Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (20 page)

“Fools!” roared the gorgon spirit. It was speaking the dwarven tongue, and Calliande realized that she could understand it. Evidently she had learned it as the Keeper. She just had time to think it odd that she could understand the dwarven tongue but not read their glyphs, and then the gorgon spirit kept speaking. “Be gone from this place! This Vale is under the protection of the King of Khald Azalar! Turn aside or be destroyed by his power!”

Calliande shuddered, feeling the spirit’s power hammer against her wards. It took every bit of her strength to keep the spirit’s power from transmuting their flesh into lifeless stone. Yet her ward held. She did not think she could have managed to maintain the spell three months ago, but the trials of her journeys had made her stronger. 

Ridmark looked at her and nodded in gratitude, and she offered him a weak smile.

She could defend them from the spirit’s power…but she could not help Ridmark and Curzonar against it. 

“No,” croaked Murzanar in Latin, once the spirit’s tirade had ended. “No. You…you should not be here. Another Hunter. Another Hunter! I…I have killed so many of them already. You must go. You must go!”

“I am here on a Rite of Challenge,” said Curzonar, “to learn your fate and to bring word of it back to the court of the Red King. I did not know that you had been enslaved by this mad spirit. Come! Remove the helmet and you can be free of it. You can return to the Range, and…”

“The Range?” whispered Murzanar. “I…I do not remember the Range, prince. I do not remember the taste of flesh upon my fangs or the hot blood running down my throat. I do not remember the joy of the hunt, nor the thrill of battle, nor the pleasure of taking mates for my harem. There is only stone. There is only death. I have slain manetaurs. Was it today? Or a thousand years ago? I can no longer remember. I have slain manetaurs in combat, red with tooth and claw, and that is honorable and right. Yet this spirit…this spirit slew others, freezing them in stone, and I cannot stop it. Flee while you still can! It is no dishonor to withdraw before a creature of magic.” 

“Cast aside that helmet,” said Curzonar. “You can be free of the spirit! Be…”

“No,” said Murzanar, shaking his masked head. “No. It…I am dead already. You are an intruder. This is the land of the King of Khald Azalar, one of the Nine Kingdoms of the khaldari.” His voice deepened and roughened, the glowing glyphs upon the dais seeming to pulse in time to his words. “You are an intruder. Intruders must be destroyed.” Suddenly he shifted from Latin to the dwarven tongue as the gorgon spirit took control once more. “Intruders shall be destroyed!” 

The withered manetaur took a step forward, raising his arms. Calliande glimpsed a leather baldric over his bony chest, holding a sheathed sword against the back of his torso. Then the glimpse vanished as green fire burned to hot life in the eyes of the grim dwarven mask. Again Calliande felt the petrifying power wash out from Murzanar in a wave as the gorgon spirit exerted its will. Again her ward strained and shivered under the pressure, but her magic held.

“How?” snarled the gorgon spirit. “How do you resist my power? All mortal flesh is mine to reshape as I like!” The blazing green eyes turned towards Calliande. “You! You bring magic and defiance into the realm of the King of Khald Azalar. Perish for your impudence!”

Murzanar leapt from the dais and raced towards her, moving with inhuman, terrible speed.

###

Ridmark was ready for the gorgon spirit’s attack.

As the ancient manetaur sprinted for Calliande, Ridmark spun, his staff gripped in both hands. He did not move very fast, but he didn’t need too. He had carefully positioned himself as Curzonar and Murzanar argued, anticipating that the gorgon spirit might try to attack Calliande. Now his foresight paid off. His staff slammed into the manetaur’s front right leg, and the crack of the impact echoed through the stone hall. The force almost ripped the staff from Ridmark’s hands, but he spun with the motion and turned, coming out of his spin to bring his staff down upon the manetaur’s rear right leg. 

Murzanar stumbled with a cry of pain.

Curzonar charged into the fray, his axes in either hand, moving so fast he seemed like a blur of crimson and gold. The manetaur Prince’s jaws yawned wide, and he loosed a roar like thunder. He brought both of his axes hammering down in a blow that should have taken Murzanar’s head off his shoulders and opened his ribcage like a book. 

But the massive axes rebounded from the withered manetaur’s patchy hide as if it had been made of steel.

Curzonar stumbled with a catlike yowl of frustration, and Ridmark whirled, bringing his staff up for another blow. His staff had been wielded by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain for decades, perhaps centuries, and so much powerful magic had flowed through the staff that its nature had changed. It could wound creatures of magic, like the urvaalgs and the ursaars. Curzonar’s axes were deadly weapons, but they were not magical.

Apparently the gorgon spirit was powerful enough to protect its host from weapons of mere steel. 

Murzanar punched, and his fist struck Curzonar’s armored chest with a clang. Murzanar’s arm was like a stick draped in patchy fur, but he struck Curzonar with enough force to throw the bigger manetaur into the air. Curzonar tumbled back a dozen paces and managed to land on his feet. 

Ridmark swung at Murzanar, and the manetaur danced aside, his legs crackling and writhing as the gorgon spirit repaired the broken bones. Murzanar turned and lashed at him with a clawed hand, and Ridmark dodged, striking back with the staff. He drove the end of his staff at Murzanar’s sunken chest. Murzanar growled and seized the staff with both hands, yanking Ridmark forward. He let himself get pulled from his feet, twisting the staff as he did, and his weight and his momentum jerked the weapon from Murzanar’s hands. Ridmark hit the floor and spun, bringing the staff down onto Murzanar’s right front leg. Once again the bone cracked, and Murzanar jerked back. Ridmark rolled to his feet as Curzonar stalked forward, axes ready in his fists.

“Your weapon?” growled Curzonar. “It can wound him?”

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Long story. We live through this, I’ll tell you.” 

Curzonar jerked his head to the side as Murzanar backed away, his masked helm twitching back and forth between them. Ridmark saw the strategy at once. Curzonar would attack, holding Murzanar’s full attention. While he did that, Ridmark would strike, hopefully landing crippling blows with his staff. 

But Murzanar and the gorgon spirit saw through the plan.

Murzanar thrust out a hand, the gorgon spirit rumbling words in the dwarven language. 

“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande. “It’s…”

The ground at Murzanar’s feet folded and rippled, as it did in Morigna’s spells, and the rippling wave rolled towards Ridmark. He took his best guess at a defense and fell before the wave reached him, rolling towards Murzanar. The floor heaved and then rose beneath him, the sensation disturbingly like a ship rolling upon the waves. Curzonar had never seen such an attack before, and it caught him flat-footed. Perhaps his two additional legs made him more vulnerable to losing his balance. He stumbled and fell, his armor clattering.

Ridmark kept rolling and came to one knee just as Murzanar loomed over him for the kill. He drove the end of his staff into the Murzanar's belly, and the manetaur’s breath exploded from his lungs. Ridmark used Murzanar’s hesitation to get to his feet and went on a rapid attack, landing hits on Murzanar’s chest and arms and forelegs. The manetaur retreated, trying to block Ridmark’s strikes, at least until Ridmark broke his right arm in two places. Ridmark would not be able to keep up this rate of attack for long, though. Already he felt his breath racing, sweat dripping down his face. His momentum was going to play out, and then the gorgon spirit would heal Murzanar’s wounds and strike back. He hoped to disable Murzanar long enough to take off his head with a blow of the dwarven axe. Yet Murzanar kept retreating, though Ridmark had already given him a beating that would have killed a dozen men.

Then a blow from Ridmark’s staff clipped the side of Murzanar’s helmet. The manetaur reacted out of all proportion to the glancing blow, and the gorgon spirit loosed a howling scream of fury. The glyphs upon the helmet’s crown pulsed and flashed, and the symbols of green fire on the dais and the central plinth flickered. 

“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande. He saw her standing wrapped in the white fire of her magic. Curzonar wobbled to his feet before her, growling and shaking. “Get the helmet off of him! That’s the link! Get the helmet off…”

Ridmark swung for the helmet covering Murzanar’s head. Again his staff struck the helmet with a ringing clang, and Murzanar stumbled back. Ridmark struck once more, but this time Murzanar dodged, avoiding the sweep of the staff. Ridmark’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way to get the helmet off of Murzanar’s head. Grappling with the manetaur would be suicide. Perhaps he could hook the end of the staff under the helmet and knock it off. Or if he damaged Murzanar enough, he could draw his dwarven axe and take off the manetaur’s head entirely. He disliked the thought of killing the tormented, enslaved manetaur, but Murzanar himself would likely have welcomed death decades ago. 

Murzanar jumped backwards with a crackling of tormented bones and strained muscles. The manetaur soared through the air and struck one of the pillars, hanging thirty feet off the wall like a giant, ragged spider. Ridmark wondered how Murzanar had accomplished that. Likely the gorgon spirit gave him such power over stone that the manetaur could cling to the pillar with ease. 

The masked helm turned to the south, looking through the Vault’s opened doors.

“Intruders!” roared the gorgon spirit. “Orcs! Trolls! Intruders upon the King’s dominions! This cannot be tolerated. They shall perish! Perish!”

Murzanar flung himself from the pillar, hurtling towards the floor.

Both Curzonar and Calliande shouted warnings, and Ridmark took a hasty step back, but that proved to be unnecessary. Murzanar struck the floor and sank into it like a man diving into deep waters. He vanished an instant later, the last strands of his ragged mane disappearing into the floor. 

“What trickery is this?” said Curzonar, his head whipping back and forth.

“Not trickery,” said Calliande. “The gorgon spirit has mastery over stone, and it must give Murzanar the power to move through stone as easily as air. Something else must have caught the spirit’s attention. Maybe one of the Mhorite shamans started casting a spell, and the gorgon spirit decided that it was a greater threat.” 

She lowered her hands and sighed, the pale white light of her ward winking out.

“The gorgon spirit has fled from us?” said Curzonar. 

“It appears so,” said Calliande. “Or it simply forgot about us. Murzanar…I suspect his sanity failed long ago, and the gorgon spirit likely does not think in terms that mortals like you and I can understand. I cannot say why it decided to pursue other intruders, only that it did.”

“What will we do now, then?” said Curzonar.

That was a very good question, and Ridmark had no idea how to answer it.

Chapter 15: Children of Mhor

The next morning Gavin awoke to the sound of an argument.

He was not surprised.

Pale gray light brushed his eyes, the sharp smell of pine sap filling his nostrils. It was not quite dawn, the sky still mostly dark, countless stars gleaming in the darkness, the moons shining like pale, multicolored coins. Gavin grunted and rubbed at his neck, feeling the ache in his muscles. He had gone to sleep sitting against the wall of the ruined tower, still clad in his armor, Truthseeker resting across his lap in its scabbard. Dark elven steel was lighter than normal plate, but his shoulders still ached from sleeping in armor. Given the dangers they faced, going to sleep with his armor on and his sword upon his lap seemed wise.

“We should keep to the plan,” said Arandar. His voice was faint.  Gavin realized he was talking to someone on the other side of the tower. 

“Ridmark did not anticipate that there would be two armies between us and the Gate of the West,” said Morigna. “Three, if one includes the trolls.” 

“It will be easier for him to find us than for us to find him,” said Arandar. “Especially if we make for the Gate of the West and wait there.”

Gavin sighed, started to stand up, and flinched. A dark shadow stood motionless next to him. He reached for Truthseeker, and then his eyes cleared. Antenora stood next to him, hood drawn over her gaunt face, her eyes glinting like chips of yellow crystal in the shadows of her face. 

“Gavin Swordbearer,” she said in her thin, raspy voice. “Good morning.”

“How long were you standing there?” said Gavin, blinking. 

She thought for a moment. “About six hours.” 

“Don’t you need to sleep?” said Gavin, looking around the tower. Mara stood at watch atop the broken wall, gazing over the forest. Jager, Caius, Kharlacht, Azakhun, and his four retainers lay sleeping upon the ground. Morigna and Arandar stood in a corner, speaking in low voices. 

“No,” said Antenora. “I don’t need it. Or, rather, I can’t. I haven’t slept since I betrayed the Keeper. From time to time I must rest, to recover my powers, but I cannot sleep.”

She hadn’t slept in fifteen centuries? Little wonder she looked so haggard. At first he was a little disturbed at the thought of her standing over him for six hours, and then realized she was likely guarding the archway. 

“That will come in handy,” said Gavin, getting to his feet with a grunt, “if you stay with us. You can keep watch all night, and then start the campfire in the morning with a wave of your hand.”

“The wave is an affectation,” said Antenora. “The true effort involved is in assembling a mental construct to summon elemental force in necessary quantities to…oh.” The yellow eyes blinked. “That was a joke.”

“Not a very good one,” said Gavin.

She stared at him for a moment, and then let out a rasping little giggle. It was…a disturbing sound, really, but so incongruous from the grim sorceress that Gavin laughed too.

Both Arandar and Morigna stopped talking long enough to glare at them, and then went back to arguing. 

“Forgive me,” said Antenora. “I…do not often hear jokes.” 

“Did they not have jokes upon Old Earth?” said Gavin. 

“They did,” said Antenora. “But I stayed away from people, save to defend them from dark magic when necessary.” A black-gloved hand gestured at her scarred, gaunt face. “My appearance, as you can imagine, sometimes inspired violent reactions.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Gavin.

Her slim shoulders twitched a bit beneath the heavy black coat. “I deserve worse. Why are those two arguing?”

Gavin lowered his voice. “They do not like each other.”

“Why not?”

“He is a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade and a knight of the realm of Andomhaim,” said Gavin. “She is a sorceress. In the High King’s realm, the only magic allowed by the High King’s law is that of the Order of the Magistri and the soulblades of the Swordbearers. And the Keeper’s magic now, I suppose, once Calliande returns.” He shrugged. “Within Andomhaim, Arandar would be within his rights to arrest Morigna and bring her to the Magistri, or to kill her if she refused.” 

“And you do not agree?” said Antenora. She tilted her head to the side. “You do not like her, but you do not agree?”

Gavin shrugged. “I…we have gone into great danger together. She has always kept faith with us.”

“She reeks of dark magic,” said Antenora. 

Gavin blinked. “You noticed that?”

“I saw it within her,” said Antenora.

“You…have the Sight, then?” said Gavin, remembering one of the strange powers Mara had acquired after her confrontation with the Artificer. 

“Of course,” said Antenora. “I was the Keeper’s apprentice, was I not? Though I do not possess it to any great degree.”

“But enough,” said Gavin, “to see the darkness within Morigna.” 

“It is recent, I think,” said Antenora. “I noticed it when I first saw her in the threshold, and it has grown since.”

“She broke one of the Warden’s spells to save our lives,” said Gavin. “I think she pulled some of the dark magic into her. She’s been using it since in emergencies.”

“She should not,” said Antenora. “That kind of power is quite corruptive.” Her thin lips twisted in a scowl. “Do I not know it well? If she uses too much of it, it will start to alter her judgment and even corrupt her the way some of Traveler’s beasts have been corrupted. Then there is no telling what might happen.” 

“What will you do?” said Gavin, alarmed. If Antenora decided that Morigna was a threat to the Keeper, there was no telling what the ancient sorceress might decide to do. 

“I?” said Antenora, surprised. “I shall do nothing. It is not my place to sit in judgment. If she uses dark magic against me, I shall fight back, but otherwise…no, such a matter is for the Keeper to judge, not me.” She looked at him. “But you are a Swordbearer, are you not? Why do you not act?”

“I…” Gavin hesitated. Why did he not act? “Because we have faced terrible foes together and survived. Because she has kept faith with us. Because…I am not wise enough for such a judgment. I have not been a Swordbearer for very long. Only a few weeks.”

“Who were you?” said Antenora. “Before you became a Swordbearer?”

“The son of the praefectus,” said Gavin, “of a small village called Aranaeus, a long ways south of here. My father was the priest of a vile spider-demon called an urdmordar, and most of the village worshipped her. He repented at the end, and died saving my life from the urdmordar.” A flicker of regret went through him. If Gavin had carried Truthseeker back then, could he have slain Agrimnalazur? Could he have saved some of those who had perished? 

“Ah,” said Antenora. “The village lad who became a knight.”

Gavin snorted.

“No, I do not mock,” said Antenora. “It is a story, perhaps, but a good one. I have seen many fighting men over the centuries, Gavin Swordbearer, and you fight well. And few of those fighting men have saved my life.” 

“Who were you before you became…” Gavin groped for a delicate word and gave up. “Who you are now.”

She was silent for so long that he thought she would not answer.

“I do not entirely remember,” said Antenora. “I was a nobleman’s daughter, I remember that much. I was rich and pretty and spoiled and vain. The power of the Keeper…I thought it was mine by birthright. Little wonder Mordred seduced me so easily. I was a young fool, and worse, I was a young fool with power.” She shifted her grip on the black staff. “Be grateful that you come from humble origins, Gavin Swordbearer. Perhaps it saved you from making many of my mistakes.”

“How old were you?” said Gavin.

“Eighteen, I think,” she said. “Such a long time ago. But that foolish child died centuries past. All that remains of her is this. A ruin that was once a mortal girl, a ruin that awaits only the forgiveness of the Keeper so it may at last crumble into the peace of oblivion.” She gestured at herself, and then her yellow eyes turned back to Morigna. “The man who leads you, this Gray Knight. Morigna is his lover, yes?” 

Gavin blinked. “How did you know?” 

“How she speaks,” said Antenora. “How she stands. Do you not see the fear in her? Here, you see, is a young woman who has fallen utterly in love. Her heart is now possessed by another. The Gray Knight holds it in his fist. If he asked it of her, she would fall upon a sword, and die with his name upon her lips. I have seen it many times. I was such a young woman, once.” Her voice was distant, as if she strained to remember something long-forgotten. “It made me a fool. I wonder if it will make her a fool. This Gray Knight of yours must be a remarkable man. I hope he is a worthy one.”

“He is,” said Gavin without hesitation. “He saved my life. He has saved all our lives. He should be a Swordbearer, not me.”

“And yet,” said Antenora, “your great hero takes a woman who wields dark magic as his lover.”

Gavin frowned. “No one is perfect.”

“Indeed not,” said Antenora. 

Gavin pointed at her. “He also saved the Keeper’s life. On the day she awoke from her sleep, before she had recovered any of her powers. She would have perished, if not for him, and then you would never have found your forgiveness. You should think on that.”

“You are very loyal, Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora. “May I offer counsel?”

“If you must,” said Gavin, trying to keep his voice polite. He expect her to warn him about Morigna, or to say something about Ridmark.

“You should intervene,” she said, gesturing at Arandar and Morigna. Both of them had become visibly angry while Gavin had been talking with Antenora. “The knight and the sorceress are about to come to blows. I do not presume to judge, but I do not think that the Keeper would wish her followers to kill each other.” 

She was right.

Gavin took a deep breath and walked across the tower, stepping around the sleeping forms of the others. Arandar’s hand kept jerking towards Heartwarden’s hilt, while Morigna’s fingers tightened against the carved length of her staff. 

“Were you not listening?” said Arandar. “I have explained my reasons. Our best chance is to reach the Gate of the West and wait for Ridmark there.” 

“That assumes we can even get to the Gate of the West,” said Morigna, pointing at him. “There are too many orcish warriors loose in the forest! That we have gotten this far without getting killed or captured is nothing short of astonishing. How much better do you think our odds will be if we press onward? Especially since the Traveler and Mournacht are both making for the Gate.” 

“For all we know Ridmark and Calliande are there already,” said Arandar. “If we start wandering about in circles looking for them, God only knows how many more Mhorites and Anathgrimm we shall have to fight.” 

The others were waking up now, watching the argument. 

“I know where they went,” said Morigna.

“You think you know where they went,” said Arandar.

“You do?” said Jager, blinking as he stood up. “How?”

“I was out scouting,” said Morigna. “Three miles north of here, I spotted a pair of tracks. A man and a woman, I think, traveling together. They were headed north, towards the lake.”

“North?” said Kharlacht with a grunt. “Why would they go north?”

“My question exactly,” said Arandar. “There’s nothing at the lake.”

“As far as you know,” said Morigna. “Caius! Is there anything in the north of the Vale?”

“Other than the lake, you mean?” said Caius. “I do not know, I fear. When I last visited Khald Azalar, I came through the High Pass and took the road directly to the Gate of the West. I saw very little of the Vale.”

“We were forced to retreat in that direction briefly,” said Azakhun. The others looked at him. “There were some ruins there, but little else.”

“Statues,” said Antenora in her quiet voice.

“Statues?” said Morigna.

“Many, many statues,” said Antenora. “I emerged from the threshold not far from the lake. There are quite a few statues clustered there, and more along a path leading into the mountains along the lake’s northwestern shore. I heard you speak of some beast that could turn flesh to stone, yes?”

“The gorgon spirit,” said Caius. 

“I did not encounter the creature,” said Antenora, “and soon came under attack from the trolls in any event. But from the large number of statues there, I suspect that the gorgon spirit makes its lair near the lake, perhaps in a cave or a ruin.” 

“All the better reason to stay away from it, then,” said Arandar. 

“Ridmark would not go to the lake unless he had a good reason,” said Morigna. “He may require our help.”

“You have no way of knowing if those tracks actually came from Ridmark and the Magistria,” said Arandar. “And you also saw the tracks of a large cat following them.”

“A cat?” said Gavin, thinking of the cats the innkeeper of Aranaeus had kept to keep rats at bay. 

Morigna gave him a scornful look. “Something the size of a lion.”

Kharlacht grunted. “I have not heard of lions in the mountains of Vhaluusk. Perhaps one wandered here and began stalking them.” 

“In which case, they will need further help,” said Morigna.

“I suspect that the Gray Knight will prove capable of dealing with one stray lion,” said Kharlacht. Morigna answered that with an irritated glare. Perhaps she expected Kharlacht to agree with her. 

“The Gray Knight told us to meet him at the Gate of the West,” said Arandar.

“When he knew nothing of the conditions here!” said Morigna, exasperated. “If he had done so, he might not have told us to make for the Gate of the West. Likely he would have tried to find another way into Khald Azalar, perhaps even the Gate of the East on the other side of the Vhaluuskan mountains.”

“He might have,” said Arandar, “but we don’t know for sure. This discussion is futile.” He shook his head. “We can wander in circles looking for Ridmark, or we can make for the Gate of the West and wait for him and Calliande. We should break camp and leave at once…”

“And by what right to do you presume to command us?” said Morigna. “Because you carry Heartwarden, a blade that does not rightfully belong to you?”