Frostborn: The World Gate Page 3

  The ruined gate faced east towards the forest, and as Calliande approached, she saw two figures climbing up the slope of the hill. One was Morigna, her bow in hand, her tattered cloak streaming behind her. The other was Ridmark, and he hurried up the hill with speed and confidence. A peculiar shiver of emotion went through Calliande at the sight of him. He was the only man she had ever kissed, though she had not known it at the time. She had been in love as a girl, centuries ago, but that had come to nothing…and that had been a childish infatuation compared to what she felt when she looked at Ridmark.

  Calliande shoved aside the thought. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and she had a duty. Her life was not her own, and she had to defeat Shadowbearer, stop the return of the Frostborn, and root out the Enlightened of Incariel from Andomhaim. How she felt about Ridmark Arban had nothing to do with any of her tasks.

  Besides, he was in love with Morigna.

  Though Calliande would always, always regret that on the day they had kissed, that they had not been left uninterrupted, that they had not…

  “What news, Gray Knight?” said Arandar.

  Again Calliande pushed aside the maudlin thoughts, this time with success. There was work to be done.

  “Mara was right,” said Ridmark, his voice grim. “Those were indeed arachar orcs moving through the trees.”

  “Were you able to avoid them?” said Calliande.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “They proved craftier than I hoped.”

  “Craftier, perhaps,” said Morigna with a sharp smile, “but not as battle-crafty. We left a dozen slain in our wake, and none escaped to warn their false goddess.”

  “False goddess?” said Caius, his marble-like blue eyes twinkling. “Dare I hope that you have come to the Dominus Christus at last?”

  Morigna scoffed. “The arachar pray to a giant spider-demon. Whatever our differences, Brother Caius, I am sure we can agree that an urdmordar is an unworthy object of worship.”

  “You’re in agreement on…anything?” said Jager, feigning astonishment. “If I look skyward, shall I see rain falling upwards and winged pigs soaring aloft?”

  “The world will truly end,” said Morigna, “when some crisis arises and you do not have a glib remark ready at hand.”

  “Enough,” said Ridmark before Jager could fire back. “None of the arachar escaped. We are maybe a half-day from the banks of the River Moradel, if my reckoning is correct. If we hasten, we can avoid the urdmordar’s demesne and make our way to the river without drawing her notice. From there we follow the river south to Dun Licinia and Black Mountain.”

  “I fear,” said Calliande, “that may not be possible.”

  “Why not?” said Ridmark.

  “A shroud of dark magic hangs over the forest,” said Antenora. “I have never seen its like…”

  “Nor have I,” said Calliande.

  “Given that the three of you all have the Sight,” said Morigna, “one hopes that you could come to a quicker consensus.”

  “I think the dark magic is a kind of ward,” said Mara, unruffled as ever by Morigna’s barbs. “Think of a spider’s web. If a fly lands upon the strands of the web, the spider knows.”

  “Then this shroud of dark magic is such a web?” said Caius.

  “I think,” said Calliande, “that the dark magic detects any blood spilled within the forest.”

  “That,” said Ridmark, “could be a…”

  A chorus of furious cries erupted from the trees, and Ridmark whirled, his staff coming up. Dark shapes burst from the forest at the base of the hill, steel glinting in the morning sun. There were orcish warriors, dozens of them, and Calliande’s Sight saw the faint taint of the urdmordar venom in their blood.

  The warriors were arachar, all of them.

  A half-dozen black-robed women walked at their head, their ragged robes stirring around them. The women moved with ghostly silence, and potent dark magic burned before Calliande’s Sight. With a cold shock she realized that the six women were spiderlings, the half-human, half-urdmordar daughters of a female urdmordar and a male human.

  The band of arachar and spiderlings came straight for the ruined fort.

  “Prepare,” said Ridmark, “to defend yourselves.”

  Chapter 2: Beastmen

  Ridmark waited, his staff in hand, and the others readied themselves for battle.

  Arandar and Gavin lifted their soulblades, the weapons glimmering with white fire in reaction to the dark magic around the spiderlings. Kharlacht raised his greatsword and Caius his mace, while Mara and Jager both drew the shortswords of dark elven steel they had taken from the Warden’s armory in Urd Morlemoch. Morigna set an arrow to her bow’s string, her black eyes darting back and forth as she considered the advancing arachar. Antenora remained motionless, but the symbols upon her black staff burned with a harsh yellow-orange light, a harbinger of the terrible fire she summoned in battle. Calliande gripped the worn staff of the Keeper, her green cloak and blond hair stirring about her in the cold wind coming down from the mountains.

  “Wait a moment,” said Ridmark. “I want to talk to them. Perhaps I can persuade them to let us pass.”

  “You won’t, you know,” said Calliande in a quiet voice. She wore the bronze diadem of the Keeper over her blond hair, and it glinted in the morning sun. “They would not have come in such numbers unless they had come for battle.”

  “I know,” said Ridmark.

  “A noble gesture nonetheless,” said Caius. “Better to offer mercy to a foe, I think.”

  “True,” said Ridmark. “It will also give Antenora time to summon additional power for a spell.” He looked at the ancient sorceress. “Gather your fire. If it comes to a fight, I will retreat back to the ring fort. Strike once I return, and we shall cut our way out while the foe is in disarray.”

  “A practical plan,” said Jager. “I like it.”

  “The spiderlings are treacherous,” said Calliande. “They will not hesitate to kill you.”

  “If they’re anything like my stepmother, then they will certainly try to kill you,” said Gavin.

  “Agreed,” said Ridmark. Antenora had taken a few steps back, her left hand cupped over the end of her black staff. Already a fist-sized ball of fire spun and wobbled over the end of her staff, growing a little larger with every revolution. “But delay is to our advantage.”

  No one had any other objections, at least none that they voiced. Ridmark took a deep breath, gripped his staff, and strode down the grassy slope. As he walked, he counted between seventy or eighty arachar warriors awaiting, led by a half-dozen of the black-robed spiderlings. It was a formidable force, and one they might not be able to overcome in a straight fight.

  But with Antenora’s fire, Mara’s power, and the magic of the two soulblades and the Keeper, Ridmark had no intention of facing the spiderlings and the arachar in anything like straight fight.

  “Hear me!” roared Ridmark at the top of his lungs, and as one all six of the spiderlings’ cowls turned to face him. “I would speak with the commander of this warband! Who leads here? Come forth and speak with me!”

  One of the spiderlings lifted an arm, the ragged black sleeve falling back to reveal a thin white hand. The red-glazed black eyes of the arachar glared up at Ridmark, and the other five spiderlings stepped back. Ridmark strode a few more paces down the slope and stopped halfway between the ruined fort and the arachar warriors. The lone spiderling strode forward, black robes rippling around her, and stopped a dozen paces from Ridmark. She drew back her ragged cowl, revealing a pale, thin face with glittering green eyes and thick red hair. Like the other spiderlings Ridmark had met, she was beautiful, dangerously so, but she seemed too gaunt, her face pinched, her cheekbones as sharp as knife blades against the skin of her face.

  She said something in the dark elven tongue.

  “Do you speak Latin?” said Ridmark. The woman stared at him with her unblinking jade eyes. Likely she had never heard Latin before. “The orcish tongue, then?
”

  “You speak the tongue of our mother’s slaves,” said the spiderling in a quiet voice. “All the well. It shall make it easier for you to submit to her.”

  “We have no quarrel with your mother,” said Ridmark. “We are traveling south. Let us pass, and this need not end in bloodshed.”

  The spiderling giggled. It was an unsteady, reedy sound, without a hint of sanity. “Truly? You are not an equal, to treat with my mother in a parley. You are her food, her cattle. This will end when you enter her herd and she devours you.”

  “Who are you?” said Ridmark. “And who is your mother?”

  “The daughters of the mother have no names,” said the spiderling, “but you may call me Quinta, for that was the name of my father.” Her smile widened. “He was the first man I slew, to prove my loyalty to Mother.”

  “Her loyalty demands a steep price,” said Ridmark, chilled. Chilled…but unsurprised. The urdmordar were pragmatic creatures, but they were capable of appalling cruelty when they thought it necessary.

  “If I am loyal,” murmured Quinta, “then one day Mother shall show me the secrets of ascension and rebirth, and I shall cast off my humanity and become a full urdmordar, a goddess myself. Already I have grown strong in dark magic. Soon I shall be stronger. Perhaps Mother shall permit me to feast upon you.”

  “And what is the name of your mother?” said Ridmark.

  “The names of the urdmordar are beyond the comprehension of cattle,” said Quinta.

  “Are they?” said Ridmark, keeping his expression bland. “What about the names of Agrimnalazur or Gothalinzur?”

  Quinta’s jade eyes narrowed. “Those are true urdmordar names.”

  “They are the names of urdmordar I have encountered,” said Ridmark, “and both of them are dead at my hand.” Granted, he had had a lot of help, but there was no reason to tell that to Quinta.

  “Lies,” hissed Quinta. “The cattle cannot overcome the urdmordar. You shall know the power of great Rhogrimnalazur before you die.”

  “Rhogrimnalazur?” said Ridmark. That had been the name that the arachar had shouted during the fight in the web-choked forest. “So that is your mother’s name?”

  “She shall destroy you,” said Quinta. “Perhaps you slew Gothalinzur and Agrimnalazur as you claim. But you shall not overcome Rhogrimnalazur. You do not even carry a soulblade.” Her eyes flicked to his waist. “But you…yes, I can sense it. You carry an item of power. You carry an empty soulstone!”

  Shadowbearer had stolen the empty soulstone he had tried to use on Calliande at Black Mountain, fleeing with it and the Mhorites through the Gate of the West of Khald Azalar. Yet Calliande had carried a second soulstone as well, a rougher and a weaker one from Urd Morlemoch. It had been part of the trap of dark magic the Warden had used against them. When Morigna and Mara had broken the trap, the dark magic within the soulstone had drained into Morigna, leaving the stone empty. It was not as powerful as the empty soulstone Shadowbearer had stolen from the caverns of Cathair Solas, but it was still a dangerous item, and powerful enough to block Mara’s ability to travel when she carried it.

  So Ridmark carried the damned thing. Someone had to do it.

  “Yes,” whispered Quinta, her eyes blazing. “Give the soulstone to me, wanderer. Give it to me, and I can become a full urdmordar at last. Give it to me, and you shall be my consort, and I shall give you slaves of your own to rule.”

  “As temping as it is to take a half-spider into my bed,” said Ridmark, “I fear I must decline, alas.”

  “You must surrender, mortal man,” said Quinta. “Submit to me, and I shall give you power and pleasure beyond your imagination.” Her green eyes glittered as she spoke. “Or resist, and I shall lead you and your companions in chains to the seat of Rhogrimnalazur herself in Urd Cystaanl, and she shall devour your friends before your eyes before she at last grants you the mercy of death. Those are your only choices. Either shall bring me great pleasure.”

  “You are wrong,” said Ridmark.

  “Am I?” said Quinta. Rage flashed in her eyes, but a peculiar sort of delight accompanied it. Ridmark suspected that the favorite daughter of Rhogrimnalazur did not often face defiance.

  “You have a choice,” said Ridmark.

  “And what is my choice, my bold wanderer?” said Quinta.

  “Let us pass in peace,” said Ridmark.

  “I find that disagreeable,” said Quinta. “What is the other?”

  “I kill you, and we fight our way past your pet arachar,” said Ridmark.

  Quinta threw back her head and laughed, long and loud. “Will you, my daring brigand? Will you indeed? Oh, I have seen many like you over the centuries. So bold and sure and confident…and in the end they all died screaming on their knees, begging me for mercy as they kissed my feet.”

  “I am sure of that,” said Ridmark, “but did they have two Swordbearers in their company?”

  Quinta’s mirth vanished, her eyes narrowing as her ragged red hair stirred around her head.

  “You lie,” she said, voice flat and hard. “The knights with the burning swords have not journeyed this far north in centuries. Not since the days when the cold ones came from their frozen world and waged war upon the High King.”

  “I also have with me,” said Ridmark, “the Keeper of Andomhaim. Can you stand against her power, Quinta? Even with all the dark magic that Rhogrimnalazur has given you, could you stand against the Keeper of Andomhaim?”

  Quinta let out a sneering laugh. “The Keeper perished many centuries ago. She passed through great Rhogrimnalazur’s realm on her way to death.”

  “Did she?” said Ridmark. Calliande had said that she and Kalomarus, who had become the Dragon Knight, had avoided the urdmordar during their long journey to Cathair Solas to ask for the archmage Ardrhythain’s help against the Frostborn. The urdmordar were immortal, and it was possible that Rhogrimnalazur remembered Calliande. “Or is it possible she took a different route home and avoided your mother’s lands?”

  “Enough bluffing,” said Quinta, her amusement returning. “You have a silver tongue, and I might find a better use for it. Surrender yourself and your companions to me, or you shall watch as my mother consumes you.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “If you want a fight, you shall have it.”

  Quinta shrugged. “Pity, then.” She glanced at the waiting arachar and the other black-robed spiderlings, as if preparing to shout a command…

  Ridmark snapped his staff up to guard position.

  It was the only thing that saved his life. Quinta whirled back to face him, moving with inhuman speed, her gaunt body changing as she did. Her flesh rippled and flowed, and crimson claws, each as long and sharp as a dagger and strong as steel, sprouted from her fingers. Had he been unawares, she would have ripped out his throat. Instead the talons rebounded from Ardrhythain’s black staff.

  It did not slow down the spiderling. She lunged forward, and her face changed, jagged crimson pincers sprouting from the sides of her mouth. Six additional eyes appeared on her forehead and temples, crystalline and hard, their depths shining with eerie green fire. Her mouth yawned wide, and she spat a gobbet of sizzling venom at Ridmark.

  He had fought spiderlings before, and he knew what to expect. He ducked, and the gob of venom missed his face by a few inches. Quinta was fast, faster than a human, but even a spiderling needed a moment to recover her balance. Ridmark seized that moment and swung the staff with all his strength, the weapon slamming into her right leg. Something snapped, and Quinta stumbled with a shriek of pain. Ridmark struck again before she recovered, driving the end of his staff into her belly. The force of the blow doubled her over, and Ridmark could have killed her before she recovered.

  That would have given the other five spiderlings ample opportunity to rip him apart. Or for the arachar warriors to cut him down. He had done well enough against them in the tangled forest, but he did not want to fight them on the open hillside, where they could surround and overpowe
r him with ease.

  So instead of killing Quinta, he sprinted up the hillside towards the ruined ring fort.

  “Kill him!” said Quinta, her voice rising to a shriek. “Kill him, kill him, kill him!”

  The arachar roared and charged, while the spiderlings glided forward in silence.

  ###

  Gavin of Aranaeus gripped the soulblade Truthseeker, the soulblade born by Sir Judicaeus Carhaine before him. When Arandar took him to Tarlion, when he formally joined the Order of the Soulblade and swore allegiance to its Master, Gavin intended to learn the names of all the knights who had borne Truthseeker before him, to memorize their deeds and learn their histories.

  Perhaps he would be worthy of them. Perhaps he could use Truthseeker to protect those who could not protect themselves, as he had tried to do in Aranaeus.

  “Be ready,” said Calliande, her face tight as she watched Ridmark speak with the black-robed spiderling. From this distance, Gavin could not make out much detail, but the spiderling seemed to have the same blood-colored hair and green eyes that his stepmother Morwen had once possessed. Morwen had been a spiderling, a spawn of the urdmordar Agrimnalazur, and Agrimnalazur had kept the village of Aranaeus as her own personal larder in preparation for the coming of the Frostborn.

  Gavin shook off his musings. The moment before battle was not the time to reflect upon such things. Not when an instant’s hesitation could result in the difference between life and death.

  Heat pulsed against his face. A fireball rotated over Antenora’s head, the globe of flame swollen to three or four feet across. Standing next to the fireball made him nervous, but he had seen Antenora control her powers before. Antenora’s face was tight, her eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. The harsh glare of the fireball stole some of the pallid grayness from her flesh, made her look younger, as if all the long centuries had faded from her face.