“From?”
“The Frostborn,” said the Sculptor. “They are stronger than any other force in this world. Their victory is inevitable, and no power can oppose them.”
“No,” said Calliande. “We will drive them back, and we will close their world gate. We did so once before.”
“A stroke of luck,” said the Sculptor. “For that matter, the realm of Andomhaim and the Two Orders were stronger in those years. Weakened by civil war, Andomhaim is no match for the Frostborn, not even with the allies you have recruited. No, it is time to escape this world and leave you to your fate.”
“Escape?” said Calliande. “Wait. You’re…going to try to open a world gate, aren’t you? You want my power for that, just as Tymandain Shadowbearer attempted to use me to open a world gate on the day of the great omen.”
“Precisely,” said the Sculptor, turning back to the array of glowing sigils.
“You can’t,” said Calliande. “You need an empty soulstone.”
“A soulstone of considerable power is just outside that door,” said the Sculptor.
“The Stone Heart?” said Calliande. “It already has power within it. If you try to add my power to that…it might allow you to open a weak world gate. Maybe.”
“I only require a weak world gate,” said the Sculptor. “Enough to allow me to escape. Anything else is of no consequence.”
“But there is already magic within the Stone Heart,” said Calliande. “If you add my power to that, it might explode. It could kill tens of thousands of dwarves.”
“By then,” said the Sculptor, “I shall have escaped. Anything else is of no consequence.”
“Master,” said the Cutter. “We have been absent for several hours. Soon the khaldari will realize that the Keeper has disappeared.”
“Mmm,” said the Sculptor. “Bother. Very well.” He pointed at the two urshanes. “Proceed.”
The urshanes strode around the table, claws clicking against the floor, and their forms blurred and rippled. One became a perfect duplicate of Antenora, with the same black coat and trousers and boots, the same gaunt, gray features and yellow eyes, a black staff in hand.
The second urshane became a perfect duplicate of Calliande, wearing her gold-trimmed green gown, the staff of the Keeper in her hand and a bronze diadem upon her blond hair. The Cutter shimmered, and this time she took the form of Calazon.
“Go,” said the Sculptor. “It is necessary to maintain this charade for,” he glanced at the glowing symbols, “another three days at most. Then the spells shall be properly aligned, and I can harvest the Keeper’s power to open the gate.” He pointed at the Cutter. “Return every six hours with a report. I doubt the dwarves shall become suspicious, but if they do, I will need to act.”
“It shall be as you command, master,” said the Cutter in Calazon’s voice. The urdhracos and the urshanes departed, vanishing into the Stone Heart.
“This is madness,” said Calliande. “You cannot succeed.”
“I am saner than many of my kindred,” said the Sculptor.
“The spell won’t work,” said Calliande.
“It will,” said the Sculptor. “I was there when the first world gate was opened. I know how they work, and how to make them. You shouldn’t protest so much, Keeper. It is entirely possible the spell will not kill you. It might leave you a drooling vegetable, true, but it might not kill you.”
“Hardly reassuring,” said Calliande. “The dwarves will notice and stop you.”
“The dwarves failed to notice when I killed Calazon and took his place,” said the Sculptor. “Their flesh is not suited to ferreting out secrets.”
“Ridmark will stop you,” said Calliande, grasping for hope. “You said three days? He will be back in two. He will realize what has happened, and he will stop you.”
“Ridmark Arban,” said the Sculptor, casting a spell into the sigils, “is dead.”
“No,” said Calliande.
“Yes,” said the Sculptor. “A few hours ago I was in Thainkul Morzan, waiting for him. I made him a reasonable offer. Access to you in exchange for leaving Thainkul Morzan to the dwarves. Unfortunately, the nature of his flesh dictated that he refuse. To punish him for his impudence, I bade my urshanes to take the form of his dead lovers, and they tore him and Third to pieces.”
“No,” spat Calliande.
“Your denial is a predictable emotional response, given your obvious desire to mate with him,” said the Sculptor, “but in the end, you will realize the truth. Or perhaps you will die before you do. It is of no consequence.”
Rage thundered through Calliande. She had been a fool. All this time, the Sculptor had been hiding under her nose, patiently constructing his trap, and she had walked right into it. God and the saints, she had been a fool! And because she had been a fool, thousands of dwarves might die…and the Frostborn might well prevail.
And Ridmark might be dead.
Calliande snarled and drew on as much magic as she could hold, intending to blast the Sculptor where he stood. The manacles and collar blazed with pain, and she gritted her teeth, trying to grip the power through the agony.
It was too much. The pain exploded through her, making it impossible to breathe, and Calliande blacked out again.
The last thing she heard was the Sculptor complaining to himself as he worked.
Chapter 17: Tricked
Gavin raced up the stairs to the roof, leading with his shield, Kharlacht following him.
Nothing attacked, and he lowered his shield and looked around.
Dead urshanes littered the rooftop, nearly a dozen of them, their bodies leaking black slime from sword and axe wounds, their heads and throats crushed by the blows of Ridmark’s staff. More urshanes had fallen from the rooftop during the fighting and lay dead upon the streets below. Two dead urvaalgs lay amidst the urshanes, one dead from axe wounds, the other from sword blows.
Third lay upon her face, not moving. Ridmark had fallen next to her, his eyes closed, staff and axe lying nearby. Neither one of them looked badly hurt, though Gavin saw claw marks on them.
Then he saw the blood dripping from their puncture wounds.
“Urshane poison,” said Gavin.
“Can you heal them?” said Kharlacht.
“I…I don’t know,” said Gavin. Truthseeker granted him some healing power, but he was nowhere near as good as Calliande or Camorak. Should he try to heal Ridmark or Third first? Ridmark would have insisted on Third, but Third had the superhuman resilience and stamina of her dark elven blood, and Ridmark did not.
Gavin went to one knee next to Ridmark, dropped his dwarven shield, and placed his free hand upon the Gray Knight’s forehead, the other hand grasping Truthseeker’s hilt. He drew on his link to the soulblade and called its magic, willing the power to heal Ridmark’s wounds.
It worked a little. Some of the puncture wounds shrank, while some of the claw wounds grew less severe. Yet Gavin felt something vast and strong resisting his efforts. It was like trying to push a boulder up a muddy slope. No matter how hard Gavin pushed, he could not get traction.
“I can’t,” he croaked, releasing his hand from Ridmark’s forehead. “The venom’s too strong. We need Camorak.”
Kharlacht nodded, sheathing his greatsword. “We shall have to carry them. I will take the Gray Knight. You take Lady Third.”
“No,” said Gavin, grabbing Ridmark’s weapons and returning them to the Gray Knight’s belt and harness. “I can use Truthseeker for strength. You take Third.”
“Very well,” said Kharlacht. He picked up the half-dark elven woman, slinging her across his shoulders like a sack of wheat, and he staggered a step. “Heavier than she looks.”
Gavin sheathed Truthseeker, drew upon the sword’s power for strength, and then picked up Ridmark.
As it turned out, Ridmark both looked heavy and was heavier than he looked. Gavin grunted, caught his balance, and nodded.
“Go,” he said.
They m
oved as fast as they could through the ruins, heading for the stairs back to the courtyard. After a few moments, Gavin’s shoulders and knees started to burn with the strain, but he kept running. Kharlacht showed no sign of discomfort, though his massive chest rose and fell like a smith’s bellows, and he didn’t even have a soulblade to augment his strength. Gavin resolved to do no worse.
He realized that if they were attacked, that if more of the urshanes or more of the urvaalgs appeared, they would be in trouble.
Fortunately, no more foes appeared. It seemed that between the four of them, they had dispatched all the creatures of dark magic that had lurked in Thainkul Morzan. Gavin wondered why the Sculptor had left such a small force to hold Thainkul Morzan, and then the entirety of his attention had to focus on his breathing and his straining arms and shoulders.
They scaled the stairs to the courtyard. Gavin heard shouts from above and glimpsed Sir Ector and Malzuraxis standing at the edge of the parapet. A dozen dwarven warriors rushed down the stairs. With relief, Gavin handed Ridmark over to them, and four dwarves lifted the Gray Knight, while two more carried Third. Together they ran up to the courtyard, and the dwarven warriors laid Ridmark and Third upon the ground.
“What happened?” said Narzaxar. “Are they dead?”
“No,” said Gavin, trying to catch his breath. “Poisoned. Camorak, we need Camorak…”
“I’m here,” said Camorak, joining them with Caius in tow. “Injuries?”
“Urshanes,” said Kharlacht. “They poisoned him.”
“Hell,” said Camorak. “Urshane poison always hurts.”
“Can you cure them?” said Gavin.
“Probably,” said Camorak, white fire flaring around his hands as he flexed his fingers, taking deep breaths to prepare himself for the ordeal to come. “The urshane poison attacks the brain and the nerves, inducing insanity and madness. Eventually, there’s not enough left of the mind to keep the heart beating. Nasty stuff.”
“Did you see what happened?” said Narzaxar.
Gavin shook his head. “Not entirely. Kharlacht and I were on the other side of the cavern. We saw Ridmark and Third fighting urshanes wearing the form of Morigna and some other woman I didn’t know. Ridmark’s wife, I think, Sir Constantine’s sister. When we found Ridmark and Third, they were unconscious, but they had killed all the urshanes and two urvaalgs.”
“Two urvaalgs?” said Narzaxar, astonished. “By themselves! How many urshanes?”
“At least twelve,” said Kharlacht. “Perhaps more. We had to return in haste before we could make an accurate account.”
“Gods of stone and silence,” said Narzaxar. “That is astonishing.”
“I told you that the lord magister was a fell warrior,” said Azakhun.
“True,” said Narzaxar. “He did slay Mournacht of Kothluusk, after all, and Mournacht was a threat to even Khald Tormen.” He lifted his helm and dropped the faceplate, its image wrought in a scowling, bearded dwarf, and touched a glyph on the side. For a moment, a dozen glyphs burned around the crown of the helmet and then went dark.
“What was that?” said Gavin.
“A spell of the stonescribes,” said Narzaxar. “It would have revealed if you or your companions were urshanes.”
“Urshanes?” said Gavin, baffled, and then his brain caught up to him. That was exactly the sort of cunning game the urshanes would have enjoyed, killing him and Kharlacht and rejoining the dwarves with false faces to cause mischief.
“Unfortunately, the glyph of sensing only works once a day,” said Narzaxar. “Evidently the power needs to recharge. Taalmak Azakhun, set guards at the head of the stairs. If anyone else emerges from the ruins, question them.”
Azakhun nodded and gave the orders. Gavin watched as Camorak moved back and forth between Ridmark and Third, a massive scowl on his face.
“Can you help them?” said Caius.
“Aye,” said Camorak. “They might not wake up for a while, though. Venom is always tricky, and urshane venom is trickiest of all. God and the apostles, this is going to hurt.” He took a deep breath, put his hands on Third’s temples, and white fire blazed from his fingers and flowed into her. Camorak went rigid, the cords in his neck standing out, his teeth grinding together, his eyes screwed shut. The white fire blazed brighter, and then it went out. Camorak straightened up, panting, sweat pouring down his face.
Third lay unconscious upon the ground. She looked as if she was sleeping peacefully, and the claw marks and the puncture wounds had vanished. She was so formidable in battle that it was odd to see her look vulnerable.
“Damn it,” croaked Camorak. “Lord Prince, do you have any more of that dwarven whiskey?”
“I am afraid not,” said Narzaxar. “We only drink it before battle.”
“Pity,” said Camorak. “That hurt. Too bad I can’t do it drunk. Well, damn it, better get this over with.”
He summoned the white fire of his magic again and put his hands on Ridmark’s temples. Camorak went rigid, trembling with the effort of the spell, and white fire washed over Ridmark. When it cleared, the puncture and claws wounds had vanished.
“When we get back,” said Camorak, “I want an entire barrel of whiskey.”
“Are they healed?” said Gavin.
“Aye,” said Camorak. “They are. But with urshane venom…” He sighed and shrugged. “We’ll see if they wake up or not.”
###
Ridmark walked through a twisting, shifting landscape, the world changing around him with every step.
He stood in the great hall of Castra Marcaine, the tiles of white and black clicking beneath his boots. Aelia lay upon the floor in her own blood, but she grinned up at him, laughing. She reached up and ripped away her face, revealing the fanged mouth of an urshane laughing at him.
Another step and he found himself in the great hall of Dun Licinia. The town burned around him, the flames filling the night even as the smell of smoke and soot filled his nostrils. Morigna lay on the floor where Imaria and the Weaver had left her, her throat torn, her black eyes staring at nothing. Yet she grinned at him and removed her face to reveal an urshane’s yellow eyes and deadly fangs.
“You had better be careful, my love,” said Morigna’s voice.
Ridmark turned.
Now he stood in the Stone Heart, the vast chamber wavering and flickering around him. The great soulstone stood on its stone plinth, surrounded by a pool of molten fire. The soulstone itself shone with a burning glow. The chamber was empty, save for Calliande, who lay dead before the throne of the King of Khald Tormen, her beautiful face twisted with fear and horror.
“Better be careful,” said Morigna, walking next to him. “False faces everywhere. The Sculptor enjoys his games, and he is very good at them. You are playing one, though you know it not.”
Ridmark hurried towards Calliande, his boots ringing like hammer falls. The scene shifted and changed as he hastened towards Calliande. One moment she wore the green gown she favored. The next she lay naked upon the altar of Black Mountain. The instant after that she looked as she did when the Warden’s malign spirit had inhabited her flesh, her eyes filled with the void, blue fire crackling around her fingers.
“False faces,” said Morigna. “You have put your trust in the wrong place. Do you not see, my love? He is hunting you. He has always been hunting you. The Sculptor has his game, but he has his own game. Simpler, but deadlier by far.”
Ridmark looked down at Calliande, her form blurring and shifting through his memories. He had failed her. He hadn’t returned in time, and the Sculptor had killed her.
“False faces,” whispered Morigna in his ear.
Calliande’s corpse exploded in a snarling maze of black threads.
Ridmark raised his staff, but it was too late.
The Weaver’s battle form knitted itself together out of the threads, and slammed into Ridmark, driving him to the ground as the jaws closed around his throat.
###
Ridmark
’s eyes jerked open.
The rocky ceiling of Thainkul Morzan’s cavern arched far overhead, and he felt the cold, clammy air of the Deeps around him. He sat up in a panic, reaching for his weapons.
“No, don’t sit up so fast,” said Camorak. “You’ll…”
Ridmark’s stomach heaved, and he leaned to the side and vomited for a painful moment, leaving something black and glistening spattered across the ground.
“Pop,” said Camorak, squatting next to Ridmark. The Magistrius looked tired as if he had just completed a heavy labor. Ridmark looked around in confusion and saw that he was in the courtyard below the outer wall. “The magic of the Well made the urshane venom inert, but it’s still foreign to your body, and it collected in your stomach. So…” He grimaced and made a gesture at the black puddle.
“Third,” said Ridmark, trying to think through the haze in his head. “Where’s Third? She was with me, the urshanes…”
“I am here, lord magister,” said Third, her voice a raw croak. She sat a few yards away, blinking her black eyes. “I just woke up. We have to warn…”
“I know,” said Ridmark, heaving himself to his feet with the aid of his staff. He wobbled a bit, his head spinning, his stomach churning, but he kept his balance. “We have to go now. We might be too late already.”
“You need to rest,” said Camorak. “Before we go anywhere. The dwarves need to fortify this cave anyway. Another day…”
“Another day will be too late,” said Ridmark, walking towards Narzaxar. His entire body ached, but he could have felt worse. After all, he ought to have been dead. “I saw the Sculptor.”
Despite dwarven stoicism, Narzaxar stiffened. “Here?”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “He was waiting for us. For me, specifically. He wants Calliande. He’s convinced the Frostborn are going to conquer the world and he wants to escape. He’s going to murder her and use her magic to open a world gate with the Stone Heart.”
“That is impossible,” said Narzaxar. “The magic of the Heart powers many of our stonescribes’ defensive glyphs. If he tampered with that…”
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 24
