Frostborn: The Broken Mage (22 page)

Calliande started to answer him, but Ridmark spoke first. 

“You have been waiting for this for a long time, I know,” said Ridmark, “but we must exercise caution. It would be grievous to have waited so long only to be undone by haste at the final moment.”

Irunzad shivered for a moment. “Yes. Yes…you are right, Ridmark of the Arbanii. Lead the way.” 

They climbed in silence. Calliande walked behind Ridmark and Irunzad, her heart racing, her palms growing damp with sweat. After so long, the way to Dragonfall would be open. After over two hundred years, she would recover her staff, her memory, and her powers. And at last she would understand why she had done it. She knew the reason for it, of course, that she had done it to stop the return of the Frostborn. 

But why?

She would find out soon. 

Ready or not, she would find out soon. 

They reached the assembly chamber before the Citadel of Kings, the domed ceiling rising high overhead. It had not changed. 

“Good,” said Ridmark. “We’re still ahead of Mournacht and the Traveler.” 

“We should keep moving,” said Arandar. “The Mhorites and the Anathgrimm might catch up to us at any minute.” 

“Agreed,” said Ridmark.

They entered the Citadel again, their footsteps ringing off the gleaming stone floor and echoing off the high ceiling overhead. Ridmark climbed the steps to the dais, walked past the throne of the Kings of Khald Azalar, and stopped before the doors to the Vault. The massive doors of adamant steel stood like a metal cliff before them, the glyphs giving off their harsh white glow. 

“Be ready,” said Ridmark. “If Antenora and Mara can’t see into the Vault, there’s no telling what’s waiting for us inside.”

Irunzad blinked, still clutching the Key to his chest as if it was an infant. “Nothing will have entered the Vault, Ridmark of the Arbanii. No force or power in this world could break those doors.”

“I know,” said Ridmark. “I am concerned about any defenses within the Vault.” He looked at Calliande. “Or any final defenses around Dragonfall. You were never one to leave things to chance if you could help it.”

“I don’t remember,” said Calliande. A fresh fear twitched through her mind. What if she had left some deadly trap behind, something to kill anyone who tried to claim the Keeper’s staff? What if it killed one of her friends? She couldn’t bear that guilt.

What kind guilt might rest upon her mind once her memory returned?

She rebuked herself. This wasn’t the time to wallow in her feelings. There was far too much at stake…and her life and the lives of Ridmark and the others were just beginning.

“I don’t know,” said Calliande. “We will have to be careful.”

Jager snorted. “Why start now?”

“Irunzad,” said Ridmark. “If you please.”

The dwarf nodded, lifted the Key with shaking hands, and thrust it into the lock. It slipped into the lock with a tremendous, deep clang, far louder than it should have been. Irunzad gripped the Key’s handle with both hands and turned, and for a moment nothing happened. Then a shiver went through the stone of the dais, and a series of rapid metallic bangs came from the door. The glyphs began to flash and flicker, and Irunzad withdrew the Key and stepped back.

“Ah,” said Irunzad. “You should step away. Back to the throne.”

Calliande and the others obeyed, and loud thuds came from the door, the sound of bolts pulling themselves back. A crack appeared in the center of the massive slab of adamant steel, and slowly the doors swung outward, revealing the interior of the Vault of the Kings.

And inside the Vault Calliande saw…

She saw…

“God and his saints,” muttered Jager. 

Wealth beyond imagination gleamed in the Vault of the Kings. 

The Vault was at least as large as the throne room of the Citadel, and Calliande saw arches opening on the sides of the walls, leading to dozens of side chambers. Ridmark took a few steps forward, staff in hand, and even he looked stunned. 

Calliande walked to his side, the others following.

“That,” said Ridmark, “is a lot of money.”

Calliande managed to nod. 

Rows of hundreds of stone tables stretched away into the Vault, holding piles of golden coins, caskets overflowing with jewels, ingots of gold, enchanted weapons of dwarven steel, statues and sculptures and tablets carved with glyphs. Hundreds upon hundreds of niches lined the walls between the archways, closed off by doors of steel bars, holding more gold and gems and tablets and treasures. Steel cages hanging overhead held glowstones, filling the Vault with ample light. 

“The wealth of the King and the khaldari of Khald Azalar,” said Irunzad, still holding the Key. 

“God and his saints,” said Jager. “I could buy Tarlion with this much money.” He shook his head, blinking. “I could buy all of Andomhaim with that much money, and I would have enough left over to…well, buy the rest of this world.” 

“All that wealth,” said Arandar, “and it still could not save them.” 

“We did not come here for gold or silver,” said Ridmark. “Irunzad. Which way to Dragonfall?”

A jolt went through Calliande at the name. A shiver of memory followed the jolt, and she remembered walking through this very Vault, walking past the same piles of treasure as dread filled her. Dread, and iron certainty. She had to do this. She had to. There was no other choice, no matter how steep the cost, no matter how much pain it inflicted upon her…

She tried to reach for the memory, but it vanished into the mist that choked her mind.

A mist that might not last for much longer. 

Calliande realized that she had stopped, that the others were staring at her.

“Are you all right?” said Gavin hesitantly. 

“Not really,” said Calliande. “But I have no one to blame but myself, do I?” She felt Morigna staring at her and rebuked herself. She was not going to fall apart, and she certainly wasn’t going to do it in front of Morigna. “Irunzad. Which way to…to Dragonfall?”

“This way, Keeper,” said Irunzad.

“We will see this done, then,” said Ridmark. “Together.”

Calliande hesitated, nodded, and the followed Ridmark and Irunzad. They made their way down the aisle between the stone tables laden with unimaginable wealth. Archways opened off the long hall on regular intervals, revealing chambers just as large as the main Vault, each one filled with relics and treasures. Irunzad kept walking until he came to the very end of the Vault, and then turned to an archway on the left. Unlike the other halls, this one was utterly empty, the floor bare and stark and marching to…

Calliande sucked in a breath as another memory went through her.

The doors at the end of the hall were not dwarven steel, but the golden metal the high elves used in their armor. Above the doors rested a massive skull of dark bone, at least six feet long with fangs like daggers. 

A dragon’s skull.

“Dragonfall,” said Irunzad. “The ancient tomb of the dragons of old.” 

“I know,” murmured Calliande, talking a step towards the arch. 

“Hold, Keeper,” said Antenora, grabbing her arm. “There is a spell upon the arch.”

Calliande blinked, shaking off her reverie. “What?”

“She’s right,” said Mara. “A ward of some kind. Magic of a type I’ve never seen before.”

“I have,” said Antenora, a strange note in her raspy voice. “Long, long ago upon Old Earth. It is the kind of magic wielded by the Keeper.” 

“Irunzad?” said Ridmark. “What do you know about this?”

Irunzad hesitated. “It is a secret of the Kings.”

“Please,” said Calliande. “Tell us.” 

The gaunt dwarf hesitated for a little longer, and then shrugged. “If the Keeper is not worthy of the secret, who is? Long ago, when the khaldari came to this world, Ardrhythain of the high elves told us to settle here.”

“Ardrhythain?” said Calliande, surprised. 

“He said this was a place of power,” said Irunzad. “Long ago, dragons ruled this world, and waged war against the great darkness that the dark elves would later worship. The dragons died out, but their bones lay in Dragonfall, hidden from the world. There was great power in Dragonfall, power the dark elves might claim, so Khald Azalar was built to guard that power. This was a secret trust given to the Kings of Khald Azalar, to defend the power of Dragonfall from any that might misuse it.” The old dwarf lifted his chin. “We have kept that trust. Khald Azalar stood fast against the dark elves and the urdmordar, and the Frostborn destroyed us, but Dragonfall remains safe.”

“Then how did I know about it?” said Calliande, trying and failing to remember. “Ardrhythain must have told me. He said…he said he knew more than he could tell me. Perhaps that was part of it.” 

“How do we get past the ward?” said Ridmark. 

“I do not know,” said Irunzad. He lifted a hand and waved it into the archway. There was a flash, and for a moment a shimmering curtain of translucent white light filled the enormous arch. The curtain faded away a moment later. “The Keeper cast it when she and the Dragon Knight entered Dragonfall all those years ago. I am not a stonescribe. I do not know how to unravel the spell.” 

Calliande cast the spell to sense the presence of magic, and the power of the ward flooded through her. It was unlike any magic she had encountered since awakening below the Tower of Vigilance. It was subtle and quiet, yet seemed to be as strong as the bones of the mountain around her.

She had never encountered it before…but it was familiar to her, as familiar as her own hands.

Before she fully understood what she was doing, she raised her hand and cast another spell, raking her fingers through the archway. White light glimmered, and the ward faded away. 

Silence fell over the others as Calliande stared at the doors of golden metal. She felt the presence of her staff behind those doors like the heat of a fire upon her face.

“Well,” said Jager. “I suppose that was one way to get past the ward, wasn’t it?” 

“It’s time to finish this,” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Calliande, her throat dry, her pulse throbbing in her temples. The strange, terrifying familiarity of the hall threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted to turn and flee back to the Vale of Stone Death. “Yes, it is. Thank you, all of you. For…”

To her surprise, Morigna spoke. “Come along, Magistria. One cannot save the world by staring at the door.”

Calliande nodded. “I suppose not.” 

They walked into the vast, empty stone hall, towards the doors of golden metal with the dragon skull mounted over them. As they drew nearer, Calliande saw that the doors had been carved with elaborate designs of dragons. A flight of shallow stairs led up to the doors, leading to a broad dais perhaps five or six steps above the floor. 

“Another spell in front of the doors,” said Mara. “A powerful ward, similar to the first one.”

“I see it as well,” said Antenora. “It is more of the Keeper’s magic.” 

“It seems that you shall know how to open that ward as well,” said Morigna. 

“I hope so,” said Calliande, watching the golden doors draw closer. “I…” 

“Wait,” said Ridmark, his voice suddenly hard. 

He stopped and turned, looking towards the main Vault.

A green-clad woman emerged from the Vault, striding towards them. She wore a hooded green cloak that concealed her features. 

Calliande blinked, raising her hand in alarm as she summoned power for a spell. Morigna and Antenora followed suit, while the others lifted their weapons. Mara peered at the approaching woman, her green eyes narrowed. 

“There’s a spell on her,” said Mara. “A powerful one. I can’t quite tell…”

“Nor can I,” said Antenora. “I have not seen its like before.” 

That caught Calliande’s attention. Antenora was ancient, had lived with the Sight for nearly fifteen centuries. If she did not recognize the spell around the woman, that it meant it was magic she had never encountered before. 

Though there were any number of deadly creatures on Andomhaim that Antenora would not have encountered before. 

The woman stopped twenty yards away, her features obscured by the cowl of her long green cloak. She wore a green dress with golden trim upon the sleeves and hem, a dagger at her belt of black leather. The woman looked oddly familiar…

Irunzad let out a strange croak as he saw her, a twitch going through his limbs. 

“Identify yourself,” said Ridmark. 

“I…I know her,” said Irunzad. “I’ve…I’ve never seen her before, but I know her…”

The cloaked woman laughed and spoke in perfect Latin. “Do you not know me? You should. I have been waiting a very long time for your return, Calliande of Tarlion.” 

Calliande frowned. “You know me?” 

An unpleasant scent came to her nostrils. The air in the Vault had been odorless, yet now a smell like wet soil and rotting meat drifted past her. The smell was coming from the cloaked woman. 

And both Arandar’s and Gavin’s soulblades began to glow, as the swords usually did in the presence of dark magic. 

“Know you?” said the woman. “Perhaps. A more valid question. Do you know me?”

She drew back her cowl, and Calliande flinched.

The woman had blue eyes, a pale face, and long blond hair drawn back in a braid that made her look rather severe. 

She had Calliande’s face. 

“Who are you?” said Calliande, stunned. Was this a defense she had left around Dragonfall? Another magical trap? She cast the spell to sense the presence of magic, and detected a cloaking spell around her duplicate, one that prevented her from sensing any deeper. 

“No,” said Ridmark. He pointed his staff at the green-cloaked woman, his face hard. “No, that’s the wrong question. What are you?”

The duplicate laughed. Calliande hoped she really did not sound that smug. “A better question, Ridmark the Gray Knight. You do seem the smartest one in your ragged little band. Not quite smart enough, alas, but all the better for me. Though you are hardly important in the greater scheme of things. A bonus, as it were.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” said Ridmark. 

“Mmm,” said the duplicate. “No, it really doesn’t, does it?” She pointed at Irunzad. “He knows.” She began to speak in orcish. “Tell them, little man. Tell them who I am.”