Ridmark shook his head. “No. I don’t think they expected to find us. Humans are rare in this part of the Wilderland.”
Morigna glanced at the mummified corpses hanging overhead. “One cannot imagine why.”
“They assumed us to be easy prey,” said Ridmark.
“You taught them otherwise,” said Morigna, something flashing in her dark eyes.
She reached up with her free hand, pulled his face close, and gave him a hard kiss upon the lips. A victorious battle always seemed to arouse her, and Ridmark felt himself responding in kind. Had they been anywhere else, he might have taken her then and there. But they were surrounded by the corpses of their slain foes, and the dead orcs’ surviving companions concerned him far more. Their living companions…and the creature they worshipped as a goddess.
“We had best go,” said Ridmark when they broke apart. “We might encounter another band of arachar, and we must warn the others.”
“Practical as ever,” said Morigna. “Lead the way.”
Ridmark nodded, lifted his staff, and hurried into the web-mantled trees, Morigna keeping close pace after him.
###
Calliande of Tarlion, the Keeper of Andomhaim, stood at the edge of the ruined ring fort and gazed into the web-choked forest. Her left hand gripped the staff of the Keeper, the wood worn smooth by the grasp of hundreds of Keepers before her. Calliande had been parted from that staff for over two hundred years, yet it felt as if she had only let it go yesterday.
She felt as if she had gone into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance only yesterday…but over two centuries had passed.
Two centuries, but her purpose had not wavered.
“What is it?” said a soft, quite voice.
Calliande turned her head. A short woman stepped to her side, pale and thin with enormous green eyes and pale blond hair than hung loose around her sharp face. From time to time the cold wind coming down from the mountains stirred her hair, revealing the elven points of her ears. She wore armor of dark elven steel, and seemed delicate, almost fragile. Yet Calliande had seen Mara carve her way through the midst of a furious battle, the dark power in her blood allowing her to disappear and reappear a dozen yards away, her face calm and detached as she wielded her short sword with surgical precision.
“Nothing,” said Calliande, looking back at the forest. “They haven’t returned yet. And to the Sight…”
“Dark magic,” said Mara.
Calliande nodded. The Sight had returned to her into Dragonfall, the vision that beheld the flows of magic around her. To her Sight a faint cloud of dark magic saturated the web-choked forest like fumes rising from the furnace of a blacksmith. A thing of tremendous dark magic dwelled nearby, a creature of great power.
Calliande had seen such an aura centuries ago.
“An urdmordar,” she said. “Old and strong and deadly, grown fat from the lives of countless victims.”
“Then you have faced an urdmordar before?” said Mara.
“Yes,” said Calliande. “Long ago, as Keeper, not far from where we are now standing. And more recently at Urd Arowyn, but I was not as strong back then.”
“That is not what is troubling you,” said Mara.
Calliande looked at the shorter woman. “Given that we may soon face an urdmordar and her minions, any rational person would be troubled.”
“But you’ve already faced an urdmordar and been victorious,” said Mara. “Ridmark has faced an urdmordar and triumphed, and he had neither a soulblade nor the power of the Keeper at the time.”
“Twice,” said Calliande. “He actually overcame an urdmordar twice. He was still a Swordbearer the first time.”
“So between the two of you, you’ve defeated the three urdmordar,” said Mara. “Dangerous as they are, you’ve still faced them before. Something else troubles you.”
Calliande sighed, shook her head, and laughed a little. “Are you always so perceptive?”
Mara said nothing, her expression placid.
“I thought,” said Calliande at last, “that when I recovered my memory, when I learned who I really was, that I would know what to do.”
“You do,” said Mara. “We will find Shadowbearer, kill him, and stop him from opening the gate to the world of the Frostborn.”
“True,” said Calliande. “I did not think I would face…such doubts about my proper course. I know what I must do. I am uncertain how to do it. Or if I am even strong enough to do it.”
Mara shrugged. “We all have doubts.” She shook her head. “If we live through this, I shall find myself the Queen of Nightmane Forest, with an army of orcs who think I am the heir of their dead god.”
“Aye,” said Calliande. “A grave responsibility. Have you given any thought to what you shall do if we are victorious?”
“I have not,” said Mara. “I suppose I should ask them all to be baptized, so they no longer revere my dead father as their god. The Traveler kept armories of dark artifacts in Nightmane Forest, to say nothing of his creatures and his slaves. All that shall have to be undone.” She shook her head. “It would be the work of a lifetime.”
“Worthy work, though,” said Calliande.
“I think so,” said Mara. She smiled at that. “I was an assassin and my husband was a thief. I do not think we knew what worthy work really was until we met you and the Gray Knight. Though your task is heavier than mine. Shadowbearer would destroy Nightmane Forest, and everything else alongside with it.”
“Aye,” said Calliande in a quiet voice. She reached for her Sight and cast it over the forest again, seeking for Ridmark. She could not find him, but that did not mean that he was dead. As the Keeper, she possessed the power of the Sight to far greater degree than either Mara or Antenora, but the Sight itself was wild and capricious. Sometimes she could reliably view far-off events, or see into the past or even the future.
Sometimes she could not.
Likely the shroud of dark magic that hung over the forest had something to do with it. If she could have avoided it, Calliande would not have traveled through this part of the Wilderland. The urdmordar ruled here, worshipped by tribes of fanatical arachar and preying upon anyone who came within their grasp. Of course, it was not as if Calliande had been given any choice. Had they fled Khald Azalar through the Gate of the West, they would have run into Shadowbearer and his army of Mhorite orcs.
So instead they had fled through the Gate of the East, and found themselves in the upper Wilderland, in the forests surrounding the northern River Moradel. Now it was a race to see whether they could reach the Black Mountain before Shadowbearer. So long as Shadowbearer held the empty soulstone, he could not travel through magic and had to make his way upon foot. Shadowbearer also had an army, and Calliande and Ridmark and the others could travel quickly. Though if the urdmordar ate them, their advantages in speed would not matter at all…
She laughed a little at herself. They could do nothing until Ridmark and Morigna returned from scouting.
“What is it?” said Mara.
“I am still fretting over things I cannot control,” said Calliande. “It seems to be a failing of mine, both in the past and in the present.”
Mara shrugged. “We have grave tasks, both of us, but we do not have to do them alone.”
As if in answer, the sound of swords clanging upon swords rang out from the ring fort, followed by a man’s voice shouting instructions.
“No,” said Calliande. “We do not.”
She walked through the ruined gate, Mara following. Calliande had no idea who had built the half-ruined ring wall atop the hill, and neither did Ridmark. It had been abandoned for a long time. Likely a desperate band of orcish or dvargir raiders had constructed it as a refuge from the urdmordar, only for the spider-devils to overwhelm them.
Hopefully they would not meet the same fate.
Her friends stood in a loose ring within the crumbled wall, Gavin in the center. The boy held the soulblade Truthseeker in his right hand,
and to Calliande’s Sight the weapon blazed with power. On his left arm he held a shield of dwarven steel he had found in Khald Azalar and taken from the ruined city. His brown eyes were hard and determined beneath his mop of curly brown hair, and the soulblade did not waver in his hand as he faced his opponent.
He looked less and less like a boy every day.
He stood facing Kharlacht, a towering orcish warrior in blue dark elven armor, a greatsword of the same steel in his hands. Kharlacht’s face was stern and impassive behind his tusks, his head shaved save for a single warrior’s topknot. Jager leaned against the wall and watched the fight, wearing his usual boots and trousers and black leather vest over a crisp white shirt, his expression amused. Brother Caius stood next to him, solemn in his brown robes, a wooden cross hanging from his neck. Antenora watched the fight like a ragged shadow in her long black coat and vest, both gloved hands wrapped around her charred staff, her harsh yellow eyes fixed upon Gavin. Sir Arandar stood halfway between Kharlacht and Gavin, his beaked nose making him look like a fierce bird of prey, his black hair shot through with gray at the temples.
“Again,” said Arandar. “You did well that time.”
“Remember,” said Kharlacht in his rumbling voice. “When facing a foe with a two-handed sword, your advantage must be speed, not strength. To prepare a blow with a weapon the size of a greatsword takes time, and you must seize that time to strike. A clever foe will make sure he is out of your reach, but a sloppy one may deliver himself to your grasp.”
“Especially if you call upon your soulblade for speed,” said Arandar. “Many new Swordbearers rely upon their blades to provide them with strength while overlooking the advantages of speed. It looks impressive to chop through shields and helmets with a single blow, but a quick thrust to the throat or another vulnerable spot will end a fight far more quickly and just as effectively.”
“What about defense?” said Gavin. “I could parry the blow.”
Kharlacht shook his head. “A sword like mine was forged to cleave through shields. I have done it myself.”
“Could it cut through dwarven steel?” said Gavin.
“No,” said Arandar, “but the impact might be sufficient to throw you off balance, or to break your left arm entirely. Good to avoid the blow if at all possible, or better yet, to strike before your foe can attack.”
“Excellent counsel, Sir Arandar,” said Jager. The halfling’s deep voice always seemed so incongruous coming from such a short man. “Though you overlook the most effective way of killing any man.”
“What’s that?” said Arandar. From any other halfling, Calliande knew, Arandar would not have accepted such impudence. The two men had formed a peculiar sort of bond over their shared loathing for Tarrabus Carhaine and his servants in the Enlightened of Incariel.
“Stab them in the back before they can fight back,” said Jager.
“It is effective,” said Mara.
“It hardly seems…knightly,” said Gavin.
“It is not,” said Arandar, “when fighting mortal foes of flesh and blood. But when facing creatures of dark magic like urvaalgs or ursaars, it is best to attack without hesitation. Mortal foes can sometimes be swayed by mercy or reason. Creatures like the urvaalgs cannot. If they are allowed to attack, they will kill and kill until they are slain. Normal steel cannot stop them. Only a soulblade can defeat them. Therefore it is our responsibility, as Knights of the Order of the Soulblade, to defend the realm of Andomhaim from the creatures of dark magic.”
Gavin nodded. “I understand.”
Arandar smiled. “Normally I would say that a man so young could not, but after seeing you fight at Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar, I think you can.”
Jager snorted. “Then why make him practice?”
“Because I need to be better,” said Gavin.
“Because the discipline of the sword is a lifelong journey, Master Thief, and one that does not end until death,” said Arandar. “A man may become older and slower, but with diligence, his skill will increase. I would rather face an untrained man at twenty at the height of his strength than a master of the sword at sixty.”
“As for me,” said Jager. “I would rather do neither. But I suppose that is why you are the Swordbearers and I am not.” He looked at Mara and grinned, holding out his arm. “Well, my dear, since all the others seem intent upon watching sword practice, shall we keep watch? It would do no good for Sir Gavin to be eaten by a giant spider before he become a master swordsman.”
Mara laughed. “It would be tragic.” She glanced at Calliande. “We shall keep watch until Ridmark and Morigna return.”
Calliande nodded, and Mara and Jager disappeared through the gate. Kharlacht lifted his greatsword, and he and Gavin resumed their practice. Arandar and Caius watched from the side, calling out advice as Gavin dodged and swung, keeping away from Kharlacht’s massive blade with short bursts of speed fueled by Truthseeker. Gavin’s sword work had improved considerably in the months that Calliande had known him, and had become better yet since taking up Truthseeker. He was by no means a master swordsman, but someday he would become one of the most formidable fighters Calliande had ever met.
If he survived what was to come.
Antenora moved to Calliande’s side, her brittle black hair hanging lose around her gray, gaunt face. The woman looked as if she had been dead for some time, but she had been alive for a very long time, ever since she had betrayed Arthur Pendragon and the Keeper on Old Earth long, long ago, and she had sought for redemption and death ever since. When the Warden had opened his gate, Antenora had been able to cross from the threshold of Old Earth, arriving at last at Andomhaim to seek out the Keeper. Calliande had not been able to lift Antenora’s curse, but she had been able to make the ancient sorceress a promise. When the Frostborn were defeated, if the Frostborn were defeated, that would break the dark magic that had bound Antenora so long ago, and she could die at last. So far, at least, Antenora had been true to her word.
“Keeper,” said Antenora. Her voice had a peculiar rasp to it, making her words sound worn and faded. “What are your commands?”
“Be ready,” said Calliande, though she had nothing for Antenora to do at the moment. “We may come under attack at any moment.”
“These spider-devils and their cultists,” said Antenora. “The urdmordar and the arachar orcs, as you named them. Are they so fearsome?”
“They are,” said Calliande. “I have faced urdmordar before and prevailed, but I have no wish to do so again. They are strong enough that they could turn aside your fire magic with ease.”
“Though the arachar would have no such protection,” said Antenora.
“They would not,” said Calliande.
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the orcish warrior and the young Swordbearer train together. At last Kharlacht traded with Caius, and the dwarven friar began instructing Gavin on the finer points of defending from a mace, interposed with frequent references to the Gospels.
“Is it not impressive?” said Antenora in a quiet voice.
“What is?” said Calliande.
“The skill of Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora, watching him.
Sometimes Antenora surprised Calliande. The woman had lived for fifteen centuries, and those years had taken their toll upon her mind. Fissures riddled her memory, and her mood was often grim, even nihilistic. She had seen the horrors of Old Earth’s history, and if the Warden’s visions had been true, those horrors had been numerous indeed.
Yet at time there were flashes of the young woman that Antenora had been long ago, glimpses of a wild, willful young woman…and Calliande wondered if she saw one of those flashes now. Antenora addressed Calliande as the Keeper, but she called the others by a rotating variety of nicknames.
She always called Gavin by name.
“What is impressive about him?” said Calliande.
“Behold his soulblade,” said Antenora. “It blazes with power in my Sight, and it bestows it
s power upon him. He is but a young man, and young men do not handle power well. Again and again I have seen this.”
“As have I,” said Calliande, remembering some of the nobles she had dealt with in centuries past.
“I was a little younger than him,” said Antenora, closing her yellow eyes, “when I first began wielding magic, and look at the path of ruin upon which the power led me.” She opened her eyes again. “But not Gavin Swordbearer. Look. He has not grown proud, nor does he seek dominion or lordship over other men. Instead he seeks to serve, and accepts the counsel of his elders.”
“He has seen where the path of power for its own sake leads,” said Calliande, thinking of Gavin’s father Cornelius. Or of Tarrabus Carhaine and the Enlightened. “And even a Swordbearer is mortal, and we face death every day.”
“This is so,” said Antenora, watching Gavin as he dodged and ducked around Caius’s mace. He deflected the blows with his shield, rather than parrying with his soulblade or trying to block them with main force. “I have seen many warriors, but he shall be among the greatest of them.”
“If I did not know any better,” said Calliande, “I would think you were becoming infatuated with him.”
She had said it half in jest, but any trace of emotion drained from Antenora’s face.
“The time for that,” said Antenora, “is long, long past. Long before even you were born, Keeper. Long before the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm came here. Such things were lost to me.” She reached back and drew the cowl of her long coat over her head. “That is as it should be.”
Calliande opened her mouth to answer, and then blue fire flashed next to Antenora. The blue flames hardened into Mara, who blinked and looked around.
“Mara,” said Calliande. “Is someone coming? The arachar?”
Gavin and the others stopped, turning to face the gate.
“No,” said Mara. “I think Ridmark and Morigna are returning.”
Calliande nodded and headed towards the gate, the others following her. Arandar and Gavin fell in behind her, soulblades ready, the swords shining with power to her Sight. They had taken to guarding her lately, watching over her as the Keeper of Andomhaim. She found it touching…and given how many of Shadowbearer’s minions sought her death, she also found it reassuring.
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 2
