Frostborn: The World Gate (35 page)

She also saw the magic waiting within the ruined Tower itself.

For the Tower of Vigilance had not been just a fortress of stone. Men and laborers had built the walls and towers of stone, but those had not been the castra’s only defenses. Calliande’s Sight detected the lingering magic in the vault where she had rested for centuries, and the magic she had woven into the stones and towers. The Tower had been built to withstand all attack, whether from armies or wielders of dark magic. 

And, if need be, it could seal itself from intruders. 

Calliande finished her spell, and the power surged through her. Flashes of white light flickered up and down the ruined towers, the ground trembling beneath her horse’s hooves. The poor beast let out a frightened whinny, but Calliande gripped the reins with her free hand and urged her steed onward. Ripples of white light rolled over the ground and climbed over the outer curtain wall, and a strange keening vibration filled the air, growing louder with every moment.

“What did you do?” called Ridmark. 

“Keep riding!” said Calliande. 

They galloped through the ruined western gate, onto the path leading to the circle of standing stones and the pillar of blue fire. The Mhalekites had carried Calliande through that gate months ago, intending to kill her and empower the empty soulstone to open the way for the Frostborn. Idly she wondered what had happened to the nest of fire drakes that had terrorized the Mhalekites. Likely the dark magic surging from the circle had frightened them off. 

She brought her horse to a stop and turned. Ridmark, Kharlacht, Caius, Morigna, Gavin, Antenora, and Arandar had made it through the gate. Constantine Licinius was with them as well. He had been closer to Ridmark when Calliande had triggered the castra’s magical defenses, and he had ridden with them. 

“Should we not be retreating?” said Morigna, peering through the gate. “The Mhorites will be after us at any moment.” 

Calliande started to say something, and then the Tower exploded with white light. 

She covered her eyes against the glare. The light flared brighter again, a sound like a bell or a gong ringing through the air, and when it cleared the entire ruined Tower had been sheathed in a pale dome of flickering white light. Through the archway Calliande saw the Mhorites try to pursue Dux Gareth through the southern gate, only to find themselves repulsed by the white glow.

“A spell,” said Antenora. “A spell of great power. How did you summon the strength do work it so quickly?”

“I didn’t,” said Calliande. “Or, rather, I did it two hundred years ago with the aid of the Magistri of the Order of the Vigilant. We built the Tower to be proof against all threats, including magical attack. Those wards, once activated, will seal the Tower for a day…”

“Sealing the Mhorites within,” said Ridmark. 

“Aye,” said Calliande. “By the time the Anathgrimm arrive, the wards will release and Mara will be able to deal with the Mhorites.” She shrugged. “And by then, we shall either be victorious…or dead.”

“Then we are also sealed off from any aid,” said Ridmark. “This path is the only route to the circle of standing stones.”

“Yes,” said Calliande. “But Shadowbearer will be sealed away as well, unable to summon any other assistance.” She took a deep breath. “We have three Swordbearers with us. I had hoped to have all of the Northerland’s Swordbearers with us when we fought Shadowbearer, but…”

“With God’s aid,” said Caius, “we shall be enough.” 

“Our cause is a righteous one,” said Constantine. Brightherald’s fire reflected in his green eyes. “Surely we shall prevail.” 

“Let us hope,” said Morigna, with a flicker of her usual sardonic manner, “that God is in agreement with that.”

“We will soon find out,” said Ridmark, turning his horse to face the path.

Chapter 20: It Was Destined

The pillar of blue fire filled Ridmark’s vision. 

It was an eerie, unnatural thing. During his wanderings in the Wilderland, he had sometimes glimpsed auroras in the night sky, ghostly ribbons of light that danced across the darkness. The pillar of fire reminded Ridmark of the auroras, or perhaps of the ribbons of fire that had risen from Urd Morlemoch’s central tower to lash at the starless sky over the Torn Hills. The top of the hill rose before them, and Ridmark saw the dark shape of the menhirs crowning the hill. The blue fire leaped from their tops, and within the circle, where the altar stood, he saw…something. It looked vaguely like a shimmering sphere of grayish-white mist, lit from within by a silvery glow, and as he stared at it Ridmark felt a great sense of distance, as if he was peering into some vast, bottomless pit. 

It was the start of a world gate. 

“Calliande?” said Ridmark. “Can you see him?”

“No,” said Calliande, her eyes upon the ring of standing stones. “There is so much dark magic surging through that circle…it’s like trying to find one ember in a forest fire. But he is there, I am certain of it.”

“His shadow covers everything,” said Antenora. “Like a cloak over the hill.”

Ridmark waited for Jager to make a joke about how Shadowbearer had gotten his name, then remembered that the halfling was with his wife and the Anathgrimm. Of course, they were no longer the Master Thief of Cintarra and Mara of Coldinium, but the Queen of Nightmane Forest and her Prince Consort. 

He wished they were here, and was relieved for their sake that they were not.  

He wished he had every Swordbearer in Andomhaim with him. 

“We should approach on foot,” said Ridmark. “The horses won’t do us any good, not in this kind of fight.”

“Do we have a plan, Gray Knight?” said Constantine. Brightherald pulsed with white fire in his hand as the soulblade reacted to the dark magic surging around the hill. 

“Kill Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark. “Beyond that, I cannot say. Calliande can kill him, I am certain of it. I am equally certain Shadowbearer will have guardians around him. Mournacht himself, most likely.” And the Weaver and Imaria, he suspected. “If there are defenders, we shall have to keep them from hindering Calliande.” He looked at Constantine, Arandar, and Gavin in turn. “If you have the chance to strike at Shadowbearer, do not hesitate. Calliande can kill him, but a soulblade can as well.”

“It may be for this very purpose the soulblades were forged, this very hour,” said Caius. 

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. He hoped it was true. He hoped that the soulblades had not been destined to lie next to the bones of their wielders for all time, vanishing beneath layer after layer of ice as the Frostborn conquered the world. 

He dropped from the saddle, his staff in hand. It was easier to kill a man with an axe, but the dwarven axe would not protect him from the paralyzing effects of Shadowbearer’s power. The others followed suit, the soulblades shining like torches. Ridmark looked at the pillar of fire for a moment longer, and then began climbing the last stretch of the path. 

The circle of standing stones filled the top of the hill. Thirteen menhirs of black stone stood in a ring perhaps fifty yards across, each stone rising about fifteen to twenty feet tall. The stones were rough and unhewn, yet strange, elaborate reliefs marked their sides, sigils of dark magic and scenes of the dark elves torturing and killing orcs and halflings and dwarves. The menhirs glowed and flickered with blue fire, focusing the power that Shadowbearer had summoned. An altar, a massive block of rough black stone, occupied the center of the circle, resting upon a raised mound of grassy earth. Atop the exact center of the altar rested the empty soulstone that Shadowbearer had stolen from Cathair Solas, the empty soulstone that Ridmark had spent so much time trying to protect. It shone with the same blue fire as the menhirs, and above it rippled the silvery-white haze of the half-formed world gate. 

“My God,” said Calliande. “Ridmark, it’s good we did not hesitate. That gate is opening faster than I thought.”

“How long?” said Ridmark, his eyes sweeping the circle. He saw no sign of Shadowbearer or anyone else. Yet someone was here, he was sure of it. Many footprints marked the grass and earth within the circle. 

“A few more hours, perhaps,” said Calliande. “Maybe even by dawn. It…”

“It is well you have come.”

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. It was a strange, inhuman voice, a voice that sounded like two voices speaking in unison. One was the resonant, melodious voice of a high elven man, deeper and more musical than any human voice. The other was a hideous, nightmarish rasp, a voice produced by alien organs, a voice filled with hatred and rage beyond human understanding. 

The voice of Shadowbearer. 

Ridmark turned, and saw the high elven wizard standing between them and the altar. 

He had appeared out of nowhere. 

The high elf was tall, taller than Kharlacht, and wore a gleaming white shirt, black trousers, and black boots beneath a long black-trimmed red coat. The right side of his face had the angular, alien features of a high elf, though the skin was the gray of a corpse, black veins threading their way beneath the surface. The left side of his face was charred wreckage, an injury left by his duel against Calliande in Khald Azalar. A wound like that should have left Shadowbearer screaming in agony upon the ground, but he didn’t seem to notice it. The irises of his eyes were like quicksilver, like mercury, and Ridmark saw his distorted reflection in the ancient wizard’s eyes. 

His shadow prowled around him, slowly and silently, and it put Ridmark in mind of a hunting hound circling its master’s feet. 

“You think it is well that I have come, Tymandain?” said Calliande. She was fully the Keeper now, all calm confidence and assurance, her gaze unwavering as she stared at Shadowbearer. Ridmark wondered if she put on that poise consciously, or if she had acquired the habit without realizing it. “You may not think so once we are finished.” 

Shadowbearer smiled, his white teeth stark against the charred left side of his face. “I am certain of it, Calliande of Tarlion. You have a constant thorn in my side for centuries.” He raised his hands, gesturing around them. “Look at it. All of it. All of it is your work, Calliande. You should be here to see the end of it.” 

“Do not lay the blame for your crimes at my door,” said Calliande. 

“I was almost victorious,” said Shadowbearer. “Andomhaim would have fallen, and the Well would have been mine. Ardrhythain would not have been able to stop me.” His smile vanished, and Ridmark felt the hate pouring off the ancient wizard like a storm wind. “And then you intervened. Centuries of work, millennia of work, and you interfered. Your precious realm of Andomhaim interfered.” His smile returned, colder and harder. “So I destroyed your realm of Andomhaim. I sent the Eternalists and the Enlightened to eat it out from within like a cancer. I crushed your Order of the Vigilant, and watched them die as their fortress burned around them. All was ready, and I waited for you to awaken…”

“And then I came along,” said Ridmark. 

Shadowbearer’s quicksilver eyes turned to him, and Ridmark felt the full weight of his malice, of the hatred that suffused his shadow like a rag soaked with oil. 

“Yes,” hissed Shadowbearer. “Ridmark of the Arbanii. Do you know how much frustration you have caused me? I was hours away from final victory. Qazarl would have slain the Keeper upon this altar, and the gate would have opened. Then you had to interfere! Blundering into matters of which you had no understanding, so ignorant that you went to Urd Morlemoch in search of wisdom! By rights you should be dead. By rights you should have been dead a hundred times over! Yet you persisted! You are a flea, a gnat, and you have caused me a thousand times more trouble than I would have thought possible.” He looked back at Calliande. “Both of you. That is why I am glad you are here. You will see that you have failed, and then, at long last, I shall take immense satisfaction in killing you both.” 

“No,” said Calliande. “This ends today, Tymandain Shadowbearer. You should have gone back into the shadows. To open the gate, you have exposed yourself, and I mean to end your evil, now and forevermore.”

“No,” said Shadowbearer. “The gate will open, and the Frostborn will come forth and destroy Andomhaim. You will be dead by then, of course. Consider it a small act of mercy. I will…”

“Why?” said Ridmark. 

Shadowbearer blinked. “What? You have interfered with my plans. For that I will kill you. I…”

“No,” said Ridmark. “I know that. Why do all of this? Why open the gates to other worlds and summon other kindreds here? Why teach the dark elves to do it? Why summon the Frostborn here? Why?” 

For a long moment Shadowbearer said nothing, his shadow circling around him faster and faster. Ridmark felt the full weight of the ancient creature’s malice, and a deeper chill went through him. Shadowbearer was ancient beyond his ability to comprehend. The Warden had spoken of a hundred thousand years of war, which meant Shadowbearer had been alive that long, plotting and scheming across all those centuries.

All those unfathomable millennia. 

“Freedom,” Shadowbearer hissed at last, the alien aspect of his voice growing sharper and louder. 

“Freedom?” said Ridmark. “Freedom from what?” 

“From the flesh,” said Shadowbearer. “From the prison of matter and the chains of temporality.” 

“Well,” said Morigna, trying to fill her voice with scorn and almost succeeding in masking the fear, “cut your own throat, and you will succeed and save us all a great deal of trouble.” 

“Freedom from matter,” said Shadowbearer. “Freedom from time. Freedom from the prison that is reality.” 

“What does that mean?” said Ridmark.

“You are incapable of understanding,” said Shadowbearer. “No more than the rabbit understands when the farmer plows over his burrow. All you need to understand is that it means your death.” 

“Bold words, creature,” said Constantine. “Can you back them up?” 

Shadowbearer smiled. “Easily. Come!” 

He gestured, and shadows swirled around him, revealing three figures. 

The first was Mournacht himself. The huge orc looked as he had outside the walls of Dun Licinia, his chest and arms shining with glyphs of bloody fire. Except that his eyes had filled with the shadows of the void, and shadows wrapped and danced around the blades of his massive axe. His expression was somewhere between ecstasy and agony, and the shadows cloaking his axe twitched and flickered in time with his expression.