Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (23 page)

“A thousand dwarves,” said Kharlacht, “and a thousand places for a small band of dvargir to hide. Where shall we search?”

“Right there,” said Ridmark, pointing. 

At the apex of the valley, overlooking the town, stood a tall stone keep. Ridmark suspected it had once been the seat of Thainkul Dural’s lord. The doors of dwarven steel to the hall stood ajar, and a faint ray of light leaked out.

Firelight. 

“This way,” said Ridmark. 

He led the way along the street of the highest tier, past the blocky dwarven houses with their doors of bronze-colored steel and their dark windows like empty eyes. Here and there Ridmark saw the gray skeletons of long-dead dwarves, some still clad in battered armor and helmets. Like their steel, the bones of the dwarves were nearly indestructible. Caius made the sign of the cross and mouthed prayers for the dead in silence. Ridmark wondered if the prayers were effective. Caius was the first man of the dwarven kindred to accept baptism. Perhaps the dead dwarves had joined their ancient gods in eternal silence and darkness. Or perhaps they languished in purgatory, and awaited the prayers of righteous men to send them to the Dominus Christus in paradise. 

Ridmark did not know, and he had more immediate worries. 

Such as keeping his bones and the bones of his friends from joining those of the dwarves. 

They reached the keep, and Ridmark heard deep, rough voices, like stone rasping stone.

The dvargir.

Ridmark whispered into Caius’s ear. “You speak their tongue?”

The dwarven friar nodded.

“Come with me,” said Ridmark. “The rest of you, stay here. Get ready to fight or to run.”

They obeyed, lifting weapons and preparing spells. Ridmark and Caius crossed the square before the keep in silence. The firelight grew brighter, and they crawled up the stairs and peered into the hall beyond the doors. Statues of dwarven warriors lined the hall, and a long stone table stood at the foot of the dais.

A dozen dvargir warriors sat at the table, and none of them cast shadows in the firelight thrown from the hearth. 

Like the dead dvargir below the monastery, the warriors wore armor of strange black metal that seemed somehow wet while drinking the light. They carried swords and axes of the strange black metal at their belts. Unlike their dwarven cousins, the dvargir shaved their heads – hair, beards, and even eyebrows. Their eyes were utterly black, like spheres of liquid shadow.

They reminded Ridmark a great deal of the Warden’s eyes.

A dvargir sat on the throne atop the dais. His cuirass had been adorned with strange stylized reliefs of red gold, the color bright against his black armor and gray skin, and a diadem of red gold encircled his hairless head. Deep lines marked the skin of his face, and his lips curled in a perpetual sneer.

“A Dzark,” whispered Caius. “Like…a knight, essentially. A warrior and a minor noble.”

Ridmark nodded and listened to the dvargir speak in their deep, rasping voices. 

“They are complaining,” said Caius after a moment. “They have been waiting for too long.”

One of the dvargir warriors began gesturing, while the Dzark listened in contemptuous silence.

Caius’s breath hissed in alarm. 

“What is it?” said Ridmark. 

“They are waiting,” said Caius, “for a ‘yapping dog’ of Shadowbearer’s to return to them.”

Ridmark felt ice trickle down his spine.

“It seems,” said Caius, “they came here at the bidding of Shadowbearer. No. At the command of one of Shadowbearer’s disciples.” He listened for a while, watching the dvargir warrior complain and gesture. “He think it is an insult, a loss of face. The dvargir are the strongest servants of the great void, the most worthy, and Shadowbearer ought to have come to them in the flesh, rather than sending a lackey.”

“They should be careful what they wish for,” said Ridmark. 

“Truly,” said Caius. He listened for a moment longer. “He says that it is an insult that Shadowbearer wears the form of a high elf, when he should clothe himself in the flesh of a dvargir.”

The dvargir warrior stopped speaking, and the Dzark stared. The silence stretched on, and the Dzark spoke a single, growling sentence. The dvargir warriors erupted with laughter, pounding their armored fists against the table.

“The Dzark said,” said Caius, “that if Korzdan – the warrior – disagrees with Shadowbearer, Korzdan is welcome to challenge him.” 

The Dzark rose from his throne, paced to the edge of the dais, and began to speak. Caius listened for a while, held tilted to the side, and began to translate.

“He says that the dvargir are strong, stronger than any other kindred upon this world,” said Caius. “Shadowbearer’s disciple is a fool and a yapping dog. In time, they shall deal with the disciple as he deserves. Meanwhile, Shadowbearer will see that the dvargir are worthy, and shall give them a high place in the new order when…”

He fell silent.

“When what?” said Ridmark.

“When the Frostborn return,” said Caius. 

Ridmark stared at the Dzark, his mind spinning with plans. Gothalinzur had first predicted the return of the Frostborn, and both the Warden and Agrimnalazur had told Ridmark additional details. Yet Ridmark still did not know where, when, or how the Frostborn would return. But if the Dzark knew, if Ridmark could pry the knowledge out of him…

There were thirteen dvargir in the hall, including the Dzark. Could Ridmark and the others defeat them? It seemed unlikely. The dvargir would be tough and brutal fighters, and their ability to turn invisible could prove deadly. Worse, this disciple of Shadowbearer might decide to take a hand. If that happened, the fight would be over quickly.

Better to listen for now. If one of Shadowbearer’s disciples, another man like Alamur of Dun Licinia, was behind the undead, then perhaps the Dzark and his warriors would discuss their plan. Then Ridmark could withdraw, join the others, and decided upon a course of action. 

“So be patient,” translated Caius in a low whisper, “for the shape of the world will change when the Frostborn return. The weak shall be ground underfoot, and the strong shall reign forever.”

The Dzark opened his mouth to speak again, and a horrible rattling squeal rang out. It sounded like jagged metal plates rubbing together, accompanied by a tapping noise like the legs of an insect against the floor.

But much, much louder.

“Mzrokar,” said Caius with alarm.

“Mzrokar?” said Ridmark. “What…”

The warriors surged to their feet, and the Dzark began shouting commands. Ridmark did not know their tongue, but he recognized the tone well enough.

The dvargir were preparing for battle. Ridmark and the others had been discovered.

“We should probably run,” said Caius.

Even as he spoke, the dvargir vanished as shadows swirled around them. 

Chapter 15 - The Dzark

Morigna readied a spell as Ridmark and Caius sprinted from the keep. 

The strange, horrible noise, the peculiar mixture of clashing metal and clacking, rang out again. Ridmark and Caius joined the others at the far end of the square, but Morigna did not see anyone or anything pursuit of them. 

That, of course, did not mean anything.

Morigna swept her sensing spell towards the keep. She felt the weight of Ridmark and Caius pull against the stone of the terrace.

And she sensed a dozen unseen pursuers after them. 

“Dvargir!” said Ridmark, raising his staff. “Calliande, your dispelling spell!”

“They are in front of the keep!” said Morigna, keeping her spell in place.

Calliande nodded and raised her hands. The familiar pulse of white light washed across the square. Thirteen columns of shadows swirled between Ridmark and the keep.

And for the first time since childhood, Morigna found herself looking at the dvargir.

A shiver of fear and rage went through her.

The dvargir stood motionless in their strange black armor. Their heads had been shaved hairless, and their eyes were like pools of darkness. They carried swords and maces in their hands, as black as their armor. The lead dvargir stepped forward, his armor adorned with red gold, a diadem encircling his gray head.

Morigna growled, hands hooked into claws, and gathered power for a killing spell. 

But Ridmark only stepped forward, his staff ready in his hand. 

For a moment they stared at the dvargir. 

“I assume,” said Ridmark in orcish, “that you speak this tongue?”

“Indeed, human,” said the dvargir in red armor, black eyes fixed upon Ridmark. “It is the language of our slaves, and a skilled master knows how to best drive his beasts of burden.”

“Assuming you do not cut out their tongues,” said Ridmark.

“This is so,” said the red-armored dvargir. “Since you are the intruder, you will give your name first.”

“I am Ridmark, son of Leogrance of the House of the Arbanii,” said Ridmark.

The dvargir gave a short bow. “I thought as much. I am Kzargar, a Dzark of the Great House Tklathar of the city of Khaldurmar.”

His eloquence surprised Morigna. In her memory, the dvargir were hulking, black-eyed beasts, draped in cloaks of shadow. She had expected bluster and threats, not polite courtesy. 

“You know me, then?” said Ridmark.

The Dzark’s thin gray lips twitched into a smile. “I have been informed of you.” The bottomless black eyes wandered over them. “The yellow-haired female is known as Calliande. The black-haired female is called Morigna.” His eyes moved past Gavin. “The whelp is not known to me.” A smirk reappeared as he looked at Caius. “And you...the apostate prince?”

“A prince?” said Gavin. “You are a prince of the dwarves?”

“The title does not mean the same thing among my kindred,” said Caius, “as it does among the humans. And there are neither rich nor poor nor kings nor peasants in the eyes of God.” 

Kzargar laughed. “Indeed? The dwarves call us apostates for following the truth of the great void, for abandoning the ancient and feeble superstitions of stone and silence from our home world. But the great void has made us strong. You choose instead to follow the sheep god of the humans?” A moment of bafflement made its way through the Dzark’s mocking malice. “Why?”

“Because there is no hope otherwise,” said Caius. “The gods of stone and silence offer no hope for mortal lives. Only grim and joyless duty, followed by an eternity of lightless silence. And what does the great void offer you? An endless and brutal scramble for power terminated by a bloody death as the hand of someone stronger?”

“Hope is an empty illusion,” said Kzargar. “The strong embrace life as it is, without yearning for false dreams.”

“It is not a false dream,” said Caius. “The Dominus Christus offers hope and life to all mortals.”

Kzargar laughed. “Us as well? Will you try to convert us?”

“My wish is that you become as I am,” said Caius. 

“Given the fate that awaits you, son of the khaldari,” said Kzargar, “I may have to take that as an insult.” 

“And what,” said Ridmark, stepping closer to the Dzark, “fate is that?”  

“Ah,” said Kzargar, “you haven’t figured it out yet?”

“Not yet,” said Ridmark, “though I was hoping you could enlighten me.”

“See?” said Kzargar, glancing at Caius. “Hope is an illusion. Your hopes are disappointed, Ridmark of the Arbanii. You shall not learn my secrets before you die.”

“I already know many of your secrets,” said Ridmark. “Shadowbearer commanded you to come here, did he not?”

One of the dvargir stepped forward with a snarl. “Speak not the sacred name of the prophet of the great void!” 

Kzargar raised a hand, and the dvargir warrior fell silent. “And what else, pray? This is most interesting.”

“You are allied with Jonas Vorinus of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Ridmark. 

“The Enlightened are vermin,” sneered the dvargir warrior who had spoken earlier. “The pets of the great prophet of the void.” 

“Do go on,” said Kzargar. 

“And you were commanded to kill us all,” said Ridmark, “save for Morigna, and to take an object from Calliande.” 

“You are more attentive than I expected, for a human,” said Kzargar. “The empty soulstone the yellow-haired female carries? The prophet requires it to inaugurate the new age.” 

“I suppose,” said Ridmark, “that you’re going to let us go if we give you the soulstone and Morigna?” 

“Not at all,” said Kzargar. “I shall kill you all, and present the empty soulstone to Shadowbearer myself. Shadowbearer desires the soulstone. Shadowbearer’s disciple desires the black-haired female, no doubt for a concubine. But Shadowbearer is the strongest, and his favor is worth far more than the favor of his disciple.”

“A logical conclusion,” said Ridmark.

Again Kzargar offered a small bow. “Thank you.”

“There is a flaw in your logic, though,” said Ridmark.

“That I need to kill you all first?” said the Dzark. “True, battle is ever risky. But there are thirteen of us, and six of you. You have magic, but we have shadow and strength at arms. Come, then. Shall we see which of us is the stronger?”

“Before you do,” said Morigna, stepping forward as she summoned power, “you are going to answer a question.”

Kzargar laughed. “A Dzark of the Great House Tklathar of the city of Khaldurmar does not deign to speak with mere females.”

“You will speak with me,” said Morigna, her ever-present fury hardening further. “And you will answer my questions, dvargir scum.”

Kzargar’s lips thinned, but he gestured. “Well, then, sorceress?” The purple flames crackled brighter around her hands. “Ask. Perhaps you will learn something ere you die.”

“Fourteen years ago,” said Morigna, “dvargir raiders killed a man and a woman living in the hills, a pair of hunters named Litavis and Maria.”

“And?” said Kzargar. 

“Did you kill them?” said Morigna, her voice hot. “Does their blood lie upon your hands?”

Kzargar gave an indifferent shrug. “Who can say? There have been so many over the years. Thainkul Dural lies desolate, and many of the Dzarks and Rzarns of Khaldurmar have used it as a base to bring slaves to our city. I have made many trips to the surface in the last century.” He smiled. “Perhaps your mother and father died resisting me. For that is what this is about, it is not? Your long-dead parents? They fought against the slavers who came to take them, and perished?”