Frostborn: The World Gate (22 page)

Morigna launched herself at Imaria, slamming into the Magistria. Imaria let out a furious screech, trying to raise the dagger for a blow, but Morigna was stronger. Her weight overbalanced Imaria, driving her to the ground, and she landed atop the Magistria. Morigna slammed Imaria’s wrist against the ground, knocking the dagger away. She snatched the weapon up, intending to drive it into Imaria’s throat.

Shadow swirled beneath Morigna, and Imaria vanished. Morigna’s bare legs slapped against the stone floor. Imaria had traveled away, using the shadow of Incariel to disappear as Shadowbearer had within Khald Azalar. 

“Are you all right?” said Ridmark. The staff of Ardrhythain was in his hand, the symbols in the black wood giving off a pale white glow. There was a deadly fear in his eyes, coupled with terrible rage. Morigna had thought Ridmark might be relucant to attack his dead wife’s sister, but she was now certain that if Imaria had still been in the room, Ridmark would have killed her without hesitation. 

“Yes,” said Morigna. “I…”

“Gray Knight!” screamed Antenora. “Aid me! The Keeper’s life is in danger. Aid me!” 

Chapter 12: Threads

Ridmark burst through the ruined door, the stone floor hot against his bare feet. 

Antenora stood in the corridor, her staff thrust before her. Flames blazed around the staff, forming a shimmering dome of yellow-orange light. Antenora’s face was tight, her yellow eyes wide, her lips peeled back from her teeth in a snarl of rage. The woman usually seemed emotionless, even apathetic, and Ridmark could only think of one thing that would rouse her to such fury.

Someone had threatened Calliande’s life. 

The door to Calliande’s room stood open, and inside Ridmark saw…

Threads?

Thousands upon thousands of shadowy black threads poured forth from the room, trying to wrap around Antenora like a living spider’s web. The threads recoiled from the fiery light of Antenora’s staff. Yet the threads were inching closer and closer to her, and Antenora’s arms were staring to shake with fatigue. 

Ridmark ran to her side, holding out his staff. The symbols cut into the length of black wood had already started glowing in Imaria’s presence, and now they shone brighter, so bright they were almost painful to look at. A pool of white light seemed to fall around Ridmark's feet, and the shadowy threads recoiled, withdrawing back into Calliande’s room. 

Morigna staggered out of the bedroom, her staff in hand. 

“Stay close behind me,” said Ridmark, and he stepped forward, lifting the glowing staff. As he did, the shadows recoiled, drawing back through the door.

He took three sharp steps into Calliande’s room. Calliande lay upon the bed, wearing only a shift, countless shadowy threads wrapped around her. Facing the door stood the white-robed priest that Imaria had called the Weaver, his pale blue eyes narrowed with annoyance. 

Thousands of the shadowy strands poured from his sleeves, wrapping around Calliande and pouring towards Ridmark. 

“How,” said the Weaver, annoyance in his gentle voice, “are you doing that?” 

“Let her go,” said Ridmark.

“Or what?” said the Weaver, raising his white eyebrows. “You’ll beat me to death with your glowing stick? I can assure you that is very unlikely.”

“He is one of the Enlightened, Gray Knight,” said Antenora. “A powerful one.”

“Obviously,” said the Weaver. “I see Imaria has failed. I suspect she paused to indulge in a monologue. A childish mistake.” He smiled. “Though I am guilty of the same thing, I fear. It will make no difference the end. The outcome has already been determined.”

“And what outcome is that?” said Ridmark, gauging the distance to the Weaver. He did not think the strange Enlightened could stop him before he struck, not if Ardrhythain’s staff kept the dark threads from touching him. 

“Why, the shadow of Incariel shall devour all things and free us from the crude world of matter,” said the Weaver. “My boy, do you still think this is really about the Frostborn? How very provincial of you.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Ridmark, and he surged forward, whipping the glowing staff toward the Weaver’s head. The threads rippled away, and his staff impacted the side of the Weaver’s skull with bone-crushing force. The blow would have killed a young, strong man. It should have turned the skull of a man the Weaver’s age into jelly.

Instead, the Weaver’s head exploded in a spray of black threads. 

Ridmark stumbled as his staff passed through the threads, and the Weaver leaped backwards, landing in the corner of the room. The threads withdrew, spinning and flowing as the Weaver started to change shape. Ridmark caught his balance, and the threads merged and pushed together, taking a new form.

The Weaver had turned himself into an urhaalgar. 

Or, at least, a creature that looked something like an urhaalgar. Most of the urhaalgars Ridmark had fought were short, spindly creatures, shorter than even Jager, their thin limbs covered with spines. The thing that the Weaver had become stood seven feet tall, his limbs heavy and thick with muscle, spines jutting from his limbs as long as daggers, their edges serrated, his flesh covered with glistening black scales. A scorpion’s tail rose over the Weaver’s spiked shoulders, the stinger dripping with venom. 

It was exactly the kind of creature Ridmark would not have wanted to fight in an enclosed space. 

Calliande tried to sit up and slumped back against the pillow, breathing hard, her blue eyes fixed on the nightmarish creature.

The Weaver lunged, claws reaching for Ridmark’s midsection, the scorpion tail shooting over his shoulder towards Ridmark’s face. Ridmark dodged, deflecting the tail with a sweep of his staff, and brought the weapon down upon the Weaver’s outstretched arms. The staff flashed as bone cracked, and the Weaver stepped back with a hiss of pain. His arms exploded into black threads, and when they reformed into their clawed shape all trace of the broken bones had vanished. 

“You know, when I was a Magistrius I found this sort of melee fighting quite distasteful,” said Weaver. His voice was still calm, the voice of a kindly old monk instructing children in arithmetic or Latin grammar. “But over the last century I’ve found it most pleasurable. I’m going to enjoy ripping off your head and drinking your blood.”

Ridmark shot a glance to the side. Morigna and Antenora stood in the doorway, their magic ready. They didn’t have a clear shot at the Weaver as long as he was in the way. He looked back at the Weaver, his mind racing, his pulse thundering in his ears.

“Imaria will be upset,” said Ridmark, “if you kill me.”

The Weaver made a chiding noise. “If Imaria wanted to kill you herself, she should have done so already.” Ridmark took a step to the left. “Certainly she has had every opportunity, but delayed to indulge her hatred of you. Ah! There I go again. I talk entirely too much.”

He shot forward in a blur, again raking with his claws, the scorpion tail shooting forward. Ridmark dodged, but not fast enough, and one of the claws slashed across the right side of his chest, pain exploding through his torso. Yet the scorpion tail missed him, and the stinger struck the wardrobe behind him, getting stuck in the thick wood. Ridmark sidestepped and swept his staff in a low swing, striking the Weaver across the legs. The Weaver lost his balance and fell, and Ridmark threw himself towards the bed. 

“Morigna!” he shouted. “Now!”

Morigna cast her spell, a veil of acidic mist rolling over the prone form of the Weaver. The Weaver snarled in fury, ripping his tail free from the wardrobe as his scales started to char and smolder beneath the acid. 

Antenora leveled her hand and unleashed her own power. A burst of white-hot flame stabbed from her palm and slashed into the Weaver, ripping down his flank and leaving a charred trench in his flesh. The heat of it bloomed through the room, and Ridmark felt sweat drip down his face to join the blood flowing against his chest. The Weaver’s growl of fury became a scream of pain, and his form exploded into a spray of whirling black threads. The threads leaped away from Ridmark and moved to the corner, solidifying back into the form of the urhaalgar. 

The wounds from Antenora’s spell had vanished. 

“Now,” said the Weaver, “we…”

A burst of white fire leaped from the bed and slammed into the Weaver. The creature bounced against the wall with an outraged scream, the white fire washing around it. Calliande staggered to her feet, leaning on the staff of the Keeper, her free hand extended. The fire winked out, and Calliande swayed on her feet, looking as if she was about to faint. The Weaver shook himself, trying to recover his balance. Black threads snapped and wavered around him, as if his body was trying to pull itself back together. 

“Go!” shouted Ridmark. He grabbed Calliande’s arm. The skin felt cold beneath his hand. Perhaps the Weaver had been draining her strength. “Run!” If they withdrew, they could find the Swordbearers. Whatever strange powers the Weaver possessed, whatever ghastly forms he could take, Ridmark was certain that he could not stand against a soulblade’s wrath. 

Calliande staggered after him as they raced from the room. 

“Foes!” roared Ridmark at the top of his lungs. “Foes! Foes are loose in the keep. To arms! To arms!” 

Morigna and Antenora both took up the cry, and Ridmark headed for the stairs, Calliande half-leaning against him. Ridmark’s side burned with pain, every breath, every beat of his heart sending another wave of sharp agony through him, and he wondered how deeply the Weaver’s claws had cut. 

The door to one of the rooms opened, and Kharlacht started to stick his head out.

The Weaver burst from Calliande’s room, wearing the form of an ursaar, a hideous, bear-like creature. He ignored Kharlacht and raced after Ridmark, red-glowing eyes fixed upon Calliande. 

###

Morigna hurried after Ridmark and Calliande, trying to keep her balance on the slick stone steps. 

“Antenora,” said Ridmark. 

Antenora slammed the end of her staff against the floor. A wall of flame rose up, sealing off the stairs. With a sick feeling, Morigna realized that the flames had sealed the Weaver with Kharlacht and Caius and the others. 

The sick feeling intensified when the Weaver ploughed through the wall of flames without stopping. Morigna cursed and kept running, stumbling down the stairs after Ridmark and Calliande and Antenora. Antenora whirled, her black coat flying around her, and threw a blast of flame up the stairs. It struck the stone step at the Weaver’s clawed feet and exploded, the force of the blast knocking the creature against the wall. The heat roared past Morigna, so hot it made her eyes water, so hot against her bare legs that it felt as if she had been sunburned. It took a moment for the Weaver to regain his balance, and Morigna and the others kept running.

They stumbled into the great hall, moving across the dais near the curule chair. Dagma and her servants had been efficient, and the plates and chairs and tables had been cleared away. At the moment the great hall was deserted. 

“Ridmark,” croaked Calliande. She turned toward the stairs, gripping her staff in both hands. She wavered, and Ridmark grabbed her shoulder. “Don’t let me fall over.”

The Weaver sprang to the bottom of the stairs a moment later, moving with fluid agility despite the great bulk of his ursaar form, and Calliande struck. In the enclosed space of the stairs, the Weaver didn’t have time to dodge, and the white fire of Calliande’s spell hammered into him. The creature’s bellow filled the air like a physical thing, and the creature half-fell, half-rolled into the great hall. The Weaver regained his balance, and Morigna cast a spell of her own. She hadn’t dared to use it in the upper floors of the keep for fears of collapsing the ceiling, but she could use it here. The stone floor rippled and folded beneath the Weaver’s paws, and the creature fell again. Calliande struck with a blazing shaft of white flame, elemental magic and the power of the Well and the strength of the Keeper wrapped together in a single lance of force that howled against Morigna’s magical senses like a storm wind. The spell flung the Weaver against the wall with enough force that the entire keep shook, and the ursaar exploded in a tangled spray of writhing black threads. 

For a moment Morigna was sure that that the battle was over, that the Keeper had overcome the Weaver. Yet the maze of black threads reknit themselves, taking on the form of the old man in the white robe once more, though he had a leathery black cloak wrapped around him. 

“Better than I expected,” murmured the Weaver. “The centuries have not weakened you, Calliande of Tarlion. I almost regret that we are on opposite sides…”

The doors to the courtyard burst open, and the white flare of a soulblade caught Morigna’s eye. Arandar and Gavin rushed into the great hall, Heartwarden and Truthseeker burning with wrath. Dux Gareth stalked next to them, accompanied by Sir Joram and Sir Constantine and a half-dozen Swordbearers, and the Dux’s stern face turned cold and terrible as he looked at the Weaver. 

Perhaps he had hoped to think the best of his daughter to the very end. 

“It’s over, Toridan,” said Calliande. “Tell us what you know about the Enlightened and I will let you live.”

“Are you so sure?” said the Weaver, smiling as he flexed his hands. 

“You cannot overcome me, not when I am awake,” said Calliande, “and whatever dark powers the Enlightened have given you, they cannot overcome the fury of a soulblade.” 

“Mmm,” said the Weaver. “It would have been simpler if you had died now, but no matter. The outcome has been already decided.” He spread his hands. “Farewell, Keeper of Andomhaim. We shall see each other again very soon.”

“Take him,” said Gareth. 

The Swordbearers started forward, and the Weaver leaped into the air. His black cape unfolded around him, and Morigna realized that it wasn’t actually a cape.

It was a set of enormous leathery black wings. 

The Weaver seized one of the windows and jumped through it, taking to the air. Gavin and Arandar and Constantine sprinted to the window, and Calliande threw another shaft of white fire, but it was too late. Morigna glimpsed a flash of light reflecting off the leathery wings, and then the Weaver was gone.