Frostborn: The Iron Tower

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Myself and a few of my stealthier companions,” said Ridmark. “We shall open the gates from within and light the signal fire upon the wall. When we do, you will storm the gate. The Iron Tower is a strong castra, but Sir Paul is lax, and his men have picked up his bad habits. We can drive them before us and seize the castra.”

  “Why not simply steal the soulstone away?” said Otto. “If you are so confident that you can creep into the fortress unnoticed?”

  “Because I might fail,” said Ridmark, “and this is too important to leave to chance. Perhaps I will be cut down after I open the gate.”

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande, but he ignored her.

  “Or I might be wounded and slain in the fighting,” said Ridmark. “But if I am, Calliande will know what to do with the soulstone. Or even if we are all slain, the soulstone will still be liberated from the Tower. It can be taken somewhere safe, somewhere out of Shadowbearer’s reach.”

  “Why not just the destroy the damned thing and have done with it?” said Crowlacht.

  “I don’t think it can be destroyed,” said Calliande. “There are…other things we can do to fight Shadowbearer.” No doubt she referred to Dragonfall and her staff. “But if he gets the soulstone, it is over.”

  “What happens if you fail?” said Otto.

  Ridmark shrugged. “What happens to you, I assume? If I am captured or killed before I open the gates, nothing at all. You can say I hid myself aboard the boat without your knowledge, and Crowlacht can claim his men were simply passing by on their way to Coldinium.”

  “But once you open the gate,” said Crowlacht, “once my men strike into the courtyard…then we are committed. There will be no turning back.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “But if we do not stop it here, then the Frostborn will return…and the fight will come to your homes sooner or later. Likely sooner.”

  “Then I shall do it,” said Crowlacht. “Too many dark things have been stirring of late. The Mhorites raiding out of the mountains. Urvaalgs have not been seen in Rhaluusk for decades, but a dozen have been slain in our villages over the last year. And if these worshippers of the great void have infiltrated the ranks of the lords and the Two Orders…then we are all in danger.” He slapped the table so violently that Otto flinched. “Aye, Gray Knight, I am with you.” He looked at the scarred halfling. “Otto?”

  Smiling Otto was silent for a long moment.

  “It’s not safe in Vulmhosk any longer, you know,” he said. “The urvaalg pack you slaughtered? It was the third we saw since you left for Coldinium, and four days ago we saw something flying to the north. Most of the men thought it a wyvern, but I know better. Wyverns do not look like black-armored women with a dragon’s wings.”

  “An urdhracos,” said Mara in a small voice.

  “Aye,” said Otto. “I traveled near Nightmane Forest in my youth. I know what the devils of the dark elves look like.” He shook his head. “I thought Vulmhosk was safe…but maybe there are no safe places left. The Wilderland is seething, and the world is starting to boil.” He shrugged. “You’ll have my help. If this works, at least I’ll have enough money to retire comfortably until the Frostborn kill us all.”

  “So be it,” said Ridmark. “We should leave tomorrow.”

  Chapter 14 - A Branched Path

  Morigna sat alone a corner of the tavern with a mug of Otto’s beer and watched the festivities.

  Otto had thrown open his larders, giving both Crowlacht’s warriors and his own mercenaries a feast before they departed in the morning. The men had cheered the old smuggler’s generosity. Though for what Ridmark had paid him, Morigna thought sourly, Otto could have bought food for a thousand times as many men.

  She sat alone, sipping the beer and watching. From time to time one of Otto’s mercenaries came to join her. Crowlacht might consider her too short, too skinny, and insufficiently green, but Otto’s men did not. Yet a frosty glare served to send them away. They remembered her from Mournacht’s attack upon Vulmhosk, and no man wanted to cross a sorceress.

  Caius, Kharlacht, Jager, and Gavin sat together, availing themselves of Otto’s food. As usual, Caius regaled the mercenaries with tales of their exploits, but this time Jager added embellishments. Morigna had to admit that like Caius, Jager had a flair for storytelling, and his deep voice and confidence made him an excellent orator. She supposed if they lived through this, Caius would likely write a book about it.

  Jager made a joke, and the mercenaries roared with laughter, humans and orcs both.

  Aye, Caius would write a book, Morigna reflected, and all the details would be completely wrong.

  The floorboards creaked, and she saw Calliande approaching.

  “Come to enjoy the show?” said Morigna. “One supposes you are starved for entertainment after two centuries sleeping below a ruin.” She gestured at Caius and Jager. “If preaching and thieving do not prove profitable, perhaps they could go into business together as actors. They could sing for their suppers.”

  “I need your help,” said Calliande.

  Morigna blinked. “With what?”

  “You recall how we kept Kharlacht alive until we got him to Coldinium?”

  “In great detail,” said Morigna.

  “Can you cast a similar spell upon Mara?” said Calliande. “To filter her blood?”

  “To what purpose?” said Morigna. “It is not as if she is poisoned. But…” Her voice trailed off as her mind worked through the possibilities. “But a spell to sense the presence of shadow-tainted blood upon her, yes, that would work. And then you could cast a ward upon her to hold her power at bay. My spell would mark the blood, and yours could subdue it.”

  Calliande smiled. “You see it, then.”

  “It will not last long,” said Morigna. “No more than a few days. And if she tries to use her powers even once, the spell will collapse, which would likely result in her immediate transformation.”

  Calliande raised her eyebrows. “Do you have a better idea?”

  Morigna scowled at her beer. “No.”

  “And she did save your life,” said Calliande. “I believe you are fond of repaying debts.”

  “Very well,” said Morigna, getting to her feet. “I can think of nothing better. And as enjoyable as it is to watch men drink themselves incoherent, I suppose I can find better ways to spend my time.”

  She glanced around the hall, but saw no sign of Ridmark.

  Calliande led her across the tavern and out the back door. They crossed a small courtyard of dry earth and came to a sagging wooden house that held the tavern’s rented rooms. They were ramshackle, but they were nonetheless the finest rooms in Vulmhosk. Though for what Ridmark had paid, Morigna supposed he could have just bought the entire damned village.

  She shook her head.

  “What is it?” said Calliande.

  “I wonder why Otto and Crowlacht do not betray Ridmark,” said Morigna. “Tarrabus left an impressive bounty upon his head.”

  “Because this is what Ridmark does,” said Calliande, opening the door. Beyond stretched a narrow hallway, doors lining either wall. “He convinces people to follow him and believe in his vision. He did it at Dun Licinia when we first met. Sir Joram Agramore commanded the defense against Qazarl, but by the time the battle was done, the men followed Ridmark. Even Sir Joram heeded him. That’s what he did to us too, you know. You could have left at any time.”

  Morigna scowled. “I have a debt, and I shall see it discharged.”

  Calliande shrugged. “All of us do. I would see the Frostborn stopped, for it is my duty…and I believe Ridmark Arban is the best chance I have to stop the return of the Frostborn.”

  Morigna laughed. “Your duty. You do not know that.”

  Now it was Calliande’s turn to scowl. “I do.”

  “No, you do not,” said Morigna. “You lost your memory, remember?”

  “You’re asking me if I remember that I lost my memory?” said Calliande. “You do see the logical err
or there?”

  Morigna rolled her eyes. “Fine. I phrased that imprecisely. But you see my point? You do not remember why you were at the Tower of Vigilance. For all you know, you were the kitchen scullion. The commander’s mistress. Or both. All this talk about your stern duty shall be amusing if you discover that your chief task at the Tower of Vigilance was to scrub the floor…”

  Calliande stared at her for a moment, and started to laugh.

  “What?” said Morigna. “What is so funny?”

  “If that is true,” said Calliande, “I shall be immensely relieved. Someone else can have the responsibility, then.”

  “You will not be that fortunate,” said Morigna.

  “Alas, likely not,” said Calliande, opening one of the doors. Beyond was a small room with a narrow bed. Mara sat cross-legged upon it, eyes closed, her breathing slow and regular.

  “I could hear you two,” said Mara, her eyes still closed, “coming from a considerable distance.”

  “Then you need not worry that we are assassins of the Red Family come to kill you,” said Morigna.

  “Have you been drinking?” said Mara, opening her green eyes.

  “No,” said Calliande.

  “A little,” said Morigna. “But not enough to affect me. Otto’s beer is deplorably weak.”

  “True,” said Mara, “if the two of you were drunk, I fear you would likely try to kill each other.”

  “For a woman who could die in the next three days,” said Morigna, “you are annoyingly cheerful.”

  Mara smiled. “I have lived with that danger as long as I can remember. I got to see Jager once more. I have repented my sins, and placed my soul in the care of the Dominus Christus. If I die, then I shall die.” She sighed. “Death is better than many other fates that might await me.”

  “Hopefully we can stave that off yet,” said Calliande. “The spell we discussed? I think it shall work.”

  “Do as you think best,” said Mara.

  “Morigna,” said Calliande.

  Morigna nodded, stepped forward, and summoned earth magic, probing Mara and her blood. The half-breed woman’s blood pumped through her veins, blood charged with dark power. Morigna drew on more magic and cast her spell, keeping the dark power in the blood from bonding with Mara’s flesh.

  The diminutive woman shivered. “That’s cold.”

  “It is done,” said Morigna, and Calliande stepped forward, white light flaring around her fingers as she worked a complex spell of her own. The light jumped from her hands to sink into Mara, fading away as it did so.

  “How do you feel?” said Calliande

  “Cold,” said Mara, “and a bit…light-headed, I think? Yes, that is the right word. I can still feel the shadows, but it’s like there is a sheet of ice holding them away.”

  “The spell should last for a few days,” said Calliande. “It will arrest the transformation, and keep the Artificer from claiming you again. But if you use your power, the spell will break…and I fear your transformation will start irrevocably.”

  “I understand,” said Mara. Remarkably, she smiled. “A few more days with Jager is worth it.”

  “Good,” said Calliande.

  “This is a blunt question,” said Morigna, “but…what the devil do you see in Jager?”

  “Oh?” said Mara.

  “Morigna,” said Calliande, but Morigna ignored the warning.

  “He is a thief,” said Morigna. “He talks too much. The man will not shut up for any reason. He has an entirely too high of an opinion of himself. His taste for fine clothing, jewels, and weapons is...ridiculous, frankly. He is reckless to the point of madness, and I will not be surprised if someday he speaks one smart word too many and gets himself killed.” She almost commented upon his height, but Mara was short, too, so Morigna supposed that did not bother the former assassin.

  Mara sighed. “All that is true.”

  “So why are you…with him?” said Morigna.

  Mara smiled. “He was the first man I ever met who did not try to turn me into a weapon. My father wanted to turn me into a monster. The Matriarch and the Red Brothers made me into an assassin. Rich nobles and merchants used me as a poisoned knife against their enemies. I was sent to kill him, but Jager…Jager never tried to use me as a weapon against his foes. He makes me laugh, yet is brave, brave enough to ignore his fear. There is more to him than you know, Morigna of Moraime, and he has lost as much as I have. As much as any of us.”

  “Well spoken,” said Calliande.

  “Thank you,” said Mara. She considered for a moment. “Also, he is really quite an excellent lover.”

  “I do not want to hear this,” said Morigna, turning towards the door.

  Now it was Calliande’s turn to laugh.

  “He was not my first,” said Mara, “but he is my best. His stamina…”

  “No,” said Morigna, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind her.

  She shook her head and walked for the stairs to the house’s brick cellar, half-amused, half-annoyed with herself. She was not some blushing maiden to faint at the slightest hint of impropriety. Still, she had absolutely no wish to hear about Jager’s exploits with Mara. She descended the stairs to the cellar, to a brick corridor lined with wooden doors, and Morigna chose one at random. The cellar seemed deserted, the air damp and warm, and some solitude would serve her well, she decided. Perhaps some rest, too. The next several days promised to be arduous.

  Morigna opened the door. A blast of hot, wet air washed over her face, and she blinked just in time to see Ridmark emerge from a steaming brick tub of water, his clothes and weapons piled against the wall.

  For a moment she stared at him, caught between embarrassment and something else, something that definitely was not embarrassment. He showed no sign of chagrin or surprise, and remained calm as ever.

  Yet he did not look away, either.

  “Ah,” said Morigna at last. Her mouth had gone dry. “I did not know…”

  “You spent the last several years living in a cave,” said Ridmark, a note of asperity in his voice. He reached for a towel and began drying off. “So I assume you never learned how to knock.”

  “I did not know anyone was down here,” said Morigna. She desperately wanted to look away from him, but could not seem to manage the will to do it.

  “This is the bathhouse,” said Ridmark. “I was surprised Otto had one.”

  “I did not know this was the bathhouse, either,” said Morigna.

  “For a woman so at ease in the woods,” said Ridmark, reaching for his clothing, “I am surprised that you are lost within a building.”

  “Well,” said Morigna, recovering some of her poise, “you can consider this balancing the scales.”

  “For what?” said Ridmark, pulling on his trousers. The motion made the muscles of his legs and back do interesting things.

  “You already have seen me unclad,” said Morigna, “so this is only just.”

  That finally brought a flicker of embarrassment to his face.

  “I suppose so,” said Ridmark. “Though as I mentioned earlier, the paint was in the way.”

  “If you wanted to let me paint you,” said Morigna, “we…”

  He looked at her, and the moisture fled her mouth again.

  “The women’s bath is at the other end of the hall,” said Ridmark. He stepped to a wooden table and began to rub soap over his jaw and chin. “It is likely in pristine condition, since women rarely come to Vulmhosk. Given that we have spent the last week running back and forth through the forest, I suggest you make use of it.”

  “What are you doing?” said Morigna as he picked up a long razor.

  “Shaving,” said Ridmark. “My face itches.”

  “You do not have a mirror,” said Morigna. “You shall cut yourself.”

  He shrugged, his shoulders rippling. “I will make do.”

  “Yes, a fine idea,” said Morigna. Before she knew what she was doing, she stepped forward and pluc
ked the razor from his hand. “If you cut yourself and it putrefies, we shall have no one to lead this ragtag little army you have assembled.”

  A quiver of fear shot through her, and she expected him to take the razor back, to demand that she leave at once.

  But he did nothing but stare at her.

  “Hold still,” said Morigna, and she titled his face to the side and lifted the razor.

  “Do you really know what you are doing?” said Ridmark.

  “I told you to hold still,” she said, gently tugging the razor down his right cheek, the bristles rasping beneath the blade. “And I have done this many times while preparing pelts.”

  Ridmark snorted. “That is not reassuring.”

  Morigna put her fingers to his temple and titled his head the other way. “If I had damaged the pelt, I would not have gotten a good price for them in Moraime.”

  He made no answer to that, and she worked the razor over his jaw and cheeks inch by inch. She took care on the left side of his face, avoiding the hard ridges of his brand. At last she finished, and she picked up a towel and wiped away the leftover soap.

  “Better?” Morigna said.

  “Much,” said Ridmark. “Thank you.”

  “It looks smoother,” she said, running a finger along the right side of his jaw.

  “You were right,” said Ridmark. “You do good work.”

  “Thank you,” said Morigna, lifting her hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers.

  “Morigna,” said Ridmark, his voice soft.

  Before her courage failed, she leaned up and placed a quick kiss upon his lips.

  She stepped back, her mind racing as fast as her heart. This time she had gone too far. He would push her away, would…

  He closed the distance, pulled her close, and kissed her long and hard. A shiver went through Morigna, a warmth spreading from her chest and into her limbs. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs, and…

  Ridmark stepped back, shaking his head.

  “No,” he said. “This is a bad idea.”

  “What?” said Morigna, blinking. Was it something she had done? Or was he thinking of Calliande? Or his dead wife, perhaps?