Frostborn: The World Gate (28 page)

“You are quite an unusual Magistrius,” said Calliande, though he reminded her a little of her mentor Marius, who had become the Watcher. 

Marius had not been quite so blunt, though. Nor had he drank as much. 

“What?” said Camorak, blinking. “I don’t go around with my nose in the air, babbling about the gift of magic and the depths of my learned lore?” He glanced at his callused hands, which he had washed a hundred times in the last few hours until they were raw and red. “The Magistri are jackasses, Lady Keeper, but at least I’m an honest jackass.” 

“So how does an honest jackass become a Magistrius?” said Calliande.

“About ten years ago,” said Camorak, “I got really drunk and insulted the Prince of Cintarra. For my punishment, I was sentenced to the Magistri.”

Calliande waited. 

Camorak sighed. “All right. Ten years ago, I was a man-at-arms in service to the Dux Kors of Durandis. Had a wife and a baby girl. They got sick, I galloped to Castra Durius to get a Magistrius. He came back with me, but by then it was too late. Few years after that, we fought off some Mhorites attacking a dwarven noble from Khald Tormen. One of the lads was wounded in the fighting, and I was so…angry. The magic came to me then, and I healed him. After that, it was the Magistri for me, whether I liked it or not.” 

They sat in silence for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” said Calliande.

Camorak grunted. “It is what it is. Truth be told, I’m not a very good Magistrius. I’m bad at wards, and that thought-speaking spell you used on me, I’m even worse at it.”

“But you can heal,” said Calliande. 

“That I can do,” said Camorak. He took another sip. “Well, that and drink.” He squinted up at Antenora. “Out of curiosity, what’s wrong with her eyes? They shouldn’t be that color.”

“I was the apprentice of the last Keeper of Avalon upon Old Earth, fifteen centuries past,” said Antenora. “I betrayed her, and the dark magic of Mordred cursed me to immortality. Ever since I have sought the Keeper to atone for my crimes and achieve the peace of death at last.”

“Oh,” said Camorak, blinking. “Fifteen centuries, you say? You don’t look a day over seven hundred and fifty.” 

“Thank you,” said Antenora gravely.

“Rest, Magistrius Camorak,” said Calliande, getting to her feet. “I fear there will be more wounded to come.”

“There always are,” said Camorak, taking another drink. 

Calliande headed for the keep. She wanted to rest for a few hours before the Dux rode from the southern gate. She did not want to return to her rooms. Antenora’s fire had damaged the furnishings, and after the Weaver’s attack, she would not feel safe there. Likely she could grab a few hours of sleep beneath a bench in the great hall. 

“You should rest, Keeper,” said Antenora.

“I should,” agreed Calliande. “I think…”

Antenora stiffened, looking to the north. 

“What is it?” said Calliande, following the older sorceress’s gaze. “I…”

Darkness writhed around the northern gate of Dun Licinia. For a moment Calliande could not make sense of the strange sight, could not understand why the people filling the streets did not shout in alarm. Then she realized they could not see it, that they did not possess the power of the Sight. 

The shadow of Incariel twisted around the gate.

“Keeper,” said Antenora. “The enemy returns.”

“Imaria,” said Calliande, and she broke into a run.

###

“What is it?” said Morigna.

Ridmark hurried along the street towards the northern gate, thinking hard. Had his eyes fooled him, or his tired mind played a trick upon him? 

No. He still saw the man-at-arms walking towards the gate’s western tower, moving at a casual stroll. 

“Ridmark,” said Morigna, hurrying after him. “What is it?”

“That man-at-arms,” said Ridmark. 

“What about him?” said Morigna. “I have never seen him before.”

“I have,” said Ridmark.

“You know him, then?” said Morigna. 

“No,” said Ridmark. “But I saw him die a few hours ago fighting against the dvargir. I’m absolutely certain of it.”

“Then what is he doing here?” said Morigna.

“A very good question,” said Ridmark. “Let’s find out.”

He moved forward as fast as he dared, not wanting to draw the attention of the man-at-arms. Perhaps the man-at-arms was an impostor, a spy sent to infiltrate the town and cause havoc. Or maybe he was a creature of dark magic. Urshanes could take different forms, and Ridmark had no doubt Shadowbearer and Mournacht commanded enough dark magic to bend the creatures of the dark elves to their wills. If the urshanes had copied the corpses left behind on the field, and then crept into the town…

He crossed into the forum, looking around. As ever, the forum was packed with people, mostly men-at-arms resting from the mad sortie against the siege engine. Women and children went about their errands, carrying fresh quivers of arrows to the archers or rolls of bandages to the impromptu infirmary Calliande and the Magistri had arranged in the church. The man-at-arms stopped at the base of the tower at the left-hand side of the northern gate, gazing at it with a blank expression. As he looked closer, Ridmark was certain that he had seen that man die, his skull caved in by a dvargir warrior’s axe. Yet here he was, strolling about the forum. 

Or something that looked a lot like him. 

The man-at-arms opened the door at the base of the gate tower and stepped inside, vanishing from sight. 

“What do you suppose he wants in there?” said Morigna. 

Ridmark shrugged, his mind racing.

“If he is a spy, perhaps he has come to scout our defenses,” said Morigna. 

“Waste of time,” muttered Ridmark. “It’s a stone wall with two gates, northern and southern. No secret entrances or tunnels or wells. There’s nothing to scout. But the gate is important. It…”

The answer came to him in a horrifying rush. 

The man-at-arms wasn’t here to spy upon the gate.

The man-at-arms was here to open the gate. 

“To arms!” shouted Ridmark at the top of his lungs. “To arms! The enemy is at the gate! To arms, to arms!” 

Even as he shouted, he heard a rumble of noise from outside the walls, the sound of thousands of feet rushing forward at once. Shadowbearer’s army was charging at the gate. They knew that the northern gate was about to open, that they could surge into the town with impunity.

Unless Ridmark put a stop to it. 

Confusion spread across the forum as the men-at-arms and militiamen armed themselves. One of the men had the presence of mind to sound a trumpet, calling the alarm. Ridmark raced to the door and threw it open, jumping into the guard room at the base of the tower.

At least, he thought he jumped into the guard room.

Darkness engulfed him instead. 

Ridmark stumbled, and the staff of Ardrhythain flared with white fire in his hand, its symbols glowing. A pool of white light fell around his feet, just as it had when he had faced Shadowbearer. Morigna gasped and stumbled to a stop next to him, leaning on her staff as she entered the small circle of light. 

“Ridmark,” she said, “it is the same kind of shadow that Imaria used, that Shadowbearer…”

Ridmark’s fingers tightened against his staff as his eyes made out shapes in the gloom. 

He was in the guard room, and six men-at-arms sat motionless at a round table. All of them were dead, either slain from crushed skulls or slashed throats. The shadowy haze had held them paralyzed, just as Imaria’s shadows had done, and then something had killed them.

The man-at-arms Ridmark had followed stood against the far wall at the base of the stairs, smiling at them. His right hand had become a monstrous clawed pincer, similar to the claw of a scorpion. Fresh blood gleamed upon it, reflecting the gleam of Ardrhythain’s staff. 

“You,” said Ridmark. 

“Well,” said the Weaver, his stolen face spreading in a gentle smile, “aren’t you the persistent one?”

There was a gleam of white at the top of the stairs, and Imaria appeared, the shadowy haze swirling and dancing around her. 

“Ah,” said Imaria, “the shadow of Incariel is gracious. Ridmark and his whore have been delivered to me again.”

“Come closer and say that,” said Morigna, thrusting her staff. Purple fire flared up its length, and a column of acidic mist swirled around Imaria. The shadows pulsed, a shell of them surrounding the traitorous Magistria, and the acidic mist dissolved into nothingness.

“I shall do so,” said Imaria, “and do worse. Perhaps it is better this way. You shall see this town die as you die, and then you will know that Shadowbearer has triumphed, that the Frostborn shall return and the shadow of Incariel will devour all living mortals of this world.” She looked at the Weaver. “Kill them.”

The Weaver exploded into a maze of black threads, reknitting himself into the form of the giant, hulking urhaalgar. Imaria cast a spell, shadows dancing around her fingers, and Ridmark heard a clanging groan.

The gates were opening.

The sound of the charging Mhorites and dvargir came to Ridmark’s ears.

The Weaver surged forward like a blur of armored darkness, and Ridmark lifted his staff.

Chapter 16: Falling

Ridmark dared not move more than a few feet. The light from the black staff allowed him to move without the shadows draining his strength, but Morigna had no such protection. If he moved too far from her, the shadows would immobilize her, and then the Weaver would kill them both in a few moments.

Considering what Imaria might do to them, falling to the Weaver’s claws might prove a mercy.

“Stay close to me!” Ridmark shouted. He glimpsed Morigna’s nod, and then he jumped to meet the Weaver’s attack, the staff spinning in his hands. He deflected one sweep of the Weaver’s claws, ducked under a thrust of the venomous tail, and slapped the staff against the Weaver’s armored legs. The hulking creature leaped backwards, avoiding the next swing of his staff. 

Morigna cast another spell, the floor folding beneath the Weaver. Despite the creature’s inhuman speed and balance, the Weaver stumbled. Ridmark brought his staff down on the top of the Weaver’s head. There was a crack of shattering bone, and the Weaver stumbled back. Ridmark raised his staff for another blow, and the Weaver exploded into a writhing tangle of shadowy threads. Ridmark lunged forward, raking his staff through the threads, but the weapon seemed to have no effect on the Weaver in this form. The maze of threads jumped to the other side of the guard room and reformed at the base of the stairs, taking the form of the huge ursaar. 

That was bad. The only way to fight an ursaar was with speed and agility, avoiding the creature’s mighty paws and ripping fangs. Here, in the guard room, with obstacles everywhere, it would be child’s play for the Weaver to pin him and rip him apart. 

Yet the Weaver made no move to attack, remaining motionless at the base of the stairs. 

“Come, creature,” said Morigna. “Why do you not attack?”

“Because he’s delaying,” said Ridmark. “There is a mechanism that controls the gates. I wager that Imaria opened the gates, and is now jamming them open. Once the gates are open, he can kill us at his leisure.”

“Ah,” said the Weaver, his voice distorted and thick through the ursaar’s massive jaws. “You are more intelligent than Imaria claimed. Though her judgment is clouded by her hatred of you.” The ursaar’s hulking shoulders shrugged. “It will cease to be a problem when she kills you in a few minutes.”

Ridmark looked at the Weaver. Perhaps he could retreat back to the forum and go up the tower on the eastern side of the gate, surprising Imaria. Of course, if he retreated, the Weaver might kill him before he could withdraw. Or the Weaver would follow him into the forum and start slaughtering the knights and men-at-arms there. 

He had to get past the Weaver. 

Now.

###

Calliande sprinted through the streets, the staff of the Keeper in hand, Antenora a half-step behind her. As much as she disliked relying upon her rank, it did have one advantage. People got out of her way when she was in a hurry. A simple spell brought forth light from her staff, and the people of Dun Licinia saw the Keeper and made a path.

It also spread the alarm. Militiamen and men-at-arms saw started running after her, their weapons and shields ready. The haze of darkness grew starker before Calliande’s Sight, and she wondered if Shadowbearer himself had come to launch an assault upon the gate, though that seemed unlikely. She still saw the pillar of blue fire rising from the side of the Black Mountain, visible to both her Sight and her mortal eyes, and such a titanic spell would require the entirety of Shadowbearer’s concentration. 

Which meant that Shadowbearer had dispatched his servants…which likely meant that Imaria and the Weaver had returned. 

Calliande ran into the northern forum and came to a stunned halt.

The gate stood open. Through it she saw a vast number of Mhorites running as fast as they could, hoping to make it through the gate before it closed again. A haze of shadow wreathed the gate, the rampart, and the watch towers on either side of the gate itself. It was the same kind of shadowy power that Shadowbearer had used in Khald Azalar, paralyzing anyone that entered it. A dozen militiamen stood clustered about the foot of the towers, frozen in the act of attempting to enter the gate towers. 

“What the devil is happening?” thundered a voice.

Dux Gareth stormed into the forum, followed by Sir Constantine and Sir Joram and Sir Tagrimn and a dozen other lords and knights. Constantine had Brightherald in hand, and the soulblade burned with a pale white flame, reacting to the dark power around the gate. Arandar and Gavin hurried with them, their soulblades in hand. 

“I fear Imaria and the Weaver have returned, my lord,” said Calliande. 

Gareth scowled, looked at the gate, and then back at her. “That dark magic. Can you shatter it?”

“Yes,” said Calliande, calling the power of the Well to fill her, slamming the end of her staff against the ground. A pulse of white fire erupted from her, rolling across the forum to strike at the shadows surrounding the gate. The dark haze rippled and shuddered as the power of the Keeper touched it, and then the shell shattered into wisps of darkness. The men at the foot of the towers flinched, and then rushed at the doors.