She closed her eyes and gestured with her staff, and the snarling curtain of fire dimmed and lowered. Beyond Morigna saw the carnage that Antenora’s fire had wrought. Hundreds of burned Mhorites lay scattered beyond the arch, and the gold coins and bars upon the stone tables had melted and run down upon the floor.
“God and the apostles,” muttered Jager. “Remind me never to ask you to heat up a cup of tea. You’d blow up the building.”
“Now we wait,” said Morigna, “for the Mhorites to get their courage back.”
Ridmark looked at the dead Mhorites through the curtain of flames. “I fear we shall not have to wait long.”
###
Mara closed her eyes, listening to the song in her head.
The song that had been growing steadily louder.
“I think,” said Mara, opening her eyes, “we might have another problem.”
“Oh,” said Morigna, watching the flames. “Just the one?”
Power blazed before Mara’s eyes, invisible to the gaze of most mortals, but sharp and harsh before her Sight. The ancient glyphs that ringed the Vault of the Kings were shields of frozen light, implacable and invincible. The flow of elemental power from Antenora to the wall of flames seemed like a stream of fire. The mighty wards around the golden doors to Dragonfall blazed like a net of solid light, magic unlike any Mara had encountered before.
All that was secondary to her attention right now, though.
The song in her head kept getting louder.
“The Traveler?” said Ridmark. He had spent most of the last hour watching the curtain of fire, but his eyes kept straying back to the gates to Dragonfall.
“Yes,” said Mara. “He is very near.” She concentrated for a moment, trying to make sense of the peculiar sensation. “Within two miles. Maybe less than a mile. I suspect all the solid rock and the glyphs are disrupting his aura. But he is almost here.”
Arandar gave a shake of his head. “The last time were caught between the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm, we were almost killed.”
“Perhaps they will do us a favor and kill each other off,” said Jager.
“We kept saying that in the Vale,” said Morigna with a sour scowl, “and it never seemed to happen. One suspects the Traveler and Mournacht shall join hands in brotherly amity to first kill us, and only then try to slay each other.”
“Why?” said Arandar.
“Because, Sir Arandar,” said Morigna, “of the essential perversity of the cosmos. Why else does every damned thing always seem to go wrong?”
There was silence for a moment.
“That is actually a good theological argument,” said Caius, “for the fallen nature of the world…”
“If we live through this, we can debate theology later,” said Ridmark. “We can assume that the Traveler and Mournacht will come to battle, and whoever is victorious will try to force their way in here. I wonder if there is something we can do to prolong the battle. We need to play for time.”
“Perhaps Antenora can lower the wall of flame and we can sortie out,” said Gavin. “Throw them into disarray.”
“A bold plan,” said Kharlacht
“It is,” said Antenora. “But I may not be able to conjure the wall of flame fast enough to keep the worshippers of Mhor or the spiny orcs from storming this hall. We…”
Her eyes narrowed, and she fell silent.
“What is it?” said Mara, even as she saw the corrupted haze of dark magic swirling in the central Vault.
“Beware!” said Antenora. “One of the shamans of Mhor summons power to undo my spell.”
“That settles it,” said Gavin. “We shall have to charge.”
“No,” said Mara, “I can deal with it.”
She stepped forward, blocking out the Traveler’s song, and reached instead for the fire within her, the song of her fused soul of human blood and dark elven power. Blue fire swallowed her, and when it cleared Mara stood in the central Vault, the stone floor still radiating terrible heat beneath her boots. Bands of Mhorite warriors moved through the aisles, hundreds upon hundreds of Mhorite warriors. The Mhorite shaman stood a short distance away, a gaunt, skeletal orcish man wearing ragged trousers, sigils burning upon his chest and arms and back, bloody fire dancing around his fingers as he summoned power to contest Antenora’s fire.
Mara was in plain sight of the orcish warriors, and they bellowed in fury, but not before she slashed the shaman’s throat with her sword. The warriors charged, avoiding the cooling pools of melted gold, and Mara drew on her song again, the blue fire depositing her next to Antenora. She took a moment to catch her breath. Using the power of her blood to travel had gotten easier with practice, but it was still exhausting.
Jager was at her side in an instant. “One less Mhorite shaman, I take it?”
“Yes,” said Mara, taking deep breaths to slow her heart and still the fire of the song in her mind. “There was just one for now. More shall arrive soon.”
“Well done,” said Ridmark, and to Mara’s surprise, she felt a flicker of pride at the complement. Ridmark knew how to lead people. It was his talent, even more than his prowess with weapons. It explained why Morigna and Arandar had not killed each other, why Arandar and Jager were amicable companions rather than bitter enemies, why the peculiar group that had formed around Ridmark and Calliande had held together.
Mara wondered how that would change if Calliande regained her memories, how Calliande herself would change.
More dark magic flared before her Sight.
“Another one,” said Antenora.
Mara nodded and reached for her song again.
“I will handle this one,” said Morigna, and she squinted into the flames, purple fire burning along her staff. Mara recognized the familiar pattern of the earth magic in Morigna’s spells, and even over the snarl of the flames she heard the sudden agonized scream of a Mhorite shaman as the acidic mist chewed into his flesh.
An agonized scream, but a brief one.
“The fool did not think to ward himself before attacking,” said Morigna with a satisfied smirk.
“The next one will not be so imprudent,” said Arandar.
“Or they will attack in groups,” said Mara. “A group of shamans to dispel the flames, and then bands of warriors to charge through when the spell collapses.”
“Best we continue to wait, then,” said Ridmark.
Arandar shook his head. “In war, fortune favors the commander who takes the initiative.”
Morigna started to spit out a retort, but Ridmark spoke first.
“We’re also outnumbered a thousand to one,” said Ridmark. “If we attack, we shall be killed in short order. Better, I think, to force our enemies to act, and then we can counter them. The attacker always has a harder task than the defender, and this is the best defensive position we are likely to find.”
“It is the only defensive position we are likely to find,” said Kharlacht, “given that there are no other exits from this chamber, and we cannot enter Dragonfall.”
“No,” said Arandar. “We might as…”
A sudden scream drowned out his words.
Mara whirled, seeking the source of the scream, wondering if one of the Mhorites had somehow gotten into the hall. Her brain caught up with her ears, and she realized that the scream was actually hundreds of voices raised as one, that she now heard the sound of fighting and clashing steel through the curtain of flame.
Her father’s song, dark and proud and malevolent, thundered inside of her skull.
“It sounds like a battle,” said Jager.
“It is a battle,” said Arandar. “The Anathgrimm have arrived.”
“They have,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “My father is out there, I am sure of it.”
“Then it seems,” said Caius, “that we shall face the victor of the struggle.”
“Let us hope the victor is considerably weakened,” said Caius.
“I should go have a look,” said Mara. Dark magic flared and burned and snarled before her Sight. Dark wizards were battling one another. Likely the Mhorite shamans and the wizards of the Anathgrimm unleashed their powers against one another. Or perhaps even the Traveler and Mournacht were locked in battle.
“No,” said Ridmark and Jager in unison. They looked at each other, and Jager gestured for Ridmark to continue. “If you travel into the midst of a battle, you might land right in the path of an arrow. Or some Anathgrimm might get lucky and stab you before you get your bearings.”
“Very well,” said Mara.
Then a huge surge of dark magic blazed before her Sight, a dark vortex of malevolent power.
“Beware!” said Antenora. “The enemy comes. The…”
Blood-colored flame blazed in the midst of the fiery curtain, and Antenora stumbled back as her spell shattered, the light from her staff sputtering and flickering. A huge figure strode through the archway, an orcish shaman over seven feet tall. Unlike the other shamans, he was a tower of muscle, his chest and arms huge. The crimson tattoo and stylized skull upon his features seemed to twist his face into a permanent snarl of fury. He wore only trousers, boots, and a broad leather belt, red-painted human skulls dangling on a leather cord from his right hip. In his right hand he held a massive double-bladed battle axe of black steel, taller than Ridmark, the thick blades as wide across as his shoulders. More symbols of bloody fire shone upon the blades, and Mara saw the tremendous dark magic at the shaman’s command.
It was Mournacht.
After him came his elite guard, towering Mhorite warriors in crimson plate armor adorned with skulls, axes and swords in hand.
“Oh, hell,” muttered Jager.
Mournacht looked them over. He was breathing hard, his chest and axe spattered with blood, none of it his own. His guards looked battered as well. Mournacht’s eyes turned back and forth, and then his scarred face lit up in a gleeful smile as he saw Ridmark.
“Gray Knight!” thundered Mournacht, lifting his black axe. “How splendid that you are still alive. Thrice you have escaped me. Now I have you caught like a rat in a trap, and you will not escape a fourth time.”
“Make what taunts you like,” said Ridmark, his staff ready in his hands. “You are Shadowbearer’s puppet and nothing more.”
Mournacht rumbled a laugh. “Shadowbearer? You speak nonsense. I am the Chosen and Voice of Mhor, his champion and his strong right hand, and with the power hidden in this ruin I shall lay all of Andomhaim upon the altar of Mhor as a blood sacrifice.” He pointed the enormous weapon at Ridmark. “Staring with you, a sacrifice that will give me great pleasure.”
“Technically,” said Jager with an insouciant smile, “is it really a sacrifice then?” Mournacht’s red-gleaming eyes turned to him. “A sacrifice is something you don’t want to give up, and you really want to kill the Gray Knight. So, to please Mhor, you’ll have to kill someone you don’t want to kill. Like, yourself. That should please Mhor. Or that fellow standing next to you.” He gestured with his short sword. “Or yourself, preferably. My understanding of Mhorite theology is a little vague, since it is a bunch of lies concocted by murderous madmen.”
He offered Mournacht his sunniest smile, and Mara let out an astonished laugh. The sheer gall of her husband never failed to both shock and amuse her, even in the grimmest circumstances.
“Little worm,” rumbled Mournacht. “You shall regret those words as you die screaming.”
“Well, since I am going to die screaming no matter what I do,” said Jager, “I might as well amuse myself before I go. Did you know that your facial tattoos make you look like a bruised tomato with tusks? Perhaps Mhor is actually a giant tomato, which would make for a poor god. Why, a tomato could not answer prayer, and…”
“Silence!” roared Mournacht.
Mara braced herself, reaching for the dark fire in her blood. She could not travel behind Mournacht and cut his throat. The magical wards written upon his skin prevented her from reappearing anywhere within ten to fifteen yards of him, and his guards would cut her down easily. Maybe her power would not be necessary. Gavin and Arandar were both Swordbearers, and their soulblades could penetrate the dark magic warding Mournacht from harm. Perhaps if they had faced Mournacht alone, they might have a chance of victory.
But Mournacht had his elite guard around him, and there were more Mhorites behind him.
“Kill the Gray Knight’s companions,” said Mournacht. He raised the massive axe in both hands. “I shall kill the Gray Knight myself as a blood offering to Mhor.”
The Mhorites roared and charged, and Mournacht sprinted before them, a blur of blood-colored fire.
###
Ridmark whirled and struck at Mournacht, trying to land a telling blow upon the huge shaman.
He did, and heard Mournacht’s arm shatter from the blow, as it had a dozen times before. Yet it hardly seemed to matter. The dark magic upon Mournacht healed the injury almost at once, so fast that Ridmark heard the crackle of bones as they reset themselves, the bruised and bloodied flesh returning to a healthy green within seconds. Arandar and Gavin had better luck, and the wounds they dealt with their soulblades did not heal nearly as quickly. Yet they still healed, and Ridmark suspected only a blow through the heart or the head with a soulblade would finish Mournacht. The orcish shaman did not give them the opportunity. Mournacht wielded that huge axe with accuracy and power, and his dark magic made him faster and stronger than a Swordbearer. Ridmark dared not stand still, not even for a moment, or else Mournacht would kill him with a single blow of the huge black axe.
He could not help the others. The red-armored Mhorites pressed Kharlacht and Caius hard. Mara and Jager helped where they could, Mara flickered in and out of the battle, Jager stabbing and tripping orcs, but there were simply too many Mhorites. Morigna conjured curtains of sleeping mist, the floor rippling to knock the Mhorites over, and Antenora launched bursts of fire that set the Mhorites ablaze. Their efforts did little good. Step by step the Mhorites stormed into the hall. Sooner or later Ridmark and the others would be overwhelmed, or they would simply run out of room to retreat and Mournacht would have them.
He hit the shaman across the ribs with his staff, and Mournacht snarled and brought his axe around in a sideways slash. Ridmark just barely ducked in time, the huge blades blurring over his head, and jabbed his staff at Mournacht’s belly. Mournacht shifted his axe to one hand, deflecting one of Gavin’s thrusts, and his free fist shot towards Ridmark’s face. Ridmark twisted to the side, and Mournacht’s blow hit him in the shoulder with wrenching force. His left shoulder went numb, and the impact flung him back a dozen feet to bounce off the floor. Ridmark managed to keep his staff in hand, and he used it to haul himself back to his feet as Gavin and Arandar continued fighting Mournacht.