Frostborn: The Iron Tower (32 page)

Ridmark wondered what it meant. 

“Three of you?” said the Artificer. “All the better.”

He blurred into motion, his sword writing lines of blue flame in the air.

###

“Go!” shouted Mara. She felt the last threads of her mind slipping away. “If you can’t kill me, then take the soulstone and go.”

“No.” Jager took a deep breath and drew the dwarven dagger from his belt, the sigils upon the blade shining with dull light. “You’re right. I…should have done this earlier. Forgive me.”

“No, forgive me,” said Mara. She closed her eyes and got to her knees, tilting her head back. “I love you.”

Jager took a deep, rasping breath. “I love you, too. And I’m sorry.”

And then the final transformation took hold.

Shadowy power exploded from her, and Mara screamed as the darkness enclosed her mind, as the darkness shaped her flesh like a sculptor molding clay.

Nothingness devoured her, and she fell into the void.

Chapter 21 - I Am You

Mara fell for centuries. Perhaps millennia.

Or maybe the world had never been anything more than an illusion, a lie she had told herself, and only the void had been real. 

The she felt something cold beneath her face and hands. 

Grass. Damp grass.

Mara rolled to her knees, puzzled. 

She was in the Nightmane Forest again. The ancient trees rose over her, tall and strong but twisted, their gnarled trunks spotted with lichen. Weathered menhirs of black stone jutted from the ground here and there, their sides carved with the glyphs of the Traveler’s potent warding spells, the spells that had kept him secure in the forest for many long centuries. 

Perhaps she was dead, and this was…well, if not heaven, it was not hell. Purgatory, maybe? Or perhaps the transformation had locked her mind within her memories. Or maybe she had been brought to the Nightmane Forest by magic. 

Yet how could she possibly be here? 

She did not realize she had spoken the question aloud until the deep, quiet voice answered her.

“You are not.”

Mara turned and saw the old man.

He had gray hair and a tangled gray beard, his face scored by lines of care and worry. The old man wore the white robe of the Magistri, bound about his waist with a black sash. Mara had never seen him before, and yet…

“I know you, I’m sure of it,” said Mara.

“I fear not,” said the old Magistrius. “I lived for a very long time, far longer than I wished…but I still died decades before you were born. We never met in the flesh.”

“Then we have met in the spirit?” said Mara, puzzled. 

“You can call me the Watcher,” said the Magistrius. “Once I was a Magistrius of the Order of the Vigilant, sworn to protect the realm against the return of the Frostborn. But our Master chose the wrong side in the War of the Five Princes, and our order was destroyed nearly a century ago. Yet my spirit lingered on, bound to fulfill my oath to the Order's mistress.”

“Your mistress?” said Mara, and then she remembered the things Jager had told her about Calliande, the things she had observed about the Magistria. “Calliande. She was your purpose.”

“It was the duty of the Vigilant to guide her and guard her when she awakened,” said the Watcher. “Alas, we failed, but my spirit lingers, bound by my duty and my final spell.”

“So how do I know you?” said Mara.

“When you slept in Vulmhosk,” said the Watcher, “Calliande stood guard over you, and tried to use my power to trap and destroy the Artificer’s spirit. Alas, we failed, and here we are.” 

“And where are we?” said Mara.

“Your mind,” said the Watcher.

“Alas,” said Mara, looking around, “I hoped it would not be so damp.” She swallowed. “Then I am transformed, and even now I am killing my allies…”

“Not yet,” said the Watcher.

“What do you mean?” said Mara. 

“Time does not have the same meaning for the spirit as it has for the flesh,” said the Watcher. “We are between heartbeats, as it were.” He sighed. “It is all I can do for you.”

“What have you done?” said Mara.

“I have given you a chance,” said the Watcher. “It is not much of a chance, I fear. But it is better than nothing.”

“Explain,” said Mara.

“Your transformation is irrevocable,” said the Watcher. “Through the magic of the Matriarch’s bracelet and your own remarkable strength of will, you have held it back for all of your life. But it can be stopped no longer. The change is coming, and you cannot resist it.”

“I know this,” said Mara.

“But there is a chance,” said the Watcher, “a small chance, that you can yet…steer the transformation.” 

“Steer?” said Mara. “What do you mean, steer it? It’s not a wagon.” 

“No,” said the Watcher. “But it is irresistible. As is a flood. But with canals and ditches, a flood can be diverted. So it is with you.”

A shudder went through the ground, and a blaze of blue fire shone in the distance.

“What is it?” said Mara, stepping back. She felt a weight upon her belt, looked down and saw her daggers hanging there.

“It is coming,” said the Watcher.

“What is coming?” said Mara. Little wonder Calliande seemed so exasperated at times, if this riddling spirit never offered a straight answer.

“You are,” said the Watcher. 

“Me?” said Mara. “I’m right here.”

“The dark elven half of your heart and soul,” said the Watcher.

Suddenly the misty forest seemed far colder.

“Oh,” said Mara.

“You will have to face the dark elven power within you,” said the Watcher. “If you can defeat it, if you can overcome it…perhaps you can yet avoid transforming into an urdhracos. Perhaps you can become something else.”

“Like what?” said Mara.

“I do not know,” said the Watcher. “I fear it has never before been attempted in the history of this world.”

“That is not reassuring,” said Mara. 

“It is all I have the power to do for you,” said the Watcher.

“Thank you,” said Mara. 

“May God and the saints be with you,” said the Watcher.

He vanished into the mist, and the blue flame grew brighter. Mara took a deep breath and drew a dagger in either hand, the familiar weight of the weapons both comforting and disturbing. She had killed with these daggers before. Yet she was an assassin, not a warrior. She struck from the shadows. What was she supposed to do here? Fight the darkness within? Overcome it in a knife fight? 

The blue flame dimmed, and a little girl stepped from the mists.

She was gaunt and thin, clad only in rags, her pale blond hair a ragged nest of grease and dirt. Bloodshot green eyes filled with hunger and madness turned towards Mara and narrowed. 

Mara gasped and stepped back.

The child was her. Mara as she had been, years ago, after her mother had died and she had wandered alone in the wilderness. 

“What are you?” said Mara.

“I am you,” said the girl in a croaking whisper. “You as you were. As you could have been.” Her eyes turned black and bottomless, like the eyes of the Artificer, the Traveler, the Matriarch. “And as you could yet be.”

She changed, her thin body twisting and distorting, her clothes crumbling as black scales sheathed her limbs. Her black eyes blazed with crimson flame, and hundreds of jagged spines erupted from her armored hide, each one dripping with poison. The creature moved forward with sinuous, serpentine grace, its movements deadly and efficient.

An urhaalgar. 

The dark elves of old, the Matriarch had told her, had used the creatures as spies and assassins. With their stealth and speed, they could infiltrate their foes with ease, and the poison upon their spines was utterly lethal.

The urhaalgar raced forward in silence, clawed hands reaching for Mara.

She danced aside, moving as the weapon masters of the Red Family had trained her, and dodged the creature’s first swipe. The urhaalgar wheeled with fluid speed, talons reaching for her throat, and Mara ducked and rolled. The ground blurred beneath her, and she came out of her roll and slashed. Her daggers cut through the scaly hide like cloth, and black blood leaked from the wound. The urhaalgar threw back its head and screamed, the first noise it had made. 

Mara took advantage of its distraction to drive one dagger into its left eye and another through its throat. The urhaalgar shrieked once more, the scream dissolving into a liquid gurgle. The creature shuddered, went limp, and collapsed motionless to the ground.

Mara stared down at it, breathing hard. She had killed it. But she was a killer. She had always been a killer, even before the Matriarch had recruited her into the Red Family.

It was who she was. 

The urhaalgar dissolved into swirling black smoke, a twisting mass of shadows. It looked a great deal like the darkness that had flowed around Mara when she had fought the transformation. The writhing smoke rose up, spreading into a towering column of shadow.

And then it flowed into her.

Mara stumbled back with a gasp, an icy chill washing through her. The chill passed in an instant, and when it did, she felt…stronger. Colder. Faster.

She looked at her hands and saw the shadows coiling around them, saw the ghostly shape of insubstantial talons around her fingertips. The veins beneath her pale skin pulsed and shimmered with blue fire.

The transformation was continuing.

“No!” shouted Mara. “I will defeat you. I will not succumb! I will not become a monster!”

The echoes of her defiant cry faded away, absorbed by the swirling mist. 

“It is too late, you know,” said a woman’s voice, low and sultry.

Mara whirled, and saw a woman step out of the mist.

It was herself. Or, rather, a slightly different version of herself. This version of herself was more muscular. Mara knew this because the duplicate wore only a close-fitting cuirass of crimson leather that left her arms and most of her legs bare, the muscles shifting beneath the pale skin. The red-armored woman carried a short sword in her right hand and a dagger in her left, and she turned a mocking smirk in Mara’s direction, a glaze of red light covering her green eyes. 

“And just who are you?” said Mara, circling the red woman.

The duplicate smiled. “I am you. As you are now. The killer, the assassin. As you could have been, had you been wise enough to obey the Matriarch, to see that she was your superior. If only you had obeyed, you might have been spared this fate.”

“And what fate it that?” said Mara.

“Why, this,” said the red woman.

She charged at Mara, stabbing with the dagger and swinging with the short sword. Mara kicked aside the stab and caught the sword in a cross-parry with her daggers. Steel clanged and shivered, and Mara retracted her daggers and slashed. Her duplicate danced aside, laughing like a madwoman, the crimson gleam in her eyes brightening.

“How weak you are!” said the red woman. “How pathetic. Killing is your nature! Embrace it and you can be strong. Resist it and you shall be overcome.” 

Mara glared at the duplicate. “Try it.”

“With pleasure,” said the red woman, her voice a purr. 

Again she attacked, slashing with the sword and stabbing with the dagger. Mara retreated, trying to stay ahead of her opponent’s longer reach. Yet it was not hard. The strange coldness gave Mara speed and strength, and the red woman was not a skilled fighter. Soon Mara saw the pattern to the red woman’s attacks.

Then it was only a matter of time.

Again the duplicate repeated her pattern, and Mara moved first. She stepped past the slash and stabbed her daggers. One drove into the duplicate’s chest, piercing the leather armor and sinking into her heart. The other plunged into the red woman’s neck. She shrieked, stumbled to her knees, and dropped her weapons.

“Fool,” croaked the duplicate, blood bubbling from her lips. 

“You will not take me!” said Mara. 

The red woman laughed.

“I have already taken you,” said the duplicate. “You have already transformed. For I am you. I have always been you.”

She shuddered and lay still, her lifeless eyes staring up at Mara…and she dissolved into black smoke and shadows.

Mara stepped back in alarm, trying to shield herself, but it was no use. Again the shadowy smoke flowed into her, filling her with cold, with strength, with speed. She looked at her hands in horror and saw the blue fire shining brighter in her veins, the immaterial claws around her fingers growing more substantial. 

And she could hear the Artificer’s song inside her head again, even in this strange dream-world. It was still faint, but growing stronger. 

“No,” said Mara, her voice reverberating with new power. “No. I will not transform. I will not become a monster! I will not!”

“Foolish girl,” said another voice, a woman’s voice of unearthly beauty. “You need not transform. You are what you always have been. Only now shall you realize it.” 

Mara looked up as a shadow descended from the mists over her head. 

A winged shadow.

The urdhracos, one of the mightiest creatures of the dark elves, landed a dozen paces away.

She wore armor of overlapping black steel plates, the gauntlets tipped with razor talons. The great black wings furled behind the urdhracos like a cloak of darkness, her pale blond hair blowing around her head. The eyes were bottomless pits into an eternal black void, and the face was unearthly beautiful, a face that could madden with its terrible cold beauty.

Mara’s face, altered.

Transformed. 

“Who are you?” said Mara, her voice unsteady.

“I am you,” said the urdhracos. “I am you as you soon shall be.”

Mara shook her head, her pulse pounding in her ears. “No. I refuse. I refuse!” 

“As well to refuse the sunrise and the sunset, to refuse the rain and the drought,” said the urdhracos. “Or the beating of your own heart and the blood flowing through your veins. I am you, Mara daughter of the Traveler. I am what you are meant to be. I am what you shall become.”

“No,” said Mara. 

“You are a killer,” said the urdhracos. 

“I am not,” said Mara.