The branches rustled, and three lupivirii came into sight, moving forward on all fours. They wore their wolfish forms, their distended snouts filled with fangs, and their golden eyes drilled into Ridmark. Morigna flinched, but Ridmark did not stop, striding towards them as they approached. He stopped a few paces away and waited.
One did not show weakness before the beastmen.
“Well, Gray Knight?” snarled the lupivir in the center. “What news?”
“Prepare yourselves,” said Ridmark. “We hunt.”
###
Morigna followed Ridmark into the ring fort, the lupivirii still circling outside the walls. She would never be comfortable around them, but she admired how Ridmark could make even the feral beastmen bend to his will.
“Any news?” said Ridmark. The others stood on guard at various places along the crumbling wall, weapons in hand. Calliande and Antenora stood close together, both of them casting spells. They were casting spells at each other, and at first Morigna thought they were practicing magical battle, but then she realized that Calliande was feeding power into Antenora, making the older sorceress’s spells stronger and more potent.
Suddenly Ridmark’s plan came into sharp focus.
“Nothing of interest,” said Kharlacht. “No sign of the arachar.”
“I did not see any spiderlings moving in the forest,” said Mara. The spiderlings might have had the power to make themselves vanish, but they could not hide from Mara’s Sight.
Rakhaag squatted on his haunches near the wall. “My hunters did not see the arachar stirring in the trees.”
Ridmark nodded. “Good. It seems their bloody nose threw them off balance.” He turned towards Calliande. “Are you ready?”
“We are,” said Calliande. “Will it work?”
“We’re about to find out,” said Ridmark. “The terrain seems favorable. We’re going to attack.”
“Now?” said Jager, blinking.
“Right now,” said Ridmark. “We’re going to the Black Mountain, and if Rhogrimnalazur tries to stop us, then we’re going right through her.”
Chapter 5: Urd Cystaanl
Calliande followed the others from the ruined fort.
Ridmark, Kharlacht, Caius, Gavin, and Arandar took the front, weapons in hand. Calliande and Antenora walked behind them, Morigna on her left, and Mara and Jager upon her right. The soulblades in the hands of Gavin and Arandar flickered and shimmered with white fire, reacting to the shroud of dark magic hanging over the dying forest. Calliande held her magic ready to strike, preparing to unleash blasts of white fire if the spiderlings or Rhogrimnalazur herself made an appearance.
Mostly, she concentrated on maintaining her link to Antenora.
In ancient days, the high elven wizards had created links of magical power between themselves, feeding all of their strength towards a single caster. Younger wizards used this to channel power towards a skilled older wizard, allowing the older high elf to wield tremendous amounts of magical power. When Ardrhythain had founded the Magistri, he had taught them that ability. The Magistri could link to wield greater magic together than they could otherwise. Calliande was the Keeper, but she had been trained as a Magistria, and she knew the spell.
Antenora hadn’t, but proved a quick study. The symbols upon her charred black staff crackled with leashed power, and to Calliande’s Sight ribbons of elemental power danced and flickered within the black-clad woman.
“She’s not going to explode, is she?” said Jager. “That would be unfortunate. And messy.” Jager did not have the Sight, but the halfling kindred possessed a sensitivity to magical forces. Jager had said that he had felt something uncanny around Tarrabus, likely a result of the Dux’s worship of Incariel.
“Fear not, master thief,” said Antenora. “The power is well-controlled by the Keeper’s skill. You are in no danger.” She considered the matter for a moment. “At least not from me. The spider-devil and her spawn are another matter entirely.”
“That is less than reassuring,” said Jager.
Antenora shook her head, her yellow eyes glinting in the depth of her hood. “Stirring speeches are the province of the Gray Knight. I merely call the fire.”
“Quiet,” Ridmark said. “From this point, do not speak unless necessary. Rakhaag. Your hunters know what to do?”
Rakhaag let out a long, snarling growl. “The True People hunted the face of this world for thousands of turns of the sun before your kindred ever set foot upon its soil.”
“Good,” said Ridmark, unfazed as ever by the lupivir’s bristling hostility. “Put that wisdom to use, then. You know what to do.”
Rakhaag raised his head and howled, and answering cries rose from the surrounding lupivirii packs. The sound sent an icy chill down Calliande’s back, and she had visions of the beastmen chasing her through the forest. Even knowing that the lupivirii were on her side, it was hard not to turn her spells against them. Yet the lupivirii dispersed, breaking into small groups and vanishing into the web-choked trees. According to Ridmark’s plan, they would sweep the forest, killing any arachar scouts they found.
With luck, no warning of the attack would come to Rhogrimnalazur until it was too late.
Calliande followed Ridmark and others into the forest. It smelled vile, a mixture of rotting meat, the musty smell of an urdmordar’s webs, and decaying vegetation. Webs wreathed most of the trees, and from their branches hung dark, oval-shaped lumps. As they passed beneath the branches, Calliande realized that the lumps were in fact mummified corpses, desiccated and withered. She saw orcs and kobolds and trolls and lupivirii and even a few humans, all crumbling and withered. It was as if Rhogrimnalazur had created a garden of the dead for her own amusement.
Or, more likely, that she was like a drunkard squatting in her yard, throwing empty jars of wine into the alley. The web-choked forest was her alley, the murdered victims her empty jars of wine.
Calliande’s fingers tightened against the staff of the Keeper.
“Yes,” murmured Antenora. “You understand. Some evils cry out to the heavens for vengeance.”
“Quiet,” said Ridmark, and Antenora fell silent. But Calliande understood exactly what Antenora had meant.
Ridmark led them on a meandering path through the forest of webs and corpses. The forest was eerily silent around them, save for the creak of the dying branches and the rustling of the webbing. Calliande supposed natural animals avoided this grim place.
The ground sloped toward the River Moradel, and then rose in a small hill. Ridmark led them up the slope of the hill and stopped at its crown. To the east Calliande glimpsed the broad steely expanse of the River Moradel, the waters flashing with the light of the late afternoon sun. To the northeast she saw a village of round orcish houses surrounded by cleared fields, watchtowers standing here and there. She guessed that maybe eight or nine hundred orcs lived in the shadow of Urd Cystaanl’s towers. Calliande wondered what it was like for those orcs to grow up in the iron grasp of Rhogrimnalazur’s hunger, to revere her as a goddess even as they feared her. If they killed Rhogrimnalazur, perhaps they would free the orcs of the village.
Until then, she would have to treat the arachar as enemies. They would fight to the death to defend their goddess, and would not hesitate to bring her alive before Rhogrimnalazur. Since awakening, Calliande had been helpless once, powerless before Shadowbearer and his minions. If not for Ridmark’s timely arrival, she would have died.
She had no intention of ever being that helpless again.
Ridmark stared at the village for a moment, and then nodded to himself.
“Calliande,” he said in a low voice. “Now.”
“Antenora,” said Calliande, focusing her will upon the older woman. “The trees.”
Antenora stepped forward, lifting her staff, the sigils erupting into flame. Calliande concentrated, calling all the power of the Keeper’s staff and directing the magic into Antenora. The magic poured into Antenora like a torrent, and Antenora’s will tr
ansformed that power into an inferno. The Sight showed the power blazing around her, hotter and brighter, and the grass began to smolder between Antenora’s boots, the air around her rippling with intense heat.
“God and his saints,” said Jager. “I wish I thought to bring some sausages. We could have cooked supper.” Kharlacht gave him an incredulous look, but Mara lifted a hand to cover her laugh.
Antenora took a quick step forward, raised her staff, and slammed it down again. There was a thunderclap, fiery light shining around her, and she thrust her free hand. A ball of flame erupted from her palm, and then another, and then another, hurtling in straight lines towards the trees at the edge of the orcs’ fields. Calliande knew how to wield the magic of elemental fire herself, a legacy of the lessons that the Keeper Ruth had taught her, but Antenora had the greater skill with flame, and had compressed tremendous amounts of magical force within those spheres.
The results were explosive.
The first sphere struck the edge of the forest, and an instant later a huge bloom of flame rose, turning a half-dozen trees into blazing torches. The webs covering the trees ignited at once, burning-white hot, and the fire spread around the fields in a blazing arc.
The other two spheres erupted a heartbeat later. The blazing arc exploded into a firestorm, and suddenly a sea of flame covered the forest between the fields and the hill. Even from a distance, the heat washed over Calliande as if she stood in front of a blacksmith’s forge, and she heard the clamor of the village as the arachar watchmen sounded the alarm. Gangs of orcish men rushed towards the fire with shovels and buckets. Arachar or not, worshippers of an urdmordar or not, the arachar still had to eat, and they would defend their crops from Antenora’s firestorm.
The fire also blocked them from coming to Rhogrimnalazur’s aid.
“That should keep them occupied for a few hours,” said Ridmark. “Come on.”
Calliande nodded, withdrawing her power from Antenora.
In a few hours, they would either be victorious, or they would be dead.
###
Ridmark stepped towards the ruined gate of Urd Cystaanl, the air heavy with the smoke from the roaring forest fire. The wind blew the black plume of smoke over the river, stark against the crumbling white towers of Urd Cystaanl. The gate itself had collapsed, the courtyard beyond paved with white flagstones. Ridmark went first, picking his way over the rubble, his staff ready in his hand. The Swordbearers came after, white fire dancing up and down their soulblades, and then Kharlacht, Jager, Caius, and Mara, screening Morigna, Calliande, and Antenora. Ridmark wanted them to guard the Keeper and the two sorceresses. The Swordbearers could defend themselves from any magical attack, but Ridmark knew the Keeper’s power was the biggest threat to Rhogrimnalazur. If the urdmordar realized that, she might try to attack Calliande and kill her before the battle could begin.
They moved into the courtyard, the massive white bulk of the central tower rising overhead. The flagstones had survived the millennia with little damage, and the ground remained smooth and level, though here and there piles of rubble had fallen from the curtain wall. The doors to the inner tower stood open, and within Ridmark glimpsed a heap of rubble from the collapsed roof.
The courtyard seemed utterly deserted.
Yet Calliande, Mara, and Antenora all flinched at once.
All three of them possessed the Sight.
“What is it?” said Ridmark, looking back and forth as Truthseeker and Heartwarden burned white-hot in the hands of Gavin and Arandar. He saw no sign of any movement within the tower or upon the walls…
“There,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “At the base of the tower. I think…I think she’s there, watching us.”
“A great locus of dark magic is there,” said Antenora. “At least as strong as the Traveler, but far more alien. I have never seen its like.”
“I have,” said Calliande, gripping her staff. “An urdmordar is there. Several spiderlings as well. I can dispel the magic they are using to remain unseen.”
“No,” said Ridmark. “Save your strength. I think you shall need it soon enough.”
Ridmark strode forward several paces, raised his staff, and struck the end of it against the ground several times, the crack of the impact rolling through the courtyard.
“Rhogrimnalazur!” he shouted. “Come forth and show yourself. Come forth and treat with me!”
The echoes of his shout faded away, and nothing happened. Ridmark wondered if Rhogrimnalazur would refuse to show herself. He considered asking Calliande and Antenora to strike first, and then the air at the base of the tower rippled.
Four women appeared out of nothingness.
The first was Quinta, still in her black robe, her green eyes glittering with hatred as she stared at Ridmark. The other two were spiderlings as well, wearing identical black robes. The fourth woman…
The fourth woman stood over seven feet tall, her face inhumanly beautiful and serene. She wore a brilliant red gown that clung to her body, cut low to reveal a large expanse of her pale breasts. Over her blood-colored hair she wore a spiked crown of a substance that looked like red gold, and her bright green eyes regarded Ridmark without blinking.
Gothalinzur and Agrimnalazur had both taken the forms of harmless old women, overlooked and ignored. They had preferred to rule their subjects from the shadows, invisible and unnoticed as they shaped the lives of generations. It seemed that Rhogrimnalazur preferred to rule her arachar openly, hence the form of a queen or an empress of some kind.
It didn’t matter. Ridmark knew that Rhogrimnalazur’s true form would look nothing like this.
“You were correct, daughter,” said Rhogrimnalazur, her voice melodious. “He is a bold one. He shall make a fine servant or a fine meal.”
“You are Rhogrimnalazur?” said Ridmark.
“Do not waste time stating the obvious,” said Rhogrimnalazur. The shining green eyes looked over them one by one, and then settled upon Calliande. “Ah. You have brought the Keeper of Andomhaim into my reach once more. That was foolish of you.”
“Rhogrimnalazur,” said Calliande, stepping forward. A stern expression had come over her face, aloof and remote, one that Ridmark had rarely seen before she had recovered her memory. Likely it was the expression she had worn when conducting her duties as Keeper. “For too long you have fed upon the weak and terrorized the helpless. That ends today.”
The words amused the urdmordar. “Is that why you have come back? To revenge yourself upon me for deaths two and a half centuries past? Tell me, how have you endured this long? It is rare to see a mortal who lives for a century, and nearly two and a half have passed since we last met.”
“You know why I am here, Rhogrimnalazur,” said Calliande, lifting her chin. The bronze diadem against her hair glinted. “I have come to stop Shadowbearer, just as I came to stop him when last we met. Again you have hindered me. I eluded you the last time, but now we shall clear you from our path unless you step aside.”
“The bearer of shadow,” mused Rhogrimnalazur, shaking her head. “Tell me. Do you know your true enemy?”
“It’s not the Frostborn,” said Calliande. “It’s Shadowbearer himself.”
“Himself?” said Rhogrimnalazur. “The bearer of shadow? Are you sure that he is your enemy? Or is the shadow that he bears your true foe?”
“Both,” said Calliande. “The shadow of Incariel drives him, but when he is slain, the threat shall end.”
Rhogrimnalazur let out a musical laugh that seemed to jangle and clash inside of Ridmark’s ears, adding to the headache he already had from Heartwarden’s presence. “You are like a pretty songbird mimicking words it does not understand, or a precocious child reciting history she does not truly know!”
“Then enlighten us,” said Ridmark.
“I was there for it, Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Rhogrimnalazur. “I was there when the dark elves opened the gate to our world and summoned us. They thought to make us their servants, the poor dear fool
s.” She smiled as if at a fond memory. “I remember the speech their king made, commanding us to grovel before him and serve him as our master. How sweetly he and his nobles screamed as we tore him from limb to limb! They didn’t realize the truth, but my sisters and I did.”
“And what truth is that?” said Ridmark.
“The dark elves were puppets,” said Rhogrimnalazur, “fools dancing upon invisible strings. They thought themselves the masters of this world, but the bearer of shadow walked among them, and the shadow twisted them to its will. Perhaps some of them learned the truth in the end, but it is too late, and their proud kingdoms,” she gestured at the white ruins rising over them, “are ashes and rubble.”
“What does that make you?” said Morigna. “A scavenger digging through the wreckage?”
Rhogrimnalazur only laughed. “We are goddesses, mortal child, my sisters and I. The dark elves thought that they would be as gods. They were wrong. They had pretensions of empires and kingdoms. We did not. We simply feed upon the lesser kindreds as is proper. The dark elves did not see that they were merely the tools of the shadow.”
“And what shadow is that?” said Calliande.
“Are you so blind, child?” said Rhogrimnalazur. “The shadow of Incariel itself. A greater predator than even my sisters and I. The Frostborn, who shall soon return, are not your ultimate enemy. The bearer of shadow himself is not your ultimate enemy. The shadow of Incariel is your foe, and it shall devour you and all the rest of this world.”
“Why are you telling us this?” said Ridmark.
“I wish to make you an offer, my bold warrior,” said Rhogrimnalazur, those blazing green eyes focusing upon Ridmark. “I see you bear an item of power. A crude soulstone.”
“I do,” said Ridmark. There was no point in denying it.
“A crude thing, to be sure, manufactured rather than grown as the soulstones of the high elves are,” said Rhogrimnalazur. “Nevertheless, I want it. Give it to me and I shall let you go.”
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 7
