Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (13 page)

He didn’t want to find out. 

Ridmark reached the edge of the trees, saw the statue, and stopped. He had expected to find some petrified dwarves, or Vhaluuskan orcs, or perhaps even some trolls. The dark fear in his mind had expected to see Morigna and the others turned to stone. 

He had not anticipated something like this.

A statue of a creature like a cross between a man and a lion stood before him. It had the head and proud mane of a mighty lion, and the well-muscled torso and arms of a human man, albeit covered with fur. The creature had the lower body of a lion, four muscular legs that terminated in paws equipped with deadly claws. It wore a leather baldric over its chest, a quiver of arrows against its back. In its right hand it held a javelin, its arm drawn back to throw, and a round shield rested upon its left arm. 

The level of detail on the statue was uncanny, the work so fine that Ridmark saw the individual strands of hair in the creature’s mane. At once he knew that this was not a statue. It had once been a living creature of flesh and blood…and then it had encountered the guardian of the Vale of Stone Death. 

Calliande stepped past him, blinking at the statue. 

“A manetaur?” she said, astonished. 

Ridmark nodded. “The lion-men of the kingdoms of the distant east. Fierce and proud and violent, but honorable enough in their own way. They are allies of the High King.”

“I know what the manetaurs are,” said Calliande.

“You do?” said Ridmark, surprised. Maybe he shouldn’t have been. Calliande had been the Keeper, perhaps the most powerful woman in the realm. It was more than likely she would have met at least some manetaur nobles. 

Calliande hesitated, her expression taking that glassy air it did when she remembered something from her past. “At least…I used to, apparently.” She circled the manetaur. “Though I wonder what a manetaur is doing here. We’re a long, long way from the plains of the east.”

“A Rite of Challenge, probably,” said Ridmark.

“What is a Rite of Challenge?” said Calliande. 

“The manetaurs do not think as we do,” said Ridmark. “They are hunters, predators, and are comfortable with violence in a way that even the orcs are not. If Arandar murdered High King Uthanaric Pendragon and seized the throne of Tarlion for himself, it would mean civil war in Andomhaim. Among the manetaurs, is expected that one day the Red King will be defeated and killed in combat by his strongest son. They respect only strength and prowess and nothing else.”

“Yes,” murmured Calliande. “Yes…I remember that now. They are a savage and brutal folk, but they keep their word. It does not explain what a manetaur is doing here.”

“It’s how the manetaurs keep from slaughtering each other over disputes,” said Ridmark. “They have better control over their bestial natures than the lupivirii, and are not ruled entirely by their instincts. If two manetaurs quarrel, the Red King or another manetaur noble can set a Rite of Challenge, some feat or heroic deed to perform. The manetaurs have recognized Andomhaim as the High King’s…hunting range, essentially, and they will only enter it as part of these Rites. Certainly that’s the only reason why a manetaur would come this far into the Wilderland.” 

He stared at the ground, frowning, and Calliande kept examining the petrified manetaur. 

“How long as he been here, do you think?” said Calliande. “Centuries?” 

“No,” said Ridmark. “A few hours at the most. Likely the manetaur was turned to stone while we were eluding the trolls.”

She looked at him, her blue eyes wide. “A few hours? How do you know that?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “I can still see his paw prints.”

He pointed at the tracks in the earth. Pine needles coated the ground, which made it easy to spot footprints. To judge from the tracks, the manetaur had charged forward at full speed, and then had come to an abrupt and terminal halt when he had been transformed into stone. Ridmark turned, following the direction of the stone javelin in the manetaur’s hand.

“Look,” he said, pointing. A javelin of identical design hung from a nearby tree, its head embedded the pine’s trunk. Unlike the javelin in the manetaur’s hand, the weapon had not been turned to stone. “The guardian stood right there. The manetaur charged it, threw the javelin, and then the guardian turned him into stone.” 

Calliande stared at the javelin, blinking. 

“It’s pointing,” she said. “It’s pointing right at…”

Ridmark frowned, his eyes sweeping the trees. “At what?”

“The Vault of the North,” she whispered, her voice unsteady, her eyes distant. Then she shook her head, her expression clearing. “The Vault of the North. Right at the Vault of the North. It’s…”

“What,” said Ridmark, puzzled, “is the Vault of the North?” Had she remembered something else from her past? 

“It’s where the gorgon spirit waits,” she said.

“The gorgon spirit?” said Ridmark.

“The guardian,” murmured Calliande. “That’s what the dwarves called it. The gorgon spirit.”

Ridmark blinked. “But what exactly is the Vault of the North? The gorgon spirit’s lair?”

Her brow furrowed. “I…don’t know. I think it is part of Khald Azalar. Or one of its outbuildings. Maybe one of the structures the dwarves constructed in the valley. I do know it’s at the northern point of the Vale.”

“The name would imply that, yes,” said Ridmark.

She smiled a little at that. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember anything else about it. I must have known about it when I was still the Keeper, when I was…whoever I used to be.” She scowled, not at him but at whatever blocks remained upon her memory. “It was important. And dangerous. I can recall nothing else about it.” 

“We’ll avoid it, then,” said Ridmark. “We’re making for the Gate of the West, not the Vault of the North.” He shook his head. “Between the trolls, the manetaurs, the Mhorites, and the Anathgrimm orcs, I hope the others can make it to the Gate of the West without trouble.” 

“You think we’ll find more than one manetaur?” said Calliande.

“Probably,” said Ridmark. “They prefer to hunt in packs…or prides, as they call them. If a manetaur noble of sufficient rank went on a Rite of Challenge, he would have brought his warriors and servants.”

They left the petrified manetaur behind and headed deeper into the forest, the pine needles rasping against their boots. Ridmark moved as quietly as he could. It was harder to move without sound upon the tangled, needle-coated floor of the forest than in the rocky, barren foothills. On the other hand, the pine trees provided ample concealment. That thought cheered him. Morigna knew how to move around a forest. With luck, she could avoid their foes and lead the others to the Gate of the West. 

Or they had all been killed already. 

Ridmark put that thought out of his mind and kept walking, his eyes and ears seeking for any threats. 

About twenty minutes later he came to a sudden halt, his staff coming up. 

“What is it?” said Calliande. 

“Blood,” muttered Ridmark, looking at the tracks. A large pool of blood lay congealing at the base of a pine tree. “Manetaur blood, I believe. I think…I think a group of trolls caught a manetaur here.” He circled around the tree and found a dead manetaur lying against the roots, its fur and mane golden, a broken spear grasped in its hand. Its muzzle was peeled back in a silent snarl, its eyes staring lifelessly at the sky. Something had hit its chest with enough force to shatter ribs and turn heart and lungs to bloody pulp. 

“If trolls killed him,” said Calliande, “why didn’t they eat him right away?”

That was a good question.

“I…” Ridmark started to say, and then another sound drowned out his words. 

A thunderous, booming roar raised in challenge, full of fury and defiance. The harsh, grating war cries of trolls answered the roar.

They were not far away.

“One of the manetaurs is still alive,” said Ridmark. 

“Are…we going to help him?” said Calliande. 

He heard the question in her voice and saw it in her eyes. She knew he wanted to rejoin Morigna as soon as possible. They had other responsibilities, too. If Calliande did not recover her staff, if they did not defeat Shadowbearer, then Shadowbearer would open the door between worlds and call the Frostborn forth once more. 

Did they dare risk all that to aid a stranger?

“We are,” said Ridmark. “I have seen what trolls do to their victims, and I will not leave any man to that fate.”

To his surprise, Calliande grinned, and he saw a glimpse of what she must have been like as the Keeper, when she had commanded power and confidence. Perhaps she would be like that again. 

“Then let’s go,” she said, and he led the way towards the sounds of fighting.

Chapter 9: Lord of the Dark Elves

Mara closed her eyes and rubbed her left temple, her free hand closing into a fist. 

“Mara?” said Jager in a low voice, his eyes never leaving their “escort” of Anathgrimm orcs. 

Gavin watched her while trying to keep all the Anathgrimm in sight at once. Sir Arandar, Kharlacht, and Caius walked in front. Gavin, Mara, and Jager flanked Morigna, though Gavin did not know how much use Morigna’s magic would be if the Anathgrimm struck at once. Arandar had used Heartwarden’s power to ease the wounds they had taken in the fighting, though he was not as skilled with it as Calliande. Still, any relief was better than none. Gavin kept his hand on Truthseeker’s hilt, drawing on the sword’s magic. Bit by bit the pain in his left shoulder was receding. Hopefully he would be back to full fighting capacity by the time they met the Traveler.

Hopefully the Traveler would not try to kill them.

Gavin could not make himself believe that. 

“It’s the song,” said Mara in a low voice. The Anathgrimm had spread around them in a loose ring perhaps fifty yards across. It was far enough away that the orcish warriors could not overhear them, but close enough that they could easily overwhelm Gavin and the others. “The Traveler’s song.” Her mouth twisted into a grimace. “My father’s song. It’s…louder, much louder.”

“Are you in danger of it…controlling you?” said Jager. Only the twitch of a muscle near his amber-colored eyes gave away the fear he must have felt at the prospect. 

“No,” said Mara. “It can’t do that to me. Not any longer. But it’s loud. It’s so loud that it is…quite uncomfortable, I fear.” She stepped forward. “Sir Arandar?”

“Aye, my lady?” said Arandar. Despite their grim situation, Gavin felt a flicker of amusement. Arandar had never quite figured out how to address Mara, and had eventually decided that as the daughter of a dark elven prince she was entitled the form of address used for noblewomen. 

“Do not mention that I am the Traveler’s daughter,” she said. “He might figure it out on his own…but do not mention it.”

“He would try to kill you?” said Arandar.

“He might,” said Mara. “Or he might try to dominate me as he can dominate urvaalgs and other creatures of dark magic. I’m not entirely sure how he will react to me. The Traveler is insane.”

“So was the Warden,” said Arandar.

“No,” said Mara. “He wasn’t. The Warden was a genius. Twisted and evil, yes, but in full command of his intellect and mind, and possessed of vision, however dark. My father…isn’t. He is a coward, and his moods change more rapidly than the weather. Be very careful around him. All of you.” She looked around. “He might try to kill us, or he might let us go. There is now way to predict how he will react.” 

“He must want something from us,” said Jager.

“How can you be sure of that, master thief?” said Arandar, glancing again at the Anathgrimm. The bone-armored orcs seemed to have no interest in the discussion. “If the Traveler is insane, perhaps this is a game to him.”

“If he didn’t want something from us,” said Jager, “he wouldn’t have ordered his soldiers to bring us to him. Otherwise he could have just killed us. No, he wants something from us…and that gives us a little bit of leverage against him.” He shrugged. “I knew that Tarrabus Carhaine wanted something when he didn’t have me killed out of hand.”

Arandar’s dark eyes hardened at the mention of the Dux of Caerdracon. Arandar’s son Accolon had been arrested on a false charge of murder, and Tarrabus had offered to set him free if Arandar retrieved Truthseeker from Urd Morlemoch. Of course, Arandar was the High King’s bastard son, and Tarrabus had only made the deal so Arandar would die in his quest and rid Tarrabus of another Pendragon heir to the throne of Andomhaim. Gavin would have to travel to Tarlion with Arandar once this was done, so Arandar could force Tarrabus to keep his word. The thought made Gavin’s head spin a little. He had never thought he would see the High King’s seat, yet he would come there as a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade.

Assuming the Traveler did not kill them all, of course.

“Yes,” said Morigna, derision in her tone. “Your little dalliance with Tarrabus Carhaine worked out so well for us all.” 

“Well,” said Jager, “I’m still alive, we rescued Mara, the Iron Tower was destroyed, Paul Tallmane was brought to account for his crimes, and we recovered the empty soulstone. All in all, I’d say it went very well.”

Morigna scowled but said nothing. 

“I urge you not to speak of that and other matters,” said Arandar in a low voice. “Perhaps the Traveler does not wish us to perform a task for him. Perhaps he desires to obtain the…object you mentioned. And one of our companions.” 

Gavin felt a little chill. He hadn’t considered that possibility. The Warden had almost claimed Calliande’s body and used the empty soulstone to open a gate to Old Earth. Did the Traveler intend to do something similar? Perhaps he hadn’t come here for Calliande’s staff at all.

No sooner had that dark thought crossed his mind then he saw black shapes moving through the trees, and Truthseeker jolted beneath his fingers. 

“Urvaalgs,” said Morigna, lifting her free hand.

A dozen of the hideous, misshapen creatures moved out of the trees, drawing near to the Anathgrimm orcs. Gavin drew Truthseeker and Arandar lifted Heartwarden, both swords burning with white fire in response to the dark magic within the urvaalgs. The others lifted their weapons, but Gavin did not know how much good that would do. They had blades of dark elven steel which could wound the urvaalgs, but without Calliande’s augmenting magic they could not kill the creatures. Gavin and the others had not been able to defeat that many Anathgrimm at once, and if the orcish warriors had the aid of the Traveler’s urvaalgs…

“Do not fear,” called Zhorlacht, his distorted voice booming over the Anathgrimm. “Our god has sent his hounds to escort us. His daughters, as well.” 

Mara flinched. “Daughters?”

A dark shape shot overhead. Gavin glimpsed a slender woman of inhuman beauty, armored in close-fitted plates of black steel. Great wings like black leather sails spread from her back, and she disappeared from sight behind the towering pine trees. The creature was an urdhracos, one of the most powerful minions of the dark elves. She was what Mara would have become, had she not mastered herself in the Iron Tower. 

That was very bad. The urdhracosi were powerful and dangerous. If the Traveler wanted to kill them, he certainly had the means to do so. 

Yet the urvaalgs padded alongside the Anathgrimm like misshapen dogs, and the urdhracos did not reappear. Perhaps Traveler really did want to talk. 

The ground grew rougher, hillier. Ahead Gavin glimpsed a tall hill rising out of the forest, topped with damaged walls and towers of dwarven design. The trees thinned at the base of the hill, and more Anathgrimm orcs waited there, along with additional urvaalgs. Dark shapes circled overhead, and one by one more urdhracosi dropped out of the sky, their great wings folding behind their armored backs. It shocked Gavin how much they looked like Mara. They had the same facial features, though their hair was black, and their eyes were like bottomless black pits into nothingness. 

The orcs stopped, and Zhorlacht stepped forward. 

“My lord and my god!” called the orcish wizard. “We have come! We have brought the ones you desired.” He beckoned. “Behold the Traveler, the lord and god of Nightmane Forest, and the rightful god of this world!” 

The urdhracosi stepped to the side, forming an aisle. 

Truthseeker jolted again in Gavin’s hand, and he felt something like rage coming from the sword.

Mara’s face remained icy calm, but he saw the twitch go through her limbs, saw her hand seek Jager’s. 

The Traveler strolled forward, pine needles grating beneath his armored boots, and the power of his aura rolled over Gavin like a cloud of freezing darkness.

He was tall, as tall as the Warden had been, over seven feet. His skin was chalk white, and his eyes were bottomless black pits into a void. He wore armor of overlapping blue steel plates of similar design to the armor Gavin and the others had stolen from Urd Morlemoch, though the Traveler’s armor was far more ornate, adorned with alien designs of gleaming silver that made Gavin’s eyes hurt. His blue helmet had an ornate crest of silver, and a longsword hung from his belt of gleaming black leather. Dark magic poured off him in a storm of power, and Truthseeker shivered with fury in Gavin’s hand. 

But that was not the worst thing about him. 

He looked so much like Mara. 

Gavin realized that the urdhracosi did not look like Mara, not really. Mara and the urdhracosi looked like their father. Yet not even the urdhracosi had the malign cruelty that seemed to saturate the Traveler’s features, like an ancient blade that had been soaked in the blood of a thousand victims. 

The dark elven lord scowled in fury, white lips peeling back from his white teeth. Then he twitched, some of the fury draining from his features, and a smile stretched his mouth. 

“What have we here?” said the Traveler in perfect Latin, his voice inhumanly deep and melodious. Gavin would have thought the voice beautiful, had he not been so frightened. “A strange assortment. A motley assortment. An orc, a dwarf, a halfling, two human females, and two human males. A very strange group of companions.” Suddenly rage flashed over his face. “And two of them bearing soulblades! The cursed weapons of the cowardly high elves, the tools of the fool Ardrhythain!” He snarled and took a step forward, raking his hand through the air as blue fire danced around his fingers. “Treachery! You have come to kill me! Miserable humans! I defied Ardrhythain and the Warden and the urdmordar. Do you think to crush me?” The urvaalgs growled, inching forward, and the Anathgrimm raised their weapons. Gavin tightened his grip on Truthseeker, preparing himself for the last stand. 

“I should point out,” said Arandar, “that you invited us here. We did not seek this meeting, Traveler.”

The Traveler blinked. “What? I…yes, that sounds right. Yes. So I did, did I not?” The rage vanished as quickly as it had come, and suddenly the Traveler reminded Gavin of the Warden, all smooth control and power. “Then you have answered my summons as I commanded, Swordbearer of Andomhaim. What is your name?” 

“I am Arandar, knight of the Order of the Soulblade, in service to Uthanaric Pendragon, High King of the realm of Andomhaim,” said Arandar, his voice ringing as he recited off his titles. 

“The second Swordbearer?” said the Traveler, his terrible eyes turning towards Gavin.

Gavin realized that the Traveler expected him to answer. “Gavin of Aranaeus.” 

“Young, for a Swordbearer,” said the Traveler, gazing up at nothing. “But they were all young, once, when the urdmordar almost devoured your kindred as they devoured mine. And you are all young. So young. I wonder if your kindred had yet learned how to make marks upon clay when I was already ten thousand years old. You are like flies, dying so quickly.” Again blue fire flashed around his fingers. “So very quickly. Perhaps right now.”

Arandar’s calm did not waver. Gavin wondered if he had learned that kind of poise in the High King’s court. “Did you bring us here simply to kill us?”

The Traveler drew himself up. “Do you know who I am?”

“I have heard rumor, yes,” said Arandar. 

“I am the Lord of Nightmane Forest, the master of the Anathgrimm, and the rightful ruler of your realm of Andomhaim,” said the Traveler. “Your kindred may know me as the Traveler. For I am the wisest and the greatest of the dark elves.”

Mara made a faint sound. Gavin was not sure if she was gagging or trying to suppress a scornful laugh. Her hand gripped Jager’s, but the other opened and closed into a fist over and over again. 

“Truly?” said Arandar. “How did you become the greatest of your kindred?”

“I survived,” spat the Traveler. “All the others died or were enslaved. I survived. When the door between the worlds opened and the urdmordar came forth, I fled. I established my stronghold in Nightmane Forest and ringed it with wards of my magic. I wrought the Anathgrimm to defend me, and summoned other war beasts to serve me. For thousands of years I have ruled Nightmane Forest. Once realms of the dark elves covered this entire land. Now they are all gone, and only I remain. I alone am immortal. I alone am eternal. I am alone am the true god.” 

“Then what would such a puissant being,” said Arandar, “have need of us? Your magic can accomplish all that you desire. Your servants can defend you and claim whatever you want. So why did you summon us?” 

“Because,” said the Traveler, “I wish for you to answer my questions. For I can compel you to do whatsoever I wish, but I cannot compel you to answer my questions from afar.” He threw back his head and howled with laughter, the force and power of his voice seeming to press against the inside of Gavin’s skull. Mara staggered back a step, gritted her teeth, and shook her head. 

“So,” said Arandar, his aloof calm unwavering, “what question did you wish to ask of us?”

“A great power has awakened beneath the mountains to the east,” said the Traveler, waving his armored gauntlet in that direction. “A powerful magic alien to this world, yet nonetheless potent. Perhaps you know of it, Sir Arandar of Tarlion.”

Arandar offered a shrug. “I am but a humble knight, Traveler. Such matters of magic and sorcery are beyond my meagre wisdom.”

Gavin stifled a smile at that.

“It is a power I had thought lost to this world, destroyed by the Frostborn,” said the Traveler. “The power of the Keeper of Andomhaim, a magic that preserved your realm from the powers of my kindred for five centuries until the wretched Ardrhythain gave you the magic to create the Swordbearers and the Magistri.”

“A notable occurrence,” said Arandar. “Though I am curious why such a matter is of interest to you. I suspect the Keeper’s power would be…inimical to your kindred.” 

The Traveler’s face twisted with something like glee. “There is no magic like it upon this world, and against its power there can be no defense. How do you think the Keeper defied my kindred and the shamans of the orcs and the kobolds for all those years? Her power cannot be matched. I had thought the final Keeper slain at the hand of the Frostborn two centuries past…but instead the power has awakened beneath the mountains, in the rat-tunnels of the dwarves of Khald Azalar.”