Frostborn: The Broken Mage Read online

  “Very well,” said Ridmark, and they continued onward.

  ###

  They left the Hall of the West and entered a high pillared gallery, and Calliande felt a peculiar sense of disappointment.

  She knew it was entirely irrational. After escaping Urd Morlemoch, all her thoughts had been upon reaching Khald Azalar and Dragonfall, of recovering her staff and her memory at last. She had known that her staff would be buried deep within Khald Azalar. It would not be waiting for her just beyond the Gate of the West. Her past self would not have left any clues or secrets waiting in the Hall of the West.

  Yet the disappointment was there nonetheless.

  A dark sort of relief went with the disappointment. Calliande knew that she had once been the Keeper of Andomhaim, the woman who had led the High Kingdom to victory against the Frostborn. Yet she remembered nothing of it, and she dreaded the return of that memory. That woman had been willing to seal herself away in darkness for centuries, to lose everyone and everything she loved to awaken in the distant future. Calliande could not imagine the kind of woman that could make such a cold choice.

  Yet she had been that woman, and she had made that choice.

  They walked in silence down the gallery, the harsh light from Antenora’s staff throwing back the darkness. Here and there dwarven glowstones shone from the pillars, treated in chemical salts that made them luminous for centuries. More bones lay scattered upon the floor, both ancient dwarven bones and the more recent bones of Vhaluuskan orcs and deep orcs. Calliande wondered what had killed them. The Vhaluuskan orcs had probably been scavengers from Khorduk to the west, and they had likely killed each other in a quarrel over spoils or fallen to the arrows of the deep orcs.

  The deep orcs, though…what had killed them?

  Calliande knew some things about deep orcs, things that she had likely learned before hiding her memory in Dragonfall. The deep orcs lived in tribes in the Deeps, some independent, some enslaved by the dvargir or the dark elven princes. Granted, that information wasn’t useful just now. Anything could have killed these deep orcs. Other tribes, the Vhaluuskans, some horror that had wandered up from the Deeps…anything at all, really.

  Another pile of the strange gray armor lay in a heap against a pillar, radiating terrible cold, a faint white mist crawling over the crystalline bones of a slain Frostborn. Calliande felt a strange crawling sensation as she looked at the bones. She was certain, absolutely certain, that she had seen armor like that before coming to Khald Azalar.

  She just couldn’t remember when.

  “Keeper?” said Antenora in her worn voice. “Is anything amiss?”

  Calliande was still not sure what to do about Antenora. The woman had been the apprentice of the first Keeper, the Keeper who had helped Malahan Pendragon lead the survivors of the High King’s realm from Old Earth to Andomhaim. Antenora had remained upon Old Earth for centuries, cursed by her betrayal. She wanted redemption, wanted to be released from her curse, and Calliande had no idea how to do that.

  Perhaps Calliande would remember once she had recovered the staff of the Keeper.

  In the meantime, Antenora’s powerful fire magic might well help Calliande to reach the staff.

  “Nothing just now,” said Calliande.

  “Ah,” said Antenora. “I fear that means many things are amiss, but you can do nothing about them at the moment, so you carry on as best you can.”

  “Something like that, yes,” said Calliande.

  “It is a familiar feeling, Keeper,” said Antenora. “I remember that…”

  “Stop,” said Ridmark.

  For a moment Calliande thought that Ridmark had grown irritated at the conversation, but one look at his expression proved otherwise. His hard face had gone tight, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, the black staff of Ardrhythain ready in his hand.

  Ahead she saw the reason for his alarm.

  They had come to a crossroads. The gallery continued ahead, glowstones shining here and there from the pillars. Another gallery intersected it about thirty yards ahead, and it looked as if a great deal of fighting had taken place there. Both orcish and dwarven bones lay upon the ground, and Calliande saw more of the frozen armor of a Frostborn.

  It was the perfect spot for an ambush. If Calliande saw it, Ridmark would definitely notice it.

  “Brother Caius?” said Ridmark.

  Caius frowned. “The gallery straight ahead continues to the Dormari Market, I believe. The galleries to the right and to the left go to residential areas, where visitors and foreigners were housed when visiting Khald Azalar.”

  “You believe?” said Jager.

  Caius shrugged. “It has been two hundred years since I last passed the Gate of the West. My memory is not as clear on the matter as I might wish.”

  Ridmark said nothing, the fingers of his right hand drumming against his staff.

  “Morigna,” he said at last.

  “Aye?” she said, stepping to his side. She carried her bow in hand, an arrow ready at the string. Her face was its usual cold, somewhat mocking mask, but her black eyes softened as she looked at Ridmark, and he seemed less grim when he looked at her. A flicker of jealousy went through Calliande, and she pushed it aside.

  “The spell you cast in Thainkul Dural,” said Ridmark. “The day we escaped from the mzrokar.” Morigna nodded. “I think you should cast it right now.”

  Calliande stiffened, and then began summoning the power of the Well for a spell. Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin all raised their weapons. Mara, Jager, Arandar, and Antenora all looked confused.

  “Trouble?” murmured Jager.

  “I think so,” said Calliande. “I think there are foes nearby, and they can overhear us. Be ready to strike.”

  Antenora said nothing, but the white flame crackling atop her staff grew brighter, the sigils carved into the wood beginning to glow. Calliande looked around, readying herself to release power. She saw no sign of any enemies, but that meant nothing. The dvargir could use their powers over shadow to turn themselves invisible. Deep orcs could move with inhuman stealth. Calliande glanced at the ceiling, remembering how the children of the urdmordar could climb overhead, but saw nothing. Her eyes swept over the walls, past the pillars carved with blocky dwarven glyphs and reliefs, and…

  The pillars.

  A cold chill swept through her.

  She was certain something was hiding behind one of the pillars, and suddenly she knew what had triggered Ridmark’s alarm.

  Morigna slung her bow over her shoulder and lifted her staff, muttering a spell as she did so. Purple fire flashed up and down the staff, and her eyelids fluttered. Morigna’s power over earth magic let her sense the presence of people standing upon the stone floor. Not even the dvargir could hide themselves from that spell.

  Morigna’s eyes shot open.

  “Ridmark!” she said. “They’re behind the pillars!”

  “Defend yourselves!” said Ridmark, and the others spun into a ring, moving to shield Calliande, Antenora, and Morigna so they could work their spells.

  As they did, shapes appeared from behind the pillars.

  They looked orcish, albeit far different from the orcs that dwelled upon the surface. Most of the orcs of the surface world were like Kharlacht, tall and strong with their skin a deep green color. These orcs were shorter and thinner, their skin a sickly yellow, their ears the size of a grown man’s palms, their nostrils wide and black. The deep orcs had no eyes. In lieu of eyes, a strange band of knotted, veined flesh encircled their heads like a blindfold. The organ gave them the ability to sense heat the way that the human eye detected light, allowing them to move in perfect darkness.

  A ring of a dozen deep orcs appeared around Calliande and the others, stepping from behind the pillars, and more appeared in the crossroads ahead, all of them moving with eerie silence. The deep orcs carried blowguns. The darts within were likely treated with a sleeping drug, and the deep orcs would take them captive as slaves.

  Or possibl
y as food.

  As one the deep orcs lifted the blowguns to their tusked mouths, and Calliande cast a spell.

  Once such a spell would have been beyond her. Her powers had grown greatly in the last few weeks, first after her battle with the Artificer in the Iron Tower, and then after the Warden’s malevolent spirit had possessed her at Urd Morlemoch. Even with her new magical strength, if the deep orcs had been using crossbows or longbows, she couldn’t have managed it. Yet their darts were not heavy or moving very fast.

  The deep orcs unleashed their darts, and white light pulsed from Calliande’s hands, and a dome of shimmering light erupted from her and expanded over the others. It passed through them and the deep orcs without harm, but the light of the warding spell deflected the poisoned darts.

  For an instant the deep orcs were stunned, their eyeless heads turning back and forth in confusion.

  “Now!” shouted Ridmark. “Strike!”

  He dashed forward, his black staff spinning in a circle. The end of the weapon slammed into the side of a deep orc’s head with a bone-splitting crack, and the orc fell in a limp heap to the ground. The others followed his lead. Gavin and Arandar surged forward, moving with the superhuman speed granted by the power of their soulblades. Morigna cast another spell, and the stone floor rippled and folded, flinging three deep orcs from their feet. Jager darted into the fray, using the short sword of dark elven steel he had taken from the Warden’s armory. One of the deep orcs raised his blowgun, taking aim at Calliande. Blue fire swirled behind him, and Mara appeared out of nothingness, her face calm and detached as she slashed the deep orc’s throat with expert skill. The deep orc fell, and Mara disappeared again. Caius and Kharlacht fought side-by-side, Caius covering the orcish warrior’s back as Kharlacht’s greatsword rose and fell, killing with every blow.

  Calliande summoned more power and cast a spell, white light leaping from her hands to sink into her companions. The spell made them stronger, allowing them to strike with greater force. She felt the weight of holding the spell lying upon her mind like a cord of fire, taking some of her magical strength, but she had power enough to work another spell if needed.

  Ridmark and the others cut free of the ring of deep orcs and charged towards the foes waiting in the crossroads. The deep orcs there rallied, drawing short swords and raising spears. There were at least twenty of them, and an idea came to Calliande.

  “Antenora!” she said, and the older woman’s yellow gaze turned towards her. “They see heat, not light. If you…”

  But Antenora had already grasped her purpose. She drew back her staff, its length suddenly burning with harsh fire, and thrust the weapon forward. A sphere of fire the size of Calliande’s head erupted from the staff, soared over Ridmark and the others, and landed in the midst of the deep orcs.

  It made an impressive explosion.

  Two of the deep orcs collapsed, flames tearing at their clothing and skin, and the rest stumbled back. Ridmark and the others came to a halt, but the deep orcs retreated further. Antenora’s fire had dazzled them, blinding the strange organ that let them sense heat.

  A silent communication seemed to pass through the deep orcs, and as one they turned and fled down the gallery to the east, vanishing out of sight into the gloom.

  For a moment the only sound was the crackle of the flames on the dead deep orcs. It made for an unpleasant smell.

  “Let them go,” said Ridmark.

  “It is unwise to chase a wounded foe into his native terrain,” said Arandar. “How did you know they were there?”

  “I didn’t,” said Ridmark. “But this was a perfect place for an ambush.”

  Arandar frowned at Morigna. “So how did you know they were there?”

  She smirked at him. “Vile dark magic, sir knight. How else?”

  Arandar’s eyes narrowed.

  Ridmark sighed. “Morigna.”

  “A spell of earth magic,” said Morigna, gesturing with her staff. “The floors are made of stone. Your weight puts pressure upon the stone, pressure that I can sense through earth magic. The same principles apply to the deep orcs.”

  Arandar grunted, not exactly pleased, but not satisfied, either. Calliande could not blame him. Morigna had been increasingly erratic since she had absorbed some of the Warden’s power at Urd Morlemoch, though she seemed to have herself under control since they had fled the battle between the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm.

  Or she was doing a good job of pretending.

  Calliande pushed aside the thought. It was something else she could worry about once she retrieved her staff and memory.

  “The deep orcs,” said Ridmark. “They must control most of Khald Azalar, if they’re so close to the Gate of the West.”

  “Or this portion of the city, at least,” said Caius. “It is possible that other kindreds rule in different parts of the city. Or that different tribes of deep orcs make war upon each other throughout the ruins.” He shrugged. “Or that the deep orcs we fought were simply a scouting party that stumbled upon us. We shall not know until we proceed further.”

  “Morigna,” said Ridmark. “How far does your spell extend?”

  She hesitated. “Eighty yards. Maybe ninety, if I concentrate.”

  “That will have to be enough,” said Ridmark. He rubbed his jaw for a moment. “We’ve been walking all day, and the sun has likely gone down by now. We’ll need to find a place to rest before we continue. Someplace we can fortify, yet escape quickly if necessary.”

  “These side galleries, perhaps,” said Kharlacht, gesturing at the pillared galleries stretching away to the north and south.

  “No,” said Caius. “They lead to residential areas, but to the best of my knowledge the galleries are the only way in and out.”

  “And one would prefer not to escape through a sewer again,” said Morigna.

  “We did enough of that in Coldinium,” said Jager. “Hopefully there are no malophages down here, though.”

  “I suggest we proceed to the Dormari Market,” said Caius.

  Kharlacht’s brow furrowed below his black warrior’s topknot. “The deep orcs fled in that direction.”

  “Probably because a dozen major streets break off from the Dormari Market and spread into Khald Azalar,” said Caius. “The deep orcs could retreat to their stronghold from there easily enough. As for us, there are several buildings of large size within the vault of the Market. We could camp in one, rest for the night, and continue tomorrow. If any enemies come upon us, they would not be able to trap us here.”

  “We should not rest long,” said Arandar. “Lady Mara says that the Traveler is drawing closer, and we should assume that Mournacht and his Kothluuskan orcs are even nearer.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Very well. We shall rest in the Dormari Market, assuming we can find a suitable location. But for no more than six hours. We should also perform a quick search of the Market to see if we can find anything useful.”

  “Such as a map?” said Jager.

  “Exactly,” said Ridmark. “Calliande.”

  She blinked, surprised. “Yes?” Her attention had drifted to the strange feeling of her staff’s presence.

  “Is the Dormari Market in the direction of your staff?” said Ridmark.

  “I…think so.” Calliande closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. “But I cannot swear to it.” She opened her eyes and waved a vague hand forward. “All I know is that it is beneath us to the east.”

  “How helpful,” said Morigna. “It would been useful if your past self could have left more precise directions.”

  Antenora stirred. “You should not speak to the Keeper in such a tone.”

  “She’s right,” said Calliande. “I wish I had left myself better directions.” She had, though…but the Tower of Vigilance had been destroyed in the civil war between the Pendragon princes decades ago. “Evidently I did not plan for this possibility.”

  “Then we must improvise,” said Ridmark. “Let’s keep going.”

 
; He beckoned, and they walked deeper into the gloom of Khald Azalar.

  Closer, Calliande hoped, to her staff.

  Chapter 2: Ruins

  They passed through two more massive gates of dwarven steel and granite, each one large enough to seal off an entire gallery.

  At least, they had, once upon a time. Now the doors had been reduced to shards of broken dwarven steel and piles of granite rubble, cracks spreading through the nearby walls. Ridmark thought the doors looked like boulders that had cracked in the frozen heart of a bitter winter. When the Frostborn had attacked Khald Azalar, the dwarves had fallen back from the Gate of the West to the Dormari Market, sealing the mighty gates behind them with every step.

  Then the Frostborn had simply used their magic to shatter the gates and force their way onward.

  Behind each of the broken gates lay the marks of an ancient battle. Piles of dwarven bones, the nearby walls chipped and scarred from errant weapon blows. Here and there they saw the crystalline bones and grim, ice-gray armor of a slain Frostborn, radiating cold so intense that Ridmark’s breath steamed in the air when he passed them. Khald Azalar might have been a great kingdom once, but now it served as the mausoleum of its slain people.

  They passed through one more gate, and then stepped into a large cavern.

  “The Dormari Market,” said Caius.

  It was a vast space carved from the stone of the mountain, easily as large as the great cathedrals in Tarlion. Terraces lined the walls, and upon each level rested rows of small, square buildings. Archways stood at regular intervals along the wall, revealing entrances to other pillared galleries, streets and ramps leading deeper into the stone maze of Khald Azalar. A large stele covered in dwarven glyphs rose from the center of the Market, supporting a statue of an armored dwarven warrior.

  “It has seen better days,” said Jager.

  Ridmark agreed. At least half of the shops had been smashed into rubble. Heaps of bones lay upon the terraces, orcish and dwarven both, along with the bones of trolls and kobolds. A dozen piles of glittering gray armor marked where Frostborn warriors had fallen long ago.