Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (26 page)

Murzanar sprang into the air with inhuman strength. Ridmark shoved himself backwards, rolling onto the dais itself. At once the glyphs blazed with piercing emerald light, the power of the spells reaching up to turn him to stone. Calliande’s ward flared to life around him, and she felt the strain in her mind as the ancient magic struggled against her power. 

Yet her spell held, and Ridmark jumped off the dais as Murzanar struck the floor like a thunderbolt. The withered manetaur turned to pursue Ridmark, and for a dreadful moment Calliande was sure that she had failed, that her trap would not hold either Murzanar or the gorgon spirit.

Murzanar took one step forward, and then the floor erupted with white fire. 

Both the manetaur and the gorgon spirit screamed in pain and fury. A sigil of white flame shone beneath Murzanar’s paws, and bands of light held him bound like chains. Green light flared from the manetaur’s eyes and the dwarven helm, but the white fire swallowed it. 

Calliande felt a wave of terrified exhilaration. Her spell had worked. It had trapped the gorgon spirit. 

She did not know how long it would last, though. Already she felt the power weakening.

“Quickly,” rumbled Curzonar, running from behind the door. “Get the helmet off of him!”

Murzanar roared again, spasms going through his spindly limbs. 

Ridmark nodded and stepped forward. His left boot touched the edge of the glowing white sigil, and the entire thing flickered and almost went out. Murzanar jerked forward a few inches, his claws flashing in the light.

“Stop!” said Calliande. A dark thought occurred to her. “If anyone steps on that, it’s going to disrupt the spell.”

“Then,” said Curzonar, “how are we supposed to get that cursed helmet off?”

That…had not occurred to her.

“I don’t know,” said Calliande, cursing herself as a fool. “I didn’t think your presence would disrupt the spell.”

“Leave me,” rasped Murzanar. “Damn you, leave me! Leave me! I am cursed, I am a slave to this dark power. Leave me before I destroy you, too!” 

“Maybe,” said Ridmark, a strange look coming over his face, “maybe he can take the helmet off himself.”

Curzonar gave him an incredulous snarl, shrugged, and looked at the trapped manetaur. “Murzanar! Heed me! I am Curzonar, Prince of the Range and son of the Red King.”

“Yes,” croaked Murzanar. “Your…your scent. You are of the lineage of the Red King. I can smell it. Though…I suppose the Red King must have been slain and replaced many times since I left the Range. Fool, fool, fool. I should never have come here. I should…”

“It is not too late,” said Curzonar. “You can free yourself. Take off the helmet.”

“I…I cannot,” said Murzanar. “I cannot remember how. I cannot remember what it was to live, to not have the spirit’s rage filling my mind. To live, and not be trapped in this endless death.”

“You can be free,” said Curzonar, “and yet die as a true Hunter, not a thrall of that damned spirit. Take off the helmet. Take off the helmet and free yourself.”

Murzanar hesitated, his clawed hands twitching towards the bronze-colored helmet.

Then the green light flared in his eyes, and Calliande’s trap shattered.

“Perish!” roared the gorgon spirit as Murzanar sprang towards Ridmark.

Chapter 20: The Enemy Of My Enemy

“Well,” said Jager. “Now what?”

That was a very good question. Unfortunately, Gavin did not have an answer.

All around them rose the sound of battle, though for a moment they were in an island of calm. Dead urvaalgs carpeted the nearby ground, the thick black slime that served as their blood leaking into the earth. A troop of Anathgrimm orcs ran to the west. Gavin tensed, raising Truthseeker, but the orcish warriors kept running, their faces grimmer than usual behind their masks of black bone. 

They were going to fight Mournacht and his Mhorites. Mournacht and the Traveler were more afraid of each other than they were of Gavin and his friends, and that fact was the only reason that Gavin and the others were still alive. 

“Morigna,” said Arandar. “Can you call your ravens? We need to have a look around.”

“I shall try,” said Morigna. She was even paler than usual, her face and hair damp with sweat. Her usual cocksure arrogance had vanished, and she looked unsettled, even afraid. “But I warn you, I…may not be able to control the ravens. They come after the fighting to feast upon the carrion, and are wise enough to avoid the battle before it is over.”

“Do it anyway,” said Arandar. “We cannot stay here, and the more we know about the position of our foes, the better chance we have of getting away.”

Another dark shape shot overhead. One of the Traveler’s urdhracosi, likely going to scout the Mhorite host. After Mournacht had killed the first urdhracos so easily, perhaps the others would hold back from the fighting. 

Morigna closed her eyes, muttering under her breath as she worked a spell. Gavin looked at her, reaching through Truthseeker, but did not sense any dark magic. He glanced at Antenora, saw her staring at Morigna with those unsettling yellow eyes. She had looked exactly the same as she unleashed her fiery magic at her foes, and Gavin wondered if she was about to kill Morigna. Antenora claimed to have defended the people of Old Earth from dark magic for fifteen centuries, and Morigna had just used a lot of dark magic. If Antenora killed Morigna, God only knew how Ridmark would react…

The yellow eyes shifted to him, and Antenora shrugged and looked back at Morigna.

“I will take a look around,” said Mara. 

“It is risky,” said Jager. 

“We’re in the middle of a battle,” said Mara. “Risk is relative. I’ll be quick.”

“Go,” said Arandar. Mara vanished in the usual swirl of blue fire, and Arandar turned his attention to Azakhun’s dwarves, using Heartwarden’s power to heal at least some of their injuries. Gavin hurried to join him, using Truthseeker’s magic to the same purpose. Azakhun had broken his right arm, and Gavin managed to heal it, the sword’s magic compelling the bones to knit. The soulblade’s power was not as effective as Calliande’s healing magic, but it also did not force him to feel the pain of the wounds he healed. He did not know how Calliande could stand to do it over and over again, to feel the pain of all those wounds. 

Every so often Gavin saw an urvaalg racing through the trees, or a pair of Anathgrimm scouts hurrying along, but they never stopped to fight. He knew that couldn’t last. Sooner or later either the Traveler or Mournacht would decide to get rid of them before moving on their main enemy.

Mara reappeared next to Arandar, her face grim. 

“What have you found?” said Arandar. 

“You were right,” said Mara. “It looks like the Traveler stole a march on Mournacht. While Mournacht was attacking us, the Traveler flanked him, got behind the Mhorites to the east.” She shook her head. “If the Traveler had attacked then, he would have swept the Mhorites away.”

Arandar frowned. “What stopped him? The trolls?”

“No,” said Mara. “His own cowardice, likely.” Her lip twisted with disgust. “He could have had victory…”

“But victory is never certain in battle,” said Arandar. “There is always the risk of defeat, of ill luck.”

“Aye,” said Mara. “I think that gave Mournacht the time to get his army turned around. He’s facing the Anathgrimm now, formed up for battle. I couldn’t find Mournacht himself, though.” 

“He is at the ruins of the tower,” said Morigna, eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. “He is directing his warriors and shamans from there.” 

“Wait,” said Jager. “That puts the Traveler between Mournacht and the Gate of the West. Why doesn’t he just run for the Gate? He could get to Khald Azalar first and hold it against Mournacht indefinitely, I should think.”

“Cowardice again,” said Mara. “A bolder man might have done it. My father would never leave a living foe at his back. He’ll try to destroy the Mhorites before heading for the Gate of the West.”

“Might he send his soldiers to their deaths and make for Khald Azalar while they distract the Mhorites?” said Kharlacht. “That is the sort of tactic a dark elven lord would employ.”

Mara shrugged. “He might. But I don’t think he will. He didn’t leave the Nightmane Forest for centuries. He won’t go anywhere without his guardians.” She shook her head, pale blond hair sliding before her green eyes. “And he isn’t moving. His song hasn’t changed.”

“Song?” said Antenora.

“Long story,” said Gavin.  

“We cannot stay here,” said Jager. “If we do, we’ll be ground to pulp between those two armies.” 

“We cannot fight our way out,” said Morigna, opening her eyes. “There are simply too many Mhorites and too many Anathgrimm, to say nothing of the urvaalgs and the urdhracosi.”

“But the battle hasn’t begun yet?” said Jager. “Has it?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mara. “Not properly, anyway. Some skirmishes between scouts, but the main hosts haven’t advanced yet.” 

“Then,” said Arandar, “it seems that our best course of action is to start the battle for them.”

“What do you intend?” said Kharlacht.

“Lady Mara,” said Arandar. “Which way is the Traveler himself?” 

“That way.” Mara pointed to the east, as confidently as if Arandar had asked her to point to the sun. 

“The tower is to the southwest,” said Arandar. “We drifted a bit north while fighting the urvaalgs, but I think we can make our way back to the tower with little difficulty.”

“Back to the tower?” said Morigna, some of her usual asperity reasserting itself. “None of us is strong enough to overcome Mournacht, not even you, Sir Arandar. Nor all of us together, I fear.”

“No,” said Arandar, “but I’d wager the Traveler is strong enough to challenge Mournacht.”

Caius sucked in a breath. “Then you mean to attack Mournacht, draw him out…and lead him right to the Traveler.” 

“Precisely,” said Arandar. “Then we make our escape while they try to kill each other.”

“Well,” said Caius. “It is the sort of audacious madness the Gray Knight would attempt.” 

“Antenora,” said Arandar. “How quickly can you set a tree afire?”

“One of these pine trees?” said Antenora. “Quite quickly. No more than a few seconds each, if I concentrate. The sap burns quite quickly at a high enough heat.” 

“Good,” said Arandar. “We shall engage Mournacht and force him to pursue us. Antenora will burn the trees around us to cover our retreat, and we shall lead Mournacht to the Traveler and his guards. When they fight, we shall escape to the east.”

Gavin saw any number of problems with that plan. It assumed they could escape Mournacht. The orcish shaman and his followers might just kill them all. Or the Traveler’s minions might kill them first. Or any number of a thousand other things might go wrong.

But he could think of nothing else to do. 

“Let’s go,” said Arandar, adjusting his shield.

###

A few moments later the ruined watch tower came into sight.

Gavin stepped forward, cinders and charred pine cones crunching beneath his feet. Hundreds of Mhorite orcs stood at the base of the tower’s hill. Messengers hastened back and forth, and in the distance he heard the tramp of boots as the Mhorite host arrayed itself for battle, preparing to charge the Traveler’s Anathgrimm.

A group of towering orcish warriors stood separate from the others. These orcs wore black plate mail, heavy swords in hand and massive shields upon their left arms. The cuirasses had been embossed with the crimson skull of Mhor, and their faces were hidden beneath masked helms wrought in the shape of crimson orcish skulls. 

They had to be Mournacht’s personal guards.

Mournacht stood in their midst. He carried that huge axe like a staff in his right hand, its blade shining with crimson sigils. Mournacht bellowed a steady stream of commands to his messengers. Gavin wondered how the Mhorites would fare in battle against the Traveler’s host. The Anathgrimm were better armored, and the urvaalgs fiercer…but the Traveler was too passive. He would cower behind his wards while Mournacht led his men into battle personally, screaming battle cries to Mhor and killing with that enormous axe. 

Mournacht hadn’t seen Gavin and the others yet, likely thanks to the haze of smoke still rising from the trees that Antenora had burned in their retreat.

“Antenora,” said Arandar. 

She nodded and flicked her staff, a ball of white fire soaring through the smoke to slam into Mournacht. It exploded into small column of spitting flame. Mournacht did not even so much as blink, and the fire vanished as the sigils upon his chest and arms shone brighter. The shaman turned, his black eyes narrowed. 

“Mournacht of Kothluusk!” roared Arandar at the top of his lungs, raising Heartwarden over his head, its white fire blazing through the smoke. “I, Arandar of Tarlion, Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, name you coward and craven! Come forth and do battle with me, or slink behind your guards like the dog that you are!”

“Ah!” Mournacht’s voice boomed like a thunderclap. “I see the Traveler subverted you. Very well.”

He turned and spoke a command, and one of the black-armored warriors lifted a war horn and blew a long blast. Answering blasts came from the north and the south, and suddenly the thunderous noise of ten thousand orcs bellowing battle cries filled Gavin’s ears. The Mhorite orcs, all of them, started marching forward in tight formation.

Mournacht leveled his axe and pointed the weapon at Antenora. Her yellow eyes got wide, and she took a hasty step back as bloody fire snarled around the twin blades. She could unleash tremendous destruction with her magic, but Gavin suspected that she had no way of warding herself from hostile spells. 

“Get behind me!” he shouted, putting himself in front of her and drawing upon Truthseeker’s power.

A blast of blood-colored fire ripped from Mournacht’s axe with a howling sound and slammed into Gavin as Truthseeker flared.

He did not remember what happened over the next few seconds.

When he came to himself he was stumbling backwards, clutching Truthseeker’s hilt with his right hand, Mournacht’s magic snarling around him. The soulblade shuddered in his hand like a dying thing, and Gavin only managed to stop himself from falling by grabbing at a small pine tree. The crimson fire leapt into the tree, withering it to a dead husk, and at last Mournacht’s magic faded. 

The orcish shaman was hideously powerful…and Gavin had a creeping suspicion that Mournacht had not even used his full strength for the attack. 

He realized that Antenora was staring at him with wide eyes. More urgently, he also realized that the entire Mhorite line was charging, Mournacht at their head, his black-armored guards flanking him.

“Run!” shouted Arandar, pointing to the east.

Gavin caught his balance, turned, and sprinted after the others. Antenora swung her staff as she ran, throwing fireball after fireball. The spheres did not seem nearly as hot or as focused as the ones she unleashed with adequate preparation. Yet they were hot enough to set the pine trees ablaze as they ran, and soon Antenora left a trailing of burning pine trees behind her as she ran. 

“Keep going!” said Arandar, jumping over a tangled root and around a tree trunk. “We’re…”

A pair of urvaalgs burst from behind one of the burning trees. Morigna turned and gestured, roots rising from the earth to slow them. The urvaalgs staggered, clawing free of the roots, and Gavin brought Truthseeker down in a white flash. He took the head from the nearest urvaalg, and Arandar struck the second creature, driving Heartwarden through its black heart. 

Behind them the Mhorites charged.

“Go!” said Arandar, ripping Heartwarden’s shining blade from the urvaalg’s carcass. Antenora set another tree ablaze and kept running, her long black coat billowing out. Morigna turned and cast a spell, and a thick curtain of white mist rose from the forest floor in a broad arc, cutting off the Mhorites and Mournacht from sight. It was a less potent spell than her acidic mist, a fog that put anyone who breathed it into a light sleep. Hopefully it would slow the Mhorites a little…

Red fire flashed in the mist, and it faded away as the black-armored warriors kept running. Mournacht sprinted in their midst, crimson flame blazing around his outstretched left hand.

Morigna cursed and ran, and Gavin followed her. 

Suddenly they broke through a line of trees, and Arandar came to a stop, Caius and Kharlacht and Jager at his side, Azakhun and his dwarves bringing up the back as Mara flickered into existence next to them. Gavin urged Antenora and Morigna forward, breathing hard, but both sorceresses stopped. 

Hundreds of Anathgrimm warriors filled the small clearing. A score of crouching urvaalgs waited before them, snarling and snapping, the crimson light of their eyes shining with hellish fury. Gavin spotted Zhorlacht and a dozen other Anathgrimm wizards, ghostly blue fire playing about their hands.

In the midst of the warriors waited the Traveler.

The dark elven lord sat atop a massive ursaar as a mailed knight might sit astride a warhorse. Plates of blue dark eleven steel covered the ursaar, armoring it from snout to haunches, and the hulking beast looked as if it could destroy an army on its own. The Traveler sat in a saddle of black leather, resplendent in his fine armor, his cloak thrown back. He carried a sword of blue steel in his armored fist, the blade writhing with shadow and ghostly blue flame. The Traveler’s bottomless black eyes sank into them, and his white lips rolled back from his white teeth in a snarl.