Frostborn: The Iron Tower

by Jonathan Moeller

  He charged at Ridmark, the sword a blur of ghostly blue flame in his fist.

  Chapter 20 - Metamorphosis

  Mara screamed as freezing agony poured through her limbs.

  Battle raged around her. There were far more living men than dead men, yet the undead moved with ferocity and power. The undead did not discriminate between the orcish warriors and the Enlightened prisoners, and butchered any who came into their grasp. The orcs and the loyal men-at-arms fought back, shouting the name of the High King and the Dominus Christus, yet their efforts did nothing. Their swords and maces rebounded from the flesh of the undead without leaving a wound. More warriors fell to the undead…only to rise again a few heartbeats later, blue fire burning in their eyes.

  The Artificer was already building his army.

  Ridmark and the Artificer whirled in a furious dance, sword and axe flying. The sigils upon Ridmark’s dwarven axe glowed with a sullen yellow-orange light, the light of a dying coal. The sigils burned hotter when they met the Artificer’s blue-wreathed sword, the magic of the dwarven stonescribes striving against the Artificer’s dark power.

  But Mara barely noticed all of that.

  Icy pain filled her body…and the Artificer’s song thundered inside of her skull.

  It overwhelmed her, commanding her flesh and bone to reshape itself to the Artificer’s will. Darkness swirled around her limbs, condensing at the end of her fingers, clinging to her skin beneath her clothing, gathering in piles upon her back. Part of her mind realized that the shadows would harden into talons and armored scales and vast wings to blot out of the sun.

  An urdhracos. The dark power of her blood was reshaping her into an urdhracos.

  She felt Jager’s touch upon her trembling shoulder.

  “Calliande,” he said, “I’ll get Calliande.”

  “No,” said Mara, her voice thick and rough. “It’s too late. It can’t be stopped now.”

  “The bracelet,” said Jager. She risked a look at his face, saw his expression fill with despair. “We can fix it, we…”

  “The spell is broken, Jager,” said Mara. She closed her eyes, her entire body shaking. “It’s too late. You have…you have to…”

  “To do what?” said Jager.

  She looked at him again. “Kill me. Please. Before I lose myself.”

  ###

  The Artificer attacked, Sir Paul’s sword burning in his stolen hand. He did not move with the superhuman speed and strength that the shadows had granted Paul. That gave Ridmark hope, but the hope soon faded away.

  The Artificer was the best swordsman that Ridmark had ever faced.

  The blue-burning sword moved in a series of flickering blows, and Ridmark backed away, docking and dodging and parrying. A slain man-at-arms started to rise near him, and Ridmark wrenched away the dead man’s shield and slung it over his left arm, retreating as the Artificer pursued him.

  “You fight well,” said the Artificer, Paul’s face maintaining its calm arrogance. “Well enough for a man of your years at the peak of his strength. But I mastered the sword millennia before your ancestors ever came to this world. For centuries beyond your ability to comprehend, I practiced the blade with swordsmen of unparalleled skill. A true dark elven noble is a master of both spell and sword.” He rolled his blade in a lazy salute. “This body is limited, of course, but still more than sufficient to defeat you.”

  Ridmark kept backing away, shield held before him. His mind raced through the possibilities before him, noting the undead, the darkness swirling around Mara.

  They had lost.

  But there was still a way to snatch hope from this disaster, because the Artificer had made a mistake.

  Ridmark just had to kill Paul’s body. The Artificer had already triggered Mara’s transformation, and would not be able to possess her. If Ridmark killed Paul’s body, the dark elven wizard would not be able to take another host. Then Calliande could take the soulstone from the Iron Tower and resume her quest to find Dragonfall and stop the return of the Frostborn.

  But she would do it without Ridmark.

  Because Ridmark thought he could kill Paul’s body, even with the Artificer’s masterful skill, but he would not survive the process.

  But that was all right. Ridmark’s life had been forfeit for five years, ever since that awful day in Castra Marcaine. At least this way his death would have some use. He could still save the others, Crowlacht and Otto’s mercenaries and Sir Marcast’s loyal men-at-arms. Calliande and the others could escape, could keep the soulstone from Shadowbearer. And Ridmark himself could prevent the Artificer’s dream of an empire of dark magic from becoming a reality.

  All that seemed a fine price for Ridmark’s life.

  He set himself, fingers tightening around the axe’s handle.

  “If your stolen flesh is more than sufficient to defeat me,” said Ridmark, “then I suggest you stop talking and do it.”

  The Artificer laughed. “Well spoken! So often the lesser kindreds cringe and cower when faced with death. It pleases me to kill a worthier man!”

  He ran at Ridmark, his sword trailing blue flame.

  ###

  Calliande gathered her power.

  Ridmark needed her help. The Artificer had decided to amuse himself by defeating Ridmark with Sir Paul’s sword rather than simply killing him with a blast of magic. Yet Mara and Jager also needed her help. The Artificer had triggered Mara’s transformation, and Calliande had promised to kill her before that happened.

  And everyone else needed her help, as well. The orcish warriors, mercenaries, and men-at-arms had no weapons that could harm the Artificer’s undead. Gavin, Kharlacht, and Caius fought with the dwarven daggers they had received in Coldinium, the enchantments upon the blades letting them strike the undead flesh. Yet a dagger was a poor weapon against an undead creature, and three daggers alone could not stem the tide.

  Calliande made her choice

  She summoned power, as much power as she could hold, and thrust out her hands and cast a spell. White light erupted from her, rolling over the courtyard, and lingered around the weapons of the human and orcish warriors. An instant of hesitation went through the battle, and then the warriors and men-at-arms went on a furious offensive, their blades rising and falling. Enhanced by Calliande’s magic, their weapons now cleaved into the undead flesh.

  Calliande groaned and toppled to her knees, white fire flickering around her hands.

  She had often augmented the weapons of Ridmark and her friends in battle. But there were hundreds of men fighting in the courtyard, and the strain of spreading her power across so many weapons was enormous.

  She did not know how long she could maintain the spell.

  Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin ran to her side.

  “Magistria,” said Gavin. “You are…”

  “Go!” shouted Calliande. “Aid Ridmark! I can’t…I can’t do this for long.” Her chest heaved with her breath. “Cut down the Artificer and this ends. Go!”

  They ran for the furious duel between the Artificer and the Gray Knight. Yet as they did, three of the new-raised undead turned towards Calliande and charged, their faces slack and eerie in the blue glow of their eyes. Calliande reached for more power to work a spell, but there was nothing left. She had no strength to spare. And if she released the spell upon the weapons, the undead would resume their rampage through the men.

  She gritted her teeth, trying to force herself to work another spell, but Gavin moved first.

  The boy wheeled, his white-glowing orcish sword a blur, and took the head from the leading undead. The head rolled away in a burst of blood, while the corpse collapsed, the Artificer’s dark magic broken. Gavin cut down a second undead before the third realized the threat and turned to face him, and he bashed the undead corpse in the face with his shield. The undead felt neither fear nor pain, but the power of Gavin’s blow rocked the undead back. Before the creature recovered its balance, Gavin severed its head in two swings, and the corpse slu
mped to the flagstones.

  Even through her exhaustion and pain, Calliande felt a burst of pride. Gavin had taken Ridmark’s and Kharlacht’s lessons on the use of the sword and shield and put them to good use.

  “I will guard you,” said Gavin.

  Calliande nodded and closed her eyes, her whole body trembling, every last shred of strength and will focused upon maintaining the spell.

  She desperately wished she had more power to aid Ridmark and Mara.

  But there was nothing left.

  Their fates were in their own hands.

  ###

  “I can’t,” said Jager. “I can’t do it.”

  “Please,” said Mara. A violent spasm went through her limbs, and she felt the shadows sinking into her flesh, hardening as they became scales and talons and wings. “I’ll kill you, Jager. I’ll transform and I’ll kill you, and I will have to live with that knowledge for all time as the Artificer’s slave. Don’t make me do that. Please don’t make me do that.”

  Jager hesitated, shaking his head. “I…”

  “I’ll kill all the others,” said Mara. Her voice had gotten deeper, rougher. “The Artificer will command me to do it. Please don’t let me do it.”

  A pulse of white fire washed over the courtyard, and for a desperate, terrified instant Mara hoped that Calliande had unleashed a killing spell. But the white light passed Mara and settled around the weapons of the battling men, and the warriors and men-at-arms drove at the Artificer’s undead with renewed vigor.

  “If I get you out of here,” said Jager. “If we escape from the Iron Tower, leave all this behind, maybe you can fight it off.”

  “No,” said Mara. “No, I can’t. Jager, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but this is the end.”

  Jager said nothing, the battle of steel and sorcery screaming around them.

  “We’ve lost,” said Mara. “Jager, you have to kill me, take the soulstone, and run. Don’t let the Artificer or Tarrabus have it. Anyone who stays here is going to die. Promise me you’ll get away. Promise me!”

  Jager shook his head, unable to speak.

  Mara shuddered again, and heard a rasping noise as her fingers dragged along the ground.

  Her new talons carved splinters from the flagstones.

  ###

  Ridmark braced himself for the end.

  The Artificer circled around Ridmark, driving him toward the wall of the keep. Once he was pinned there, it would be simple for the Artificer to batter down Ridmark’s defenses and land a killing blow.

  And that was Ridmark’s chance.

  One the Artificer’s sword pierced his flesh, he would have a moment to act. An instant, no more, given that he suspected the Artificer would drive the sword through his heart. He would have to inflict a mortal wound before he succumbed and died.

  His back thumped against the keep, and Ridmark found himself thinking of Aelia. He had failed her, but this time he would not fail. His death would ensure that.

  Though, oddly, he found himself thinking of Calliande and Morigna as well.

  “Well done,” said the Artificer, “but useless in the end.”

  He raised the sword for the kill, and Ridmark braced himself.

  Then at the last moment the Artificer’s bottomless black eyes widened, and he threw himself to the side. Kharlacht’s sword bounced off the keep’s wall in a spray of sparks. The Artificer righted himself, only for Caius’s mace to sweep for his leg. The Artificer dodged, recovered his balance, and Ridmark had his opening.

  He swung the axe with both hands. The Artificer jumped sideways, the movement almost dance-like, and the tip of the axe’s blade brushed the side of his jaw. The possessed knight turned, and Ridmark saw that the axe’s blade had left a cut down the left side of Paul Tallmane’s face.

  Light flared in the darkness of the gloomy night, and Ridmark risked a glance up. A molten gash had appeared on the rough face of the tower of iron, a glowing yellow-orange rip perhaps twenty feet across.

  A rip the exact same size and shape of the gash upon Paul’s face.

  Slowly the gash upon Paul’s face began to shrink, while the rip upon the surface of the tower of iron remained in place.

  Ridmark wondered what it meant.

  “Three of you?” said the Artificer. “All the better.”

  He blurred into motion, his sword writing lines of blue flame in the air.

  ###

  “Go!” shouted Mara. She felt the last threads of her mind slipping away. “If you can’t kill me, then take the soulstone and go.”

  “No.” Jager took a deep breath and drew the dwarven dagger from his belt, the sigils upon the blade shining with dull light. “You’re right. I…should have done this earlier. Forgive me.”

  “No, forgive me,” said Mara. She closed her eyes and got to her knees, tilting her head back. “I love you.”

  Jager took a deep, rasping breath. “I love you, too. And I’m sorry.”

  And then the final transformation took hold.

  Shadowy power exploded from her, and Mara screamed as the darkness enclosed her mind, as the darkness shaped her flesh like a sculptor molding clay.

  Nothingness devoured her, and she fell into the void.

  Chapter 21 - I Am You

  Mara fell for centuries. Perhaps millennia.

  Or maybe the world had never been anything more than an illusion, a lie she had told herself, and only the void had been real.

  The she felt something cold beneath her face and hands.

  Grass. Damp grass.

  Mara rolled to her knees, puzzled.

  She was in the Nightmane Forest again. The ancient trees rose over her, tall and strong but twisted, their gnarled trunks spotted with lichen. Weathered menhirs of black stone jutted from the ground here and there, their sides carved with the glyphs of the Traveler’s potent warding spells, the spells that had kept him secure in the forest for many long centuries.

  Perhaps she was dead, and this was…well, if not heaven, it was not hell. Purgatory, maybe? Or perhaps the transformation had locked her mind within her memories. Or maybe she had been brought to the Nightmane Forest by magic.

  Yet how could she possibly be here?

  She did not realize she had spoken the question aloud until the deep, quiet voice answered her.

  “You are not.”

  Mara turned and saw the old man.

  He had gray hair and a tangled gray beard, his face scored by lines of care and worry. The old man wore the white robe of the Magistri, bound about his waist with a black sash. Mara had never seen him before, and yet…

  “I know you, I’m sure of it,” said Mara.

  “I fear not,” said the old Magistrius. “I lived for a very long time, far longer than I wished…but I still died decades before you were born. We never met in the flesh.”

  “Then we have met in the spirit?” said Mara, puzzled.

  “You can call me the Watcher,” said the Magistrius. “Once I was a Magistrius of the Order of the Vigilant, sworn to protect the realm against the return of the Frostborn. But our Master chose the wrong side in the War of the Five Princes, and our order was destroyed nearly a century ago. Yet my spirit lingered on, bound to fulfill my oath to the Order's mistress.”

  “Your mistress?” said Mara, and then she remembered the things Jager had told her about Calliande, the things she had observed about the Magistria. “Calliande. She was your purpose.”

  “It was the duty of the Vigilant to guide her and guard her when she awakened,” said the Watcher. “Alas, we failed, but my spirit lingers, bound by my duty and my final spell.”

  “So how do I know you?” said Mara.

  “When you slept in Vulmhosk,” said the Watcher, “Calliande stood guard over you, and tried to use my power to trap and destroy the Artificer’s spirit. Alas, we failed, and here we are.”

  “And where are we?” said Mara.

  “Your mind,” said the Watcher.

  “Alas,” said Mara, looking
around, “I hoped it would not be so damp.” She swallowed. “Then I am transformed, and even now I am killing my allies…”

  “Not yet,” said the Watcher.

  “What do you mean?” said Mara.

  “Time does not have the same meaning for the spirit as it has for the flesh,” said the Watcher. “We are between heartbeats, as it were.” He sighed. “It is all I can do for you.”

  “What have you done?” said Mara.

  “I have given you a chance,” said the Watcher. “It is not much of a chance, I fear. But it is better than nothing.”

  “Explain,” said Mara.

  “Your transformation is irrevocable,” said the Watcher. “Through the magic of the Matriarch’s bracelet and your own remarkable strength of will, you have held it back for all of your life. But it can be stopped no longer. The change is coming, and you cannot resist it.”

  “I know this,” said Mara.

  “But there is a chance,” said the Watcher, “a small chance, that you can yet…steer the transformation.”

  “Steer?” said Mara. “What do you mean, steer it? It’s not a wagon.”

  “No,” said the Watcher. “But it is irresistible. As is a flood. But with canals and ditches, a flood can be diverted. So it is with you.”

  A shudder went through the ground, and a blaze of blue fire shone in the distance.

  “What is it?” said Mara, stepping back. She felt a weight upon her belt, looked down and saw her daggers hanging there.

  “It is coming,” said the Watcher.

  “What is coming?” said Mara. Little wonder Calliande seemed so exasperated at times, if this riddling spirit never offered a straight answer.

  “You are,” said the Watcher.

  “Me?” said Mara. “I’m right here.”

  “The dark elven half of your heart and soul,” said the Watcher.

  Suddenly the misty forest seemed far colder.

  “Oh,” said Mara.