But the Sculptor had vanished. Her spell had injured him, and perhaps even hurt him badly. But she knew the dark elven lord would have the power to heal his wounds, and he might recover and return to the battle.
Calliande had to finish this fight, and she had to finish it now. The Sculptor could not escape from Khald Tormen. If she killed him, she would remove a grave threat to the dwarves and bring justice to a man who had the blood of thousands on his hands. If the Sculptor was defeated, the dwarves would be free to join the alliance against the Frostborn.
But there was no sign of him or of Ridmark.
“The Sight,” said Calliande. “Try to find the Sculptor. We have to finish him while he’s wounded.”
Antenora nodded, and Calliande drew upon the Sight, slipping into the light trance she used when employing the Sight’s power. Her Sight swept through the Stone Heart, and the barrage of sensations almost overwhelmed her. The Stone Heart burned with power. The glyphs upon the armor and shields of the Taalmaks blazed before her Sight, as did the white fire of Gavin’s soulblade and the ancient wards ringing the chamber itself. The Sight threatened to overwhelm her, but she forced aside the vertigo and sought for sources of dark magic.
At once, she saw a source of dark magic.
It was coming towards her, something infused with the shadow of Incariel.
She didn’t think it was the Sculptor, but something else.
###
Gavin hurried through the chamber, seeking for Ridmark and the Sculptor.
A koballat lunged at him, and Gavin raised his shield, catching its claws on the dwarven steel. The creature overbalanced, and Gavin killed it with a quick thrust from Truthseeker. He stepped back, preparing for another attack, but there were no other koballats nearby. Most of the remaining koballats were trying to attack the king’s guard, and the dwarves were winning. He thought about aiding the dwarves but decided to find the Sculptor instead. The dwarves could kill the koballats without his assistance, but their weapons could not penetrate the Sculptor’s defensive spells. Save for Calliande’s magic, Gavin carried the only weapon that could kill the Sculptor.
Gavin kept running, looking back and forth, and then Truthseeker jolted in his hand, burning hotter as it responded to dark magic.
He looked for the Sculptor and instead saw Ridmark running towards him. The Gray Knight’s face was grim, his axe at his belt, and in his left hand he held…
“What is that?” said Gavin.
It looked like a soulstone. In fact, it looked almost identical to the soulstone Calliande had carried and that Imaria had used to open the world gate. It was the same shape and size, but Calliande’s soulstone had been a milky color.
This soulstone was black.
It was the same color as the void that had filled the Sculptor’s eyes, the same color as the dark magic that Tymandain Shadowbearer and Imaria wielded. It was not a solid black, but the shadow twisted and writhed within the stone as if it was held under pressure.
“A problem,” said Ridmark. There was something odd in his expression, something almost like amusement.
“Where is the Sculptor?” said Gavin.
“Gone,” said Ridmark. “I wounded him, and he transported himself away.” He shook his head. “He killed Sir Ector in the Armory of the Kings before I could stop him.”
Gavin was stunned. Sir Ector was the veteran of many battles. He knew that anyone could fall in a fight, but he hadn’t thought it would be Ector Naxius.
“The Sculptor left this thing behind, whatever the hell it is,” said Ridmark. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s dangerous.”
“Obviously,” said Gavin, watching Ridmark. There was something off about him. He seemed eager, almost anticipatory.
“We’ve got to get it to the Keeper at once,” said Ridmark. “I think it’s a trap that the Sculptor left for us. If anyone knows how to deal with it, the Keeper will.”
“Yes,” said Gavin, pushing aside his uneasiness. Ridmark was right. “She’s this way.”
###
“Keeper,” said Antenora.
Calliande saw the source of dark magic draw nearer, like a shadow falling over the sun. She released the Sight, looking through her eyes of flesh, and saw Ridmark and Gavin hurrying closer. Gavin’s soulblade burned like molten metal in his fist, reacting to the source of dark magic.
The dark magic that Ridmark carried in his left hand.
Relief flooded through her when she saw that he was alive and unharmed, but the relief turned to alarm.
The thing he was holding was powerful enough to kill every living thing in the Stone Heart.
“Lord magister,” said Third, frowning. Calliande hadn’t heard her return. “What is that?”
“Dangerous,” said Ridmark.
“It is a soulstone,” said Calliande, drawing on the Sight. She saw the darkness roiling within the stone, cold and fell and mighty. “It’s been damaged. And it’s not holding magical power. It’s filled with the shadow of Incariel.” A shiver went down her spine. “A great deal of that shadow.”
“I don’t know what it is,” said Ridmark, and he smiled at her. Calliande blinked in surprise. He hardly ever smiled, and never in circumstances like this. “But the Sculptor is defeated. I dealt him a wound, and he was forced to transport himself away. When he did, he dropped this thing.” He stopped a half-dozen yards away, still smiling, the soulstone writhing in his hand like a fistful of shadows. “Thought it best to bring it to you. The Keeper will know what to do.”
“That thing is dangerous,” said Calliande, frowning. “It’s so full of the shadow of Incariel that it will kill anyone who touches it. Put it down and…”
Something occurred to her.
The twisted soulstone should have killed anyone it touched, and Ridmark was holding it with his left hand. Only a powerful Magistrius would have been strong enough to hold it without injury, and Ridmark wasn’t a Magistrius. One of the Enlightened of Incariel could have handled it without harm, but Ridmark wasn’t one of the Enlightened, either.
Which meant that the man standing before her wasn’t Ridmark Arban.
The Sculptor had killed Calazon and taken his place. Had he done the same to Ridmark?
Calliande thrust her hand and cast a spell, and a shaft of white fire ripped from her hand. The fire would not harm a mortal, but it would harm a creature of dark magic or a mortal who drew upon the shadow of Incariel.
Ridmark staggered with a scream of pain, his blue eyes going wide. Fear and wrath surged through Calliande, and she struck again. If the Sculptor had killed him, she would make him regret it.
Then Ridmark smiled…and his entire body exploded into a snarling maze of black threads.
Calliande’s dread strengthened, and the threads wove themselves into the shape of a white-haired old man in a pristine white robe.
“The Weaver,” said Gavin, pointing his soulblade.
“Correct, young man,” said the ancient Enlightened, raising the black soulstone. “Imaria Shadowbearer sends her greetings. Fear not. You shall soon join Ridmark Arban in death.”
Calliande snarled in fury, white fire blazing to life around her hands. The Weaver wouldn’t have shown himself unless he had killed Ridmark, and her heart exploded with wrath and pain. He would pay for Ridmark’s death, and this time there was no way that the Weaver would escape. Not from the heart of Khald Tormen, not from Gavin Swordbearer, and not from Calliande’s rage.
She would make him suffer for taking Ridmark from her.
The Weaver smiled and lifted the soulstone.
Shadows exploded from it in all directions, rushing to fill the Stone Heart with darkness.
###
A dome of darkness erupted from the soulstone in the Weaver’s hand, rushing towards Gavin like an oncoming avalanche.
He raised the soulblade, drawing on its power, and the wall of shadows slammed into him.
It struck him like a blow from war hammer, and he staggered, trying to ke
ep his balance. A horrible chill washed through him, threatening to suck all the strength and warmth from his limbs. Truthseeker’s warding power kept the shadows from touching him, but it took all the sword’s magic to keep the shadows from enveloping him.
Most of the others in the chamber were not as fortunate.
The shadows washed over them, and they collapsed to the floor, both dwarves and koballats. Gavin had seen this kind of dark power before. During the terrible final battle in Bastoth, Kurdulkar had called the shadows of Incariel in the same way. The dark power paralyzed the manetaurs, leaving them helpless before the attack of Kurdulkar’s urvaalgs. Hundreds had died in the first awful moments. Truthseeker had allowed Gavin to move through the shadows, letting him bring the fight to Kurdulkar.
But these shadows were stronger.
Truthseeker could protect Gavin from the shadows, but it took all the sword’s power. His muscles strained with the effort, and Gavin realized he could not move. If he tried to move, the shadows would overwhelm Truthseeker, and he would join the others upon the floor.
The shadows would make it easy for the Weaver to simply walk up and kill him.
But the Weaver wasn’t here for Gavin.
He looked around, wondering if any of the others would still move and fight. He saw Antenora on the ground, the sigils upon her staff quenched by the shadows from the soulstone. No one else was on their feet save for Calliande herself. The staff of the Keeper blazed with fire in her grasp, her teeth bared in a snarl of effort, the cords in her slender neck standing out with strain. Like Gavin, she could keep the shadows away from her, but she had no strength left for anything else.
The Weaver strolled towards her with a pleasant smile, the black soulstone still resting in his left hand. His right arm exploded into black threads and wove itself into something like the bladed forelimb of a mantis, as long and as sharp as a sword.
He was going to kill her, and Gavin could do nothing to stop him.
###
Calliande struggled against the darkness, all the power of the Well and the power of the Keeper’s mantle screaming through her staff.
Her first thought had been to cast a ward around the others, protecting them from the power of the shadow. She had done the same in Bastoth, and there Calliande had driven back the shadows, freeing the others to move and fight.
But the shadows pouring from the Weaver’s soulstone were stronger. Calliande could barely protect herself from the assault. Every scrap of magical power she possessed held back the shadows, and she had nothing left to spare. If her concentration wavered for even a second, the shadows would overwhelm her, and she would not be able to move.
And the Weaver was coming, shadows pouring from his left hand, his right arm transmuted into a segmented blade. A single flick of his arm would slice Calliande in half.
In desperation, she tried to think of something, anything, that would stop the Weaver, but a cold despair closed over her.
This was the end. She had fought her entire life, and death had come for her at last.
Oh, God. Ridmark. She was sorry, so sorry…
The Weaver came to a sudden stop as a dark shape stepped before Calliande.
Third raised her blades of dark elven steel. The shadows pouring from the soulstone would inhibit her ability to travel, but her dark elven blood permitted her to move.
But it that meant she would have to face the Weaver alone…and Calliande knew that Third could not overcome the Weaver without aid.
The Weaver stopped and considered her, his gentle smile never wavering.
###
The black soulstone poured forth shadows from the Weaver’s left hand, thrumming in his grasp.
The dark elf half-breed, the woman who called herself Third, set herself before him, blades raised.
“You will not harm the Keeper,” said Third, her black eyes unblinking.
“Your Queen ordered you to protect the Gray Knight,” said the Weaver, “and you failed. Do you think you will succeed now?”
“Come and find out,” said Third.
The Weaver smiled and let the shadow of Incariel surge through him, ripping apart his body. Agony and ecstasy flooded through him, and he chose one of his battle forms, something like an ursaar, only sleeker and armored in plates of thick bone, his claws and fangs like daggers. He embedded the soulstone in his dorsal armor plates, the shadows pouring from it like water from a geyser.
“Gladly,” boomed the Weaver.
He surged forward, and Third rushed to meet him.
Chapter 22: Heartbeat
Darkness fluttered before Ridmark’s vision.
Agony plunged through him with every breath, with every heartbeat. Breathing was becoming harder, and he kept waiting for the end, waiting for failure and death to claim him at last.
But they didn’t.
Every heartbeat blasted through his head like a thunderbolt, dragging him back from the darkness that kept trying to swallow his vision. Again and again death started to swallow him, and again and again, his heartbeat dragged him back.
He didn’t understand. He should have died. The Weaver had wounded him mortally, and he should be dead.
His heart should have stopped, but it kept hammering away inside his skull.
His skull?
That didn’t make any sense. Why was his heart beating inside his skull?
He realized that the heartbeat was coming from outside of him, that the noise wasn’t his heartbeat at all.
Focus. He had to focus through the agony filling him.
Ridmark forced his eyes open and made himself look up.
He was still lying at the foot of the taalkrazdor, the blood from his wound splattered across the towering suit of armor. Some of his blood had trickled into the glyphs carved across the massive greaves, dripping into the armor.
The glyphs had begun glowing, all of them, shining with harsh white light.
The glow of the glyphs pulsed in time to the thunder in his head. The darkness swam at the edge of his vision in counterpoint to the drumbeat, fleeing from it. Ridmark’s blood had spilled upon the armor, activating it…and with a dull shock Ridmark realized that the magic upon the taalkrazdor was keeping him alive. His wounds should have killed him. God, it felt as if the pain alone would kill him. But the glyphs on the armor forced his heart to keep beating, compelled his wounded lungs to keep drawing breath. The dwarven stonescribes and smiths had covered the taalkrazdor in glyphs to protect it from physical harm and magical attack, glyphs to strengthen it beyond the already impressive limits of dwarven steel.
Why not glyphs to protect the warrior inside the armor?
Why not glyphs to allow a wounded warrior to keep fighting long past the point when death should have claimed him?
Ridmark reached up, grasping the knee of the taalkrazdor, and levered himself to his knees. Pain flooded through him, and he screamed, the fire of the glyphs pulsing through his vision.
He had to warn Calliande. The Weaver was coming for her, and if he was not stopped, he would kill her and everyone else in the Stone Heart.
He looked towards the Stone Heart and flinched.
Shadows filled the vast chamber, writhing curtains of darkness billowing past like black banners caught in a wind. Ridmark should have been able to see the fire of the molten pool illuminating the rows of balconies. Instead, he saw nothing but billowing walls of darkness.
The Weaver had called upon the shadow of Incariel. When Kurdulkar had done something similar, Calliande had protected herself and a few others. Could she do the same here?
Ridmark had to help her.
But how? He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t even stand. He could barely kneel. If he went more than a few feet from the taalkrazdor, his wounds would kill him. The Weaver had taken his weapons…
A cold certainty gripped him.
The Weaver had taken his weapons, but there were far stronger ones within the Armory.
Could he use a taalkrazdor?
The dwarven steel beneath his fingers felt hot. Almost alive.
Was it alive? Heartwarden had been alive in a sense. The soulblade had rejected Ridmark, but the sword had let him wield it long enough to strike down Tymandain Shadowbearer.
“Listen to me,” rasped Ridmark, grasping the metal legs. Inch by inch he pulled himself up, his arms trembling. “I have to save the Keeper.” He reached the taalkrazdor’s waist and put his boot on the knee joint. “Maybe you don’t care. But the Weaver will kill all the witnesses. That includes the King and his nobles.” And Caius and Gavin and Kharlacht and Third and all the others who had accompanied Ridmark. “Help me save them.” Every word sent a knife of pain through his chest. His hands looked clammy and gray, and he wondered how much blood he had lost. “He’ll kill the King and all your nobles, and then the Frostborn will destroy Khald Tormen because Calliande wasn’t here to save them. Help me stop it. Help…”
The metal shivered.
With a clang, the cuirass swung open, revealing the armor’s interior.
“Thank you,” said Ridmark. He pulled himself up, his muscles shrieking, and half-fell, half climbed into the taalkrazdor’s interior.
As he did, glyphs burned to life throughout the interior of the armor, and invisible forces seized Ridmark, grabbing his legs and shoving them into the armor’s legs, taking his arms and sliding them upward. It hurt horribly, his bones creaking, and he wondered if the taalkrazdor would accidentally rip him apart. It had been designed for someone much shorter.
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 29
