Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (22 page)

Ridmark nodded and took few steps forward. 

“You had to know how much noise that door would make,” said Morigna. “Why did you open it anyway?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, staring at the floor. “I thought the hall would be empty. I don’t think there are more than a dozen dvargir in Thainkul Dural.”

“And how did you know that?” said Morigna. 

“The footprints,” said Ridmark. “I counted a dozen different boots, but no more.”

Kharlacht snorted. “I should have seen that myself.” 

“That, and the dvargir entrusted deep orcs as their guards,” said Caius.

Morigna laughed. “Given how easily we overcame them, the deep orcs seem to have been a poor choice of sentinel.”

“Clearly,” said Ridmark. “Calliande. Morigna. Caius. Come here and tell me what you make of this. Kharlacht, Gavin. Keep watch.”

Calliande and Caius walked to Ridmark’s right, and Morigna moved to his left. Dozens of dwarven glyphs had been carved into the floor, and recently. Their edges were still sharp, and Calliande saw dvargir footprints in the rock dust. Lines of glyphs led from the floor to the pillars, and in places the glyphs had been carved over the reliefs of dwarven warriors. 

“Can you read what they say?” said Ridmark.

“They’re the glyphs of stonecasters,” said Caius. “Glyphs of warding and protection. But I don’t think they have been activated or completed.”

“They haven’t,” said Calliande, focusing her spell further. 

“And…Gray Knight, those are not dwarven glyphs,” said Caius, pointing at some of the symbols.

“They’re not,” said Calliande.

“You recognize them?” said Ridmark.

“They’re symbols of dark magic and necromancy,” said Calliande. She closed her eyes, reaching into the choking mists that shrouded most of her memory. “I…can’t remember exactly what they do.” That was a relief. What if she had been someone like Talvinius or Alamur in her previous life, a necromancer or an Eternalist? 

Or a sneering craven like Coriolus?

“They are…interlocking with the dvargir wards, somehow,” said Morigna. Calliande felt the ripple as Morigna cast her own sensing spell with earth magic. “Yet…yet the whole thing is unfinished. Like a fireplace laid with wood and oil, but missing the spark.”

“Or a crossbow missing a quarrel,” said Calliande.

“Aye, that is a better metaphor,” said Morigna. “A machine missing one final gear. That is the best way to describe this spell. Whatever it is.”

“You cannot guess at its function?” said Ridmark. 

Calliande shrugged. “Nothing good, I am sure. Dwarven warding glyphs combined with sigils of dark magic?  I think it is intended as a prison for something. Some creature of dark magic, or some kind of conjured spirit.” 

“But it is unfinished,” said Ridmark.

Calliande nodded, as did Morigna.

“Could the dvargir summoning something up?” said Ridmark. “Some kind of spirit?”

“I have never heard of the dvargir attempting magic like that,” said Caius. “Their stonecasters, like ours, limit themselves to warding glyphs. But summoning spirits or elementals? That is the province of the high elves and the dark elves. Neither the dwarven nor the dvargir kindreds have ever attempted magic of that nature.” 

“But whatever they are doing,” said Ridmark, “it is best left unfinished.” He lifted his staff. “Come.” 

###

The flight of stairs ended, and Ridmark found himself in a smaller pillared hall. Unlike the first hall, rows of stone benches lined the walls, and stone tables stood here and there. There were signs of long-ago battle– the scratches left by dwarven armor and weapons upon the gray stone, a few orcish bones gathering dust in the corner. 

And Ridmark saw the impression of dvargir boots in the dust. 

“A barracks,” said Caius, once Morigna confirmed that they were alone. “The top hall was the entrance, used for ceremony and defense. Warriors upon duty would wait here, if any alarm came from the main gates or the lower halls.” 

“This place is bigger than Thainkul Agon,” said Ridmark. 

“Where is that?” said Morigna.

“A dwarven ruin in the Deeps near Dun Licinia,” said Ridmark.

Caius laughed. “Aye, it is. Thainkul Agon was an outpost. Little more than a village. Thainkul Dural seems to have been a good-sized town.” 

“I wonder what happened to the dwarves who lived here,” said Gavin, gazing at the bones in the corner.

“I don’t know,” said Caius. “The dvargir, most likely. Or the dark elves or the deep orcs or the kobolds. Or perhaps the urdmordar. The urdmordar destroyed both the high elves and the dark elves, and my kindred paid a terrible price to hold them at bay. The Three Kingdoms were once nine.” 

“My entire life,” murmured Morigna, “I have lived near Moraime, and I had no idea that all of this was beneath my feet.”

“And I thought you knew everything,” said Gavin.

Morigna glared at him. “Indeed? Then…”

“Save the fighting for the dvargir,” said Ridmark. “Follow me.”

Another set of stairs descended into the earth, and Ridmark took them with as much silence as he could muster. Not that it mattered. The deep orcs could hear his heartbeat from yards away. Though the senses of the dvargir were not so keen. Perhaps the dvargir lurking within Thainkul Dural had kept all the deep orcs outside to act as guards.

But Ridmark would not lower his diligence. 

He heard the splashing of water ahead. Perhaps the additional noise would mask their presence from any listening deep orcs. On the other hand, it might mean the lower levels of Thainkul Dural had flooded.

The stairs ended in a long, high gallery, glowstones flickering in the arches overhead. Dozens of niches lined the walls, each one holding a door of dwarven steel. Square stone tiles, a yard on each side, covered the floor of the gallery. Each tile bore a single dwarven glyph.

The sound of splashing water was louder here, and beads of water glistened upon the doors of dwarven steel. Here and there Ridmark saw discoloration in the stones, the signs of slow leakage. Thick clusters of ghost mushrooms filled some of the niches, and mushrooms required at least some moisture to grow. 

He suspected there was a lot of water behind those doors.

“It floods,” said Ridmark.

“A flood?” said Kharlacht.

“The tunnel to the surface,” said Ridmark. “That pond in the outer cavern must swell whenever there are heavy rains. We’re not far from the marshes, and marshes flood as well. Where does the excess water go?”

“Downhill,” said Gavin, frowning.

“Profound,” said Morigna. 

“It must drain here,” said Ridmark. “Behind those doors, into a reservoir. And…”

“Oh,” said Caius, blinking. “Oh, that is very bad.”

They looked at him.

“A flood trap,” said Caius.

“Another trap,” muttered Ridmark, remembering the fiendish mechanical devices he had seen in Urd Morlemoch and Urd Dagaash. 

 “They’re rare. Even my kindred, for all our skill with steel and stone, cannot simply create them. They can only be constructed in places where the local water and terrain allow it. I think Thainkul Dural is one of those places.”

“Let me guess,” said Ridmark, looking at the glyphs upon the tiles of the floor. “We step on the wrong tile, the doors open, the gallery floods, and we all drown?”

“It is worse than that, I am afraid,” said Caius, craning his neck. Ridmark followed his gaze and saw the dark gap within the center of the archway overhead. “Another door awaits above us, and a second one at the far end of the gallery, I suspect. If the flood trap is triggered…”

“The gallery is sealed off,” said Ridmark, pointing at the niches, “the flood doors open, and anyone within is drowned.” 

“Aye,” said Caius. 

“A cunning trap,” said Ridmark. “And a nearly impenetrable defense. If someone attacks from the surface, the defenders can seal off the gallery. Or if the stronghold is overrun with attackers from the Deeps, the defenders can withdraw to the surface and flood the gallery behind them to block any pursuit.” 

“You have the right of it,” said Caius.

“Which means the important question,” said Morigna, “is how to get past the trap.” 

“It is,” said Caius, “but the trap might not even be armed. The dvargir have been able to come and go freely.”

“The dvargir are just as skilled at making traps as the dwarves,” said Ridmark. “Likely they knew how to bypass the trap, and left it armed to deal with any unwelcome intruders.” That would explain why the dvargir had felt confident enough to leave their defense in the hands of the deep orcs. 

“We had best assume that the trap is armed,” said Calliande. 

“Agreed,” said Ridmark. “So. How do we get past it?” He remembered the trap below Urd Dagaash, the blades of dvargir steel erupting from the floor to shred the spiderlings. “I assume we have to step upon the proper tiles?”

“Aye,” said Caius. He stared at the tiles for a moment. “That is the glyph for a welcomed guest, and it is repeated across the pattern. I assume stepping upon it is safe.”

“You assume?” said Morigna. “You do not know?”

“I do not,” said Caius. “The dwarves of Thainkul Dural might have built their trap upon different principles. And it is possible the dvargir have altered the trap so that stepping upon any tile opens the flood doors.”

“There is only one way to find out,” said Ridmark.

Morigna grabbed his wrist. “Surely you do not mean to test the trap yourself?”

“What?” said Ridmark. “Of course not. There was some loose masonry further up the stairs. I’ll throw them upon the tiles and see if they trigger the trap or not.”

“Ah.” Morigna released his wrist, and for a moment she looked embarrassed. “I…should not have assumed that you were a fool. You have shown little enough evidence for it.”

“Then you haven’t known me long enough yet,” said Ridmark. “All of you, get behind the archway in case we trigger the trap and the door closes. Gavin, go get me some rocks.” 

The others obeyed, and Gavin clambered up the stairs and returned with an armful of broken masonry. Ridmark leaned his staff against the wall, picked up a broken block, and examined the tile Caius indicated.

Then he flung the rock. It landed upon the center of the tile, and the tile settled perhaps an inch deeper into the floor, but nothing else happened. Ridmark threw more stones, until perhaps about sixty pounds of broken stone sat upon the tile, but still nothing happened. He took a deep breath, lifted his staff, and walked closer.

Then he pressed the staff against the tile, leaning all his weight against it, every muscle tensed to race back if anything happened.

But nothing moved in the gallery.

“It would seem those tiles are indeed safe,” said Kharlacht.

“Or,” said Morigna, “that one is merely broken.”

“That is a possibility,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff. He spotted another tile marked with the glyph for a welcomed guest. “Let us find out.”

Before he could change his mind, he stepped onto the tile, putting all his weight upon it. It sank an inch into the floor, and he felt some mechanism shift beneath the stone.

A stunned silence fell over the others.

Nothing else happened.

“I retract my former statement,” said Morigna. “That was tremendously foolish.”

“He does things like that quite frequently,” said Calliande. “You get used to them after a time.”

The two women looked at each other, blinked, and then laughed.

“If you are quite finished,” said Ridmark, “let us see if we can find the dvargir before they find us. Keep to the tiles with the guest glyph.” 

Bit by bit they picked their way across the long gallery, moving from tile to tile. Ridmark alternated between examining the floor and staring at the archway on the far side of the gallery. As they drew closer, he saw that it opened into a large cylindrical chamber. The chamber looked deserted, but Ridmark expected foes to emerge at any moment. They were terribly vulnerable upon the tiles. One crossbow bolt from the dvargir, one even one accidental stumble, and the trap would activate, the gallery would seal, and they would drown.

But nothing emerged from the far chamber. 

At last Ridmark crossed through the archway, the others following. The cylindrical chamber was large, about thirty yards across, and the stone floor sloped to a grate of dwarven steel about ten yards across. The sounds of splashing water came from the grate.”

“If gambling were not a sin,” said Caius, coming to Ridmark’s side, “I would wager that drain leads to the trap’s reservoir.”

Ridmark nodded and looked at the gateway on the far side of the chamber. A faint breeze came through it, and he suspected the cavern beyond was far larger. “There’s another door of dwarven steel above that archway. It must close with the trap. And after all their foes are drowned, the residents can open the inner door, let all the waters drain away, and reset the trap.” 

“I wonder how this place ever fell,” said Gavin, “if it had such potent defenses.”

“Perhaps their foes came from the Deeps,” said Kharlacht. “Worse things than murrags and dvargir live in the darkness.” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark, “and we might meet some of them soon. Keep quiet.”

He walked to the far archway, and stopped to gaze in wonder at the sight before him.

The cavern beyond was the size and shape of a valley, perhaps a half mile across at its widest. The sloped walls had been hewn into terraces, and upon those terraces rose houses and towers in the blocky dwarven style, their walls adorned with elaborate glyphs and reliefs. Massive glowstones shone in a few of the towers, throwing pale light and strange, tangled shadows over everything. The place had a grim beauty. It was not the eerie, alien beauty of the dark elven ruins, with their lines and angles built to please the strange aesthetic tastes of the dark elves. Thainkul Dural spoke of strength and endurance, of an ancient oak that had weathered countless storms. 

Yet it had fallen to foes nonetheless. 

“A mighty city,” whispered Gavin, his brown eyes wide. 

“Aye,” said Caius. “Not as large as Khald Tormen, but perhaps a thousand of my kindred lived here once upon a time.”