He was going to kill her.
Alamur thrust out his fist, shouting in rage as a ball of purple flame leapt from his hand, and Calliande reacted on instinct.
Her hands came up, calling the fire within her, and a hazy shield of white light appeared before her. Alamur’s spell struck the shield with a sound like a sword hitting a cuirass, and she felt the strain of his will pressing against hers.
But her will was stronger.
He flinched in sudden horror.
Much stronger.
Calliande’s will drove back his…and the ball of purple fire rebounded from her shield and slammed into him.
Alamur screamed and fell, his eyes bulging, the purple fire dancing up and down his limbs. He struck the ground and lay motionless, his face forever frozen in a mask of utter horror.
Calliande walked towards him, numb, and yanked her dagger free, cleaning the bloody blade upon his robes before returning it to its sheath. She had learned to do that, somewhere.
She stared at the corpse…and a fact impressed itself upon her mind.
The white fire still shimmered below her thoughts.
She raised her left hand and stared at it, calling the fire. Patterns flashed through her mind, spells and symbols and formulae, and a pale glow surrounded her fingers.
Magic. The white fire was magic, called from the ancient Well at Tarlion’s heart, and it was hers to summon and command.
She was a Magistria. Or, at least, she had once been a Magistria.
But now she was again.
Her head turned towards the stairs, Alamur’s corpse forgotten. Even in the cellar, the distant sounds of fighting came to her ears. The town of Dun Licinia was about to fall without aid.
The people of the town needed her.
Ridmark needed her.
Calliande grabbed her skirts and ran for the stairs.
###
Ridmark charged for the burial mound, Kharlacht on his right and Caius on his left. Qazarl’s fire surged past them, hammering into Constantine. Qazarl’s magic could keep Constantine pinned in place, preventing the Swordbearer from bringing his soulblade to bear against the undead. Once the undead had disposed of Constantine’s companions, the undead could tear the Swordbearer to pieces.
Unless Ridmark killed Qazarl first.
An undead orc lunged at him, and Ridmark dodged, his staff driving into the orc’s knee. The undead stumbled, and Kharlacht moved into the gap. His heavy blade sheared through the undead orc’s neck, and corpse and head both tumbled down the side of the burial mound. A skeletal orc attacked Caius, and he swung his heavy mace with both hands. The joint of the skeleton’s left knee exploded into powder, and the undead fell.
The path was clear to Qazarl himself.
The shaman stood atop the burial mound, left hand gripping the staff of bones, right thrust towards Constantine. A constant stream of blood-colored fire erupted from his fingers, the air shivering with the power of it. A nimbus of crimson light swirled around him. Qazarl looked like a demon risen from the pits, a horror come to wage war upon the living.
He looked, Ridmark thought, a little like Mhalek.
He charged at the shaman, and Kharlacht and Caius raised their weapons.
But Qazarl reacted first, leveling the bone staff, the tusked skulls clattering. A pulse of red light, and a wall of unseen force slammed into Ridmark. The blast knocked him over, but he tucked his shoulder and rolled, regaining his feet. He saw Kharlacht lying motionless, saw Caius rolling to the base of the hill. Had the spell knocked them unconscious?
Or had Qazarl simply killed them?
“A pity,” said Qazarl, looking at Kharlacht. “He was such a capable…”
Ridmark attacked, all his strength behind his blow.
His staff plunged towards Qazarl’s head, only to rebound from the nimbus of red light.
“Did you not think I would ward myself against your weapons?” said Qazarl. He shook the staff, the skulls grinning at Ridmark. “All that power…and I would spare none to protect myself? In the end, I am stronger in than Mhalek ever was.” He leveled the staff. “Farewell, Gray Knight.”
The red light glowed brighter, filling Ridmark’s vision.
###
Calliande ran up the stairs and reached the ramparts of the northern wall.
The battlements were slick with blood, and all around her men-at-arms and militiamen struggled against the undead orcs. The dead things climbed up the walls by sheer strength, throwing themselves upon the living men. The defenders were holding their own, but barely. Beyond the ramparts she saw the chaos of the battlefield, saw horsemen flying the banners of Castra Marcaine and Dux Gareth Licinius.
And she saw the pillar of crimson flame rising from the burial mounds in the woods, felt the harsh wrath of Qazarl’s magic.
“My lady!”
She saw Sir Joram standing behind the struggling militiamen, his armor and surcoat spattered with blood both red and green.
“Go back to the castle!” he said. “I do not know if we can hold here. Go...”
But Calliande sensed the black magic animating the dead orcs, the blood spell that made them dance and jerk upon the strings of Qazarl’s will.
And she knew the spell to break those strings.
Calliande closed her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest, and reached for the white fire within her. It came at her call, and her mind directed the power through the structure of a spell.
“My lady!” shouted Joram. “Go!”
She opened her eyes, saw three of the undead break through the line and reach for her with cold, dead hands.
Calliande smiled and released the spell.
A ring of white light erupted from her, passing through the living men and the dead orcs alike, spreading over the northern rampart. The light touched the living men without harm. But wherever it touched the dead orcs, they fell like puppets with cut strings, smoke pouring from their mouths and nostrils.
In a matter of heartbeats Calliande’s magic destroyed every last undead orc attacking the walls of Dun Licinia.
She swayed as a wave of dizziness washed through her. Expending that much power had taken a great deal. Magic, she realized, was limited by stamina. What she had just done was like carrying a dozen forty-pound sacks of flour up a flight of stairs.
All at once.
“My lady!” Sir Joram grabbed her arm. She was grateful for the support. She had not survived Shadowbearer and Qazarl and Alamur only to lose her balance and fall to her death from the walls. “Are you…are you well?”
“I think so,” said Calliande, blinking as the spinning stopped.
“That spell…it was well-timed,” said Joram. “Those fiends would only stop fighting once we chopped off their heads. You…you are a Magistria?”
“It would appear so,” said Calliande. “Ridmark, where is Ridmark?”
“I do not know, my lady,” said Joram. “He fought the duel with the orcish champion, and then the horsemen from Castra Marcaine arrived, and he followed Sir Constantine into the woods.”
Calliande slipped from his grasp and moved to the battlements. In the distance she saw the pillar of Qazarl’s magic rising from the trees, felt the power rolling off it in burning waves. Qazarl himself was likely there.
Which meant Ridmark was almost certainly there, if Qazarl had not killed him already.
She knew what she had to do.
“Get ready to catch me,” she told Joram. “I’m going to cast a spell, and then I’m likely going to pass out.”
Joram started to speak, but she ignored him and summoned power, as much as she could handle, the white fire blazing around her. Calliande gestured, her mind forcing the magic into the shape she desired, and flung out her hands.
A ball of dazzling white flame erupted from her palms and shot over the battlefield, plunging into the woods.
She saw the white flash of its impact, and then everything went black.
###
The cri
mson nimbus around Qazarl shone brighter, and then the world exploded around Ridmark.
White fire filled his vision.
But the flame passed through him without harm. The burial mound shook beneath his boots, and he drove his staff into the earth, leaning on it to keep his balance. The white flame faded away, and he saw Qazarl staggering back and forth, his eyes glassy.
And his crimson nimbus had vanished.
The white fire, whatever it was, had broken the shaman’s protective spells.
It was Ridmark’s last chance.
He ran forward, his staff coming up, and struck. Qazarl shook out of his stupor and raised a hand to cast a spell, but it was too late. Ridmark hit him across the face with the staff, and the shaman staggered back. His next blow ripped the staff of bones from Qazarl’s grasp. Qazarl roared and lifted his hands, bloody fire brightening around them.
Ridmark brought his staff down with enough force to break Qazarl’s right wrist. The shaman howled in pain, and Ridmark drove his staff into Qazarl’s gut, reversed it, and swung it against Qazarl’s knee.
The shaman collapsed upon his back, clutching his wounded wrist, and Ridmark raised his staff to land the killing blow.
“It won’t matter!” spat Qazarl.
Ridmark hesitated.
“You’ve beaten me,” said Qazarl. “Killing me changes nothing. The new order is coming, Gray Knight. Shadowbearer has foreseen it. The world shall change…and the Frostborn will return.” He grinned, his mouth full of blood from the staff’s impact. “Kill me…and the Frostborn will still return.”
“Perhaps,” said Ridmark, “but you will not see it.”
He hammered the staff down.
Chapter 23 - The Hero of Dun Licinia
Calliande drifted in a strange white mist, cool and clammy.
The mist filled her mind.
She saw the sad-eyed old man in the white robe, the old man whose image had greeted her as she awakened beneath the Tower of Vigilance. She realized his white robe was the robe of a Magistrius, the same kind of robe Alamur had worn. He had been one of the Magistri…as had she.
“I knew you, didn’t I?” said Calliande.
The old man offered a sad nod, his tangled gray beard brushing his collar.
“Who are you?” said Calliande. “Tell me. Who am I? Please, tell me.”
“I cannot,” said the old man. “You have denied yourself your memories, for good and proper reasons. I admit I thought your plan folly. I still do. But it was wise to conceal your memory. Otherwise Shadowbearer would have plucked your secrets from your mind…and now all would be lost. The gate would be open, and ice would devour the world.”
“Please, say plainly what you mean,” said Calliande. “Speak not to me in riddles.”
“I cannot,” said the old man, “for you have forbidden it.”
“Then what can you tell me?” said Calliande.
The old man thought for a moment. “Only that you may call me the Watcher, and that you must not tell anyone of me. Your plan…your plan has gone badly awry. The Order of the Vigilant was to greet you upon awakening, to take you to the appointed place, but they fell victim to their own corruption and perished. So you must carry on in the Order’s stead. Beware Shadowbearer. He knows that you are a threat to him and his servants…and he will be hunting you.”
“I will,” said Calliande. “But can you tell me nothing more?”
“Only this. To find your answers, you must find your staff.”
“My staff?” said Calliande. Shadowbearer had asked her about a staff. That, and a sword. He had seemed very eager to find both. “Where is my staff?”
“At Dragonfall,” said the old man.
“I don’t know where that is,” said Calliande.
“Few do. You did. Shadowbearer does. And he will seek you,” said the Watcher. He closed his eyes. “Be careful, my lady. A great burden lies upon you…and you alone can carry it.”
“I shall,” said Calliande. She felt a great affection for the old man, and desperately wished she could remember more about him. “Thank you.”
“My prayers go with you,” said the Watcher.
He began to fade into the mists.
“Will I see you again?” said Calliande.
“I will await you,” said the Watcher, “at Dragonfall.”
He vanished, and Calliande felt herself drifting again. The mist flickered with visions. Again she saw herself speaking to the council of old men in robes, arguing her case. She saw armies marching to war, herself riding at their head. Sheets of glowing blue ice spreading to cover the land, tall figures in armor the color of pitted ice walking before the glaciers, swords that burned blue in their hands.
A knight wielding a sword of red gold that burned with flame.
A twisted staff of oak, shining with a pale white light.
And a laughing shadow in a long red coat, a shadow that hunted her across the centuries…
The mist swallowed Calliande, and she knew no more.
###
Calliande’s eyes fluttered open.
She sat up, confused. She lay in a narrow bed, clad in a loose nightshirt. The bed occupied a small castle room, the walls and ceiling of stone, a shaft of sunlight falling through the narrow window. Brother Caius sat in a chair below the window, eyes closed and a book open upon his lap.
She heard a rasping noise, and realized that Caius was snorting.
“Caius?” she said.
“Eh?” said Caius, his strange blue eyes opening in his gray-skinned face. “I was not sleeping. I was merely resting my eyes.”
“What happened?” said Calliande. “Where am I?”
Caius closed his book. “You, Magistria, are in your chamber at the keep. Sir Joram brought you here.”
“What happened with the battle?” said Calliande. “Qazarl and the orcs? And Ridmark…did he fall…”
“No, Ridmark was fine, when last I saw him,” said Caius. “When you attacked Qazarl, it broke his protective spells. Ridmark was able to strike him down, and once the shaman was dead, his spell over the undead broke. Sir Constantine’s men were able to sweep the Mhalekites from the field.” He sighed. “I fear it was a great slaughter. Some of the orcs escaped, but not many. If Qazarl gathered all that remained of Mhalek’s followers, then the Mhalekites have been reduced to only a few ragged bands.”
“How long have I been asleep?” said Calliande.
“Two days,” said Caius.
She rubbed her face. “I fear I might have overexerted myself.”
“Your overexertion decided the battle and restored your memory,” said Caius. “The effort appears to have been worthwhile.”
“No,” said Calliande. “My memory did not return. Just…just my powers. It appears I was indeed a Magistria during the war against the Frostborn two centuries ago. But none of my memories have returned. Just my skills with magic. Or some of them.”
Caius snorted. “Give that your skills with magic saved my life, I am grateful for them. Qazarl would have slain us all, had you not struck.”
“Was Ridmark hurt?” said Calliande.
“No,” said Caius. “He came through the battle unscathed.” He hesitated. “He…spoke with me, to make sure you were well, once the battle was over. And then he departed Dun Licinia.”
“He departed?” said Calliande. “Why? He saved the town! He slew Qazarl, you said so yourself.”
Caius stood. “Perhaps you should speak to Sir Joram and Sir Constantine. They asked to talk with you, once you awakened.” He bowed. “I shall send one of the servants to help you dress.”
###
A short time later Calliande entered the great hall of the keep, wearing a clean gown, the dagger Ridmark had given her sheathed at her belt. Caius walked at her side, his heavy boots clicking against the flagstones.
Sir Joram Agramore waited at the table, clad again in mantle and tunic. At his side sat a handsome man of about twenty-five, with curly black hair, olive-color
ed skin, and bright green eyes. A sheathed longsword hung at his belt, and Calliande felt the power of the magic gathered in the weapon…and in the soulstone worked into the blade.
The sword was a Soulblade, which meant that black-haired knight was a Swordbearer.
Both men rose as she approached.
“My lady Calliande,” said Joram with a bow, “you do us honor. Or shall I address you as the Magistria Calliande now?”
“For all your kindnesses to me,” said Calliande, “you may address me however you wish.”
“And since your magic defeated the traitor Alamur and helped us defeat Qazarl,” said Joram, “I wish to address you with the highest honor.” He gestured to the younger man. “This is Sir Constantine Licinius, son of the Dux Gareth Licinius of Castra Marcaine, and a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade.”
Constantine bowed, and Calliande gripped her skirts and did a curtsy.
“My lady Magistria,” said Constantine, “I thank you for your aid. With Alamur turned traitor, we were at a sore disadvantage against Qazarl. If you had not unleashed your magic when you did, I fear we would all have been slain, and Dun Licinia would now be ashes.”
“Thank you, my lord Swordbearer,” said Calliande, “but the credit properly goes to the man known as the Gray Knight, Ridmark Arban. He saved my life, not once but many times, and his skill at arms helped Sir Joram defend the town.”
Joram snorted. “Now you do me a kindness. Ridmark defended the town. I was merely along for the ride, as it were.”
“Ridmark refused all reward,” said Constantine, “and departed for the north as soon as he was sure you were safe.”
“Why?” said Calliande. He had promised to help her find the truth of her past. “Why did he leave?”
Constantine sighed. “I fear it was my fault. I…reminded him too much of the past.”
“What past?” said Calliande. “My lords, forgive me for being blunt…but what happened to Ridmark? He utterly refused to speak of it.”
“Aye,” said Caius. “I have rarely seen a warrior of such boldness and skill, whether among my own kindred or yours. For a man like him to bear the brand of a craven and a traitor…I cannot fathom it.”
Frostborn: The Gray Knight (Frostborn #1) Page 28
