“If we head for the Citadel of the West,” said Ridmark, “they will likely catch us, and we’ll have to fight anyway.” A plan flashed through his mind. “Better to kill them all, here and now. If none escape back to Mournacht, he’ll never know what happened.”
“That is…unusually harsh for you,” said Morigna.
“It is necessary,” said Ridmark. “If Mournacht kills us and claims the staff of the Keeper for Shadowbearer, then the Frostborn will return and Andomhaim will fall.” He pointed with his staff. “There are two ruined shops on either side of the Travelers’ House. The walls are breached, but the floors are level. Arandar, Calliande, Antenora, Caius. Go to the shop on the north side of the House. Gavin, Kharlacht, Mara, Jager, Morigna. Take the one to the south.”
“And where shall you go?” said Morigna.
“I’m going to go lure the Mhorites in,” said Ridmark.
“And then we shall fall upon them from the sides,” said Arandar.
“A sound plan,” said Kharlacht.
“Dangerous,” said Calliande. She sighed. “Though I suppose none of us can stop you from taking mad risks.”
“Not today,” said Ridmark. “Hurry. Antenora. Deal with the Mhorite shaman if you can. The rest of you, strike when the moment is right.”
The others nodded and hurried out the front doors of the House, taking their packs and gear with them. Arandar’s group headed for the ruined shop on the north side of the Travelers’ House, while Gavin’s group headed to the south. Ridmark took a deep breath, picked up his staff, and strode from the House, descending the tiers of the Market as he headed for the gallery to the Gate of the West. Boulders from broken walls littered the tiers, and Ridmark picked one and darted behind it, pulling his gray elven cloak tight around him and watching the far end of the Market.
He did not need to wait long. The Mhorite scouts came at a cautious walk into the Market, short bows in hand, their crimson-tattooed faces making their features grotesque and misshapen. As Mara had predicted, there seemed to be about twenty-five of the scouts, and they spread out across the Market, searching for any foes. Some of them hung back to protect a shaman of Mhor, a gaunt, wasted orcish man clad only in trousers and sandals, his chest marked with glowing sigils of dark magic. Ridmark considered shooting the shaman with an arrow, and then decided against it. That would draw attention too soon, and it was possible that the wards upon the shaman’s chest would deflect any weapons of wood and steel.
The scouts spread out further, a guard of warriors remaining to protect the shaman. Two Mhorites walked past Ridmark’s boulder, their black eyes scanning the gloom of the Market. Ridmark waited until they had moved all the way past the concealing boulder.
Then he exploded into motion, bringing his staff around to strike.
The nearest Mhorite never knew what had killed him. Ridmark’s black staff struck his temple with a loud crack, and the orcish warrior’s head snapped to the side. The orc collapsed to the ground, and the second Mhorite started to whirl on reflex, his bow coming up. The first sweep of Ridmark’s staff knocked the bow from the Mhorite’s hand. The warrior snarled and started to reach for the sword at his belt, his eyes beginning to turn red with the battle rage of orcish blood, but Ridmark hit first. The staff crushed the orc’s windpipe. The Mhorite started to fall, and Ridmark finished him off with a heavy blow to the head.
An alarmed shout came from another Mhorite, and Ridmark sprang over a small boulder and attacked, the staff a black blur in his hands. This Mhorite was quicker than his slain companions and threw aside his bow, drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. Ridmark thrust his staff, and the orcish warrior hopped to the side, dodging the blow, and came around to strike. The blade hit Ridmark in the chest, but rebounded from the superior steel of the dark elven armor. Ridmark let the blow’s momentum knock him back a step, swinging the staff around in a low strike as he did so. It impacted the orc’s knee, and the warrior stumbled back with a furious shout. Again Ridmark whipped his staff around, and this time he hit the orc across the temple with bone-crushing force.
The orc went down in a boneless heap, and Ridmark jumped back, shooting a quick look around the Market. More Mhorites boiled from the gallery at the far end of the Market, and the orcs already scouting through the ruins began to converge on him, no doubt planning to encircle Ridmark or put an arrow through his back. He retreated towards the Travelers’ House, weaving back and forth to keep the crimson faces of the Mhorites in sight.
“Take him!” roared the Mhorite shaman from the back. “Take him and make him speak! Perhaps he knows the location of the relic the Voice of Mhor seeks.”
“You don’t recognize me?” said Ridmark, his voice echoing over the ruins. “Then you are a poor servant of your god. I am Ridmark Arban, and Mournacht himself wishes to kill me. Think of the rich reward you will earn if you lay my head before his feet.”
“Kill him!” said the shaman. The orc lifted his hands and began gesturing, bloody fire snarling around his fingers as he worked a spell of dark magic. “Kill him now!”
A dozen orcs shouted cries to Mhor and charged. The smarter ones drew their bows, aimed, and released. Ridmark threw himself to the side, ducking behind a chunk of broken wall. The volley of arrows hissed off the boulder and clattered away. Ridmark turned and sprinted for the Travelers’ House, jumping over chunks of rubble as he scrambled up the stairs, the few remaining glowstones throwing long black shadows behind him. The Mhorites pursued him, which was just as well, since they blocked the archers’ line of fire. They also blocked the shaman’s spells from hitting Ridmark.
He reached the tier before the Travelers’ House, and suddenly the ruined houses on either side erupted with motion.
###
Morigna stepped forward and raised her staff, drawing upon all the magic she could summon.
Not dark magic, though. Mara was right. The dark magic had given her powerful night vision, and there was no telling what else it might do to her.
Best not to find out, then.
Instead of dark magic, Morigna summoned power from the stone beneath her feet. Purple fire flared around her staff, and she thrust out a hand, the fire dancing around her fingers. The stairs leading to the Travelers’ House rippled and folded, the stone snapping like a flag caught in the wind, and her spell knocked a dozen Mhorites from their feet. Ridmark knew her magic well enough not to hesitate, and he sped forward and attacked, killing two Mhorites with quick blows of his black staff before the orcish warriors recovered. Before meeting Ridmark, Morigna had never thought that a staff could be a deadly weapon, but Ardrhythain’s staff was a blur of black shadow in Ridmark’s hands, dealing death and blocking strikes before they could come anywhere near him.
Gavin and Arandar were just as deadly. Gavin actually leaped from the ruined house, Truthseeker’s magic giving his jump inhuman power, and landed like a thunderbolt in the midst of the stunned Mhorites, the soulblade flashing in his grasp. Arandar fought more conservatively, but no less decisively, cutting his way into the orcs. Caius and Kharlacht came next, and then Mara and Jager. Mara flickered in and out the warriors, disappearing and reappearing, and Jager expertly exploited the chaos Mara left in her wake. White light flashed over the battle, and suddenly Ridmark and the others moved faster as Calliande’s magic aided them, lending power and speed to their blows
For a moment, just a moment, Morigna marveled at it. Ridmark was a deadly fighter, as were the Swordbearers, and all of her companions were capable in a battle. Even Jager, with his loud mouth and cocky smirk, did not lack for courage when put to the test. Yet together, with their combined strengths, they were absolutely lethal. They had defeated the Artificer and escaped the Warden by the thinnest of margins, but that margin had been enhanced by their abilities working in tandem. She felt a surge of pride as Ridmark killed another Mhorite, dodging around the warrior’s swing to land a crushing blow with his strike. He had turned them into a unified group, and she wondered what he might d
o if they survived, if he returned to Andomhaim a hero who had restored the Keeper and saved the High Kingdom from the Frostborn…
Then the shaman started casting a spell, and Morigna cursed, shoving aside her musings. Bloody light blazed around the gaunt shaman as he drew in power, and Morigna started a spell of her own, intending to flood the shaman with column of acidic mist.
Antenora acted first.
Throughout the fighting she had stood motionless, black staff in her right hand, her left hand cupped over the end of the staff. Now she removed her hand, and even across the battle Morigna saw the sudden glare of a fist-sized fireball, a ball that seemed to grow brighter and hotter as it spun above the ancient sorceress’s staff. Antenora thrust her staff, sending the fireball hurtling through the air. It shot over the battle in a lazy arc and landed a foot or so before the Mhorite shaman.
The resultant explosion made the Dormari Market as bright as day for an instant, filling the cavern with the roar of thunder. For a moment the battle stopped as the combatants turned to look at the roiling fireball that danced where the Mhorite shaman had stood a second earlier. The fire faded away just as quickly, leaving a massive charred spot upon the stone floor, a spot that contained absolutely no trace of the shaman.
Antenora, Morigna had come to realize, did not believe in doing things halfway.
The fighting soon ended. The surviving Mhorites had been thrown into disarray by Ridmark’s ambush, and the fiery death of their shaman demoralized them further. They started to flee, but Ridmark and the others ran them down. A few Mhorites nearly got away, but Morigna used her magic to knock them over, and Mara finished them off one by one.
Silence fell over the Dormari Market, and Morigna climbed from the ruined shop as the others joined Ridmark.
“Good fight,” rumbled Kharlacht, cleaning the blood from the blade of his greatsword.
“None of us were even injured,” said Calliande as the white glow faded from her hands, “though I wish we could have avoided this fight entirely.”
“As do I,” said Caius.
“It was necessary,” said Ridmark. “Now we can head deeper into Khald Azalar without Mournacht knowing exactly where we are. Check…”
“Ridmark!” said Mara.
Morigna followed Mara’s pointing finger and whispered a curse.
A blaze of torchlight glimmered further down the gallery leading to the Gate of the West, and the faint tramp of boots came to Morigna’s ears, followed by the harsh rasp of shouted commands. It was the sound of more Mhorite warriors.
A lot of Mhorite warriors.
“Ah,” said Antenora. “I regret to note that the light from my fire may have been visible for some distance, and if there were additional Mhorites in this complex...”
“They saw it,” said Calliande, voice grim.
“Gray Knight, we should probably run,” said Antenora.
“Agreed,” said Ridmark. “Go! To the Citadel of the West!”
###
The sound of the charging Mhorites became louder, and Ridmark ran faster, sprinting around the Travelers’ House, the others following him.
He rebuked himself. They had needed rest, true, but they should not have stopped. He should have insisted they press further into Khald Azalar before resting. For that matter, perhaps it would have been better to slip away rather than fighting the scouting party.
What was done was done, and he had to think of a better plan. Calliande had not come all this way only to die a few miles from her goal because Ridmark had failed to anticipate the movements of his enemies.
Another pillared gallery opened on the far end of the Dormari Market. A strange fiery glow came from the gallery, and with a shock Ridmark realized the light came from narrow troughs of molten stone that flowed behind the pillars and vanished into hidden channels. He wondered why the heat did not cook them alive, but remembered that the dwarven stonescribes could use their magical glyphs to channel and bind lava, that a combination of the dwarves’ engineering prowess and the lore of the stonescribes used the lava to heat their cities and power some of their machinery. It seemed at least some of those ancient glyphs still functioned in Khald Azalar.
“A pity we don’t have any bacon!” said Jager, breathing hard. “We could cook it on spits over those streams of molten stone.”
“There is no need, master thief,” said Antenora. “I can summon sufficient fire to cook meat at need.”
“That was a joke!” said Jager.
“I see,” said Antenora. “You were attempting humor.”
Morigna coughed out a laugh, but her laugh came to a sudden halt as they reached the end of the gallery.
They were in trouble.
The pillared gallery opened into a large courtyard of gleaming stone, lit by a moat of lava across the far wall. Three of the walls were smooth and unadorned, polished so well that Ridmark saw his companions' distorted reflections. The fourth wall was buttressed, and came to a halt a few yards above the rocky ceiling in a battlement-crowned rampart. A narrow stone bridge crossed the moat of lava, reaching to a massive gate of dwarven steel in the rampart.
A gate which was closed. It looked to have been badly damaged, its surface scarred and charred, and the stonework around it was chipped and broken.
“We had better go back,” said Arandar.
“Too late,” said Ridmark. “We’ll get back to the Market just as the Mhorites arrive. Caius. Thainkul Dural had a secret door. Is there one here?”
“I doubt it,” said Caius. “Look. There’s no place to stand below the wall. Anyone trying to cross the moat would burn alive in the molten stone.”
The sound of running boots echoed up the gallery behind them.
“We could climb up the wall easily enough,” said Jager. “We have rope and grapnel, and I doubt there are any guards atop the ramparts to stop us.”
“Not enough time,” said Ridmark. They might have no choice, though. Perhaps Antenora could conjure a wall of flame, or Morigna could work a wall of sleeping mist to hold off the Mhorites. If the Mhorites had additional shamans, they could dispel the magic. If Mournacht himself had come, he could shrug off any magical attacks with ease. “Mara, Antenora. Is the gate enspelled?”
“Considerably,” said Mara. “With powerful magic. I have never seen spells like this before.”
“I have seen spells of this nature,” said Antenora, “though none with such skill. They are glyphs of locking and resistance and defense, wrought to bind the gate in place. Though they appear to be quite damaged.”
“Damaged,” said Ridmark. Perhaps Gavin and Arandar, using the strength of their soulblades, could pry the gate open. He dismissed the thought at once. The massive slab of dwarven steel had to weight thousands of pounds. “Caius, is there any way to open the gate?”
“From the outside? No,” said Caius. “That kind of gate was designed to be opened quickly, to let defenders sortie out and withdraw quickly. There should be a lever on the other side.”
“That does us little good,” said Kharlacht.
“We can climb over the wall and open the gate,” said Jager.
“Not enough time,” said Ridmark. “Mara.”
She shook her head. “I can’t go through that gate. I only got through that door at the High Gate because I had previously been in the chamber on the other side, and traveling through those wards exhausted me. I don’t think I’m strong enough to get through this gate.”
A war horn rang out, low and ominous.
“No need for that,” said Ridmark. “Travel up to the ramparts, and then to the courtyard below. That should let you avoid the wards entirely.”
Mara blinked, opened her mouth, closed it, and then grinned. “I…should have thought of that myself.”
“Go quickly,” said Ridmark, and Mara disappeared with a flicker of blue flame.
She reappeared an instant later atop the ramparts. Mara wavered, caught her balance, and looked around. She nodded to herself, and then disapp
eared once more.
“It’s a pity she couldn’t do that when we first met,” said Jager with an admiring sigh. “Think of the thefts we could have accomplished! We could carried off every coin and jewel from the High King’s treasury. We could have plucked the diadem from the very brow of the Prince of Cintarra himself, and gotten away clean.”
Arandar frowned. “Theft is hardly honorable.”
Jager raised an eyebrow. “Even when the target deserves it? The nobles of the High Kingdom deserve a bit of humbling, I think.”
“For once,” said Morigna, “one is inclined to agree with the master thief.”
Arandar’s frown turned into a scowl. “The words of a wielder of dark magic are…”
“For God’s sake, be quiet,” said Ridmark. “I don’t know if the Mhorites can hear us, but the longer they spend puzzling over the corpses in the Market, the longer we have to escape.”
Both Arandar and Morigna fell silent, and Ridmark waited. The sound of voices from the gallery was getting louder. Likely the Mhorites had realized that Ridmark and the others had fled. Sooner or later the orcs would explore the passage that led to the courtyard, and once that happened they would charge.
A loud, resonant click came from the wall, followed by a horrible metallic screech. The massive door shuddered, and then began to swing to the side. It managed to get halfway open before Ridmark heard another metallic screech and the door came to an abrupt halt with a series of shuddering clangs. The clangs were so loud that they echoed off the ceiling and down the gallery, and Ridmark glanced towards the Market. Almost certainly the Mhorites in the Market had heard the noise.
Mara stepped around the door and blinked.
“Hurry,” she said. “I don’t think there’s a way to close the gate behind us.”
“Why not?” said Ridmark, urging the others forward.
“I found the lever and pulled it,” said Mara as Calliande walked past. “At first nothing happened. I feared the machinery had failed. Then it started making noise, and…well, you can see for yourself.”
Frostborn: The Broken Mage Page 5
