“He might wind up killing thousands,” said Ridmark. “He doesn’t care.”
“It would be impossible for the Sculptor to enter Khald Tormen unopposed,” said Azakhun. “Our defensive wards…”
“He killed Calazon and took his place,” said Ridmark.
The dwarves stared at him in stunned silence.
“How?” said Narzaxar at last.
“Some sort of shapeshifting or illusion spell, I don’t know,” said Ridmark. “He intended to make me an offer, claiming he only wanted to speak with Calliande, but he slipped up and used one of Calazon’s favorite turns of phrase. He transported himself to Khald Tormen with the Cutter, and left his pet urshanes to kill us.” He looked at Camorak. “They would have killed us, if not for you. Thank you.”
Camorak shrugged. “It’s what I’m good at. But thank Sir Gavin and Kharlacht. They brought you back.”
“Thank you, all three of you,” said Third. Camorak, Gavin, and Kharlacht offered her brief bows.
“We must make haste,” said Ridmark. “The longer we wait, the longer the Sculptor has to work mischief.”
“Then all of this,” said Narzaxar, “the koballats, the attacks, all of it…the Sculptor arranged it so that he can take the Keeper’s power for himself?”
“He doesn’t care about her power,” said Ridmark. “He doesn’t care about Khald Tormen. All he cares about is his own survival. He thinks the triumph of the Frostborn is inevitable, and he wants to escape to another world before they find him. He’ll kill Calliande to do it, and he’ll destroy Khald Tormen in the process.”
“He shall not,” growled Narzaxar. “Azakhun! We leave at once.”
The dwarves exploded into motion. Sir Ector stared at Ridmark in surprise, nodded, and then shouted orders to his men-at-arms, who began preparing for departure.
“You should rest,” said Camorak.
“No,” said Ridmark.
He would not rest. Not while Calliande was in danger.
And if it happened to get him killed…well, so long as Calliande was safe, he did not care.
###
The Weaver contemplated the new developments.
It seemed likely that the Sculptor would kill both Ridmark Arban and the Keeper Calliande for him. The Weaver didn’t have to lift a finger. All he had to do was let the Sculptor’s plan take its course, and Ridmark and Calliande would die. Thousands of dwarves would perish as well, of course, but that was of no importance.
The dwarves would all die anyway when they were freed from time and matter.
Imaria would be disappointed that the Weaver had not killed her enemies personally, but that was all right. She was now the Shadowbearer, and she was wise enough to realize that results mattered more than methods.
And it would be marvelously cruel if Ridmark returned to Khald Tormen and found Calliande dead. He already blamed himself for the deaths of Aelia and Morigna, and it would amuse the Weaver to no end if the meddlesome Gray Knight blamed himself for the death of a third woman he had loved.
And then the Weaver would kill him.
But it didn’t seem like he would have to do anything.
Both Ridmark Arban and Calliande were heading to their deaths at the hands of the Sculptor.
Chapter 18: Always The Interruptions
Ridmark and the others outpaced the rest of Narzaxar’s warriors.
It was necessary. The dwarven warriors could march in haste, but two days would be too long. Ridmark could make better speed, and he did, driving himself hard. Third accompanied him, flickering ahead to check for enemies. Gavin, Camorak, Kharlacht, and Caius kept pace with Ridmark. They had traveled with him in haste before, and they knew what was required.
Sir Ector came as well.
“The Dux told me to escort the Keeper to the courts of the manetaurs and the dwarves and back again,” said the weathered knight, “and I shall be damned if I fail now.” His men-at-arms remained behind with the main dwarven column, and Ector made good time, moving with the speed of a veteran hunter.
And to Ridmark’s surprise, Prince Narzaxar insisted on coming, leaving Azakhun in command of the column of warriors.
“You will need me,” said the old dwarf. “If you return without me, you will be questioned and that will cost valuable time. My authority will get us to the Stone Heart at once.”
Ridmark didn’t argue. In truth, he doubted he could have changed the prince’s mind. Ridmark feared the old dwarf would slow them down, but that fear proved unfounded. Narzaxar kept up, despite his age and his armor.
They hastened through the tunnels, moving as fast as they could. From time to they stopped to rest, but they never for long. Ridmark would not allow it. Dread gnawed at his heart, giving him the will to push on despite his exhaustion and the lingering pain from the venom. Camorak had healed him, but the Magistrius said that it would take some time for all the effects of the venom to pass.
Ridmark did not care.
The fate of tens of thousands of dwarves was at stake. If the Sculptor destroyed the Stone Heart and escaped, the dwarves of Khald Tormen would be in no position to join the alliance against the Frostborn, and they might not even have the desire to do so. Without the help of the dwarves, the Anathgrimm and the manetaurs would fall to the might of the Frostborn. Without Calliande, Tarrabus would likely hold onto at least half of Andomhaim, and he might defeat Arandar and seize the entirety of the realm for himself, twisting the High Kingdom to the worship of the shadow of Incariel.
All that weighed upon Ridmark. He knew he should have cared about it more.
Instead, the fear for Calliande tore at him, made him ignore his pain and fatigue, made him drive his companions onwards. Not that they needed much urging. They, too, knew what was at stake.
The passed through the Silent Gallery, passing over the buried kobolds and the wreckage of the rockfall.
###
The two days after Calliande’s capture passed in a haze of pain and fear.
The Sculptor did not bother to provide her with food. A pair of urshanes watched over her, and brought her water from time to time.
She tried to talk to the Sculptor as he labored on his spells. Most of the time he ignored her. Occasionally he answered her with a rambling monologue about how the other dark elves had failed to heed his excellent advice and underappreciated the brilliance of his creations, which explained why he was still alive and they were all dead.
Sometimes he got annoyed and activated her restraints, and the pain made her pass out.
Other times she tried to summon power, and the pain sent her into unconsciousness.
The seventh time the pain made her pass out, Calliande found herself in a dream.
She lay upon a slab of stone in a gloomy underground vault, the only illumination coming from a faint blue light near the stairs. Calliande sat up, the rags of a crumbling green dress clinging to her, her skin chilled. She knew this place. It was the vault below the Tower of Vigilance where she had gone into the long sleep to await the return of the Frostborn. She remembered Marius and Kalomarus taking her here, closing the door behind her while she sank into the magical sleep. She also remembered waking up two centuries later, her memories and her powers gone. The Order of the Vigilant was supposed to have been awaiting her, but Tymandain Shadowbearer’s plots had destroyed them, and he had been waiting outside to kill her.
What a fool she had been.
Calliande supposed that the vault had been destroyed along with the Tower of Vigilance. The Frostborn controlled Black Mountain and the area around it. Or maybe the Frostborn and their khaldjari slaves had rebuilt the Tower of Vigilance, remaking it in their own image as a fortress of ice and stone.
She pushed away from the slab and stood. A wave of searing pain went through her, and Calliande staggered with a gasp, going to one knee.
“Truly, I never knew you were so feeble.”
Calliande looked to the side.
Morigna leaned against the wall, arms
folded across her chest, her tattered cloak hanging from her shoulders. Her dark eyes glinted in the pale light.
“What?” said Calliande.
The pain throbbed through her head and down her spine.
“The great Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Morigna, her voice mocking. “The woman who led the nations to victory against the Frostborn the first time. The legend that Tymandain Shadowbearer spent centuries trying to kill. The mighty Keeper…and you are reduced to helplessness by a little pain.”
Calliande gritted her teeth, fighting back the angry words that threatened to erupt from her tongue.
“Truly, I had no idea you would be so easily defeated,” said Morigna. “A little pain and you collapse into a pile of quivering jelly.”
“A little pain?” said Calliande. “I don’t know if you’re my memories speaking to me, or if the spirit of Morigna has truly been visiting me. Either way, you are just as truculent as you were in life.”
“Thank you,” said Morigna. “But you merely prove my point. All the world and everything you love are at stake, and a little pain reduces you to uselessness…”
“For God’s sake!” said Calliande, her temper snapping at last. “You’re going to lecture me about pain? You? What do you know about pain? I’ve spent my entire life in war. I’ve seen more friends than you ever had die in battle. I gave up everything I ever knew and loved when I went into the long sleep. I loved Ridmark, and I stepped aside for you. And there is new pain every time I heal someone, every single time, every single sword and spear and arrow wound. What do you possibly know about pain?”
“Not as much as you, evidently,” said Morigna, “but I am acquainted with the concept. The dvargir murdered my parents in front of me. I saw the first man I loved killed by an urvaalg. I had my throat torn out.”
“Yes,” said Calliande. “Yes, yes, you’re right.” She rubbed her hands against her aching head. “That was harsh of me. Forgive me. I…”
“Do not waste time apologizing to the dead,” said Morigna. “Instead think of another matter. How will you escape?”
“I can’t,” said Calliande. “Every time I try to summon power, the Sculptor’s damned chains fill me with so much pain that I lose the spell, stop breathing, and pass out.”
“That does not answer the question,” said Morigna. “How will you escape?”
“I don’t know,” said Calliande.
“You need to escape,” said Morigna. “Ridmark is rushing to his death, and he needs you to save him.”
“He might already be dead,” said Calliande, some of the familiar dread trickling through the pain.
Morigna scoffed. “Aye, because a dark elven lord is so enamored of speaking the truth. Surely he is not lying to you to keep you docile.”
Calliande nodded. She wanted to believe that Morigna was right. She had to believe that Morigna was right.
“Since you are so well-acquainted with pain,” said Morigna, “you should not let that stop you.”
“It’s not a question of pain,” said Calliande. “The pain is bad enough that I can’t breathe, and if I try to push through it, I black out. I can’t hold on long enough to attack the Sculptor before I pass out.”
“You would need all your power to attack the Sculptor, yes,” said Morigna. “He is a dark elven lord. But surely there are other things to attack than the Sculptor, things that would require far less power.”
“What do you mean?” said Calliande.
Morigna smirked, and the dream dissolved into nothingness.
###
Calliande awoke, her head resting on the cold floor. After a moment, she managed to sit up with a grunt, the chains of black dvargir steel clanking.
The hall was empty save for her, the Sculptor, and Antenora within the imprisoning cylinder of blue light. The dark elven lord had brought several urshanes and koballats with him to Khald Tormen, and from time to time they entered the room, and he stopped his work long to give them commands. A huge maze of sigils blazed in blue fire above the table, pulsing with dark magic. Calliande recognized the spell to create a world gate. As powerful as it was, it needed even greater power to activate.
She supposed that her own magic and the power of the Stone Heart would supply that force.
For the moment, no one paid any attention her. The Sculptor’s full attention was upon his work, and none of his creatures were in the room to watch her. If she was going to act, it would have to be soon.
But how? Whenever she tried to summon her power to attack the Sculptor, the agony from her shackles overwhelmed her.
Something scratched at her mind.
What had Morigna said? There were things to attack other than the Sculptor?
There was the imprisoning spell around Antenora, and the black chains themselves. Both would require relatively little power to dispel, and their magic could not stand against the wrath of the Keeper’s mantle. No magic of this world could resist the magic of the Keeper. Calliande lacked the skill of the Sculptor or the raw power of the Warden, but given enough time, the Keeper’s power could shatter any of their spells.
Another thought occurred to Calliande. She had been summoning her full power to break the chains. But what if she had been wrong? What if she needed only a smaller amount of power? And what if the pain was proportional? If she drew on her full power, the shackles filled her with agony. If she drew on a smaller amount of power, would the pain lessen?
There was only one way to find out.
Calliande took several deep breaths, clearing her mind, and drew on the smallest amount of magic that she could manage.
At once pain flooded through her, a searing bolt of agony between her eyes.
It felt as if a nail had been driven into her forehead.
Yet it wasn’t as bad as when she tried to draw upon her full magical strength. The pain was awful, but she had endured worse when healing the wounds of injured men. It was a massive effort, but Calliande found she could hold the trickle of the Keeper’s power, and she could still breathe.
The Sculptor continued his work.
Calliande turned her attention to the shackles, drawing upon the Sight. With it she saw the titanic forces the Sculptor was preparing, the imprisoning spell holding Antenora frozen like a fly in amber, and the power radiating from the Stone Heart outside of the stone door.
She also saw the dark magic bound within the chains, spells of pain and torment, the cunning work of the cruel dvargir shadowscribes.
Calliande worked a spell of dispelling, directing the power of the Keeper against the dark magic of the chains. The shackles shivered against her skin, and her Sight saw the white fire of her power chew into the black metal. The cords of dark power within them began to shrivel, unable to resist the power of the Keeper’s mantle.
But slowly, slowly.
Calliande gritted her teeth, ignoring the ache in her jaw and the stabbing pain in her head. Sweat poured down her face from the effort. She would have to work slowly, chipping away at the spells. If she pushed too fast or too hard, the Sculptor would notice.
The pain grew worse as she worked. Calliande wondered if she could hold her concentration long enough.
She dared not fail, not when there was so much at stake.
###
They passed through the inner Gate of the Deeps.
Ridmark saw no signs of alarm, at least not yet. The guards remained vigilant at the outer defenses of Khald Tormen, watching for any sign of attack from the Sculptor or any of the dwarves’ other foes. Because of the threat from the Sculptor, four taalkrazdors patrolled the Hall of the Deeps, ready to rush into battle. The floor of the Hall trembled as the massive suits of magical armor strode back and forth, guided by the dwarves encased within their fortified cuirasses.
There was no sign of alarm, but Ridmark knew that would not last.
“Where is the King?” demanded Narzaxar to the Taalkaz of the Gate, the dwarven noble in command of this portion of the city's defenses.
> The armored Taalkaz shrugged. “As far as I know he is at the Stone Heart, Lord Taalkhan. I believe the Keeper and her apprentice are attending him, planning for a campaign against the Frostborn.”
“You have messengers here?” said Narzaxar.
“Of course.”
“Send word at once,” said Narzaxar. “Khald Tormen is under attack. The Sculptor murdered the stonescribe Calazon and used his magic to impersonate him. The enemy has been with us the entire time. The King’s life is threatened.”
“Lord Taalkhan,” said the Taalkaz, shocked. “Shall I sound…”
“Yes,” said Narzaxar. “Sound the alarm. Let all Khald Tormen be roused.”
The Taalkaz seized a horn and blew a long blast, the wail so loud that it made Ridmark’s ears hurt. Before the echoes died away, the sound of another horn rose from the gallery beyond, and then another, the noise ringing through the vast stone maze of the city.
Khald Tormen was awakening itself for war.
“We have to hurry,” said Ridmark. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a week, but he dared not stop. “If the Sculptor realizes something is amiss, he will act.”
“Yes,” said Narzaxar. “This way. It is the quickest path to the Stone Heart.”
They ran down the gallery, the sound of rousing warriors ringing through the Hall of the Deeps.
###
Blackness fluttered at the edges of Calliande’s vision.
The pain in her head had become colossal, and it felt as if a bar of hot steel had been stabbed through her skull and down her spine. Her entire body screamed with the pain, but she held on, focusing her will upon the shackles as she wielded her spell of dispelling.
It was working. The spells upon the dvargir manacles were unraveling strand by strand. Just a little more, Calliande thought, just a little more and the entire thing would collapse.
Then she would be free to confront the Sculptor.
Unless the Sculptor finished his work and killed her first.
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 25
