Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Read online

  “Not the Mhorites, surely,” said Calliande. “They were broken at Black Mountain.”

  “Likely not the Mhorites,” said Caius. “The orcs of Kothluusk have spent as much time warring against my kindred as they have against Andomhaim. But the Three Kingdoms have other foes. The dvargir of Khaldurmar are our sundered cousins, and they spend more time warring against us than they do against Andomhaim. Some dark elven lords dwell in the Deeps near Khald Tormen, and they war against us frequently. They are…”

  There was a flash of blue light from the corner of Calliande’s eye.

  She turned, starting to raise the staff of the Keeper to begin a spell. The others reacted as well, lifting weapons or preparing spells. Third appeared out of a pillar of blue fire, looked around, and ran towards Calliande.

  “Third,” said Calliande. “What’s wrong? Where’s Ridmark?”

  “The lord magister is right behind me,” said Third. “We scouted the ruins of Regnum and were attacked by deep orcs.”

  “Deep orcs?” said Calliande, startled. “Here in Calvus? The heart of the realm?” Her brain caught up with her words. The duxarchate of Calvus was in the heart of the High King’s domain, but Andomhaim had been ripped asunder, and the Dux of Calvus was one of the Enlightened. That meant he permitted dvargir slavers into his lands…and the dvargir often used deep orcs as scouts.

  “The deep orcs carried dvargir weapons and armor,” said Third. “The lord magister thinks they are a scouting party for a dvargir band sent to capture the Keeper.”

  “My lady Keeper,” said Sir Ector. He had hurried over during the conversation, his face tight with alarm. “Are we under attack?”

  “We will soon be,” said Calliande, turning in a slow circle. There was no sign of any movement from the surrounding woods, but with the stealthy dvargir and the deep orcs, that meant nothing. “Sir Ector, I suggest you make your men ready for battle.”

  She took a deep breath, clearing her mind, and reached for the Sight.

  All the Keepers of Andomhaim bore the blessing and the burden of the Sight, even before Malahan Pendragon had led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm to this new world a thousand years ago. Antenora had the Sight, as did Mara, but it was the strongest in Calliande. The Sight pierced all illusions, could see magical spells as auras of light and blazing fire and could envision distant places and sometimes glimpse the past and the future.

  She swept the Sight across their camp, her head throbbing with the effort. To her Sight, Gavin’s soulblade blazed with tremendous power. She saw the fiery elemental magic gathered around Antenora alongside the ancient shadow of Mordred Pendragon’s dark magic. To the Sight, the dark elven armor and weapons that some of the others carried seemed harder and sharper, perhaps explaining their ability to wound creatures of dark magic.

  She saw no sign of any foes.

  Yet with the dvargir, that meant nothing. They were cunning and powerful foes, and the shadow of Incariel let them hide from the Sight.

  But she had access to a power greater than the malevolent shadow of Incariel.

  Calliande drew on the mantle of the Keeper, feeding its power into the Sight. The power blazed into her, and she swept the Sight over the camp.

  Approaching from the south, she saw a rippling distortion in the air, almost like a veil drawn across her Sight.

  Calliande summoned more power, and the staff of the Keeper blazed with white fire in her right hand. She forced the power into a spell and struck the end of the staff against the earth, and the power of the Well of Tarlion and the mantle of the Keeper erupted from her, an overwhelming wave of magic designed to dispel any other spell it encountered.

  The spell swept through the meadow south of their camp.

  For an instant, nothing happened.

  Then dozens of columns of swirling shadow appeared in the meadow.

  The dvargir had indeed come for Calliande again.

  She saw dozens of dvargir warriors, armored in a strange black metal that seemed both wet and dark at the same time. They looked a great deal like Caius, but their eyes were filled with the void of Incariel. Worse, Calliande saw a half-dozen dvargir clad in cowled robes of something that looked like black leather. The robed dvargir carried tablets of dark metal inscribed with glyphs that pulsed and throbbed with shadows. The dvargir were shadowscribes, sorcerers who directed the power of Incariel into their symbols.

  The dvargir reacted with speed, the warriors marching forward in an orderly formation, the shadowscribes falling back to cast spells.

  “To battle!” shouted Ector. The men-at-arms drew weapons, and Calliande began casting another spell.

  ###

  Gavin drew Truthseeker, the soulblade burning with white fire as the sword reacted to the dark power around the advancing dvargir warriors.

  Sir Ector’s men moved with haste, arranging themselves into a shield wall to face the oncoming dvargir. Calliande, Antenora and Camorak hung back behind the men-at-arms to work spells, while Kharlacht and Caius moved to the right side of the line. Gavin hurried to the left side, Truthseeker filling him with strength and speed. He could fight alongside the men-at-arms, but the soulblade made him faster and stronger. He would serve best by breaking up the charges of the dvargir, weakening them for the men-at-arms to strike.

  And, perhaps, to blunt attacks against which the men-at-arms would have no defense.

  The shadowscribes withdrew behind the advancing dvargir, just as Calliande and Antenora and Camorak had fallen behind Sir Ector’s men. The robed dvargir began tracing patterns and designs into the air, shadows writhing around their fingers. Gavin did not understand the dark magic of the dvargir, but he knew they had to scribe glyphs onto things and they could write their glyphs into the air.

  He knew that because he had seen this attack before.

  The shadowscribes joined their power together for a spell and a lance of withering shadow arced over the helmets of the advancing warriors and hurtled towards the men-at-arms.

  Gavin threw himself into the line of the attack, calling upon Truthseeker’s power. White fire surged around the sword, and the lance of dark shadow struck him. The soulblade chimed with fury, and for a moment the shadow howled around him like a storm. Yet Truthseeker’s power blazed brighter, shattering the dark spell.

  As the shadows crumbled around Gavin, Antenora cast a spell. A wobbling sphere of fire burst from her staff and shot over the heads of the dvargir warriors. The globe erupted in a howling storm of flame, and the shadowscribes lifted their tablets, a shell of shadows coiling around them like armor. The shadows blunted the fire, but Antenora’s spell kept the shadowscribes from striking back.

  In that moment of distraction, Gavin attacked.

  He charged the edge of the dvargir line, his soulblade hammering down in a blaze of white fire. Truthseeker stabbed past the shield of a dvargir warrior and bit into his neck, sending the warrior crumpling to the ground. Another dvargir warrior swung a broadsword at him, and Gavin shifted, catching the blow upon the shield of dwarven steel he had taken from Khald Azalar. The dwarven steel proved strong enough to deflect the dvargir blade, and Gavin struck back, killing another dvargir.

  The men-at-arms crashed into the enemy around him, driving them back. Two men-at-arms fell in the initial clash, wounded or slain, the metallic smell of their spilled blood filling Gavin’s nostrils, but five dvargir fell. The shadowscribes tried to work another spell, but the white fire of Calliande’s magic slashed across their shadowy shell, ripping it apart, followed by a blast of flame from Antenora that killed one of the dvargir sorcerers.

  Blue fire snarled in the melee, and Third appeared. The strange woman slew a dvargir warrior and disappeared, only to reappear behind one of the shadowscribes. Blue steel flashed, and the shadowscribe collapsed. The other sorcerers turned in alarm, but Third had already vanished.

  Gavin lost himself in the rhythm of the fight, sword and shield flying, hot blood splashing against his armor and face, his shi
eld ringing from blows. Three dvargir warriors circled around him, and Gavin was forced to fall back, keeping his shield raised as the dvargir tried to overwhelm him.

  Something bronze flashed in the sunlight, and one of the dvargir warriors jerked and collapsed. That broke the pattern of the warriors’ thrusts, and Gavin attacked, killing one of the remaining two dvargir warriors. The last dvargir retreated, raising his shield, but a black staff stabbed past his defenses, jabbing into his elbow with a crunch. The dvargir stumbled, void-filled eyes widening, and Gavin drove Truthseeker into the gap in the warrior’s defenses.

  He ripped his soulblade free as Ridmark Arban waded into the battle, the black staff of the archmage Ardrhythain flashing with white sigils in his grasp.

  ###

  Ridmark fought with fury, cutting down the dvargir warriors without mercy.

  It looked like Calliande was safe. Antenora was next to her, flinging fire at the shadowscribes whenever Calliande battered down their wards. Camorak ran back and forth behind the battle, healing any men he could reach. Kharlacht and Caius fought back to back as they often did, Caius stunning the dvargir with his mace, Kharlacht bringing his greatsword around like a thunderbolt.

  Ridmark killed another dvargir with his axe. The shadowscribes were the key. If he could cut down the shadowscribes, Calliande and Antenora would bring their magic to bear against the dvargir warriors, and the fight would end in short order.

  The dvargir had come for Calliande, but Ridmark saw no sign of the Enlightened of Incariel here. That might mean this attack was only a distraction, that the main blow would come from an unexpected direction.

  Even as he fought, he was looking for the unexpected attack, so he saw the dark shadow overhead.

  The hideous creature flew upon wings like those of a great bat, but its body was that of a giant locust, its head like a serpent. No creature like that existed in nature, but Ridmark had seen it before.

  The creature called the Weaver had once been a mortal Magistrius named Toridan. Then he had become one of the Enlightened, and the shadow of Incariel had twisted him, giving him the ability to change shape at will.

  He had almost killed Calliande several times.

  Ridmark killed another dvargir and sprinted towards Calliande, shouting a warning.

  Chapter 2: Retribution

  Calliande heard a man’s voice shouting her name.

  They were winning the battle, with the dvargir warriors falling back in disarray and the powers of the shadowscribes unable to withstand the magic of the Keeper. A little longer and the ever-prudent dvargir would withdraw, retreating to the Deeps to wait for a more advantageous time to attack.

  She spotted Ridmark running through the melee, his gray cloak streaming behind him. He was charging through the battle at a reckless pace, passing opportunities to help the men-at-arms as they struggled against the dvargir. Why would he do that?

  He was shouting at her.

  She looked up and saw the shadow.

  It was like a thing out of a nightmare, like different predators twisted together and fused into a perfect killing machine. Calliande had known the man who had become this creature for a very long time, and while she had slept for two centuries after the defeat of the Frostborn, this creature had waited, growing stronger and more dangerous.

  The Weaver had returned to kill her, but this time Calliande was ready.

  She thrust the staff of the Keeper, and all her power surged through her. A blazing shaft of white fire, augmented by the might of the Keeper’s mantle, exploded from the staff and hammered into the Weaver. The fire ripped into the Weaver’s shadow-saturated flesh. The blast punched through his armored body, his wings shuddering…and the Weaver exploded into a tangled maze of shadowy threads.

  The tangle hit the ground and reformed. This time the Weaver became something like a cross between and urvaalg and an ursaar, a huge, gaunt shape with muscle-heavy limbs, ragged black fur, eyes that glowed like coals, and claws like daggers. Calliande had seen him take that form during their fight before the Battle of Dun Calpurnia, and he had been fast and deadly and dangerous.

  Yet Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer had been with the Weaver, and Calliande had been unable to fight both at once. The Weaver was dangerous enough on his own. With Imaria’s power behind him, he was far more deadly.

  There was no trace of Imaria. Was the new Shadowbearer lying in wait, preparing a trap for them?

  “I cannot hit the Weaver,” said Antenora, voice tight as her black staff crackled with elemental fire. “He is too fast. I will kill some of our own men if I attempt it.”

  Calliande cast another spell, hurling a bolt of white fire at the Weaver’s sleek form. The fire passed through the struggling men-at-arms without touching them, and the Weaver twisted aside with a fluid motion. The spell clipped one of his arms, but the main force of the blast missed. The Weaver threw himself into the men-at-arms, and two of them fell dead, shredded by the flashing claws.

  Calliande hit the Weaver again, feeding all the power she could into the spell. The bolt of flame hit the Weaver’s torso, drilling into his flesh. Again the Weaver exploded into that tangled mass of threads and reformed into a new shape. This time the Weaver’s form looked like a troll, reptilian and armored in black scales, but with larger fangs and claws than any troll. The Weaver moved in a dark blur, killing another man-at-arms, and then charged forward.

  Antenora attacked, flinging a gout of flame from her staff. The fire hit the Weaver, and the hulking creature staggered, scales curling and crackling in the heat of the fire. Calliande cast another spell, hitting the Weaver with a burst of white flames.

  But he kept coming, surging forward with terrific speed…and Calliande realized she could not stop him before his clawed hands closed around her throat.

  ###

  Ridmark sprinted through the battle, fury lending him speed.

  The Weaver had killed Morigna in the great hall of Dun Licinia’s Keep. He had delayed Calliande and Ridmark at Dun Calpurnia, keeping them from warning Uthanaric Pendragon of Tarrabus’s treachery until it was too late. The Weaver had murdered the High King and his three sons. The vile creature deserved to die a thousand times over just for Morigna’s death.

  There was no way Ridmark would let him hurt Calliande.

  “Toridan!” he roared, taking his staff in both hands, and the Weaver’s troll-like face turned towards him.

  The features were alien, but Ridmark nonetheless saw the smirk there.

  Both Calliande and Antenora hit the Weaver with spells, white and yellow fire washing over the creature, and the Weaver exploded into that tangled skein of shadow threads. Ridmark did not fully understand how the Weaver’s powers worked. Paul Tallmane and Jonas Vorinus had been able to armor themselves in shadow, using the power of Incariel to make themselves stronger and faster just as a Swordbearer’s soulblade made him more potent. Imaria Licinius had gained the ability to travel from place to place, just as Tymandain Shadowbearer had done. The Weaver seemed able to transform himself into a variety of deadly creatures…and worse, every time he changed shape, the power healed any wounds he had taken.

  Ridmark did not know how to kill the Weaver. They had only driven him off before. That seemed to prove that the Weaver could be killed, but Ridmark could not think of a way to do it, save by dealing such massive damage that the shadow of Incariel could not repair his injuries.

  The Weaver spun, shrugging off the fire from Antenora and Calliande, and charged at Ridmark.

  Ridmark ran to meet the ancient Enlightened. Here, at last, was a chance to avenge Morigna, to bring the Weaver to account for all the blood upon his hands.

  The Weaver hurtled towards him with the speed of an arrow.

  On the other hand, realized Ridmark, this was also a chance to die quickly.

  He ducked under the swipe of the Weaver’s claws and struck with his staff, hammering the length of the weapon into the Weaver’s right knee. He heard something crack, and the Weaver
let out a growl, and Ridmark jerked back. The Weaver’s jaws snapped shut an inch away from his nose, and Ridmark hit the creature in the face. The Weaver’s claws struck him in the chest, shredding through his jerkin, but the plates of dark elven steel withstood the razor edges of those claws. The force of the blow nonetheless threw Ridmark back, and he hit the ground with a blast of pain.

  The Weaver started to crouch, preparing to spring on Ridmark before he could regain his feet, and two bolts of white fire slammed into him, one far brighter than the other. Camorak had joined the battle, and while his magic was not as powerful as Calliande’s, it nonetheless caused the creature pain. The Weaver shrugged off the hits, but the delay allowed Ridmark to recover his balance, gripping his staff in both hands.

  The weapon protected him from the shadow of Incariel, but it could do no lasting harm to the Weaver.

  Ridmark needed a more potent weapon for that.

  Fortunately, a more potent weapon arrived when Gavin rushed to attack the Weaver, Truthseeker blazing like a torch in his fist.

  ###

  The Weaver spun to face Gavin, but he was ready for the creature.

  He raised his dwarven shield just as Kharlacht and Caius and Ridmark had taught him, even before he had become a Swordbearer, and the black claws rebounded from the bronze-colored metal. As the Weaver recovered his balance, Gavin stabbed, and Truthseeker bit into the creature’s ribs. White fire pulsed down the sword as the soulblade reacted to the dark power of Incariel, and the Weaver hissed with fury.

  The creature leaped back, and Ridmark attacked from the other side, hitting the Weaver’s legs with Ardrhythain’s staff. The Weaver stumbled again, and Gavin seized the opening, slashing with Truthseeker. The Weaver jerked away, but Ridmark had damaged his leg, and the soulblade cut a skidding gash down the Weaver’s chest. Shadows leaked from the wound, somehow both thick and wispy at the same time.