“We’ll find a way into the tower of iron and keep the Artificer’s spirit at bay,” said Calliande. She looked at Morigna. “First, though, I need to heal Paul. He cannot expose the Enlightened if he’s dead.”
“Very well,” said Morigna. She decided to put Paul to sleep for now. Perhaps he would be useful later. She gestured with her free hand, and purple fire blazed around her fingers.
Paul looked at her, his black eyes hardening and deepening until they seemed like pits into a bottomless black void.
###
“Yield to me,” said the Artificer. “Surrender to me, and I shall give you the power you need to crush your foes.”
Paul hesitated, his pulse throbbing in his ears. Perhaps there was another way out. Surely the dvargir had not all been slain. But Paul was wounded, his hands broken, his body crippled. He was at the mercy of his foes.
And he had no way to protect himself from the retribution of his masters.
“If you have my power,” said the Artificer, “no one shall ever harm you again. You can destroy your foes. You can make your masters your slaves. Take up my power, and you shall be invincible. But if they take you outside of the Iron Tower, you will be outside of my reach…and your fate will be your own.”
The black-eyed sorceress gestured, purple fire crackling around her fingers.
“Fine,” said Paul. “Fine. Do it. Do it!”
“Then I have your permission?” said the Artificer.
“Yes, yes, you have my permission,” said Paul. “Do…”
Agony exploded through Paul.
He screamed, or he would have screamed, but his muscles no longer obeyed him. Blue flame filled his vision, drowning the world. The Artificer’s voice boomed inside of his skull, no longer a raspy whisper, but loud enough to crack the world.
“Mine,” roared the Artificer, “you are mine!”
Paul screamed as chains of blue fire bound him, sealing him in a prison of shadows.
“I live again!” said the Artificer. “The Warden thought to imprison me, but I have escaped! Now vengeance shall be mine.”
“You promised,” said Paul, struggling against the chains that wrapped tighter around him. “You promised that I would have vengeance upon my foes!”
“And so you shall,” said the Artificer. “I keep my word. Your foes will be crushed utterly, as shall anyone else who stands in my path. I merely require your mortal vessel for that. I do not need you.”
Paul screamed again, but the chains wrapped tighter, and he sank into darkness and silence.
###
Morigna gestured, and white mist swirled around Paul.
But Paul sat up, his eyes bottomless black pits. He lifted his broken right hand, the bones snapping and crackling as they forced themselves back into place. Blue fire blazed around his fingers, and Morigna felt a massive pulse of dark magic from him.
Her spell shattered like glass.
In one smooth motion, Paul got to his feet. More crackling noises came to her ears as his broken wrists and hands healed, the flow of blood from beneath his arms tapering off. Blue fire flickered and danced around his fingers, and his fear and horror had vanished into a mask of cold indifference.
With a yell of alarm, Morigna cast another spell. This time she put all her strength into it, conjuring enough mist to burn the skin and muscle from his bones. Clearly, sparing him had been a mistake. Well, someone else could testify to the lords of Andomhaim about the dangers of the Enlightened…
Paul made a slashing motion with his left hand, and again Morigna felt the surge of mighty dark magic. Her spell collapsed, and Paul gestured with his right hand.
“Ridmark!” shouted Morigna, beginning another spell. “He’s…”
Dark magic closed around her, lifted her from the ground, and held her immobile and paralyzed. The spell was stronger, far stronger, than anything Coriolus had ever worked.
Far stronger than anything Morigna had ever seen.
“Pathetic,” said Paul. His voice had changed, growing deeper, raspier, rougher. No human had a voice like that.
The Artificer.
“A flicker of earth magic and nothing more,” said the Artificer through Paul’s mouth. A lance of white flame burst across the courtyard and drilled into him as Calliande attacked, but Paul gestured with his left hand and the flames vanished. “The feeble powers of a pathetic kobold shaman, and you presume to strike at a wizard of the dark elves? Learn the price of your impudence, foolish child.”
Desperately Morigna wished she had more power. With more power, she could have defended herself, could have saved Ridmark.
Because she knew that the Artificer was going to kill them all.
Paul gestured, and the invisible force flung Morigna across the courtyard.
Her head bounced off the ground, and she knew no more.
###
Morigna rolled to a stop, and Ridmark faced Sir Paul Tallmane, his staff ready in his hands.
No. Not Paul Tallmane. Paul had always been cruel, but his expression had never been so cold and remote and arrogant. His eyes had turned solid black, like the Warden’s eyes, pits into a bottomless freezing void. Blue flames burned and crawled up his arms, and he looked back and forth over the shocked mercenaries and men-at-arms like a man contemplating insects.
Like a dark elven prince regarding his slaves.
Calliande ran to Morigna, while Jager and Mara moved to Ridmark’s side. Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin joined them, weapons ready. Both Crowlacht and Sir Marcast shouted commands, and the orcish warriors and the loyal men-at-arms fanned in a circle around Sir Paul.
“It’s him,” said Mara, her voice unsteady. “His song…his song is so much louder.” She pressed her hands to her temples. “It’s the Artificer.”
Still Paul regarded them in silence.
Calliande ran to Ridmark’s side.
“Morigna?” he said.
“She will live,” said Calliande. “I healed her in time. She won’t wake up for a while, though.”
Ridmark nodded, relieved. When her head had struck the ground, it had brought back terrible memories of that day in Castra Marcaine…
“Did you?” said the Artificer, his voice booming from Paul’s lips. “That is just as well. I may have acted rashly. She will make a useful slave, once she is broken and tamed. As you shall, healer. Your powers are little more than feeble tricks, siphoning some of the power of the great Well at Cathair Tarlias…but you shall serve me well.”
“You presume much,” said Calliande. “I…”
Ridmark lifted his staff and strode forward, stopping halfway between the waiting soldiers and Paul. The black eyes focused upon him, and Ridmark felt the same sense of weight and power as he had felt in the presence of the Warden of Urd Morlemoch. The Artificer had indeed claimed Paul’s body for his own.
“I am curious,” said Ridmark.
“Oh?” said the Artificer, a corner of Paul’s mouth curling in a contemptuous smile. Ridmark dared not show any fear. If the Artificer possessed even a fraction of the Warden’s power, they were in deadly danger.
“You went to such efforts to claim Mara’s body for your own,” said Ridmark, “but now your spirit inhabits Sir Paul Tallmane? If you could claim a human body, why did you not do it decades ago? The Iron Tower has stood over the ruins of Urd Mazekathar for a century and a half.”
“My spirit remained dormant for millennia beyond count, until the half-breed’s presence roused me from my slumber,” said the Artificer. “To obtain a new physical vessel, I required one with dark elven blood, and the half-breed was the only one at hand.” Paul’s face smiled. “But then this human fool became one of the Initiated of Incariel. The bearer of shadow made a grievous error. For the Initiated of Incariel are directly connected to the shadow of Incariel, can draw upon its power in the same manner as the dark elven kindred. All I needed then was for this fool to grant me permission to enter his flesh, which he did once his situation grew dire enough.�
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“It seems Paul Tallmane made the wrong choice for the final time,” said Ridmark.
“Indeed.” The Artificer spread Paul’s hands, the blue fire casting eerie reflections in his steel armor. “Now I walk the world once more. The Warden thought to trap me here for eternity, but he failed! Now he is bound in Urd Morlemoch, and I am free.”
“And now that you are free,” said Ridmark, “what do you intend to do with that freedom?”
“What I should have done millennia ago,” said the Artificer. “The world is mine. I shall forge an empire of sorcery and dark magic, and defeat both the bearer of shadow and the Enlightened. Our slave kindreds shall return to their rightful places and serve their rightful masters once more.”
Crowlacht spat upon the ground. “We left your slavery behind centuries ago, tattered spirit. The orcs of Rhaluusk are now free men, and serve only the High King and the Dominus Christus.”
“You serve a feeble mortal warlord and revere his insipid superstitions,” said the Artificer. “I shall teach you anew the true nature of power. I will break you of your folly and return you to your proper place as slaves.” The bottomless black eyes shifted to Jager. “And the halfling kindred shall learn their role as drudges, and cast aside their pretensions that they are anything but beasts of burden.”
Jager sneered. “Bold words from a ghost possessing a dying man.”
“Why are you even talking to us?” said Ridmark. “If you have the power to do as you say, why have you not already begun?”
Paul’s face stretched into a cold smile. “Because of you, Ridmark Arban.”
“Me?” said Ridmark. “Why?”
“I have seen the thoughts of the men of the Iron Tower,” said the Artificer. “I know the history of your realm of Andomhaim. Only the elves are truly native to this world. All other kindreds came through gates opened by dark elven wizards, summoned to be our slaves and servants.”
“Including the urdmordar,” said Ridmark, “who then made you their slaves in turn.”
“That was an error,” said the Artificer. “Even the Warden was right about that. But you humans…you are an aberration. A wild gate opened, and you came to this world by chance. Your ancestors should have been enslaved or slain within weeks. Instead you have built a civilization that has stood and grown for a thousand years. Humans are not as strong as the orcs, as agile as the halflings, as clever as the dwarves, as fierce as the manetaurs, or as magically potent as the urdmordar…but you are more lethal predators by far. For how else could you have conquered for so long? And how much more deadly did you become when Ardrhythain granted you the magic of the Well, permitting you to wield magical force against your foes! I see you for what you are. Your own scriptures say that the curse of Cain is in your very blood, that you are born murderers, bred to war and conquest. Yet you have turned that curse into a weapon, and your realm of Andomhaim has defeated every foe that assailed it.”
“A fine speech,” said Ridmark. “I presume it has a point?”
“Join me,” said the Artificer.
“It would be presumptuous for me to speak of all mankind,” said Ridmark.
“I wish for you, personally, to join me,” said the Artificer. “Swear allegiance to me, and I shall make you my strong right hand and the commander of my armies. I will grant you weapons of power, and make you invincible against any who stand against you.”
Ridmark blinked. “Why?”
“Because I have seen you,” said the Artificer. “In the memories of my vessel, in the thoughts of the humans here, and in your actions. You are the greatest warrior of a kindred of warriors.” Paul’s flame-wreathed hand swept over the waiting soldiers. “Look at them. Orcish rabble, bandit vermin, a Magistria, a wild sorceress, even a dwarf…and they all follow your command. You have built them into an effective force that has overthrown a strong fortress. What could you do with the resources of nations at your command? You could build me an empire worthy of the dark elves.”
“And why should I do that?” said Ridmark.
“Because then the realm of Andomhaim shall not be my slave, but my favored vassal,” said the Artificer. “The High King can even keep his throne, if you wish it. Under my guidance, humanity shall thrive as it never has before.”
Calliande laughed. “So spoke the butcher to the sheep.”
“You speak correctly, though you know it not,” said the Artificer. “Does not the shepherd care for his sheep? The knight may ride the horse as his beast of burden, but he feeds and cares for it. The curse of Cain makes you fearsome killers…and often you turn your skill against each other. The War of the Five Princes. The Enlightened of Incariel. The Eternalists. Under my rule, humanity shall be unified and orderly. We shall conquer this world…and then I shall open gates to new worlds, and those in turn shall fall.”
“And why do you think I would want any of that?” said Ridmark.
Again the Artificer made Paul’s face smile. “Because I shall stop the Frostborn from returning.”
Ridmark said nothing.
“You know they are returning,” said the Artificer, “and you know the danger they represent. Not even the dark elves in the fullness of their power could have conquered them, nor could the urdmordar have overcome them. If the bearer of shadow brings them back, they shall destroy this world utterly. You seek to stop them, but you are more overmatched than you know. But swear to me, and I shall transform your empty soulstone into a weapon of power that shall destroy the bearer of shadow and forever prevent the return of the Frostborn.”
“No,” said Ridmark.
“Consider your answer carefully,” said the Artificer. “You have two choices. Join me of your own free will. Or die here with all the others.” The blue flames blazed brighter. “I urge you to decide now.”
Ridmark took a deep breath, thinking. He would never accept such an offer. The Artificer might have power, power enough to stop the Frostborn and defeat Shadowbearer, but with that power he would be as black a tyrant as the world had ever seen.
“I decline,” said Ridmark.
“Pity,” said the Artificer. He crooked a finger, and Paul’s sword flew from the flagstones and landed in his waiting hand. At once blue flames swirled up the blade, cold and eerie. “You would have made a useful servant. But if I animate your corpse, it will retain many of your memories and prove almost as adept.”
“Prideful wizard,” said Sir Marcast. “The knights of Andomhaim will oppose you to the death. You shall not find us so easy to dominate as you think.”
“We are many,” said Crowlacht, the orcish battle fury gleaming in his eyes, “and you are but one, sorcerer. You might strike down many of us, but we shall prevail in the end. Not even all your magic will save you.”
“Poor fools,” said the Artificer. “You have lacked a strong master for too long, and come to believe all manner of falsehoods. It is time you learned otherwise.”
“Kill him!” roared Crowlacht, raising his hammer. The orcs, the mercenaries, and the men-at-arms followed suit. Ridmark discarded his staff, drawing the enchanted dwarven axe from his belt, and Calliande began a spell, white fire snarling around her fingers.
The Artificer beckoned, and sizzling fingers of crimson lightning leapt up and down the tower of iron.
And invisible force exploded in all directions from him, throwing down the mercenaries and the warriors like a hurricane tearing through a field of ripe wheat. The force threw Ridmark to the ground, and he struggled to stand, but the Artificer’s mighty magic held him fast. The ruby lightning dancing around the massive tower grew brighter, throwing off glittering sparks.
The Artificer cast another spell, and a wave of blue fire washed out from him. It passed through Ridmark without touching him, but it came to rest upon the corpses scattered across the courtyard. The fire settled in their eyes, and one by one the corpses started to move, getting to their feet with jerky, twitching motions, their eyes burning with blue fire.
Undead.
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“And now,” said Artificer, “you, half-breed, shall learn the price of disobedience.”
He raised his free hand, and the surface of the tower of iron rippled. Something small and shining erupted from the tower and landed in his outstretched hand.
A jade bracelet.
“No!” said Jager, struggling to his knees. “That is…”
Mara stared at the Artificer, her face slack with horror.
“Your fate,” said the Artificer. “Ever and always, this has been your fate. Running from it was futile. Your destiny has always been this. To transform, and to serve me.”
He closed his fist. The bracelet fell in glittering fragments to the ground, and Jager screamed.
“Now,” said the Artificer, “transform, cast off your old form, and rise again as the first of my new servants.”
A bolt of blue fire erupted from his left hand and slammed into Mara, flinging her to the ground.
Mara screamed, and shadows erupted from her, flowing around her like living things. Her eyes darkened, the shadows condensing and hardening.
She was transforming.
The pressure vanished from Ridmark, and he surged back to his feet as the undead attacked the living men. Screams and shouts rang out, the undead impervious to normal steel as they killed.
The Artificer strode towards Ridmark, the blue-burning sword in his right hand, the tower of iron snarling with crimson lightning behind him.
“And you, Gray Knight,” said the Artificer, “it has been too long since I wore a body of flesh, and I miss the pleasure of killing with my own hands. You shall have the honor of being my first kill.”
“Try,” said Ridmark, taking the dwarven axe in both hands.
The Artificer laughed. “I mastered magic millennia ere your ancestors ever walked this world. I waged war against the high elves of Cathair Solas and Cathair Tarlias for centuries beyond count. I defied the Warden of Urd Morlemoch himself, and I have conquered death to walk the waking world again! Gray Knight, I shall do more than try!”
Frostborn: The Iron Tower Page 24
