Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (7 page)

Ridmark froze, looking at the glyphs carved upon the floor, while both Morigna and Calliande cast spells. 

“Mara is correct,” said Morigna, waving her hand as purple fire flickered around her fingers. “Every one of the glyphs carries a spell. The door to the stairs as well, I deem.”

“I think they’re wards,” said Calliande. “Latent, though. Sleeping. Nothing has triggered them in a very long time. Caius. Can you read what they say?”

The dwarven friar gave a quick shake of his head. “Not entirely.” 

Morigna scowled. “Can not a dwarf read the script of his own kindred?” 

“A dwarf can,” said Caius, “but the glyphs of our tongue and the glyphs employed by the stonescribes to carve words of magic upon stone and steel are different alphabets entirely. The stonescribes guard their secrets closely. I think, though,” he stared at the floor for a moment, “I think that these are wards against hostile magic. So long as no one casts a spell at them, we ought to be safe.” 

“I suggest we do not dwell upon the matter further,” said Kharlacht, “but instead proceed to the Vale.”

“A sound thought,” said Ridmark, and he took a step forward just as a figure emerged from one of the darkened doors. 

It was an orcish man, clad in fur and leather and a ragged chain mail hauberk, a sword in his right hand and a round leather shield upon his wrist. His face had been scarred and tattooed into a hideous, stylized crimson skull. 

A Mhorite.

For a moment the Mhorite stared at them in astonishment. Then the orcish warrior threw back his head and roared, the scream echoing off the walls. Morigna sneered and raised her hand, purple fire flickering around her fingers, but Calliande grabbed her wrist.

“Don’t,” she said. “You’ll set off the wards.” 

Morigna scowled at her, but nodded and reached for her bow. 

Ridmark raised his staff, and a dozen Mhorite orcs erupted from the doorways, torches and swords in hand. They charged with furious war cries, raising their weapons. Mournacht must have sent out scouting bands as he made his way to the Vale of Stone Death. The trolls had killed the band Ridmark had encountered earlier, but another group had stumbled across the High Gate. 

Or Mournacht had sent them to hunt for Ridmark himself. Then the Mhorites drew near, and Ridmark had no more time for speculation. 

His companions raised their weapons and set themselves. White light pulsed from Calliande, settling around Ridmark to strengthen and protect him. He almost shouted for her to stop, but the glyphs upon the floor gave no reaction. Evidently the ancient dwarven stonescribes had not considered the magic of the Well to be a danger. One of the Mhorites charged at Ridmark and flung his torch with a bellow of fury. Ridmark snapped his staff to the side, knocking the torch out of the air, and flung his own torch. The Mhorite dodged, avoiding the missile, and Ridmark attacked. The Mhorite avoided the first swing of his staff, got his sword up to parry the second, and then Ridmark sidestepped, bringing the weapon around with all his strength. 

The staff smashed into the Mhorite’s skull with crushing force, and the warrior went sprawling to the glyph-carved floor. Ridmark spun, seeking another foe. Even without his torch, he had no trouble seeing. The dropped torches provided ample light, at least for now. His companions had fallen into their usual style of fighting. Kharlacht and Caius fought back to back, the big warrior delivering devastating blows with his greatsword. The dwarven friar’s mace crushed skulls and chests, or stunned the Mhorites long enough for Kharlacht to deliver a killing blow. Arandar hacked his way into the Mhorites, Heartwarden rising and falling, while Gavin and Jager fell back to shield Calliande and Morigna. Calliande raised her hands, white fire dancing over her fingers, her face tight with concentration as she maintained her spells. Morigna had her bow out, her expression focused as she sent arrows at the Mhorite warriors. Blue fire flickered behind a Mhorite charging at Calliande, and Mara appeared behind the orcish warrior, giving him a sharp shove in the small of the back. The Mhorite stumbled with a bellow, and in one smooth motion Jaeger reached up and slashed his throat. 

Ten Mhorites fell in the first few moments of the combat, and the rest reeled back even as more orcs emerged from the darkened inner chambers. Ridmark didn’t know how many Mhorites were here. Too many would overwhelm them. Perhaps it would be best to simply retreat up the stairs to the Vale. Except the Mhorites could follow them, and Ridmark and the others would have to fight their way clear. Worse, the fighting might draw the attention of whatever creatures lurked in the Vale of Stone Death. 

A flare of blood-colored light among the Mhorites caught his attention. 

An older orcish man stood behind the Mhorite warriors, his green skin creased with thousands of wrinkles. He wore only trousers and heavy boots, amulets dangling from his neck and belt, the skin of his chest and arms carved with elaborate sigils. 

A Mhorite shaman, a priest of the blood gods…and he was casting a spell, heedless of the warding spells beneath his feet.

“Stop, you idiot!” roared Ridmark in orcish. “If you cast that spell, you’ll…”

The Mhorite shaman laughed and flung his hand at Ridmark, crimson fire and dark shadow writhing around his fingers. Calliande gestured, casting a spell of her own, and the extra strength and speed faded from Ridmark as she drew her power back and reshaped it into a ward. A spitting lance of shadow and flame burst from the shaman’s fingers, only to shatter against the shimmering white haze of Calliande’s magic. 

For an instant nothing happened, and then every single glyph upon the floor blazed with sullen orange-yellow light. The Mhorite orcs looked around in alarm. Another glyph blazed to life upon the ceiling, a huge symbol perhaps twenty yards across, growing brighter and brighter. 

And hotter. Ridmark felt the heat rolling off the thing in waves. 

The huge glyph upon the ceiling flared, and a line of white-hot fire as thick as Ridmark’s leg shot from the symbol and ripped across the floor. It tore through three of the Mhorite warriors, turning them into charred husks, and drilled into the shaman. He simply burst apart in a spray of smoking coals and burning embers, and the shaft of fire winked out of existence. 

The temperature in the hall seemed to have doubled in the last few seconds, and it was still getting hotter. The Mhorites scattered in alarm, and the floor started to shake beneath Ridmark’s boots. Were the dwarves’ ancient defenses going to bring the entire High Gate crashing into ruin around them? 

“Ridmark!” shouted Mara, pointing.

He looked at the stairs to the Vale.

The archway was getting smaller. Two enormous slabs of stone, covered in fiery glyphs, were sliding together. The huge doors were at least three feet thick. The Mhorites fled towards the western entrance, away from the closing doors. There were dozens of them, perhaps even as many as a hundred. If that door closed, Ridmark and his companions would be trapped in the High Gate with the Mhorite orcs. In the limited space, they would be surrounded and overwhelmed. 

Ridmark made his decision. 

“Go!” he shouted. “Up the stairs, quickly! Run!” 

###

Calliande sprinted across the wide hall, her boots slapping against the glowing glyphs burning across the floor. The symbol overhead blazed brighter, the heat washing over her. She wondered if it would get hot enough to set them all ablaze. The Mhorites fled for the far entrance, ignoring the closing doors and the stairs. 

Morigna was the first through the doors, spinning to face the hall. Then came Jager, and Mara flickered next to him in a pulse of blue fire. Both Swordbearers came next, and then Kharlacht and Caius, both men breathing hard. Ridmark stopped just before the closing doors, turning to face her.

Calliande gritted her teeth and ran faster. 

Suddenly the floor heaved and she stumbled. She took three or four staggering steps forward and caught her balance, alarm and fear driving her onward. The doors were still a third of the way open. If she sprinted, she could get there before…

Steel flashed in the corner of her eye.

Calliande spun as a Mhorite orc lunged at her, sword stabbing for her chest. She jumped back, dodging the blow, and her right hand came up to summon power. A ward against steel sprang to life around her, manifesting as a shimmering shell of white light. The orc struck again, his sword rebounding from the ward, the shock of the impact knocking him back. Calliande turned to run, but a second Mhorite attacked her, his skull-tattooed face twisted in a bloodthirsty grin. She put more power into her ward, and the second Mhorite’s blow rebounded. Yet she saw a third one running at her. Her magic could hold their blows at bay…but it could not hurt them. The Mhorites were living mortals, and the magic of the Well could not harm them. Calliande had two daggers on her belt – the blade Ridmark had given her before Dun Licinia, and the enspelled dagger the Taalkaz had given her in Coldinium. Yet the three Mhorites were stronger and faster than she was, and they were going to overwhelm her and kill her.

Bronze-colored metal flashed, and suddenly one of the Mhorites collapsed to the glowing floor, a dwarven war axe buried in the back of his skull. The remaining two Mhorites whirled, only to face the blur of the black staff in Ridmark’s hands. Ridmark drove the staff into the next Mhorite’s temple, and the orcish warrior collapsed. The final Mhorite lunged at him, slashing and stabbing. Ridmark danced around the blows, the staff snapping up with contemptuous ease to deflect the thrusts that came near his torso. Then he spun the staff, and its butt end slammed into the bottom of the orc’s jaw. The Mhorite’s head snapped back, and Ridmark reversed the staff and swung it into the orc’s temple. The Mhorite collapsed, gagging around a crushed windpipe, and Calliande stared at the warrior in shock. She knew firsthand how skilled Ridmark was, but he had cut down all three orcs in less than twenty seconds.

He seized her hand and yanked her forward. 

“Go!” he yelled. 

Calliande sprinted after him, the twin slabs of the doors sliding closer and closer together. She saw the others staring at her and Ridmark in alarm. They were going to make it. Just a little further…

“Ridmark!” said Morigna.

The two doors slammed together with a sound like the hammer of God. Calliande staggered to a stop a few paces away. The slabs fitted together so closely that she could barely see the crack. 

“Ah,” said Ridmark when the echoes faded away. “Damn.”

Calliande summoned power and cast a spell, probing the wards upon the door. Their sheer power staggered her. An individual dwarven glyph could not contain very much magical power. But thousands upon thousands of glyphs had been carved upon the double doors, and they interlocked, fitting together like a pair of gears. There was no possible way she could dispel the warding glyphs, and even if she did, the doors were three feet of solid granite. 

“I’m sorry,” said Calliande. “I should have run faster. I…”

Ridmark shook his head. “You were the farthest away from the doors when that idiot shaman cast his spell. You would have made it if not for the interruption.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, looking around the hall. “We can’t stay here.”

“We can’t leave the others, either,” said Calliande. 

“We don’t have a choice,” said Ridmark. “Sooner or later those Mhorites will figure out we’re still here, and I can’t fight all of them. We…”

Blue fire swirled next to them, and Mara appeared out of nothingness.

She blinked, staggered, and wavered on her feet. Ridmark moved to her side and caught her arm.

“Oh,” she said, blinking several more times. “That really hurt.”

“What did?” said Calliande.

“Traveling through those wards,” said Mara, waving a vague hand at the doors. 

“I thought you can only travel to places in your line of sight,” said Ridmark.

“Usually,” said Mara. “But the door…I thought I could make it through. Those wards, though.” She shuddered. “Like spikes.” 

“Does Caius know if there is a way to open the door?” said Calliande.

“There isn’t,” said Mara. “He says the spells will release themselves after a day.”

“We cannot wait here that long,” said Calliande. 

“Can you make it back to the others?” said Ridmark. 

“Yes,” said Mara. “I think so. But after that, I don’t think I can manage another trip through those wards without some rest.” 

“Good,” said Ridmark. “This is what I want you to do. Tell Caius and Kharlacht and the others to make for the gates of Khald Azalar, the Gate of the West. From what Caius said, they’re on the other side of the Vale, and he’ll remember the way. Try to avoid any fighting. Once you get to the gates, wait for us there. We will meet you as soon as we can.”

“How are you going to get out of here?” said Mara.

Ridmark pointed at one of the darkened doorways across the hall. “That ruined watch tower Caius mentioned. We’ll take the stairs to the watch tower and make our way down the mountainside.”

Mara took a deep breath, and Calliande saw the cool calculation flash over her face. She had made the same judgment that Ridmark had and had come to the same conclusion. “Very well. I will tell them. God go with you, Ridmark.”

“And you, Mara,” said Ridmark.

“I would tell you to be careful,” said Mara, “but I know you would not listen.” She looked at Calliande. “God be with you, Magistria.”

“Don’t let Jager do anything too foolish,” said Calliande. 

Mara smiled. “It’s part of his charm.” She nodded to them, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

Then she vanished in a swirl of blue fire. 

Ridmark was in motion at once, beckoning her forward. 

“Let’s go,” he said. “Eventually some of those Mhorites are going to regain their courage and come back here, if only to loot their fallen comrades.”

“Do you think this will work?” said Calliande. 

“We don’t have any other choice,” said Ridmark, walking towards the orcs he had killed. “If we wait for the spells on the doors to release, the Mhorites will kill us. If the others wait for us on the other side, the guardian creature or God knows what else might stumble upon them and kill them. A moving target is harder to hit.”