“But that means…” said Calliande.
That meant the old man had sealed himself inside the vault.
And to judge from the skeleton, he never left.
“Do not mourn for me,” said the old man, “for my course is run. I am wounded unto death.” She saw the spreading crimson stain across his white robes, and realized that he had been wounded. “You will be safe here, until you awaken.”
He closed his eyes and shuddered with pain.
“Mistress, I beg, listen to me,” said the old man. “You were right. You were always right, and I should have listened to you as a young man. This war between the Pendragon princes…no, it did not occur on its own. They were manipulated into it. Mistress, beware.” His voice grew thicker, his breathing harsher. “The bearer…the bearer of the shadow. You were right about him, too. This was his doing. Everything has been his doing…and he has been laboring in the darkness for centuries before Malahan Pendragon raised the first stone of Tarlion itself. Mistress, please, beware…he will come for you…he…”
The specter vanished into nothingness.
And the blue glow faded.
With a surge of alarm Calliande realized the glow had been part of the spell. And now that the spell’s message had been delivered, the light would fade away.
Leaving her alone in the darkness.
“No!” she said, her voice echoing off the walls.
The blue light faded away a moment later, leaving her in utter blackness.
Calliande waved her hands in front of her face, but she saw nothing. For a panicked instant she thought the skeletons would rise around her, rusted weapons gripped in bony hands, but she pushed aside the terror. The cold part of her mind recalled the specter’s words, remembered the words about the magical defenses of the vault. If the old man had been correct, her touch ought to open the door.
If he was wrong, she would die of thirst in the darkness.
Calliande started forward, hands held out before her, and put her foot upon the first step. She started to climb, and felt her left boot crumble beneath her. The ruined leather felt like dust between her toes. She kicked it away, lost her balance, and fell, landing hard upon her palms.
The stone stairs were uneven. Perhaps it was safer to crawl.
She worked her way up the stairs step by step. Her robe bunched against her knees, and she tugged it up, only to feel a large chunk of it fall apart in her grasp. The dank, musty air of the vault felt icy against her exposed legs. She kept crawling, her heart pulsing in her ears. Perhaps the stairs would never end. Or perhaps this vault had been sealed so well that she would breathe all the air and asphyxiate in the darkness.
Surely that would be quicker than dying from thirst.
But she kept climbing, the stone rough against her palms. Step by step she went, sweat trickling down her face and back despite the chill, and then…
Her hand brushed smooth stone. She knelt, waving her hands before her, and felt a wall of smooth stone sealing off the end of the stairs. Was this the door the specter had mentioned? Calliande got to her feet, more pieces of her crumbling robe falling away. The stone felt icy cold beneath her touch, and damp with condensation.
She pushed at the door, and nothing happened.
“Open,” she said.
Still nothing happened.
“Open!” Calliande shouted, her voice ringing with desperation.
Nothing happened…and then she felt the door shiver beneath her fingers, as if the stone had pushed again her mind.
A low grinding noise filled her ears, and a crack of brilliant white light appeared in the center of the stone slab. Calliande stepped back, one hand raised to shield her eyes, and the slab split in half, its sides retracting into the walls.
Something cold and wet slammed into her feet and shins. She saw water pouring through the crack in the opening door, and realized that the chamber beyond was flooded.
An instant later a waist-high wall of water slammed into her and knocked her over. Calliande tumbled back down the stone stairs, sputtering and thrashing, desperately trying to stop her fall. At last she hit the floor of the vault, the flow of water slackening as it poured down the stairs. She staggered to her feet, the remnants of her robe sodden against her. A desperate chill filled her chest, her body shaking with cold.
If she did not get out of this water, she was going to die.
Calliande hauled herself back up the stairs, grabbing at the wall for support against the cascading water. In the light from the opened doors, she saw that the stairs did not climb more than sixty feet or so.
In the darkness it had seemed so much farther.
Step by step she struggled up the stairs, her limbs quaking from the cold. She saw that the stairs opened into the base of a ruined square tower, its cellar flooded, though the water was draining into the vault. Calliande saw the tower’s walls rising nearly six stories over the cellar, its interior long vanished. Pale sunlight leaked through the windows, and she saw heavy clouds streaking the blue sky.
Sunlight.
For a moment a wave of joy washed through her. She had never thought to see sunlight again.
Then the cold struck her. She waded across the cellar to a flight of stone stairs along the wall and heaved herself out of the water. As she did, the sodden remnants of her crumbling robes split apart, leaving only a few rags stuck to her wet skin. Getting out of the cold water helped with the chill, but not very much.
A heavy dread gripped her. The tower around her had obviously been destroyed and abandoned long ago. She was alone and starving, and if she did not find some food soon, she would be in trouble. More urgently, she was nearly naked, and she had to obtain shelter at once. She did not think it was winter, but it was cold, and Calliande feared that she would freeze if she did not find shelter.
But she would find neither clothing nor food in this ruined tower.
Calliande climbed the stairs, her bare feet slipping against the wet stone, one hand braced against the rough wall. The stairs ended in a narrow doorway, and Calliande stepped into a courtyard.
Her confusion increased.
The tower was part of a larger castle, and the castle was abandoned. Once it must have been a magnificent fortress, proud and strong. Now it lay in ruin, the outer curtain wall crumbling, the inner towers empty stone shells. Tough brown weeds covered the courtyard, and here and there a pine tree had thrust its way up through the earth. Calliande saw that the castle’s barbican and gate lay in smashed ruin. The fortress had been sacked, burned, and abandoned long ago.
Perhaps even centuries ago.
Her shivering worsened, and not just from the cold.
What had happened to her? How had she awakened in the darkness beneath a long-abandoned castle?
She could worry about it later. Right now she needed to focus on survival. Calliande doubted she would find any clothing in the ruined castle, but perhaps she could find some means of making fire. The brown weeds would burn once she pulled them up. Once she had warmed herself, perhaps she could think more clearly, find a solution to her dilemma.
She turned towards the inner keep, and saw the dark mountain looming overhead.
It rose at least a mile high, a solid mass of black stone rising from the earth like an armored fist. No snow covered its slopes, and Calliande saw the distant shape of ruins atop the mountain.
That mountain was dangerous. She knew it in her bones.
“The Black Mountain,” she whispered.
All at once she knew where she was.
The Black Mountain stood on the northernmost edge of the High King’s realm of Andomhaim, on the northern border of the lands sworn to the Dux of the Northerland in Castra Marcaine. Castra Marcaine was only a few days’ ride from the Black Mountain, and if Calliande could find some garments, she could walk there and subsist on wild plants during the journey.
And if she could remember where she was, then perhaps more of her memories would return.
Like
how she had wound up sealed in a vault beneath a ruined castle.
Calliande turned, and saw an orcish man staring at her.
The orc stood in the doorway to one of the ruined towers, clad in fur and leather, a short bow in his hands. Battle scars marked his face and arms, and his black hair had been cut in a warrior’s topknot. A strange brand had been burned onto the orc’s forehead, like stylized teardrop.
The orc was watching her like a wolf looking at a wounded deer.
And Calliande remembered that she was naked.
She took a step back, trying to cover herself with her hands.
The orc grinned, tusks twitching against his cheeks, and climbed down from the tower’s doorway.
“You,” said the orc in the orcish tongue, “look cold.”
She understood him. Apparently she knew orcish.
“Yes,” said Calliande. “If you could bring me some clothing, I would…I would be most grateful.”
The orc laughed. “I thought the Master was mad, when he said we would find you in this cursed place. But here you are. And I shall get the reward for laying you at the Master’s feet.”
Calliande turned to run.
She sprinted across the courtyard, the orc in pursuit. But the ground was uneven and rocky, and Calliande was barefoot. She managed to make it twenty yards before she slipped and landed hard upon her hip. Pain flooded through her, and she managed to roll to one knee.
The orc’s hands closed about her shoulders.
Calliande tried to strike him, but she had no strength in her arms, and the orc hauled her to the feet without much effort. He spun her around, jerked her arms behind her back, and tied her wrists together.
“You’re fortunate,” said the orc. “You’re a pretty thing, and I could have some fun with you. But the Master wants you intact and untouched, and I am not fool enough to defy the Master.” He laughed. “And by the blood gods, once the Master is done with you, you’ll wish I had made you my chattel.”
The orc strode across the courtyard, dragging her after, his hand like an iron shackle around her arm.
Chapter 4 - The Tower of Vigilance
Ridmark stared at the blue flames rolling across the sky.
He heard Caius muttering a prayer in Latin, perhaps the fifty-first Psalm, but he did not care.
Fear filled him, and a growing sense of finality. In the last five years, he had hunted for clues, searching for evidence that the prophecies he had received from the urdmordar Gothalinzur and the Warden were false. He knew his former brothers of the Order of the Soulblade thought him a coward and an outcast, wandering the Wilderland in search of phantom foes that might grant redemption. Sometimes he wondered if they were right.
Sometimes he hoped they were right.
But he knew what he had seen.
And now the proof blazed overhead.
The blue flames pulsed once more, and then faded away, seeming to pull towards the Black Mountain to the north. The sky returned to normal, the sun shining through bands of heavy gray clouds.
“God save us,” said Caius. “What was that?”
“An omen,” said Ridmark. “A sign of their return.”
“Return of who?” said Caius.
“The Frostborn,” said Ridmark.
It was hard to judge expressions on the dwarf’s gray-skinned face, but Ridmark thought he saw a hint of pity there. “The Frostborn are extinct. Your own High King wiped them out two hundred years ago. My kindred marched in that war, and my own father and brother fought alongside High King Ardraine himself. The Frostborn are no more.”
“I know what I saw,” said Ridmark, looking at the Black Mountain.
“As do I,” said Caius, “but I think it was a conjunction of the moons. My kindred have long known that the conjunction of the thirteen moons can produce powerful magical effects. I think this was one of them.”
“Perhaps,” said Ridmark, “but that is not important. It is a sign, Brother Caius. I was warned against it.” He thought for a moment. “The fire seemed to come from the Black Mountain.”
“That is an ill place,” said Caius. “Many great battles between the dark elves and the high elves were fought here, and then between the urdmordar and the high elves. And between the Frostborn and the High King.”
“And the Mhalekite orcs at Dun Licinia,” said Ridmark. He looked back at the dwarf. “I promised Sir Joram I would see you safe back to Dun Licinia. The way is clear to the town. Go, now, and you should make it back safely.”
“And where are you going, Gray Knight?” said Caius.
Ah. So he had heard of Ridmark after all. “I am going to the Black Mountain. The blue flame seemed to come from there.”
“That is folly,” said Caius.
“Perhaps,” said Ridmark, “but the Frostborn are returning. The lords and knights of Andomhaim must be warned. But they will not believe me without proof.”
“So you’re off to find proof?” said Caius.
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “And a strange coincidence, is it not, that the Mhalekite orcs appear in the woods soon before the omen fills the skies?”
“It is troubling,” said Caius.
“I am going to Black Mountain,” said Ridmark. “You, Brother Caius, are going to Dun Licinia, to warn Sir Joram about the Mhalekites.”
“No,” said Caius. “I shall accompany you to the mountain.”
Ridmark shook his head. “I fight better alone.”
“That is true of neither man nor dwarf,” said Caius. “I have taken the vows of a mendicant, but I fought against the dark elves and the deep orcs and the kobolds for decades as a warrior of the Three Kingdoms. I know how to wield a mace.” He smiled. “Even the famed Gray Knight himself might benefit from my aid.”
“I am not a knight,” said Ridmark. He remembered the searing pain of the brand digging into his face. “Not any longer.”
Caius shrugged. “As you said, Mhalekite orcs might lurk around the Black Mountain. But Sir Joram seems a phlegmatic sort of fellow, and he might not call to Dux Gareth Licinius for aid without proof. And if both of us go, the odds are better that one of us will survive to warn Dun Licinia.”
“You are determined to go with me,” said Ridmark, “aren’t you?”
“You did save my life,” said Caius. “While I look forward to joining the Dominus Christus in glory, I suspect he still has work for me in the mortal world.”
“Stubborn,” said Ridmark.
Caius grinned. “I understand humans often attribute stubbornness to my kindred.”
“If God wants you to live, who am I to argue?” said Ridmark. “Very well. Come if you like. But you will do as I say, understand?”
“You are a captain and knight of renown,” said Caius, “or at least you were, and I believe you know what you are doing. Lead on, Gray Knight.”
“We’ll make for the Tower of Vigilance,” said Ridmark. “From there, we’ll be able to see all the foothills on the southern side of the mountain.”
“If whoever commands the Mhalekites has any brains at all,” said Caius, “he’ll have seized the ruins of the Tower already. That is a strong fortress, and the High King should never have let it fall into ruin after the war of the princes.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “If Mhalek had thought to seize it, we would not be having this conversation.”
But perhaps Aelia would still be alive…
He pushed down that thought at once. Now was not the time to dwell upon it.
“Come,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff. “Let us find some answers.”
He led the way down the hill, setting a rapid pace.
But Caius had no trouble keeping up.
###
The ground grew rockier as they drew north, the foothills steeper and the trees smaller. Soon Ridmark found the remnants of a road climbing into the hills, cutting its way back and forth over the slopes. Once it had led to the Tower of Vigilance itself. Taking the road would save time and make for an easier asce
nt.
On the other hand, if a Mhalekite chieftain had taken control of the Tower’s ruins, he would have set patrols along the road. But the orcs would watch for enemy patrols from Dun Licinia, not a ragged wanderer with a staff and a dwarf in a monk’s robe.
“That,” said Caius, “is a curious weapon you bear.”
“It has its uses,” said Ridmark, watching the trees. He thought about urging the dwarf to silence, but decided against it. Any sentinels in the trees would see them coming long before they came within earshot.
“I thought,” said Caius, “that the sigil upon your face meant you could not bear arms within the realm of Andomhaim.”
“Almost,” said Ridmark. “It means I cannot carry a sword within the realm of Andomhaim. Other weapons are perfectly acceptable.”
“The staff is considered a most unknightly weapon,” said Caius.
“It is,” said Ridmark, “but I suspect my former brothers of the Order of the Soulblade were wrong. They consider the quarterstaff a weapon for freeholders, for peasants and yeomen. Yet it takes a very skilled swordsman to overcome a capable man with a quarterstaff.”
“Indeed,” said Caius. “A sword is romantic, but sometimes practical things are better. I am surprised you can hit hard enough with a staff to kill, though.”
Ridmark glanced back at him. Caius showed no hint of exertion from the climb, his bronze-colored mace in his right hand. “You are full of questions.”
Caius laughed. “Indeed I am. Asking questions is what brought me to the Church, after all. For God is truth, and by seeking truth, we are seeking him.”
“Poetic.”
“So,” said Caius, “how do you hit hard enough to kill?”
Ridmark laughed in exasperation and turned. “Catch.”
He threw the staff at the dwarf, perhaps a little harder than he had intended. Caius’s free hand snapped up to catch the staff, and the dwarf rocked beneath the weight.
Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1) Page 4
