Frostgrave_Second Chances

by Matthew Ward

  He snorted. ‘Inevitable. Her will is weak, her soul prone to temptation. She doesn’t have the strength to resist, and it’s wearing her away, piece by piece.’

  With a supreme effort, Mirika kept her disgust hidden. How had she never seen this side of Master Torik before? She swore to herself that it didn’t matter. Once he’d kept his side of the bargain, he’d never see either of them again. Whatever it took. ‘But it can save her?’

  ‘Oh, it’ll change everything.’ He nodded gently to himself. ‘Bring it through to the sanctum, and we’ll get started.’

  * * *

  Suppressing a pang of reluctance, Mirika set the orb in the waters of the marble font. She wasn’t sure where Master Torik had found that particular piece, just as she was ignorant as to the origins of the angel-winged lectern, and most of the items on the sanctum’s shelves. They were the fruits of a long and productive life, collected over a span beyond the reach of most mortals. Only time walkers like her master could hope to live for so long, thinning his tempo, stretching it out for decades, even centuries. Master Torik had often hinted that she could do the same, but the idea had never truly appealed. Why outlive your loved ones? she’d asked. He’d laughed, and told her she’d change her mind once the first grey hairs showed.

  ‘I’ll fetch Yelen,’ she said, heading for the stairs.

  Master Torik shook his head. ‘Let her sleep. You and I have work to do.’

  He tottered past the chest-high grotesque, sat ingloriously askew across the cellar’s rear corner – Boriz, Yelen had named it, though Mirika wasn’t sure why – and began gathering items from the nearest shelf. A stoppered vial. A chunk of tiger-striped gemstone.

  ‘What do you need from me?’ Mirika asked.

  ‘Hmmm? Keep your hand on the orb. Let me know at once if it starts to grow hot.’

  His words triggered a stray memory. It had once before, hadn’t it? Back at the Broken Strand, when she’d dropped the reliquary. There was still so much she didn’t know. ‘What is this thing? I travelled a long way to get it, and I still don’t know.’

  Master Torik knelt down, the walking stick trembling as it took his full weight. ‘It’s a reservoir, of sorts. A wellspring of power. Szarnos mastered the secrets of life as fully as he conquered Felstad in days of old. He thought if he trapped enough of his magic, his priests could weave him a new life from the threads. At least, that’s what the legend says.’ He plucked a piece of chalk from behind his ear, and started scratching a series of flowing runes across the floorboards. ‘Too bad for him that his priests all died when the new king came to power. Felstad’s rulers elevated paranoia to an art form.’

  He fell silent, and returned his attention to his scrawlings. The floor was already covered in similar shapes and sigils, Mirika noted. The work of hours, if not days. Master Torik had been preparing for this for some time. ‘And the power within will allow you to banish the demon?’

  ‘It can do more than that. Like I said, it’ll change everything.’

  No wonder Cavril had wanted it so badly, thought Mirika. Perhaps she should reconsider staying on as Torik’s apprentice…

  One last, fussy scribble, and Master Torik staggered to his feet and braced both hands against the lectern. ‘That should do it. It’ll soon be over.’

  The chalk sigils blazed a piercing blue. Mirika gasped for breath as a suffocating wave of… something crashed over her. The breath wouldn’t come. The compacted dirt of the cellar fell away, yet remained impossibly firm beneath her feet at the same time. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. Even her thoughts, ordinarily so swift, flowed like treacle.

  Through dimming eyes, she saw Master Torik regarding her, his eyes alight with interest, not concern. ‘Don’t fight it, my dear. Talented as you are, this is beyond you.’

  What had he done? What had she let him do? Mirika reached for the timeflow, but it edged further beyond her grasp with each attempt. The orb blazed beneath her hand, the heat of it the only sensation she could any longer feel. The confines of the cellar seemed so distant, the angles of reality shifting under the strain of Torik’s spell.

  Mirika’s thoughts faded beneath a black and choking cloud. She struggled, but the cloud fed on her resistance, replacing her perceptions with its own. She felt thoughts pressing against hers, cold and hard. Torik’s. They were Torik’s. Fragments of memory fell away, subsumed into the dark mass, replaced by vistas she’d never seen, sensations she’d never felt.

  In a single, horrifying moment of clarity, she knew what he intended. What Torik had meant when he’d spoken of her as his heir. Always treat her with the respect owed to me. I have chosen well. The words took on new meaning. She could have wept. Perhaps she did, but could no longer feel the tears.

  No! She’d wouldn’t allow it! She reached again for the timeflow. Again it deserted her. There had to be a way. Torik wouldn’t win. He couldn’t! And Yelen. It had all been a lie. He’d never had any intention of helping her. None.

  Desperate anger became the spark to ingenuity. The orb. A wellspring, he’d said. A reservoir of power, waiting to be used. Torik wasn’t the only one who could tap into it.

  Mirika focused on the warmth beneath her hand and bent her will upon it, as she’d been taught. The black cloud came on, swallowing every scintilla of her being. Karamasz became only a name. Yelen a fading face, and a sense of regret. She screamed for help, though she no longer understood her own words, and forgot the sound of them before the echoes faded. A heartbeat on, and the woman knew only the warmth beneath her hand – that, and a fading determination.

  And then, in the moment before all that was left of Mirika Semova blinked into nothing, the orb blazed brighter. A cold thunderclap broke across her thoughts, and a third presence joined the battle.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Yelen staggered, lost in the blizzard. Bracing her feet against the wind, she cupped a hand across her brow and searched for a light, a patch of shadow – anything that could have been her sister. She saw nothing. Just white swirling upon white. She couldn’t even remember where she’d seen Mirika last.

  ‘Mirika!’ She howled the words, matching the wind fury for fury. ‘Mirika!’

  ‘She’s not there.’ A dark figure drew up at Yelen’s side, her body little more than a patch of shadow lit by gleaming crimson eyes. ‘And you need to wake up.’

  Yelen shoved the figure aside, and stumbled on a pace. ‘I need to find my sister.’

  ‘She’s not here,’ the figure snapped. Her hair writhed like serpents. ‘This is a dream. Wake up, poppet! Before you get us both killed!’

  Shadowy hands closed around Yelen’s wrists. Claws pierced her skin. She gasped in pain, but there was no blood, only molten ice. She stared numbly at the wounds, shivering uncontrollably. ‘You’re hurting me!’

  ‘I haven’t started yet!’

  Yelen yelped as a dark hand struck her across the cheek. Her head snapped back. The snows spun.

  * * *

  Yelen awoke. Her vision swam. The sour stench of sulphur crowded the back of her throat. But more than anything she felt cold. Heavy and cold.

  She jerked upright to a chorus of creaking and cracking. Chill wet lumps slithered from her arms and back. She shrieked and rolled off Mirika’s bed, shoulder cracking painfully against the floor.

  At last, her vision cleared. The hearth was dark, the ashes covered with a fine drifting of snow. The dresser and most of the bed were encased in ice. And the wall – the wall with the window that gazed out across the Nereta – was gone. There was only a jagged hole in the timbers, and the raging snowstorm beyond.

  Yelen gazed around, dumbstruck. She barely heard the whip-crack of the shattering beam, or the roof issue its last, creaking wail. She stared vacantly up as the mass of wood and ice plunged towards her, knowing that she’d never get clear in time, even if her frozen, throbbing legs could be coaxed to motion.

  The Clock of Ages’ dolorous chime split the air. The plunging beam slowed to a
crawl. A familiar energy roared through Yelen’s limbs, burning away the cold, the indecision.

  She scrambled aside in the same moment the timeflow reasserted itself. The beam crashed down, most of the roof riding hard upon its heels. The bed shattered to matchsticks beneath the impact. Then it vanished through the floor as the mass crashed onwards, taking half the room and Mirika’s beloved bearskin rug with it.

  Yelen retched, the taste of sulphur suddenly too much to bear.

  ‘Don’t be ungrateful, poppet. That one was free. Move, before you need another.’

  Yelen ripped back her sleeve. The clock was indeed unchanged, still showing half an hour to Thirteen. She had the sense she’d missed something important in Azzanar’s words, but her disoriented mind couldn’t begin to guess at its nature.

  ‘Move, poppet, move! Before the rest comes down!’

  Yelen stared dumbstruck at the hole in the floor. The hole that had taken her boots and most of her travelling clothes. Pausing only to grab her travelling coat from the hook by the door, she flung herself towards the stairs. As she did so, a grinding crash spoke to a fate narrowly avoided.

  * * *

  Yelen staggered down stairs clogged with debris and drifted snow. Already, her fingers had fallen numb – without boots, gloves or layers of mufflers and furs, the travelling coat alone was of little protection against the merciless cold of a Frostgrave night. But there was no going back. It was forwards or nothing.

  Wind gusted up the ruined stairwell. She clutched at the banister for support. What the hells was going on? The Guttered Candle had been no fortress, but it had been sturdy enough. Had Flintine taken Kardish’s death so badly he’d hired a wizard to assault Torik’s home, regardless of the consequences of such an act? Where was Torik? More importantly, where was Mirika? Finding no comfort in her questions, Yelen stumbled on.

  Snow swirled across the banquet hall, the flakes driven by a biting wind that rushed in from where the west wall had once stood. The floor and tables – at least, those Yelen could see through the storm – were thick with drifted snow. Here and there, a lantern cast its oily amber glow, but for the most part the room lay in the grasp of darkness. One shadow seemed stronger than the others; taller, more fully formed.

  ‘Mirika?’

  The wind howled, snatching Yelen’s words into the wild night. She stepped forward. Her foot skidded on a patch of ice, slipping from the bottom stair. She grabbed for the banister, staying upright through good fortune as much as any other factor.

  A cold hand closed around her ankle.

  Yelen glanced down, ramming a fist into her mouth to suppress a shriek. Torik lay at her feet, his face a mask of blood, and the lower half of his body hidden beneath splintered timber and a broken blanket of snow. His eyes stared vacantly up at her, unfocused, unseeing.

  Gripping the banister tight, Yelen tried to tear her foot away. Tried, and failed. His grip was like steel. She threw a hurried glance across the room. The shadow had gone, swallowed up by the darkness leading to the entrance hall. Had it been Mirika? Or whoever – whatever – was responsible? And if it wasn’t Mirika, then where was she?

  Lent strength by desperation, she strained against Torik’s grip a second time, and this time tore free. His lips moved, but the storm swallowed the thready words.

  Free at last, Yelen stepped away. But something held her back. She hated Torik, as she was sure he despised her, but if he was still alive…

  With a last reluctant glance across the snow-laden banquet hall, Yelen crouched beside the old man’s body. His chest shuddered as it rose and fell. Blood bubbled on his lips. No. Not dead. But neither was he long for this world.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Do not follow her.’ Torik’s whisper was barely audible. ‘I have been a fool. And I have paid.’ His agitated eyes darted back and forth.

  ‘Where is she?’ Yelen demanded. ‘What have you done with my sister?’

  ‘She was to be mine, body and soul. Young eyes to see out new decades. Strong limbs to replace these aged bones…’

  Torik’s words grew muted in Yelen’s thoughts. Bile crowded her throat. The words were different, but the sentiment was one she’d heard over and over in her thoughts and dreams. She grabbed at the hem of her coat so tight that her hands hurt. She didn’t trust what she’d have done with them otherwise.

  ‘You never had any intention of helping me, did you? You were studying me, learning how the possession works.’ Just saying the words made her want to vomit. ‘How to…’ She swallowed, unable to finish the thought. ‘She trusted you! And you…’

  The cold of the storm was nothing now, a dim memory scoured away by the blistering heat of anger. Not for herself. She’d never trusted Torik. But Mirika?

  ‘Kill him, poppet. You’ll feel better.’

  Yelen placed a hand against Torik’s neck. She felt the cold, papery texture of his withered skin. She could. It’d be so easy. And well-earned. ‘Where is she? Tell me, old man!’

  ‘Szarnos has her now.’ Torik broke off, his body convulsing in a great, wracking cough. ‘All the while, I thought she was mine, but his claim was the stronger.’

  So the shadow had been Mirika? She’d done all this. And Szarnos? Gods. The orb.

  ‘Kill him, and let’s go. I didn’t wake you up just so we could freeze to death.’

  Yelen ignored the demon’s encouraging whispers. ‘Where is she?’ she said again. ‘Where’s my sister?’

  He gave a gurgling laugh. ‘Gone. She’s Szarnos now. Or soon will be. You are joined in damnation.’

  Yelen stared at him, anger and fresh horror mingling hot and cold in her veins. Azzanar was right. She would feel better for killing him. She tightened her grip around his throat. Felt a surge of satisfaction at the sudden panic in the old man’s restless eyes. But no. She’d lectured Mirika about Kardish’s death. Killing was no more the answer now, than then. In any case, Torik was already half gone from exposure. He’d go the rest of the way before the hour was out.

  She wouldn’t kill him, but she didn’t have to help him either.

  ‘The frozen hells are calling you, vulture. I hope Belsanos’ demons tear you to shreds.’

  Rising, Yelen made her way towards the entrance hall. She didn’t look back.

  * * *

  Yelen had thought she couldn’t get any colder. Frostgrave proved her wrong within moments of crossing the Guttered Candle’s ruined threshold. But still she staggered on, following the line of fresh footprints along the embankment’s crest, arms clasped tight across her chest as the insidious cold burrowed ever deeper into her numb flesh.

  ‘This is a fool’s errand, poppet.’

  ‘Then I’m a fool!’ Yelen spat the reply through chattering teeth.

  ‘You heard him. She’s gone.’

  ‘And Torik has never lied to me, has he?’

  Azzanar snorted. ‘You’re going to get us both killed.’

  ‘I. Don’t. Care. I’m not giving up on Mirika. I saw she wasn’t herself after she killed Kardish. I should have pushed, but I didn’t. I knew Torik couldn’t be trusted, but I didn’t push. Don’t you see? This is my fault. I’d rather die than give up on her now.’

  And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She’d always given up. Not just during their return expedition from the Tomb of Szarnos, but their whole lives together. Much as Yelen had chafed at the idea that her big sister always knew best, she’d always backed down. Never challenged. Never really fought her corner. She’d yearned for responsibility over her own life, but she’d never sought to claim it. If she had, maybe things would have played out differently. Now it was too late.

  No. Never too late. Not while she had breath left in her body.

  Yelen stumbled on along the embankment, her numbed mind trying to make sense of Mirika’s destination. The bulk of Rekamark lay to their backs. There was nothing this way apart from the unbroken river. No bridges, just jagged rocks, beached hulks and empty sky.

>   Her bare foot brushed against stone. Her numbed ankle buckled and she fell face-first in the snow. She swore, loudly and foully as the cold exacerbated the pain.

  ‘Poppet, please.’ For the first time Yelen could recall, Azzanar genuinely sounded concerned. Not for her, of course. At least, not directly. ‘You’re so cold it’s prickling at my skin.’

  Yelen clawed at a rusted railing, hauling hand over hand until she was on her feet. She’d let the demon push her around, too. Well, no more. ‘I’m not stopping. Get used to it, and help me.’

  Hunger pierced the sheen of concern. ‘Are you asking for my assistance?’

  She rubbed her palms together, each feeling like a cold lump of meat to the other. ‘No. I’m giving you a choice. You can either help me, or die with me.’

  Azzanar’s tone darkened. ‘I won’t be threatened.’

  ‘Really,’ replied Yelen, taking another unsteady pace through the snow. ‘Then why did you wake me up? Why help me survive the tavern’s collapse?’ She felt oddly giddy. Despite everything, she wanted to laugh. ‘All this time, and I never realised. You’re as trapped with me as I am with you.’

  Azzanar hissed softly, but said nothing.

  ‘So what’s it to be?’ asked Yelen. ‘Live together, or die in the snow?’

  The cold abated, not much, but enough that she felt the familiar rush of contact with the timeflow. The swirling snows slowed, the once hectic dance of flakes now the laziness of autumn leaves upon the breeze. Yelen drew back her sleeve. The clock hadn’t changed. She loosed a shuddering, triumphant laugh, and tried to forget the mottled reds and blues of her skin. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s a reprieve, nothing more,’ said Azzanar archly. ‘The cold’s still killing you. It’s just doing so more slowly. You’re still running out of time.’

  Yelen stilled a reply behind chattering teeth. The demon was right. She had to hurry.

  She plunged on through the snows, always following the trail of footprints. Mirika’s stride – at least, Yelen hoped it was Mirika’s, for she didn’t know what she’d do otherwise – didn’t waver, but continued straight as a die along the embankment. The paces were evenly spaced, as if she was out for an afternoon stroll in the balmiest of weathers. Yelen knew her own were ragged, uneven, just as she knew the fact that her feet no longer hurt was nothing to celebrate.