Frostborn: The World Gate (27 page)

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Calliande stood on the rampart, leaning upon her staff next to the Dux as the last of the horsemen reached the gate. Antenora waited next to her, occasionally flinging spheres of fire at any kobolds that attempted to pursue the retreating horsemen. For the most part, the enemy army was in disarray. The explosion of the catapult had demoralized them, and they had not yet reformed in good order. 

“Pity we cannot ride out now,” said Joram, wiping sweat from his brow, his curly red hair plastered to his head. “With the foe in disarray, we could ride right through them.”

For a moment Calliande hesitated. Perhaps now was the time. Perhaps if they acted now, they could break through the besiegers and force their way to Black Mountain. 

Or perhaps Mournacht would rally his warriors and kill them all.

“No,” said Gareth. “No, we shall issue forth on the morrow. We must reorganize and rearm ourselves, and the men need at least some rest. To act hastily now could doom everything. Do you concur, Keeper?”

“I do,” said Calliande. Her heart screamed for her to hurry, but she knew that haste would lead to ruin. 

“Tomorrow at noon,” said Gareth. “We shall attack again then, and try to make for the Black Mountain. I…”

Calliande flinched. 

Power blazed before her Sight, a storm of dark magic swirling and dancing around the Black Mountain to the north. It was immense and mighty, and she had encountered it before. Most recently in Urd Morlemoch, when the Warden had tried to open his great gate to Old Earth. 

And long ago, centuries ago, around the gate Shadowbearer had opened to the realm of the Frostborn. 

“What is it?” said Joram.

Far to the north, before the mass of the Black Mountain, a slender column of blue fire stabbed into the sky. 

“Dark magic,” said Antenora. 

“It begins,” said Calliande. “Shadowbearer is opening the gate.” She tried to focus the Sight upon the maelstrom of dark magic beginning to rotate around the Black Mountain. “He just started. It will take him…another three days, maybe four, to open the gate.”

“Then we ride tomorrow,” said Gareth.

Chapter 15: Mantles of Shadow

Morigna gazed at the ruined house, at the shattered pile of clay tiles and burned timbers, at the charred brick walls. One of the dvargir missiles had landed atop the house, exploding in the top floor. The fire would have consumed the house and killed everyone within, but Morigna had cast her sleeping mist over the flames. Water could not quench that peculiar fire, but her sleeping mist could smother it. That had slowed the fire long enough for the women and children within to escape.

They had thanked Morigna. One of the women had grabbed her arm, sobbing as she clutched a wailing child against her chest, and thanked God and the saints that Morigna had come. One of Constantine’s men-at-arms had ushered the poor woman away, and they had gone to the next fire, but the memory lingered in Morigna’s mind.

It unsettled her.

She had never cared about other people. At best, they were annoyances and obstacles, and at worst, they would become her enemies. She had never sought to rule over others the way that someone like Tarrabus Carhaine did, but she only wanted to be left alone. She wanted to acquire enough power to make sure she would never be threatened again. 

Morigna had never wanted to rule others with her power…but conversely, she had never considered using her power to help them. 

The memory of the weeping woman and her wailing child haunted her. That woman could have been Morigna, had her life been different. Had Coriolus not murdered her parents and chosen her as his vessel, Morigna would have eventually married some man of Moraime and then borne him children. Perhaps she might even have wound up settling in Dun Licinia. 

That was such an alien thought that it was hard to grasp.

Morigna looked down the narrow street running along the northern wall. All the fires had been quenched, and Sir Constantine had sent her to do one last circuit, to make sure that no fires smoldered out of sight. Constantine reminded her a little of Ridmark, though the Dux reminded her of Ridmark as well. Both Ridmark and Constantine had the same aura of authority, of command, that surrounded the old lord. Likely both of the younger men had learned it from him. 

Morigna had little in common with most of the women of Dun Licinia, but she shared one thing with them. She had watched a man she loved ride off into battle, knowing she could do nothing to aid him. It was a dreadful feeling, and not one she wished to repeat. Even when they had gone into deadly danger together at Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar, she had been with him, and her spells had saved his life several times. 

Boots rasped against the cobblestones, and Morigna turned. Ridmark came towards her, and behind him the eastern sky was starting to brighten. Morigna had lost all sense of time during the fighting. It had been past midnight when Imaria and the Weaver had attacked the keep, and she supposed the fighting had only lasted a few hours.

It felt much longer.

“You are unhurt?” said Morigna, hurrying towards him.

“Aye,” said Ridmark, and she hugged him. He looked tired and strained, and smelled of sweat and blood, but none of it touched his voice. “All our friends made it, though it was a close thing. Antenora burned the catapult.” 

“I assumed as much,” said Morigna, “when fire stopped falling from the sky. And when it looked as if the sun had risen in the north for a few moments.” 

“Rakhaag fell, and most of the other lupivirii,” said Ridmark. “The dvargir overwhelmed Calliande when she broke the wards around the catapults. If the lupivirii had not intervened, the dvargir likely would have killed her.”

“I am sorry,” said Morigna. She had not much cared for Rakhaag and his feral followers, but she could tell their deaths had pained Ridmark. “They died well.”

“Yes,” said Ridmark. He shook his head. “Better if no one had died at all, but that is impossible in war.” He looked at the ruined house. “Though it seems you saved many lives this day.”

Morigna shrugged. “I put out fires, that is all. A wretched weapon, to fling fire upon the heads of those unable to fight back.” 

“Antenora does the same,” said Ridmark. 

“Antenora did not go to Kothluusk, find a Mhorite village, and burn down houses full of women and children,” said Morigna, a bit sharper than she intended.

“No,” said Ridmark. “The face of war is a harsh one.”

“I have seen war,” said Morigna. “At the Iron Tower, and in the Vale of Stone Death.”

“True. Yet Iron Tower was a skirmish,” said Ridmark. “The Vale of Stone Death was a battle, but the Vale of Stone Death had been desolate for centuries. There were no…innocents to be drawn into the battle there. No freeholders simply trying to raise their crops. No townsmen trying to practice their trades. No halfling servants trying to go about their business in peace. No one for the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm to hurt but each other.”

“And us,” said Morigna, but she saw what he meant. 

“And us,” said Ridmark. 

“Perhaps you are right,” said Morigna. “I have not seen such a thing before, but now that I have, I do not care for it.” 

“If we defeat Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark, “maybe we can put a stop to it.”

“Where is Calliande?” said Morigna. “Resting?”

“She should be,” said Ridmark, “but you know her. She refused, and is working with the Magistri to heal the wounded. When she sets her will to something, I am no more capable of changing her mind…”

“Then you are of changing mine?” said Morigna.

“You understand,” said Ridmark. “Still, she will save men who would otherwise have perished. She could no more turn aside from their need than water could flow uphill.” 

“No,” said Morigna. “What will we do next?”

“The Dux and the horsemen will issue from the southern gate at noon,” said Ridmark. “The Mhorites, dvargir, and kobolds are still in disarray, and the Dux thinks the horsemen can punch through them and reach the Black Mountain.” 

“I shall ride with you,” said Morigna.

Ridmark hesitated. She could guess his thoughts well enough. He would try to find a way to convince her to remain behind. 

“You need my help,” said Morigna. “Calliande needs my help. Shadowbearer would have killed her in Khald Azalar if I had not distracted him. How many times have I saved you with a spell?” She gripped his hands. “We shall see this through to the end, together.”

“All right,” said Ridmark in a quiet voice.

Morigna nodded, and they looked at each other for a moment.

“I suppose,” said Ridmark at last, “that the Keeper needs her apprentices about her in battle.” 

“That,” said Morigna with an irritated sigh, “is a particularly vexing lie.” 

“A necessary one, though,” said Ridmark.

“True,” said Morigna. “Your Dux seems like a fair-minded man, but I doubt even he would accept a sorceress from the Wilderland in his lands.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “The apprentice of the legendary Keeper, though, is different. I suppose you will have to endure Calliande telling you what to do, at least in public.”

Morigna laughed, which made Ridmark blink in surprise. “She already tells me what to do in public. You, too, Gray Knight. The Dux listens to her as well. Even that sour old knight with the hammer.”

“Sir Tagrimn Volarus?” said Ridmark. “He is not the most pleasant fellow, true, but he is a steady hand in a fight.” 

“We shall need every one of those that we can find,” said Morigna. “We ride at noon?”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “We’ll need to be at the southern forum by then. I am going to find someplace to lie down and get a few hours of sleep.” He looked towards the northern gate, the octagonal towers rising overhead. “The northern forum, I think. It should be quiet enough.”

“Unless the Mhorites attack again,” said Morigna.

“If they do, sleep shall be the last of my concerns,” said Ridmark. 

“Truly,” said Morigna. “I shall come with you. Conjuring sleeping mist again and again is tiring work, and…”

She fell silent. 

Ridmark’s face had gone hard, and for a wild moment she wondered if she had somehow upset him. Yet he was not looking at her, but at the northern gate.

“What is it?” said Morigna.

“Something is wrong,” said Ridmark.

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The dying man screamed. 

The wounded filled Dun Licinia’s church, lying on blankets upon the stone floor. Groans and whimpers and occasional screams echoed off the walls, while the air smelled of blood and waste despite the open windows. It reminded Calliande of the Mhalekite siege months past, when she had helped the women of the town treat the wounded militiamen. She had made bandages and poultices, cleaned wounds and stitched cuts, doing everything she could to cure the wounded men.

Now, as a Magistria and the Keeper of Andomhaim she could do far more. 

The man-at-arms lying on the blanket before her had been wounded three times, twice in the abdomen and once through the chest. He had a matter of hours before he died, his every breath agony. He would have been screaming constantly, save that Calliande doubted he had the strength left. 

She took a deep breath, gathering her will and drawing magical power through the tired buzzing that filled her mind. 

“I’ll do this one,” said Camorak in his rusty voice. 

“Are you sure?” she said. The Magistrius looked as tired as she felt, his eyes bloodshot, his face gray beneath the thick crop of stubble on his chin and jaw. Yet as tired as he looked, Camorak had not stopped working from the time that Calliande had returned from the fighting. All Magistri could heal wounds, though they were limited by their native magical strength or by how much pain they could endure. 

Camorak had been the only one of Dun Licinia’s Magistri able to keep up with Calliande. 

“Sure enough,” said Camorak. 

Before Calliande could protest, Camorak dropped to one knee next to the dying man, raised his hands, summoned power, and cast the healing spell. He blazed with the magic of the Well before Calliande’s Sight, the power pouring through him. The dying man went rigid, his mouth opening in a silent scream. Some of the Magistri screamed when they healed, for they had to take the pain of the wounds into themselves. Camorak only gritted his teeth, the veins in his temples bulging, the cords standing out in his neck. 

The power drained away, and the dying man slumped to the floor. Except he was no longer dying. His wounds were hideous, crusted things, but they were no longer fatal, and they looked as if they had been healing for weeks. All the man needed now was time and a lot of rest. 

“God almighty, that stings,” muttered Camorak, shaking his head and getting to his feet. 

“A great feat of magic,” said Antenora in a quiet voice. She stood a few feet away, keeping watch over Calliande. 

Camorak only grunted in response to the compliment. “Who’s next?”

Calliande looked around…but they had worked their way through the wounded. As the best healers, Calliande and Camorak had dealt with the most grievously wounded, and there were none left. The less severe wounds would be healed by the other Magistri, and then nothing was left for the wounded men to do but rest. 

“It seems we have healed with them all,” said Calliande.

“Huh,” said Camorak. “I’ll be damned. Want a drink?”

“No,” said Calliande.

Camorak shrugged. “Suit yourself.” 

A short time later Camorak sat on the front steps to the church, sipping from a metal flask that gave off an unpleasant smell. Calliande sat next to him, taking a moment to rest. Soon they would return to the southern forum, and they would ride to battle, hoping to breaking through the Mhorite lines and reach the Black Mountain. 

“You know,” said Camorak, sipping from his flask, “ever since I heard your voice in my head, things have just gone to hell.”

Antenora scowled. “You will not address the Keeper in such a tone.”

“What tone? This tone?” said Camorak, and he stuck his tongue out at Antenora. She looked so incredulous that Calliande had to laugh. “I’ve learned something as a Magistrius. Doesn’t matter if you’re a lord or a knight or a freeholder or a servant. All men are flesh, and all flesh dies. A Comes and a beggar look pretty much the same when they’re bleeding to death, or lying in their own filth as the flux takes them.”