Frostborn: The Iron Tower

by Jonathan Moeller

  “And Ridmark, as well,” said Caius.

  A flicker of fear went through Morigna. She had never met Sir Paul, but the others had spoken of his hatred for Ridmark, and she had seen hints of his true character in Jager’s tales. If Ridmark had fallen into Paul’s hands…

  “I do not believe that,” said Morigna. “He would not have been taken captive by such a fool as Paul Tallmane.”

  “Who was not such a fool as we believed,” said Calliande. “Not if he was clever enough to hide the dvargir among the pavilion.” She shook her head. “We should have realized it, we should have seen it…”

  “Oh, so this is my fault?” said Morigna.

  Calliande’s eyes narrowed. “I did not say that.”

  “I was the one who scouted the camp,” said Morigna.

  “If you feel the need to rebuke yourself for it,” said Calliande, “do not let me stop you.”

  “This argument is pointless,” said Kharlacht. “In battle something always goes awry. We must decide how to proceed.”

  “We must retrieve the soulstone,” said Calliande. “It cannot fall into the hands of Shadowbearer.”

  “No,” said Morigna. “We must first discover if Ridmark has been taken captive or not.”

  Calliande opened her mouth, and the argument likely would have continued, but a voice cut them off.

  “He’s not.”

  Morigna spun and saw Ridmark walking towards them, Jager trailing after. Both men looked tired, their faces and clothing damp with sweat.

  “You escaped,” said Calliande, relief going over her expression.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “By the skin of our teeth.”

  Jager snorted. “The dvargir have stumpy little legs. And I have a great deal of experience running from men who want me dead.”

  “Given your charm, I am sure of it,” said Morigna.

  He flashed his grin at her.

  “It was my fault,” said Ridmark. “I knew something was amiss. I was sure of it. Yet I pressed onward anyway. My only credit is that I manage to realize the trap at the last moment before I walked into its jaws.”

  “Did the foe pursue you?” said Kharlacht, reaching for his sword.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “We doubled back to watch once we eluded the dvargir. Paul broke camp and headed south at once. He is making for the Iron Tower with all speed.”

  “Why not pursue us?” said Gavin. “We are but seven, and we cannot take him by surprise again. He could hunt us down with ease.”

  “Because he is afraid of me,” said Ridmark, “and because he dares not fail the Dux and Shadowbearer. No, he will escape into the Iron Tower, lock himself behind its gates, and wait for Shadowbearer to claim the soulstone and reward him.”

  “What do we do now?” said Calliande.

  Ridmark was silent for a long time.

  “I do not know,” he said at last. “But we shall think of something.”

  Chapter 3 - The Assassin

  Mara would have wept, but she had no tears left.

  She had lost track of how long she had been in the featureless white cell in the depths of the Iron Tower. It had to have been at least three weeks. Maybe longer. There was neither light nor day in the gloomy white cell, only the dim glow of torchlight leaking through the iron bars of her window. Once a day one of Tarrabus Carhaine’s guards brought her food and swapped out the small bucket where she relieved herself. Iron shackles and chains secured her wrists to the wall, and she could only move a few feet before the chains brought her up short. She wore only a ragged gray smock of rough material that left her arms and most of her legs bare, and the constant chill of the stone floor soaked into her.

  She had stopped caring a long time ago.

  It had been weeks since she had last seen Jager. Sir Paul Tallmane had dragged her before Jager, who had sat bloody and chained to the wall in his own cell. Dux Tarrabus had wanted Jager to steal something, a soulstone, which made no sense, because soulstones were only found within the blades of soulblades carried by Swordbearers. Ever since, the only other face she had seen had been the guard coming to change her bucket.

  She closed her eyes and buried her face in her knees, shivering.

  She was going to die here. Likely Jager, her poor, brave Jager, had been slain already. Either Paul had killed him out of spite, or he had died trying to fulfill Tarrabus’s mission. No one was coming to save Mara if Jager was dead. The Matriarch of the Red Family wanted her dead. And her father…it would be better to die in the Iron Tower than to ever lay eyes upon the ruler of Nightmane Forest again.

  Mara was alone. The only man who had ever truly loved her was likely dead, and she was going to die here in the Iron Tower.

  The despair rolled through her like a wave, heavier than the chains upon her wrists.

  Yet even as the emotion stormed through her, she felt another weight upon her left wrist.

  The delicate touch of the jade bracelet.

  Mara gazed at the intricate bracelet. The guards had stripped her of her clothes and weapons, but they had left the jade bracelet, even though it was obviously valuable. The Dux must have ordered it. Tarrabus Carhaine was no fool, and he must have known about her nature.

  About what the jade bracelet did. And, more importantly, what would happen if the guards took the bracelet from her.

  Mara closed her eyes again, despair roiling inside of her.

  And as ever, she felt the darkness seething inside her mind, dancing against the back of her eyes. Just waiting for her to call it forth…and to devour her.

  It was the legacy of her father’s dark elven blood. Her mother had been a human freeholder, kidnapped by orcish raiders. Her father had been the raiders’ master, the dark elven prince known as the Traveler. She had only met her father once in a moment of terror, and time had dimmed the memories of her mother. But the Traveler’s blood pumped through her veins, and gave her a portion of his power.

  But she had never dared to use the full measure of that power.

  She knew what it would do. The Matriarch had known, too. The ancient dark elven noblewoman ruled over the Red Family of Cintarra, and had taken Mara in as a child, training her as an assassin. She had also given Mara the jade bracelet. It suppressed the darkness within her, keeping it from overwhelming her.

  For if she ever removed the bracelet and drew upon the full power of the shadow, she would transform.

  The darkness seemed to hover beyond her despair, taunting her.

  If she took off the bracelet, she could escape.

  She could kill every living thing in the Iron Tower.

  And she could lose herself forever.

  Mara shivered. Better to die cleanly, to die as herself, than to risk that.

  She closed her eyes and waited to die.

  Then she heard the voice.

  “Perhaps,” said the rasping whisper in the dark elven tongue, “you ought to free yourself.”

  Mara’s head snapped up, her hands moving to weapons she did not carry.

  Alone. The white cell was empty, save for her bucket and the iron chains.

  But the shadows in one corner seemed darker, somehow…and she felt something within them staring at her.

  “You are caged,” said the whisper, “but there is no need for it.”

  “Who are you?” said Mara in the same language. The Matriarch had taught her the tongue, but she could not imagine anyone in the Iron Tower knew the ancient dark elven language. Was this a trick? Some game the guards were playing with her?

  “A prisoner, like you,” said the whisper. “We can free each other…and then grow drunk upon the blood of our enemies.”

  “No,” said Mara. “I’ve gone mad. That’s all. I’ve finally gone mad and I am hearing voices.”

  “You are hearing voices,” hissed the whisper, “but that does not mean you are mad. You awoke me.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mara.

  “For millennia I have slept, bound within the Tower,” said
the voice. “I was sealed here long before humans ever came to this world, and I drifted in endless sleep, my essence bound to the threshold. But then you came. You are kindred to me, and your presence awakened me.”

  “For millennia?” said Mara. “I don’t understand. I thought…I thought the Iron Tower was only a century and a half old. How could you have slept here for millennia?”

  Yet even through her despair and her unease, her mind was starting to work again. She had been blindfolded during the journey here and had not seen the Iron Tower’s exterior. But her cell and the corridor outside had been constructed of the pale white stone she had seen in the dark elven ruins scattered across the Wilderland.

  Had the lords of Andomhaim constructed the Iron Tower over the ruins of a dark elven citadel? That seemed foolish. Mara knew better than most what sort of darkness could lurk within the ruins of the dark elves.

  “The humans call this place the Iron Tower,” said the voice, “but it was my fortress first, long ago, until I was betrayed.”

  “Who are you?” said Mara.

  “I was known as the Artificer among the lesser kindreds.”

  The name meant nothing to Mara, but the dark elves never revealed their true names to the lesser kindreds, always using titles instead. Yet those titles almost always held a hint of mockery. The Matriarch had killed her own children to escape from the urdmordar. The Traveler had only left Nightmane Forest a few times in the last thousand years. Mara wondered why the voice talking to her had been called the Artificer.

  “And you were…a dark elf?” said Mara.

  “So the fools among the high elves named us,” hissed the Artificer. “We saw that the darkness offered us power and might, the strength to evolve beyond our meagre limitations. And I was no mere dark elf. I was an apprentice of the Warden of Urd Morlemoch himself, the mightiest wizard ever to arise among our kindred. In the days of old I ruled a realm of my own, and the orcish tribes of the Lake of Battles worshipped me as a god, and the dvargir and kobolds of the Deeps brought tribute to me.”

  “I…see,” said Mara, her mind racing. She had never heard of this Artificer. Certainly the Matriarch had never mentioned him. “Please forgive the question, but if you ruled a mighty realm…what happened to it?”

  “I was betrayed,” said the Artificer, rage entering the whisper, “my citadel burned, my physical form destroyed, my spirit bound within my tower. Long I have slept, and the humans raised their fortress above my ruins. But now you have come, and you have awakened me. You are…a half-breed, yes? I sense the power of my kindred contained within feeble human flesh.”

  “Why are you talking to me?” said Mara. “I cannot help you.” She knew how the lords of the dark elves had made their most powerful servants, the urshanes and the urdhracosi and the others. The Matriarch preferred to hide in the shadows, and had been content to make Mara into an assassin. But if Mara ever fell into the hands of another dark elven lord, they would try to transform her.

  The Artificer might have been a disembodied spirit, but he was still a dark elven lord.

  “You are wise to be wary, child,” said the Artificer, “but we can help each other.”

  “How?” said Mara. “I am chained…and if you will forgive the blunt observation, you appear to be a bound spirit.”

  “I can help you escape,” said the Artificer. “As to how you can help me…well, we shall come to that in time.”

  “How will you help me escape?” said Mara.

  “I may be a spirit,” hissed the Artificer, “but this was once Urd Mazekathar, my fortress and stronghold. I still have power here. Behold.”

  The air in the cell grew colder, the shadows darker, and Mara heard a series of metallic clicks. The iron shackles upon her wrists shifted. Mara touched them, and blinked in surprise as she realized the locks had released. She looked up and saw that her cell door stood open.

  A sudden ember of hope flared in the despair shadowing her mind.

  “Go,” said the Artificer. “Hasten. The guard will come on his rounds soon. Let us see if you are strong enough.”

  The voice fell silent.

  Mara eased to her feet, pushing the shackles from her wrists and setting them down upon the floor. Her limbs ached from too much time spent motionless. Yet this was her chance to escape. She did not know why the Artificer’s spirit had helped her, or if it was even real. Perhaps it was all a cruel game Sir Paul was playing with her. Yet if it was a game, he would soon learn that it was a mistake to trifle with Mara.

  She had left the Red Family of Cintarra, but their skills had not left her.

  Mara glided forward, her bare feet making no noise against the floor, and eased through the cell door. It opened into a white corridor with a high, arched ceiling, the only light coming from a lantern upon a small wooden table. A dozen other cell doors lined the corridor.

  She slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

  Jager. If Jager was still in the Tower, she had to find him first. After she had located him, they could escape together…

  The sound of heavy boots upon the stone floor came to her ears.

  The guard, coming on his rounds.

  Mara whispered a curse, her mind racing. She heard the guard descending from the stairs at the far end of the corridor. Mara ran forward and pressed herself against the side of the door leading to the stairs, breathing in slow, controlled breaths.

  And as she did, she drew upon the darkness within her. Shadow wreathed her, blending with the darkness of the corridor. She would be almost impossible to spot.

  A moment later the door opened, and the guard walked into the corridor. He was tall and strong, clad in chain mail and the blue tabard of the House of the Carhainii. Mara had seen him before. He had helped drag her to Jager’s cell while Tarrabus watched, and she had heard him beating Jager.

  Which left Mara with no hesitation.

  The guard passed her, and Mara glided after him. The man moved from cell to cell, looking in the windows. At last he paused a few doors from Mara’s cell.

  In one smooth motion, she yanked the dagger from the sheath at his belt, sprang upon his back, and buried the dagger his neck. Her stab severed the arteries, and the burst of hot blood stained her hand and spattered across the white wall. The guard staggered with a groan of pain, and Mara ripped the dagger free and stabbed once, twice, thrice more.

  Then the guard sagged and slumped to the floor, dying.

  Mara went to work, stripping off the guard’s clothes. Fortunately, his tabard had soaked up most of the blood. His armor was too heavy, but she easily fit into his clothes. She pulled off her smock and ripped it into pieces, stuffing them into the guard’s boots so they would fit her feet. She wrapped the guard’s belt around her waist and took his sword and dagger. His clothes were so large that she felt like she was wearing a tent, but it was better than nothing.

  Then she hurried from cell to cell, looking for Jager.

  Some of the cells were empty. Others held men chained to the walls, men who had the look of nobles of Andomhaim. A man like Tarrabus Carhaine would have many enemies, and Mara supposed that someone of them ended up here.

  “What are you doing?”

  Mara whirled, drawing her dagger, and then realized that it was the Artificer’s voice.

  “Jager,” she whispered. She dared not draw the attention of the other prisoners. If they made too much noise, the guards would notice, and Mara would die in short order. She felt bad that she had to leave them behind, but she owed them nothing, and the nobles of Andomhaim were rarely good men. “I have to find Jager.”

  “Leave him,” said the Artificer. “You must focus upon your own survival.”

  “No,” said Mara. “I will not leave without him.”

  “Love weakens you,” said the Artificer.

  “I am grateful for your assistance,” said Mara, “but if you continue to speak foolishness, I will find it necessary to ignore you.”

  The Artificer si
ghed. “If you are so concerned for the halfling, you will be pleased to learn that he is not here. He departed soon after your arrival upon a task for the human lord. Evidently the human lord promised to spare your life in exchange for the completion of the task.”

  Mara swallowed. The news that Jager had escaped from this awful place cheered her. If she could get out of the Tower and find Jager, Tarrabus would no longer have any hold over them. They could escape the Dux’s reach entirely, perhaps vanishing into the Wilderland, or seeking refuge with the rebel lords of the Isle of Kordain.

  Though first she had to get out of the Tower.

  She headed towards the stairs.

  “No,” said the Artificer. “Do not go that way.”

  “Why not?” said Mara.

  “It opens into a guard room,” said the Artificer. “There are six men-at-arms there at all times to prevent the prisoners from escaping. Bored and idle, true, but you will not elude them all.”

  “Then how am I going to get out of here?” said Mara.

  “Am I not the Artificer of Urd Mazekathar?” said the voice, hard with pride. “This is my fortress, even if the human vermin lurk within my walls. I know a secret passage that leads from the dungeons to the courtyard. From there you can make your way to the gate.”

  “Thank you,” said Mara. “But…how will I help you to escape?”

  “In time,” said the Artificer. “Go the other way. The stairwell at the end of the corridor will go deeper into the dungeons. Follow it.”

  She hesitated. The Artificer, or at least his disembodied spirit, had no reason to help her, and she doubted he was helping her out of the goodness of his heart. Was he leading her into a trap? On the other hand, if the Artificer wanted her to die, he simply could have left her to rot in the cell.

  Mara shrugged and headed for the far end of the corridor. As the Artificer had said, another stairwell opened up there, the steps spiraling down into the earth. Mara descended, her left hand brushing the cold wall of white stone, her right remaining near the handle of her stolen dagger. The air grew colder, and the gleaming red crystals in the ceiling gave the walls the color of blood.

  At last the stairs ended, and Mara found herself in a large hall of white stone. The floor, the ceiling, and three of the walls had been built of white stone, but the curved far wall…