Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (27 page)

Then he smiled, but the snarl returned an instant later, a strange tremor going over his gaunt features.

“Sir Arandar of Tarlion the traitor,” said the Traveler in his voice of inhuman beauty, his words dripping with amused glee. “So you have returned to me at last.” 

“I have kept my oaths to God, the High King, and the Order,” said Arandar. “I fail to see how I am a traitor.” 

“Disobedience!” screamed the Traveler, his good humor vanishing. “Traitor! I commanded you to slay Mournacht and lay the worm’s head before my feet! Prattle about your God and your High King all you wish, Sir Arandar of Tarlion, but I alone am the true god of this world, and you have disobeyed me!” He shuddered, and his voice went cold and dead and clinical. “Perhaps you were in league with Mournacht all along. Yes, I see it clearly now.” His armored ursaar let out a long, vibrating snarl. “All from the beginning. You were plotting against me from the start. The bearer of Incariel’s shadow, the dwarves of Khald Azalar, Sir Arandar of Tarlion, and Mournacht, all plotting together to destroy me. A pity for you that I am too strong to be conquered.” 

“You should prepare,” said Arandar. “Stronger foes than us are coming to destroy you.”

“No,” said the Traveler in that calculating voice. “You have instead brought prizes to my reach, Sir Arandar. My wayward daughter.” Mara glared at him, but the Traveler’s face remained a cold mask. “And two most peculiar wielders of magic. The sorceress of fire, her magic originating from another world…and the sorceress twisted by dark magic.”

“I doubt you have the wit to use our skill,” said Morigna. Her voice quavered only a little. “You are a relic of a forgotten age, a dusty anachronism.”

The Traveler’s cold eyes shifted to her, and malicious glee crept back into his empty expression. “Both of you will be of use to me. The sorceress of fire…her magic is of another world, and sufficient torture and dissection shall yield its secrets unto me. I came here to claim the Keeper’s staff, but the secrets of her power shall be a pleasant bonus. As for the twisted sorceress…she has used enough dark magic that her womb will likely birth an urdhracos, and for a human animal she is not completely unpleasant to the eye. She would make an enjoyable concubine.”

“Try it and see what happens,” said Morigna. 

“I am warning you,” said Arandar, “you are in danger. A more powerful foe approaches.” 

“And you shall be of use to me as well, Sir Arandar,” said the Traveler. Gavin felt a crawling chill as the Traveler’s void-filled eyes swept over him. “Your soulblades shall make fine trophies in my treasuries at Nightmane Forest, and I shall recall fondly the agonies of your death every time I look at them.” He beckoned with his free hand, the Anathgrimm shifting. “Take the sorceresses alive. Also take my wayward daughter and her pet halfling rat. I shall enjoy disciplining her by torturing the rat to death in front of her.”

“Charming,” muttered Jager.

“I have no need for the others,” said the Traveler with an airy wave of his hand. “Kill the rest of them.”

The Anathgrimm started forward, and the first of the black-armored Mhorites burst into the clearing.

The Traveler’s glee hardened into fury at once. “Treachery! Faithless knight! You led these rebel slaves here? You permitted them to make war against your lord and god?”

“You,” said Arandar, “are not my god, nor anyone else’s.”

Mournacht ran into the clearing, more of the black-armored guards following him, but came to an abrupt stop when he saw the Traveler. He raised his arm and shouted a command, and the guards halted around him. 

For a moment the Anathgrimm and the Mhorites stared at each other, even as the sounds of the battle rose around them.

“What have we here?” said Mournacht, taxing his axe in both hands. 

“A rebellious slave worshipping a ragged superstition,” sneered the Traveler, his voice full of wrath. 

Mournacht spat, his black eyes filled with the red light of battle fury. “And I see a ragged ghost, a relic of a world dead and forgotten. You had your time, dark elf. It is time for you to fall into the dust of history with the rest of your kin.” 

“Fool,” said the Traveler. “You think yourself your own man? You are still a slave, even if you know it not. I see the haze of stolen magic about you. You are the puppet of the bearer of Incariel’s shadow. What has he promised you? What lies has he poured into your ears? Heed him and you shall go down the path to destruction, as my kindred did in ancient days.” 

“Do not threaten me, you haggard shadow,” said Mournacht. “The staff of the Keeper shall be mine, and a new age comes to the world. I shall bathe this world in blood as an offering to Mhor, and I shall be more than happy to start with you.”

“Impudent slave,” said the Traveler, his face twisted with fury. “Fall upon your knees before your god and beg forgiveness before I…”

Mournacht’s expression did not change. One hand came off the haft of his axe, and a bolt of screaming crimson fire burst from his palm and hurtled towards the Traveler. The dark elven lord gestured with his free hand, and the cylinder of blue light Gavin had seen earlier reappeared, erupting from the ground to encase both him and his ursaar mount. The blast of blood sorcery struck the cylinder with a tremendous clanging sound, and the backlash of dark magic made Truthseeker blaze brighter in response. That same spell had hurtled Gavin backwards like a leaf in a storm, but it did not even make the Traveler blink. 

“Kill them!” screamed the Traveler. “Kill them all! Kill them and bring me that rebel shaman’s head!”

“Kill them!” howled Mournacht, shaking his axe over his head. “Kill the Swordbearers, kill their followers, and kill the dark elf’s mutant dogs!” 

The two bands of orcish warriors roared and charged at each other, and both the Traveler and Mournacht began casting spells. 

Gavin spun, his mind racing. Arandar’s plan had worked. The Traveler and Mournacht were fixed upon each other. If they moved now, perhaps they could get away before…

But that hope died in his heart.

To the north he saw nothing but Anathgrimm warriors and Mhorite orcs locked in battle. Mhorite shamans and Anathgrimm wizards cast spells at each other, the urdhracosi circling overhead. He looked to the south and saw the same thing. The Traveler and his minions charged from the east, and Mournacht and his guards from the west.

They were trapped. 

Most Swordbearers, he knew, died in battle. Gavin had only lasted a few weeks. Though he supposed with grim humor that he had been a Swordbearer for the rest of his life. 

Kharlacht took his greatsword in both hands, and Caius raised his mace. Jager kissed Mara upon the lips, and then they stood side by side, dark elven short swords in hand. Azakhun and his retainers lifted their stolen orcish weapons, saying quiet prayers to the Dominus Christus. Purple fire crackled around the length of Morigna’s staff, and Antenora struck her staff against the ground, the sigils flaring to sullen light. Arandar lifted Truthseeker, the soulblade shining, and Gavin saw the quiet regret on his face.

He would never get to see his son and daughter again.

“A heroic last stand,” muttered Jager. “How dreadfully trite. I do hope no one makes a song of this.”

“Perhaps they shall make you the hero of it,” said Morigna. 

“Songs are never accurate,” said Jager. 

“Defend yourselves,” said Arandar.

The Anathgrimm and the Mhorites closed around them, and Gavin and the others struck as one.

Chapter 21: Lion and Knight

Murzanar sprang at Ridmark, claws extended, but he was already moving. 

He threw himself out of the way and hit the ground, rolling away from the withered manetaur’s rush. Ridmark came to his feet and spun as Murzanar tried to turn and swung his staff. He thought about trying to hit a leg or an arm, but instead he aimed for the manetaur’s head. The helmet was the key, the way the gorgon spirit had bound itself to Murzanar’s flesh. If Ridmark could get the helmet off of Murzanar’s head…

The staff slammed into the side of the helmet. Murzanar’s head snapped back, the manetaur letting out a furious snarl. Ridmark dodged to the side as Murzanar slashed at him, striking blow after blow at the helmet. The manetaur stumbled, the eyeholes of the helmet blazing with green fire. If Ridmark could just hook the end of his staff underneath the helmet’s edge…

The gorgon spirit roared and Murzanar shot forward. Ridmark dodged, but too slow. The razor-sharp claws raked across his chest, the dark elven armor keeping them from ripping his flesh to shreds, but the gorgon spirit’s sheer strength drove him to the floor. He crawled back, hearing Calliande shout something, and Murzanar stalked after him, ready to kill.

Another roar filled the Vault, and Curzonar sprang at the withered manetaur.

Murzanar thrust his left hand with contemptuous ease. He had faced Curzonar before, and both the gorgon spirit and Murzanar knew that Curzonar had no weapons effective against the gorgon spirit’s power.

So it took the gorgon spirit entirely by surprise when Curzonar raised Ridmark’s enspelled dwarven axe and brought it down. 

Murzanar realized the danger at the last minute and jerked his arm back, but not before the dwarven axe sheared through his arm at the elbow. The withered manetaur let out a horrible shriek of shocked pain, and a spattering of crimson blood fell from the stump of his arm. Curzonar struck again as Murzanar jerked back, and this time the dwarven axe’s keen edge opened a long gash down Murzanar’s ribs. Curzonar roared something in the snarling tongue of the manetaurs and kept attacking, driving Murzanar back step by step. Ridmark recovered his feet, his chest aching from the blow, and seized his staff. He ran after the battling manetaurs, hoping to strike from Murzanar’s injured side.

One of Murzanar’s legs crumpled as he retreated, and Curzonar roared in triumph and raised the axe over his head, ready to bring it down and end the fight. 

The eyeholes of Murzanar’s helmet blazed with green fire, and the gorgon spirit’s deeper voice drowned out Murzanar’s groaning snarl. Murzanar charged as Curzonar started to strike, closing before Curzonar could properly aim his blow. Curzonar managed a glancing hit across Murzanar’s right shoulder, but the gorgon spirit drove Murzanar’s remaining fist into Curzonar’s armored chest. Curzonar went hurtling through the air, both of his arms and all four of his legs flailing for balance. He hit the floor and skidded into one of the columns. 

Ridmark attacked before the gorgon spirit could recover, his staff a blur. He struck the gash Curzonar had left in Murzanar’s chest and shoulder. Murzanar stumbled across the space that Calliande’s warding trap had occupied. Ridmark hoped that some lingering magic yet remained there, something to hold or at least hinder the gorgon spirit, but nothing happened.

No matter. He would do without it. 

He struck again and again. The missing arm left a critical hole in Murzanar’s defense, one that Ridmark exploited without mercy. He rained blows upon Murzanar’s front left leg, and at last he heard a bone snap, and the manetaur stumbled with a scream of fury. 

Ridmark grabbed the lower edge of the dwarven helmet with his left hand. The metal felt cold beneath his fingers, and something like an electric shock shot up his arm. The glyphs upon the crown began to pulse wildly, and Ridmark shoved, trying to pull the helmet over Murzanar’s head. He felt the manetaur’s leathery, gaunt hide against his fingers, felt the brittle, crumbling fur. 

The helmet started to slide up, and Murzanar backhanded Ridmark across the chest. The blow knocked Ridmark back, ripping the helmet from his grasp, and he drove the end of his staff against the floor to keep his balance. Murzanar stepped forward, wobbled a bit, and almost collapsed, his injured leg dragging, blood dripping from the stump of his left hand. Ridmark heard a clatter of armor as Curzonar pulled himself off the floor, the dwarven axe ready in his hand. Perhaps getting the helmet off Murzanar would be unnecessary. The gashes Curzonar had carved across the ancient manetaur’s torso were shrinking, but slowly, and the severed left arm was not healing at all. Maybe they could simply kill Murzanar outright. Though Ridmark was not sure if the gorgon spirit could control Murzanar’s corpse.

Murzanar roared in defiance, his cry deepening into the gorgon spirit’s rumbling snarl, and leapt backwards. Ridmark realized what was happening and ran forward, but the gorgon spirit was too fast. Murzanar struck the floor six yards away and sank into the stone, vanishing without a trace. 

The gorgon spirit had escaped.

He turned just as Calliande ran for the dais.

###

“Be ready!” said Calliande, going to one knee and drawing the dwarven dagger from its sheath. The strain of holding the warding spell in place weighed upon her mind. When Ridmark had stepped on the dais, the power of the ancient dwarven glyphs had almost overwhelmed the ward, and it had taken all of Calliande’s strength to hold the spell. 

“Be ready for what?” said Curzonar. “Our quarry has escaped us!”

“Aye,” said Calliande, “but he’s going to be back very soon.”

“You can call him back?” said Ridmark.

Calliande nodded. “Are you ready for another round?” 

“Always!” roared Curzonar.

She hoped they were. Ridmark looked unharmed, but he was breathing hard, and a faint twitch went through his left arm every time he drew breath. Had he broken a rib? Curzonar was bruised from his fall, but still looked full of fight. She wished she could have healed them both, and considered dropping the wards long enough to do that. But she dared not take that risk. The gorgon spirit might be watching, waiting for her to lower her defenses. The spirit itself did not seem terribly clever, but underestimating one’s enemies was often a fatal error. 

Ridmark nodded. “There may be limits to how much physical punishment Murzanar can take and keep functioning, even with the gorgon spirit’s help. If we injure him badly enough, perhaps we can get the helmet off of him.” 

Calliande took a deep breath and pushed the dagger’s tip into the nearest glyph.

###

Again the Vault of the North shuddered, the glyphs upon the dais going from green to fiery orange. Ridmark stepped back, ignoring the pain in his chest and left shoulder, his eyes sweeping the Vault. He saw no sign of Murzanar, but he knew that would not last. As before, he looked at the ceiling, anticipating attack from above, but the vaulted ceiling remained smooth and unbroken. Murzanar was insane and hagridden by the alien spirit in his flesh…but he was still a predator. 

A Hunter of the Range would not use the same attack upon prey that had already escaped him.

Ridmark looked at the floor and saw the smooth stone start to ripple beneath his boots.

“Curzonar!” he yelled, throwing himself to the side. “Beneath us!” The manetaur prince took the hint and dodged. 

It was just in time. A half-second later Murzanar erupted from the floor as smoothly as a trout leaping from a lake. The manetaur landed where Ridmark had stood earlier and loosed a furious roar, but Ridmark and Curzonar were already moving. Ridmark struck the helmet with his staff, and Curzonar sank the axe into Murzanar’s sunken torso. As he retracted his weapon, Ridmark saw that Murzanar’s wounds from the earlier fighting had healed entirely, that the severed arm had regrown. Perhaps when immersed in stone, the gorgon spirit had more power to heal its host.

At all costs they had to keep Murzanar from retreating again.

“Perish!” thundered the gorgon spirit, green fire blazing in the helm. “Perish!” The pressure of its power screamed against Calliande’s ward, white light flaring around Ridmark. “This is the realm of the King of Khald Azalar. Perish!” 

Ridmark struck again, and Murzanar leapt into the air, landing several yards away. The green fire faded a bit in the helm, and the mask looked back and forth between Curzonar and Ridmark. 

“Why are you still here?” said Murzanar, his voice quavering. “Fools. Fools! I cannot stop myself! I do not know how you baffled the spirit’s power, but you must go! Flee before I slay you!”

“I am a son of the Red King and a Prince of the Range of the Hunters!” said Curzonar. “I do not flee.” 

“Then you shall die!” shrieked Murzanar. “You shall die when I tear you apart. You shall die when your protective spell fails and the spirit within me freezes your flesh into stone!” 

He attacked, and Ridmark went to the left and Curzonar to the right. Curzonar swung the dwarven axe, and Murzanar jerked to avoid the blow. Ridmark thrust his staff, the end of the weapon clanging off the side of the dwarven helmet. Curzonar seized the other manetaur’s instant of disorientation, and his axe clipped Murzanar’s flank. Again Murzanar’s roar hardened into the basso thunder of the gorgon spirit’s fury, and green fire blazed behind the helmet. The ground rippled and snapped at their feet like a banner caught in the wind, but this time both Ridmark and Curzonar were ready for it. Ridmark threw himself to the side, jumping over the worst of the distortion, while Curzonar roared and sprang into the air. He soared forward and crashed into Murzanar, clawing at the helmet. Murzanar struck back, knocking the axe from Curzonar’s hand, and reared up on his hind legs. His clawed hands and legs raked and slashed at Curzonar, and Curzonar answered in kind, his hands grappling at Murzanar’s arms, his forelegs raking at Murzanar and tearing the leathery hide to bloody shreds. They looked almost exactly like two lions battling over prey. 

Ridmark started forward to join the fight, and then stopped.

The glow in the helmet’s glyphs was sputtering, and the same flicker went through the glyphs upon the dais. Had Curzonar loosened the helmet? No, it was still firmly in place stop Murzanar’s head. Neither the dwarven axe nor the black staff of Ardrhythain had damaged the helmet. 

He shot a look at Calliande. 

“It’s his memory!” she shouted. “He’s remembering his life before he came here!”

Ridmark blinked, wondering why that was significant.

Then he looked at Murzanar’s wasted, withered form and remembered how the ancient manetaur had said that he could not remember the excitement of the hunt or the taste of meat or the thrill of battle. The manetaurs were fierce and deadly creatures, and most of them died in battle, either in dominance challenges with each other or with foes from other kindreds. Murzanar had been trapped in the Vale of Stone Death for over a century. 

Was the fight with Curzonar reviving long-forgotten memories? 

Curzonar and Murzanar broke apart, circling each other.

An idea came to Ridmark. Perhaps he could not defeat Murzanar in battle, but there were weapons other than wood or steel. 

“Do you remember, Murzanar?” shouted Ridmark, and the masked helm twitched in his direction. “Do you remember the last time you fought a rival like this? Fang to fang and claw to claw?”

“Be silent,” snarled Murzanar. “You are a human! You understand nothing of our ways!” 

“I am not a manetaur,” said Ridmark. “I am not one of the Hunters. But neither are you!”

Ridmark heard Murzanar’s fangs clash behind the masked helmet. 

“Do you remember the hunt?” said Ridmark. “To chase down your prey and slay them with your jaws? No! All you have done for decades is turn your enemies to stone, to freeze them in images of cold rock. When have you last tasted the hot blood of your prey?”

Curzonar and Murzanar kept circling each other, violent twitches going through Murzanar’s gaunt frame. 

“No,” said Murzanar. “No. Intruders…intruders must…I am…I am…” His voice dissolved into an incoherent snarl. 

“You were a Prince of the Range, a Hunter, a son of the Red King,” said Ridmark. “Do you not remember what that means?”

Curzonar looked back and forth between Ridmark and Murzanar, his golden eyes narrowed. 

“I…am a Prince of the Range,” rasped Murzanar. “I…remember. It was…so long ago. I came here. A Rite of Challenge. That helmet.” A groan of despair came from beneath the bronze-colored mask. “That damned helmet. I should never have touched it. So many decades. The spirit rules me, I cannot…fight it. I cannot fight it!”

“You cannot fight it,” said Ridmark. “There is another way.”

“What, then?” said Murzanar.

“Submit,” said Ridmark.

Murzanar snarled, his claws scraping against the floor. “You dare to demand that I submit to you, human? I am a Prince of the Range!”

“Not to me,” said Ridmark, jerking his head at Curzonar. “To him.”

Murzanar whirled to face the younger manetaur. 

“He is a Prince of the Range,” said Ridmark. “He is a son of the Red King, your blood and kin. He has challenged you and fought you. Submit to him, and you can be free of the gorgon spirit.”

“By killing me?” said Murzanar, his voice a faint rasp.

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “You have far outlived your natural span, my lord Prince. You should have died a century ago. Would you rather live as you have for another century, another ten centuries? Or would you rather die as a Hunter should?” 

For a long, terrible moment Murzanar said nothing, his body twitching, the glyphs upon the crown of the helmet flaring and sputtering. A steady growl came from him. No, two growls. One was Murzanar’s raspy, weary voice. The other was the gorgon spirit’s ominous rumble. The helmet blazed with green fire, the ghostly emerald flames working down Murzanar’s neck and shoulders. Ridmark was certain that the gorgon spirit was going to overwhelm the ancient manetaur, that the spirit would shatter Murzanar’s mind.

But the gorgon spirit’s angry rumble faded, and Murzanar’s voice rose in a cry of despair.