald Azalar had given the gorgon spirit, but it seemed bound to defend Khald Azalar. That meant it would likely choose more urgent threats over weaker ones.

  Twenty thousand battling orcish warriors were a far greater threat than Ridmark, Calliande, and Curzonar.

  Which meant Ridmark had to keep the gorgon spirit’s attention here.

  He ducked around a ruined column, sprinted past a broken wall, and pressed himself against the rock wall of the valley, not far from the end of the path. The gorgon spirit would not see him there, and Ridmark risked a quick look. Murzanar charged forward with haste, and Ridmark braced himself, both hands closing tight around his staff.

  He threw himself forward, swinging the staff.

  His timing was perfect. He came out of concealment just as Murzanar entered the valley. His aim was less perfect. He had been hoping to break one of Murzanar’s legs, but the ancient manetaur reared up in surprise, and the black staff struck Murzanar across the side. Ribs snapped, and Murzanar let out a watery snarl of pain.

  Then the gorgon spirit took control.

  “Intruder!” it thundered, and green light blazed in the eyeholes of the helmet. The spirit’s terrible power felt like a physical pressure against Ridmark’s face, but the white glow of Calliande’s ward repelled the deadly force.

  “Murzanar!” said Ridmark, lashing out with the staff. He caught the manetaur in the front right shoulder, and Murzanar flinched. “Remember me?”

  The growl that came from the dwarven helmet was much less watery this time.

  “I got away,” said Ridmark. “Gorgon spirit! Did not the King of Khald Azalar command you to defend this Vale from all intruders! You are failing in your task!”

  He backed towards a ruined wall, stepping around a statue of a petrified manetaur, and Murzanar stalked after him. Against green light blazed from his eyes, and again the power of Calliande’s magic turned the attack aside.

  “The intruders shall be destroyed,” said the gorgon spirit.

  “Will they?” said Ridmark. “You’ve done a splendid job so far. The Vale is infested with intruders!” He stepped around the wall, making sure to keep it between him and Murzanar. “Better catch up! You’re falling behind.” Murzanar prowled forward, his grace and silence all the more terrifying with his emaciated form. “But I cannot blame you for failure, not when you are bound into such a pathetic physical form.”

  Murzanar went motionless, a twitch going through his shoulders.

  “What?” spat the manetaur.

  “If you had possessed an orc or a dwarf,” said Ridmark, “I’m sure you would have swept the Vale clean of foes by now. But instead you possessed Murzanar. Perhaps he was a mighty and noble Hunter once, but if such a day ever existed, it passed long before I was born. Long before my grandfather was born, probably. I…”

  A deep growl came from the helmet. “Be silent, human.”

  “I suppose the King of Khald Azalar could not blame you for your failures, spirit,” said Ridmark. “Given that you inhabited a broken husk of a manetaur that cannot even kill one single human. Look at me!” He shook the staff at Murzanar. “I am a madman with a stick, and you still haven’t managed to kill me or turn me to a statue.”

  Murzanar’s growls redoubled in intensity, his claws unsheathing from the tips of his fingers. They were not as large as the claws upon his lower paws, but they nonetheless looked quite sharp.

  “Perhaps if the gorgon spirit had possessed a stronger host, it would have already prevailed over me,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps if it had possessed a kobold…”

  That did it.

  The manetaurs were fierce and strong, but nonetheless possessed of a terrible and unyielding pride. They could not abide challenges to that pride, and insults and mockery could drive them to deadly fury. Murzanar, even after decades of bondage to the gorgon spirit, even with his mind and body deteriorating, still possessed the furious pride of a manetaur prince.

  The green light in his eyes sputtered, and Murzanar sprang forward, claws reaching for Ridmark’s face. Ridmark jumped back over the wall, rolling beneath the furious sweep of Murzanar’s claws. He hit the ground, scrambled to his feet, and took off running as Murzanar recovered from his leap and whirled. The manetaur let out a furious roar and raced after Ridmark, moving with the inhuman speed granted by the gorgon spirit.

  Ridmark glanced over his shoulder, cursed, and sprinted faster. Murzanar surged after him, withered legs blurring over the uneven ground. Ridmark was fast for a man his size, but he had fought a lot of creatures that were a lot faster than he was, and he had realized that they did not handle sudden turns very well. He waited until Murzanar was only a few yards behind him, and threw himself to the right, jumping over an uneven wall. Murzanar snarled in fury and skidded to a halt, his claws raking at the ground, and turned his larger body to pursue Ridmark.

  “Is that the best you can do?” shouted Ridmark, and he made himself laugh with derision. “I would have more to fear from a mewling kitten! Shall I leave out a bowl of warm milk so you can lap it up in your dotage?”

  The answering scream of rage threatened to deafen him.

  Ridmark had indeed captured Murzanar’s attention, and the manetaur’s offended pride should hopefully override the gorgon spirit for a short time. Murzanar would follow him right into Calliande’s trap.

  Or he would rip off Ridmark’s head.

  He sprinted for the gates of the Vault of the North.

  ###

  Calliande heard the furious roars.

  She had fought an urdmordar and been possessed by the Warden’s malevolent spirit, but something about a manetaur’s roar sent a chill down her back. It was a visceral fear of being dragged into the dark by some hulking creature to be devoured alive. At the moment, it was an irrational fear, given that the gorgon spirit was much more likely to turn her to stone.

  Or that Murzanar was likely to kill Ridmark before he reached the Vault of the North. She wished she could have used some of her power to enhance his speed, yet all her magic went into maintaining the ward. Ridmark thought he could use the obstacle course of the ruins to avoid the furious manetaur.

  She hoped he was right.

  Then Ridmark burst through the doors of the Vault, running at a full sprint.

  Murzanar was right behind him.

  Ridmark was fast, but Murzanar was faster. The withered manetaur let out a furious roar and slashed with his right hand, and his claws raked across Ridmark’s back. There was a hideous metallic squeal as the claws scraped against the dark elven armor that Ridmark wore beneath his jerkin. The impact sent Ridmark hurtling forward, and he stumbled, lost his balance, and rolled onto the warding sigils Calliande had drawn upon the Vault’s floor.

  Murzanar sprang into the air with inhuman strength. Ridmark shoved himse
lf backwards, rolling onto the dais itself. At once the glyphs blazed with piercing emerald light, the power of the spells reaching up to turn him to stone. Calliande’s ward flared to life around him, and she felt the strain in her mind as the ancient magic struggled against her power.

  Yet her spell held, and Ridmark jumped off the dais as Murzanar struck the floor like a thunderbolt. The withered manetaur turned to pursue Ridmark, and for a dreadful moment Calliande was sure that she had failed, that her trap would not hold either Murzanar or the gorgon spirit.

  Murzanar took one step forward, and then the floor erupted with white fire.

  Both the manetaur and the gorgon spirit screamed in pain and fury. A sigil of white flame shone beneath Murzanar’s paws, and bands of light held him bound like chains. Green light flared from the manetaur’s eyes and the dwarven helm, but the white fire swallowed it.

  Calliande felt a wave of terrified exhilaration. Her spell had worked. It had trapped the gorgon spirit.

  She did not know how long it would last, though. Already she felt the power weakening.

  “Quickly,” rumbled Curzonar, running from behind the door. “Get the helmet off of him!”

  Murzanar roared again, spasms going through his spindly limbs.

  Ridmark nodded and stepped forward. His left boot touched the edge of the glowing white sigil, and the entire thing flickered and almost went out. Murzanar jerked forward a few inches, his claws flashing in the light.

  “Stop!” said Calliande. A dark thought occurred to her. “If anyone steps on that, it’s going to disrupt the spell.”

  “Then,” said Curzonar, “how are we supposed to get that cursed helmet off?”

  That…had not occurred to her.

  “I don’t know,” said Calliande, cursing herself as a fool. “I didn’t think your presence would disrupt the spell.”

  “Leave me,” rasped Murzanar. “Damn you, leave me! Leave me! I am cursed, I am a slave to this dark power. Leave me before I destroy you, too!”

  “Maybe,” said Ridmark, a strange look coming over his face, “maybe he can take the helmet off himself.”