Frostborn: The Broken Mage (17 page)

Mara traveled to the far edge of the battle, trying to get a better look at the fighting. A dozen urvaalgs had gone down, but a score more still milled around her friends, trying to overwhelm them. That seemed odd. Most likely this pack of urvaalgs had been sent to scout, seeking either foes or the way to Dragonfall. So why hadn’t they retreated once they had found enemies? 

Unless…

Mara frowned. 

Unless the urvaalgs were only a distraction. 

Something rattled behind her.

She threw herself forward, ducking as a barbed tail whipped over her head.

Mara came back to her feet as the creature stalked after her. It was about her own height, gaunt and spindly, a peculiar combination of a twisted ape and a spiny lizard with black scales. Its eyes burned like red coals, and spines jutted from its limbs and back and tail. Despite its ungainly appearance, the creature moved with liquid grace, its barbed tail waving like a serpent preparing to strike.

The creature was an urhaalgar, yet another of the dark elves’ minions. The urvaalgs and the ursaars were war beasts, clever and vicious, but still animals. The urhaalgars had minds of their own, and the dark elves used them as scouts and assassins. 

Likely the urhaalgar heard the Traveler’s song thundering inside its head, just as Mara did. Unlike Mara, the urhaalgar had no choice but to obey that song. 

“The traitor,” hissed the urhaalgar in the dark elven tongue. “The traitor to our god. He is your father, but you disobeyed him.”

“Well,” said Mara, watching the creature, “you had better do something about that, hadn’t you?”

The urhaalgar’s tail shot forward. It fired several poisoned spines from its tail, almost like a crossbowman loosing bolts. Mara had anticipated the attack, and she ducked under the barbs, calling upon her power as she did so.

She reappeared behind the urhaalgar, stabbing with her short sword. The steel of the dark elves sliced into the creature’s heart. The urhaalgar went rigid, and Mara jumped away before it could strike. The creature collapsed to the stone floor with one final spasm, its limbs flopping into the sprawl of death.

Mara looked around. Urhaalgars preferred to attack in groups. They could also fling those poisoned spines from a considerable distance. Her eyes roamed back and forth, looking over the melee. She knew how to assassinate people, and if she wanted to kill someone from stealth…

There!

A dozen urhaalgars crept along the domed top of one of the blast furnaces overlooking the battle. Mara drew on the fire within her, on her own song that stood in defiance of her father’s power, and traveled to the apex of the dome in the blink of an eye. The urhaalgars whirled in alarm, spines coming up to kill her, and Mara saw Antenora standing below.

“Antenora!” she shouted. “Up here!” 

The urhaalgars hurried to strike, and Mara flung herself from the top of the dome. Blue fire swallowed her, and she reappeared next to Morigna and Antenora, catching her balance. Morigna looked at her in surprise, but Antenora had already thrust her staff, a fist-sized ball of fire leaping from its end. 

The ball struck the top of the blast furnace and exploded, and for a moment the furnace blazed as it must have in the days of Khald Azalar’s power. A chorus of horrified screams erupted from the furnace, and a half-dozen urhaalgars tumbled backwards, their limbs wreathed in flame. Another two tumbled from the front of the blast furnace, thrashing and screaming, and Jager darted forward and put them out of their misery. Mara looked for the remaining urhaalgars, and saw twisted, blackened shapes lying atop the dome. 

“Good shot,” said Mara, breathing hard as Jager ran to join her. 

“My form of magic seems to be rare upon this world,” said Antenora, her staff starting to crackle with fresh flames. “Very few creatures seem to have any defense against it.”

Jager snorted. “It’s hard to defend from a bloody giant fireball.”

Mara took a deep breath and turned back to the fighting, preparing to attack again, but the urvaalgs were retreating. A score of the beasts lay slain across the floor, hewed by sword and axe and crushed by mace, and the rest fled back towards the exit.

To meet the Anathgrimm orcs hastening from the tunnel. 

Mara grimaced and looked to see what Ridmark would do next.

###

Ridmark gripped his staff as the Anathgrimm warriors marched from the tunnel.

A lot of Anathgrimm warriors. 

“Get ready to run,” he said to the others. “Morigna, Antenora. If you can work up a distraction, that would be welcome.” 

The Anathgrimm looked as if they wore masks of black bone over their face and tusks and scalps, but Ridmark knew that those bones grew from the mutated orcs’ skeletons, a result of the Traveler’s manipulations with dark magic over the generations. More dense spikes of black bones rose from the orcs’ shoulders and elbows and forearms. The Anathgrimm wore gleaming steel chain mail of high quality, and carried swords and shields of equal craftsmanship. 

“We should run,” said Kharlacht. “Now. There are at least a hundred of them, and likely more coming behind. If we stay we shall be quickly overwhelmed.”

“Not yet,” said Ridmark “The surviving urvaalgs haven’t retreated. I suspect that they’ve just circled around the blast furnaces, and are waiting to ambush us when we try to flee. We’ll need to cut our way out. Or create a massive distraction.” He looked around, a plan coming together in his mind. His eyes roved over the blast furnaces. Some of them had been damaged, and he needed one that had been damaged just…

“Gray Knight!” 

One of the Anathgrimm stepped forward. With the bone masks, Ridmark had a hard time telling the individual Anathgrimm warriors apart, but this warrior was taller and stronger than the others. Unlike his fellows, the warrior did not bear a shield upon his left arm, but instead the fingers of his left hand crackled with ghostly blue fire. 

“Zhorlacht,” muttered Jager.

Ridmark glanced at the halfling. “You know him?”

“He’s an Anathgrimm warrior and a dark wizard,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “He also believe my father to be a god, and considers himself a priest.” 

“Come forth, Gray Knight!” said Zhorlacht in Latin. “I wish to take counsel with you. Perhaps together we can discern the path of wisdom.”

Ridmark made up his mind, settling upon a plan. 

“Very well, Zhorlacht of Nightmane Forest!” said Ridmark. “I shall come forth momentarily.” He turned and lowered his voice. “Morigna. When I give the word, cast your sleeping mist over the Anathgrimm.”

“It will not be effective for long,” said Morigna. “When we faced him earlier, Zhorlacht was able to dispel my magic with ease.” 

“We won’t need long,” said Ridmark. “Calliande, cast your spell to make us faster. Antenora, anything you can do to distract the urvaalgs will help.” 

“They are not fond of fire,” said Antenora, another fireball spinning to life atop her staff. “Over such a large area, I shall not be able to conjure much fire, but I shall hurt them.” 

“Good,” said Ridmark. “When I give the signal, run for that blast furnace, the one with the broken chimney and the breach on its side.” He jerked his head at the direction of the blast furnace. Three carts full of coal sat just in front of the entrance. “And push the carts in with you.” 

“Why?” said Arandar. 

“Shall we throw coal at the Anathgrimm?” said Jager. “That will discourage them, I’m sure.”

Calliande sighed. “You’re going to do something reckless, aren’t you?” 

“Probably,” said Ridmark. “Be ready.”

He turned to go, but Morigna gripped his shoulder.

“Be careful,” she said.

Ridmark nodded, squeezed her hand, and then eased out of her grip. He walked past Kharlacht and Caius, stopping halfway between his friends and the waiting Anathgrimm. Zhorlacht likewise stopped a few yards away from Ridmark, a tower of steel armor and black bone over green flesh, the fire around his left hand reflecting in his stark black eyes. 

“Planning to cast a spell on me?” said Ridmark. 

Zhorlacht smiled. The bone mask did not impede his mouth or lips. Likely that was to allow unrestricted eating and breathing. “Our god offers many gifts to his loyal servants. Perhaps you, too, should become his servant.”

“I already have a God,” said Ridmark, “and am not looking to change.”

“This is a pity,” said Zhorlacht. “My lord the Traveler was most impressed how you snatched the Keeper away from his grasp during the battle in the Vale.”

“Impressed?” said Ridmark. “I suspect he flew into a rage.”

“Our god has many different ways of showing his approval,” said Zhorlacht.

“I’m sure,” said Ridmark. “I imagine he was most keen on showing his approval after Mournacht won the battle.”

Zhorlacht frowned. “A temporary setback. The orcish rabble and their false god will not prevail over our lord the Traveler. He shall seize the power in Khald Azalar, and he shall rule over all of Andomhaim. You shall embrace your true purpose as the Traveler’s slave, as shall all your kindred. Then you shall know both joy and peace.” 

“If that is joy and peace, I shall settle for strife and discord,” said Ridmark. “What do you want?”

“To propose a deal,” said Zhorlacht. “The followers of the false god Mhor repulsed us once. They shall not do so again. The forests favored the Mhorites' undisciplined, feral style of fighting. The narrow corridors and galleries of Khald Azalar shall favor my brother Anathgrimm.” 

He wasn’t wrong about that.

“What is that to me?” said Ridmark. “Go fight the Mhorites. You have my blessing, not that you need it.” 

“Our god the Traveler wishes to make you an offer,” said Zhorlacht. “As I said, he was most impressed when you eluded his servants during the battle. Furthermore, you snatched the Keeper out of his grasp, and he is most desirous to claim the Keeper.” 

“His taste for human women is well known,” said Ridmark, “but I see no reason to indulge it.”

“The Keeper shall be no mere concubine,” said Zhorlacht. The orcish wizard seemed offended at the prospect. “She shall be transformed into an instrument of our god’s power. So shall his wayward daughter, who I suspect is still among your company. The lord Traveler desires her as well, so he might understand and employ her power.” 

“Ah,” said Ridmark. “Let me guess. If I surrender myself, the Keeper, and Mara over to you, you’ll let us go.”

“Of course not,” said Zhorlacht. “You shall become a warrior in the lord Traveler’s service. He has recognized your skill, and we will have need of it once he claims the power in Khald Azalar and rules Andomhaim. He has a use for the Keeper and his wayward daughter as well.”

“This is not,” said Ridmark, “a terribly compelling offer.” 

“It should be,” said Zhorlacht. “For if you submit, the lord Traveler shall permit your other companions to depart Khald Azalar freely. Even the Swordbearers, though he greatly desires their deaths. If you do not agree to submit…well, you and the Keeper and our god’s errant daughter shall be claimed by force, and then your companions will be killed in front of you. Slowly, through torture.”

“That might not be wise,” said Ridmark. “If the Traveler stops to amuse himself with torture, Mournacht might slip past him and claim the power of Khald Azalar. What do you imagine Mournacht will do then? Leave the Traveler his amusements? No, he will take the power and destroy the Traveler.”

“Our god cannot be defeated,” said Zhorlacht. 

“Maybe not,” said Ridmark, “but he didn’t do a very good job of defeating Mournacht, did he? The Mhorites won the first battle.”

“The lord Traveler cannot be overcome,” said Zhorlacht. “In time, he shall crush the Mhorites utterly. Perhaps that is even part of his plan.”

Ridmark realized that he was talking to a madman. Zhorlacht believed that the Traveler was a god, and there was nothing Ridmark could do or say that would change his mind. If the Traveler tripped and broke his neck, Zhorlacht would proclaim it part of the dark elven lord’s brilliant plan. The worst thing was that Zhorlacht hadn’t chosen to regard the Traveler as his god. No rational man of any kindred would look at the erratic, half-crazed Traveler and worship him. Instead, the Traveler had made his slaves worship him, had engineered them so the Anathgrimm would regard him as a god and his every word as law. The Anathgrimm were prisoners, and they didn’t even realize it. 

A wave of pity went through Ridmark.

That would not, however, stop Ridmark from killing them. 

“No,” said Ridmark. “We are not surrendering to the Traveler. We are going to claim the power before your false god and Mournacht, and then we are going to escape Khald Azalar while you and the Mhorites kill each other.”

“Very well, then,” said Zhorlacht. “It appears the time for talking is over.”

He moved fast, faster than Ridmark would have thought someone that large could have moved. His sword swept for Ridmark’s neck in a smooth blow that would have opened his throat. Ridmark had anticipated the attack, and snapped his staff up. Zhorlacht’s sword, razor-sharp and well-forged, might have sliced through a staff of normal wood. Whatever Ardrhythain’s magic had done to the staff had made it stronger than normal wood, and Zhorlacht’s blade redounded from it. Zhorlacht sprang backwards, drawing back his sword to strike again while his left hand came up, crackling with dark magic. Ridmark threw himself to the ground, rolling as Zhorlacht’s withering lance of blue fire shot over his head, and came back to his feet and sprinted for his waiting friends. 

Zhorlacht shouted, and the Anathgrimm bellowed in answer and began running forward with a clatter of armor, while the urvaalgs waiting behind the blast furnaces loosed their wailing battle cries and charged.

“Morigna! Antenora!” shouted Ridmark. “Now!”

Both women cast spells. A rippling wall of white mist appeared behind Zhorlacht, engulfing the charging Anathgrimm. The bone-armored orcs stumbled, their precise formation disintegrating as Morigna’s sleeping mist took effect. A pack of urvaalgs bounded from between two blast furnaces, but Antenora cast her spell. The fireball shot from her staff and erupted between the furnaces, the narrow space intensifying the blast. The fire was not nearly as hot as some of the blasts Antenora had conjured, but it was hot enough to set the urvaalgs’ greasy fur alight, and the beasts came to a halt, snarling and screaming as they tried to beat out the fires.