Frostborn: The Iron Tower (10 page)

“A myth,” said Mara. “I have heard…well, suffice it to say Shadowbearer is a legend of the dark elves.”

“He is not,” said Morigna. “I have heard his voice.” Some of her mocking confidence faded. 

“Shadowbearer will use the soulstone to bring the Frostborn back to the world,” said Ridmark. “I intend to stop him. So Jager and I struck a deal. He will help me get the soulstone out of the Iron Tower, and in exchange, I will help him rescue you.” 

“A very compelling story, sir,” said Mara, “but I have my doubts.”

“Consider this, then,” said Ridmark. “I know you met Jager when the Matriarch sent you to kill him. I know he charmed you and stopped you from slaying him. I know the Matriarch and the Red Family turned against you, and together you fled Cintarra for Coldinium. And I know that when you fled the Matriarch, you stole a weapon from her, a dagger with three soulstones that shine with a sickly yellow light.”

Mara flinched. “How do you know that?” 

“Jager told me,” said Ridmark.

“Ridmark,” said Morigna. “We need to go. Those men-at-arms have likely returned to the castra by now.”

Ridmark nodded and turned back to Mara. “You can stay here and take your chances with Paul’s men. Or you can come with us, and we will take you to Jager.”

“Why would you help him?” said Mara. “Why would you help me?”

“Because,” said Ridmark. “I gave my word.”

Mara stared at him with her wide green eyes. 

“And if that does not convince you,” said Morigna, “then know that the Gray Knight has a compulsion to save people. It is a sickness with him, really. But I should not complain about it, because he did save my life repeatedly.” 

Mara hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, and then shrugged. “It appears, sir, that I do not really have a choice. Lead on.” 

Ridmark nodded. “Very well. This way.”

He started through the trees, Morigna and Mara following. 

Chapter 6 - A Dark Seed

The shadows boiled in Mara’s mind, demanding release, but she kept them at bay.

She did not think that the Gray Knight and the woman who called herself Morigna were her enemies.

At least, not yet. If they realized what she really was, they would try to kill her. Or Morigna would, at least. She was not sure what Ridmark would do.

She watched him as the shadows lengthened and the sun vanished to the west. Mara had known a great many killers in her life, master swordsmen and stealthy assassins both, and she suspected that Ridmark Arban could match any of them. Even without the aid of Morigna’s magic, he might have been able to drive off those men-at-arms. 

Mara sifted through what little she knew about him. He had been a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, and had led the High King’s army against the Mhalekites in the Northerland. His wife had been killed during the battle, and so Ridmark had been banished from the realm and now wandered the Wilderland in hopes of redeeming himself.

Such a man did not seem the sort to let a dark-elven half-breed to live. 

Though Morigna’s presence argued against that. Only the magic of the Magistri was permitted within Andomhaim, and those who manifested magical abilities either joined the Magistri, left the realm, kept their skills hidden, or were executed. Mara had met a few renegade sorcerers in Cintarra, and they had all been dangerous and brutal men. Morigna seemed glib enough, though Mara suspected a dangerous woman lurked beneath that mocking veneer. Most of the nobles Mara had met would have killed a renegade sorceress or turned her over to the Magistri and the Swordbearers. Perhaps Ridmark found her useful. 

Morigna’s reason for following Ridmark was clear enough. She wondered if Ridmark ever noticed the starry-eyed glances that Morigna shot his way.

Mara decided to follow them with caution. The story with Jager seemed entirely too implausible, and she suspected it was a ruse to lure her out. Still, she thought Ridmark did not mean her ill, at least not yet. Likely he wanted her help with something. Perhaps to retrieve the soulstone he had mentioned. 

About three miles to the north they came to a sheltered ravine, and Mara spotted the orcish warrior standing guard. He stood nearly seven feet tall, clad in the blue steel of dark elven armor, the hilt of a greatsword rising over his shoulder. Likely he had looted the armor from some ruin or another, which meant he was either very skilled or very lucky. Curiously, he wore a wooden cross on a cord around his neck. 

Mara understood. The Dominus Christus, the priests claimed, forgave all sins…and Mara had a great deal of blood upon her hands. 

“You’re back,” said the orc in Latin, his black eyes shifting to Mara. “And you brought a visitor.”

“Aye, Kharlacht,” said Ridmark. “We had best find Jager. He’ll be able to confirm if this is Mara or not.”

Ah. He didn’t entirely believe her story. Wise of him.

Kharlacht snorted. “I imagine this is quite a tale.”  

“Come with us, please,” said Ridmark, beckoning to her. Mara followed, noting how his staff remained ready in his hand, how Kharlacht loosened his sword in its scabbard. A flicker of fear went through her. Did they know what she really was? No, then they would have killed her on sight. This was just sensible caution.

Pack horses waited in the ravine, along with several other people. The first was a blond woman in her middle twenties, calm-faced with long hair and blue eyes. A human boy of about sixteen stood next to her, clad in chain mail, an orcish sword on his belt and a shield slung over his shoulder. Nearby waited a dwarven man with a graying beard, clad in a friar’s robes and a cross hanging from his neck. A short halfling man in a black vest, white shirt, black pants, and black trousers tended to the horses, and…

Mara’s hands flew to her mouth. “Jager?”

It was him. God and the apostles and all the saints, it was really him. She remembered his curly hair, his amber-colored eyes, his clever fingers. He had lost weight since she had seen him on that awful day in the Iron Tower, his face grimmer and his eyes ringed with dark circles.

But it was really him.

She did not remember running across the ravine, but suddenly she was in his arms, her eyes stinging with tears.

“My God,” she whispered, “it’s you, it’s really you, I never thought I would see you again…”

“I promised to come back for you,” said Jager, “I promised…”

They stood in silence for a moment. In that instant Mara knew nothing but joy, nothing but overwhelming relief.

But the shadows kept stirring in her mind. 

“Well,” said Morigna at last, “it seems she is not an impostor after all.”

###

“We need to move,” said Ridmark as Jager and Mara finally broke apart. “Sir Paul’s men will be hunting for us, and the sooner we are gone from here, the better.”

Morigna kept watching Mara.

There was something…off about her, something that Morigna could not quite articulate. Quietly she worked the spell to sense the presence of magic. She detected the aura around the enspelled dwarven axe at Ridmark’s belt, around the dwarven daggers the others carried, and the dark, malefic magic within the soulcatcher Calliande had in her pack. But there was no magical aura around Mara. 

Calliande caught her eye and gave a shallow nod. Which meant Calliande, too, thought there was something odd about Mara. Calliande was far too self-righteous, but she was neither a coward nor a fool, and if she noticed something strange about Mara, that meant Morigna had not imagined it. 

“You’re right,” said Kharlacht. “Let us take the horses and leave the ravine.”

“The other side of the hill, I think,” said Ridmark. “That will put us a few miles north. So long as we are on the other side of the hill by dark, we should be safe. At least until dawn.” 

“Gray Knight,” said Jager. “Thank you.”

Ridmark blinked. “For what?”

“For keeping your word,” said Jager. “You said you would get Mara out of the Iron Tower…and you did. I never expected a noble of Andomhaim to keep his promises, but you did.”

“Actually,” said Ridmark. “Mara got herself out of the Iron Tower. I had nothing to do with it.” 

Which troubled Morigna. Just how had Mara escaped? She had avoided mentioning the details so far.

“Truly?” said Jager, looking at Mara. “How?”

“The Gray Knight and the sorceress saved my life nonetheless,” said Mara. “Six of the men-at-arms hunted me down. They would have taken me back to the Tower or killed me if Ridmark and the sorceress had not intervened.”

“You can call me Morigna,” said Morigna. “One thinks that ‘sorceress’ is simply too formal.” 

“Morigna,” said Mara, and she bowed. “Thank you for my life.” 

“Such fine manners,” said Morigna. 

Mara smiled. “Politeness is what separates us from the beasts.”

“How did you get out of the Iron Tower?” said Morigna. Perhaps this was a trap and Mara had been let free as an elaborate ruse to capture Ridmark. Still, Paul Tallmane did not seem that clever. And Ridmark was going to break into the Iron Tower and retrieve the soulstone regardless of what Paul did. 

But some of Paul’s men might be smarter than he was. The dvargir were, certainly. 

“I suggest we share tales later,” said Kharlacht, “once we are further from the Iron Tower.”

“Kharlacht is right,” said Ridmark. “Morigna. Can you bind any animals to act as scouts?”

“Deer see well in the dark,” said Morigna, thinking. “I can…” 

Mara shuddered, her eyes going wide. Jager grabbed at her arm, and Mara sagged against him, sweat appearing on her forehead, a tremor going through her thin limbs. 

“She’s likely exhausted,” said Ridmark. “Kharlacht or I can carry her…”

“No!” said Mara, pushing away from Jager. 

A hurt look went over the halfling’s face, followed by sudden fear. “Mara.” For some reason his eyes went to her left wrist. “Did they…”

“The bracelet,” she whispered. “I lost the bracelet, Jager. When I escaped. I couldn’t take it out of the tower of iron.” She shuddered again, the cords in her neck standing out, and began to blink. “I can’t…I can’t hold it back, I can’t hold it back any longer. Oh, Jager, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“No,” said Jager.

She closed her eyes, and opened them again. 

Kharlacht snapped a curse and drew his sword.

Mara’s green eyes had turned solid black, the color of the eyes of dvargir, a bottomless pit into a howling void. She shuddered again, and shadows swirled around her, rippling from her limbs like a torn cloak caught in the wind. 

“Mara,” said Jager, “Mara, listen to me, you can fight this. You can…”

“No,” said Mara. “Stay away from me. All of you, run! I’ll hurt you. I won’t be able to stop myself. Go! Please, go!”

“God,” said Gavin, drawing his sword. “She’s one of the Enlightened of Incariel, isn’t she? Jonas and Coriolus looked like that when they used their dark magic. Was this a trap, Master Thief? To string us along until she could kill us?”

“No!” said Jager. “It wasn’t, I swear it! She…she can control it. She just needs a moment.”

“Go!” said Mara, her voice a scream. The shadows condensed around her limbs like armor, seeming to harden into claws atop her fingers. “Please! I can’t stop it!”

Kharlacht and Gavin raised their weapons and stepped forward, and Jager cursed and drew his sword and dagger

“Stay away from her!” he shouted. “You have been good friends, but if you try to hurt her, I will stop you!” 

Morigna summoned power for a spell, focusing on Mara. The woman seemed in the grips of a transformation, one that reminded her of the Old Man’s shapeshifting within the stone circle. But Mara’s transformation seemed involuntary, which meant she might well lose control of herself. Morigna focused her magic, preparing to release it…

Forgotten in the confusion, Ridmark stepped behind Mara and swept his staff beneath her legs. Mara fell in a heap, her head bouncing against the ground. Jager whirled with a cry, but before the halfling attacked, the end of Ridmark’s staff came to rest against his throat.

“Hold a moment, please,” said Ridmark as Calliande stepped to his side.

White fire crackled around her fingers.

“I am sorry,” said the Magistria, her face solemn, “but this is going to hurt quite a bit.”

She thrust out her hands and white fire erupted from her palms and slammed into Mara. The shadows unraveled into nothingness, and Mara thrashed against the ground, screaming in agony as burns spread over her face and hands. 

Calliande could not harm another mortal…but her magic could attack creatures of dark magic. 

“You’re killing her!” said Jager. He started to move, and Ridmark prodded him with the staff.

The white fire faded out, the last of the shadows gone, and Mara slumped against the ground, moaning. The spell had left her clothing untouched, but hideous burns marked her face and hands. When she regained consciousness she would be in terrible pain.

Calliande took a deep breath, knelt next to Mara, put her hands on the smaller woman’s temples, and cast another spell. White light flared around Calliande and washed over Mara, and Calliande went rigid, her mouth drawn into a tight line, her eyes narrowed into slits. Mara’s burns began to shrink, vanishing beneath the power of Calliande’s healing magic. Morigna could not help but be impressed. She knew that the Magistria had to take on the pain of a wound in order to use healing magic. Some of the Magistri did not have the mental discipline to endure the pain and simply could not function as healers. 

Morigna had seen Calliande heal grievous wounds.

At last the burns vanished, and Calliande sighed and released the smaller woman. Ridmark helped her to stand, and Calliande regained her feet, her legs wobbling a bit.

“I really hate burns,” she said, wiping the sweat from her brow.

“What…what did you do?” said Jager, still holding his weapons.

“Dark magic was manifesting around her,” said Calliande. “So I dispelled it, and healed the resultant burns.” 

Jager lowered his weapons, and a flicker of shame went over his face “Forgive me. I…did not think the matter through.”