Frostborn: The Broken Mage

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “We shall march joyfully into the arms of the Devourer, then.” Jager snorted. “This place of power. Where is it?”

  “I do not know exactly,” said the First. “Somewhere in the lower levels of the city, near where the dwarven kings of old kept their throne. The Silent Ones rarely go there. We can move quietly enough through the Forge Quarter and the mines and entrances to the Deeps, but some of the old defenses are still active. Only the Devourer can penetrate the defenses of the dwarves, and the Devourer dwells near the throne of the dwarven kings.” The First pointed his spear at one of the gallery entrances beyond the murmuring waterfall. “Take the tunnel to the Forge Quarter. Beyond are galleries that shall take you to the seat of the dwarven kings, and thence to the place of power.”

  “Thank you, First,” said Ridmark. “We shall contemplate your counsel.”

  The First grinned. The combination of his tusks, his sallow skin, and his eyeless face made the expression ghastly. “You will not thank me, Gray Knight. You shall find our god, and the Devourer shall consume you. When it does, remember that the First sent you into its arms and curse my name.”

  The First gestured, and the deep orcs faded away, vanishing back into the empty shells of the dwarven houses.

  For a moment no one said anything.

  “Well,” said Calliande in Latin. “That was certainly a pleasant conversation.”

  “This Devourer,” said Antenora. “Do you think it a myth of the deep orcs? Perhaps they kill their victims and lay the blame upon their false god. I encountered such cults often upon Old Earth.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “No, I’m certain the Devourer is a powerful creature of some kind. Maybe an urdmordar.”

  “Urdmordar?” said Antenora.

  Gavin answered her. “Spider-demon. Very, very powerful. They regard all mortals as cattle, and sometimes let themselves be worshipped as goddesses by their slaves. Makes them easier to control.”

  “You have faced such a cult before?” said Antenora.

  “Yes,” said Gavin. He said nothing else, though a brief shadow went over his face.

  “I do not think the Devourer is an urdmordar,” said Calliande. “A female urdmordar would always take the form of a woman, and a male urdmordar would be too impatient to bother with the subterfuge of a cult. The deep orcs called their god ‘it’, not female.”

  “So what would it be, then?” said Gavin.

  Ridmark shrugged. “It could be anything. All manner of powerful and dangerous creatures dwell in the Deeps. One might have decided to make the Citadel of Kings its new home after the Frostborn were defeated.”

  “Could the Devourer be a creature you summoned to guard your staff, Keeper?” said Antenora.

  Calliande flinched a little at that. “Maybe. I…don’t know. That doesn’t sound like something the Keeper would do. If I summoned a guardian creature, I don’t think it would be the sort of thing the deep orcs would worship as a god.” She swallowed. “At least I hope not.”

  “Our best course of action,” said Ridmark, “is to make for the Forge Quarter and then this Citadel of Kings with all speed. With luck, the Mhorites, the Anathgrimm, the deep orcs, the dvargir, and this Devourer will expend their energy fighting each other, and we can slip past in the chaos.”

  Jager snorted. “When have we ever been lucky?”

  Kharlacht grunted. “We are still alive, are we not?”

  “The Lord’s hand has been with us,” said Caius. Morigna scowled a little but said nothing. “And that plan worked in the Vale of Stone Death. The Traveler and Mournacht are more concerned about each other than they are about us.”

  “We almost got killed in the process,” said Arandar.

  “But that plan worked as well, did it not?” said Jager. “And this time we have the Gray Knight to keep you and Morigna from bickering as the enemy closes around us.”

  Arandar frowned. “That’s not what…”

  “What is done is done,” said Ridmark, hoping to forestall yet another argument. “It’s the future that concerns us. Let us be gone from here.”

  No one offered any objections, and Ridmark led the way across the corpse-strewn cavern to the gallery leading to the Forge Quarter.

  Chapter 6: Images In Stone

  The next day they entered a room filled with coal.

  “Antenora, I urge you not to summon any magic,” said Caius, looking around. “There is a great deal of coal dust upon the floor. Even the slightest spark and we shall be consumed.”

  Calliande thought that sensible advice.

  They stood in a large room lit only by a few glowstones hanging in steel cages from the ceiling. Dozens of carts of bronze-colored dwarven steel filled the room, arranged in a haphazard pattern, some fallen over onto their sides. A brief flicker of amusement went through Calliande. Outside of the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves, dwarven steel was a rare and precious commodity. Among the dwarves themselves, though, their steel was so common that they built simple carts from it.

  Coal filled every single one of the carts, heaped as high as Calliande’s head. Many of the carts had fallen, spilling lumps of jagged coal across the floor, and a thin film of black dust covered everything. A memory stirred in the mists that choked her mind, the story of a coal mine in the Northerland. One of the miners’ lamps had shattered, accidentally igniting a seam of coal, and the resultant fire had burned for decades.

  “I think you should do as Brother Caius says, Antenora,” said Calliande. The hooded sorceress nodded, the sigils in her staff fading to darkness.

  “We must be near the Forge Quarter,” said Caius.

  “An astonishing feat of deduction,” said Morigna. “Did the enormous quantity of coal give it away?”

  “It did,” said Caius, either missing or ignoring Morigna’s sarcasm.

  “If the city’s Forge Quarter is laid out anything like the great forges of Khald Tormen, then we must be near the silos that stored the coal. By necessity, the fires in the furnaces burn hotter than even molten stone, since dwarven steel must be melted and cooled several times during its forging. For safety the coal is stored well away from the furnaces, and carried over only when needed.”

  “How do you make the fires hot enough without destroying the walls of the blast furnace?” said Jager.

  Arandar gave him an odd look. “I thought you were a thief, not a blacksmith.”

  Jager flashed his smile at him. “I was an excellent thief, Sir Arandar. Of course, that left me with a surfeit of money, which I then invested into various merchant enterprises. Blacksmiths and silversmiths were just one of them.”

  “The stonescribes carved glyphs of warding and fire into the walls of the furnaces,” said Caius, “allowing the fires to reach the necessary intensity.”

  “I can believe that,” said Calliande, remembering the glyph in the High Gate that had burned the Mhorites alive.

  “Unless there’s anything useful in here,” said Ridmark, “let’s keep moving. I would prefer not to have come all this way only to burn alive if someone accidentally strikes a spark.”

  Calliande followed the others as they picked their way across the room. A ramp led to the far wall, to a doorway sealed with a thick slab of dwarven steel. Fortunately, no glyphs marked the door. Ridmark, Caius, and Kharlacht gripped the handle and pulled, and after a moment of straining the heavy door swung outward, rotating soundlessly on its hinges.

  “Two hundred years and it still doesn’t squeak,” said Jager, “and I couldn’t find a single smith or carpenter in Coldinium who could make a door with quiet hinges.”

  “You wanted doors that squeaked, husband,” said Mara. “Harder for anyone to sneak up on us.”

  “The thief is ever restless with his takings,” said Arandar.

  “See, that is the difference between us, Sir Arandar,” said Jager with aplomb as Ridmark, Kharlacht, and Caius shifted the door. “I lived dishonestly, and you lived honestly…and we both ended up as ene
mies of Tarrabus Carhaine.”

  Arandar grunted, but said nothing. Calliande could tell that Arandar was thinking about his son Accolon, framed for murder by Tarrabus and the Enlightened of Incariel. Jager, for once, had the sense not to push the matter further.

  “All right,” said Ridmark. “That’s…”

  There was a flash of white light from beyond the door. At once Ridmark stepped back, raising his staff in guard, and Kharlacht and Caius drew their weapons. Calliande lifted her hand, summoning power to cast a warding spell. Caius stepped forward, looking past Ridmark to the chamber beyond.

  “Hurry!” said Caius. “We need to get through the door! Hurry, hurry!” Kharlacht went through the door, greatsword in hand. “Go! If one of those sparks gets in here, we’re finished!”

  Sparks?

  Calliande shrugged and urged the others forward, another flash of white light coming from beyond the door. The others hurried through the door, and then Calliande went after them, Ridmark right behind her. He beckoned to Kharlacht and Caius, and together they pulled the massive door closed with a resonant clang.

  The chamber beyond was another market, smaller than the Dormari Market or the residential cavern near the Farmers’ Quarter. The shops here were smaller and more ornate, their walls carved with elaborate reliefs and glyphs. Yet the shops showed a great deal of damage, some of them smashed to rubble, others scarred and cracked. Bones lay here and there, along with pieces of damaged dwarven armor. The air in here was cold, and Calliande spotted three piles of Frostborn armor and bones, white mist swirling around them.

  “What,” said Morigna, “is that?”

  Calliande had no idea.

  The white light came from a massive armored figure that stood motionless in the center of the market. It looked like a suit of dwarven armor, albeit one that stood twelve feet tall. Glyphs of harsh white light shone upon the armored figure’s arms and legs. The helmet was wrought in the image of a stylized dwarven face, but a gash marked both the helmet and the cuirass. Within Calliande glimpsed the bones of a long-dead dwarf, though she could not imagine how the dwarf had moved in the massive armor, let alone worn it without getting crushed by the tremendous weight.

  “That is a taalkrazdor,” said Caius. “Other kindreds commonly call them titans.”

  “There are potent spells upon it,” said Mara.

  “Spells of strength and warding,” said Antenora.

  “Well and good,” said Jager, “but what exactly does it…do?”

  The glyphs sputtered and flashed, and a small spark of lightning burst from the gashed cuirass and lashed at the nearby ground. Calliande shuddered to think of what would have happened if one of those sparks had landed in the room with the coal carts.

  “They are suits of magical armor, crafted by the finest smiths and the most knowledgeable stonescribes,” said Caius. “One titan has the strength of a hundred men, and can fight entire armies to a standstill. Only the most skillful warriors are chosen to wear suits of titan armor. Alas, we never had enough of them.”

  “I can see how they would be useful against an ursaar or an urvuul,” said Ridmark.

  “The dark elves used their sorcery to make war beasts,” said Caius. “The khaldari had metallurgy and the skill of the stonescribes, so we used those to fight back. Don’t touch the titan. It is badly damaged, and I do not think the glyphs are stable.”

  “They are not,” said Antenora. “It is safe enough for now, but touching it would be unwise. There are tremendous forces bound within the armor, and they are looking for release…”

  “Let’s not give it to them,” said Ridmark. “Caius, can you guess where we are?”

  Caius squinted at glyphs carved over the archway. “I believe….yes. This is the Goldsmiths’ Market. The goldsmiths, silversmiths, and jewelers would have kept their shops here.” Jager smiled at that, eyeing the damaged buildings. “It is possible that some documents might have survived the fighting, including…”

  “Including some maps?” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said Caius. “That was my thought.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “We will search. Split up and go through the shops. For God’s sake, don’t go alone. If you find anything interesting, call out. If you find any enemies, call out and retreat back into the Market, and we’ll fight the foes together. Above all, don’t touch that titan.”

  Calliande nodded and went with Antenora to search the nearest shop.

  ###

  Mara stepped through the doorway and into the ruined shop, a peculiar melancholy coming through her

  Once, she suspected, this must have been a beautiful place. The walls had been carved with intricate reliefs, showing robed dwarven women wearing differing styles and pieces of jewelry. Crumbling tapestries hung from the walls, and dusty carpets lay here and there. A small pool rested in the center of the shop, a dry fountain, the water long since evaporated. Cases of dwarven steel and crystal lined the walls, displaying jewelry wrought of gold and silver, rings and bracelets and necklaces.

  “Jager,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “Could you do something for me?”

  “Of course,” said Jager, straightening up from his appraisal of a case holding golden rings.

  “Don’t take anything,” said Mara. “This is a tomb. Khald Azalar was a city, but now it serves as a tomb for its dwarves. Stealing from this shop would be like robbing a grave.”

  “I am the Master Thief of Cintarra, you know,” said Jager. “Robbing graves is the sort of thing I would do.”

  “But you never did, did you?” said Mara.

  Jager sighed. “No, I suppose not.” He sighed again, tapped the crystal pane of the case with a fingernail, and then grinned at her. “Besides, given how often we’ve had to run for our lives lately, I suppose I don’t want to carry any extra weight. Can’t spend money if I’m dead, can I?”

  “Indeed not,” murmured Mara. She took another look around the shop. “I doubt we’ll find any maps out here. Let’s look in the back rooms.”

  “I don’t read dwarven,” said Jager.

  “Neither do I,” said Mara, “but Caius does. Besides, I suppose a map will be obvious.”

  Jager snorted. “Given dwarven sensibilities, I suspect that map will be twenty feet tall, carved from solid stone, framed in dwarven steel, and illuminated with glyphs of fire.”

  Mara laughed despite herself. “Probably. Then Brother Caius will tell us the thousands of years of history behind it.”

  “He does like to talk,” said Jager.

  “So do you,” said Mara with a smile. “I’ve never held it against you.” Her smile faded. “I understood what he meant about hope, though.”

  They stepped into the next room. It looked like a jewelers’ workshop, with several stone benches holding tools, a small smelter and a forge, and various pieces of half-completed jewelry. If not for the faint layer of dust and the cold forge, the workshop could have been abandoned yesterday. Mara thought it odd that no one had looted the shop in the two centuries since Khald Azalar’s fall. Perhaps the Frostborn had not cared about gold, and perhaps the damaged titan in the Market scared away any Vhaluuskan adventurers who had made it this far into the ruins

  “What do you mean?” said Jager.

  “I know what it is like to have no hope,” said Mara. “There is no hope in Nightmane Forest among the Traveler’s slaves, among the Anathgrimm and the urdhracosi and the other creatures of dark magic. Among the human slaves, though…we at least could pray to God, and knew that even if we spent our lives enslaved to the Traveler, the Dominus Christus awaited us with hope beyond death. The Anathgrimm do not even have that, for the Traveler has made himself their god.”

  “I imagine mercy is not among his traits,” said Jager.

  “You’ve met him,” said Mara, looking over the tools and the workbenches. She saw nothing that might be a document. “Mercy is not within him. He might spare someone on occasion, but only so he can torment them later.”
<
br />   “Has he come any closer?” said Jager.

  “A little,” said Mara. “But not since yesterday. He might be fighting Mournacht and the Mhorites.”

  “Or he’s stuck behind one of those doors,” said Jager.

  “That, too,” said Mara. “Or he might have stopped for reasons of his own. He is not always rational.”

  “I’d noticed,” said Jager. He stopped at the far wall of the workshop, looking at another door. “Maybe there’s something in here.” He pushed open the door a crack, pale light falling into the gloomy workshop. Jager peered through the crack for a moment, and then his eyes widened. “Mara, come look at this.”

  He pushed the door all the way open. The room beyond was small, lit by a glowstone in a small steel cage affixed to the ceiling. A stone desk occupied one wall, a shelf above it, and papers and old books covered the desk. Jager stepped to the desk and began flipping through the papers.

  “I think these are letters,” said Jager.

  Mara flipped open a massive book. “That’s obviously a ledger.” She didn’t recognize the characters, but they marched across the page in orderly rows, some written in red ink and others in black. “I suppose bookkeeping is the same regardless of the kindred.”

  “We all want to turn a profit in the end,” said Jager, glancing at another paper.

  “Jager, wait,” said Mara, taking the paper. “I think…I think that is a map.” She tapped it with a finger. “Look, that would be the River Moradel, that would be the Vhaluuskan mountains…”

  “I think it shows caravan routes,” said Jager. “It probably fell from this shelf here…ah.”

  He unrolled a large scroll and spread it across the desk. It showed an intricate, stylized diagram, with dozens of different sections labeled in dwarven glyphs. Mara gazed at it, trying to make sense of the diagram.

  “This is it,” said Jager. “I think this is a map of the city.”

  “How can you be sure?” said Mara. “Maybe it’s a map of the sewer tunnels.”

  “Well, that would still be better than nothing,” said Jager. “Unless I miss my guess, this is the Gate of the West, and that would be the Dormari Quarter…damned if I know what the rest of this is, though.”