Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (9 page)

“Oh?” said Morigna, her voice soft and dangerous. “Just why is that?”

“Because if we were in Andomhaim,” said Arandar, his voice just as soft and dangerous, “you would be arrested as a sorceress and a wielder of dark magic, and put to death for it. And rightly, I might add.” 

“Is that a threat?” said Morigna. She had her staff in hand, her fingers tightening against it. 

“Simply a statement of fact,” said Arandar, his voice just as hard as hers. “You might have clouded Ridmark’s judgment…”

Morigna’s eyes flashed, and she took a step forward, her staff rapping against the stone ground. Arandar’s hand fell to Heartwarden’s hilt. Gavin looked back and forth between the others, wondering what they would do, what he should do. 

“You idiots,” said Jager. “You’re going to kill each other? Are you children who cannot cooperate without Ridmark to watch you?” 

“This is madness,” said Mara with much less rancor. “We are surrounded by enemies, and you wish to fight each other? Could you not at least wait until we have found Ridmark and Calliande again?” 

“By what right does he presume to command us?” said Morigna. 

“He has led men in battle before,” said Caius.

“He is the High King’s bastard get,” said Morigna. “Does that somehow confer wisdom and insight?”

“As opposed to your dark magic?” said Arandar. 

Everyone started talking at once. Gavin took a step back, frowning. Mara was right. This was madness, but he didn’t know how to stop it. Ridmark would have ended the argument, or Calliande could have, but Gavin didn’t know what to say. He decided instead to keep watch, lest enemies come upon them while they debated.

Or if Morigna’s and Arandar’s shouting drew foes. 

Gavin looked over the ruined wall, and the gray gleam of pale light caught his eye.

Disturbed, he moved to the edge of the wall, his hand falling to Truthseeker’s hilt. Six motionless orcs stood a few yards below the wall, and alarm flooded through Gavin. He started to draw Truthseeker, and then realized that the orcs weren’t moving.

They weren’t even breathing.

In fact, the orcs weren’t even orcs at all. 

They were statues of gleaming gray stone, so perfectly wrought that they almost looked alive. Almost. Gavin could pick out the precise detail of their clothing and weapons, the fold of their clothes, even the individual hairs of their topknots. 

Every last one of the orcs had an expression of fear and alarm. 

Gavin whispered a quiet curse and stepped away from the ruined wall, turning to face the others. Morigna and Arandar continued their shouted argument, the others trying to get a word in and usually failing.

“We have a problem,” said Gavin.

No one noticed. How would Ridmark have handled this? Gavin considered for a moment, then drew a deep breath.

“Shut up and stop talking!” he roared at the top of his lungs.

Morigna and Arandar both whirled to face him, Arandar lifting Heartwarden and Morigna her staff. The others looked astonished. Gavin supposed that he did not shout all that often, now that he thought about it.

“Shut up and stop talking?” said Jager. “That’s redundant, you know.” 

“We have a problem,” said Gavin. “A serious problem. If you can stop bickering like children for a moment, I will show it to you.”

Morigna’s eyes narrowed. “You think to call me a child, boy?”

Arandar hesitated. “If…we are acting like children, then he is not wrong to do so.” He offered a polite bow to Gavin. “Lead on, Sir Gavin.”

Morigna’s eyes remained narrowed, but she said nothing and followed Arandar. Gavin led the others around the ruined wall and to the statues.

They stared at the stone orcs for a moment.

“It seems that Qhurzal was not spinning tales,” said Kharlacht at last.

“Someone certainly has macabre taste in artwork,” said Jager.

“I don’t think that’s artwork,” said Mara. 

“A gorgon spirit,” said Caius, voice grim. 

“A…gorgon spirit?” said Arandar. “Forgive me, Brother Caius, but what is that?”

“A creature like a basilisk,” said Caius, “but of infinitely more power. A basilisk is simply a large lizard that can turn men to stone with its gaze. A gorgon spirit is much worse. It inhabits a physical vessel of its choosing, and then anyone it touches or looks at is transformed into a statue. The defenses of the remaining three great dwarven cities all have gorgon spirits bound as a final line of defense. One of Khald Azalar’s gorgon spirits must be loose in the Vale of Stone Death.” He looked at the stone orcs. “I suppose these treasure-hunters found that out the hard way.”

“Those aren’t treasure hunters,” said Mara. “Look at their faces.” The orcs had faces of gray stone, but the ritual scarring was clear against their features. “Those are Mhorites.”

“And they were transformed just a few hours ago,” said Morigna. The anger had drained from her face, replaced by alarm.

“How do you know?” said Caius.

“Look at the footprints,” said Morigna. The slope here was bare stone, with patches of gritty dust here and there. Footprints were plain in the dust, coming to an abrupt halt behind the statues. Gavin did not have Morigna’s or Ridmark’s skill at tracking, but he had spent much of his childhood hunting in the forests around Aranaeus, and he could read a trail.

The Mhorite orcs had been running from something. 

Something, he suspected, that had caught them and transformed them into statues.

“Well,” said Arandar. “I suppose that settles it. We dare not stay on the hillside any longer. If this gorgon spirit lurks nearby, it might find us.”

“Assuming,” said Gavin before he could stop himself, “all the shouting hasn’t drawn its notice already.”

For once, Morigna had nothing to say to that. 

“Sir Gavin speaks truly,” said Arandar. “We should make for the Gate of the West at once. If the gorgon spirit comes after us, the presence of the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm orcs might provide it with more tempting targets.”

“But what about Ridmark?” said Morigna. “Can we not find a way to warn him of the spirit?”

“The Gray Knight and the Magistria are likely safer than we are,” said Caius. “I believe that a Magistria’s magic can ward against a gorgon spirit’s power.”

“You believe?” said Morigna, making a scornful curse of the word. “Or you know?”

“I do not know for certain,” said Caius. 

“I propose this compromise, then,” said Arandar. “We shall make for the Gate of the West and conceal ourselves there. If after two days, Ridmark and Calliande have not arrived, we will go in search of them.” He sighed. “If Calliande is killed, this entire enterprise has been in vain anyway. Does anyone object?”

No one did. Not even Morigna. 

“Kharlacht,” said Arandar. “Save for Morigna, you have the most experience as a woodman among us, and you have the keenest eyes, Mara. I suggest you lead the way.”

Chapter 6: The Vale

The stairs climbed ever higher. 

Ridmark’s torch had burned out long ago, but that was just as well. The air in here was stale, and the smoke would have choked them. Calliande walked behind him, a sphere of pale white light hovering over her palm. His staff waited in his right hand. 

“Ridmark,” said Calliande, her voice a whisper. 

“Aye?” said Ridmark.

“Do you mind,” she said, “if we stop and catch our breath? Just for a moment?”

He frowned. His instincts screamed for him to hasten, to reach the top of the stairs as soon as possible. God only knew what dangers awaited Morigna and the others outside the High Gate, and they might need his help. For that matter, he did not know how long it take for Morigna and Arandar and Jager to be at each others’ throats. Probably less time than it would take for any dangers to find them. 

He started to refuse, and then took a closer look at Calliande. She was breathing hard, sweat trickling down her temples. For a woman who had spent two hundred years sleeping in a vault, she was quite fit, but she wasn’t as strong as he was, and they had climbed at least a mile’s worth of stairs. And that was after all the magic she had worked in the warded chamber below.

Come to think of it, his legs felt a bit watery as well. 

“Aye,” he said, leaning against the curved wall. Calliande let out a relieved sigh and slumped next to him. “Don’t sit down, though. We shouldn’t linger long. The others might need our help.”

“They might,” said Calliande. “But they have two Swordbearers between them, along with Morigna’s magic and Mara’s abilities, to say nothing of Kharlacht’s and Caius’s and Jager’s skill at arms. Ridmark, they’re probably safer than we are.” 

He let out a quiet laugh. “I had not considered that.” 

“Do you think the Mhorites are following us?” said Calliande.

“They’re aren’t,” said Ridmark. “Everything echoes in this damned stairwell. If they were after us, we would have heard it by now.” 

“At least they couldn’t have gone after the others,” said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded, doubt gnawing at him. He had no idea what waited beyond the sealed doors. Mhorites, certainly. Perhaps creatures from the Deeps. Or this mysterious creature that haunted the Vale of Stone Death, the guardian Qhurzal had told them about. 

“You’re worried about Morigna,” said Calliande.

It was a little disconcerting how well Calliande could read him by now. “Aye. Though perhaps I should be worried about whoever crosses Morigna’s path. She can take care of herself.”

Calliande raised an eyebrow, her face ghostly in the pale light. 

“And what they might do to each other,” said Ridmark. “Either Kharlacht or Arandar will try to take charge. Morigna will listen to what Kharlacht says, but she can’t stand Arandar. I hope they do not come to blows.” 

“You really do love her, don’t you?” said Calliande.

“You sound surprised,” said Ridmark. 

“Well…” said Calliande. 

“She is abrasive, rude, arrogant, and supremely overconfident,” said Ridmark. “She holds the Swordbearers, the High Kingdom, and the church in contempt, and is not concerned about keeping her opinions quiet.”

“Why did you say that?” said Calliande.

“Because it’s all true,” said Ridmark, “and you were thinking it.”

Calliande sighed. “It is a sin to lie.”

“She is also brave and loyal,” said Ridmark. “Strong and skilled and intelligent, as well.”

“Do you love her?” said Calliande.

Ridmark said nothing. He wanted to drop this line of discussion, but he supposed he owed Calliande an answer.

“The last time I loved a woman,” said Ridmark, “it didn’t end at all well.” 

“It wasn’t…”

“My fault, yes, yes, I know,” said Ridmark. “So you’ve said. Many times. Maybe you’re right. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Aelia died despite everything I could do, and that was that.”

That thought disturbed him. He had lost Aelia, and he did not want to lose Morigna, too. He had tried to keep anything from happening between them. Then she had kissed him at Vulmhosk, and then they had been alone after the battle at the Iron Tower…

His spirit might have wanted to be strong, but his flesh was weak.

His heart, too, now that he thought about it. 

“I’m sorry,” said Calliande. “I should not pry.” 

He looked at her. He had kissed her, too, before Kharlacht had been poisoned by the wyvern west of Moraime. Had the wyvern not intervened, things might have continued between them. God and all the saints, but Ridmark was a fool. He was caught between two women of strong will. How the devil had he let that happen?

He laughed quietly to himself. 

“What?” said Calliande. “What did I say?”

“I think,” said Ridmark, “that I am a fool. And I think that we shouldn’t linger here. Can you continue?”

“I think so,” said Calliande. 

“Good,” said Ridmark. 

They continued climbing. 

###

“How high have we gone?” said Calliande some time and many stairs later.

Ridmark did not answer right away. “About a mile and a half, I deem. And I suspect we’re almost to the end.”

Calliande frowned. “What do you say that?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “it’s getting colder.” 

He was right. She realized that his cloak was stirring around him, that a breath of chill air touched her face. Calliande wondered why it was so cold, and then understood. They had gone up a mile and a half. They were well into the mountains proper. 

At last the stairs ended, and they found themselves in an octagonal chamber of stone, the walls carved with dwarven glyphs. Stairs climbed up the walls, ending in a stone trapdoor. 

“Caius was right,” said Ridmark. “The watch tower.” 

“He usually is,” said Calliande.

Ridmark climbed the stairs and pushed the stone trapdoor. Nothing happened. He strained for a moment, his pale face starting to redden, but the door did not move.

“It’s stuck,” said Ridmark. “Maybe if I use the staff as a lever…”

“Won’t it snap?” said Calliande.

“I doubt it,” said Ridmark, wedging the staff into the gap. “Ardrhythain must have strengthened the wood. My old staff had dozens of nicks and scratches. This staff doesn’t have a single one, and I’ve been beating Mhorites and trolls to death with it.” 

He strained again for a moment, but still the stone trap door did not move. 

“It must be jammed or blocked,” he said. He rubbed his jaw. “We…may have to retreat back to the High Gate and back to the foothills, and then take the High Pass to the Vale. Assuming Arandar and the others wait that long. It will add at least a day and a half to…”

“There might be another way,” said Calliande. 

Ridmark grunted. “You have a spell to use on the door?”

“Not quite,” said Calliande. “I can make you stronger, the way I do in combat.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Ridmark, “but that door weighs at least half a ton, maybe more. Your spell doesn’t make me that much stronger. Even Heartwarden wouldn’t have made me strong enough.”

Calliande smiled. “That’s because my spell is usually divided among you and Kharlacht and Caius and everyone else, along with whatever warding spells I’m holding in place at the time. I can put all my power into you.”

Ridmark shrugged. “Let’s try it and see what happens.” He paused. “Though I suppose those were the last words of many a fool.” 

Calliande decided to ignore that, and instead summoned her power and focused her will. She cast the spell, white fire burning around her fingers, and the light sprang from her hands and sank into Ridmark. It was brighter than usual, and Ridmark staggered a little with surprise. 

“How do you feel?” said Calliande, focusing as she poured all her strength into the spell.

“Lighter,” said Ridmark. “Probably because I’m stronger.” He adjusted his grip on the black staff. “Let’s give this another try.” 

He climbed up the steps, wedged the staff into the gap below the door, and strained. For a moment nothing happened, and Calliande concentrated on holding the spell in place. Then the door shuddered, rising a few inches. Pale gray light shone through the gap, and Ridmark twisted, getting his hands under the door. He grunted, the cords standing out in his neck, and pushed the trapdoor open the rest of the way. A thunderous crash echoed through the chamber as the door fell open. Ridmark stepped through the opened trapdoor, looking around, staff ready in hand. 

“It’s clear,” he said. “You can come up.”

Calliande nodded, released the spell, and followed him up the stairs. A stray memory flickered through her thoughts of the day of the omen of blue fire, the day she had awakened below the Tower of Vigilance. Then she had been alone and naked and terrified, her memory gone and her knowledge lost.

Oddly, the thought cheered her. She was stronger now, with the power of a Magistria, and she knew who she was and what she had to do. Now all she had to do was reclaim her staff and memory. 

She only hoped she was strong enough for it.

Calliande climbed through the opened trapdoor and into a ruined watch tower. The tower rose a good fifty feet overhead, but the roof had been ripped off, and the naked sky was visible overhead. Debris lay heaped about the floor, which had no doubt blocked the door. 

“Dwarven masonry is usually sturdier than that,” said Calliande, looking at the damaged walls. “The wind and the ice of mountains must have worn it down.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “Look at the cracks. Something hit the top of the tower. Some terrible weapon or spell, I think.” He looked down at her. “Did the Frostborn have such weapons?” 

“They must have,” said Calliande. “I don’t remember it.” She would, though, once they entered Khald Azalar and Dragonfall. 

“The histories I’ve heard said the Frostborn wielded terrible sorcery,” said Ridmark. “Spells to turn entire armies to ice and rip down walls of stone.”

“They must have,” said Calliande again. “In tens of thousands of years, both the dark elves and the urdmordar only managed to destroy five of the nine dwarven kingdoms. The Frostborn destroyed Khald Azalar in a few years.” 

They would destroy far more if they returned again. 

“The door’s blocked,” said Ridmark. 

“I can cast the spell again,” said Calliande, eyeing the heaped slabs before the door.

“No need,” said Ridmark. “The windows are clear.” He scrambled up the pile with the ease of a lion, and jumped to the window. Calliande hesitated, and then followed him up. He caught her hand, and then helped her to the windowsill. Ridmark braced himself and then jumped to the snowy ground six feet below. 

Calliande hesitated again. 

“Don’t worry,” said Ridmark. “I’ll catch you.”

Calliande grinned and jumped from the window. True to his word, Ridmark caught her around the waist, lowering her to the ground without much of a shock. Even without her augmenting magic, he was very strong. It left her a little breathless, but she banished that line of thought at once. 

The cold helped with that. It was cold up here, much colder than the foothills of Vhaluusk had been, even colder than the ghostly desolation of the Torn Hills outside the walls of Urd Morlemoch. Calliande pulled her green cloak closer, shivering a bit. 

“The Vale of Stone Death,” said Ridmark. 

Calliande looked down the mountain slope, past the foothills, and to the green valley below. It was a large valley, perhaps two days’ journey in length. A large blue lake filled the northern third of the valley, and the rest lay beneath a pine forest. 

“Fires,” murmured Calliande. Black plumes of smoke rose from here and there in the forest, like smears of charcoal across green cloth. 

“There is fighting the forest,” said Ridmark, raising a hand to screen his eyes. “Look. That road, there, making its way down the mountainside.” From this height, the road looked like a pale thread against the gray stone, albeit a pale thread covered in tiny dark shapes. “The Mhorites, I think. An entire army of them.”

Calliande shivered, and not just from the cold. “It was well we took the High Gate instead of the High Pass, then.” There was no way they could have fought their way through that many Mhorites. 

“Who are they fighting?” said Ridmark.

“It must be the trolls,” said Calliande. “Fire is one of the ways to stop their vitality, and not everyone can conjure acidic mist as Morigna can.”

“A lot of trolls,” said Ridmark, shaking his head. “Perhaps the Traveler’s orcs as well, these ‘spiny’ orcs.” He rubbed his jaw. “I should have asked Mara more about them. I’ve heard tales that the Anathgrimm orcs of Nightmane Forest are twisted and deformed, but I’ve never seen one myself.” 

“Spines or not,” said Calliande, “it will take a large number of foes to overcome two Swordbearers. Should we try to find the others? We’re higher than they are, and we might overtake them.”

Ridmark hesitated. She could tell he wanted to go after them, that he wanted to find Morigna and the others before they walked into the Mhorites or the trolls or whatever other creatures lurked in the Vale of Stone Death. Yet he gave a shake of his head. His mind usually overruled his heart. Unless Morigna was involved.

Though, Calliande thought sourly, perhaps something other than his heart and his mind governed him when it came to Morigna. 

At once she felt a pulse of shame. That had been an unworthy thought.

“No,” said Ridmark. “We have no way of knowing where the High Gate opens. I can guess, based on the position of the tower, but if it’s as well-concealed as the other entrance we could wander for days and never find it. No, we’ll stick to the plan and make for the Gate of the West. Morigna and Kharlacht know how to move unseen in a forest, and as you’ve said, they have two Swordbearers. We’ll reach the Gate of the West and meet them there.” 

“I agree,” said Calliande. 

“Then let’s move,” said Ridmark. “If we hasten, we should be able to reach the foothills by dark. It’s too cold to spend the night up here.”

“Aye,” said Calliande, and Ridmark started to pick his way down the slope. The ancient dwarves, thankfully, had left a path, though it was narrow and worn by time and wind. “Have you ever noticed that disaster always seems to strike when we’re alone together?”