Frostborn: The World Gate (32 page)

Now, though, now she only need defend, and in battles of magic as in battles of men and steel, the defender had the advantage.

The shamans unleashed their spells, bolts of crimson fire and shadow shrieking across the closing gap between the two armies. Calliande raised her staff and shouted, the end of the staff shining with white fire as she poured all her strength and all the power of the Keeper’s mantle into the ward. A pale wall of white light spread before the Anathgrimm, and the Mhorites’ spells slammed into it. Sparks and flashes of harsh light flared across the surface of the ward, and Calliande felt the strain as the dark magic pressed against her spell. Her ward was not strong enough to block the attacking spells entirely. Yet the power of the Keeper unraveled the Mhorite spells, and their power dissipated harmlessly, draining to nothing by the time they reached the Anathgrimm.

“Antenora!” said Calliande. “Now!” 

Antenora raised her staff, and a fireball the size of her head leapt from her hand and soared over the lines of the Anathgrimm. It landed in the midst of the charging Mhorites with a boom and a flash, and a dozen orcish warriors went tumbling through the air, their limbs wreathed in flame. More points of blood magic flared in Calliande’s Sight as the Mhorite shamans started another round of spells.

Behind her she heard a clicking noise as the Anathgrimm raised the crossbows and released. A storm of quarrels flew overhead in a smooth arc and plunged into the charging Mhorite warriors. Dozens of them fell, the steel-tipped quarrels punching through their armor to find the flesh beneath, and dozens more fell wounded only to be trampled by their charging comrades. 

Calliande summoned power for another ward, and then the Mhorites slammed into the first line of the Anathgrimm.

###

The Mhorite’s sword rebounded from Gavin’s shield. He twisted, bringing Truthseeker around for a strike. The Mhorite warrior got his own shield up, eyes gleaming red with the mad battle fury of the orcish kindred, and Truthseeker rebounded from the thick wood. Gavin’s enhanced strength left a crack in the shield, so he swung again, putting all of his strength and all of Truthseeker’s power behind the blow. This time the soulblade shattered the Mhorite’s shield, and the warrior stumbled back, his scarred face almost comical with surprise. Gavin drove Truthseeker home, the blade sliding between the Mhorite’s ribs, and the warrior collapsed to the ground. 

Gavin ripped the soulblade free, falling back to stand next to Arandar. He started to aid the older Swordbearer, but Arandar was already in motion. He bashed a Mhorite in the face with his shield, and the orc’s red-tattooed head snapped to the side. Before the Mhorite regained his footing, Heartwarden came around in a blazing arc, sinking halfway into the orcish warrior’s neck. The Mhorite fell dead, and Arandar raised his shield in guard as he looked for another foe. 

Around them the battle raged in a storm of blood and steel. It was just like the Vale of Stone Death all over again, when the Traveler had led the Anathgrimm against Mournacht and his warriors, with Gavin and Arandar and the others caught in the middle between the opposing armies. Ridmark and Calliande had rescued them, riding to their aid with a band of manetaur warriors. 

The Mhorite charge had broken the first line of the Anathgrimm, pushing the spiny orcs back, but the second line had marched with cold precision into the fray. Unlike the first line, the second maintained its cohesion, and step by step the Anathgrimm forced the Mhorites towards the River Marcaine. The first line was starting to reform, though a hundred individual duels and melees swirled before the advancing Anathgrimm. Flashes of white light and crimson fire snarled overhead as the Mhorite shamans contested against Calliande’s power. Screams and the clang of weapons filled the air, mingled with the roar of a thousand voices and the stench of blood and dying men. 

Gavin fought and killed alongside Arandar and Kharlacht and Caius, Truthseeker’s white flame burning away the orcish blood that coated the blade. 

###

Ridmark whirled his staff, deflecting a spear thrust aimed at his heart. He spun the weapon one more time, the butt end bouncing off the Mhorite’s jaw with a loud crack. The Mhorite stumbled, and before Ridmark could get his staff up for another strike, Qhazulak attacked. The huge axe split the Mhorite’s head in twain like a rotten fruit, and Qhazulak wrenched his glistening weapon with a roar, turning to seek another foe.

Ridmark was clad that the old orc was on his side. 

For now, they were winning. The Mhorites were wild, vicious fighters, screaming to Mhor as they attacked, but the Anathgrimm were better trained and better disciplined. The shock of the Mhorite and kobold attack had broken the first line of Anathgrimm warriors, but the second line had advanced, and the first line was reforming. Step by step the Anathgrimm forced the Mhorites back. If pushed too far, they might break and flee, falling back to the River Marcaine. 

That overlooked, of course, what the dvargir might do. Hundreds of Mhorites and scores of kobolds had been killed, but Ridmark had not yet seen the dvargir take action. Perhaps the dvargir had decided to abandon the battle, slipping away to leave their Mhorite allies to their fate.

Ridmark did not think he was that lucky.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, a shiver went through the second Anathgrimm line. Ridmark looked right and left, and saw that the dvargir wings had broken from the Mhorite center, leaving the orcs to fight while they circled to assail the flanks of the Anathgrimm lines. Yet the Anathgrimm knew their business, and responded before Ridmark could give them any orders. Parts of the second line broke off to face this new attack, while the third line abandoned their crossbows, drawing swords and rushing to aid the second line. Yet that might not be enough. The dvargir kept to their formations with grim tenacity, and advanced step by bloody step, pushing the Anathgrimm back. If the line buckled beneath the pressure, the Mhorites would swarm all over them…

Then a pair of dvargir warriors charged at Ridmark, and he had no more time to worry over the battle. He had made his plans. The die had been cast, as Julius Caesar had once said upon Old Earth. Now all that remained to see was how the die would fall.

And, of course, to stay alive long enough to find out. 

Ridmark thrust his staff, deflecting the black sword that had been aimed at his chest. The dvargir wrought their armor and weapons from a strange black metal that both looked wet and somehow drank the light, a metal that was stronger and lighter than normal steel. It was like fighting a shifting shadow that seemed to absorb the light and reflect it at the same time. Ridmark hit the nearest dvargir once, twice, three times with the black staff, the weapon rebounding from the dvargir’s heavy armor. The dvargir warrior reeled back with every blow, but his armor protected him. At last Ridmark’s momentum played out, the dvargir warrior raising his shield to deflect any other blows. The second warrior came at him, and Ridmark slapped aside the swing of an axe with a sweep of his staff. He released the staff, snatched the axe from his belt with a single smooth motion, and brought the weapon around. The blade crunched into the dvargir’s neck, and the warrior went into a weird, twitching dance, his void-filled eyes going wide. 

The first warrior lunged at him, and Ridmark released the axe and ducked, rolling across the ground to seize his staff. The dvargir stabbed at him, and Ridmark jabbed his staff, catching the dvargir in the knee. The dvargir stumbled, his thrust going wide, and Zhorlacht seized the opening, plunging his sword into a gap in the dvargir’s armor. He ripped the sword free, and the dvargir fell. Ridmark seized his axe and got back to his feet. 

“Is this not splendid, Gray Knight?” said Zhorlacht. The Anathgrimm seemed to be enjoying himself, his black eyes covered with a red gleam, his voice wild and delighted. “Let us shed more blood together!” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark, turning to face more foes.

There was no shortage of blood to shed. 

He only hoped his plan worked before they all died.

###

“You cannot go into the battle, Mara,” said Calliande in a low voice, the staff of the Keeper flickering with white fire in her fist. 

“I agree entirely,” said Jager.

Morigna listened with half an ear, her attention focused upon the melee. She had lost sight of Ridmark beyond the lines of Anathgrimm, but she wanted to join him, to fling her spells into battle at his side. Unfortunately, she could not find her way through the packed lines of the Anathgrimm, and she doubted the spiny orcs would let her pass. Yet she saw bands of Mhorites and dvargir and kobolds charging towards where Ridmark and the Swordbearers and the others fought, and so she flung spells at them, bursts of earth magic that rippled the ground beneath them or conjured veils of sleeping mists in their paths. She didn’t know how much good it was doing. Yet she caused a continual disruption that the Anathgrimm exploited to good advantage, and every dead foe was a foe that could not hurt Ridmark. 

So Morigna kept casting spells, drawing as much power as she could. The dark magic whispered in her mind, promising that she could blast a path to Ridmark, but she ignored it.

She tried to ignore it, anyway. 

“The battle hangs in the balance,” said Mara. “Every blade is needed.”

“Not the blade of the Queen,” said Calliande. “If you fall, what will the Anathgrimm do?” She thrust the staff, white fire blazing around her as she cast another ward. Crimson fire snarled overhead, the Mhorites shamans’ spell shattering against the power of the Keeper’s magic. “They will flee the field, or turn upon us, or go on a rampage. Your life is too important to risk.” 

“All our lives are at risk anyway,” said Mara. “I do not know how much longer the Anathgrimm can hold.”

Morigna did not know, either. The Anathgrimm were determined warriors, but the Mhorites were ferocious, and the dvargir were just as disciplined. The combined weight of the Mhorites and the dvargir pushed the Anathgrimm back, and the constant sorties of the kobolds did not help matters. 

They were losing the battle.

“Dux Gareth is coming,” said Calliande. 

“Dux Gareth will not get here in time,” said Mara. “Even if he sends his men at a sprint, they will not arrive in time, and will be winded anyway.”

“Perhaps it is time to withdraw,” said Jager, his short sword in hand as he watched the fighting. “We…”

The sound of distant thunder came to Morigna’s ears. She looked towards the sky, but it was clear. Her gaze turned towards the Black Mountain and Shadowbearer’s pillar of blue fire, but the sound hadn’t come from that direction. 

No, it had come from the south. 

The south…

Suddenly she understood. The noise wasn’t thunder.

It was the beating of hooves. 

“Mara,” she said. “Look. Look!” 

Mara turned her head as Sir Constantine Licinius led the knights and mounted men-at-arms of the Northerland into the battle. The horsemen crashed into the right wing of the dvargir, and the noise of horses and hooves and lances tearing into the dark-armored forms was like a thunderbolt. Had the dvargir been prepared, their armor and shields would have let them resist the charge. But their full attention was upon the Anathgrimm, and their formation had been disrupted. They were not ready to take a cavalry charge. 

Just as Ridmark had intended, Morigna realized. 

The horsemen tore through the right wing of the dvargir, riding into the disorganized mass of Mhorites in the center. A ripple went through the enemy army, and the Anathgrimm on Morigna’s left started to turn, following the horsemen to drive the disorganized dvargir before them. 

“Ah, well,” said Jager. “That changes things, doesn’t it?” 

###

Ridmark struck down another Mhorite, and then another, seeking for a new foe.

For a moment, to his confusion, he could not find one.

The enemy fled. 

Three horsemen galloped past, driving the Mhorites before them. Ridmark glimpsed Sir Constantine riding at the head of a band of knights, Brightherald flashing in his fist as he cut down dvargir after dvargir. A trio of kobolds charged at Ridmark, stabbing with their spears. He dodged the first thrust and spun his staff in a circle, deflecting the poisoned heads of their weapons. He then sidestepped and drove the length of his staff against one of the kobold’s lizard-like heads, the sound of snapping bone filling his ears. The kobold went down, and Ridmark blocked another spear thrust, bringing his staff down upon the kobold’s crimson crest with crushing force. The last kobold tried to attack again, only to meet the blade of Qhazulak’s massive axe.

The old orc’s powerful blow cut both the kobold and its spear in half. 

“The dogs flee,” said Qhazulak, glaring at the Mhorites with contempt. 

“They were not ready to withstand a charge of horsemen,” said Zhorlacht, shaking some kobold blood from the blade of his sword. “Behold! Their entire line collapses.”

He was right. Constantine’s charge had smashed through the dvargir on the left, and the horsemen had broken through, trampling the Mhorites. Already the Anathgrimm line curved to envelop the breaking enemy. The dvargir on the right wing kept their formation intact, but a little more pressure and they would break.

Trumpets rang out, and that pressure arrived.

The footmen from Dun Licinia had arrived at last. With the enemy pinned in place by the Anathgrimm, they had been vulnerable to an attack from horsemen upon the flank. After Constantine’s charge had ripped through their lines, the enemy did not have time to reform before another organized force hit them.

Dux Gareth’s infantry provided that force, and the Mhorites and dvargir began to flee, vanishing towards the woods to the north. 

The battle was over, but the killing went on for some time.

###

Calliande crossed the field, making her way toward the banner of the Dux. The dead lay on the ground around her, Mhorites and Anathgrimm and dvargir and kobolds and human men-at-arms and militiamen.