“Thanks,” croaked Ridmark, breathing hard.
Gavin nodded, and Antenora and Ector came up behind him, Third reappearing in a flash of blue fire.
“The Sculptor next?” said Gavin.
“We must aid the Keeper at once,” said Antenora.
“Yes,” said Ridmark. He looked across the Stone Heart to where Calliande and the Sculptor battled. The Keeper and the dark elven lord now only stood twenty yards apart, power snarling back and forth between them in waves of white fire and twisting shadow. Calliande looked on the edge of exhaustion, her arms trembling, both hands grasping the staff of the Keeper. Yet the Sculptor was trembling as well, his face twisted with effort as he flung spells at Calliande.
“Go!” said Ridmark.
###
The Sculptor unleashed a storm of dark magic at Calliande, spells to cripple her mind and wither her flesh. She cast another ward, charging the spell with the fire of the Well and the magic of the Keeper, and again the Sculptor’s attack shattered against her defenses.
The weariness didn’t matter. She ignored it and kept fighting.
Calliande struck back with a spell of elemental earth that made the stone beneath the Sculptor’s boots ripple and fold and a spell of elemental fire fused with the Keeper’s power. The Sculptor’s wards dispersed the attack of earth, and he put all his power into his defenses against the fire. The Keeper’s magic drilled through his wards, the fire reaching for his flesh, but the Sculptor was strong enough to hold against the attack. The power of the Keeper was proof against his defenses, but Calliande did not have the raw power to punch through his wards in a single attack.
Which gave the Sculptor the time he needed to regenerate his defenses, and begin the cycle of their battle all over again.
But before he could strike back, something changed.
A blast of elemental fire hit the Sculptor, his wards sparking and snarling. His head snapped to the side, and Calliande saw Antenora pointing her staff at him, already gathering power for another spell. Gavin, Ector, and Third sprinted at the Sculptor. The dark elven lord’s warding spells kept Third from traveling up behind the Sculptor and cutting his throat as Mara had done to the Traveler outside of Dragonfall.
Ridmark ran with them, staff and axe in hand.
The Sculptor snarled and flung a spell, a howling lance of shadow erupting from his fingers. Gavin stepped forward, raising Truthseeker, and the soulblade shone like a star. The blast of shadow struck him, and the soulblade blazed brighter, deflecting the attack of dark magic. Gavin came to a halt, grimacing as his sword struggled against the dark power, and Ridmark, Third, and Ector kept running.
The Sculptor cast another spell as Calliande drew together her own magic. Power thrummed in the air, and Calliande’s Sight saw that the Sculptor was preparing a massive spell of invisible force, one that would strike hard enough to tear his attackers to bloody mist.
That gave Calliande her own opportunity to attack.
She screamed and flung all her power into a shaft of blazing white fire that tore through the Sculptor’s battered defenses and howled into him. The Sculptor shouted in agony, throwing back his head, and his half-finished spell exploded from him.
Invisible force swept through the chamber, throwing hundreds of koballats and dwarven warriors from their feet. The eruption knocked Ridmark, Third, Gavin, Antenora, and Ector over, and Calliande crossed her arms over her chest, trying to summon power for a warding spell.
She was too slow, and the force flung her to the floor, the breath exploding from her lungs.
###
Ridmark rolled to his feet, his body aching, every inch of his flesh sore.
A stunned silence had fallen over the Stone Heart, but that would not last long. Already the koballats and the dwarven warriors were regaining their feet. Before long the battle would resume.
The Sculptor, however, had not yet recovered.
The dark elven lord stumbled, his blue armor scorched and blackened from Calliande’s attack. The Keeper’s spell had struck him hard, and the Sculptor looked dazed. More than that, the blue glow of his warding spell had vanished. Calliande’s attack had shattered his magical defenses.
Which meant that the Sculptor no longer had any defenses against physical weapons, and Ridmark’s axe of dwarven steel could wound creatures of dark magic.
He sprinted forward, raising his axe in his left hand, and the Sculptor saw him. The dark elven lord raised his left hand, blue fire glimmering around his fingers, but Ridmark was too fast. Ridmark’s axe hit him in the chest. The dark elven armor deflected the blow, but the strike knocked the Sculptor back, and Ridmark went on the attack.
The Sculptor retreated, snarling in fury, his sword raised in guard, and Ridmark pursued him. He might have been exhausted, but the Sculptor was injured. The dark elven lord’s parries were not as crisp as they should have been, his reactions slower, and again and again Ridmark’s axe slipped through the Sculptor’s guard to clip his armor. The hits on his legs made the dark elven lord stumble, and if Ridmark could get him off his feet, he could finish the battle with a blow from his axe.
“Defend me!” thundered the Sculptor, his voice ringing through the chamber. “Defend me now! I command it! I command it!”
Some of the koballats came towards them, but it was too late. Ridmark kept attacking, not letting up, swinging again and again. His tired muscles screamed with effort, but the certainty of impending victory gave him new strength.
He had the Sculptor. He knew it in his bones. The Sculptor was not a wizard of terrible might like the Warden, or a conquering warlord like Mournacht. He was a powerful wizard, yes, but one comfortable in his laboratory, creating horrors to unleash upon the world. The battlefield was not his home.
It had become Ridmark’s.
The Sculptor retreated, and then whirled and fled, sprinting across the expanse of the floor towards an archway below the balconies. Ridmark ran after him, and with a surge of alarm realized that the Sculptor was heading for the Armory of the Kings. None of the dwarven taalkrazdors had entered the fight, but Ridmark had no doubt that the Sculptor would know how to use one. If he came back into the fight wearing a dwarven titan, he might well escape.
Or, worse, he would kill Calliande.
“You bothersome insect!” shouted the Sculptor. “Why could you not have died in Thainkul Morzan?”
“Maybe you misjudged the nature of my flesh!” answered Ridmark.
The Sculptor snarled and ran into the Armory, heading down the center of the gallery and past the rows of silent taalkrazdors in their niches. Halfway through the Armory the Sculptor whirled, hand coming up, and blue fire blazed to life around his armored fingers.
Ridmark threw himself to the side at the last moment, and the blast of invisible force that should have killed him only instead clipped him. It hurt as if he had been struck with a club, but he spun with the motion, using it to drive his staff forward. As he fell, the end of his staff hit the Sculptor in the side of the knee, and this time Ridmark heard the crack of bone. The Sculptor fell to one knee, teeth bared with pain and fury. Ridmark dropped his staff, surged to his feet, gripped the haft of his axe with both hands, and brought the weapon down with all his strength.
The Sculptor screamed, and blue fire burst from his hand, hammering into Ridmark.
The blow that he had aimed for the Sculptor’s head instead slammed into the dark elf’s right shoulder with a crunching noise, blood as black as the void of Incariel bursting from the wound. The Sculptor’s magic slammed into Ridmark, throwing him back and ripping the axe from the wound, the haft still clutched in Ridmark’s hand. He landed a dozen yards away, sliding across the smooth floor of the armory, and for a moment was in too much pain to move.
The Sculptor groaned and fell on his back, black blood dripping across his blue armor.
At last Ridmark forced himself to one knee. He had to keep moving. He had to finish the Sculptor before the dark elven lord recovered.
“Beaten,” spat the Sculptor in contempt, “by a hairless ape!” Then he laughed a little. “A pity indeed humans did not arrive upon our world in ancient days. What splendid war beasts I could have made from your blood.”
Shadows curled around his left hand.
“It’s over,” said Ridmark, heaving himself to his feet. The Armory spun around him, but he forced himself forward, one step at a time.
“Yes,” said the Sculptor. “You have driven me to retreat. The victory is yours.” He smiled. “But you shall not enjoy it for long.”
“We will defeat the Frostborn,” said Ridmark. Just a little further…
The Sculptor’s smile turned into a smirk. “Who said anything about the Frostborn killing you?”
Ridmark stumbled forward in a run, lifting his axe, and the Sculptor raised his hand. Blue fire and shadow swirled around him, and he vanished. It was the same travel spell that he and the Cutter had used to escape from Thainkul Morzan. Belatedly Ridmark realized that was why the Sculptor had fled into the Armory. He had wanted to get far enough away from the Stone Heart to use his travel spell without interference from the giant soulstone.
Ridmark permitted himself one furious curse of frustration.
Still, it could have been worse. They had won the battle. The Sculptor would not be able to take Calliande unawares, not a second time. His koballats and other creatures still fought in the Stone Heart, but the dwarves would triumph. With the threat of the Sculptor removed, the dwarves would be free to march against the Frostborn.
Footsteps rang out behind him, and Ridmark turned as Sir Ector ran into the Armory, koballat blood dripping from his sword.
“Lord magister,” said Ector. “The Sculptor. Did you…”
“Gone,” said Ridmark. “I wounded him, and he fled. I doubt he will risk returning. The dwarves are roused, and Calliande is on her guard.”
The older knight nodded. “Likely he will flee back to his hole in the Deeps and hope the Frostborn never find him.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn will not find him if we defeat them first.” He turned, looking for his staff. “Let’s get back to the Stone Heart. The koballats are still there, and…”
Pain exploded through Ridmark as Ector plunged his sword into the base of his neck, driving the blade down through Ridmark's shoulder and into his left lung.
Chapter 20: False Face
“That,” said Ector in a mild tone, twisting the blade, “was easier than I expected.”
Ridmark shuddered, trying to move, but every breath filled him with terrible burning agony, hot blood filling his throat. All the strength drained from his limbs, and the axe fell from his fingers to clang against the floor. He would have collapsed, but Ector spun him around so they were facing each other, and only his arm kept Ridmark from falling.
“I probably should have done it this way from the beginning,” said Ector. He might have been remarking upon the weather or telling one of his hunting stories to Gavin. “Easiest to get you alone and do it this way. No Camorak, no Calliande, no one to heal you before you bleed out. I would have done it earlier, but you always had Third with you, and the damned freak is vigilant.”
“You,” croaked Ridmark. “You’re Enlightened.”
“Enlightened?” said Ector. He smiled, reached over Ridmark’s shoulder, and twisted the sword again, and Ridmark would have screamed if he could have drawn breath. “I am one of the two people in this world who knows the truth. So, in a sense, I am enlightened. But am I one of the Enlightened of Incariel? Not really. I work with them, yes, but I am far older, and I know the truth while they are only fools.”
“Far older?” said Ridmark.
The Sculptor had murdered Calazon and taken his place…
“You killed Sir Ector,” whispered Ridmark.
“Ah, good,” said Ector. “I was hoping you would figure it out before you died. The pain will be far worse if you discovered out the truth for yourself, and she wanted your death to be a painful one. Yes, I killed Sir Ector Naxius. At Regnum, if you must know, when the dvargir attacked. He is rotting at the bottom of the Moradel, weighed down with bricks in his clothing. That was the entire point of the dvargir attack. I wanted to scatter your party, get one of you alone. I would have preferred the Vhaluuskan orc or the dwarven friar since they were closer to you, but poor Ector Naxius served well enough.”
Ector exploded, his body ripping itself apart in a maze of snarling shadow threads, only to knit itself back into the form of a kindly-looking old man in a white robe.
“I have to admit,” said the Weaver, “that I am very pleased you learned the truth before you died.”
Ridmark tried to fight, tried to scream a warning, but he couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. Black shadows danced at the edges of his vision.
“And now,” said the Weaver, “to repeat the trick with dear Calliande.”
“No,” rasped Ridmark.
“Yes,” said the Weaver in a gentle tone, the voice of a kind priest correcting a wayward child. “I’m quite afraid that everyone in the Stone Heart is going to die in considerable pain. Imaria Shadowbearer gave me a tool to ensure that. Such an odd thing, really. Old Tymandain never found a use for it, but Imaria is a clever girl.” There was a note of almost paternal pride in the soft voice. “She will be very pleased. Maybe I will even arrange the corpses so it looks like Calliande killed King Axazamar. That will cause a mess, eh? The dwarves will declare vengeance against the princeling Arandar. He’s been holding his own against that oaf Tarrabus, but the Three Kingdoms will grind his army like grain upon the miller’s stone. And then when Tarlion is ours, we shall be free from the chains of matter and temporality and causality.”
Ridmark would have spat defiance at him, but every breath filled him with agony, and the effort of breathing felt like lifting a boulder over his head.
“Oh, dear, look at me. I’m talking your life away,” said the Weaver. “Farewell, Ridmark Arban. Think on this in the final second of your life. You failed to save your wife, your lover the wild sorceress, and the Keeper. Three women you loved, and you failed them all. If your precious Dominus Christus does exist, you’ll get to explain to him why you failed so badly.”
He ripped the sword free from Ridmark’s chest, the blade red with blood, and as he did, his left arm exploded into shadow threads, reknitting itself into the heavy forelimb of an ursaar. The Weaver’s punch slammed into Ridmark’s chest, and he soared across the Armory and slammed into the leg of a taalkrazdor.
He felt bones snap in his chest, hit the ground, and knew no more.
###
The Weaver looked at Ridmark. The Gray Knight lay dead in a spreading pool of his own blood.
That had been easier than he had thought.
And such a cruel way to die. Imaria would be pleased.
The Weaver drew on the shadow of Incariel and changed. His body exploded and rebuilt itself, weaving into an exact duplicate of Ridmark Arban, albeit at Ridmark Arban without a fatal wound through his chest.
It was a pity he hadn’t known for certain that he would one day kill Ridmark on the day he had killed Morigna. He would have liked to taunt Morigna with Ridmark’s death. Well, no matter.
He would get to taunt Calliande with it in the final instant of her life before she died, and that would be even sweeter.
The Weaver retrieved Ridmark’s dwarven war axe and clipped it to his belt. He located the Gray Knight’s staff, started to reach for it, and then changed his mind. The weapon wasn’t necessary to complete the disguise, and the Weaver had felt on multiple occasions how the light from the symbols upon his staff repelled the threads of his body. That had caused him considerable pain, and he didn’t want to contemplate what it would feel like if he touched the damned thing directly.
He had something better to carry anyway.
His left arm exploded into threads, and when it reformed itself, the black soulstone rested in his palm.
It
felt icy cold to the touch, yet somehow tense, as if he was holding a coiled spring on the verge of snapping. Shadows roiled and twisted inside the crystal, making him think of ink inside a glass. He had spent centuries around dark magic of tremendous power, but the potency of this thing impressed even him. Tymandain Shadowbearer had created it in an attempt to make a world gate for the Frostborn before the proper conjunction of the moons. The experiment had failed, damaging the soulstone, and Tymandain had wound up having to steal another soulstone from Cathair Solas.
Which, of course, had led the Weaver here.
He smiled and tossed the soulstone to himself, the heavy thing slapping against his hand. The dark power within the stone roiled, rising in response to the shadow of Incariel infused in his flesh. The dark elves had always been fools. They had tried to rule the world, and now they were obsolete relics, lurking in ruins and caverns and gnawing on their bitterness as they brooded over their lost glory.
They were fools. So were the Enlightened. No one could rule the world. What was the point? Better to destroy the world and free mortals from time and matter.
That would start now.
The Weaver strode from the Armory of the Kings, wearing Ridmark’s form, the black soulstone and the death of the Keeper waiting in his hand.
Chapter 21: Void
Calliande got to her feet as Antenora and Gavin helped her to stand.
“Keeper,” said Antenora. “Are you injured?”
“No,” said Calliande. “No, I’m fine.” That wasn’t true, but she could have been worse. “The Sculptor, where’s the Sculptor?”
“I don’t know,” said Gavin.
As far as Calliande could tell, the dwarves were winning the battle. The koballats’ ferocity and mirrored scales gave them an advantage, but she had heard experienced commanders say again and again that discipline and training defeated individual courage, and no one was as disciplined as the dwarven warriors. The Taalmaks of the king’s guard had cleared the space before the dais, and under Narzaxar’s direction they advanced, driving the koballats back.
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 28
