Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “A trap?” said Narzaxar.

  Third shrugged. “Is it not obvious? The Sculptor’s forces made a great show of taking this ruin, did they not? They lured us in, and when we stormed the wall, we found them elsewhere. Maybe a trap awaits us in the ruins below.”

  No one said anything for a moment.

  “What manner of trap?” said Narzaxar.

  Third shrugged again. “There are many possibilities. The koballats can camouflage themselves, so perhaps a host of them are hidden within the houses, waiting for us. Maybe the Sculptor has rigged the cavern to collapse. Perhaps the koballats have dammed the stream, and are waiting until we enter the thainkul before flooding us out. Maybe there is an urvuul hidden behind the ruins of that mansion, and it will storm out and kill us once we enter.”

  “Gavin killed an urvuul once,” said Ridmark.

  The young Swordbearer grimaced. “I wouldn’t like to try again.”

  “We need more information,” said Narzaxar. “Azakhun, have some scouts explore the tunnels outside Thainkul Morzan. Send them out in pairs. We will also need some men to explore the thainkul itself.”

  “I will go,” said Ridmark.

  “I will come with you,” said Third. Kharlacht and Gavin volunteered as well.

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “All right. Third and I will take the left side of the stream, and you and Gavin take the right. Return here within an hour.”

  “By then, we should have some more information, and we can decide how to proceed,” said Narzaxar.

  Ridmark nodded and beckoned to the others, and Third, Kharlacht, and Gavin followed him.

  A set of switchback stairs led from the courtyard to the lowest tiers of the cavern, splitting in two over the stream. Ridmark and Third went to the left side of the cavern, and Kharlacht and Gavin went right. He stepped onto the lowest tier, the stream flowing to his right, the ruined houses of the tiers rising on his left.

  “I suggest we search tier by tier,” said Third.

  Ridmark nodded. “There will probably be tunnels for drainage and waste beneath the houses.” He and Morigna and Calliande and the others had fled through one of those tunnels in Thainkul Dural, avoiding the mzrokar that the dvargir had set on their trail. “We should check those as well.”

  “Agreed,” said Third, and they started forward.

  The ruins were utterly silent. Ridmark and Third moved in quiet haste from house to house. Some had collapsed into rubble. Others were still intact, and Ridmark and Third walked through the dusty rooms, past old bones and shattered pots and rusting weapons. Here and there he saw skeletons lying where they had fallen in long-ago battles, dwarves and deep orcs and kobolds and koballats and even a few dvargir. Bones lay scattered throughout alleyways and houses.

  The dwarven glowstones still functioned, and clusters of ghost mushrooms had started growing, throwing tangled shadows over the broken stonework.

  “Perhaps,” said Third as they reached the second-to-last tier on the left side of the cavern, “this place truly is deserted.”

  “You must believe it so,” said Ridmark. “Else you would not be speaking.”

  “True,” said Third. “If it is deserted, our task is a success. Perhaps the Sculptor changed his mind and decided not to risk a fight. Prince Narzaxar can then fortify Thainkul Morzan, and we can return to Khald Tormen and the Keeper.”

  Ridmark snorted. “You’re too experienced to believe that.”

  Third nodded. “True. I was just admitting the possibility that fortune had favored us for once.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “Something is happening that we don’t understand yet. Perhaps we can find the answers here.”

  They reached the highest tier, the rock wall of the cavern rising next to them. Ridmark stepped into a small square between four crumbling houses. Dust and bones and a few rusted swords of kobold make lay scattered upon the ground, but other than that, the little square was deserted.

  “Or,” said Third, “perhaps we shall find nothing at all here.”

  “At the very least, we lose nothing by Prince Narzaxar fortifying Thainkul Morzan, and…”

  Third gasped and stumbled a step.

  Ridmark turned, his staff coming up in guard as he scanned the square for enemies. He saw nothing, but Third’s eyes were wide.

  “What is it?” said Ridmark.

  “The song,” said Third. “I hear the song.”

  “Song?” said Ridmark. He didn’t hear anything.

  A memory flashed through him. Mara, after she had gained control over her blood and her powers, had spoken of sensing the auras of powerful dark elven lords as songs she heard in her head. It wasn’t really a song, but her mind perceived it as such. And that meant if Third heard the song, she sensed the presence of a powerful dark elven noble.

  “It wasn’t there before,” said Third, her eyes narrowed with alarm. “It’s so loud. I should have heard it before, I should have heard it long before…”

  “Greetings, Ridmark Arban and Lady Third.”

  The voice was a musical tenor, far more harmonious than any human voice. Yet it carried a note of irritation as if the speaker found the effort of speech an annoying imposition.

  Ridmark turned, staff raised in guard, and Third stepped back, short swords ready.

  The first thing he saw was the Cutter.

  The urdhracos stood near the wall at the opposite side of the square, dark wings folded behind her armored body. The glow of the ghost mushrooms glinted off her peculiar mask, and she grinned, blue fire flickering around her armored hands. Next to her stood a tall figure in blue dark elven armor and a black cloak, his angular face chalk-white and his hair pale, his eyes filled with a dark void.

  He had to be the Sculptor.

  Third hissed and raised her weapons, and the armored figure lifted a hand.

  “Do not bother,” said the dark elf. “As you have no doubt guessed, I am the Sculptor.” The void-filled eyes turned to Third. “I trust you were not able to detect my presence? Excellent. My hypotheses concerning the alterations to your physiology were correct. Do not attempt to transport behind me. I have taken precautions against that.”

  “I will not be your slave,” said Third. “I shall never be anyone’s slave again.”

  Ridmark expected anger or sneering contempt from the Sculptor. The Traveler would have flown into a rage at Third’s defiance, and the Warden would have answered with cold disdain.

  Instead, the Sculptor only looked annoyed.

  “What?” he said. “Don’t be absurd. I have no use for you. You are an interesting curiosity, yes, but will soon become irrelevant.” The bottomless black eyes turned to Ridmark. “You, however, are rather more relevant.”

  “All this effort just to kill me?” said Ridmark.

  “If I wanted to kill you, why would I waste otherwise useful time with speech?” said the Sculptor.

  Ridmark blinked. “You wanted to speak to me?”

  “Yes,” said the Sculptor.

  “Then…what did you want to talk about?”

  The Sculptor stared at him, and Ridmark considered his options. He could try attacking the Sculptor. The staff of Ardrhythain might shield him from some of the dark elf’s powers, but the Sculptor likely possessed enough magic to kill both Third and Ridmark without much effort. He could try to flee, but the Sculptor would pursue him.

  Best to let this play out.

  Ridmark waited for the Sculptor to speak.

  “The height of these chambers,” said Sculptor.

  Ridmark blinked. Of all the things the Sculptor could have said, he would not have expected that.

  “I’m sorry?” said Ridmark.

  “The khaldari, the dwarves as you call them, are so short,” said the Sculptor with irritation. “While I was awaiting your arrival, I walked through several of the houses, and I constantly had to stoop. It was quite annoying. One can see how the physical form of the dwarves dictates the shape of their civilization, both in t
he literal and the metaphorical sense. The height of their houses, their corridors, their workshops, the fact that they live primarily underground, all these things are determined by their height and shaped by their flesh.”

  “An interesting digression,” said Ridmark, “but I fail to see the point.”

  The Sculptor stepped forward. Third tensed, but the dark elven lord made no threatening movements.

  “You are a fascinating specimen,” said the Sculptor.

  “That’s very kind,” said Ridmark.

  “Kindness is a meaningless affectation for dark elves,” said the Sculptor, “and a mechanism of self-interest for humans. You have extremely well-developed musculature for a human male of your age, accompanied by high levels of coordination and stamina. Your bones have been thickened by repeated stress impacts, and your reflexes have been conditioned by combat to a high state of readiness. It is likely normal human females would find you a suitable mate, so long as you display appropriate signs of dominance. You also appear to have better than average intelligence for a human, though some of your more questionable decisions would call that into doubt.”

  Ridmark waited for the Sculptor to come to his point and then realized that the dark elven lord had finished talking.

  “Do you begin all your negotiations this way?” said Ridmark.

  Because this was a negotiation, or at least he thought it was. The Sculptor hadn’t tried to kill them, unless he counted the attack at Castra Durius. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the Sculptor wanted access to Calliande, and there was no way in hell Ridmark would let the Sculptor anywhere near her.

  “Negotiation?” said the Sculptor. “I am stating a fact. Humans fail to understand their own nature.”

  “And what is our nature?” said Ridmark.

  “You are machines of meat,” said the Sculptor, “mechanisms of flesh and blood and bone. The nature of a catapult is determined by its gears and timbers. The natures of living creatures are determined by their physical configuration. You have souls, true, but the shape of the souls is determined by the shape of your flesh, rather than the other way around.”

  Ridmark frowned. He had heard that somewhere before, he was sure of it.

  “I suspect we will disagree on many things,” said Ridmark. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Do you know why the other dark elves call me the Sculptor?” said the dark elven lord.

  “The story goes,” said Ridmark, “that you used your dark magic to reshape flesh and blood and bone, working it as a sculptor works clay and marble and metal. According to legend, you created many of the war beasts of the dark elves…”

  “Here we encounter the limits of your flesh,” said the Sculptor. “Legend? To your small mind, perhaps. You have lived only thirty years, the barest instant of time. It is only legend to you because the limitations of your flesh mean you lack the proper perspective. The urvaalgs were one of my first creations. Have you encountered them?”

  “Repeatedly,” said Ridmark. “And I’ve killed them just as often.”

  “But they have persisted for tens of thousands of years,” said the Sculptor with obvious pride. “My design has passed the test of time. Consider the lowly spear. A simple blade of metal affixed to a wooden shaft. It has been unfathomable eons since the first mind conceived of the idea of the first spear. Yet spears are still used on countless worlds to this day, even when far more sophisticated weapons are readily available. And after so many wars and so many millennia, my urvaalgs persist. It is a testament to the success of my design.”

  “You have wrought monsters,” said Third with contempt, “and you take pride in them?”

  “Yes,” said the Sculptor. “I hope that was obvious. You have no doubt encountered my other creatures. The urshanes were a particularly difficult feat of alchemical engineering. I was never completely satisfied with the design, and later created the urhaalgars to cover some of their deficiencies. Perfection, alas, remains ever elusive. In the end, I realized I could only design a creature to serve a specific function, and while the creature would excel at that function, it would be useless at anything else.”

  “I see,” said Ridmark, though he did not. Trying to follow the line of the Sculptor’s thoughts was like trying to track the progress of a maddened rat through a maze. “Then what do you want?”

  “What do I want?” said the Sculptor, as if surprised by the question.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “You’re not talking to me to amuse yourself. There is a reason. What do you want? To rule the world?”

  The Sculptor blinked, and then threw back his head and laughed. The ancient horror standing before Ridmark sounded genuinely amused.

  “Rule the world?” said the Sculptor. “Rule the world? What do you take me for, the Warden?” To Ridmark’s astonishment, the Sculptor drew himself up and started to do a fairly good impression of the Warden. “Yes, I am the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, and I shall rule the world forever and ever with my magnificent empire, only I will accidentally chain myself to the giant soulstone in my citadel. Or I am the Traveler, and I shall hide myself in a muddy forest while impregnating every human female that happens to wander by.” He looked at Third. “Your father was an idiot.”

  “I will not argue,” said Third.

  “The Warden was an idiot,” said the Sculptor. “All of my kindred were idiots except for me.” Petulance entered his annoyed voice. “They wanted to rule the world, and look what that got them. They trusted the shadow of Incariel to give them the world, and now those of us who are left are skulking in caves and ruins and miserable dusty woods like Nightmane Forest. It’s their fault. They should have listened to me.”

  “You…counseled against their path?” said Ridmark.

  “I did,” said the Sculptor. His mouth twisted with contempt. “They were not satisfied with my war beasts. When we summoned the orcs, I modified them to create several improved versions, but still, the proud fools were not satisfied. Then the idiots found the urdmordar and thought they would make perfect soldiers. I warned them against it. The Warden did, and they should have listened to him, too.” He made a dismissive gesture with his armored hand. “We call ourselves dark elven nobles. Have you ever seen a common-born dark elf? No, you have not. Once we were more numerous than the humans and the orcs combined. Now all the others have been slaughtered, and only a few of us linger in ruined strongholds, waiting for oblivion to claim us at last.”

  “You don’t want to rule the world,” said Ridmark. “Fine. Do you want to rule Khald Tormen?”

  The Sculptor scoffed. “Khald Tormen? What would I do with it? The flesh of the dwarves is highly resistant to magical alteration. The best we could do was to create the dvargir, and they never obeyed. I advised killing them all, of course, but as ever the others refused to listen. Khald Tormen would only be useful to me if I killed all the dwarves and populated the city with my own creatures, and there isn’t time for a project of that scale.”

  “Then why make war upon them?” said Ridmark.

  The Sculptor shrugged. “The dwarves are occasionally useful. They are an excellent source of high-quality metal and ores. On occasion, their stonescribes craft useful magical items, and then I steal them. Even if I had time to wipe out the dwarves, doing so would be counterproductive. It would be similar to overhunting a forest and wiping out the prey animals, thereby eliminating a useful source of raw materials.”

  The Sculptor didn’t want to rule the world. He didn’t want to conquer Khald Tormen. He didn’t want to wipe out the dwarves. Then what did he want?

  And Ridmark realized that his first suspicions had been correct.

  “The Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark. “You want the Keeper of Andomhaim.”

  “Ah,” said the Sculptor, looking at the Cutter. “It seems you were correct. He realized the truth quicker than I anticipated.”

  “You did say his intelligence was greater than normal for a human,” said the Cutter.

  “Not that
much greater,” said the Sculptor, his attention returning to Ridmark.

  “Let me guess,” said Ridmark. “You want to steal the Keeper’s power for yourself.”

  “Why?” The Sculptor looked taken back. “I have touched the shadow of Incariel. The power of the Keeper is anathema to me. I might as well drink a goblet of poison. No, I simply wish to ask the Keeper a question.”

  “A question,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes, that is all,” said the Sculptor. “A single question.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “Tell me the question. I will ask it of the Keeper, and return with the answer.”

  “Insufficient,” said the Sculptor. “I must ask the question in person.”

  “Why?” said Ridmark.

  “That is not your concern,” said the Sculptor. “I must ask the question in person, and I must do so in the chamber of the Stone Heart in Khald Tormen.”

  Ridmark doubted the Sculptor would tell him why, because he was certain the Sculptor intended something nefarious.

  “Why ask me?” said Ridmark. “I am not the Keeper.”

  “Because the Keeper is in Khald Tormen,” said the Sculptor, “and as you have no doubt deduced, I am not welcome there. Additionally, it is well known that you are the Keeper’s primary protector. If you approach her with my offer, it is more probable that she will accept.”

  “An offer implies you are going to give us something in return for speaking with the Keeper,” said Ridmark.

  “A logical assessment,” said the Sculptor. “If can ask the Keeper my question in the Stone Heart, I will withdraw my koballats and other creatures and leave the dwarves in peace for the duration of your war with the Frostborn. The dwarves will be free to aid you against the Frostborn, and you shall have achieved your objectives.”

  “Why would you do that?” said Ridmark.

  “I have no further interest in Khald Tormen,” said the Sculptor, “and no further interest in Andomhaim, once the Keeper has answered my question. You, however, have a great deal of interest in both. You cannot help but accept the offer. It is in your nature. Your flesh is made for war, and your mind must always form itself to the shape of your flesh…”