Frostborn: The Undying Wizard

by Jonathan Moeller

  And Ridmark saw the impression of dvargir boots in the dust.

  “A barracks,” said Caius, once Morigna confirmed that they were alone. “The top hall was the entrance, used for ceremony and defense. Warriors upon duty would wait here, if any alarm came from the main gates or the lower halls.”

  “This place is bigger than Thainkul Agon,” said Ridmark.

  “Where is that?” said Morigna.

  “A dwarven ruin in the Deeps near Dun Licinia,” said Ridmark.

  Caius laughed. “Aye, it is. Thainkul Agon was an outpost. Little more than a village. Thainkul Dural seems to have been a good-sized town.”

  “I wonder what happened to the dwarves who lived here,” said Gavin, gazing at the bones in the corner.

  “I don’t know,” said Caius. “The dvargir, most likely. Or the dark elves or the deep orcs or the kobolds. Or perhaps the urdmordar. The urdmordar destroyed both the high elves and the dark elves, and my kindred paid a terrible price to hold them at bay. The Three Kingdoms were once nine.”

  “My entire life,” murmured Morigna, “I have lived near Moraime, and I had no idea that all of this was beneath my feet.”

  “And I thought you knew everything,” said Gavin.

  Morigna glared at him. “Indeed? Then…”

  “Save the fighting for the dvargir,” said Ridmark. “Follow me.”

  Another set of stairs descended into the earth, and Ridmark took them with as much silence as he could muster. Not that it mattered. The deep orcs could hear his heartbeat from yards away. Though the senses of the dvargir were not so keen. Perhaps the dvargir lurking within Thainkul Dural had kept all the deep orcs outside to act as guards.

  But Ridmark would not lower his diligence.

  He heard the splashing of water ahead. Perhaps the additional noise would mask their presence from any listening deep orcs. On the other hand, it might mean the lower levels of Thainkul Dural had flooded.

  The stairs ended in a long, high gallery, glowstones flickering in the arches overhead. Dozens of niches lined the walls, each one holding a door of dwarven steel. Square stone tiles, a yard on each side, covered the floor of the gallery. Each tile bore a single dwarven glyph.

  The sound of splashing water was louder here, and beads of water glistened upon the doors of dwarven steel. Here and there Ridmark saw discoloration in the stones, the signs of slow leakage. Thick clusters of ghost mushrooms filled some of the niches, and mushrooms required at least some moisture to grow.

  He suspected there was a lot of water behind those doors.

  “It floods,” said Ridmark.

  “A flood?” said Kharlacht.

  “The tunnel to the surface,” said Ridmark. “That pond in the outer cavern must swell whenever there are heavy rains. We’re not far from the marshes, and marshes flood as well. Where does the excess water go?”

  “Downhill,” said Gavin, frowning.

  “Profound,” said Morigna.

  “It must drain here,” said Ridmark. “Behind those doors, into a reservoir. And…”

  “Oh,” said Caius, blinking. “Oh, that is very bad.”

  They looked at him.

  “A flood trap,” said Caius.

  “Another trap,” muttered Ridmark, remembering the fiendish mechanical devices he had seen in Urd Morlemoch and Urd Dagaash.

  “They’re rare. Even my kindred, for all our skill with steel and stone, cannot simply create them. They can only be constructed in places where the local water and terrain allow it. I think Thainkul Dural is one of those places.”

  “Let me guess,” said Ridmark, looking at the glyphs upon the tiles of the floor. “We step on the wrong tile, the doors open, the gallery floods, and we all drown?”

  “It is worse than that, I am afraid,” said Caius, craning his neck. Ridmark followed his gaze and saw the dark gap within the center of the archway overhead. “Another door awaits above us, and a second one at the far end of the gallery, I suspect. If the flood trap is triggered…”

  “The gallery is sealed off,” said Ridmark, pointing at the niches, “the flood doors open, and anyone within is drowned.”

  “Aye,” said Caius.

  “A cunning trap,” said Ridmark. “And a nearly impenetrable defense. If someone attacks from the surface, the defenders can seal off the gallery. Or if the stronghold is overrun with attackers from the Deeps, the defenders can withdraw to the surface and flood the gallery behind them to block any pursuit.”

  “You have the right of it,” said Caius.

  “Which means the important question,” said Morigna, “is how to get past the trap.”

  “It is,” said Caius, “but the trap might not even be armed. The dvargir have been able to come and go freely.”

  “The dvargir are just as skilled at making traps as the dwarves,” said Ridmark. “Likely they knew how to bypass the trap, and left it armed to deal with any unwelcome intruders.” That would explain why the dvargir had felt confident enough to leave their defense in the hands of the deep orcs.

  “We had best assume that the trap is armed,” said Calliande.

  “Agreed,” said Ridmark. “So. How do we get past it?” He remembered the trap below Urd Dagaash, the blades of dvargir steel erupting from the floor to shred the spiderlings. “I assume we have to step upon the proper tiles?”

  “Aye,” said Caius. He stared at the tiles for a moment. “That is the glyph for a welcomed guest, and it is repeated across the pattern. I assume stepping upon it is safe.”

  “You assume?” said Morigna. “You do not know?”

  “I do not,” said Caius. “The dwarves of Thainkul Dural might have built their trap upon different principles. And it is possible the dvargir have altered the trap so that stepping upon any tile opens the flood doors.”

  “There is only one way to find out,” said Ridmark.

  Morigna grabbed his wrist. “Surely you do not mean to test the trap yourself?”

  “What?” said Ridmark. “Of course not. There was some loose masonry further up the stairs. I’ll throw them upon the tiles and see if they trigger the trap or not.”

  “Ah.” Morigna released his wrist, and for a moment she looked embarrassed. “I…should not have assumed that you were a fool. You have shown little enough evidence for it.”

  “Then you haven’t known me long enough yet,” said Ridmark. “All of you, get behind the archway in case we trigger the trap and the door closes. Gavin, go get me some rocks.”

  The others obeyed, and Gavin clambered up the stairs and returned with an armful of broken masonry. Ridmark leaned his staff against the wall, picked up a broken block, and examined the tile Caius indicated.

  Then he flung the rock. It landed upon the center of the tile, and the tile settled perhaps an inch deeper into the floor, but nothing else happened. Ridmark threw more stones, until perhaps about sixty pounds of broken stone sat upon the tile, but still nothing happened. He took a deep breath, lifted his staff, and walked closer.

  Then he pressed the staff against the tile, leaning all his weight against it, every muscle tensed to race back if anything happened.

  But nothing moved in the gallery.

  “It would seem those tiles are indeed safe,” said Kharlacht.

  “Or,” said Morigna, “that one is merely broken.”

  “That is a possibility,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff. He spotted another tile marked with the glyph for a welcomed guest. “Let us find out.”

  Before he could change his mind, he stepped onto the tile, putting all his weight upon it. It sank an inch into the floor, and he felt some mechanism shift beneath the stone.

  A stunned silence fell over the others.

  Nothing else happened.

  “I retract my former statement,” said Morigna. “That was tremendously foolish.”

  “He does things like that quite frequently,” said Calliande. “You get used to them after a time.”

  The two women looked at each other, blink
ed, and then laughed.

  “If you are quite finished,” said Ridmark, “let us see if we can find the dvargir before they find us. Keep to the tiles with the guest glyph.”

  Bit by bit they picked their way across the long gallery, moving from tile to tile. Ridmark alternated between examining the floor and staring at the archway on the far side of the gallery. As they drew closer, he saw that it opened into a large cylindrical chamber. The chamber looked deserted, but Ridmark expected foes to emerge at any moment. They were terribly vulnerable upon the tiles. One crossbow bolt from the dvargir, one even one accidental stumble, and the trap would activate, the gallery would seal, and they would drown.

  But nothing emerged from the far chamber.

  At last Ridmark crossed through the archway, the others following. The cylindrical chamber was large, about thirty yards across, and the stone floor sloped to a grate of dwarven steel about ten yards across. The sounds of splashing water came from the grate.”

  “If gambling were not a sin,” said Caius, coming to Ridmark’s side, “I would wager that drain leads to the trap’s reservoir.”

  Ridmark nodded and looked at the gateway on the far side of the chamber. A faint breeze came through it, and he suspected the cavern beyond was far larger. “There’s another door of dwarven steel above that archway. It must close with the trap. And after all their foes are drowned, the residents can open the inner door, let all the waters drain away, and reset the trap.”

  “I wonder how this place ever fell,” said Gavin, “if it had such potent defenses.”

  “Perhaps their foes came from the Deeps,” said Kharlacht. “Worse things than murrags and dvargir live in the darkness.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, “and we might meet some of them soon. Keep quiet.”

  He walked to the far archway, and stopped to gaze in wonder at the sight before him.

  The cavern beyond was the size and shape of a valley, perhaps a half mile across at its widest. The sloped walls had been hewn into terraces, and upon those terraces rose houses and towers in the blocky dwarven style, their walls adorned with elaborate glyphs and reliefs. Massive glowstones shone in a few of the towers, throwing pale light and strange, tangled shadows over everything. The place had a grim beauty. It was not the eerie, alien beauty of the dark elven ruins, with their lines and angles built to please the strange aesthetic tastes of the dark elves. Thainkul Dural spoke of strength and endurance, of an ancient oak that had weathered countless storms.

  Yet it had fallen to foes nonetheless.

  “A mighty city,” whispered Gavin, his brown eyes wide.

  “Aye,” said Caius. “Not as large as Khald Tormen, but perhaps a thousand of my kindred lived here once upon a time.”

  “A thousand dwarves,” said Kharlacht, “and a thousand places for a small band of dvargir to hide. Where shall we search?”

  “Right there,” said Ridmark, pointing.

  At the apex of the valley, overlooking the town, stood a tall stone keep. Ridmark suspected it had once been the seat of Thainkul Dural’s lord. The doors of dwarven steel to the hall stood ajar, and a faint ray of light leaked out.

  Firelight.

  “This way,” said Ridmark.

  He led the way along the street of the highest tier, past the blocky dwarven houses with their doors of bronze-colored steel and their dark windows like empty eyes. Here and there Ridmark saw the gray skeletons of long-dead dwarves, some still clad in battered armor and helmets. Like their steel, the bones of the dwarves were nearly indestructible. Caius made the sign of the cross and mouthed prayers for the dead in silence. Ridmark wondered if the prayers were effective. Caius was the first man of the dwarven kindred to accept baptism. Perhaps the dead dwarves had joined their ancient gods in eternal silence and darkness. Or perhaps they languished in purgatory, and awaited the prayers of righteous men to send them to the Dominus Christus in paradise.

  Ridmark did not know, and he had more immediate worries.

  Such as keeping his bones and the bones of his friends from joining those of the dwarves.

  They reached the keep, and Ridmark heard deep, rough voices, like stone rasping stone.

  The dvargir.

  Ridmark whispered into Caius’s ear. “You speak their tongue?”

  The dwarven friar nodded.

  “Come with me,” said Ridmark. “The rest of you, stay here. Get ready to fight or to run.”

  They obeyed, lifting weapons and preparing spells. Ridmark and Caius crossed the square before the keep in silence. The firelight grew brighter, and they crawled up the stairs and peered into the hall beyond the doors. Statues of dwarven warriors lined the hall, and a long stone table stood at the foot of the dais.

  A dozen dvargir warriors sat at the table, and none of them cast shadows in the firelight thrown from the hearth.

  Like the dead dvargir below the monastery, the warriors wore armor of strange black metal that seemed somehow wet while drinking the light. They carried swords and axes of the strange black metal at their belts. Unlike their dwarven cousins, the dvargir shaved their heads – hair, beards, and even eyebrows. Their eyes were utterly black, like spheres of liquid shadow.

  They reminded Ridmark a great deal of the Warden’s eyes.

  A dvargir sat on the throne atop the dais. His cuirass had been adorned with strange stylized reliefs of red gold, the color bright against his black armor and gray skin, and a diadem of red gold encircled his hairless head. Deep lines marked the skin of his face, and his lips curled in a perpetual sneer.

  “A Dzark,” whispered Caius. “Like…a knight, essentially. A warrior and a minor noble.”

  Ridmark nodded and listened to the dvargir speak in their deep, rasping voices.

  “They are complaining,” said Caius after a moment. “They have been waiting for too long.”

  One of the dvargir warriors began gesturing, while the Dzark listened in contemptuous silence.

  Caius’s breath hissed in alarm.

  “What is it?” said Ridmark.

  “They are waiting,” said Caius, “for a ‘yapping dog’ of Shadowbearer’s to return to them.”

  Ridmark felt ice trickle down his spine.

  “It seems,” said Caius, “they came here at the bidding of Shadowbearer. No. At the command of one of Shadowbearer’s disciples.” He listened for a while, watching the dvargir warrior complain and gesture. “He think it is an insult, a loss of face. The dvargir are the strongest servants of the great void, the most worthy, and Shadowbearer ought to have come to them in the flesh, rather than sending a lackey.”

  “They should be careful what they wish for,” said Ridmark.

  “Truly,” said Caius. He listened for a moment longer. “He says that it is an insult that Shadowbearer wears the form of a high elf, when he should clothe himself in the flesh of a dvargir.”

  The dvargir warrior stopped speaking, and the Dzark stared. The silence stretched on, and the Dzark spoke a single, growling sentence. The dvargir warriors erupted with laughter, pounding their armored fists against the table.

  “The Dzark said,” said Caius, “that if Korzdan – the warrior – disagrees with Shadowbearer, Korzdan is welcome to challenge him.”

  The Dzark rose from his throne, paced to the edge of the dais, and began to speak. Caius listened for a while, held tilted to the side, and began to translate.

  “He says that the dvargir are strong, stronger than any other kindred upon this world,” said Caius. “Shadowbearer’s disciple is a fool and a yapping dog. In time, they shall deal with the disciple as he deserves. Meanwhile, Shadowbearer will see that the dvargir are worthy, and shall give them a high place in the new order when…”

  He fell silent.

  “When what?” said Ridmark.

  “When the Frostborn return,” said Caius.

  Ridmark stared at the Dzark, his mind spinning with plans. Gothalinzur had first predicted the return of the Frostborn, and both the Warden and Agrimnalazur had told Ri
dmark additional details. Yet Ridmark still did not know where, when, or how the Frostborn would return. But if the Dzark knew, if Ridmark could pry the knowledge out of him…

  There were thirteen dvargir in the hall, including the Dzark. Could Ridmark and the others defeat them? It seemed unlikely. The dvargir would be tough and brutal fighters, and their ability to turn invisible could prove deadly. Worse, this disciple of Shadowbearer might decide to take a hand. If that happened, the fight would be over quickly.

  Better to listen for now. If one of Shadowbearer’s disciples, another man like Alamur of Dun Licinia, was behind the undead, then perhaps the Dzark and his warriors would discuss their plan. Then Ridmark could withdraw, join the others, and decided upon a course of action.

  “So be patient,” translated Caius in a low whisper, “for the shape of the world will change when the Frostborn return. The weak shall be ground underfoot, and the strong shall reign forever.”

  The Dzark opened his mouth to speak again, and a horrible rattling squeal rang out. It sounded like jagged metal plates rubbing together, accompanied by a tapping noise like the legs of an insect against the floor.

  But much, much louder.

  “Mzrokar,” said Caius with alarm.

  “Mzrokar?” said Ridmark. “What…”

  The warriors surged to their feet, and the Dzark began shouting commands. Ridmark did not know their tongue, but he recognized the tone well enough.

  The dvargir were preparing for battle. Ridmark and the others had been discovered.

  “We should probably run,” said Caius.

  Even as he spoke, the dvargir vanished as shadows swirled around them.

  Chapter 15 - The Dzark

  Morigna readied a spell as Ridmark and Caius sprinted from the keep.

  The strange, horrible noise, the peculiar mixture of clashing metal and clacking, rang out again. Ridmark and Caius joined the others at the far end of the square, but Morigna did not see anyone or anything pursuit of them.

  That, of course, did not mean anything.

  Morigna swept her sensing spell towards the keep. She felt the weight of Ridmark and Caius pull against the stone of the terrace.