Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit

by Jonathan Moeller

  That would not last. It was past time to be gone.

  “Which way, Gray Knight?” said Curzonar.

  Ridmark looked at the mountains to the east.

  “Southeast,” he said. “Towards the road.” With luck that would get them away from the battle and close enough to the Gate of the West that they could reach Khald Azalar before Mournacht or the Traveler.

  Curzonar roared a command to his Hunters, and they surged forward, clawing and slashing their way through the battle. The Mhorites and the Anathgrimm warriors, following the commands of their masters, tried to stop them, but it was too no avail. The manetaurs were too fast and too strong, and the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm kept attacking each other whenever the chance presented itself. Had both orcish armies cooperated, had the manetaurs stood and fought, it would have been a slaughter.

  But the orcish warriors did not cooperate, and the manetaurs raced away, covering the ground with ease.

  “Ridmark!” Morigna’s voice came over the rush of the wind.

  He twisted around and saw a dozen urvaalgs break free of the battle and pursue them. Ridmark cursed and considered their options. The urvaalgs could outpace the manetaurs, and the manetaurs carried no weapons capable of harming a creature of dark magic. Arandar and Gavin did, but both Swordbearers were exhausted and wounded, and stopping to fight would be disastrous…

  Calliande twisted around, raised her hand, and started casting spells. A burst of white fire leapt from her fingers and struck the leading urvaalg. The creature howled in agony and collapsed, white flames chewing into its flesh. She destroyed a second urvaalg, and then a third, and the rest of the creatures slowed, hesitating as they recognized the danger.

  “Antenora!” shouted Morigna. “Now!”

  Ridmark saw the strange black-coated woman thrust her staff, a small white sphere hovering above it. Her gray, gaunt face was tight with concentration, her brittle black hair blowing about her head in the wind of the manetaurs’ speed. The staff flared with fiery light, and the ball of white light shot from the end of the staff, soaring over the backs of the manetaurs.

  It landed in front of the hesitating urvaalgs and exploded with a white flash and a roiling fireball. The nearby trees went up in flames, and the urvaalgs scattered, screaming as their fur burned. Normal fire would not kill an urvaalg, but it would hurt them and discourage them from pursuit.

  The manetaurs ran on, leaving the battle behind.

  Chapter 23: An Apprentice

  “Here!” called Ridmark. “This should be far enough for now.”

  Calliande looked around. The manetaurs had been running for an hour, though towards the end they had dropped off to a steady lope, their sides heaving and foamy sweat dripping down their manes. They had reached the road through the center of the Vale that she had seen from the mountains. Like most dwarven engineering, it had survived the centuries well, still flat and level despite the fall of Khald Azalar two and a half centuries ago. The pine forest around them was quiet. They were far enough from the battle that the forest was silent, the only sound the cool wind rustling through the pine trees.

  “Aye,” said Arandar, sliding from the back of a manetaur, “but I suggest we do not linger here. Whoever wins that battle will be after us soon enough. And I doubt either Mournacht or the Traveler are strong enough to annihilate the other. The loser will pursue the victor in short order.”

  Calliande glanced at Morigna, expecting the usual acidic commentary for any of Arandar’s suggestions. But Morigna was quiet, dark circles ringing her eyes. Perhaps she was too tired for argument.

  “Sir Arandar is correct,” said Ridmark, catching his balance after he jumped off Curzonar’s back. He looked up at the red-armored manetaur. “I assume that you shall be departing now?”

  “You assume correctly,” said Curzonar. “With the armies fighting to the north of us, the way through the High Pass shall be clear. My Hunters and I will withdraw through the High Pass and return to the Range.” He tapped the hilt of Murzanar’s ancient sword upon his back. “My task is completed. My Rite of Challenge has been successful, and I must return to the Range to deal with Kurdulkar and his treachery.”

  “We cannot convince you to continue with us?” said Calliande. “Your aid would be helpful in Khald Azalar.” With the help of the manetaur warriors, she might have a better chance of reaching Dragonfall and reclaiming her staff.

  She might have a better chance of keeping Ridmark and the others alive.

  “I fear not,” said Curzonar. “I have already been away from the Range for too long, and I fear what evil Kurdulkar may have worked in my absence. You have your task, Keeper, and I have mine.”

  “Thank you for your assistance,” said Ridmark. “Without your aid, we would not have been able to save our friends.” His eyes strayed to Morigna has he spoke.

  “Thank you for your aid, Ridmark of the Arbanii, Gray Knight,” said Curzonar, and he offered a deep bow from the waist to Ridmark. The gesture looked peculiar on a manetaur, but the other Hunters followed suit. “Without your help, the gorgon spirit would have slain us all, and only our stone images would remain. You even convinced Murzanar to fight against the spirit.”

  “He died,” said Ridmark, “as a manetaur should.”

  “Aye,” said Curzonar. “Nor would he have done so, without you. I remain in your debt, Ridmark of the Arbanii. Should you ever come to the Range, you may travel freely under my protection, and should you have need of my assistance, you need but ask.”

  Ridmark bowed in turn to the manetaur prince. “I thank you, my lord Prince. I suspect we shall meet again, if we are successful in our tasks.”

  “If I may, lord Prince,” said Azakhun, stepping forward. “If you would allow, my warriors and I wish to accompany you from the Vale of Stone Death.” He looked from Arandar to Calliande and Ridmark and back again. “Your timely arrival saved us from the Traveler and his servants. I would aid you in your quest to recover the Keeper’s powers, if I could, but my other duties bind me. I must return to Khald Tormen and inform the King of what has passed here. With the Kothluuskan orcs stirring, the Traveler marching from Nightmane Forest, and the Keeper returned to earth, it seems that war is inevitable. The dwarves of Khald Tormen must be warned.”

  “They must,” said Caius, “but I fear your welcome to the Three Kingdoms may not be as warm as you might like. They did not react well when I followed the way of the church.”

  Calliande blinked. Caius had converted Azakhun and his retainers?

  “Nevertheless” said Azakhun. “I have my duty, no less than the lord Prince has his and you have yours. If you would consent, lord Prince, we shall travel with you, at least until the southern edge of Vhaluusk. Many foes are abroad, and there is greater safety in numbers.”

  “Very well,” said Curzonar. “There is no enmity between your kindred and mine. You may travel with us.”

  “You should go at once,” said Ridmark. “I do not know how much longer the battle will last, but the sooner you are gone, the better chance you have.”

  “You speak wisdom,” said Curzonar. “Farewell, Ridmark of the Arbanii, and farewell Calliande, Keeper of Andomhaim.” Calliande shivered a little to hear the title. “May the winds be favorable and your footsteps swift.”

  “And may your prey be slow and fat,” said Ridmark.

  The manetaurs rumbled with approving laughter.

  “Go with God, Taalmak Azakhun,” said Caius.

  Azakhun and his warriors bowed. “And with you, Taalkhan.”

  The dwarves mounted the manetaurs once more, and Curzonar roared a command. The manetaurs whirled and raced away to the west, making for the High Pass. Soon they vanished from sight, leaving Ridmark and his companions alone on the road.

  “Why does he always call you Taalkhan?” said Jager. “That’s a noble title of the dwarves, is it not?”

  “It is,” said Caius, fingering the wooden cross that hung from his thick neck.

  “Well,”
said Jager, “there’s a tale that begs telling.”

  “Not today,” said Caius. “Someday, perhaps. Not today.”

  “Nor right now,” said Ridmark. “Let us follow Curzonar’s excellent example and be gone from here. We can exchange news and tales once we are well out of Mournacht’s and the Traveler’s reach.”

  Calliande nodded in agreement, and the others turned to the east.

  “Wait.”

  The voice was harsh and worn, as if the speaker had not had a chance to rest for a very long time. The strange black-coated woman walked towards Calliande, staff in hand. A flicker of alarm went through Calliande, and she gathered power for a ward.

  The woman froze, her sulfurous yellow eyes wide. She was short and slight, not much taller than Mara, and would have been pretty, if not for her gaunt, corpselike face and yellow eyes.

  And she was afraid of Calliande.

  “Wait,” said Calliande. “You…I know of you. You’re Antenora, aren’t you? The woman who helped Mara and Morigna in the threshold?”

  “She is,” said Mara, “and she would very much like to speak with you.”

  “The Keeper,” said Antenora, her voice fading to a soft, trembling rasp. “I have been seeking the Keeper…I have been seeking the Keeper for a very long time. For fifteen centuries, ever since Arthur Pendragon’s realm fell to the pagan Saxons of old.”

  “I see,” said Calliande, uneasy. Had Antenora been plotting revenge all that time? Had the Keeper in Malahan’s time offended Antenora in some way? Fifteen centuries was a long time to keep a grudge.

  “You are the Keeper?” said Antenora.

  Calliande hesitated. Whether she wanted it or not, she was the Keeper. She had a duty, and she needed to carry it out.

  “I am,” said Calliande.

  To her utter astonishment, Antenora fell to her knees, and her yellow eyes filled with tears.

  “After so long,” said Antenora. “After so long, I have found you at last. I need to ask this of you.”

  “What?” said Calliande. “What do you need to ask?”

  “Forgive me,” whispered Antenora.

  For a moment Calliande was baffled. What had Antenora done that she required forgiveness of Calliande? She started to ask, but the story came pouring out of the kneeling woman.

  “Long ago, I was the apprentice of the Keeper upon what you call Old Earth, in Arthur Pendragon’s realm of Britannia,” said Antenora, the words tumbling over her colorless lips. “I should have heeded her. Instead I let Mordred Pendragon seduce me, and in my folly I sided with him. I saw my idiocy, but it was too late. Arthur and Mordred fell in battle, and I was cursed. I lost all my magic, save for the power of flame, and I was cursed to live and never die. I tried to atone for my folly, I tried to defend the people of Britannia and Old Earth from dark magic, but I sought away to follow the Keeper here to her new world. Then at last I encountered Morigna and Mara upon the threshold, when the Warden opened his gate, and I could follow.”

  “How?” said Calliande. “How did you follow?”

  “The Warden’s spell joined the threshold of this world and the threshold of Old Earth,” said Antenora, “and then I slipped between them.”

  “She has the ability to pass between the material world and the threshold,” said Mara. “Apparently that is how my own power works, and how the Traveler and other powerful wizards are able to block it. I think their wards protect them from attacks from the threshold, which is why I can’t use my power near them.”

  “I see,” said Calliande. “Antenora. So you came here and…then went to find me?”

  “I did,” said Antenora. “I did not know where to start, but it did not matter, for I soon came under attack.”

  “Without her aid,” said Arandar, “it is entirely possible the Traveler would have killed us all when we first faced him.”

  “Keeper,” said Antenora, “you must be warned. The creatures you call the Frostborn are coming.”

  Calliande felt a chill. “What?”

  “On the edges of this world’s threshold,” said Antenora. “The Frostborn are there, accompanied by creatures they call the locusari, soldiers bred for war. They are waiting for someone in the material world to open a gate for them. Once they realized I could shift from the threshold to the material world, they tried to capture me and use my power for themselves, but I fought them off and escaped here.”

  “I see,” said Calliande, sharing a grim look with Ridmark. A year and a month after the omen of blue fire. That was how long Shadowbearer had to open a gate to the world of the Frostborn. Nearly four of those months had passed, but if the Frostborn were waiting and ready to strike…

  Calliande’s quest had become all the more urgent. She had to find her staff and recover her power as soon as possible, had to defend the empty soulstone from Shadowbearer for another nine months. There was no one else to do it.

  If she failed, the world would fall to the Frostborn.

  “Will you forgive me?” said Antenora. “Will you release me of this curse and let me die at last?”

  Calliande started to answer…and then fell silent, her mind working.

  Antenora might be useful.

  Calliande had seen the fiery power the ancient sorceress wielded against the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm, and she knew how difficult it must have been to summon and control elemental fire with such precision. Antenora might have lost all magical power save for that of fire, but she had developed that to a staggering degree of skill. God only knew what dangers awaited them in Khald Azalar itself, and Antenora’s powers might prove invaluable.

  If Calliande was to be the Keeper, then she would need all the help she could find.

  “Not yet,” said Calliande.

  Antenora tilted her head to the side, blinking.

  “For one, I do not know how to release you from the curse,” said Calliande. “I lost my memory when I hid my staff, and we must first retrieve my staff from Dragonfall. We might have need of you, Antenora.”

  “I am a traitor,” said Antenora. “What use could you possibly have for me?”

  “You are powerful and brave,” said Calliande. “Perhaps you made a poor choice long before anyone here was born. But since then you have defended Old Earth for fifteen centuries, crossed the gulfs between the worlds, and saved the lives of my friends. How many others can boast of such deeds of valor? Dark magic threatens this world.” A flash of inspiration came to her. “You were the Keeper’s apprentice upon Old Earth in the days of Malahan Pendragon? Then be my apprentice. And once we are victorious, once the threat of the Frostborn has ended, if it is within my power I shall end your curse and set you free to die.”

  Antenora said nothing, her face twisting, and for an instant Calliande thought the woman would explode into rage. Or perhaps she would simply walk away.

  No. It was hope that twisted Antenora’s face, a long-sought hope that she had found at last.

  “Yes,” Antenora whispered. “Yes. I will follow you to whatever end, Keeper. Let me atone for my crimes. Let me…let me try to make up for what I have done…”

  “In a way,” said Ridmark in a quiet voice, “you are the reason that we are all here.”

  The yellow eyes blinked in surprise. “Gray Knight?”

  “If you had not betrayed Arthur Pendragon,” said Ridmark, “perhaps he would have lived and defeated the pagan Saxons. Malahan would have felt no need to lead the survivors of the High King’s realm through the Keeper’s gate to this world. The realm of Andomhaim partly exists because of your choices, and you have as much right to defend it as any of us do.”

  “You speak wisdom,” said Antenora in her raspy, worn voice.

  Calliande smiled at him. “He often does.”

  Antenora rose. “I shall follow you, Keeper. What are your commands?”

  Calliande looked at Ridmark.

  “We should keep moving,” said Ridmark. “The further we can get before the sun goes down, the better.”

&nb
sp; “Agreed,” said Calliande, and Antenora walked to her side.

  She took a deep breath. It seemed that she was indeed the Keeper, whether she wanted to be or not. It would be her responsibility to stop the Frostborn, to protect the realm of dark magic, and Calliande vowed that she would be equal to the task.

  She looked at Ridmark.

  At least she would not have to do it alone.

  ###

  After the fighting of the last few days, Gavin found it almost absurdly peaceful to walk through the quiet forest on the smooth road.

  He did not relax his vigilance. It would have been a wretched fate to have escaped the battle only to fall prey to a hungry troll or a stray urvaalg. Gavin walked among the others with Calliande and Arandar, sharing the work of healing. He was glad he was able to do so, that Truthseeker’s power let him taken some of the burden from Calliande. Every wound he healed was one that Calliande did not have to endure.

  “There,” he said, lowering his hand. Morigna blinked at him, rubbing her arm. He wasn’t entirely sure how her right arm had been wounded, and neither was she. The battle had gotten chaotic towards the end. “How is that?”

  “Better,” said Morigna. She would not meet his gaze. “Thank you.”

  Gavin nodded and stepped back.

  “For everything,” said Morigna.

  He blinked in surprised.

  “How badly were you hurt?” said Ridmark to Morigna. He looked as surprised as Gavin felt.

  “I…lost control of the situation,” said Morigna. “If Gavin had not struck when he had, I would have been killed.” Her face twisted up as if she had just swallowed something bitter.

  “Swordbearer,” said Ridmark, his face grave. “Thank you.”

  Gavin nodded once and walked to the back of the group. Everyone was on their feet and walking, and that was probably the best they could do for now. Not even magical healing could overcome fatigue. Antenora walked at the rear of the group, her staff tapping against the road.

  “I don’t suppose that you need any healing?” he said.