Frostborn: The Broken Mage (31 page)

Ridmark and his companions had been pulled along with it. 

Now the central Vault had become a battlefield, with Anathgrimm warriors striving against the Mhorites, the floor becoming slick with orcish blood and carpeted with corpses. The Traveler and Mournacht continued their titanic duel, flinging blasts of dark magic at each other, the air between them crackling with baleful energy. Both the dark elven lord and the orcish shaman had ordered their warriors to kill Ridmark and his companions, but both armies were occupied with trying to kill each other. If a troop of Anathgrimm tried to attack Ridmark and his friends, a band of Mhorites seized the opportunity to attack the Anathgrimm from behind. 

So far that was the only thing that had kept Ridmark and his companions alive. Ridmark bled from half a dozen minor wounds, and all the others had taken blows as well. Gavin and Arandar had used their soulblades to heal what they could, but they were not nearly as effective as Calliande. 

There was no way to escape, not with the battling armies filling the Vault and the throne room and the assembly chamber beyond. They had to hold out until Calliande reemerged from Dragonfall with her staff. Though Ridmark wondered if even the power of the Keeper could stand against the dark magic Mournacht and the Traveler flung at each other. Perhaps they would succeed in restoring Calliande only for her to die here, and the soulstone would fall into Shadowbearer’s hands anyway. 

Regardless of what might happen, there was nothing left to do but to fight, so Ridmark fought.

“Mhorites!” shouted Arandar, pointing with Heartwarden. A band of Mhorites had broken free of the melee and sprinted towards Ridmark, axes and swords in hand. 

“Morigna,” Ridmark said, but she was already moving, her staff sputtering with purple fire. Her face was tight and drawn, smudged with soot and blood, dark shadows gathered under her black eyes. Yet despite their peril, she had not yet used dark magic in the fight.

As far as he knew, anyway. 

She thrust her staff, and the floor beneath the charging Mhorites rippled and folded, knocking many of them from their feet. Antenora was already casting another spell, a fist-sized ball of fire whirling over the end of her staff. She gestured, and the fireball soared from the end of her staff to land in the midst of the Mhorites. The explosion wasn’t nearly as large as some of the others she had unleashed, but it was enough to kill two of the Mhorites and set several of them ablaze, and their attack faltered in confusion as they fought to put out the flames. 

In that moment of confusion, Ridmark and the others attacked.

He killed a burning Mhorite as the orcish warrior struggled to put out the flames chewing at his trousers. One of the uninjured Mhorites came at Ridmark with a sword, and he parried the blow, shoved, and whirled his staff in a circle, driving one end into the Mhorite’s belly. The Mhorite warrior stumbled with a groan, and Ridmark brought the staff down upon the Mhorite’s head. The warrior wasn’t wearing a helmet, and Ridmark heard the crack of shattering bone even over the roaring chaos of the battle. Another Mhorite came at Ridmark, and he tried to dodge, and the edge of the Mhorite’s sword bounced off his armored chest. Ridmark stumbled, and before the Mhorite landed a second blow, Caius swung his mace. The mace of dwarven steel shattered the Mhorite’s elbow with a vicious crunch, and Ridmark recovered his balance and killed the Mhorite.

Gavin and Arandar tore into the orcs, their soulblades blazing with white fire in reaction to the dark magic snarling through the Vault. Kharlacht hewed his way through the Mhorites, his massive greatsword a blur of blue steel. 

Yet still Mhorite warriors charged at them, even as blasts of bloody fire and writhing shadow snapped back and forth between Mournacht and the Traveler.

###

Mara held her short sword ready, standing guard over Morigna and Antenora as the sorceresses threw their magic into the battle. From time to time Antenora had a clear shot at the Mhorites or the Anathgrimm, and Morigna regularly threw spells of earth magic into their enemies. It hardly seemed to make a difference. Once again they were in the middle of a battle, caught between two battling armies. 

Mara knew she was not much use in a fight like this. She had been trained as an assassin, not as a warrior or a knight, and she preferred to kill enemies that were not fighting back. Additionally, the mighty wards ringing both the Traveler and Mournacht prevented her from using the power of her dark elven blood to travel. 

So she hung back with Jager, helping him to kill any Mhorites or Anathgrimm that tried to attack Morigna and Antenora. Not that many did. Ridmark and the others killed any Mhorites and Anathgrimm warriors that drew too close. Yet they were in an untenable position, and she knew it. There was no room left to flee, and neither Mournacht nor the Traveler could withdraw from their titanic battle. Her father was a coward, but his desire to claim the power of the Keeper had apparently overruled his fear. He could not walk away from the fight, and neither could Mournacht. The duel would continue until one of them was dead.

And then the victor would turn his full attention to the Keeper’s companions. 

A Mhorite warrior sprinted at Antenora and Morigna, snarling. Jager leapt to the attack, his short sword flashing, and the Mhorite lunged at him. Jager jumped back, barely avoiding the tip of the Mhorite’s sword. Mara darted behind the Mhorite, gauged the angle of the attack, and calmly ripped her sword across the backs of the Mhorite’s legs. The orcish warrior fell to his knees with a screech of pain, and Jager stepped forward and stabbed twice. 

The warrior fell face-first to the floor with a thump, his blood joining the corpses and gold already on the ground. Blood and gold would cover the floor before this was done. The Red Family would have rejoiced at the sight…

Mara forced her thoughts to remain on the battle, and a flare of blue light filled her eyes. 

“What the devil is that?” said Jager.

The Traveler and Mournacht had moved to the center of the Vault, leaving a trail of corpses, fire, and smoking craters in their wake. Now they stood maybe twenty yards apart. The Traveler waited atop his snarling ursaar, his sword pointed at Mournacht. The orcish shaman gripped his axe’s haft with both hands, the weapon pointed at the dark elven lord. Blue fire snarled up and down the Traveler’s sword, while Mournacht’s axe blazed with crimson fire. 

Between them burned something like a small star, a writhing ball of crimson and blue flame. It pulsed and shuddered, wobbling between the Traveler and Mournacht, and seemed to be growing bigger. Mara’s Sight revealed the colossal flows of power surging into the star as Mournacht and the Traveler unleashed magical force at each other.

“It is a spell,” said Antenora in answer to Jager’s question. “A contest of raw strength.”

“So basically they’re…shoving at each other?” said Jager.

“Precisely,” said Antenora.

“Though shoving matches don’t usually result in explosions,” said Mara. The power in the competing spells was building out of control. It was like boiling water in a sealed pot. Sooner or later the steam would need a place to go…

The star shuddered again, and the colors merged, becoming a ball of white-hot flame that expanded like a swelling balloon.

“Oh,” said Mara. “That’s not good.” 

“We should take cover,” said Antenora. “Immediately.” 

A ripple of silence went over the battle as both Mhorite orcs and Anathgrimm orcs looked at the expanding sphere of fire. 

“Get down!” shouted Mara. Jager dove towards one of the stone tables, and Mara followed him. “Now! Go, go!” 

The others followed suit, taking cover behind the stone tables. Mara saw Morigna stumble, saw Ridmark grab her shoulders and pull her close…

The competing spells exploded. 

###

Morigna threw herself behind the table next to Ridmark, and then the thunderous roar of the explosion filled her ears. The Vault heaved and shook like a drum, and the air jingled and clanged as thousands of coins bounced off the walls and floor. An expanding sphere of ghostly blue flame rushed past, filling the Vault. Morigna suspected it was the release of residual power from the spell, that it did not possess enough strength to hurt anyone.

Yet as it rolled past the table where she sheltered with Ridmark, the dark magic within her rose in answer, and suddenly the shadows mantled her from head to toe. The dark magic within her must have interpreted the blue fire as an attack, had risen in her defense as it had beneath the gaze of the basilisk. 

“Are you all right?” said Ridmark. 

Morigna coughed out a laugh, and forced the shadows to disperse. “I think so. But does it matter? We can worry about dark magic if we get out of here alive.” 

She made herself stand, leaning upon her staff, and Ridmark followed suit.

The explosion had thrown the Vault into further chaos, tipping over stone tables, sending treasures flying in all directions, and killing hundreds of the battling orcs. The Traveler’s ursaar lay dead, its head and forepaws missing, smoke rising from its charred carcass. The Traveler himself stood a few paces away, his blue armor scorched, more ghostly fire snarling around the blade of his sword. Mournacht leaned upon his massive axe like a staff, the blood sigils upon his chest and arms sputtering, his rage-filled eyes locked upon the Traveler.

The shaman roared and sprang at the Traveler, his massive axe raised for a killing blow, and the Traveler snapped his sword up to meet the attack. Around them the surviving Mhorites and Anathgrimm resumed their battle, rushing into the melee anew.

“The damned fools,” muttered Ridmark. “They’ll keep fighting until they’re all dead, and they’ll take us with them in the process.” 

“If we could engineer the first and prevent the second,” said Morigna, “that would be the optimal outcome.” 

She looked around as the others gained their feet. None of them had been hurt in the explosion. They had already taken wounds fighting the Anathgrimm and the Mhorites, but they were far enough from the duel between the Traveler and Mournacht that the blast had lost much of its force by the time the shock wave reached them. 

Mara stared at Morigna, her green eyes narrowed in thought. 

“Perhaps we should fall back to the doors of Dragonfall,” said Arandar, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Our foes seem preoccupied with each other.”

“That won’t last,” said Ridmark. Already more orcs, Anathgrimm and Mhorite both, rushed into the Vault from the throne room. “Very soon at least some of them will turn their attention to us. Be ready for another round.” Arandar nodded and began using Heartwarden to heal wounds, and Gavin followed suit. “We ought to…”

“The shadows,” said Mara. “You used the shadows.” 

Morigna scowled, a mixture of embarrassed anger and guilt going through her. “Not deliberately. They came in response to…whatever it was that Mournacht and the Traveler did to each other. The way they did when the basilisk first looked at me. I did not call them deliberately.” 

Mara nodded, once, and then her green eyes got wide.

“What is it?” said Ridmark.

“I think,” said Mara, “I think I know we can kill both the Traveler and Mournacht.”

Chapter 18: Remember

The gray mist swirled around her, and again Calliande saw a stone plinth rising from the gleaming white floor, yet another crystalline sphere waiting atop it. 

A jolt of fear shot through her, and her hands clenched into fists. 

Piece by piece, the crystalline spheres restored her memories…and old pains surged through her with every new recollection. The spheres had showed her training as a Magistria in Tarlion, how driven she had become, how focused and determined. Marius and the others had taught her, and her skills grew rapidly. There had been no shortage of opportunity to practice her spells, either. The war with the Frostborn worsened with every passing year. They had overrun the Northerland, and pushed further south into Caerdracon with every passing year. 

By the age of fifteen, Calliande was in the camps of the High King’s armies with Marius, attending to the wounded. By the age of sixteen, she had become a full Magistria, so great was her skill at healing and so dire was the High Kingdom’s need. She had seen every possible injury a weapon could inflict, swords and maces and arrows. The pincers of the locusari left long, ragged wounds, and the insect-like creatures favored disemboweling their foes, the men screaming as their viscera hung wet and limp against their legs. 

Calliande healed their wounds, absorbing their pain. 

She had fallen in love with an older Magistrius, a man named Julian Taborius, one of the Magistri skilled in wards and defensive spells. He treated her kindly, as a younger sister, until one day he explained that she was common-born and he was noble, and therefore any relationship between them was impossible.

That same night the Frostborn attacked in force, smashing the army of the High Kingdom and sending them fleeing south towards Castra Carhaine. Calliande remembered the Frostborn in their grim gray armor, their swords coated in freezing mist, remembered the hordes of locusari swarming across the ground like a chitinous tide. She remembered the spells of ice and frost, remembering seeing villages burn, the villagers rounded up as slaves in the growing empire of the Frostborn.

She remembered Julian screaming, his body pierced by a dozen icy spikes. Marius had pulled a weeping Calliande from the dead man, urging her to flee before it was too late. 

Calliande hadn’t been able to save Julian. There had been so many that she had been unable to save that terrible night.

“Must I?” said Calliande in a raspy, raw voice as the mist swirled away from the stone plinth. 

“Yes,” said Marius, his voice full of regret. “I am afraid that you must.” 

Calliande closed her eyes, taking a shuddering breath. She realized that with the Devourer stalking her, closing her eyes was probably a terrible idea, and she opened them again. Yet she still saw no sign of the Devourer, and the dragon skulls in the walls stared down at her in silence.