Morigna let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding.
“What about me?” she said. “The dark magic?”
“I cannot remove it without killing you in the process,” said Calliande.
“I see,” said Morigna. “Then there is no hope? I am going to transform into something?”
“Probably not,” said Calliande. “Not unless you keep using it. The physical changes, the night vision and the shadows, those are permanent. But the dark magic isn’t part of you, the way it was with Mara or with something like an urdhracos. It’s like…oh, a tumor, let us say. But it is a tumor that only grows if you use it. So long as you do not use the dark magic again, in time it will atrophy and vanish.”
“That is good to know,” said Morigna. She swallowed. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” said Calliande. “If you had not intervened, Shadowbearer would have killed me in the Vault. And I would never have reached Dragonfall without your help.”
“I…see,” said Morigna, puzzled. “Are…you trying to make peace with me?”
“Why not?” said Calliande. “Shadowbearer must be stopped. He’s going to open the gate to the world of the Frostborn unless we defeat him, and then the Frostborn war will begin anew. All the horrors of that time will begin once again.” She shook her head, lost in a dark memory, and then looked at Morigna. “I need every ally I can find to stop him. Will you help me?”
She had changed, Morigna thought. There was an iron confidence in Calliande now, an utter certainty of her path. It was peculiarly charismatic. She could see how Calliande had rallied the High Kingdom to follow her, how she had defeated the Frostborn the first time.
It was the same sort of purpose she saw in Ridmark, and that was one of the things she loved in him.
“The Old Man murdered my parents and blighted my life,” said Morigna. “We slew him, but Shadowbearer was his teacher, and this will not be over until Shadowbearer is slain, will it?”
“No,” said Calliande.
“Then let us defeat Shadowbearer,” said Morigna, “and see this done.”
Calliande nodded, and they descended the stairs to join the others.
Chapter 24: One Last Throw
The next morning, Ridmark and his friends left the Gate of the East and headed south into the trackless forests of the Wilderland.
They left the Anathgrimm behind out of necessity. The Anathgrimm could travel quickly, especially for infantry, but they still moved at the speed of an army. The only advantage Ridmark and others had against Shadowbearer was their head start and their ability to travel faster than the Mhorite host. They had to reach Dun Licinia and the Black Mountain as soon as they could. If they stayed with the Anathgrimm, Shadowbearer might reach the Black Mountain first.
That would be a disaster.
Ridmark thought of Dun Licinia, of the people he had met there on the day of the omen of blue fire, the day this had begun. His old friend Sir Joram Agramore was there, along with all the other people he had met during the Mhalekite attack on the town. Would Shadowbearer send the Mhorites after them?
Perhaps Ridmark could reach Dun Licinia before it was too late. Or perhaps Zhorlacht and his warriors would be as good as their word, and arrive to aid against the Mhorites.
Ridmark stopped at the edge of the forest, looking back at the others. Calliande came after him, calm, even serene, the staff of the Keeper in her right hand, Antenora following after like a yellow-eyed shadow. Then came Morigna in her tattered cloak, Kharlacht and Caius, Mara and Jager, and the Swordbearers Arandar and Gavin brought up the back.
“We shall have to travel quickly,” Ridmark told them. “With speed and stealth. There are urdmordar in the forests of the northern Wilderland, and tribes of savage arachar orcs that worship them. I would prefer to avoid both if at all possible. We cannot afford any delays.”
“The Anathgrimm,” said Mara in a quiet voice, “will not be so fortunate.”
“The Anathgrimm also have numbers and discipline,” said Ridmark. “They have wizards among their number. The urdmordar will likely let them pass unchallenged. We may not be so fortunate.”
“If they mean to try us,” said Gavin, “they will regret it. When we faced Agrimnalazur, we had no soulblades. Now we have two.”
“As we get closer to the borders of the realm,” said Calliande, “I can try and send a message to any Magistri in Dun Licinia.” She frowned. “Assuming they all have not been corrupted by the Enlightened. We can warn Sir Joram of the storm that is about to fall upon his doorstep.”
“Any advanced warning would aid him,” said Ridmark. “Zhorlacht thought that only about five thousand of the Mhorites survived to escape from Dun Licinia. That number would take all the knights and men-at-arms of the Northerland to defeat. If Shadowbearer summons more allies along the way, we might need the entire army of the realm to drive them back.”
“Depending on which nobles have been seduced into the Enlightened,” said Calliande, “we might wind up summoning enemies instead of allies.”
Suddenly Morigna laughed.
“What is so funny?” said Ridmark.
“Only this,” said Morigna. “After thousands of years of plotting, after the Keeper spent centuries asleep, after wars and kings and battles, it all comes down this. Simply a race. Whoever reaches the Black Mountain first will end this.”
“Then let us win the race,” said Ridmark, “and put an end to Shadowbearer’s evil for all time.”
He led the way into the forests of the Wilderland, and the others followed.
Epilogue
Shadowbearer walked through the High Pass from the Vale of Stone Death, the Mhorite host behind him. The shamans led the warriors in a monotonous chant of devotion to Mhor, promising him a constant flow of blood for his altars. The sound was damnably irritating, and Shadowbearer wanted to turn and kill them.
Not yet. He might need them to hold off his enemies soon enough.
The soulstone rested in his right hand, heavy and cold with potential power. Without it, he could have traveled from the Vale of Stone Death to Dun Licinia in the blink of an eye. With it, he could only travel one step at a time…but without it, he could not open the gate and summon the Frostborn.
So the stone came with him.
It was a hideous risk. Sooner or later Ardrhythain would return from the threshold, and the high elven archmage might find him. Or some other power might decide to claim the soulstone, or the Keeper might locate him and challenge him again…
The hideous burns upon his face tightened. They would not heal, and the pain was tremendous, but pain was of no importance. He would keep going, he would defeat his enemies, and he would open the gate and gain freedom at last…
This was a bad idea.
Shadowbearer’s instincts told him to drop the soulstone in the middle of the High Pass, abandon the Mhorites, and disappear back into the shadows. The plan with the Enlightened and the soulstone had been a good one, but it had nearly fallen apart. He should disappear and wait for the next time the moons reached the proper conjunction. The Keeper and her allies would have died by then, and Shadowbearer could continue his work uninterrupted.
Yes. That was what he should do.
His hand tightened against the soulstone.
The shadow within him screamed with fury. It demanded its freedom, and its freedom was at hand. Shadowbearer would be free then as well. Or would he? Once he had been the archmage Tymandain of Cathair Solas, but now he was the bearer of Incariel’s shadow.
Sometimes he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the shadow.
Maybe there was no longer any difference. Perhaps he was Incariel and Incariel was him.
He would not turn back now. Victory was at hand, and no triumph came without corresponding risk. All he had to do was reach out and seize it.
After a few appropriate preparations, of course.
He had sent agents of the Enlightened to Dun Licinia in preparation for this day. Shadowbearer reached out, seeking for the darkness within his servants, and found it.
###
Imaria Licinius, daughter of Dux Gareth Licinius, sister of the slain Aelia Licinius Arban, opened her eyes.
She stood in her bedroom at Dun Licinia’s only inn. As a deliberate insult to Sir Joram Agramore, she had refused his offer of guest rooms at the town’s keep, and had instead rented the entire top floor of the inn. Her father would be appalled when he found out, as would her superiors in the Order of the Magistri, but that was not important. She cared nothing for what Sir Joram or her father or the Magistri thought, and her allegiance to them had become a lie. Once she had thought herself in love with Tarrabus Carhaine, the leader of the Enlightened, but of late her ardor for him had cooled as the shadow in her mind whispered of the truth.
Her true allegiance was to the shadow of Incariel, for Incariel had promised her what she dearly desired.
Vengeance upon Ridmark Arban, the man who had murdered her sister. And then, perhaps, revenge on all the realm.
Imaria blinked several times, clearing her head. Lately, when Shadowbearer’s voice had filled her mind to impart instructions, there had been…echoes. Lingering whispers. As if the shadow of Incariel still stirred within her, filling her with power.
Those whispers suggested a potential future, a realm crushed beneath giants of frost and ice, a realm crushed in vengeance for Imaria’s loss.
That thought pleased her.
She opened the door and went to the sitting room. The furnishings were crude and far beneath her station, but they were the best that Dun Licinia had to offer. A wooden table sat in the center of the room, circled by chairs.
The Weaver sat in one of the chairs, staring at her.
He was an Initiated of the Sixth Circle of the Enlightened, one of the oldest and most powerful of the Enlightened. As far as Imaria knew, he was at least a century and a half old, and maybe even older. Right now, he affected the appearance of a gaunt, ascetic-looking old man with close-cropped white hair and pale, gentle blue eyes, clad only in a simple white robe.
He smiled as she approached…and his head exploded into a spray of black threads. The shadowed threads danced and tangled around each other, and then merged, weaving themselves back into a head.
Specifically, into a perfect copy of Imaria’s head, with the same green eyes, olive skin, and long black hair.
“Darling child,” said the Weaver in a perfect imitation of Imaria’s voice. “What news from our master?”
“I told you not to do that,” said Imaria, irritated.
The Weaver considered that, smiling with a copy of her mouth, and then his head exploded into a maze of black threads, weaving itself back into the guise of the ascetic old man. Imaria was surprised. The Weaver usually ignored what she said. Now, though, he looked at her with something like…
Respect?
“You hear it, don’t you?” murmured the Weaver. “The voice of our master?”
“Shadowbearer speaks to me,” said Imaria.
The Weaver’s sardonic smile seemed out of place on that ascetic face. “The shadow of Incariel. You hear it now, don’t you? Your hatred has brought you close to it. You hear Incariel’s voice.”
Imaria nodded, and the Weaver’s smile widened.
“So,” he said. “What does Shadowbearer wish of us?”
“Ridmark Arban is coming to Dun Licinia, along with the restored Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Imaria. The Weaver’s smile vanished at the last part. “We’re going to kill them both.”
“I see,” said the Weaver. The smile returned. “And then, darling child? What does Incariel have planned for us then?”
Imaria felt herself smiling in answer. “Vengeance.”
“Well,” murmured the Weaver. “Shall we begin?”
THE END
Thank you for reading FROSTBORN: THE BROKEN MAGE. Look for Ridmark's next adventure, FROSTBORN: THE WORLD GATE, to appear in late 2015. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases,
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Other books by the author
The Demonsouled Saga
MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.
Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.
But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.
The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.
The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael’s power can hope to defeat them.
The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.
To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.
Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.
For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.
Unless Mazael can stop him.
Read
Demonsouled
for free. Mazael's adventures continue in
Soul of Tyrants
,
Soul of Serpents
,
Soul of Dragons
,
Soul of Sorcery
,
Soul of Skulls
, and
Soul of Swords
, along with the short stories
The Wandering Knight
,
The Tournament Knight
, and
The Dragon's Shadow
. Get the first three books bundled together in
Demonsouled Omnibus One
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