Frostborn: The False King

by Jonathan Moeller

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  The depths of the Labyrinth were as silent as the grave.

  Given the number of bones that Ridmark saw, it was only appropriate.

  The narrow corridor he had chosen ended in another large hall, this one without a balcony. Stone plinths stood scattered almost at random throughout the hall, supporting statues of dark elves in war armor. The statues looked so detailed that they almost looked alive. In fact, they might have been alive. In Urd Morlemoch, such statues had been undead creatures and had attacked when Ridmark and the others drew too close. Or the statues might have once been living dark elves, petrified by the gaze of a basilisk. That would mean a basilisk was wandering through the corridors of the Labyrinth, which would not help Ridmark’s situation.

  Though given the number of bones scattered across the floor, it seemed likely that the maze was home to less exotic but equally dangerous predators.

  Most of the bones looked orcish or kobold, though Ridmark saw a human skull here and there. None of the skeletons were intact, which meant that something had scattered the bones…or the original owners of the bones had been torn limb from limb when they had been killed.

  He picked up a femur that had once belong to an orcish man. It would make for an impromptu club, though he suspected it would shatter after the first few blows. Pity he saw no dwarven bones. They were harder and stronger than orcish or human bones, and would make better weapons.

  Speaking of that, he didn’t see any weapons lying among the dead. Ridmark supposed the dark elves had not sent their slaves armed into the Labyrinth.

  Four corridors led off from the hall of statues. One returned to the trapped hall and the balcony. Three others led in different directions. Ridmark scrutinized each, trying to come to a decision. Each corridor seemed as likely as the other. He decided upon the corridor heading to the south. His best hope was to escape the Labyrinth and into the Deeps, hoping Ralakahr would not be foolish enough to follow him. Of course, wandering alone and naked in the Deeps would probably get him killed, but if Ridmark stayed here, Ralakahr would definitely kill him, and he would take a slim chance of survival over none at all.

  He strode down the southern corridor, silent as a shadow, the bone club ready in his right hand. No sounds came to him, save for the constant thudding of his own heart. If he didn’t escape, he hoped Calliande and the others had the good sense to get away. Calliande was their only hope of stopping Kurdulkar’s murderous plot…and if she was killed, both the Frostborn and Tarrabus would triumph.

  A hot breeze touched his face and chest.

  Ridmark paused, looking at the ceiling. He half-expected that a secret door had opened, that an urvaalg or an urshane or even Ralakahr himself would come charging out. Yet nothing moved, though if Ridmark strained, he heard a distant howling noise. A fire, perhaps? He kept going, picking his way over the bones littering the floor. Ahead he saw a harsh red glow. This light seemed stronger and brighter than the glow of the crystals. The air grew hotter, and sweat started to drip down his forehead and into his eyes. At last, Ridmark saw that the red glow came from the archway at the end of the corridor, a hot wind blowing from the entrance.

  Ridmark stepped through the archway and into a vast cylindrical shaft, shadows and red light dancing upon the rough rock walls. A bridge of white stone crossed the shaft to another archway on the opposite wall a hundred yards away. Ridmark looked up and saw a dozens of bridges crossing overhead, and then he looked down and saw dozens more.

  And perhaps a thousand feet below, he saw the lava.

  A pool of molten stone bubbled and seethed at the bottom of the shaft, throwing its red glow upon the bridges. Heat rose off it in searing waves, and it was damnably hot upon the bridge, so hot that Ridmark felt the sweat dripping off him. Best to get across the bridge as soon as possible. He doubted he could find safe drinking water within the Labyrinth, and if he stood within this heat for too long he would become dehydrated.

  As he crossed the bridge, he saw a stairwell in the corridor at the other end. If he could work his way back up to the level with the trapdoor, perhaps he could find his way to the exit before Ralakahr located him.

  A flicker of motion caught the corner of his eye.

  Ridmark looked down and saw Ralakahr standing on a bridge two levels below, his head craned back, his arms lifted over his head as he drew his bow…

  Ridmark cursed and jumped back, and the arrow that would have plunged into his chest instead slammed into his right calf.

  Pain exploded through his right leg, which collapsed beneath him. Ridmark slipped, lost his balance, and landed hard, almost rolling over the edge of the bridge. He clawed for purchase on the smooth stone and managed to stop himself, but the shaft of the arrow in his leg clipped the edge of the bridge, driving the arrowhead deeper into his flesh.

  For a moment he could not move, could not scream, could not even draw breath through the blinding pain.

  Move. He had to move.

  If Ralakahr lined up another shot, Ridmark was dead. He got to his hands and knees, his right leg a pillar of agony, and looked for Ralakahr. Sweat and pain blurred his vision, and he couldn’t see the manetaur anywhere. Likely that meant he was right underneath Ridmark, waiting for him to come into sight.

  Or, more likely, that he was racing for the stairs to take him to the level of Ridmark’s bridge.

  Which meant that Ridmark had to move, arrow or no arrow.

  He snatched the bone club and used it as a lever to heave himself to his feet, his leg screaming. A wave of dizziness went through him, and for a moment Ridmark feared he would topple over and fall to his death in the lava below. But the dizziness passed, and he hurried forward as fast as he could manage. It wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. The pain was hideous, but it only rose to the level of intolerable agony whenever his heel hit the ground since the impact caused the arrow’s shaft to wobble. Ridmark half-ran, half-hobbled across the bridge, looking in every direction for Ralakahr, but the manetaur remained out of sight.

  That meant he had gone to find the stairs, hoping to track down Ridmark and finish him off.

  Ridmark reached the other end of the bridge and stumbled into the corridor. A few yards away a set of white stairs spiraled upwards, climbing higher into the Labyrinth. Likely it led to next level, granting access to the bridges above him. Ridmark started up the stairs, only for his right leg to clench and collapse beneath him, his foot wet with blood.

  The arrow shaft scraped against the wall as he fell.

  That hurt. A lot.

  When Ridmark’s vision cleared he was sitting on the step, staring at the trail of bloody footprints he had left behind him. Functioning with the arrow wound was bad enough. Functioning with the arrow jutting from his leg was impossible. Likely the arrowhead had been barbed, and pulling it out would tear his calf to bloody shreds.

  Which meant he only had one option.

  “Damn it,” muttered Ridmark, grasping the arrow shaft with both hands.

  He gave it a sharp, yanking twist, breaking off the shaft.

  Another wave of agony rolled through him, and his vision turned white from it, but he forced himself to start crawling up the stairs, and then used the leg bone to drag himself to his feet. His right foot felt wet, and he wondered if he had stepped in water, but he looked down to see his foot glistening with blood, the footprints stark against the white stone.

  That wasn’t good. Ralakahr could already use scent to track him. If he was leaving bloody footprints…

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, a roar echoed from further down the stairs.

  Ralakahr was coming for him.

  Chapter 19: Hunter and Prey

  Again Third reappeared, the blue fire shimmering in her eyes.

  “Nothing up that passageway,” said Third.

  Gavin waited, Truthseeker ready in his hand. The sword gave off a steady pale gleam, a reaction to the ancient dark magic within the Labyrinth. The others stood at the edge of the bal
cony-lined hall, weapons or spells at the ready. Camorak had been pressed into carrying Ridmark’s staff, axe, dagger, cloak, and armor. When they had found the items in the previous chamber, Gavin had been certain that the manetaurs or some creature of the Deeps had torn Ridmark to shreds. Yet there had been no blood or bones in that chamber, and any predator that killed Ridmark would have left traces.

  Curzonar concluded that Ridmark had encountered manetaurs, likely Kurdulkar’s warriors and that the manetaurs had decided to hunt Ridmark. Alone, unarmed, and unarmored, Ridmark had absolutely no chance against the manetaurs, and Gavin feared that Ridmark was already dead.

  He feared what that would do to Calliande.

  She had slipped into the role of the Keeper, calm and collected and cool, but her eyes were like shards of lightning, and Gavin knew her well enough to see the fear and rage there. If Kurdulkar killed Ridmark, Calliande was going to kill the manetaur Prince, no matter what the cost.

  Gavin had promised Antenora that he would help protect Calliande, but he did not know if he could protect the Keeper from herself.

  “Then by process of elimination,” said Calliande, “it has to be that way.”

  She pointed her staff at one of the remaining passageways.

  “Yes,” said Third. “I saw blood on the balconies. I think the Gray Knight was there, and I think he was wounded.”

  The skin near Calliande’s eyes tightened. “Then we will hope the corridor leads upward. Lead on. Keep scouting.”

  Third nodded and vanished in a pillar of blue fire, and Calliande headed across the floor of sigil-marked tiles, keeping to the tiles that Third had proven safe.

  Gavin followed with Antenora and the others, Truthseeker ready in his hand.

  He didn’t know if they could save the Gray Knight…but if they could not, Gavin could certainly avenge him.

  ###

  For a moment sheer pain and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Ridmark, and he almost didn’t rise.

  He was so tired. Hadn’t he fought enough? Hadn’t he lost enough? Aelia and Morigna and Heartwarden, he had lost them all. He had fought and fought to keep the Frostborn from returning, and he had failed. Perhaps it was time to lie down and accept defeat. He had done his best. Calliande would…

  Calliande.

  He had promised to help her, to see her to this end of this, and he couldn’t do that if Ralakahr tore out his heart.

  Ridmark heaved to his feet, wobbling, the stone of the stairs hot from the heat radiating from the cylindrical chamber. He stumbled a step, noting that he left bloody footprints, but only from his right leg. None of the blood had gotten on his left foot, not that it mattered. The footprints would lead Ralakahr right to him, and Ridmark had no way to clean off the blood or even to stop the bleeding.

  He blinked, sweat stinging in his eyes.

  Footprints…

  Ralakahr would go where the footprints led him…even if they led him to the wrong place.

  An idea blazed through Ridmark’s mind like a thunderbolt, and he turned and ran up the spiral stairs as fast as he could manage, trying to ignore the pain in his leg. At least the damned arrowhead was no longer sinking in deeper with every vibration of the shaft. He came around the last twist of the stairs and entered another round chamber. The stairs continued upward, but an archway in the wall revealed another bridge of white stone crossing the cylindrical chamber.

  He ran through the archway and onto the bridge for five or six steps.

  Then Ridmark turned and hopped on his left foot back to the stairs, his right arm outthrust and clutching the leg bone for balance. He must look absolutely absurd. Perhaps if Ralakahr found him, the manetaur khalath would be paralyzed with laughter and Ridmark could club him to death with the bone.

  He hopped up the stairs, every motion making him want to scream with the pain in his leg. He managed to get up three revolutions up the spiral steps when he heard the click of Ralakahr’s claws against the floor in the chamber below. Ridmark froze, his heart a drumbeat in his chest. If Ralakahr realized the trick, then it was over. Ralakahr would storm up the stairs, and rip Ridmark apart in the cramped space.

  But the manetaur did not come.

  The trick had worked.

  And Ridmark had gained himself maybe a minute.

  He ran up the stairs as fast as he could manage, entering a chamber identical to the first. Another archway opened onto a bridge crossing the shaft, the hot air flowing into the chamber. Ridmark hobbled onto the bridge and looked down. He saw dozens of other bridges below him, outlined in the hot glare of the molten stone at the bottom of the shaft.

  He also saw Ralakahr prowling across the bridge one level down, an arrow resting against his bow as his head swung back and forth. Ridmark hesitated, judging the angles. He needed Ralakahr to move forward just another few yards. If he kept from looking up for just a little while longer…

  Ralakahr glided forward, his head tilting down. Likely he thought Ridmark had been desperate enough to leap from the bridge to one of the lower levels. Or perhaps he thought that Ridmark had thrown himself into the lava for a quicker death than Ralakahr would inflict. A flicker of grim amusement went through Ridmark. If he made a mess of this and didn’t kill himself in the process, Ralakahr would be so enraged that the manetaur would kill him quickly.

  Ralakahr came to a stop, his head turning. Then he went motionless, and Ridmark could guess Ralakahr’s thoughts. Ridmark hadn’t gone down. What if he had somehow gone up?

  Ralakahr started to look up, and Ridmark jumped.

  It was fifteen feet from the edge of his bridge to Ralakahr, and for a horrifying instant, Ridmark thought that he had misjudged his leap, that he would miss Ralakahr and plunge into the lava far below, or that he would smash into one of the bridges and shatter every bone in his body.

  But he had not misjudged his leap, and he slammed into Ralakahr’s back. Ralakahr almost went over the edge of the bridge with a startled roar, his paws clawing at the floor for balance. The shock ripped the breath from Ridmark’s lungs, a fresh jolt of agony shooting up his wounded leg, but he recovered an instant before Ralakahr did.

  And in that instant, Ridmark heaved himself onto Ralakahr’s shoulders, wrapped his legs around the manetaur’s neck, and started squeezing as hard as he could.

  His wounded leg howled with pain.

  Ralakahr let out a startled roar, which was a mistake because Ridmark’s legs coiled like a steel band around his neck and the manetaur could not replace the air. Ralakahr staggered back and forth, bow still clutched in his hands, and Ridmark kept squeezing. He began beating at Ridmark with his bow, trying to dislodge him. Ridmark ducked his head, the heavy bow bouncing off his head like a club. After five or six blows Ralakahr cast aside his bow and reached up, sinking the claws of both hands into Ridmark’s legs.

  Fresh pain filled him, and Ridmark forced himself to keep squeezing. He ducked closer to Ralakahr and wrapped his arms around the manetaur’s thick neck, squeezing with every bit of strength that he could muster.

  Ralakahr started to panic.

  The manetaur staggered back and forth, raking at Ridmark with his claws, his movements growing more frantic, more desperate, his chest heaving as he tried to draw breath. Ridmark hung on for dear life, the musky stench of the manetaur’s fur and the coppery odor of his own blood filling his nostrils. Again and again, Ralakahr’s claws slashed across Ridmark’s back and legs and arms, and every blow felt as if he had been stabbed, fresh pain rolling through him, the hot wetness of his blood flowing down his skin as Ralakahr started tearing him to shreds.

  He squeezed harder.

  Then he heard a grisly crunching noise, and suddenly something gave way in Ralakahr’s throat.

  A mad spasm went through Ralakahr’s limbs, and the manetaur reared back on his hind legs, his forelegs and arms lashing at the air. Ralakahr lost his balance and fell to the side, and the impact knocked Ridmark from the manetaur’s shoulders. He rolled, coming to one knee, hi
s entire body a blaze of agony, and saw Ralakahr twitching, his hands slapping at his throat.

  An axe rested at the manetaur’s belt.

  Ridmark ripped the axe free, raised it over his head, and brought it down with all his remaining strength.

  He had aimed for Ralakahr’s neck, but his shaking arms threw off his aim, and instead the blade buried itself in Ralakahr’s head. The manetaur gave one last shuddered and went motionless, blood leaking from his nostrils and mouth.

  Ridmark staggered back a step, then another.

  Both feet, he noted, left bloody footprints.

  He also saw the dozen deep, bleeding gashes on his legs.

  Right about then his legs stopped working, and Ridmark collapsed. He was dimly aware that he was in agony, but it didn’t seem to matter. Blood loss, that had to be it. He suddenly felt very cold, despite the heat rising from the lava. There were worse ways to die than from massive blood loss. At least he would soon lose consciousness.

  His mind swam, seeming to come unraveled.

  “Burn with me,” he whispered.

  What an odd thing. Why would he say that? A poor choice for last words.

  “Gray Knight?”

  Mara stood over him.

  No, not Mara. It was another woman, taller than Mara, pale and gaunt and black-haired and black-eyed. Blue fire glimmered in the veins of her hands and face.

  Third looked as astonished as Ridmark had ever seen her.

  “You killed the manetaur with your bare hands?” Third said.

  “No, no,” croaked Ridmark. “The axe helped.”

  Third’s usual cold mask dissolved into a grimace. “I must move you. This will be painful.”

  She seized his shoulder, and blue fire dissolved the world.

  Ridmark fell forever.

  ###

  Calliande looked around the round chamber, the heat from the lava blasting over her face. She wondered how many slaves had died in the vast cylindrical chamber beyond the archway, how many had been killed in the traps or burned in the lava at the bottom of the pit.