Frostborn: The World Gate (40 page)

“After this, I mean,” said Calliande. “You’ve spent the last ten years looking for the Frostborn, and now Shadowbearer is dead. What will you do next?”

Ridmark said nothing. Morigna watched him. 

“You told me once that you would like to go to the Wilderland, to live quietly as a hunter and a trapper,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath. “I hope…I hope that you and Morigna will come with me to Tarlion.” 

“Why?” said Ridmark.

“Because the Enlightened have infiltrated Andomhaim like a cancer,” said Calliande. “It is my duty to root them out. Shadowbearer is dead, but his servants still carry out his work. I don’t know who I can trust in Tarlion. No, that’s not right. I can trust you, I can trust Morigna, and all the others who stood with me against Shadowbearer.”

“Morigna thought,” said Ridmark, “that I ought to go back to Andomhaim, become a lord, and start rooting out the Enlightened.”

Morigna shrugged. “It is the nature of mortal men that someone must rule, that someone must hold power. Why not you?” 

Ridmark snorted. “Indeed? I wanted to be a knight, not a lord.” He met Calliande’s eyes and tapped the brand upon his left cheek. “If I do come with you, this might be a problem.”

“A lie,” said Calliande. “Just as Tarrabus lied about Arandar’s son. Just as he falsely imprisoned Jager and Mara and forced Jager to steal for him. Just as he plotted with Shadowbearer. I am the Keeper of Andomhaim, and I intend to exercise that office…but I can’t do it alone. I have no right to command you and Morigna, Ridmark. But…I could use your help. Please.” 

“I think she is right,” said Morigna. “And how often do we agree upon anything?” 

Ridmark laughed a little. “Usually when the two of you have decided to tell me what to do.” He spread his hands. “Fine. I will come with you to Tarlion. We have been through too much together for me to abandon you now. And I cannot in good conscience let Tarrabus have an unchecked hand in Andomhaim. Not after what he has become.”

Calliande smiled. “Thank you.”

“Though you shall have to pretend to be Calliande’s apprentice,” said Ridmark.

Morigna offered a theatrical sigh. “A dreadful burden. But I suppose that I shall be fine.”

Chapter 24: Let Me Share My Secret

That night Morigna made her way alone down the stairs of the keep. She and Ridmark had gone to bed a few hours later, and once they had exhausted each other, fallen asleep. Morigna found herself restless, and went down the stairs to the great hall. Her mind whirled with everything that had happened since they had come to the Northerland, and she thought a walk might clear her head. 

The great hall was deserted, the knights and men-at-arms retired to their tents, the servants to their beds. The fires burned low in the hearths, throwing long black shadows across the tables and benches. Morigna started to make her way across the courtyard. 

“I’ve come to tell you a secret.”

The voice sent a stab of alarm through Morigna. 

It was Imaria’s voice…but there was something wrong with it. It was like two voices speaking at once. One was the voice of Imaria Licinius, arrogant and cold. The other was an alien, inhuman rasp, a noise that no human voice could make.

Morigna whirled, mouth opening to shout in alarm, and the black shadow fell over her. It wrapped around her like a frozen rope, holding her fast and binding her in place. She tried to shout, tried to cast a spell, but the shadow drained her strength away.

Her eyes focused, and she saw Imaria standing nearby, the shadow streaming from her like a banner.

There was something very wrong with her.

Imaria’s olive-colored skin had taken a deathly grayish tinge, like the skin of a corpse. Her veins had turned black, as if liquid shadow flowed through her flesh. Her green eyes had turned to quicksilver, and Morigna saw her reflection in her irises. 

She looked as Shadowbearer had looked.

“My secret,” said Imaria, stepping closer. There was a flash of white next to her, and the Weaver stepped into sight, wearing again his guise of the kindly old man. “Would you like to hear it?”

Again Morigna tried to call magic, and again the shadow leached it away.

“Shadowbearer,” said Imaria, stepping close and whispering into Morigna’s ear. “We all called him that. The orcs, the dwarves, the kobolds, the high elves, all of us for millennia and millennia. Tymandain Shadowbearer, the corrupted high elf. But this, this is the final secret. You see, Shadowbearer was not his name. Ardrhythain didn’t know the truth. Even Tymandain himself didn’t know the truth. But this is the truth.”

She stepped back, spreading her arms, her white robe hanging about her like a shroud.

“Shadowbearer was not his name,” said Imaria, her double voice seething with satisfaction. “Shadowbearer was his title. And titles can be inherited. Do you have it?”

The Weaver bowed and presented Imaria with a white crystalline object about the size of a man’s fist…

Morigna’s alarm redoubled. 

It was the empty soulstone. 

“Plucked from the Keeper’s bedside while she sleeps,” whispered Imaria. “Too dangerous to confront her yet. I am newly come to my powers. Besides, there is no need for me to kill her.” She lifted the soulstone. “For soon I shall have ten thousand Frostborn to kill all my foes…and then I shall be free at last.” 

Morigna struggled, and Imaria rested the empty soulstone against Morigna’s forehead. 

“I would kill you just for the pain it will cause Ridmark,” said Imaria. “But perhaps you should rejoice to know that your death shall serve a greater purpose. You still carry part of the Warden’s power within you, dark magic that can serve as the crux of a new gate. Your death shall free the shadow of Incariel and slay this miserable world, and mankind shall be freed of the flesh forevermore.”

Morigna strained against the shadow. She would not let this wretched creature prevail, would not…

“Weaver,” said Imaria. “Kill her.”

The Weaver moved in a blur, his hands reknitting themselves into insect-like talons.

Pain exploded through Morigna’s throat and chest, and she knew no more.

###

Imaria Licinius, the bearer of Incariel’s shadow, did not walk from Dun Licinia. She could not use the power of Incariel’s shadow to travel, not while she carried the soulstone throbbing with the dark magic harvested from Morigna’s death. But she was not foolish enough to depart on foot, not while she still adjusted to her new powers. Dun Licinia was filled with Swordbearers, and her predecessor had met his long-delayed demise upon a soulblade.

So she did not walk.

Instead, the Weaver carried her. 

She soared over Dun Licinia, cradled in the Weaver’s claw-like arms, the soulstone burning with ghostly blue fire in her hands. The shadow of Incariel filled her mind, no longer a whisper, but a mighty chorus, a song of such splendid and dreadful beauty that she wanted to weep with joy and scream with agony at the same time. 

She had been destined. Imaria had always been destined. Her entire life had led to this moment, the fulfillment of her purpose. 

The Weaver flew to the north, passing over the ruined Tower of Vigilance, and then banked to the west, his insect-like form plunging towards the circle of dark elven standing stones. He landed, and Imaria stepped towards the altar, lifting up the filled soulstone.

Around her the menhirs blazed to life, their symbols and carvings shining with blue fire. They recognized their true master. More, Tymandain Shadowbearer’s spells had not yet completely unraveled. In another week or so they would dissolve entirely, but for now were still in place.

All they needed was a spark to set them aflame.

Imaria carried that spark.

She set the glowing soulstone upon the altar, and the slab of black stone began to glow with sickly blue light. Imaria stepped back and raised her hands, shadow and blue fire rippling around her fingers. Once, such a spell would have been beyond her. Now the shadow of Incariel imbued her with strength and bestowed her with knowledge, and the casting seemed almost trivial. 

The spell reached its crescendo, and Imaria laughed. 

The soulstone blazed like a blue star, and the entire hill shook like a bell. A pillar of blue fire erupted from the altar once more, stabbing into the night sky. The sphere of gray mist appeared before the altar, arcs of lightning leaping from the menhirs to encircle it. The sphere expanded, flattened, and seemed to grow deeper, spreading into a circular shape.

The soulstone flared, the Warden’s stolen dark magic reacting to Tymandain’s spells. 

With a sound like the earth tearing in two, the world gate burst open, transforming into a sheet of shimmering air like a translucent mirror. The gate rippled, flashing as something moved within it. 

Imaria smiled and waited.

The Weaver took several skittering steps back, his motions cautious. 

A Frostborn stepped from the gate, treading the soil of this world for the first time in two centuries. 

The creature resembled a human man, albeit a towering giant nine feet tall. His skin was like polished crystal, clear and reflective, like ice upon a lake. A crowned helm of dark iron hid most of his stern, emotionless face, though cold blue fires burned in his eyes, and veins the same cold fire flared beneath the crystalline skin. The Frostborn wore armor the color of old ice, close-fitting and engraved in elaborate reliefs, and in his right hand he carried a huge sword carved with alien symbols. The sigils burned with frost, white mist swirling around the blade.

The Frostborn grounded his sword, both armored hands wrapping around the hilt. A terrible cold radiated from him, a thin layer of frost spreading over the burned ground. Imaria felt the weight of the creature’s gaze, felt the will and power behind it. 

“Welcome,” said Imaria. 

“I am Rjalmandrakur,” said the Frostborn, his voice thunderous and musical, “the Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard, one of the military Orders of the Assembly of the Dominion of the High Lords.” 

“I am pleased to meet you again,” said Imaria. “When last we spoke, your kindred had been driven from this world.”

Rjalmandrakur considered her. “You are the bearer of the shadow.”

“I am,” said Imaria. 

“You have changed your form since last we met,” said the Frostborn. 

“The vagaries of battle, High Lord,” said Imaria. “Behold, I offer you this world. Come forth and claim it.” 

The shadow of Incariel’s song echoed with laughter inside her head. The Frostborn were powerful beyond compare, but they were still fools. They, too, would serve her purpose.

They, too, would perish with the rest of this world.

And then at last Imaria and the shadow would be free. 

“So be it,” said Rjalmandrakur. “This world shall be added to the Dominion of the High Lords. It shall be cleansed of weakness and its population brought order for the greater glory of the High Lords and our task.”

“You will find,” said Imaria, “that you have waiting allies among this world’s population.”

She looked forward to Tarrabus’s expression once he realized who had succeeded Tymandain as the bearer of Incariel’s shadow. 

“Very well,” said Rjalmandrakur. “The Order of the Vanguard shall bring the sword of the High Lords to this world.”

He turned and beckoned, and more Frostborn marched from the gate. After them came the locusari, creatures that looked like giant insects with carapaces of blue. Foot soldiers accompanied them, the enslaved kindred that the Frostborn named the medvarth, creatures that looked like bears that walked as men, armored in heavy plate, axes and swords and shields in their clawed hands. 

Imaria watched as the host of the Frostborn returned to Andomhaim, the shadow of Incariel triumphant within her head.

The Frostborn invasion had begun.

###

The shouting awoke Ridmark. 

He sat up. Morigna was gone, but he heard the sounds of alarm coming from the town, followed shortly thereafter by the blast of trumpets from the watchmen upon the walls. What had happened? Maybe a surviving band of Mhorites had attacked the town, or perhaps a group of kobolds? Or some other foe that had decided to take advantage of the chaos and attack?

Ridmark stood, and blue light flashed across the room.

He cursed and hurried to the window.

The pillar of blue fire rose against the dark shadow of the Black Mountain. 

The gate was opening again. But how? Shadowbearer was dead. Who else would have the power to open the gate?

They had to stop it, now. 

Ridmark pulled on his clothing and armor, seized his weapons, and ran down the stairs.

A crowd of knights and men-at-arms had gathered in the hall. Kharlacht and Caius and Sir Arandar stood in a cluster, and all three men looked up as Ridmark approached. Kharlacht looked grimmer than Ridmark could ever remembering seeing him, and Arandar seemed stunned. 

“The gate is reopening,” said Ridmark. “We…”

“Ridmark,” said Caius. “Wait a moment. Don’t…”

He never did hear what Caius said.

Morigna lay dead upon the floor, her black eyes staring at the ceiling, her throat opened and a mortal wound in her chest. 

For a long moment Ridmark stared at her, his mind frozen. 

Both Caius and Arandar were saying something. He didn’t hear it. Screams and shouts and the sound of battle rose from the town. He didn’t hear it.

The rage and pain came then, but it was cold, cold, his thoughts hardening into something like knives.

Whoever had done this to Morigna would suffer for it.

###

Calliande awoke, her Sight blazing within her.

She scrambled to her feet just as the door to her room burst open.

“Keeper!” said Antenora. “The mountain! It…”

“I know,” said Calliande.

She crossed to the window just as the pillar of fire vanished and another pulse of magical power washed across her Sight.

The gate had opened. Somehow, someone had opened the gate to the world of the Frostborn.