The Broken Mage
Date: 2015-05-30 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction
Description: RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight, exiled and outcast, seeking to stop the return of the dreaded Frostborn. At last he has come to the perilous ruins of Khald Azalar, where the answer to his quest awaits. Assuming the master of Khald Azalar does not kill him first. MORIGNA was the Witch of the Hills. Now the dark magic within Morigna threatens to devour her. Unless Morigna can tame the power, it will transform her into everything she has always hated. MARA's father was a dark elven noble of terrible power. She escaped his grim realm, but now she must confront him once more, or join countless ge
Publisher: Auzre Flame Media, LLC

FROSTBORN: THE BROKEN MAGE

Jonathan Moeller

Description

RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight, exiled and outcast, seeking to stop the return of the dreaded Frostborn. At last he has come to the perilous ruins of Khald Azalar, where the answer to his quest awaits.

Assuming the master of Khald Azalar does not kill him first.

MORIGNA was the Witch of the Hills. Now the dark magic within Morigna threatens to devour her. Unless Morigna can tame the power, it will transform her into everything she has always hated.

MARA's father was a dark elven noble of terrible power. She escaped his grim realm, but now she must confront him once more, or join countless generations of his slaves in death.

CALLIANDE has sought for answers since the day of the great omen heralding the return of the Frostborn. Her answers await in the darkness of Khald Azalar.

But the truth might be more than she can bear...

Frostborn: The Broken Mage

Copyright 2015 by Jonathan Moeller.

Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published June 2015.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

Chapter 1: Frost

One hundred and eight days after it began, one hundred and eight days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban stood before the yawning black gates of Khald Azalar.

It was past midsummer, but the air was colder than he would have expected.

The cold wind came from within the Gate of the West.

Khald Azalar’s western gate rose before him, tall and mighty. Two massive reliefs of armored dwarves had been carved into the cliff, rising nearly three hundred feet overhead. Elaborate carvings and glyphs covered the face of the cliff between the two reliefs, and Ridmark had no doubt that the carvings concealed hidden redoubts for archers and siege engines. Compared to the towering reliefs, the black archway of the Gate itself looked tiny, but it still stood fifty feet high and twenty wide. Once it had been sealed with massive doors of dwarven steel, but now those doors lay in twisted ruin upon the ground.

Beyond lay darkness, but Ridmark knew that was only a mask. Within the darkness waited the ruins of Khald Azalar, once one of the Nine Kingdoms of the dwarves. Within the ruins was Dragonfall, the resting place of Calliande’s staff, the key to stopping the return of the Frostborn. Ridmark and the others had been looking for this place ever since Calliande had awakened in the darkness below the Tower of Vigilance one hundred and eight days ago.

In a way, Ridmark mused, he had been looking for this place for his entire adult life, ever since an urdmordar had first warned him that the Frostborn would soon return.

He looked back at the others. Calliande was blond and blue-eyed and looked like a woman in her twenties, but she was older, far older. Once she had been the Keeper of Andomhaim, and her memories and her staff rested within Khald Azalar. Her face was composed, but Ridmark knew her well enough to see the fear there. She had been searching for her memory ever since awakening beneath the ruined Tower of Vigilance.

Perhaps Dragonfall held things she did not wish to remember.

The others followed Calliande. Morigna, her black hair and eyes giving her a stark kind of beauty, her staff slung over her shoulder with a leather strap and a bow ready in her hands. Kharlacht, a tall, grim orcish warrior armored in blue dark elven steel, the hilt of a greatsword rising over his shoulder. Brother Caius, a gray-skinned dwarven noble of Khald Tormen, clad in the brown robes of a friar, a wooden cross hanging from his neck. Gavin of Aranaeus, the curly-haired boy of the Wilderland who had become a Knight of the Soulblade, his face hard with new maturity, and Antenora, the ancient apprentice of the Keeper who had fled to Andomhaim from Old Earth, her gaunt face gray and scarred, her eyes a harsh yellow. Then came Mara and Jager. The halfling thief wore his usual cocky smile, though his hands remained near his weapons, and Mara gazed at the grandeur of the Gate with thoughtful green eyes, her blond hair stirring in the cold wind to reveal the pointed ears of her dark elven blood. Last came Sir Arandar, a Swordbearer like Gavin, his weathered face proud and stern, his mane of black hair shot through with gray.

Ridmark had departed Andomhaim alone after the death of his wife five years past, after he had failed to save her. Partly it had been to find the secret of the Frostborn. Partly it had been to seek atonement for his failure through death, though no one had managed to kill him yet. After the omen of blue fire, he had set out for Urd Morlemoch alone…but despite his best efforts, he had acquired companions.

It was just as well. Without them, he would have failed months ago. Together they had defeated an urdmordar, dared the Deeps, overthrown the Iron Tower, and entered Urd Morlemoch and escaped the Warden’s wrath. A wave of affection went through Ridmark, so strong it surprised him. But why should that surprise him? They had dared tremendous dangers together and come out alive on the other side. His eyes strayed to Morigna, and the memory of her lips and body burned through him. She had come to mean a great deal to him…

Then Jager opened his mouth, and Ridmark remembered one advantage of traveling alone.

There had been so much less bickering.

“You know,” said the halfling. The deep resonance of his voice always belied his size. “Walking into this gate puts me in mind of striding into the maw of some vast stone beast.”

Morigna scoffed. “You would know, master thief, given the way you stuff yourself at meals.” She spoke Latin with odd stateliness, her archaic accent acquired from her ancient teacher.

Jager’s smile did not waver. “Some of us do appreciate the finer things in life, madam. You might have grown up in a forest, but not all of us had such a unique upbringing. Civilization does have its benefits. Besides, we stole that food from the Mhorite camp fair and square.”

Kharlacht grunted. “He has you there.”

“I do not believe it was stealing,” said Caius. His eyes were like disks of blue marble, blinking as he looked at the grim Gate. “Technically, they were spoils acquired upon the field of battle. The Mhorites had been trying to kill us for days, and our self-defense was legitimate. So therefore we were within our rights to take some of their supplies after they went in pursuit of the Anathgrimm.”

Arandar laughed. “You indeed have the golden tongue of a friar, Brother Caius.”

“Thank you, Sir Arandar,” said Caius. He grinned at the Swordbearer. “Am I wrong, though?”

“Every link in your chain of logic rings true,” said Arandar.

“As does mine,” announced Jager.

“Your twisted words and convoluted sophistry,” said Morigna, “are hardly logic. One suspect that you would argue that the sun set in the east, if only you might profit by it.”

“It is surprising that this group is so effective in battle,” said Antenora, “given how much you bicker.” Her voice was a tired rasp, as if it had been worn down from centuries of use. Likely it had. She was older than any of them, older than the High Kingdom of Andomhaim itself. That did not make her any less dangerous. The black staff she carried had been carved with elaborate sigils that shone with a harsh orange-yellow glow, and she could use it to conjure deadly blasts of magical fire.

“I like to think it clears the air before a battle,” said Jager. “Puts our minds at ease.”

“You would talk at your own funeral,” said Kharlacht.

“An affair I hope to avoid for quite some time yet,” said Jager.

Ridmark said nothing as they approached the yawning archway, listening to the argument with half an ear. Gavin remained silent. He had become harder and more serious since taking up the soulblade Truthseeker. Mara, too, said nothing, her green eyes flickering back and forth. A life as first the Traveler’s slave and then as an assassin of the Red Family of Mhor had given her a level of watchfulness that never quite relaxed.

Calliande herself said nothing, her eyes fixed on the dark square of the Gate.

“Calliande,” said Ridmark, and the others fell silent. “You can sense it?”

For a moment Calliande closed her eyes.

“Aye,” she said, opening her eyes again. “It’s here. Within this mountain.”

Ridmark nodded. Since they had come to the Vale of Stone Death a few days past, Calliande had somehow acquired the ability to sense the location of her staff. It would have been helpful if she had possessed the ability since awakening, but from what she had said, the power had only come to her after she had learned of her true identity as the Keeper of Andomhaim.

“I suppose that narrows it down,” said Jager.

“Only somewhat, master thief,” said Antenora. “This mountain is large enough to contain many secrets.”

“You speak truly,” said Caius. “At its height, Khald Azalar held hundreds of thousands of dwarves. It was one of the mightiest of the kingdoms of my kindred.”

“Then there countless places something as small as a staff could be concealed,” said Kharlacht.

“Just as well that you can sense it,” said Jager.

“It’s in Dragonfall, somewhere within Khald Azalar,” said Calliande. “I suspect we shall know it when we see it.”

Ridmark nodded. From what they had learned, it appeared that Dragonfall was the tomb of the last of the dragons. Ridmark knew little about the dragons, and in truth, no one did, perhaps save the high elves. All he knew was that they had perished before the elven kindred had sundered into their high elven and dark elven branches. Perhaps Calliande would know more once she had recovered her memory. The warrior who had helped her defeat the Frostborn the first time had been known as the Dragon Knight.

“I suggest,” said Arandar, “that we delay no further. Lady Calliande can sense her staff, but so can Mournacht and the Traveler.” Mara’s eyes tightened a bit at the mention of her father, but she gave no other reaction. “I suspect they shall be in pursuit.”

“Mara,” said Ridmark. “You can still sense your father?”

“I can still hear his song,” said Mara in her quiet, calm voice. “He’s drawing closer. For a day he was heading west. I think Mournacht’s army pushed the Anathgrimm back. But now the Traveler is heading for the Gate of the West.”

“Likely Mournacht defeated the Anathgrimm and then marched here with all speed,” said Kharlacht, “and now the Traveler has reformed his army and comes in pursuit.”

“I concur,” said Arandar. “Best we not wait here to greet them.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. He looked at Calliande. “Are you ready?”

She took a deep breath and offered a faint smile. “I had better be.”

Ridmark nodded and adjusted his grip on his black staff. Tthe high elven archmage Ardrhythain had carried the weapon for millennia, and while it had no magic of its own, the archmage had worked enough powerful magic with the staff that its nature had changed. Now it could wound and kill creatures of dark magic.

Ridmark suspected that would come in handy very soon.

“Then let us make an end to this,” said Ridmark, and he strode forward, the others following.

He passed through the archway and into the Gate of the West of Khald Azalar.

Beyond a shaft of sunlight stabbed into a vast pillared hall, so large that the gloom quickly swallowed the light. The polished granite floor clicked beneath Ridmark’s boots. He glimpsed towering pillars on either side, another archway on the far end of the hall, and numerous uneven shapes upon the ground.

It was strangely cold in here.

“Antenora,” said Calliande. “Could we have a little more light?”

“Of course, my lady Keeper,” said Antenora, raising her staff. The sigils burned with light, and a hot white flame appeared at its end, throwing back the gloom.

“Useful spell,” said Gavin.

“It is,” said Antenora. “Especially if you wish to light a pipe.”

“A pipe?” said Morigna.

“Ah,” said Antenora. “I forgot. I suppose tobacco is unknown in Andomhaim. Upon Old Earth, some nations have the custom of burning the leaves of the tobacco plant and inhaling the smoke for its stimulant effect. It started…mmm, I cannot recall. After the death of Martin Luther, but before the defeat of the French Emperor at Waterloo.”

Ridmark felt a flicker of pity for her. Antenora had seen over fifteen centuries of Old Earth’s history, but the human mind could not contain such vast spans of time. Entire centuries had fallen from her memory, and what she could recall she could not always remember in the right order. He could barely imagine having lived so long.

At the moment, though, the carpet of bones upon the floor of the hall held his attention.

“What a peculiar custom,” said Morigna.

“I imagine it would cause considerable scarring of the lungs,” said Calliande.

“It did,” said Antenora. “I would not recommend it. It usually caused eventual death.”

“But not as quickly,” said Ridmark, “as whatever killed these dwarves.”

The heavy gray bones of dwarves covered the floor. Some of the skeletons were still intact, but others had been scattered. Caius moved among them, his face solemn.

“They must have fallen when the Frostborn broke through the Gate of the West,” said Caius.

“They have neither weapons nor armor,” said Gavin.

“Dwarven steel, like dwarven bone, is remarkably tough,” said Caius. “I suspect scavengers from Vhaluusk carried off everything they could find decades ago.”

“But not everything,” said Ridmark. “Look.”

A pile of armor lay against one of the pillars, breastplate and greaves and a full helm crowned with spikes. The armor had a peculiar, rough look, and it reminded Ridmark of gray ice in the grip of winter’s deepest chill. White mist swirled around it, and he realized that the strange cold radiated from the armor. Within the armor lay bones of white crystal that glimmered and flashed in the light of Antenora’s magic.

“What is that?” said Gavin.

“Unless I miss my guess,” said Ridmark, “that is the armor and bones of a slain Frostborn.”

“It is,” said Calliande, her voice distant, the way it was when she recalled something from her past. “I’ve seen armor like it before.”

“Likely it has been here since the fall of Khald Azalar,” said Caius. “At least my kindred took some of their foes with them.”

“I wonder why no one has looted the armor,” said Jager. “Surely is it is valuable.”

“Because a single touch would likely freeze the blood in their veins,” said Antenora. “It is not of this world, nor are the bones. Even after two centuries, the armor yet retains its power.”

“She is correct,” said Mara. “I can see the armor’s power with my Sight. Elemental magic yet lingers within it, magic of frost and ice.”

“Then don’t touch it,” said Ridmark, “and stay well away from it.” He tapped a tusked skull with the end of his staff. “Some of these bones are newer. Only a few years old, I deem.”

“Orcish bones,” said Kharlacht. “Likely scavengers from Khald Azalar.”

“Not this one,” said Gavin, pointing at one of the skulls. It was indeed an orcish skull, with tusks and the broad, flat features common to orcs. Yet where the eye holes should have been, Ridmark saw only an unbroken sheet of bone. “It looks like the orcs we fought outside Thainkul Dural.”

“Deep orcs,” said Ridmark. He took another look. Deep orcs possessed considerable skill at stealth, and could move as silently as a shadow. He saw no sign of deep orcs, at least living ones, but that didn’t mean anything.

The deep orcs would have heard them coming long ago.

“Khald Azalar had multiple entrances to the Deeps,” said Caius. “Anything could have wandered up in the centuries since the defeat of the Frostborn. Deep orcs. Kobolds. Dvargir. Mzrokars or basilisks or other creatures. We shall have to be ready for almost anything, I fear.”

“You’ve been here before,” said Ridmark. “Do you know where we should go next?”

Caius shrugged. “This is the Hall of the West. When important guests arrived, the King of Khald Tormen greeted them here, along with his chief taalmaks and taalkazs…ah, his chief knights and nobles. Beyond was a gallery, a market, and some residential areas the dwarves of Khald Tormen called the Dormari Quarter – the Foreign Quarter. Beyond that, though…” He shook his head. “I fear I only visited the Hall of the West and the Dormari Quarter, and never entered any deeper into Khald Azalar.”

Ridmark looked at Calliande. “If Dragonfall was a secret entrusted to the Kings of Khald Azalar, it makes sense that it would lie deeper within the city, perhaps at its heart.”

She nodded. “The staff…it’s down and to the east, somewhere further within the mountain.”

“If this place is as great a maze as you say,” said Arandar, “it is possible we could wander for weeks without finding anything.”

“Not necessarily,” said Caius. “There would be maps. I can read those, along with any dwarven glyphs we find. Every gallery and chamber and tunnel would have its own name, Sir Arandar, just as every street and forum within Tarlion’s walls has its own name. If we can find a map, perhaps we can reach Dragonfall and escape from Khald Azalar long before the Traveler or Mournacht locate us.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark, and they continued onward.

###

They left the Hall of the West and entered a high pillared gallery, and Calliande felt a peculiar sense of disappointment.

She knew it was entirely irrational. After escaping Urd Morlemoch, all her thoughts had been upon reaching Khald Azalar and Dragonfall, of recovering her staff and her memory at last. She had known that her staff would be buried deep within Khald Azalar. It would not be waiting for her just beyond the Gate of the West. Her past self would not have left any clues or secrets waiting in the Hall of the West.

Yet the disappointment was there nonetheless.

A dark sort of relief went with the disappointment. Calliande knew that she had once been the Keeper of Andomhaim, the woman who had led the High Kingdom to victory against the Frostborn. Yet she remembered nothing of it, and she dreaded the return of that memory. That woman had been willing to seal herself away in darkness for centuries, to lose everyone and everything she loved to awaken in the distant future. Calliande could not imagine the kind of woman that could make such a cold choice.

Yet she had been that woman, and she had made that choice.

They walked in silence down the gallery, the harsh light from Antenora’s staff throwing back the darkness. Here and there dwarven glowstones shone from the pillars, treated in chemical salts that made them luminous for centuries. More bones lay scattered upon the floor, both ancient dwarven bones and the more recent bones of Vhaluuskan orcs and deep orcs. Calliande wondered what had killed them. The Vhaluuskan orcs had probably been scavengers from Khorduk to the west, and they had likely killed each other in a quarrel over spoils or fallen to the arrows of the deep orcs.

The deep orcs, though…what had killed them?

Calliande knew some things about deep orcs, things that she had likely learned before hiding her memory in Dragonfall. The deep orcs lived in tribes in the Deeps, some independent, some enslaved by the dvargir or the dark elven princes. Granted, that information wasn’t useful just now. Anything could have killed these deep orcs. Other tribes, the Vhaluuskans, some horror that had wandered up from the Deeps…anything at all, really.

Another pile of the strange gray armor lay in a heap against a pillar, radiating terrible cold, a faint white mist crawling over the crystalline bones of a slain Frostborn. Calliande felt a strange crawling sensation as she looked at the bones. She was certain, absolutely certain, that she had seen armor like that before coming to Khald Azalar.

She just couldn’t remember when.

“Keeper?” said Antenora in her worn voice. “Is anything amiss?”

Calliande was still not sure what to do about Antenora. The woman had been the apprentice of the first Keeper, the Keeper who had helped Malahan Pendragon lead the survivors of the High King’s realm from Old Earth to Andomhaim. Antenora had remained upon Old Earth for centuries, cursed by her betrayal. She wanted redemption, wanted to be released from her curse, and Calliande had no idea how to do that.

Perhaps Calliande would remember once she had recovered the staff of the Keeper.

In the meantime, Antenora’s powerful fire magic might well help Calliande to reach the staff.

“Nothing just now,” said Calliande.

“Ah,” said Antenora. “I fear that means many things are amiss, but you can do nothing about them at the moment, so you carry on as best you can.”

“Something like that, yes,” said Calliande.

“It is a familiar feeling, Keeper,” said Antenora. “I remember that…”

“Stop,” said Ridmark.

For a moment Calliande thought that Ridmark had grown irritated at the conversation, but one look at his expression proved otherwise. His hard face had gone tight, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, the black staff of Ardrhythain ready in his hand.

Ahead she saw the reason for his alarm.

They had come to a crossroads. The gallery continued ahead, glowstones shining here and there from the pillars. Another gallery intersected it about thirty yards ahead, and it looked as if a great deal of fighting had taken place there. Both orcish and dwarven bones lay upon the ground, and Calliande saw more of the frozen armor of a Frostborn.

It was the perfect spot for an ambush. If Calliande saw it, Ridmark would definitely notice it.

“Brother Caius?” said Ridmark.

Caius frowned. “The gallery straight ahead continues to the Dormari Market, I believe. The galleries to the right and to the left go to residential areas, where visitors and foreigners were housed when visiting Khald Azalar.”

“You believe?” said Jager.

Caius shrugged. “It has been two hundred years since I last passed the Gate of the West. My memory is not as clear on the matter as I might wish.”

Ridmark said nothing, the fingers of his right hand drumming against his staff.

“Morigna,” he said at last.

“Aye?” she said, stepping to his side. She carried her bow in hand, an arrow ready at the string. Her face was its usual cold, somewhat mocking mask, but her black eyes softened as she looked at Ridmark, and he seemed less grim when he looked at her. A flicker of jealousy went through Calliande, and she pushed it aside.

“The spell you cast in Thainkul Dural,” said Ridmark. “The day we escaped from the mzrokar.” Morigna nodded. “I think you should cast it right now.”

Calliande stiffened, and then began summoning the power of the Well for a spell. Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin all raised their weapons. Mara, Jager, Arandar, and Antenora all looked confused.

“Trouble?” murmured Jager.

“I think so,” said Calliande. “I think there are foes nearby, and they can overhear us. Be ready to strike.”

Antenora said nothing, but the white flame crackling atop her staff grew brighter, the sigils carved into the wood beginning to glow. Calliande looked around, readying herself to release power. She saw no sign of any enemies, but that meant nothing. The dvargir could use their powers over shadow to turn themselves invisible. Deep orcs could move with inhuman stealth. Calliande glanced at the ceiling, remembering how the children of the urdmordar could climb overhead, but saw nothing. Her eyes swept over the walls, past the pillars carved with blocky dwarven glyphs and reliefs, and…

The pillars.

A cold chill swept through her.

She was certain something was hiding behind one of the pillars, and suddenly she knew what had triggered Ridmark’s alarm.

Morigna slung her bow over her shoulder and lifted her staff, muttering a spell as she did so. Purple fire flashed up and down the staff, and her eyelids fluttered. Morigna’s power over earth magic let her sense the presence of people standing upon the stone floor. Not even the dvargir could hide themselves from that spell.

Morigna’s eyes shot open.

“Ridmark!” she said. “They’re behind the pillars!”

“Defend yourselves!” said Ridmark, and the others spun into a ring, moving to shield Calliande, Antenora, and Morigna so they could work their spells.

As they did, shapes appeared from behind the pillars.

They looked orcish, albeit far different from the orcs that dwelled upon the surface. Most of the orcs of the surface world were like Kharlacht, tall and strong with their skin a deep green color. These orcs were shorter and thinner, their skin a sickly yellow, their ears the size of a grown man’s palms, their nostrils wide and black. The deep orcs had no eyes. In lieu of eyes, a strange band of knotted, veined flesh encircled their heads like a blindfold. The organ gave them the ability to sense heat the way that the human eye detected light, allowing them to move in perfect darkness.

A ring of a dozen deep orcs appeared around Calliande and the others, stepping from behind the pillars, and more appeared in the crossroads ahead, all of them moving with eerie silence. The deep orcs carried blowguns. The darts within were likely treated with a sleeping drug, and the deep orcs would take them captive as slaves.

Or possibly as food.

As one the deep orcs lifted the blowguns to their tusked mouths, and Calliande cast a spell.

Once such a spell would have been beyond her. Her powers had grown greatly in the last few weeks, first after her battle with the Artificer in the Iron Tower, and then after the Warden’s malevolent spirit had possessed her at Urd Morlemoch. Even with her new magical strength, if the deep orcs had been using crossbows or longbows, she couldn’t have managed it. Yet their darts were not heavy or moving very fast.

The deep orcs unleashed their darts, and white light pulsed from Calliande’s hands, and a dome of shimmering light erupted from her and expanded over the others. It passed through them and the deep orcs without harm, but the light of the warding spell deflected the poisoned darts.

For an instant the deep orcs were stunned, their eyeless heads turning back and forth in confusion.

“Now!” shouted Ridmark. “Strike!”

He dashed forward, his black staff spinning in a circle. The end of the weapon slammed into the side of a deep orc’s head with a bone-splitting crack, and the orc fell in a limp heap to the ground. The others followed his lead. Gavin and Arandar surged forward, moving with the superhuman speed granted by the power of their soulblades. Morigna cast another spell, and the stone floor rippled and folded, flinging three deep orcs from their feet. Jager darted into the fray, using the short sword of dark elven steel he had taken from the Warden’s armory. One of the deep orcs raised his blowgun, taking aim at Calliande. Blue fire swirled behind him, and Mara appeared out of nothingness, her face calm and detached as she slashed the deep orc’s throat with expert skill. The deep orc fell, and Mara disappeared again. Caius and Kharlacht fought side-by-side, Caius covering the orcish warrior’s back as Kharlacht’s greatsword rose and fell, killing with every blow.

Calliande summoned more power and cast a spell, white light leaping from her hands to sink into her companions. The spell made them stronger, allowing them to strike with greater force. She felt the weight of holding the spell lying upon her mind like a cord of fire, taking some of her magical strength, but she had power enough to work another spell if needed.

Ridmark and the others cut free of the ring of deep orcs and charged towards the foes waiting in the crossroads. The deep orcs there rallied, drawing short swords and raising spears. There were at least twenty of them, and an idea came to Calliande.

“Antenora!” she said, and the older woman’s yellow gaze turned towards her. “They see heat, not light. If you…”

But Antenora had already grasped her purpose. She drew back her staff, its length suddenly burning with harsh fire, and thrust the weapon forward. A sphere of fire the size of Calliande’s head erupted from the staff, soared over Ridmark and the others, and landed in the midst of the deep orcs.

It made an impressive explosion.

Two of the deep orcs collapsed, flames tearing at their clothing and skin, and the rest stumbled back. Ridmark and the others came to a halt, but the deep orcs retreated further. Antenora’s fire had dazzled them, blinding the strange organ that let them sense heat.

A silent communication seemed to pass through the deep orcs, and as one they turned and fled down the gallery to the east, vanishing out of sight into the gloom.

For a moment the only sound was the crackle of the flames on the dead deep orcs. It made for an unpleasant smell.

“Let them go,” said Ridmark.

“It is unwise to chase a wounded foe into his native terrain,” said Arandar. “How did you know they were there?”

“I didn’t,” said Ridmark. “But this was a perfect place for an ambush.”

Arandar frowned at Morigna. “So how did you know they were there?”

She smirked at him. “Vile dark magic, sir knight. How else?”

Arandar’s eyes narrowed.

Ridmark sighed. “Morigna.”

“A spell of earth magic,” said Morigna, gesturing with her staff. “The floors are made of stone. Your weight puts pressure upon the stone, pressure that I can sense through earth magic. The same principles apply to the deep orcs.”

Arandar grunted, not exactly pleased, but not satisfied, either. Calliande could not blame him. Morigna had been increasingly erratic since she had absorbed some of the Warden’s power at Urd Morlemoch, though she seemed to have herself under control since they had fled the battle between the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm.

Or she was doing a good job of pretending.

Calliande pushed aside the thought. It was something else she could worry about once she retrieved her staff and memory.

“The deep orcs,” said Ridmark. “They must control most of Khald Azalar, if they’re so close to the Gate of the West.”

“Or this portion of the city, at least,” said Caius. “It is possible that other kindreds rule in different parts of the city. Or that different tribes of deep orcs make war upon each other throughout the ruins.” He shrugged. “Or that the deep orcs we fought were simply a scouting party that stumbled upon us. We shall not know until we proceed further.”

“Morigna,” said Ridmark. “How far does your spell extend?”

She hesitated. “Eighty yards. Maybe ninety, if I concentrate.”

“That will have to be enough,” said Ridmark. He rubbed his jaw for a moment. “We’ve been walking all day, and the sun has likely gone down by now. We’ll need to find a place to rest before we continue. Someplace we can fortify, yet escape quickly if necessary.”

“These side galleries, perhaps,” said Kharlacht, gesturing at the pillared galleries stretching away to the north and south.

“No,” said Caius. “They lead to residential areas, but to the best of my knowledge the galleries are the only way in and out.”

“And one would prefer not to escape through a sewer again,” said Morigna.

“We did enough of that in Coldinium,” said Jager. “Hopefully there are no malophages down here, though.”

“I suggest we proceed to the Dormari Market,” said Caius.

Kharlacht’s brow furrowed below his black warrior’s topknot. “The deep orcs fled in that direction.”

“Probably because a dozen major streets break off from the Dormari Market and spread into Khald Azalar,” said Caius. “The deep orcs could retreat to their stronghold from there easily enough. As for us, there are several buildings of large size within the vault of the Market. We could camp in one, rest for the night, and continue tomorrow. If any enemies come upon us, they would not be able to trap us here.”

“We should not rest long,” said Arandar. “Lady Mara says that the Traveler is drawing closer, and we should assume that Mournacht and his Kothluuskan orcs are even nearer.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Very well. We shall rest in the Dormari Market, assuming we can find a suitable location. But for no more than six hours. We should also perform a quick search of the Market to see if we can find anything useful.”

“Such as a map?” said Jager.

“Exactly,” said Ridmark. “Calliande.”

She blinked, surprised. “Yes?” Her attention had drifted to the strange feeling of her staff’s presence.

“Is the Dormari Market in the direction of your staff?” said Ridmark.

“I…think so.” Calliande closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. “But I cannot swear to it.” She opened her eyes and waved a vague hand forward. “All I know is that it is beneath us to the east.”

“How helpful,” said Morigna. “It would been useful if your past self could have left more precise directions.”

Antenora stirred. “You should not speak to the Keeper in such a tone.”

“She’s right,” said Calliande. “I wish I had left myself better directions.” She had, though…but the Tower of Vigilance had been destroyed in the civil war between the Pendragon princes decades ago. “Evidently I did not plan for this possibility.”

“Then we must improvise,” said Ridmark. “Let’s keep going.”

He beckoned, and they walked deeper into the gloom of Khald Azalar.

Closer, Calliande hoped, to her staff.

Chapter 2: Ruins

They passed through two more massive gates of dwarven steel and granite, each one large enough to seal off an entire gallery.

At least, they had, once upon a time. Now the doors had been reduced to shards of broken dwarven steel and piles of granite rubble, cracks spreading through the nearby walls. Ridmark thought the doors looked like boulders that had cracked in the frozen heart of a bitter winter. When the Frostborn had attacked Khald Azalar, the dwarves had fallen back from the Gate of the West to the Dormari Market, sealing the mighty gates behind them with every step.

Then the Frostborn had simply used their magic to shatter the gates and force their way onward.

Behind each of the broken gates lay the marks of an ancient battle. Piles of dwarven bones, the nearby walls chipped and scarred from errant weapon blows. Here and there they saw the crystalline bones and grim, ice-gray armor of a slain Frostborn, radiating cold so intense that Ridmark’s breath steamed in the air when he passed them. Khald Azalar might have been a great kingdom once, but now it served as the mausoleum of its slain people.

They passed through one more gate, and then stepped into a large cavern.

“The Dormari Market,” said Caius.

It was a vast space carved from the stone of the mountain, easily as large as the great cathedrals in Tarlion. Terraces lined the walls, and upon each level rested rows of small, square buildings. Archways stood at regular intervals along the wall, revealing entrances to other pillared galleries, streets and ramps leading deeper into the stone maze of Khald Azalar. A large stele covered in dwarven glyphs rose from the center of the Market, supporting a statue of an armored dwarven warrior.

“It has seen better days,” said Jager.

Ridmark agreed. At least half of the shops had been smashed into rubble. Heaps of bones lay upon the terraces, orcish and dwarven both, along with the bones of trolls and kobolds. A dozen piles of glittering gray armor marked where Frostborn warriors had fallen long ago.

“That building,” said Ridmark, pointing at a rectangular house on the eastern end of the Market. It had come through the fighting mostly intact, and a squat tower rose from its center. It looked more ornate than many of the others, its sides adorned with elaborate reliefs. “That looks like a suitable place for a camp. What was it?”

“A Travelers’ House,” said Caius. “Ah…an inn, I believe it is commonly called in Latin. Travelers would stay there while visiting Khald Azalar.”

“Since we are visiting,” said Jager, “it seems appropriate.”

“It would be a good choice for camp,” said Caius. “The tower commands a view of the entire Market, and it has doors in the front and back. If enemies approach, we can retreat with ease.”

“Good enough,” said Ridmark. “Let’s have something to eat and then some rest.”

“I do hope the landlord has some decent wine in his cellar,” said Jager. “It is so hard to find good wine in these desolate regions.”

“You and your luxuries, master thief,” said Morigna. “However shall you cope without them?”

“Well,” said Jager, brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from his sleeve. Ridmark still could not figure out how the man kept his shirts so white in the wilderness. “Adventure is well and good, but if we live through this, I am not traveling more than twenty miles from the nearest tavern ever again.”

Morigna snorted. “An honest answer!”

“Why not?” said Jager. “I am the most honest of all men.”

“Do you sense anyone hiding in the Travelers’ House?” said Ridmark before Morigna could return Jager’s taunt.

Morigna closed her eyes and concentrated for a moment. “Nothing. I do not believe that anyone is hiding here, whether dvargir, deep orc, or…something else.”

“Keep the spell in place, at least until we get to the Travelers’ House,” said Ridmark. “I would prefer not to be taken by surprise.”

“Yes,” said Jager. “Better by far to die in full knowledge of our inevitable fate.”

Arandar coughed out a sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “You, Master Jager, would make jokes before the throne of the Dominus Christus on the day of the Last Judgment.”

“Well, someone would have to lighten the mood,” said Jager.

They crossed the Dormari Market and came to the doors of the Travelers’ House. Once the doors had been fashioned of fine dwarven steel, but now they lay twisted and broken upon the ground. Within the common room of the House looked much like the common room of countless inns and taverns that Ridmark had visited over the years, albeit that the tables and benches were wrought of finely carved stone. A faint layer of dust covered everything. The windows had a good view of the surrounding tiers of the Market, and it would be difficult for any foes to approach unseen.

“This is as good as we shall find,” said Ridmark. “We’ll rest here and continue on in six hours.” He slid off his pack and set against one of the benches. “I’m going to have a look around.”

“No need,” said Mara. She gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “I’ll head up the tower and keep watch. I want to think for a while anyway.”

“One of us will come to relieve you in two hours,” said Arandar. “You need rest as well, Lady Mara.”

“Do as you think best,” said Ridmark. “I’ll still have a look around. Four eyes are better than two.”

Mara smiled at that. “I quite agree.”

The others settled down to eat. There was still coal in one of the stone bins next to a hearth, and Kharlacht got a small fire going. Ridmark climbed the stairs to the House’s second floor, looked through the rooms, and then went to the third floor. He saw no sign of recent habitation, no indication that the deep orcs or anyone else made a habit of staying here, though many of the glowstones still gave off a pale light. Likely the deep orcs passed through the Dormari Market and hastened to their hidden strongholds without pausing here.

It made Ridmark wonder if stopping here had been a bad idea.

He stepped into one of the rooms, looking through the window at the silent, half-ruined Market, the few functioning glowstones throwing a crazed tangle of shadows and light over the rubble. The silence troubled him. He had traveled in the Deeps before, even in dwarven ruins, but this was different. There, silence seemed natural. Khald Azalar had once been a prosperous place, a city full of people. Its silence was the silence of a tomb…

A footstep rasped against stone, and Ridmark whirled, his staff coming up.

Morigna stood behind him, her black eyes intense in her pale face.

“Morigna,” he said. “You startled me.”

She smiled a little. “You said you did not want to be taken unawares. Well.” She stepped closer. “What if you are aware?”

Ridmark said nothing, and she reached up and put a hand upon his cheek. They had not lain together since leaving Khorduk, and her fingers sent a ripple of heat down his nerves. The last time they had gone off together alone for a tryst, in the Torn Hills surrounding Urd Morlemoch, a pack of urvaalgs had almost killed them. Ridmark had not seen any sign of urvaalgs in Khald Azalar so far.

He had been wrong before, though.

“I thought I had lost you,” she whispered, “when we were separated at the High Gate. I thought I might never see you again. I would have done anything to save you. Even,” she swallowed, “even used the power I took from Urd Morlemoch.”

“I know,” said Ridmark, his voice quiet.

“So,” said Morigna, a little quaver in her voice. “You are…”

He silenced her with a kiss.

A few moments later they had each other out of their clothes, and Ridmark spread their cloaks across the floor, elven gray and tattered brown and green. They lay down together, and Ridmark forgot about the danger, forgot about his quest to stop the Frostborn, forgot about his misgivings, forgot everything except the taste of her mouth against his and the heat of her body against his skin and the strength of her limbs as they coiled around him. As she finished she muffled her cry against his shoulder, and he followed suit a moment later, every muscle in his body seeming to contract at once.

After, he rolled onto his back, and she curled up next to him, sweating and breathing hard. He knew it was wrong to lie with a woman who was not his wife, that the knight and Swordbearer he had been five years ago would be appalled to see him now.

But Morigna took some of the bleakness from his mind.

“Rest,” Morigna whispered. “Rest. You deserve some rest, if only for a little while. It…”

She fell silent, staring into the shadows.

“What is it?” murmured Ridmark.

“Nothing,” said Morigna. She rested her head against his chest again. “Sleep.”

He drifted off to sleep.

###

Mara sat curled up on the edge of the square tower’s balcony, her eyes scanning the darkness of the Market.

She waited with perfect patience. Mara had waited patiently many, many times, first in the years she had spent alone in the wilderness after her mother’s death and their escape from Nightmane Forest, and then after the Matriarch had recruited her into the Red Family. So often Mara’s very survival had depended on her ability to watch patiently and quietly, and she had gotten very good at it.

Not that there was much to watch. The Market was as silent as the grave, and the only sounds that came to Mara’s ears were the low rumble of Kharlacht’s and Arandar’s voices as they discussed the day’s events. Despite the fire Caius had started, none of the smoke issued from the roof. Knowing the prowess of dwarven engineers, they likely had a system of elaborate stone shafts that funneled the smoke to a narrow vent three miles up the slope of the mountain. Not that it mattered, since it was almost impossible to hide from a deep orc. Had a deep orc prowled through the Market, he likely could have smelled Mara’s sweat, could have heard the beat of her heart from halfway across the tier. They could not hide from the deep orcs, but Mara could at least warn her friends of any attack.

Yet for now, the Dormari Market was quiet, and they were as safe as they were likely to be.

Which was a pity, really. It gave Mara a chance to think, and her thoughts wandered through dark places.

She heard someone coming up the stairs to the tower and recognized Jager’s footfalls. They brought a brief smile to her face. Jager was perfectly capable of moving without sound. He wanted her to know that he was coming, so he walked with deliberate noise.

It was a thoughtful gesture. That, and he knew better than to sneak up on a woman who had been an assassin of the Red Family.

A moment later Jager stepped onto the balcony.

“Couldn’t sleep?” said Mara.

“Not particularly,” said her husband, frowning at the armor of dark elven steel he wore over his usual white shirt and black vest. “It’s a bit like sleeping in a tomb, which I never really had a taste for.” He tapped his armor. “You know, it’s a pity this doesn’t come in black. It would look better. I do not care for this shade of blue.”

“The dark elves had an alien sense of aesthetics,” said Mara. Idly she wondered if Jager had come up here to seduce her. She hoped that he had. He was quite good at it, and they had not been alone together for some time.

And it would take her mind off other things.

“They could have learned a thing or two from the dwarves,” said Jager. “The dwarves seemed fond of…square things. Square houses, square glyphs, square gates.” He stared into the ruined Market for a while, frowning. “You’re worried about something.”

“We are walking into an ancient dwarven ruin in search of a long-lost relic of tremendous magical power,” said Mara. “Only God knows what’s in here with us. Meanwhile, an army led by an orcish shaman is chasing us, and the Traveler and all his slaves are pursuing both the shaman and us. Something would be wrong if I was not at least a little bit worried.”

“No, that’s not it,” said Jager. “You’re worried, yes, but this is at least as dangerous as Urd Morlemoch. No.” He fell silent for a moment. “No…you feel guilty about something, I think.”

Mara looked up at him in surprise. How had he known? Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. For all his mocking manner, her husband was not a stupid man.

“Yes,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “Why shouldn’t I feel guilty? I’ve done many terrible things.”

Jager snorted. “That’s not it. You did what you had to do to survive, and as for the things you did while part of the Red Family, you’ve said your prayers to the Dominus Christus for forgiveness and that’s that. You’re not the sort to dwell on the past, my wife. So,” he scratched his chin, “so it’s something that you didn’t do. Something with the Traveler.”

“The Anathgrimm orcs,” Mara heard herself say. “They worship him as a god.”

“Because he made them to do it,” said Jager. “It’s not their fault. Just like a book isn’t to blame for what’s written upon its page. The fault lies with the author, not the book.”

“And my father is the author of so much evil,” said Mara. “I was thinking about my sisters, if you must know.”

“Sisters?” said Jager. “You don’t have any…oh. You mean the Traveler’s urdhracosi.”

“We were once the same,” said Mara. “The daughters of his concubines, half human and half dark elven. Our fate was to be devoured by our dark elven blood, to become monsters in his service. That was what he intended for me. I should have become an urdhracos like the others.”

“But you didn’t,” said Jager. “You had help, aye, but you fought to the very end of your strength.”

“I know,” said Mara. “I just wish…I wish there was something I could do to help them. Both the Anathgrimm and the urdhracosi and all my father’s other slaves. He twisted the Anathgrimm so they would worship him as a god, and he turned my half-sisters into monsters. I escaped from him and from Nightmane Forest…but I fear they will never escape him.”

“Well, one cannot see the future,” said Jager.

“What do you mean?” said Mara.

“You thought you were going to turn into an urdhracos or an urshane or something,” said Jager. “You thought that your entire life. It didn’t quite turn out that way.”

“No,” said Mara. “I suppose not.”

“And look at Calliande,” said Jager. “She had a plan too, didn’t she?”

Mara frowned. “What do you mean?”

“When she was still the Keeper two hundred years ago,” said Jager. “She must have had some big plan for stopping the Frostborn from returning. I’m entirely certain her grand plan did not involve waking up naked and getting captured by Mhalekite orcs.”

Mara laughed despite herself. “I suppose you would focus upon her lack of clothing at the time.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Jager. “I am a married man. Besides, she is much too tall for a woman. But we wander from the point. We cannot see the future. Nor should you rebuke yourself for escaping from the Traveler. The alternative was to stay and die, or stay and become an urdhracos.”

“I suppose you are right,” said Mara, closing her eyes for a moment. The Traveler’s strange song thundered through her thoughts. He was coming closer, surrounded by his Anathgrimm orcs and his creatures of dark magic. “He already has so much power. He cannot have the Keeper’s staff. I shudder to think of what he would do with it.”

“Easily solved,” said Jager. “We steal away the staff before he finds it, and then he’s come all this way for nothing.”

“I think the staff belongs to Calliande,” said Mara. “Technically, claiming it for her would not be stealing.”

“Precisely,” said Jager. “Why, we are merely helping Calliande to reclaim her lost property. I think Brother Caius could explain at great length why that is a meritorious deed.”

Mara laughed and got to her feet, taking his hands. “You are too hard on Brother Caius. He is a kindly man.”

“Just because I am hard on him doesn’t mean I don’t like him,” said Jager. “He is, however, quite fond of his own voice. Especially when he and Kharlacht start talking about theology.”

Mara laughed again. “Well, he is a preacher, husband. I expect that preaching is a skill that must be practiced to be kept, much like any other.” She kissed him. He was easy to kiss, since he was only an inch or two shorter than she was. She had never understood why some women wanted tall husbands. Having to crane her neck every time she wanted to kiss Jager would be exhausting, though perhaps she would feel differently if she were taller.  “Thank you. I feel better.”

The guilt was still there, though. Yet she could do nothing about it, so there was no reason to dwell upon it.

“Good,” said Jager. “We should…”

He fell silent, frowning as he looked at the stairs. Mara heard the rasp of quiet footsteps. A moment later Morigna came into sight, her staff in hand, though she had discarded her tattered cloak of brown and green strips.

She looked…unsettled. Maybe even a little frightened.

And to Mara’s Sight, something seemed to have changed within her.

“Why, Morigna,” said Jager. “Such excellent timing.”

Morigna did not answer Jager’s barb, which alarmed Mara. Morigna always had a sharp answer for everything.

“What’s happened?” said Mara.

“I think,” said Morigna, her voice a little unsteady, “I think that something is wrong with me.”

###

Morigna leaned against the stone railing, her fingers tight against it.

Physically, she felt fine. A little tired, but the last several days had been busy. Her legs were a bit weak from her recent exertions with Ridmark, but that was not unusual. He had a knack for wearing her out.

Her vision, though…

She saw Mara and Jager clearly. Normally that would not have concerned her, but given the lack of light in the cavernous tiered hall of the Dormari Market, she should not have been able to see them clearly. She should not have been able to see the Market itself clearly.

Yet she could.

“Jager,” said Morigna. “Leave.”

The annoying little man folded his arms over his chest and jutted his chin at her. She had known a few halfling servants in Moraime who had worked for the praefectus and the abbot, and they had been nothing like Jager.

“I would prefer to talk with Mara alone,” said Morigna.

“Really,” said Jager. He smirked, but his amber-colored eyes were hard as stone. “You were using dark magic during our fights with the Anathgrimm and the Mhorites…and after that you expect me to leave my wife alone with you? Truly, if you think I am that gullible, why not splash some yellow paint across a wooden cup and try to sell it to me as a golden chalice? You might at least make some profit from the effort…”

“Jager,” said Mara before Morigna could answer, and Jager subsided. “Morigna, I will help you if I can, and I will even hold something in confidence if you wish it. But I will not keep secrets from my husband.”

“Fine,” said Morigna.

“Though if you are sick or injured, you should see Calliande,” said Mara. “She’s a physician, and she has the healing magic of the Well. I just kill people.”

“And I steal things,” added Jager, unhelpfully.

“I cannot,” said Morigna. “It…use your Sight, please, and look at me. Tell me if something has changed.”

Mara shrugged, and then stared at Morigna for a moment. She was quite a bit shorter than Morigna, and her green eyes seemed huge and luminous in her pale, delicate face. Even without the points of her ears, Mara never managed to look quite human. She tilted her head to the side in one direction, and then another, a concerned frown coming over her features.

“What is it?” said Morigna.

“Something has changed,” said Mara. “You’ve always had a magical aura, ever since I gained the Sight. Earth magic, which looks like,” she made a vague gesture, “like light made of rock and stone. Which is an inadequate description, but the best I can do. After Urd Morlemoch, you had dark magic within you from that soulstone.” She shook her head. “And now…it’s changed, somehow. I’m not sure how. I haven’t much practice with the Sight. But if I were to guess, I would say that some of it has soaked into you. Altered you, a little.”

“It has,” said Morigna, a flicker of dread running through her. The Old Man had been a scoundrel and a liar, but he had always said power was the foundation of everything, and Morigna had never seen anything to disagree with that. He had never warned her, though, that power itself might turn on her. “I can see in the dark.”

Jager frowned. “It’s not that dark in here.”

Morigna started to snap back at him, and then swallowed the insult. She needed Mara’s help, and insulting Jager was not the best way to go about it. “It is dark enough. And I can see better than I should.” She pointed. “That archway there, on the far side of the Market. Can you see it from here?”

“I can,” said Jager, and Mara nodded.

“Can you make out any of the details above the arch?” said Morigna.

“No,” said Mara. “It’s too dark.”

“I can,” said Morigna. “There are several rows of dwarven glyphs carved into the rock. A crack in the stone below it. Just further up the gallery I see a broken gate of dwarven steel. Likely the Frostborn broke it during their attack.”

“I can’t see any of that,” said Jager.

“Nor can I,” said Mara, turning back to Morigna with a thoughtful expression. She did not look alarmed, at least not yet. “When did this start?”

“A few moments ago,” said Morigna. “Ridmark and I had…” She stopped talking, trying to think of a way to phrase it. “We had just…”

“I understand,” said Mara. Jager smirked, damn him.

“We had just finished,” said Morigna. “Then I felt something…shift inside my head, and suddenly I could see everything in the room around me, even though it was dark.”

“Did you tell Ridmark?” said Mara.

“No,” said Morigna. “He fell asleep. I went looking for you.” She took a deep breath. “I think I may be transforming.”

“Transforming?” said Jager. “Into…what?”

“The way I did,” said Mara, her voice grave. “The way the dark magic in my father’s blood transformed me into what I am now, the way it almost turned me into an urdhracos like my sisters.”

Sisters? For a moment Morigna did not understand, and then she remembered the urdhracosi who had guarded the Traveler.

“She doesn’t have dark elven blood the way you do,” said Jager. “Morigna isn’t going to turn into anything.”

“She doesn’t have to be dark elven,” said Mara. “Urvaalgs and ursaars have no dark elven blood, but were created through dark magic. You almost turned into a creature of dark magic, husband. If you had kept using the Matriarch’s soulcatcher, it would have turned you into an urhaalgar eventually.”

“Oh,” said Jager, his voice subdued. “I had forgotten about that.”

“Do you think I am transforming?” said Morigna.

Mara shrugged. “You’ve changed a little. My Sight showed me that much, and your night vision proves it.” She hesitated. “Do you hear any songs?”

“Songs?” said Morigna.

“Inside your head, I mean,” said Mara. “I can hear the Traveler’s song in my head. It’s how my mind interprets the aura of power around him, and it’s how the dark elves compel their creatures to obey them. Can you hear it as well?”

“No,” said Morigna. “Nothing.”

“That’s good, at least,” said Mara.

“What are we going to do?” said Jager. “We should ask Calliande for help.”

“No!” said Morigna.

“Why not?” said Mara. “Morigna, I am not a Magistria. This is beyond me, and you may be in real danger.”

“Because if you tell Calliande,” said Morigna, “she will tell Ridmark. And if she does, Arandar might hear about it…and if Arandar knows about this, he will try to kill me.”

Mara and Jager shared a look.

“She’s probably right about that,” said Jager.

“I agree,” said Mara. “Sir Arandar and Morigna likely would have come to blows in the Vale of Stone Death if we had not faced an enemy.”

“If Arandar tries to kill me, Ridmark will stop him,” said Morigna. “Ridmark might kill him. Or they might kill each other. If we fight amongst ourselves now, it will be disastrous.” Morigna had spent many long nights blaming herself for Sir Nathan’s death. She did not want Ridmark’s blood upon her conscience as well.

“All right,” said Mara. “We won’t tell anyone.”

“We won’t?” said Jager. “Why not?”

“Because she’s right,” said Mara. “Sir Arandar would try to kill her if he knew. Antenora might, as well.” Morigna had not considered that. Antenora had the Sight, and if Mara could see the changes in Morigna, then Antenora could. Though Antenora would likely do nothing unless Calliande told her to act. “When Arandar and Morigna squabbled the last time, it almost got us killed. Here and now, in Khald Azalar with two orcish armies chasing us, it would almost certainly be fatal. And if we fail, there will be no one stop Shadowbearer from bringing the Frostborn back to this world.”

“Thank you,” said Morigna.

“One condition, though,” said Jager.

Morigna scowled. “And who are you to bargain with me?”

“Why, I’m the man you just told a secret,” said Jager with a smile. “And it’s for your own good. If we live through this, if Calliande recovers her staff and becomes the Keeper of Andomhaim again…you have to tell her.”

Morigna’s scowl deepened. “Why?”

“Because,” said Mara. “Jager is right. Calliande might be able to help you. Who knows what kind of magical knowledge the Keeper of Andomhaim had? Because you do need help, Morigna.”

Morigna swallowed. She had come to that conclusion on her own, but hearing Mara lay out the facts in her calm voice made it all the worse. “Do you think the transformation is…irreversible?”

“Probably,” said Mara. “But it doesn’t have to go any further. I couldn’t stop it because I was half dark elven, and the dark power was woven into my very blood and bone. But you…you just stole some dark magic. Stop using it. That should arrest any further progress in the transformation. I know you used it several times in the Vale of Stone Death to control urvaalgs. You had better stop before it changes you further.”

“I may not have a choice,” said Morigna.

“There is always a choice,” said Mara.

“No, there is not,” said Morigna. “Not always. If I had not used the dark magic to distract the urvaalgs, we would all have been killed.”

“Stop talking,” said Mara, turning around.

“What?” said Morigna, surprised. “I did what I had to do. You cannot judge me for it. We would have perished at Urd Morlemoch if I had not taken that power, and the urvaalgs would have killed Ridmark, and…”

Mara put her right hand over Morigna’s mouth. Morigna was so shocked that Mara would touch her that she fell silent. Anger bubbled up in her, but then she saw Mara’s face. It was tight and hard, her green eyes darting back and forth, and Morigna’s anger turned to chagrin and then to alarm.

Mara had noticed something wrong.

“Down,” hissed Mara, and she dropped to her knees behind the stone railing. Morigna and Jager followed suit.

“What is it?” said Jager.

“Saw something moving,” said Mara. “There, near the gallery leading back to the Gate of the West. Might have been a deep orc. Wasn’t sure.”

“Well, you have the eyes full of dark magic,” said Jager. “Might as well use them.”

Morigna opened her mouth to argue, and then realized that Jager had a point. She shrugged and peered through the gaps in the railing, looking at the far end of the Market. Nothing moved in the shadowy darkness. Maybe Mara hadn’t seen anything at all. Then Morigna saw the leather-clad figure moving from wall to wall. The leather-armored figure was an orcish man, sword and mace at his belt, a short bow slung over his shoulder. His green face had been gruesomely scarred and tattooed, twisting his features into the likeness of a crimson skull. The crimson skull was the sign of Mhor, the ancient orcish blood god of death, and the orcs of Kothluusk carved and tattooed his sigil upon their faces.

That meant the orcish warrior was a Mhorite scout.

“Damn it,” whispered Morigna.

“For once I agree with you,” said Jager. “Do you see any others?”

“No,” said Morigna. “How did you even spot that one?”

“That broken wall near the gallery arch,” said Mara, her eyes glinting like disks of jade in the shadows. “A clever scout would use it for cover when entering the Market. I kept an eye on it while we were talking. Saw the glint of light on his tusks. He really should have darkened them.”

“We cannot let him warn the others that we are here,” said Morigna. If a Mhorite scout was here, that meant the main strength of the Mhorite host was close behind. Perhaps Mournacht was even now striding through the Gate of the West. It was less than an hour’s walk from the Gate to the Dormari Market, and Mournacht had enough warriors to surround the Travelers’ House completely. He had enough warriors to seal off the vast Dormari Market. “You should travel behind him and kill him at once.”

“No,” said Mara. She shook her head. “He’s too far away. I could travel behind him and cut his throat…but I’m not sure I can be accurate enough over that distance. If I make a botch of it, he’ll see the light from the blue fire. If he sounds the alarm and others are close enough to hear it…”

“I shall put him to sleep,” said Morigna. “Then you can finish them off.”

“I’ll rouse the others while you deal with him,” said Jager. “Quietly, of course.”

Mara nodded and kissed Jager, and he vanished down the tower stairs in total silence.

“Whenever you’re ready,” said Mara.

Morigna took a deep breath and concentrated, drawing magic from the stone beneath her. Purple fire flared around her fingers as she gestured, and the Mhorite’s head snapped around as he spotted the light. By then, it was too late. White mist swirled around the Mhorite, and the orcish warrior staggered, reeling on his feet as if drunk.

Mara disappeared in a swirl of blue fire and reappeared a few yards from the Mhorite, her dark elven short sword in her hand. The Mhorite turned towards her and dropped to one knee as Morigna’s sleeping mist took hold. Mara disappeared and reappeared again, this time behind the Mhorite.

The short sword flashed in a spray of crimson across the Mhorite’s throat, and the orcish warrior fell to the ground.

Morigna let out a long breath, and a few heartbeats later Mara reappeared upon the balcony, breathing hard, the veins beneath her skin seeming to pulse and flicker with blue fire. Her strange power, her ability to travel short distances in the blink of an eye, always seemed to exhaust the small woman, though she recovered quickly.

“Done,” said Mara. “Thanks for your help.”

“Thank you,” said Morigna. “For…listening. There have been very few people…very few in whom I would confide.”

“Well.” Mara grinned. “Me, too.”

Morigna opened her mouth to answer, and the groaning wail of a war horn rang out from the gallery leading to the Gate of the West.

“The light,” said Morigna. “From my spell and your power. It must have been visible further up the gallery.”

More horns rang out, and Morigna heard the distant tramp of running boots.

“We’d better run,” said Mara, and they raced down the stairs.

Chapter 3: Siege Doors

Ridmark’s eyes shot open and he sat up, snatching the dagger from its place next to his head. For a moment he could not remember where he was, and memories burned through his mind, images of the Wilderland and the darkness of the Deeps, the Torn Hills and the wreckage of the Iron Tower.

Then he remembered. He was in a room at the Travelers’ House in the ruins of Khald Azalar.

Where had Morigna gone?

Jager stood in the door, blinking at the dagger.

“Ah,” said Jager. “Did I startle you? I do apologize. Please do not stab me in retribution.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” said Ridmark, and his sleep-fogged mind snapped back into focus. Jager wouldn’t have awakened him unless something was amiss. “What’s wrong?”

“Mhorite scout,” said Jager. “Mara and Morigna are dealing with him, but there will be others. We should move the camp.”

“You’re right,” said Ridmark, getting to his feet and pulling on his clothing. He bit back a curse. He had not expected the Mhorite host to reach the Gate of the West so quickly. Though it was possible the main Mhorite force was still climbing the road to the Gate, and Mournacht had sent ahead scouts to map the path. It was also possible that Mournacht had discarded caution and charged into Khald Azalar with his entire force.

“I’ll go wake the others,” said Jager.  He hesitated, glanced at the cloaks upon the floor as Ridmark donned the dark elven armor he had taken from the Warden’s armory. “Ah…about you and Morigna.”

“What?” said Ridmark. It was fairly obvious what he and Morigna had been doing. All the others knew, even if Ridmark and Morigna did not discuss it front of them. Yet this reticence was unlike Jager. “What is it?”

“Gray Knight, you’re a good and valorous man,” said Jager. “You would have been within your rights to kill both me and Mara several times, yet you never did.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark, hanging his dwarven war axe from his belt and slinging his gray elven cloak over his shoulders. “What is your point?”

“You could…probably do better than Morigna,” said Jager.

Ridmark frowned. “Are you playing matchmaker now?”

“No,” said Jager. “But I do owe you my life, Mara and I both. So…I suppose it is upon my conscience to warn you. I think…”

“For God’s sake, there is no time for games like this,” said Ridmark, picking up Morigna’s cloak. “Just say what you mean to say and have done with it.”

“I think Morigna is dangerous and she’ll turn on you eventually,” said Jager.

Ridmark started to ask what Jager meant, and then he heard the distant moaning wail of a Mhorite war horn.

“Of course,” said Jager, “it appears we have more immediate problems.”

“Go,” said Ridmark. Jager raced into the hallway, and Ridmark followed him, running down the stairs and back into the common room of the Travelers’ House. The others were already awake and on their feet. Arandar and Gavin stood guard at the main doors, soulblades in hand, and Ridmark felt the faint headache he suffered whenever Arandar used Heartwarden nearby. Antenora waited behind the Swordbearers, her black staff already starting to smolder with her magic, while Calliande stood nearby. She glanced at Ridmark as he came down the stairs, and for a moment she looked sad.

Then another wail from the horn rang out, and her eyes snapped back to the doors.

Kharlacht and Caius emerged from the back room. Caius carried an old, dusty parchment scroll, and the dwarven friar squinted at it.

“We should not have stopped here,” said Kharlacht.

“Apparently not,” said Ridmark. “Is that a map?”

“Aye,” said Caius. “It’s a map of the Dormari Quarter and the surrounding streets, with the shops labeled. I think the taalvar of the Market – ah, the magistrate – would give copies of it to visitors.”

“We need to go,” said Ridmark, wondering where Mara and Morigna had gone. He glanced out the windows at the tiers of the Market, but saw no sign of movement. “Does the map show the best way out of the Market?”

“Probably straight east from here,” said Caius, squinting at the map. “That leads to the Citadel of the West, one of the major strongholds within Khald Azalar. I think we would have the best chance of eluding the Mhorites there, or holding them off if necessary.”

“Does it happen to show the layout of the rest of the city?” said Ridmark. They still had no idea where Dragonfall was. Given that the Mhorites would soon flood the ruins, followed in short order by the Anathgrimm, Ridmark wanted to find the staff as soon as possible.

“No,” said Caius. “My kindred guard their secrets well. Foreigners would only have been allowed in the Dormari Quarter, and any foreigners caught outside the Quarter would be killed. Outsiders could pay a toll to travel under the mountains of Vhaluusk from the Gate of the West to the Gate of the East. Few did, though, since the Gate of the East opens into the Wilderland around the Moradel valley, which is infested with…”

Blue fire swirled in the center of the common room, and Mara appeared out of nothingness, breathing hard and blinking. A moment later Morigna ran down the stairs, her staff in hand. She looked at Ridmark, her face hard and tight, and he tossed her the tattered cloak. Morigna nodded her thanks and pulled it on, the tattered strips of brown and green swirling around her legs.

He wondered where she had gone after he had fallen asleep. It was probably just as well, given that she had helped spot the Mhorites.

“There’s a Mhorite scouting party coming from the gallery back to the Gate of the West,” said Mara. “At least twenty of them. Maybe thirty. I think they might have a shaman with them.”

“One of their foolish little wielders of dark magic?” said Antenora in her raspy, worn voice. The smoldering light from her staff pulsed brighter. “Their dark god did not save them from the fire in the Vale of Stone Death, and I doubt he will save them here.”

“Like Elijah and the prophets of Baal?” said Caius.

Antenora’s yellow eyes turned towards him. “Yes. I do not claim to wield the fires of God’s wrath. But the fire I do command shall be hot enough for the purpose at hand.”

“We should flee at once,” said Calliande.

“How much time until they reach the Market?” said Ridmark.

“Three or four minutes at most,” said Mara.

“If we head for the Citadel of the West,” said Ridmark, “they will likely catch us, and we’ll have to fight anyway.” A plan flashed through his mind. “Better to kill them all, here and now. If none escape back to Mournacht, he’ll never know what happened.”

“That is…unusually harsh for you,” said Morigna.

“It is necessary,” said Ridmark. “If Mournacht kills us and claims the staff of the Keeper for Shadowbearer, then the Frostborn will return and Andomhaim will fall.” He pointed with his staff. “There are two ruined shops on either side of the Travelers’ House. The walls are breached, but the floors are level. Arandar, Calliande, Antenora, Caius. Go to the shop on the north side of the House. Gavin, Kharlacht, Mara, Jager, Morigna. Take the one to the south.”

“And where shall you go?” said Morigna.

“I’m going to go lure the Mhorites in,” said Ridmark.

“And then we shall fall upon them from the sides,” said Arandar.

“A sound plan,” said Kharlacht.

“Dangerous,” said Calliande. She sighed. “Though I suppose none of us can stop you from taking mad risks.”

“Not today,” said Ridmark. “Hurry. Antenora. Deal with the Mhorite shaman if you can. The rest of you, strike when the moment is right.”

The others nodded and hurried out the front doors of the House, taking their packs and gear with them. Arandar’s group headed for the ruined shop on the north side of the Travelers’ House, while Gavin’s group headed to the south. Ridmark took a deep breath, picked up his staff, and strode from the House, descending the tiers of the Market as he headed for the gallery to the Gate of the West. Boulders from broken walls littered the tiers, and Ridmark picked one and darted behind it, pulling his gray elven cloak tight around him and watching the far end of the Market.

He did not need to wait long. The Mhorite scouts came at a cautious walk into the Market, short bows in hand, their crimson-tattooed faces making their features grotesque and misshapen. As Mara had predicted, there seemed to be about twenty-five of the scouts, and they spread out across the Market, searching for any foes. Some of them hung back to protect a shaman of Mhor, a gaunt, wasted orcish man clad only in trousers and sandals, his chest marked with glowing sigils of dark magic. Ridmark considered shooting the shaman with an arrow, and then decided against it. That would draw attention too soon, and it was possible that the wards upon the shaman’s chest would deflect any weapons of wood and steel.

The scouts spread out further, a guard of warriors remaining to protect the shaman. Two Mhorites walked past Ridmark’s boulder, their black eyes scanning the gloom of the Market. Ridmark waited until they had moved all the way past the concealing boulder.

Then he exploded into motion, bringing his staff around to strike.

The nearest Mhorite never knew what had killed him. Ridmark’s black staff struck his temple with a loud crack, and the orcish warrior’s head snapped to the side. The orc collapsed to the ground, and the second Mhorite started to whirl on reflex, his bow coming up. The first sweep of Ridmark’s staff knocked the bow from the Mhorite’s hand. The warrior snarled and started to reach for the sword at his belt, his eyes beginning to turn red with the battle rage of orcish blood, but Ridmark hit first. The staff crushed the orc’s windpipe. The Mhorite started to fall, and Ridmark finished him off with a heavy blow to the head.

An alarmed shout came from another Mhorite, and Ridmark sprang over a small boulder and attacked, the staff a black blur in his hands. This Mhorite was quicker than his slain companions and threw aside his bow, drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. Ridmark thrust his staff, and the orcish warrior hopped to the side, dodging the blow, and came around to strike. The blade hit Ridmark in the chest, but rebounded from the superior steel of the dark elven armor. Ridmark let the blow’s momentum knock him back a step, swinging the staff around in a low strike as he did so. It impacted the orc’s knee, and the warrior stumbled back with a furious shout. Again Ridmark whipped his staff around, and this time he hit the orc across the temple with bone-crushing force.

The orc went down in a boneless heap, and Ridmark jumped back, shooting a quick look around the Market. More Mhorites boiled from the gallery at the far end of the Market, and the orcs already scouting through the ruins began to converge on him, no doubt planning to encircle Ridmark or put an arrow through his back. He retreated towards the Travelers’ House, weaving back and forth to keep the crimson faces of the Mhorites in sight.

“Take him!” roared the Mhorite shaman from the back. “Take him and make him speak! Perhaps he knows the location of the relic the Voice of Mhor seeks.”

“You don’t recognize me?” said Ridmark, his voice echoing over the ruins. “Then you are a poor servant of your god. I am Ridmark Arban, and Mournacht himself wishes to kill me. Think of the rich reward you will earn if you lay my head before his feet.”

“Kill him!” said the shaman. The orc lifted his hands and began gesturing, bloody fire snarling around his fingers as he worked a spell of dark magic. “Kill him now!”

A dozen orcs shouted cries to Mhor and charged. The smarter ones drew their bows, aimed, and released. Ridmark threw himself to the side, ducking behind a chunk of broken wall. The volley of arrows hissed off the boulder and clattered away. Ridmark turned and sprinted for the Travelers’ House, jumping over chunks of rubble as he scrambled up the stairs, the few remaining glowstones throwing long black shadows behind him. The Mhorites pursued him, which was just as well, since they blocked the archers’ line of fire. They also blocked the shaman’s spells from hitting Ridmark.

He reached the tier before the Travelers’ House, and suddenly the ruined houses on either side erupted with motion.

###

Morigna stepped forward and raised her staff, drawing upon all the magic she could summon.

Not dark magic, though. Mara was right. The dark magic had given her powerful night vision, and there was no telling what else it might do to her.

Best not to find out, then.

Instead of dark magic, Morigna summoned power from the stone beneath her feet. Purple fire flared around her staff, and she thrust out a hand, the fire dancing around her fingers. The stairs leading to the Travelers’ House rippled and folded, the stone snapping like a flag caught in the wind, and her spell knocked a dozen Mhorites from their feet. Ridmark knew her magic well enough not to hesitate, and he sped forward and attacked, killing two Mhorites with quick blows of his black staff before the orcish warriors recovered. Before meeting Ridmark, Morigna had never thought that a staff could be a deadly weapon, but Ardrhythain’s staff was a blur of black shadow in Ridmark’s hands, dealing death and blocking strikes before they could come anywhere near him.

Gavin and Arandar were just as deadly. Gavin actually leaped from the ruined house, Truthseeker’s magic giving his jump inhuman power, and landed like a thunderbolt in the midst of the stunned Mhorites, the soulblade flashing in his grasp. Arandar fought more conservatively, but no less decisively, cutting his way into the orcs. Caius and Kharlacht came next, and then Mara and Jager. Mara flickered in and out the warriors, disappearing and reappearing, and Jager expertly exploited the chaos Mara left in her wake. White light flashed over the battle, and suddenly Ridmark and the others moved faster as Calliande’s magic aided them, lending power and speed to their blows

For a moment, just a moment, Morigna marveled at it. Ridmark was a deadly fighter, as were the Swordbearers, and all of her companions were capable in a battle. Even Jager, with his loud mouth and cocky smirk, did not lack for courage when put to the test. Yet together, with their combined strengths, they were absolutely lethal. They had defeated the Artificer and escaped the Warden by the thinnest of margins, but that margin had been enhanced by their abilities working in tandem. She felt a surge of pride as Ridmark killed another Mhorite, dodging around the warrior’s swing to land a crushing blow with his strike. He had turned them into a unified group, and she wondered what he might do if they survived, if he returned to Andomhaim a hero who had restored the Keeper and saved the High Kingdom from the Frostborn…

Then the shaman started casting a spell, and Morigna cursed, shoving aside her musings. Bloody light blazed around the gaunt shaman as he drew in power, and Morigna started a spell of her own, intending to flood the shaman with column of acidic mist.

Antenora acted first.

Throughout the fighting she had stood motionless, black staff in her right hand, her left hand cupped over the end of the staff. Now she removed her hand, and even across the battle Morigna saw the sudden glare of a fist-sized fireball, a ball that seemed to grow brighter and hotter as it spun above the ancient sorceress’s staff. Antenora thrust her staff, sending the fireball hurtling through the air. It shot over the battle in a lazy arc and landed a foot or so before the Mhorite shaman.

The resultant explosion made the Dormari Market as bright as day for an instant, filling the cavern with the roar of thunder. For a moment the battle stopped as the combatants turned to look at the roiling fireball that danced where the Mhorite shaman had stood a second earlier. The fire faded away just as quickly, leaving a massive charred spot upon the stone floor, a spot that contained absolutely no trace of the shaman.

Antenora, Morigna had come to realize, did not believe in doing things halfway.

The fighting soon ended. The surviving Mhorites had been thrown into disarray by Ridmark’s ambush, and the fiery death of their shaman demoralized them further. They started to flee, but Ridmark and the others ran them down. A few Mhorites nearly got away, but Morigna used her magic to knock them over, and Mara finished them off one by one.

Silence fell over the Dormari Market, and Morigna climbed from the ruined shop as the others joined Ridmark.

“Good fight,” rumbled Kharlacht, cleaning the blood from the blade of his greatsword.

“None of us were even injured,” said Calliande as the white glow faded from her hands, “though I wish we could have avoided this fight entirely.”

“As do I,” said Caius.

“It was necessary,” said Ridmark. “Now we can head deeper into Khald Azalar without Mournacht knowing exactly where we are. Check…”

“Ridmark!” said Mara.

Morigna followed Mara’s pointing finger and whispered a curse.

A blaze of torchlight glimmered further down the gallery leading to the Gate of the West, and the faint tramp of boots came to Morigna’s ears, followed by the harsh rasp of shouted commands. It was the sound of more Mhorite warriors.

A lot of Mhorite warriors.

“Ah,” said Antenora. “I regret to note that the light from my fire may have been visible for some distance, and if there were additional Mhorites in this complex...”

“They saw it,” said Calliande, voice grim.

“Gray Knight, we should probably run,” said Antenora.

“Agreed,” said Ridmark. “Go! To the Citadel of the West!”

###

The sound of the charging Mhorites became louder, and Ridmark ran faster, sprinting around the Travelers’ House, the others following him.

He rebuked himself. They had needed rest, true, but they should not have stopped. He should have insisted they press further into Khald Azalar before resting. For that matter, perhaps it would have been better to slip away rather than fighting the scouting party.

What was done was done, and he had to think of a better plan. Calliande had not come all this way only to die a few miles from her goal because Ridmark had failed to anticipate the movements of his enemies.

Another pillared gallery opened on the far end of the Dormari Market. A strange fiery glow came from the gallery, and with a shock Ridmark realized the light came from narrow troughs of molten stone that flowed behind the pillars and vanished into hidden channels. He wondered why the heat did not cook them alive, but remembered that the dwarven stonescribes could use their magical glyphs to channel and bind lava, that a combination of the dwarves’ engineering prowess and the lore of the stonescribes used the lava to heat their cities and power some of their machinery. It seemed at least some of those ancient glyphs still functioned in Khald Azalar.

“A pity we don’t have any bacon!” said Jager, breathing hard. “We could cook it on spits over those streams of molten stone.”

“There is no need, master thief,” said Antenora. “I can summon sufficient fire to cook meat at need.”

“That was a joke!” said Jager.

“I see,” said Antenora. “You were attempting humor.”

Morigna coughed out a laugh, but her laugh came to a sudden halt as they reached the end of the gallery.

They were in trouble.

The pillared gallery opened into a large courtyard of gleaming stone, lit by a moat of lava across the far wall. Three of the walls were smooth and unadorned, polished so well that Ridmark saw his companions' distorted reflections. The fourth wall was buttressed, and came to a halt a few yards above the rocky ceiling in a battlement-crowned rampart. A narrow stone bridge crossed the moat of lava, reaching to a massive gate of dwarven steel in the rampart.

A gate which was closed. It looked to have been badly damaged, its surface scarred and charred, and the stonework around it was chipped and broken.

“We had better go back,” said Arandar.

“Too late,” said Ridmark. “We’ll get back to the Market just as the Mhorites arrive. Caius. Thainkul Dural had a secret door. Is there one here?”

“I doubt it,” said Caius. “Look. There’s no place to stand below the wall. Anyone trying to cross the moat would burn alive in the molten stone.”

The sound of running boots echoed up the gallery behind them.

“We could climb up the wall easily enough,” said Jager. “We have rope and grapnel, and I doubt there are any guards atop the ramparts to stop us.”

“Not enough time,” said Ridmark. They might have no choice, though. Perhaps Antenora could conjure a wall of flame, or Morigna could work a wall of sleeping mist to hold off the Mhorites. If the Mhorites had additional shamans, they could dispel the magic. If Mournacht himself had come, he could shrug off any magical attacks with ease. “Mara, Antenora. Is the gate enspelled?”

“Considerably,” said Mara. “With powerful magic. I have never seen spells like this before.”

“I have seen spells of this nature,” said Antenora, “though none with such skill. They are glyphs of locking and resistance and defense, wrought to bind the gate in place. Though they appear to be quite damaged.”

“Damaged,” said Ridmark. Perhaps Gavin and Arandar, using the strength of their soulblades, could pry the gate open. He dismissed the thought at once. The massive slab of dwarven steel had to weight thousands of pounds. “Caius, is there any way to open the gate?”

“From the outside? No,” said Caius. “That kind of gate was designed to be opened quickly, to let defenders sortie out and withdraw quickly. There should be a lever on the other side.”

“That does us little good,” said Kharlacht.

“We can climb over the wall and open the gate,” said Jager.

“Not enough time,” said Ridmark. “Mara.”

She shook her head. “I can’t go through that gate. I only got through that door at the High Gate because I had previously been in the chamber on the other side, and traveling through those wards exhausted me. I don’t think I’m strong enough to get through this gate.”

A war horn rang out, low and ominous.

“No need for that,” said Ridmark. “Travel up to the ramparts, and then to the courtyard below. That should let you avoid the wards entirely.”

Mara blinked, opened her mouth, closed it, and then grinned. “I…should have thought of that myself.”

“Go quickly,” said Ridmark, and Mara disappeared with a flicker of blue flame.

She reappeared an instant later atop the ramparts. Mara wavered, caught her balance, and looked around. She nodded to herself, and then disappeared once more.

“It’s a pity she couldn’t do that when we first met,” said Jager with an admiring sigh. “Think of the thefts we could have accomplished! We could carried off every coin and jewel from the High King’s treasury. We could have plucked the diadem from the very brow of the Prince of Cintarra himself, and gotten away clean.”

Arandar frowned. “Theft is hardly honorable.”

Jager raised an eyebrow. “Even when the target deserves it? The nobles of the High Kingdom deserve a bit of humbling, I think.”

“For once,” said Morigna, “one is inclined to agree with the master thief.”

Arandar’s frown turned into a scowl. “The words of a wielder of dark magic are…”

“For God’s sake, be quiet,” said Ridmark. “I don’t know if the Mhorites can hear us, but the longer they spend puzzling over the corpses in the Market, the longer we have to escape.”

Both Arandar and Morigna fell silent, and Ridmark waited. The sound of voices from the gallery was getting louder. Likely the Mhorites had realized that Ridmark and the others had fled. Sooner or later the orcs would explore the passage that led to the courtyard, and once that happened they would charge.

A loud, resonant click came from the wall, followed by a horrible metallic screech. The massive door shuddered, and then began to swing to the side. It managed to get halfway open before Ridmark heard another metallic screech and the door came to an abrupt halt with a series of shuddering clangs. The clangs were so loud that they echoed off the ceiling and down the gallery, and Ridmark glanced towards the Market. Almost certainly the Mhorites in the Market had heard the noise.

Mara stepped around the door and blinked.

“Hurry,” she said. “I don’t think there’s a way to close the gate behind us.”

“Why not?” said Ridmark, urging the others forward.

“I found the lever and pulled it,” said Mara as Calliande walked past. “At first nothing happened. I feared the machinery had failed. Then it started making noise, and…well, you can see for yourself.”

A chorus of war horns rose from the direction of the Market.

The Mhorites were in pursuit.

Ridmark waved Morigna over the bridge, and then he and Mara followed them. Beyond the gate was another courtyard, smaller than the first. Another battlement-topped wall rose at the far end, but thankfully its gate stood open. Beyond the second gate Ridmark saw a corridor littered with debris, and scattered around the courtyard lay…

“What the devil are those things?” said Jager.

A half-dozen hideous creatures lay around the courtyard, utterly motionless. They looked like giant, man-sized mantises, their carapaces a vivid shade of blue. Their rear and middle legs ended with clawed hands that looked surprisingly human, while their forelegs ended in a pair of massive scythe-like blades that looked deadly sharp. Ridmark started to raise his staff to defend, but then he realized the creatures were dead, and had likely been that way for a long time.

“War beasts of the Frostborn,” murmured Calliande, her eyes going glassy. “I remember. I have seen them before…”

“They are called locusari,” said Antenora, and the others looked at her. “The Frostborn woman I fought in the threshold between worlds commanded several of the creatures. She said they encountered the locusari on a distant world, and adapted them to serve as soldiers.”

“Clearly they did,” said Mara. “Look.”

She pointed a niche in the wall next to the damaged gate. Within the niche was an intricate maze of gears and cogs and half-smashed machines. A dead locusar hung suspended within the machinery, half-crushed by the massive gears. The creature’s hulk had pinned the gate open.

“We will not be able to close the gate behind us,” said Arandar.

“No,” said Ridmark. He caught a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye, and saw Mhorite scouts running into the outer courtyard. “We’re out of time. Go!”

The others hurried towards the opened inner gate. The corridor beyond was far narrower, and dozens of rows of metallic spikes jutted from the walls, each as long as Ridmark’s leg. A dozen locusari had been pinned upon the spikes, the shafts of dwarven steel still crusted with the dried black slime that had once filled the insect-like warriors. Dwarven bones littered the floor.

“A fine little trap,” said Jager. “Lure the bugs in and then skewer them.”

“It was not enough to save Khald Azalar, I fear,” said Caius.

“Keep going,” said Ridmark. The corridor ended after another sixty or seventy yards, and through the arch at the far end he saw the sullen glare of more molten stone. “Single file, quickly. Don’t touch the spikes, I fear they might be poisoned. Antenora, can you do anything to slow the Mhorites for a moment?”

“Of course,” said Antenora, and she lifted her staff. Another globe of fire shimmered into existence. She gestured, and it shot through the air and slammed into the ground just within the outer gate. The sphere exploded with a snarling roar, the blast flinging one of the locusari carcasses into the air as a curtain of crackling fire sealed off the gate.

“That will not last long,” said Antenora, “and the servants of the skull-faced god shall dispel it easily enough.”

“Then let us put the time to use,” said Ridmark, urging her forward. “Go.”

“That is sound thinking,” said Antenora, staring forward without hesitation. “You compel obedience quiet effectively, Gray Knight. Did you once command men in battle?”

Ridmark remembered the battle at the Black Mountain five years ago, remembered the Mhalekites screaming down from the foothills, remembered the fear and hope in Aelia’s eyes as he chased Mhalek to the great hall of Castra Marcaine, the black and white tiles disappearing beneath the spreading pool of blood…

“Go,” said Ridmark, and he followed Antenora, carefully picking his way over the bones and keeping his cloak from snagging on the spikes. Soon he joined the others at the end of the tunnel, and stepped into a massive octagonal courtyard, large enough to contain the previous two with room to spare. A channel of lava, perhaps two feet wide, encircled the courtyard, and each one of the other seven walls had its own archway. Some of the tunnels went up, some went down, and two opened onto stairwells that climbed higher into the mountain.

“I don’t suppose,” said Gavin, “that the map happened to say which we should go next?”

“Alas, it did not,” said Caius. “We should avoid the stairs. This is the Citadel of the West, designed to defend the Gate of the West if it was breached, and those stairs will lead to armories and barracks. We’ll be trapped without an exit.”

“The tunnels that go up,” said Ridmark. “Any idea where they lead?”

“Houses, probably,” said Caius. “The dwarves who made their livings from the businesses in the Dormari Market might have lived there. The soldiers who manned the Citadel of the West, as well.”

Calliande shook her head, her blond hair flashing in the hellish light from the lava. “I can sense my staff. It’s below us, not above.”

“Then down,” said Ridmark. All of the galleries going down were dark, lacking light from either glowstones or canals of molten lava. “Antenora, if you could work a spell for light, we…”

“No!” said Antenora. “Do not use any magic!”

Ridmark frowned, and then looked at the floor. Interlocking octagonal tiles covered the stone floor, and each tile had been carved with a blocky dwarven glyph. Glyphs, in fact, that looked familiar…

“The trapped room in the High Gate,” said Calliande. "It's just like the trapped room."

“There are potent wards in the glyphs,” said Antenora, and Mara nodded. “If anyone uses any magic in this room, I suspect it will set off a powerful trap.”

“I could use the magic of the Well in the High Gate without activating the trap,” said Calliande. “The Mhorite shaman’s dark magic set it off.”

“This ward looks damaged compared to the other one,” said Mara. “I think it is already partially active. Any magic use will trigger it, and I think…the doors.”

Antenora nodded. “There are doors over each of those archways. If the ward is activated, I suspect the doors will seal.”

“Just like the High Gate,” said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded, a plan coming together in his mind. “Perhaps we can use that to our advantage.” He ran across the octagonal courtyard, checking each of the archways that opened into a downward-sloping gallery. At last he stopped at an archway two doors over from the tunnel leading to the inner courtyard of the Citadel. “There. This one.”

“Why that one?” said Calliande.

“The air smells better,” said Ridmark. “We don’t know where your staff is, but we can at least avoid asphyxiation while we search for it.”

“That is one of the chief rules of survival in the Deeps,” said Caius. “The caverns are often riddled with pockets of bad air.”

“Get into the tunnel,” said Ridmark. “Antenora, when I give the word, strike the floor of the courtyard with a fireball. Not a strong one, but nonetheless powerful enough to activate the ward.”

“So you plan to lure in the Mhorites and then seal as many of them in the courtyard as possible?” said Kharlacht.

“Aye,” said Ridmark, slinging his staff over his shoulder and picking up his bow. “With luck, we can hold them off here for a few days, and maybe even trap some. I have no doubt Mournacht himself will have the power to hammer through the doors, or the Traveler if he proves victorious, but we should be long gone by then.”

“I will stay with you,” said Morigna, raising her own bow. “You mean to draw the Mhorites in by shooting arrows at them, do you not? They will respond more forcefully to two archers instead of one.”

“I will remain with you as well,” said Calliande. “If they throw any spells at you, you will need someone to block them.”

“That will trigger the trap,” said Morigna, her black eyes narrowing.

“So will any spells the Mhorite shamans cast,” said Calliande. “If this is like the trap in the High Gate, it will take the doors a few moments to close. We can flee through the tunnel then.”

“Fine,” said Ridmark to forestall any further argument, though he did not like it. It reminded him of the battle in the High Gate, the battle that had separated him and Calliande from the others and nearly gotten them all killed. “Come with me. The rest of you, get into the tunnel. Antenora, when I call for you, cast that spell.”

Ridmark ran across the courtyard, placing himself before the narrow gallery leading back to the inner courtyard, Morigna on his right and Calliande on his left. Antenora’s wall of fire had faded, and already dozens of Mhorite warriors made their way through the corridor, taking care to avoid the spikes. With so many warriors packed into the small pace, Ridmark could not miss.

He and Morigna raised their bows, drew back the strings, and released in unison. Ridmark’s arrow slammed into the shoulder of the nearest Mhorite, and Morigna’s arrow shot past the warrior to strike the throat of the orc behind him. She had always been the better shot. The Mhorite Ridmark had wounded bellowed in pain and rage, and the warrior Morigna had killed slumped to the floor. One of the orcs bellowed a command, and the Mhorites began scrambling forward with as much speed as they could muster while avoiding the deadly spikes. Ridmark and Morigna loosed arrow after arrow, killing several Mhorites, but the rest kept coming, stepping over their wounded and slain fellows.

Crimson light flared in the gallery, the spikes throwing mad, tangled shadows over the walls. Ridmark glimpsed another Mhorite shaman in the midst of the warriors, casting a spell. Calliande drew herself up and started casting a spell of her own, white fire shimmering around her fingers.

The floor jolted beneath Ridmark’s boots. Every single one of the glyphs upon the tiles blazed with fiery light, and an enormous glyph burned upon the ceiling, so large that it seemed like a stylized moon wrought from a blacksmith’s fire. White light flashed around Ridmark and Morigna and Calliande, and an instant later the shaman’s attack hammered against the ward with a howl. Calliande’s magic proved the stronger, and the killing spell flickered and vanished.

As it did, every single door in the octagonal courtyard began to slide shut, massive slabs of glyph-carved granite moving to seal the entrances.

“Go!” shouted Ridmark.

The women sprinted for the archway. An arrow skipped off the floor next to Ridmark as one of the Mhorites produced a bow, and he ran after Calliande and Morigna. Arandar, Gavin, Kharlacht, and Caius stood at the entrance to the tunnel, just beyond the sliding slab of granite with its carved glyphs. Calliande and Morigna dashed through the closing gate, and Ridmark put on a burst of speed and followed.

The Mhorites were right behind him.

Five of the warriors burst through the closing door. Arandar slew one, and Kharlacht killed another. Morigna shouted, purple fire pulsing in the gloom, and a ripple went through the floor, knocking the Mhorites from their feet. Gavin killed one of the orcs with a quick slash from Truthseeker. Ridmark snatched the dwarven war axe from his belt and opened the throat of the fourth. The final orcish warrior fell backwards with a scream, and landed in the archway just as the massive granite slab slid shut, sealing off the courtyard.

The closing door cut off the light, but just before it did, Ridmark saw the Mhorite orc’s torso explode like a fruit crushed beneath a horse’s hoof. The door’s motion did not slow in the slightest as it crushed the Mhorite.

The resounding echoes faded away, the only light coming from the shimmering glyphs upon the door’s surface.

For a moment Ridmark and the others stood motionless, breathing hard.

“Well,” said Gavin at last. “Now what?”

Chapter 4: Night Visions

Calliande took a deep breath, and then another. She felt calm return as the tension of battle drained away. They were safe enough for now. The granite door was two feet thick, and even with Mournacht’s powerful magic to break the warding glyphs, it would still take the Mhorites days to break through that door.

Safe, of course, was a relative term, but they had make progress. Her staff felt closer. Perhaps they could yet find their way through this maze and reach Dragonfall.

Assuming they had not just gotten trapped in a dead end.

“Mara, Antenora,” said Ridmark. His voice was calm, the voice of a man in command of the situation. She knew him well enough by now to realize it was something he had learned, a part of his upbringing as a knight and noble of Andomhaim. Yet, by God and the apostles, it made her feel calmer. “Use your Sight, please. Are there any additional wards in this passage?”

“None, Gray Knight,” said Antenora. She was a cowled shadow in the dim glow from the door’s glyphs.

“There’s something wrong with the door, though,” said Mara. She stepped closer to it, a slender shadow in the glyph’s dull glare.

“The lady of the dark elves is correct,” said Antenora, peering at the door.

“Ah,” said Mara, a bit of amusement in her voice. “Is that to be my nickname, then?”

“I do not understand,” said Antenora.

“You never call anyone by name,” said Mara. “The Gray Knight. The Keeper. The master thief. The orcish warrior. The dwarven friar. In fact, I think the only one you call by name is Gavin.”

Gavin shifted a little, Truthseeker still in hand. He got along surprisingly well with Antenora, despite their vast differences in age and background. Perhaps it was because they had both lost their homes. The arachar had burned Aranaeus, and Arthur Pendragon’s kingdom of Britannia had passed into the dust of time.

“We can discuss that later,” said Ridmark. “What’s wrong with the door?”

“The spells are…decaying, I think,” said Antenora. “Yes. They are damaged, just as the ward within the Citadel was damaged. They will break at some point in the next few hours. I think…”

“Fifteen hours,” said Mara. Antenora looked at her. “When I was younger, precise timing was often important in my profession.”

Calliande cast the spell to sense the presence of magic. “They’re right. The glyphs are weakening…and the weaker they get, the easier it will be for Mournacht to break through them.”

“Then let us be gone from here,” said Ridmark. “Antenora. Can you provide light?”

“Of course, Gray Knight,” said Antenora. She tapped the end of her staff against the floor, and the sigils carved into its length grew brighter, flickering as if a fire burned within the wood. Soon it seemed as if Antenora held a staff-shaped bar of fire in her hand. It was a decidedly peculiar effect, but useful.

“Since we have no other choice, we will go forward,” said Ridmark, starting down the tunnel. Unlike the galleries near the Dormari Market and the Citadel of the West, the walls were smooth and unmarked, lacking the ornate, blocky glyphs and stylized reliefs. Calliande suspected that she was using the servants’ halls of long-dead Khald Azalar, or at least the streets of the commoners. “Caius, do you have any idea where we are?”

“None, I fear,” said Caius. “Beyond the Dormari Quarter, I have seen very little of Khald Azalar.” He gazed at the wall for a moment, the flickering light of Antenora’s staff making him seem like a solemn statue robed in brown. “If I were to guess, I would say that this tunnel leads to either a residential quarter, a quarter for artisans, or some farming caverns.”

“Farms?” said Gavin, surprised. “The dwarves had farms within Khald Azalar? I thought the dwarves grew their food in the Vale of Stone Death.”

“Oh, they did,” said Caius. “Some crops require sunlight.”

“But what could grow in this lightless place?” said Gavin. “In Aranaeus we grew wheat and barley and grain and all manner of vegetables, but they required the light of the sun.”

“Mushrooms do not,” said Caius. “We constructed cisterns to capture snowmelt from the sides of the mountains, and used the water to grow mushrooms and edible mosses. We also stocked ponds with eyeless fish, and kept herds of murrags for meat and leather. There are many wild things that grow in the Deeps or hunt in the Deeps, and the ones that are edible we have tamed.”

“There are also things in the Deeps,” said Ridmark, “that find dwarves edible.”

“Or humans or orcs or halflings, for that matter,” said Caius. “That is the reason for the siege doors.” He sighed. “Though they availed my kindred little against the Frostborn.”

They lapsed into silence after that. The tunnel sloped downward, and began to cut back and forth as it descended deeper into the bones of the mountain. Calliande found her attention wandering, and forced her weary mind to focus upon her surroundings. They had not had much chance to rest at the Travelers’ House, and their journey across the Vale of Stone Death had been tiring and dangerous. She could not help but admire how Ridmark showed no sign of fatigue, even though he had to be exhausted.

Her lip twitched a little. Morigna had to be exhausted, too, after what…

Calliande banished the thought. It was not a worthy one, though a petty, jealous part of her wanted to brood upon it further.

“Keeper,” said Antenora. “Is anything amiss?”

“What?” said Calliande, jerking out of her thoughts. “No, I am sorry. I am tired, that is all. My mind wandered.”

“This is a dangerous place,” said Antenora. “An ill one for wandering thoughts, if you forgive my presumption.”

“There is no presumption,” said Calliande. “Not when you are correct. Tell me. Are there any places like Khald Azalar upon Old Earth?” A conversation would help keep Calliande’s mind from wandering. She also wanted to learn more about this strange woman who called herself the Keeper’s apprentice.

“Like this?” said Antenora. “No, not precisely. The engineering prowess of the dwarves is very great.”

“Thank you,” called Caius from where he walked next to Ridmark.

“It is only in the last century that the sciences of the men of Old Earth permitted anything like this,” said Antenora, waving her free hand at the wall. “The great empires of Old Earth used places such as this to house their most terrible weapons of war, machines that could turn a city to ash in the blink of an eye. Or so I think. I…may have seen such a place once, but it has faded from my memory.”

“I know the feeling,” said Calliande. “Better than I might wish.”

“Yes,” said Antenora. “Still, I did not intend to damage my memory. You removed yours on purpose, Keeper. I do not understand why.”

Calliande shrugged. “I do not fully understand myself. I think it was because of Shadowbearer.”

“Shadowbearer?” said Antenora.

“An archmage of the high elves,” said Calliande. “He forsook his people and turned to follow Incariel, a mighty demon bound into the darkness. The dark elves worshipped Incariel, as did the dvargir, and the Enlightened of Incariel are a cult among the men of Andomhaim that worship Incariel even now. They’ve tried to kill us repeatedly.” They had also tried to take the empty soulstone in the pouch at Calliande’s belt more than once.

“Why did Shadowbearer make you remove your memory?” said Antenora.

“Because he brought the Frostborn to Andomhaim the first time,” said Calliande. “I don’t know how, but I must have known he would try again in a few centuries, when the alignment of the thirteen moons allowed him to open a gate to their world. He might succeed this time, too. The men of Andomhaim would forget the danger, they would grow complacent and careless. When the Frostborn returned, they would not be ready. So I had to warn them. I knew dangerous secrets, so I removed my memory and hid it with my staff, and put myself into a magical sleep below the Tower of Vigilance. Apparently I planned to awaken on the day of the conjunction, reclaim my staff and my memories, and stop Shadowbearer from summoning the Frostborn.” She shook her head. “Perhaps it was utter hubris.”

“Perhaps not,” said Antenora. “Men are easily corrupted. I am so old, Keeper…and time and time again I have seen tyrants overthrown, only for the liberators in turn to become crueler than the defeated tyrant. Why should the men of Andomhaim be any different?”

“A bleak assessment,” said Caius from the front.

“But I fear it is an accurate one,” said Arandar. He had sheathed Heartwarden, likely to spare Ridmark the headache, but his hand remained upon the hilt. “The Enlightened have eaten into the High Kingdom like a cancer. Tarrabus Carhaine is willing to murder my son to protect his secrets.”

“They also kidnapped Mara and used her to force me to steal the soulstone,” said Jager. “I feel like I should mention that.”

“They tried to have Ridmark assassinated several times,” said Morigna.

“The human heart is filled with darkness,” said Antenora. “Do I not know it well? It seems you were right to take the path you did, Keeper. Though it seems your plans have gone amiss.”

Calliande shrugged. “Evidently I founded the Order of the Vigilant to keep watch for the Frostborn. Shadowbearer saw them as a threat, so he engineered a civil war within Andomhaim. The Order had to take sides, and was destroyed in the fighting.” She shook her head. “All my preparations were for nothing. If Ridmark had not happened to be in Dun Licinia the day I awakened, Shadowbearer would have slain me and won everything on the first day.”

Again she felt a wave of gratitude mixed with a burst of sick fear. If Ridmark had not decided to help Sir Joram find Caius, if he had not stumbled upon the Mhalekites, Calliande would have died upon the altar of the Black Mountain. She would have died in terror and pain, and worse, she would have died in ignorance, never knowing why. Still worse than that, she would have died in failure. Shadowbearer would have triumphed, and all the sacrifices of the Order of the Vigilant would have been for nothing.

And the Frostborn would have returned.

Often Calliande wondered if she had been too extreme, wondering if sealing herself in magical sleep for centuries had been folly, wondering what sort of woman could put herself into hibernation for centuries and awaken to a world where everyone she had ever known and loved had died.

Now, though, after disaster had almost overtaken her, she wondered if she had not been extreme enough.

“No plan of battle survives the first encounter with the enemy,” said Arandar. “I have seen many battles, my lady Magistria, and not a single one of them has gone as planned.”

“The knight of Tarlion speaks truth,” said Antenora. “Had you not prepared so thoroughly, you would have been slain so long ago.”

Calliande shook her head. “Ridmark saved my life.”

A flicker of irritation went over Morigna’s face, as it usually did when Calliande talked about Ridmark. Well, it was the truth. Ridmark had saved Calliande’s life. Ridmark had saved Morigna’s life as well, for that matter.

“Well, Gray Knight,” said Antenora, “what do you think?”

“I think,” said Ridmark, “that I am a practical man, and therefore should turn my attention to practical matters. Such as why I can smell something rotting up ahead.”

Calliande sniffed the air. She did detect a faint odor of decay coloring the air. At first she feared they were about to walk into the site of a recent battle, but the odor was wrong. It was damp and earthy, like the rotting vegetation in a swamp or a forest.

“Ah,” said Caius. “I suspect we are heading towards one of the farms.”

“Be cautious,” said Ridmark. “In the Deeps, sources of food and water are often guarded. If deep orcs have taken over Khald Azalar, one tribe might have claimed this cavern for its territory.”

The others nodded, lifting or adjusting their weapons.

“Also,” said Ridmark, “Calliande would not have been alive for me to save had she not prepared so thoroughly. Else Shadowbearer would have slain her long ago, and we would not be having this conversation.”

Calliande smiled at him and kept walking.

“There is light ahead,” said Mara.

Calliande saw it a moment later. The tunnel came to another turn, and a pale blue light glimmered in the darkness ahead. She tensed, fearing that creatures of the dark elves lurked there, but relaxed a moment later. Large mushrooms clung to the floor and the wall, and a pale blue glow shone from beneath their broad caps.

“The mushrooms are glowing,” said Antenora.

“They are called lukhaldenmorr by my kindred,” said Caius.

“That name is not known to me,” said Antenora.

“Ghost mushrooms,” said Ridmark as they went around the corner. “They grow throughout the Deeps. Useful for light.”

Calliande followed Ridmark around the corner and came to a sudden stop, the others halting around her.

The tunnel opened into a large natural cavern easily the size of a cathedral, its bowl-shaped floor sloping towards the walls. A clear pond filled at least a third of the floor, and around the pond grew vast thickets of ghost mushrooms. Bigger mushrooms grew further up the slope, some of them as large as trees, their caps like the roofs of small houses. Here and there wandered fat lizards that looked like sheep with scales in lieu of fur. At the far end of the cavern opened another tunnel, its smooth walls lined with more ghost mushrooms.

“Splendid,” said Caius. “This cavern was a farm.” He pointed at the pond, and Calliande glimpsed silver flashes within the water as sleek fish darted back and forth. “I suspect snowmelt feeds it. Likely it began as a stock pond, and my kindred of Khald Azalar farmed mushrooms around it.”

“Ghost mushrooms are edible?” said Gavin, blinking.

“Yes, but only barely,” said Caius. “They pass swiftly through the body, and tend to result in glowing…ah, discharges.” Jager snickered. “Ironstalk mushrooms, the big ones, are far more edible. If grilled properly, they are not that different from bread.”

“We’ll rest here for a while,” said Ridmark. “We should have a few hours before the Mhorites break through the doors.”

“You thought that about the Dormari Market,” pointed out Arandar.

“I did,” said Ridmark, “and I was wrong there. Stopping is a risk, but here…I think it is less of a risk. We need rest, and it is clear no one has entered this cavern for some time.”

“What are those lizards?” said Antenora, giving one of the murrags a suspicious look.

“Dinner,” said Caius.

Arandar frowned. “We have no fire to cook the meat, and I doubt it would be safe to eat their flesh raw.”

“Pardon, Sir Arandar,” said Gavin, nodding to Antenora, “but I suspect we shall have all the fire we will ever need.”

Arandar blinked, and then laughed. “Of course. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Antenora. “I am a traitor, and deserve neither honor nor respect.”

“That may be true,” said Calliande as gently as she could manage, “but you have kept faith with us, Antenora, and proven yourself to be a valuable companion.”

Antenora stared at her with yellow eyes, blinked once, and then offered a deep bow.

“The Keeper is kind,” she said in a quiet voice.

“If you are done complimenting each other,” said Morigna, lifting her bow, “someone has to kill dinner.”

She drew back the string and took aim at the nearest murrag, which stared at her with placid incomprehension.

###

Morigna had never eaten meat cooked by elemental fire before, but it turned out quite well.

The meat itself was indifferent. Despite all the praises Caius had lavished upon murrag meat during their travels, Morigna found that it tasted like particularly stringy mutton. The pheasants she had hunted during the years she lived alone in the Wilderland had been far tastier. Still, the meat was hot and filling, and Caius carved slabs from the sides of the towering ironstalk mushrooms and grilled them on a flat boulder Antenora heated with blasts of fire. Morigna ate and drank her fill, and she admitted that it was the most pleasant evening she had spent since they had left Khorduk for the High Gate.

Still. It would have been better if she and Ridmark could have been alone. But one could not have everything.

“There are, in fact,” said Caius, gesturing with a thigh bone from the murrag, “over one hundred and fifty different ways of preparing murrag meat.”

“Truly?” said Calliande. “I had no idea.”

“We always ate it on Days of Remembrance, sacred to the gods of stone and silence,” said Caius. “According to the records of the stonescribes, when the dark elves first summoned our kindred here, we nearly starved. Fortunately, the nine kings found herds of murrags in the Deeps, and were able to provide sustenance for their people. Ever since, we have eaten murrag in memory. And for its own fine qualities, of course.”

“The dwarves have their own traditions and rituals,” said Morigna, “yet you seem to have turned your back upon your kindred.”

“Morigna,” said Ridmark.

“No, it is all right,” said Caius. “I have not turned my back upon my people.”

“You have forsaken the gods of stone and silence for the God of the church of Andomhaim,” said Morigna. She was not sure why she was pressing him about this. Perhaps she was tired. Perhaps she didn’t want to hear about the damned murrag meat any longer. Perhaps she was frightened by what the dark magic had done to her, and she wanted to take some of that distress out upon Caius. “That surely counts as abandoning the dwarves.”

“It is my wish to share what I have learned with my kindred,” said Caius, “just as I did with Azakhun and his retainers when they asked for baptism.”

“So they too will abandon their ancestral gods for the God of the church, for the Dominus Christus,” said Morigna, “who was not even from this world.”

“I suppose if one is to be accurate,” said Caius, “none of this are native to this world. You remember what the Warden told us. Of all the kindreds that dwell upon this world, only the high elves and the dark elves are native. So among us, only Lady Mara had a claim to be a native.”

Mara laughed. “I confess I had not considered it in that light, Brother Caius.”

“Have you known many dwarves, Morigna?” said Caius. “Before you met me, that is?”

Morigna shrugged. “Some. From time to time some bolder traders came to Moraime. They were dour and grim, and I ignored them for the most part. You seem much more cheerful, annoyingly so.”

“My kindred,” said Caius, “rarely laugh.”

“You laugh quite often, Brother Caius,” said Gavin

“It was a skill I learned late in life,” said Caius. He considered for a moment. “You must understand, the khaldari are different from humans or orcs or halflings. Perhaps it is because we live much longer than you, three or four or five hundred years. An orcish man can be born, come to maturity, become an elder, and die while a dwarf is still in the first third of his life. You seem…so changeable to us, so mercurial. The same King has reigned in Khald Azalar in the time a dozen of High Kings have ruled over Andomhaim. And we are much more prone to despair than you are.”

“The dwarves I have met in the past seemed solemn,” said Ridmark, “but they did not appear to be despairing.”

“Despair is not as poisonous for us as it is for orcs and humans and halflings,” said Caius. “For you, despair induces paralysis and bitterness. For us, it is…something akin to a state of mind, or perhaps a philosophy. It is part of the teachings of the gods of stone and silence. A dwarf is born of the stone, he labors, he dies, and he returns to the stone, to endure forever in darkness and silence. All things die in the end, and a son of the khaldari must bear this truth and not flinch from it.”

“That is not such a bad creed,” said Arandar. “If I remember my lessons about the books of Old Earth, the ancient teachers of the cities of the Greeks and the Empire of the Romans taught such things.”

“It is a noble creed,” said Caius, “but one of ultimate despair. Despair saturates my kindred, Sir Arandar, and I fear it has made us stagnant. A noble creed, perhaps, but one without joy or hope. The teachings of the Dominus Christus offer us hope, both in this life and in the next. That is what I wish to bring to my kindred, the hope that I now have.”

Morigna scoffed. “And you really think that the Dominus Christus will bring salvation to the dwarves?”

“He said to gather all nations in his name, did he not?” said Caius.

“A myth,” said Morigna. “A lie told by the priests to control the ignorant.”

Arandar scowled. “In Andomhaim you could be arrested for saying such things.”

“We are not in Andomhaim, are we?” said Morigna, gesturing at the blue-lit cavern. Caius regarded her with placid calm, which only irritated her further. “It seems the gods of stone and silence were right. There was no hope for Khald Azalar.”

Caius did not even blink. “Are we hearing your words, or the words of Coriolus the Eternalist?”

Morigna narrowed her eyes.

“He told you many things that were false,” said Caius. “Perhaps his thoughts upon the church and the Dominus Christus were simply yet another lie to control you. Perhaps he wished to ensure that you would have no hope, so you would not leave Moraime and he could possess you at his leisure. He employed more than words to ensure that you had no hope, did he not? He murdered your parents and your lover, and…”

“Enough,” said Morigna, her hands curling into fists. She wanted to strike him, wanted to draw upon her magic and silence him. Suddenly she was aware of the dark magic stirring in the back of her mind, and fear flooded through her.

She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, trying to calm down.

“Forgive me,” said Caius. “I should not have spoken so harshly.”

“No,” said Morigna, forcing herself to look at him. “A man who picks a fight cannot blame his opponent for punching back.”

“Does that apply to women as well?” said Jager.

Her irritation came flooding back. “It seems it does. Shall we find out together?”

Ridmark looked at her. There was no anger on his face. Just…concern. Morigna felt a sudden wave of guilt. What was she doing? Why pick a useless fight with Caius over his choice of god? Morigna believed what she believed, he believed what he believed, and they were not going to change their minds.

“I shall walk for a moment,” said Morigna, rising. “One suspects the murrag does not digest well.”

She strode away before the others could speak, vanishing into the mass of the ironstalk mushrooms. It was a bit like walking through a forest, albeit a forest made of giant mushrooms and illuminated by a pale, unearthly blue glow. Morigna leaned against one of the stalks, closed her eyes, and let out a long breath.

What the hell was wrong with her?

She was frightened. She could admit that to herself, even if she could admit it to no one else. Morigna had not been this frightened at the Iron Tower, or even when walking into the Warden’s grim stronghold. That had been before she had taken the dark magic into herself. There had been no immediate ill effects, but perhaps it was like a slow-acting poison that took its time.

What if it killed her? What if it transformed her into a monster?

What if it drove away Ridmark?

That frightened her more than she wanted to consider.

Morigna would have to see this through to the end, to help Calliande recover her staff and her powers. Even with the powers of just a Magistria, Calliande had been able to help Mara. Perhaps the restored Keeper would be able to help Morigna, maybe even exorcise the dark magic from her entirely.

Morigna took another deep breath and opened her eyes, and found Antenora standing a few feet away, the sigils in her staff shining as if she held a killing blast of flame ready. Morigna flinched in alarm, and as she did something seemed to shift and twist within her.

Shadows rose up at her call, enveloping her.

For a panicked moment Morigna stood in a shell of shadows, watching the world around her through the dark haze. She concentrated, pushing away the shadows, and they collapsed into nothingness. Yet even after they vanished, she could feel the shadows around her, sense them as if they were candles putting out heat. If she wanted, she knew, she could call to the shadows, and they would obey her.

“Interesting,” said Antenora in her raspy voice.

“It is the dark magic, is it not?” said Morigna, trying to keep herself calm. “Another thing that changed about me?”

“This is correct,” said Antenora. “However, it may cheer you to know that your transformation has not progressed further. It seems an aspect of the damage already done. When I startled you, the power reacted in defense. I suspect the shadows were some kind of shield.”

“You…know what is happening to me?” said Morigna.

“It is obvious to anyone with the Sight,” said Antenora.

“Did you tell anyone?” said Morigna, wondering if Antenora had spoken to Ridmark, or worse, Calliande.

Antenora shrugged. “I warned Gavin Swordbearer that you might be dangerous, but he chose to spare your life when you lost control of your dark magic during the fight against the urvaalgs. I am not a king or a magistrate. It is not my right to decree whether you live or die.”

“I see,” said Morigna. “Thank you.”

“If the Keeper recovers her power,” said Antenora, “she will regain the Sight as well. Then she can decide what to do about you.”

“One finds that less than comforting.”

“Do not be alarmed,” said Antenora. “The Keeper is inclined to mercy. She has a generous heart. This is all the more remarkable, given that you are both in love with the same man.”

Morigna scowled. “How is that your concern?”

“It is not,” said Antenora, “but I am old beyond reckoning. Not blind.”

Morigna sighed. “Thank you for not betraying me.”

“As I said, I have no right of command over you,” said Antenora. “A word of warning, though. If the dark magic corrupts you, if you betray the Keeper, than I will kill you.”

Morigna looked through the giant mushrooms to where Ridmark sat with the others.

“If I do,” she heard herself say, “then I would deserve it.”

Chapter 5: Sacrifices

They rested in the cavern near the shores of the pond, and the next morning they headed deeper into Khald Azalar.

Ridmark glanced over his shoulder. They had rested for about nine hours, but in that time he had seen no sign of any enemies. Mara had traveled back up the tunnel to the sealed door, and reported that while the glyphs had decayed considerably, the Mhorites still had not forced their way inside. Perhaps even the combined magic of Mournacht and his shamans had been unable to force the dwarven glyphs to open.

Or Mournacht and his warriors had chosen another door. Perhaps Mournacht knew exactly where Dragonfall was, and was marching there even now as Ridmark and the others wandered lost through the farm caverns. If Shadowbearer was controlling Mournacht and augmenting his magic, it was entirely possible that the corrupted archmage knew where to find Dragonfall and the staff…

No. If Shadowbearer knew where to find Calliande’s staff, he would have claimed it centuries ago. Shadowbearer might have realized that the Keeper’s staff was hidden in Khald Azalar, but he might not yet have found its exact location.

It was also possible that the Traveler and the Anathgrimm had wiped out the Mhorites, or that the two armies had scattered each other. In this stone maze, there was no way to find out without walking right into a battle, and Ridmark wanted to avoid that. The best course of action was to find Calliande’s staff and escape from Khald Azalar before either the Traveler or Mournacht noticed what had happened.

Unfortunately, that was far easier said than done.

The cave where they had rested was the first part of a large series of natural caverns. The dwarves of Khald Azalar had put those caverns to use, linking them, smoothing them, and digging narrow channels to the surface to capture snowmelt and funnel it to the retaining ponds. Ridmark passed through a dozen caverns similar to the first, all of them holding dozens of ironstalk mushrooms and hundreds of ghost mushrooms, their ponds containing strange eyeless fish that darted back and forth through the water without a ripple. Murrags wandered through the caverns, grazing upon the mushrooms and eyeing Ridmark with truculent indifference.

Save for the murrags and the fish, there was no trace of any other living creatures. No deep orcs, no Mhorites, no Anathgrimm, nor any of the other kindreds and creatures that dwelled in the Deeps. Ridmark thought that odd. The farming caverns had enough ironstalk mushrooms, fish, and murrags to support thousands if managed properly, and anyone living in Khald Azalar would seize the valuable food supplies. The deep orcs, certainly, would have done so.

So why had they come across no one?

“Perhaps we should double back and return to the Citadel of the West,” said Kharlacht as they entered yet another cavern forested with ironstalk mushrooms. “The glyphs upon the door would have released by now.”

“We would walk right into the Mhorites,” said Jager. “I don’t know about you, but I would rather not see them again.”

“It is possible the Mhorites have passed on,” said Arandar.

“Or we’ll meet them as they make their way down here,” said Caius.

Ridmark said nothing. He thought he heard a faint splashing noise in the distance, and felt a whisper of cool breeze against his face. Were they coming near the surface? If they came to the surface, they would not be trapped in Khald Azalar. On the other hand, they would have to circle back down the slope of the mountain and reenter the Gate of the West, and they would be behind the Anathgrimm and the Mhorites.

“I only mention the possibility,” said Kharlacht, “because I fear that we may have entered a dead end. Perhaps these caverns are only accessible through the Gate of the West.”

“No,” said Ridmark, “they’re not.”

Caius frowned. “How do you know?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “I can hear a waterfall.”

He led the way through the cavern, past a pond filled with rippling silver fish. At the far end of the cavern rose an arch of carved stone, dwarven glyphs inscribed into the lintel. Beyond the arch came the faint gleam of glowstones.

“What does it say, Brother Caius?” said Calliande.

“That we are in the Farmers’ Quarter of Khald Azalar,” said Caius. He blinked. “And that beyond are streets that lead to the Forge Quarter, the Mines Quarter, and the Temple Quarter.”

“It seems we are on the right path,” said Ridmark. He looked at Calliande. “Perhaps Dragonfall is near the Temple Quarter.”

“Maybe,” said Calliande. “I think…if Dragonfall was a secret known only to the Kings of Khald Azalar, it would have to be in the most secure part of the city. Somewhere only the Kings or maybe the high stonescribes could have accessed.”

“The Citadel of Kings,” said Caius. “The traditional name for the seat of a dwarven king. Or the King’s treasury. Those would be in the heart of the city, in the deepest levels.”

“The staff is further beneath us,” said Calliande. “Of that I am certain.”

“Maybe we can find a map beyond this cavern,” said Ridmark, and he led the way through the arch, from the dim radiance of the ghost mushrooms to the brighter light of the dwarven glowstones.

The cavern was larger than the Dormari Market, and reminded Ridmark of the ruins of Thainkul Agon and Thainkul Dural. It was a vast natural cavern, but the dwarves had carved tiers across the floor and walls, providing stable platforms for houses. A stream ran through the center of the cavern, and a waterfall tumbled from the highest tier. On either side of the waterfall Ridmark saw galleries, undoubtedly streets that led to the other Quarters of Khald Azalar.

That was good news, but for the moment the streets did not hold his attention.

The corpses lying amongst the blocky dwarven houses did.

Dozens of dead deep orcs lay scattered among the tiers, slain by sword and mace and axe. The faint odor of rotting flesh colored the air, and in a few days the stench would be terrible. To judge from the state of the corpses, Ridmark did not think they had been dead for very long. Two days, maybe.

Which meant that the deep orcs had been killed while Ridmark and the others had passed the Gate of the West.

“This happened recently,” said Morigna, her black eyes sweeping over the corpses. “Maybe even yesterday.”

“Did they kill each other?” said Calliande, peering around the cavern.

“It would seem that way,” said Kharlacht, his greatsword in hand. “Those are wounds from sword and axe, not claws.”

“Plus no one ate them,” said Jager.

Ridmark looked at the nearest deep orc. The lack of eyes made it difficult to judge the dead orcish man’s expression, but his tusked mouth was twisted with fury. A deep axe wound had ended his life, splitting his ribs and turning his heart to pulp.

“Ridmark,” said Morigna, pointing with her staff. “Look.”

A dark shape lay sprawled in the doorway of a nearby house, so dark that it somehow seemed to drink the light from the glowstones.

Ridmark muttered a quiet curse and stepped over the dead deep orcs, stopping before the house.

A gray-skinned figure lay sprawled in the doorway. It looked like a dead dwarf, but no dwarf had bottomless black eyes like pits into a freezing void. The dead figure wore armor fashioned of a peculiar black metal that seemed oily, yet it did not reflect any light. The armor would be superb for stealth, yet the dead warrior would have hardly needed it. He would have had the power to draw the shadows around him, to make himself invisible.

Morigna stepped to Ridmark’s side, her black eyes narrowing in sudden anger. “A dvargir.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. The dvargir were the sundered cousins of the dwarves. Caius might have turned from the gods of stone and silence to pray to the Dominus Christus, but the dvargir had forsaken the gods of stone and silence to worship the great darkness of Incariel.

“There are four other dvargir corpses on the other bank of the stream,” called Kharlacht.

“Two more in that house,” said Arandar, Heartwarden in his hand. A little stab of pain went through Ridmark’s head from his broken link with the soulblade.

“Then the deep orcs were slaves of the dvargir,” said Calliande, “and they were fighting someone else. The Mhorites, maybe? Perhaps Mournacht sent scouts into Khald Azalar before we arrived.”

“The tracks are wrong for that,” said Morigna, her voice harsh, but for once the harshness was not aimed at Calliande. The dvargir had killed her parents at the Old Man’s command. “I think the deep orcs were fighting the dvargir.”

“Antenora, Mara,” said Ridmark. “The dvargir can use the shadows to make themselves invisible. That shouldn’t foil the Sight, though…”

“There is nothing, Gray Knight,” said Antenora. “I see nothing. No one is using dark power to conceal themselves in this cavern.”

“I agree,” said Mara. “No dvargir.”

Ridmark nodded, but his alarm did not ebb. There might not have been any dvargir in the cavern, but that did not mean it was empty.

“Morigna,” he said.

She gestured, purple fire dancing around her fingers as she cast the spell to sense the presence of weight against the ground, and her eyes widened. She looked around, her face tightening, and Ridmark gripped his staff.

“Deep orcs,” murmured Morigna. “At least twenty of them. They’re spread out around us. Some on this side of the stream, some on the other.”

Ridmark nodded and headed back to the others, beckoning them to draw closer around him.

“Deep orcs,” he said. “We have walked into an ambush.”

Gavin frowned as he looked around. “Won’t…they be able to hear us talking? They have sensitive ears.”

“Aye,” said Arandar, “but I doubt they understand Latin, and we’ve been speaking Latin the entire time.”

“We could strike first,” said Kharlacht.

“They are too widely dispersed,” said Morigna. “They have us in a circle. We can break out in any direction, but the others will attack us.”

“Perhaps they’re not trying to ambush at all,” said Calliande. “Maybe they’re just trying to hide until we go past. The dvargir may have frightened them into hiding.”

“The battle was one or two days ago,” said Morigna. “Why are they still lingering here?”

“To loot the corpses, perhaps?” said Jager. “The dvargir had better weapons and armor than anything the deep orcs have.”

“Then why haven’t they looted the bodies already?” said Ridmark.

“We could just walk out of here,” said Calliande.

“And into the trap?” said Morigna. “Because I am certain this is a trap.”

“As am I,” said Arandar.

“Then we spring the trap,” said Ridmark, considering the possibilities. Clearly there had been tribes of deep orcs living in Khald Azalar for decades, perhaps ever since the Frostborn had defeated the dwarves. If the deep orcs had lived for years in Khald Azalar, then perhaps they knew some of its secrets. Maybe they even knew where to find Dragonfall. “Or we ask nicely if they will let us pass.”

“What?” said Morigna.

“Deep orcs of Khald Azalar!” called Ridmark in the orcish tongue, his voice echoing off the ceiling. “Hear me! I wish to speak to you in parley.”

No one answered him.

“Have you lost your mind?” said Morigna in Latin.

“Maybe,” said Ridmark, switching back to orcish. “Come forth and parley! Else we shall pass through, and if you try to bar our way, we will fight you!”

For a moment nothing happened, and then a gaunt, spindly figure appeared from behind one of the dwarven houses, a deep orc dressed in armor fashioned of leather and bones, a long spear in his right hand. The veins in the strange heat-sensing organ pulsed as the deep orc’s eyeless gaze turned towards Ridmark, and his nostrils flared.

“Sunlanders,” said the deep orc in a hissing, gargling voice. “Humans from the sunlight lands. You should not have come here.”

Ridmark had never heard a deep orc speak before.

“Probably not,” said Ridmark, “but it was necessary.”

“You slew our kin,” said the deep orc, and more deep orcs appeared from behind the houses in utter silence, weapons in hand. “You slew our kin near the Gate of the West.”

“Your kin,” said Ridmark, watching as the deep orcs moved in eerie silence, “tried to kill us. We merely defended ourselves.”

The deep orc let out a gargling laugh. “Yes, there is that. Who are you, human?”

“You can call me the Gray Knight,” said Ridmark.

“I am the First of the tribe of the Silent Ones,” said the deep orc. “You are intruding in our realm.”

“Your realm?” said Ridmark. “This is Khald Azalar, the city of the dwarves.”

“The dwarves died long ago, slain by the great cold ones,” said the First. “Have the dead need of a city? The cold ones slew the dwarves, and the shining Swordbearers of the sunlit lands slew the cold ones, so the city of the dwarves now belongs to us.” His eyeless face twisted in a snarl. “Or it did.”

“The dvargir, then,” said Ridmark, gesturing at the black-armored corpses. “They have come to take Khald Azalar from you?”

“The shadowed ones?” said the First. “They often come here from Khaldurmar, seeking slaves to sell in the markets of their city. Sometimes they kidnap Silent Ones. Sometimes we slay them.” He waved his spear over the carnage. “The shadowed ones often come. But others have come since our god told us the great power awakened.”

“Your god?” said Ridmark.

“The Devourer,” said the First. “The Devourer rules in Khald Azalar. We provide the Devourer with sustenance, and it protects us.”

“It?” said Ridmark, surprised. He had always assumed that the deep orcs worshipped the old blood gods of the orcs, Mhor and Ulak and Qaza and the others. Yet the blood gods were either male or female like their mortal worshippers. “What manner of god is the Devourer?”

“It is the Devourer, and we are its servants,” said the First.

“That is why your kin tried to capture us at the Gate of the West, is it not?” said Ridmark. “Not to take us as slaves. To offer us as sacrifices to your Devourer.”

“Yes,” hissed the First. “The Devourer requires a tithe of blood. We can pay it from our own kin. Or we can pay it from fools who wander into the ruins. Many times have the orcs of Vhaluusk come to seek treasure in Khald Azalar…and we have offered many of them as sacrifices to the Devourer.”

“The Devourer claimed a great power has awakened in the ruins?” said Ridmark.

“There is a place of power far below,” said the First. “I know not what it is. Perhaps the Devourer knows, but it has not chosen to share that wisdom with us. The power within has been dormant, but it awakened a few fortnights past, and will call others to its side. The dvargir, most likely, came in answer to that power.” Ridmark felt the pressure of the eyeless orc’s attention. “And you, too, Gray Knight, have come to claim the power.”

There was no point in lying. It sounded as if the First had already made up his mind.

“We have,” said Ridmark. “Do you intend to oppose us?”

Again the First let out his hissing, gargling laugh. “Can we oppose you? Our kin who survived their battle with you have spoken of your prowess. You have two shining Swordbearers, and who can stand against their might? You have command of powerful magic, spells to turn the stone against us, spells to unleash killing fire. Aye, we could fight you, but many more of the Silent Ones would perish. Better to let you go.” The First laughed again. “We shall not kill you.”

“You’re going to let us go,” said Ridmark, “because you’re certain the Devourer is going to kill us.”

“You understand, human fool. The Devourer will kill you,” said the First. “It is best when we can bring our sacrifices to the Devourer with our own hands. But you are too strong for that…and the Devourer shall be pleased when he consumes your strength.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “We shall march joyfully into the arms of the Devourer, then.” Jager snorted. “This place of power. Where is it?”

“I do not know exactly,” said the First. “Somewhere in the lower levels of the city, near where the dwarven kings of old kept their throne. The Silent Ones rarely go there. We can move quietly enough through the Forge Quarter and the mines and entrances to the Deeps, but some of the old defenses are still active. Only the Devourer can penetrate the defenses of the dwarves, and the Devourer dwells near the throne of the dwarven kings.” The First pointed his spear at one of the gallery entrances beyond the murmuring waterfall. “Take the tunnel to the Forge Quarter. Beyond are galleries that shall take you to the seat of the dwarven kings, and thence to the place of power.”

“Thank you, First,” said Ridmark. “We shall contemplate your counsel.”

The First grinned. The combination of his tusks, his sallow skin, and his eyeless face made the expression ghastly. “You will not thank me, Gray Knight. You shall find our god, and the Devourer shall consume you. When it does, remember that the First sent you into its arms and curse my name.”

The First gestured, and the deep orcs faded away, vanishing back into the empty shells of the dwarven houses.

For a moment no one said anything.

“Well,” said Calliande in Latin. “That was certainly a pleasant conversation.”

“This Devourer,” said Antenora. “Do you think it a myth of the deep orcs? Perhaps they kill their victims and lay the blame upon their false god. I encountered such cults often upon Old Earth.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “No, I’m certain the Devourer is a powerful creature of some kind. Maybe an urdmordar.”

“Urdmordar?” said Antenora.

Gavin answered her. “Spider-demon. Very, very powerful. They regard all mortals as cattle, and sometimes let themselves be worshipped as goddesses by their slaves. Makes them easier to control.”

“You have faced such a cult before?” said Antenora.

“Yes,” said Gavin. He said nothing else, though a brief shadow went over his face.

“I do not think the Devourer is an urdmordar,” said Calliande. “A female urdmordar would always take the form of a woman, and a male urdmordar would be too impatient to bother with the subterfuge of a cult. The deep orcs called their god ‘it’, not female.”

“So what would it be, then?” said Gavin.

Ridmark shrugged. “It could be anything. All manner of powerful and dangerous creatures dwell in the Deeps. One might have decided to make the Citadel of Kings its new home after the Frostborn were defeated.”

“Could the Devourer be a creature you summoned to guard your staff, Keeper?” said Antenora.

Calliande flinched a little at that. “Maybe. I…don’t know. That doesn’t sound like something the Keeper would do. If I summoned a guardian creature, I don’t think it would be the sort of thing the deep orcs would worship as a god.” She swallowed. “At least I hope not.”

“Our best course of action,” said Ridmark, “is to make for the Forge Quarter and then this Citadel of Kings with all speed. With luck, the Mhorites, the Anathgrimm, the deep orcs, the dvargir, and this Devourer will expend their energy fighting each other, and we can slip past in the chaos.”

Jager snorted. “When have we ever been lucky?”

Kharlacht grunted. “We are still alive, are we not?”

“The Lord’s hand has been with us,” said Caius. Morigna scowled a little but said nothing. “And that plan worked in the Vale of Stone Death. The Traveler and Mournacht are more concerned about each other than they are about us.”

“We almost got killed in the process,” said Arandar.

“But that plan worked as well, did it not?” said Jager. “And this time we have the Gray Knight to keep you and Morigna from bickering as the enemy closes around us.”

Arandar frowned. “That’s not what…”

“What is done is done,” said Ridmark, hoping to forestall yet another argument. “It’s the future that concerns us. Let us be gone from here.”

No one offered any objections, and Ridmark led the way across the corpse-strewn cavern to the gallery leading to the Forge Quarter.

Chapter 6: Images In Stone

The next day they entered a room filled with coal.

“Antenora, I urge you not to summon any magic,” said Caius, looking around. “There is a great deal of coal dust upon the floor. Even the slightest spark and we shall be consumed.”

Calliande thought that sensible advice.

They stood in a large room lit only by a few glowstones hanging in steel cages from the ceiling. Dozens of carts of bronze-colored dwarven steel filled the room, arranged in a haphazard pattern, some fallen over onto their sides. A brief flicker of amusement went through Calliande. Outside of the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves, dwarven steel was a rare and precious commodity. Among the dwarves themselves, though, their steel was so common that they built simple carts from it.

Coal filled every single one of the carts, heaped as high as Calliande’s head. Many of the carts had fallen, spilling lumps of jagged coal across the floor, and a thin film of black dust covered everything. A memory stirred in the mists that choked her mind, the story of a coal mine in the Northerland. One of the miners’ lamps had shattered, accidentally igniting a seam of coal, and the resultant fire had burned for decades.

“I think you should do as Brother Caius says, Antenora,” said Calliande. The hooded sorceress nodded, the sigils in her staff fading to darkness.

“We must be near the Forge Quarter,” said Caius.

“An astonishing feat of deduction,” said Morigna. “Did the enormous quantity of coal give it away?”

“It did,” said Caius, either missing or ignoring Morigna’s sarcasm.

“If the city’s Forge Quarter is laid out anything like the great forges of Khald Tormen, then we must be near the silos that stored the coal. By necessity, the fires in the furnaces burn hotter than even molten stone, since dwarven steel must be melted and cooled several times during its forging. For safety the coal is stored well away from the furnaces, and carried over only when needed.”

“How do you make the fires hot enough without destroying the walls of the blast furnace?” said Jager.

Arandar gave him an odd look. “I thought you were a thief, not a blacksmith.”

Jager flashed his smile at him. “I was an excellent thief, Sir Arandar. Of course, that left me with a surfeit of money, which I then invested into various merchant enterprises. Blacksmiths and silversmiths were just one of them.”

“The stonescribes carved glyphs of warding and fire into the walls of the furnaces,” said Caius, “allowing the fires to reach the necessary intensity.”

“I can believe that,” said Calliande, remembering the glyph in the High Gate that had burned the Mhorites alive.

“Unless there’s anything useful in here,” said Ridmark, “let’s keep moving. I would prefer not to have come all this way only to burn alive if someone accidentally strikes a spark.”

Calliande followed the others as they picked their way across the room. A ramp led to the far wall, to a doorway sealed with a thick slab of dwarven steel. Fortunately, no glyphs marked the door. Ridmark, Caius, and Kharlacht gripped the handle and pulled, and after a moment of straining the heavy door swung outward, rotating soundlessly on its hinges.

“Two hundred years and it still doesn’t squeak,” said Jager, “and I couldn’t find a single smith or carpenter in Coldinium who could make a door with quiet hinges.”

“You wanted doors that squeaked, husband,” said Mara. “Harder for anyone to sneak up on us.”

“The thief is ever restless with his takings,” said Arandar.

“See, that is the difference between us, Sir Arandar,” said Jager with aplomb as Ridmark, Kharlacht, and Caius shifted the door. “I lived dishonestly, and you lived honestly…and we both ended up as enemies of Tarrabus Carhaine.”

Arandar grunted, but said nothing. Calliande could tell that Arandar was thinking about his son Accolon, framed for murder by Tarrabus and the Enlightened of Incariel. Jager, for once, had the sense not to push the matter further.

“All right,” said Ridmark. “That’s…”

There was a flash of white light from beyond the door. At once Ridmark stepped back, raising his staff in guard, and Kharlacht and Caius drew their weapons. Calliande lifted her hand, summoning power to cast a warding spell. Caius stepped forward, looking past Ridmark to the chamber beyond.

“Hurry!” said Caius. “We need to get through the door! Hurry, hurry!” Kharlacht went through the door, greatsword in hand. “Go! If one of those sparks gets in here, we’re finished!”

Sparks?

Calliande shrugged and urged the others forward, another flash of white light coming from beyond the door. The others hurried through the door, and then Calliande went after them, Ridmark right behind her. He beckoned to Kharlacht and Caius, and together they pulled the massive door closed with a resonant clang.

The chamber beyond was another market, smaller than the Dormari Market or the residential cavern near the Farmers’ Quarter. The shops here were smaller and more ornate, their walls carved with elaborate reliefs and glyphs. Yet the shops showed a great deal of damage, some of them smashed to rubble, others scarred and cracked. Bones lay here and there, along with pieces of damaged dwarven armor. The air in here was cold, and Calliande spotted three piles of Frostborn armor and bones, white mist swirling around them.

“What,” said Morigna, “is that?”

Calliande had no idea.

The white light came from a massive armored figure that stood motionless in the center of the market. It looked like a suit of dwarven armor, albeit one that stood twelve feet tall. Glyphs of harsh white light shone upon the armored figure’s arms and legs. The helmet was wrought in the image of a stylized dwarven face, but a gash marked both the helmet and the cuirass. Within Calliande glimpsed the bones of a long-dead dwarf, though she could not imagine how the dwarf had moved in the massive armor, let alone worn it without getting crushed by the tremendous weight.

“That is a taalkrazdor,” said Caius. “Other kindreds commonly call them titans.”

“There are potent spells upon it,” said Mara.

“Spells of strength and warding,” said Antenora.

“Well and good,” said Jager, “but what exactly does it…do?”

The glyphs sputtered and flashed, and a small spark of lightning burst from the gashed cuirass and lashed at the nearby ground. Calliande shuddered to think of what would have happened if one of those sparks had landed in the room with the coal carts.

“They are suits of magical armor, crafted by the finest smiths and the most knowledgeable stonescribes,” said Caius. “One titan has the strength of a hundred men, and can fight entire armies to a standstill. Only the most skillful warriors are chosen to wear suits of titan armor. Alas, we never had enough of them.”

“I can see how they would be useful against an ursaar or an urvuul,” said Ridmark.

“The dark elves used their sorcery to make war beasts,” said Caius. “The khaldari had metallurgy and the skill of the stonescribes, so we used those to fight back. Don’t touch the titan. It is badly damaged, and I do not think the glyphs are stable.”

“They are not,” said Antenora. “It is safe enough for now, but touching it would be unwise. There are tremendous forces bound within the armor, and they are looking for release…”

“Let’s not give it to them,” said Ridmark. “Caius, can you guess where we are?”

Caius squinted at glyphs carved over the archway. “I believe….yes. This is the Goldsmiths’ Market. The goldsmiths, silversmiths, and jewelers would have kept their shops here.” Jager smiled at that, eyeing the damaged buildings. “It is possible that some documents might have survived the fighting, including…”

“Including some maps?” said Ridmark.

“Aye,” said Caius. “That was my thought.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “We will search. Split up and go through the shops. For God’s sake, don’t go alone. If you find anything interesting, call out. If you find any enemies, call out and retreat back into the Market, and we’ll fight the foes together. Above all, don’t touch that titan.”

Calliande nodded and went with Antenora to search the nearest shop.

###

Mara stepped through the doorway and into the ruined shop, a peculiar melancholy coming through her

Once, she suspected, this must have been a beautiful place. The walls had been carved with intricate reliefs, showing robed dwarven women wearing differing styles and pieces of jewelry. Crumbling tapestries hung from the walls, and dusty carpets lay here and there. A small pool rested in the center of the shop, a dry fountain, the water long since evaporated. Cases of dwarven steel and crystal lined the walls, displaying jewelry wrought of gold and silver, rings and bracelets and necklaces.

“Jager,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “Could you do something for me?”

“Of course,” said Jager, straightening up from his appraisal of a case holding golden rings.

“Don’t take anything,” said Mara. “This is a tomb. Khald Azalar was a city, but now it serves as a tomb for its dwarves. Stealing from this shop would be like robbing a grave.”

“I am the Master Thief of Cintarra, you know,” said Jager. “Robbing graves is the sort of thing I would do.”

“But you never did, did you?” said Mara.

Jager sighed. “No, I suppose not.” He sighed again, tapped the crystal pane of the case with a fingernail, and then grinned at her. “Besides, given how often we’ve had to run for our lives lately, I suppose I don’t want to carry any extra weight. Can’t spend money if I’m dead, can I?”

“Indeed not,” murmured Mara. She took another look around the shop. “I doubt we’ll find any maps out here. Let’s look in the back rooms.”

“I don’t read dwarven,” said Jager.

“Neither do I,” said Mara, “but Caius does. Besides, I suppose a map will be obvious.”

Jager snorted. “Given dwarven sensibilities, I suspect that map will be twenty feet tall, carved from solid stone, framed in dwarven steel, and illuminated with glyphs of fire.”

Mara laughed despite herself. “Probably. Then Brother Caius will tell us the thousands of years of history behind it.”

“He does like to talk,” said Jager.

“So do you,” said Mara with a smile. “I’ve never held it against you.” Her smile faded. “I understood what he meant about hope, though.”

They stepped into the next room. It looked like a jewelers’ workshop, with several stone benches holding tools, a small smelter and a forge, and various pieces of half-completed jewelry. If not for the faint layer of dust and the cold forge, the workshop could have been abandoned yesterday. Mara thought it odd that no one had looted the shop in the two centuries since Khald Azalar’s fall. Perhaps the Frostborn had not cared about gold, and perhaps the damaged titan in the Market scared away any Vhaluuskan adventurers who had made it this far into the ruins

“What do you mean?” said Jager.

“I know what it is like to have no hope,” said Mara. “There is no hope in Nightmane Forest among the Traveler’s slaves, among the Anathgrimm and the urdhracosi and the other creatures of dark magic. Among the human slaves, though…we at least could pray to God, and knew that even if we spent our lives enslaved to the Traveler, the Dominus Christus awaited us with hope beyond death. The Anathgrimm do not even have that, for the Traveler has made himself their god.”

“I imagine mercy is not among his traits,” said Jager.

“You’ve met him,” said Mara, looking over the tools and the workbenches. She saw nothing that might be a document. “Mercy is not within him. He might spare someone on occasion, but only so he can torment them later.”

“Has he come any closer?” said Jager.

“A little,” said Mara. “But not since yesterday. He might be fighting Mournacht and the Mhorites.”

“Or he’s stuck behind one of those doors,” said Jager.

“That, too,” said Mara. “Or he might have stopped for reasons of his own. He is not always rational.”

“I’d noticed,” said Jager. He stopped at the far wall of the workshop, looking at another door. “Maybe there’s something in here.” He pushed open the door a crack, pale light falling into the gloomy workshop. Jager peered through the crack for a moment, and then his eyes widened. “Mara, come look at this.”

He pushed the door all the way open. The room beyond was small, lit by a glowstone in a small steel cage affixed to the ceiling. A stone desk occupied one wall, a shelf above it, and papers and old books covered the desk. Jager stepped to the desk and began flipping through the papers.

“I think these are letters,” said Jager.

Mara flipped open a massive book. “That’s obviously a ledger.” She didn’t recognize the characters, but they marched across the page in orderly rows, some written in red ink and others in black. “I suppose bookkeeping is the same regardless of the kindred.”

“We all want to turn a profit in the end,” said Jager, glancing at another paper.

“Jager, wait,” said Mara, taking the paper. “I think…I think that is a map.” She tapped it with a finger. “Look, that would be the River Moradel, that would be the Vhaluuskan mountains…”

“I think it shows caravan routes,” said Jager. “It probably fell from this shelf here…ah.”

He unrolled a large scroll and spread it across the desk. It showed an intricate, stylized diagram, with dozens of different sections labeled in dwarven glyphs. Mara gazed at it, trying to make sense of the diagram.

“This is it,” said Jager. “I think this is a map of the city.”

“How can you be sure?” said Mara. “Maybe it’s a map of the sewer tunnels.”

“Well, that would still be better than nothing,” said Jager. “Unless I miss my guess, this is the Gate of the West, and that would be the Dormari Quarter…damned if I know what the rest of this is, though.”

“Caius will know,” said Mara. “Let’s show this to him.”

Jager nodded, rolled up the scroll, and tucked it under his arm. Mara started to wince, fearing that the map would crumble, but the dwarves made paper with the same durability as their steel. Perhaps that was a good sign. Perhaps it would allow them to find Calliande’s staff and escape Khald Azalar before Mournacht or Mara’s father found them.

Perhaps that would allow Mara to stop thinking about those she could not help, those trapped in her father’s power.

###

Calliande walked through a shop containing a bewildering number of plates and goblets, Antenora and Gavin at her side.

“A pity no one carved a map onto the plates,” said Gavin, picking up one of the plates and returning it to the stone shelf.

“Upon Old Earth,” said Antenora, “some merchants sell plates adorned with special designs to commemorate events of historical note.”

“How peculiar,” said Gavin. “Why buy a plate if you will not eat off of it? It seems wasteful. I…”

Calliande never heard the rest of Gavin’s opinion, because Jager started shouting from the Market. She turned in alarm and hurried from the shop, Antenora and Gavin running after her, Gavin drawing Truthseeker. There was no sign of enemies in the Market, but Jager and Mara jogged across the tiers as the others emerged from the ruined shops.

“You found something?” said Ridmark.

“Aye, we did,” said Mara, waving them over to a chunk of broken wall that lay flat. Jager produced a scroll as long as his arm and unrolled it, revealing an intricate maze of a diagram marked in dwarven glyphs.

“What’s that?” said Calliande.

“Oh, well done,” said Caius, peering at the diagram. “Well done, indeed. This is exactly what we need.”

“A map of the city?” said Ridmark.

“Not quite,” said Caius, tracing one of the lines with a finger. “It’s a map listing what time merchant traffic is allowed upon the streets.”

“I see,” said Calliande. “Wait. What?”

“Coldinium and Cintarra have such maps as well,” said Jager. “A cart loaded with, say, ore is much louder and much harder on the pavement than a cart loaded with wool or cloth. Or a herd of pigs on its way to market leaves droppings everywhere. So the city curia issues decrees regulating when different kinds of traffic can travel on the street, and how much the merchants will pay for the privilege.”

“How do you possibly know that?” said Morigna.

“Bribery,” said Jager.

“Ah.”

“The khaldari are no different,” said Caius. “Though I expect we are somewhat more law-abiding than Jager’s friends. This is map shows when different kinds of merchant traffic are allowed to use the main streets and ramps, but consequently displays the major quarters of the city.” He tapped part of the map. “That would be the Hall of the West. There is the Dormari Quarter, the Farmers’ Quarter…and there is the Goldsmiths’ Market.”

“Where we are,” said Gavin.

“Precisely,” said Caius.

“I don’t suppose the map happens to show where Dragonfall lies, does it?” said Calliande.

“I suspect very little merchant traffic went to Dragonfall,” said Caius. “But…let’s see.” He traced a line to the heart of the map. “There is the Citadel of Kings, where the Kings of Khald Azalar would have kept their court. And beyond that…the Vault of the Kings.”

“What is that?” said Ridmark with a frown. “The royal tombs?”

“No,” said Caius. “The King’s treasury.”

Jager snorted. “Why would the King put his treasury on a merchants’ map? Seems an invitation to thievery.”

“Because the Vault of the Kings would also take in taxes,” said Caius. “Some of it would be in gold, yes, but others would be in kind, ingots of dwarven steel or hides or wine and so forth. Those taxes would be subject to the traffic laws, and therefore would come to the Vault of the Kings at different times.”

“That sounds compulsively over-organized,” said Jager.

“My kindred are fond of order,” said Caius.

“What does this have to do with Dragonfall and Calliande’s staff?” said Ridmark.

“The Vault of the Kings, if it it’s anything like the treasury in Khald Tormen,” said Caius, “will be the most secure area in Khald Azalar. There will be rooms within it that only the King of Khald Azalar himself could access. If Khald Azalar was built around Dragonfall, and if the King kept Dragonfall’s location a secret…then almost certainly the entrance to Dragonfall itself is within the Vault of the Kings.”

“That makes sense,” said Calliande. Certainly it sounded right. If it was wrong, though, would she remember it?

“The logic rings true,” said Arandar.

“The staff of the Keeper would be incredibly valuable,” said Ridmark, his blue eyes meeting Calliande’s gaze. She was always struck by how clear and cold his eyes looked. “If you were planning for centuries ahead, then you would have placed the staff within the most secure location you could find.”

“All right,” said Calliande. “We should go to the Vault of the Kings.”

“Which suggests a pertinent question,” said Kharlacht. “How will we get there?”

“According to this map,” said Caius, “the most direct route from the Goldsmiths’ Market would be to proceed to the Way of the Nine Kingdoms, the central street of Khald Azalar. We would cut through the Masons’ Quarter, and then pass through the Shield Quarter and the Nobles’ Quarter before entering the Citadel of Kings itself.”

“We should avoid that route,” said Ridmark.

“Why?” said Gavin.

“Because if it’s the most direct route,” said Ridmark, “I would wager it’s the largest route as well. Both Mournacht and the Traveler brought armies with them, and they’ll need all the space they can find to move their men. That will take time, and they might wind up battling each other.” He looked back at Caius. “Is there another route we can take? A back way, somewhere an army would have a hard time moving?”

“I believe so, if this map is accurate,” said Caius. “If we cut through the main foundries of the Forge Quarter, and then through the old mines and across a reservoir…yes, I believe we can reach the Citadel of Kings that way. And if Mournacht and the Traveler brought their entire forces with them, we can likely arrive at the Citadel of Kings before they can.”

“So be it,” said Ridmark. “Unless anyone has any better ideas, we’ll take that route.”

No one had any better ideas.

“We should take that gallery,” said Caius, pointing at an archway opening off the side of the Goldsmith’s Market. “That will take us to the Forge Quarter proper, and then to the foundry levels. An entrance to the mines should be nearby.” He looked at the map for a moment longer. “We shall have to exercise caution. Almost certainly the mines open into the Deeps themselves. Anything could have wandered up.”

“Like deep orcs and dvargir?” said Ridmark.

“Precisely,” said Caius. “Or anything else. Whatever manner of creature the Devourer is, for example.”

“If we’re fortunate,” said Ridmark, “perhaps we’ll never find out.”

He led the way from the Market, Calliande and the others following him.

She felt her staff drawing closer with every step, and the sensation filled her with both hope and raw terror.

###

The gallery grew less ornate and more utilitarian as they left the Goldsmiths’ Market, the walls rougher and less adorned, the floor scratched from the passage of many metal wheels over the centuries. There were no glowstones here, and Antenora’s fiery staff cast dancing shadows over the walls. The floor began to slope downward, and here and there Ridmark saw scratches on the wall, no doubt left when a cart of coal or ore had lost control and crashed. Utter silence reigned in the corridor, and Ridmark saw no sign that anyone had passed this way for a very long time.

Though the hard stone floor preserved little evidence of footsteps.

Ridmark turned another corner and froze.

Seven deep orcs stood there, weapons in hand, the first three gripping javelins to throw.

Ridmark started to dodge, but the deep orcs remained motionless. His companions shouted and raised weapons or readied spells, but Ridmark’s brain caught up to his surprise. The deep orcs were not moving. They were not breathing. In fact, they looked frozen in the midst of movement, as if they had decided to attack and then simply stopped for some reason.

As if they had been turned to stone.

“This might be a problem,” said Ridmark, lowering his staff.

“They look just like the statues we saw in the Vale of Stone Death,” said Mara, taking a cautious step forward. She lifted her short sword of dark elven steel and gave the nearest deep orc a cautious tap. The short sword let out a gentle chiming noise.

“The gorgon spirit,” said Arandar. “It must have patrolled the upper levels of Khald Azalar as well.”

Ridmark shook his head. “It specifically said that the King of Khald Azalar had commanded it to defend the Vale. I don’t think it ever came near the Gate of the West. All the statues we saw were clustered on the western end of the Vale. Once we were within a few miles of the Gate, we didn’t see any more statues.”

“And we have seen no other statues within Khald Azalar,” said Kharlacht. “Until now.”

“A second gorgon spirit?” said Gavin. “We barely got away from the first one.”

“Or a basilisk,” said Caius.

Gavin’s frowned deepened. “What is a basilisk? You've mentioned them, but I've never seen one.”

“A kind of lizard from the Deeps,” said Ridmark. “They can turn victims to stone with their gaze.”

“You’ve encountered one before?” said Arandar.

“No,” said Ridmark. “Well, in a way. The Warden used the eye of a basilisk as a trap the first time I visited Urd Morlemoch. Touching the eye would have turned me to stone.”

“I’m afraid a living basilisk is rather more potent,” said Caius. “Their power is quite similar to that of the gorgon spirit, and a basilisk can turn victims to stone with a single glance. They are quite rare, thankfully, but sometimes the dvargir will capture one and use it as a war beast, like they do with the mzrokar.”

“And we’ve already seen dead dvargir,” said Arandar.

“Can you ward against a basilisk’s gaze?” said Ridmark to Calliande.

“I can,” she said, her expression grave in the flickering light of Antenora’s staff. “But no more than three or four of us at a time, and it will take the bulk of my power.”

“The soulblades can ward both Gavin and I,” said Arandar.

“All right,” said Ridmark. “I’ll take the front. Gavin and Arandar, walk with me. If we see a basilisk, Calliande can ward me, and I’ll draw its attention while you attack. Antenora and Morigna can strike with their magic, and hopefully we will kill the thing before it kills us.”

“Perhaps these deep orcs were turned to stone centuries ago and the basilisk has moved on,” said Caius.

“I doubt that,” said Morigna, pointing at one of the orcs. “Look. This one was wounded.” A gash marked the orc’s stone arm…and beneath it Ridmark saw spatters of dried blood upon the floor. “That blood is a few days old at most.”

Ridmark grunted. “She’s right.”

“One usually is,” said Morigna.

Ridmark saw Calliande roll her eyes, but fortunately Morigna did not notice.

“Then there is indeed either a basilisk or a second gorgon spirit loose in Khald Azalar,” said Kharlacht.

“How very splendid,” said Jager. “Our task was clearly too easy and required more complications.”

“Maybe it is the deep orcs’ Devourer,” said Gavin.

“I think that unlikely,” said Caius. “Neither the basilisk nor the gorgon spirit consume living flesh. Basilisks derive some sort of sustenance from turning their victims to stone. Anyway, the deep orcs wouldn’t worship a basilisk. They would avoid it. And a gorgon spirit bound to defend Khald Azalar would hunt them down, not keep them as worshippers.”

“We’ll keep to the plan for now,” said Ridmark. Arandar and Gavin moved to his side, Calliande behind them. “If there is a basilisk wandering through Khald Azalar, perhaps the Traveler and Mournacht will distract it.”

“The gorgon spirit was more interested in them than in us,” said Jager.

“Then let us hope that continues,” said Ridmark, and he led the way deeper into the darkness.

Chapter 7: Wayward Pets

Calliande walked in silence behind Ridmark and the Swordbearers, holding her power ready.

They had spotted several more statues as the tunnel went deeper into the bowels of the mountain. One group had been a dozen more deep orcs, frozen in the midst of an attack. The second had been a band of kobolds, the lizard-like creatures caught forever as they fled. The sight of them made Calliande’s skin crawl with dark memories. A few days after she had awakened below the Tower of Vigilance, a band of kobolds had taken her captive, bringing her to the decayed Eternalist who ruled them. Calliande had managed to escape, thanks to Ridmark and Kharlacht, but she still did not like kobolds.

Then the tunnel broadened, opening into a wide stone arch, and beyond yawned a vast, nearly lightless space. In the distance Calliande saw a faint, sullen glow, likely another flow of lava. Her companions hesitated at the entrance, weapons in hand. A warm wind blew out of the darkness, tugging at Calliande’s hair and cloak. Ridmark took a few steps forward, his gray elven cloak stirring around him, and gazed into the darkness for a moment.

“I suppose there’s no way around it,” said Ridmark. “Antenora, some light, if you please. Be ready. If there’s anything waiting beyond, the light will undoubtedly draw it.”

Antenora nodded, rapped her staff against the floor, and lifted it high as the sigils upon its length blazed to fiery light. The glow fell across the chamber beyond, illuminating a vast space large enough to hold the Dormari Market and the Goldsmiths’ Market and the Hall of the West with room to spare. Against both walls ran currents of lava ten yards wide, the source of the glow Calliande had seen earlier. Dozens of stone domes, each the size of a large house, stood in rows across the floor, their fronts marked with square entrances. Chimneys of dwarven steel rose from the apex of the domes, joining together to form an intricate maze along the ceiling. Various pieces of debris lay scattered across the floor – dwarven bones and armor, the occasional armor of a Frostborn and the dead hulk of a locusar, carts holding both coal and raw iron ore, stacks of ingots of dwarven steel. Calliande found herself awed at the size of the room, at the scale of the industry it represented.

“The foundry level,” said Caius. “We are indeed in the Forge Quarter.” He waved a hand at the stone domes. “Those were blast furnaces. The smiths of Khald Azalar made dwarven steel here.”

“Power,” said Mara, blinking. “There are several sources of magical power within the room.”

“I see them as well,” said Antenora.

Calliande cast the spell to sense the presence of magical forces, and saw Morigna doing so as well. She sensed a considerable amount of magical power bound in the furnaces’ stone domes. Likely those were the warding and augmentation glyphs that Caius had mentioned, designed to keep the blast furnaces from exploding. She sensed other sources of power scattered around the floor. Magical weapons, perhaps, similar to the enspelled dwarven war axe Ridmark carried at his belt?

“Is any of it dangerous?” said Ridmark.

“I do not believe so,” said Calliande. “We should probably stay out of the blast furnaces, though.”

“Yes, I’ve no wish to live out the story of Nebuchadnezzar and the fiery furnace,” said Jager.

“That’s not the only reason,” said Caius. “Come and I shall show you something.”

“Morigna,” said Ridmark. “Your spell to sense weight upon stone. Keep it active, please. There are a lot of places to hide in here, and I would prefer not to be surprised.” Morigna cast the spell, and Calliande sensed the flicker of earth magic that extended from her and into the floor beneath their boots.

Caius led the way into the foundry chamber, picking his way over the bones and armor. He looked this way and that, nodded to himself, stooped, and picked something up.

“I believe this,” he said, holding out his hand, “is what you sensed.”

He held a square tile of stone about three inches across. A dwarven glyph glowed with sullen light in its center.

“What is it?” said Calliande.

“There is potent magic bound within it,” said Antenora.

“We called them activation stones,” said Caius. He pointed at the square entrance to the nearest blast furnace. Unsurprisingly, the interior was sooty black, but Calliande saw dozens of similar glyphs emitting pale light within the furnace. “There is a corresponding glyph within the furnace. Place the activation stone upon the glyph, and the magic will summon a considerable amount of elemental fire, similar to what we saw in the High Gate.”

“Ah,” said Jager. “That’s how you get the fire hot enough. You charge the blast furnace with the ore and the coal, and then use the activation stone to summon magical fire. The resultant inferno is hot enough to create dwarven steel.”

“There is more to the process, but that is how it begins,” said Caius. He smiled at Ridmark. “Though I suppose if I was the Gray Knight, I would have just flung the activation stone into the furnace, observed the explosion, and then explained what I was doing.”

Calliande laughed at that. “You do have a flair for the dramatic, Ridmark.”

“I don’t understand,” said Arandar.

Ridmark took the activation stone, a thoughtful expression his face, and then tucked it into a belt pouch. “I set some marsh gas on fire once to prove a point. Apparently it’s not the sort of thing people forget.”

“Well,” said Morigna. “You did blow up a half-dozen assassins of the Red Family in the process.”

“What?” said Arandar.

“I haven’t heard this story,” said Jager.

“There were only four of them,” said Ridmark. “And one of the Enlightened of Incariel. Rotherius got away, which was why we had to fight him at Tarrabus’s domus in Coldinium.”

Mara’s green eyes widened. “You blew up Rotherius? I knew him when I was part of the Family. Jager said you had killed him, but…”

Both Morigna and Antenora looked to the right, deeper into the gloom of the foundry chamber.

“What is it?” said Ridmark.

“Someone is coming,” said Antenora. “Someone cloaked in a form of dark magic.” The light of her staff flickered. “At least a dozen of them.”

“I think they are dvargir,” said Morigna, her words hard and clipped.

“Calliande,” said Ridmark.

She nodded and started summoning power, directing and forcing the magic into a spell. The dvargir, like the dark elves and the Enlightened of Incariel, could use some of the power of the shadow of Incariel to their own ends. Her magic, the magic of the Well in Tarlion’s heart, was directly opposed to the power of Incariel. While she could neither hurt nor harm a living mortal with her magic, she nonetheless could wield her powers against things of dark magic.

Calliande clapped her hands and gestured. White light flashed around her, seeming to expand and spread into a dome for a hundred yards in all directions. A dozen columns of darkness swirled next to one of the blast furnaces, and resolved into a group of black-armored dvargir warriors, their strange armor seeming to drink the light from Antenora’s staff.

The dvargir froze, then glanced at each other and started forward.

Both Antenora and Morigna started casting spells, and Calliande followed suit as the others prepared their weapons, but Ridmark stepped forward, striking the butt of his staff against the floor with a resonant crack.

“Hold, warriors of Khaldurmar!” said Ridmark in the orcish tongue.

Calliande hesitated. Perhaps Ridmark could talk his way past the dvargir, the way he had talked his way past the deep orcs above.

###

“I will speak with your Dzark,” said Ridmark, using the title the dvargir bestowed upon their minor nobles, similar to the landed knights of Andomhaim. “Come! Do you not have a Dzark among you? Or are you Houseless rogues, wandering the ruins of your ancient enemies in search of a few gold coins?”

The dvargir stared at him. Unlike the dwarves, the dvargir shaved their heads hairless, making it seem as if their features had been carved from blocks of gray granite. The bottomless black pits of their void-filled eyes only reinforced that illusion. Idly Ridmark wondered why the dvargir shaved their heads. Perhaps it was a sign that they had rejected the gods of stone and silence, or a symbol of their devotion to the great shadow of Incariel.

If he lived through this, he would have to ask Caius.

One of the dvargir stepped forward. Unlike the others, his armor bore blood-colored bands of rank at the edges, bands that somehow did not detract from the armor’s ability to blend with the shadows. The dvargir carried a sword in his right hand and bore a dark shield upon his left arm.

“And who are you, human?” said the dvargir noble in a growling, deep voice. “Who are you to demand such a thing?”

“I am Ridmark, son of Leogrance of the Arbanii, Dux of Taliand and vassal of the High King of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark. The dvargir were as cruel and brutal as the Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk, but they were far more orderly, and considered themselves bound by their laws. Rank and birth impressed the dvargir, and perhaps Ridmark could bluff his way past the Dzark and his men.

The dvargir inclined his head in a tiny bow. “And I am Rzorgar, a Dzark in service to Great House Mlurzar of Khaldurmar.” He gestured with the sword. “Now, then. Since the introductions are out of the way, shall we kill you, or shall you surrender peacefully? Khaldurmar is ever in need of slaves.”

“Or you could let us pass,” said Ridmark.

Rzorgar’s white teeth flashed in his gray face in an expression halfway between a snarl and a smile. “Now why should I do that?”

“Because you’ve already seen battle,” said Ridmark. “Repeatedly. I see the marks on your armor. Those two dvargir have been wounded.” He gestured at some of the dvargir standing behind them. “And I have allies.”

“There are more of us than there are of you,” said Rzorgar, that half-snarl, half-smile reappearing.

“Maybe,” said Ridmark. “But I have a Magistria. I also have two sorceresses capable of wielding elemental magic. I have also have two Swordbearers, Knights of the Order of the Soulblade. Perhaps you have heard rumor of their order?”

A low, uneasy murmur came from the dvargir. Rzorgar raised an armored hand, and the murmuring stopped at once. The Dzark stared hard at Ridmark, his eyes narrowed.

“So,” he said at last. “What do you want?”

“To pass without having to kill you all,” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Rzorgar. “Why are you here? Your company is a strange one. Humans, a dwarf, a halfling, a Magistria, and two Swordbearers travelling together. You are here upon an errand of urgency. Perhaps a quest important to the High King himself, if he sent two Swordbearers and a Magistria with you. So important that he would give command of the task to a branded exile,” Ridmark felt the weight of the Dzark’s gaze upon the scar on his left cheek, “and send you with two sorceresses of elemental magic, the practice of which is outlawed in Andomhaim.”

“You are most knowledgeable about the High King’s realm,” said Ridmark.

“A man must know his enemies,” said Rzorgar. “So, Ridmark of the Arbanii, what has brought you to Khald Azalar?”

“Perhaps we are simply passing through,” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Rzorgar. “you are not. If you were simply brigands…you would be heading with us in chains to Khaldurmar, or the other dangers of this place would already have slain you. You’ve come here to claim the great power, have you not?”

“And what great power is that?” said Ridmark. “Tell me of it.”

Rzorgar snorted. “You are poor liar even for a human. You know of the great power that has awakened in the heart of Khald Azalar. The shadow priests of Khaldurmar sensed it at once, and for days they spoke of nothing else. The Council of Rzarns decreed that Khaldurmar would seize this great power, and overthrow all our enemies and lay them waste.”

“I see,” said Ridmark, alarmed. “Then shall we expect an army of dvargir to descend upon Khald Azalar?”

“No,” said Rzorgar. “The dvargir are a prudent and cautious kindred, unlike the bestial  orcs or the arrogant dark elves, whose hubris led to their destruction. No, the Council decreed than an expedition would be sent to learn the truth the shadow priests’ divinations. I was chosen for the honor of that command…”

“And it hasn’t gone very well, has it?” said Ridmark.

Rzorgar said nothing, his black eyes narrowing.

“We found dead dvargir on a higher level of the city,” said Ridmark. “Dvargir usually don’t leave their dead behind, so you were forced to retreat. You ran into more trouble than you planned. I suspect the Council of Rzarns were not the only ones interested in this great power.”

Still Rzorgar remained silent.

“We’re not the only ones coming,” said Ridmark. “There are two armies behind us. One, a host of Mhorite orcs from Kothluusk, led by a shaman of Mhor who wishes to claim the power for himself.”

“Orcs,” spat Rzorgar. “They are vermin. Fit as beasts of burden or as slaves for the fighting pits, but for nothing else.”

Kharlacht said nothing, though his black eyes glimmered with a hint of red.

“There is a second army as well, opposed to the first,” said Ridmark. “An army of orcs led by the Traveler, the dark elven prince who rules the Nightmane Forest. Perhaps you have heard of him as well.”

Again a murmur came from the dvargir warriors, and again Rzorgar raised his hand to silence them.

“Ridiculous,” said Rzorgar. “The Traveler is a coward. It is well-known that he has not left his stronghold for millennia.”

“This great power that awakened in Khald Azalar?” said Ridmark. “Would that be enough to draw him out?”

Rzorgar hesitated. “Perhaps it has. If you came from the surface, you would have had to fight your way through his bone-armored orcs. But it does not matter. Khaldurmar will not claim the great power within Khald Azalar, but neither shall the orcish vermin of the surface or their dark elven masters.”

“And just why is that?” said Ridmark.

“Because the guardian of the power is too great,” said Rzorgar. “A creature fell and terrible, faster than the wind and stronger than a mountain, able to take any shape it chooses and kill with a touch.”

“The Devourer,” said Ridmark.

“The ignorant deep orcs worshipped it as a god,” said Rzorgar. “I know not what it is, whether urdmordar or trolldomr or some worse beast, but it fell upon us like an avalanche, and half of our company and most of our war beasts were slain in the first few moments. We fled its wrath, and the creature’s deep orcs assailed us repeatedly, and we barely escaped with our lives. We have regrouped here, ere we depart this miserable place and return to Khaldurmar.”

“So be it, then,” said Ridmark, though the he wondered again what manner of creature this Devourer was. “You have suffered some losses, and there is no need for us to fight each other. You return to Khaldurmar, and we proceed to be devoured by the Devourer. Reasonable, is it not?”

Rzorgar smiled, and Ridmark’s fingers tightened against his staff.

“It is very reasonable,” said Rzorgar, “save for the fact that I have no wish to return to Khaldurmar as a failure.”

“The Council of Rzarns will execute you for your failure?” said Ridmark.

“Not at all,” said Rzorgar. “The Council is ever merciful. Those who fail are not executed. But the Council’s displeasure causes a great loss of status…and those who merit the Council’s displeasure tend to suffer unexpected accidents at surprising moments.”

“I see,” said Ridmark. “Assassination must be a lucrative business in Khaldurmar.”

“All nations have their unique customs,” said Rzorgar, a brief smile going over his grim face. “My expedition here has certainly been a failure. However, if I return with two soulblades and the head of a Magistria as trophies, well…the Council might look upon that rather more favorably.”

Antenora snarled and lifted her staff, the fiery light shining brighter from its sigils. “Threaten the Keeper again, little gray worm, and I shall roast you inside your armor like a pig upon a spit.”

“You should heed her,” said Ridmark. “There are more of you than there are of us…but my companions are veteran fighters, and we have powerful magic as well. I imagine the Council’s goodwill means nothing to a dead man.”

Rzorgar’s cold smile widened. “You have powerful magic, but I have something better.” He lifted his sword hand again, and the blade suddenly shone with jagged dvargir glyphs, radiating a pale blue fire.

As it did, a hideous metallic shriek echoed through the foundry chamber, a shriek that sent a cold chill down Ridmark’s spine.

He had heard a sound like that before.

Ridmark turned just as the mzrokar climbed to the top of the nearest dome.

The creature looked like a colossal centipede, as thick as two grown men and as long as four oxen. Scores of thin legs jutted from its sides, pulling the creature forward. Its body had been armored in an exoskeleton of black dvargir steel, making it look like a giant shadow. A pair of enormous pincers jutted from the creature’s mouth, a dozen slender antennae waving back and forth above its head. The stench of rotting meat surrounded the creature. The mzrokars were the scavengers of the darkest caverns of the Deeps, but sometimes the dvargir enslaved them with the magic of their shadow priests, using them as powerful war beasts.

“Antenora,” said Ridmark. “The mzrokar.”

Antenora gazed at the mzrokar for a moment, utterly unsurprised. Perhaps she had seen more frightening things upon Old Earth. She gripped her staff with both hands, closing her eyes, and a tiny ball of fire spun over the end of her staff, growing faster and larger and hotter with every revolution.

She was preparing a powerful spell. She could not heal and ward as Calliande could, or command animals and stone and the earth as Morigna did, but neither Calliande nor Morigna could match the sheer furious destruction that Antenora’s magic unleashed. Ridmark had never seen such destructive power from a human wielder of magic.

He was reasonably sure that the dvargir had not as well.

“Ah,” said Rzorgar. “Do you like my little pet? Well, one other survived. Perhaps you will like it as well. Come!”

More dvargir emerged from the darkness behind Rzorgar, armed and armored in their strange black steel. One of the dvargir carried a long black chain shining with jagged blue glyphs. At the end of the leash walked a massive greenish-gray lizard the size of a horse, its six legs slapping at the floor with wet, sticky noises, its long, slender tail lashing back and forth in obvious irritation. Claws that gleamed with poison tipped its feet, and a barbed stinger twitched at the end of its tail. A collar of black dvargir steel encircled its slender neck, and a hood of black cloth covered its long, pointed head.

Ridmark had never seen a basilisk before, at least not one that was still alive and in one piece, but he recognized the giant lizard nonetheless.

“If your pet lizard turns us to stone,” said Ridmark, “you will have a difficult time carrying the Swordbearers’ soulblades back to Khaldurmar. Stone swords are not as fine as trophy as steel ones. Though I suppose you could not touch a soulblade without it burning you.”

The fireball above Antenora’s staff was now the size of Ridmark’s head. The last time she had conjured a fireball like that, it seemed like she had set half the trees in the Vale of Stone Death on fire. Ridmark wondered what would happen if the fireball ignited one of the blast furnaces. Or if it impacted one of the carts of coal. Or if there was more coal dust upon the ground that he could not see…

Calliande and the others accused him of talking mad risks, and it was time to take another.

“Fear not, Ridmark of the Arbanii,” said Rzorgar. “The basilisk is only as a last resort. The mzrokar will tear you apart, and then we shall take the trophies from your shredded flesh. I do hope we manage to leave the Magistria’s pretty head intact. It would look striking when preserved in a jar of brine.” He beckoned with his sword to his warriors. “Wait for the mzrokar to do its work, and then finish off the survivors.” He pointed his sword at the twitching mzrokar. “Kill them! Kill them all!”

The mzrokar loosed a horrible metallic scream and leaped from the top of the furnace’s dome, landing with a metallic clang of its armor plates.

“Antenora!” shouted Ridmark. “Now!”

Antenora drew back her staff, her long black coat whipping around her in the sudden hot wind, and thrust the staff. The white-hot fireball shot forward like a comet, moving even faster than the mzrokar’s scuttling charge. The fireball slammed into the mzrokar’s maw as its deadly pincers yawned wide.

The explosion was impressive.

There was a thunderclap and a flare of blinding white light, and a gale of hot air knocked Ridmark back a step. The mzrokar tumbled backwards, flipping over and over, its body blazing. The armor covering its carapace had contained the fire, channeling it back through its flesh. Rzorgar bellowed a command, and the dvargir started to move, but it was too late. The burning mzrokar landed in their midst and exploded, spraying plates of red-hot steel and burning flesh in all direction. Six dvargir died in an instant, ripped apart by the plates of hot steel. One of the plates struck the dvargir warrior holding the basilisk’s leash and took off his head, no blood spurting from the cauterized wound.

The tumbling plate ripped away the basilisk’s hood and severed the chain of its leash.

Ridmark caught a brief glimpse of the basilisk’s head, of its flaring nostrils, of its long fanged maw, of its enormous yellow eyes, full of malice and predatory hunger.

“What?” said Rzorgar. “No! You fools! Get the chain. Get…”

The basilisk surged forward, its eyes flaring with yellow light as the damaged leash fell away. The light from its eyes fell over Rzorgar and three other dvargir, seeming to sink into their flesh. In an instant they vanished, replaced by statues of pale gleaming stone, their expressions forever frozen in horror.

The basilisk charged at Ridmark, the yellow light in its eyes brightening once more.

Chapter 8: Stone Eyes

Frantic, Calliande summoned all her power, white light burning around her fingers.

Arandar and Gavin charged with terrific speed, the soulstones in their swords pulsing with white fire as the blades’ magic shielded them from the terrible power of the basilisk’s gaze. They would be safe from the basilisk, but none of the others would be shielded from its power. Calliande did a quick calculation. She had enough strength to ward five of her companions from the basilisk’s power. Arandar and Gavin could protect themselves. Ridmark, Caius, Kharlacht, Jager, and Mara were closer to the basilisk and the scattered dvargir warriors.

Calliande, Morigna, and Antenora would just have to look after themselves.

She cast her spell, white fire bursting from her hands to sink into Ridmark, Caius, Kharlacht, Jager, and Mara. A horrible sense of strain went through Calliande’s mind as the basilisk turned its power against Ridmark, Caius, and Kharlacht, but she held the ward in place. She had endured worse magical trials, notably when she had challenged the Artificer at the Iron Tower and Imaria Licinius in Coldinium. For that matter, the basilisk was not nearly as powerful as the gorgon spirit that had possessed poor Murzanar, and Calliande had held her ward against the gorgon spirit’s power.

Nonetheless, the basilisk was not weak. Calliande gritted her teeth, concentrating in order to maintain the wards. She had no power left to spare for anything else. Before her Ridmark and the others dueled the dvargir, even as some of the dvargir disappeared in swirls of darkness, cloaking themselves in their power.

“Get the basilisk!” said Calliande to Morigna and Antenora. “I don’t have anything left, and the dvargir will keep the others busy. Get the basilisk!”

Both Antenora and Morigna began casting spells.

###

The strange yellow light of basilisk’s gaze struck Ridmark, but rebounded from the gentle glow of Calliande’s ward. The basilisk recoiled, and Ridmark had the distinct sense that the creature was irritated, and he hoped to strike before it recovered.

The dvargir did not give him the chance.

The dark-armored warriors rushed him, and Ridmark had to retreat, whipping his staff back and forth to deflect the thrusts of swords and the swings of axes. Ardrhythain’s staff was a versatile weapon with a long reach, able to defend and attack in the same movement, but it could not penetrate the heavy armor of the dvargir. Ridmark cast aside the staff and snatched the dwarven war axe from his belt. A dvargir lunged at him, and Ridmark dodged the blow, bringing the axe around to strike. Dwarven steel crunched into the dvargir’s neck, and red blood flowed over the bronze-colored blade. Ridmark ripped the weapon free and retreated as another dvargir came at him with an axe.

The fighting raged around him. Most of the dvargir moved to attack Arandar and Gavin, no doubt hoping to claim the glory of killing a Swordbearer. Both Swordbearers proved equal to the challenge, and Arandar killed one of the warriors as Ridmark looked, sending the dvargir’s armored corpse clattering to the ground. Kharlacht and Caius fought back to back, Caius stunning dvargir with blows from his mace while Kharlacht took off limbs and heads with sweeps of his massive greatsword. Mara flickered in and out of the dvargir, cutting throats and tripping warriors, while Jager attacked the stunned dvargir.

Ridmark had no doubt that they could fight their way through the dvargir.

The basilisk might be much harder.

For all its bulk, the creature was deadly quick, and moved with serpentine agility. Its fury turned on the dvargir, who had no doubt tormented it. It raked its claws across the face of the nearest dvargir warrior, the black talons parting gray flesh. The dvargir screamed and collapsed, yellow foam bubbling from his mouth and nose.

The basilisk’s claws were poisoned, and Ridmark suspected that the stinger upon its tail also carried a deadly venom. Yet the basilisk had not turned anyone else to stone, not after its power had failed against Calliande’s ward. Maybe the basilisk needed a few moments to recover its power before employing it again.

Ridmark parried a sword blow on the haft of his axe, twisted, and swung his weapon, his heavy axe biting through the armor in the dvargir’s lower back. The dvargir snarled and slashed at him, and Ridmark ducked, pulled his axe free, and finished off the dvargir with a heavy blow to the head.

For a moment, just a moment, he considered commanding the others to flee and letting the basilisk deal with the dvargir. Perhaps they could escape and reach the mines before the basilisk finished with the dvargir, and then the basilisk would lie in wait for the Traveler or Mournacht or whoever else arrived here at first. Ridmark dismissed the idea. There was always a chance the dvargir could get the basilisk back under control, and Ridmark and the others might not survive that.

Which meant they had to kill the basilisk.

“Arandar, Gavin!” said Ridmark. He parried a sword thrust and jumped back, wounding the dvargir warrior on the arm. “Attack the basilisk! Try to take it down!”

He wasn’t sure if either Swordbearer had heard him. The dvargir pressed hard around them, swords and axes falling. If not for Arandar’s armor and the dark elven armor Gavin had taken from the Warden’s armory, it was entirely possible the skillful dvargir would have killed them both. As it was, the Swordbearers were holding their own against the dvargir, but barely.

Two more dvargir charged at Ridmark, and he retreated, wishing for the longer reach of his staff. Ridmark dodged an axe’s swing, feinted, and then reversed the momentum of his blow. His axe tore through a dvargir’s neck, killing the warrior, but the second dvargir struck again. Ridmark’s dark elven armor deflected the edge of the dvargir’s sword, but the strength of the blow knocked him back a step. He got his axe up in time to block the next thrust, and a third dvargir took the place of the one he had killed, attacking with vigor. Every step pushed Ridmark further away from the basilisk, which continued picking off dvargir one by one with its poisoned claws and tail. Again the basilisk’s yellow eyes flashed with harsh light, and two more dvargir turned to stone, frozen forever as they charged the creature.

Blue light flickered behind one of the dvargir attacking Ridmark, and Mara appeared, her short sword angled to thrust. The blade plunged into the dvargir’s back, and the warrior staggered with a grunt, his void-filled eyes going wide. Ridmark sprang into the opening, his axe cleaving into the dvargir’s chest, and the warrior fell as Mara tugged her sword free and vanished. The remaining dvargir warrior spun, seeking for Mara, but for an instant Ridmark was free to act.

He dashed forward as the basilisk bit off a dvargir warrior’s head. The huge lizard shook its head back and forth, and Ridmark raised his axe to strike at the creature’s head. At the last instant the basilisk reared back with serpentine grace, its entire spine coiling like a rope caught in a wind. Ridmark realized the danger and dodged as the basilisk coiled over its own back, striking at him like a snake. He dodged again and swung the axe, the edge of the blade opening a shallow cut on the basilisk’s side. The cut leaked yellowish slime, and the basilisk sprang back with a hiss of fury, forked tongue darting over its bloody fangs.

The yellow light from its eyes washed over Ridmark. The creature’s power crackled against Calliande’s ward, and again the basilisk let out an enraged hiss.

Then it abandoned its power and came at him with fang and claw and stinger.

Ridmark fought for his life. The basilisk had all the quick maneuverability of a snake and the speed of a running lizard. It struck like a snake, its body coiling and uncoiling, while it raked with its claws and tried to skewer him with its stinger. Ridmark dodged and ducked, at one point deflecting a stab of the stinger with a sweep of his axe, and the basilisk could never quite close with him. Yet neither could he land a telling blow upon the creature. He nicked it a few times with the keen edge of the dwarven axe, drawing more of the yellowish slime that served as its blood, but that only enraged the basilisk further.

Ridmark needed one decisive, solid blow, but he could not get close enough to inflict one.

###

“I can do nothing useful,” said Antenora, a small ball of flame spinning above the end of her staff. “They are too close together, and if I try to burn the dvargir, I shall likely kill our companions.”

Morigna nodded, her staff flaring with purple fire as she called upon the earth magic to fuel her spells. Next to her Calliande stood motionless, her hands extended and shining with white light as she maintained the ward. It was clear the effort taxed the Magistria, her lips pressed into a hard, colorless line, but the gentle white light around Ridmark and the others never wavered.

Yet Morigna could see that Ridmark was losing his fight with the basilisk. The creature moved like quicksilver, its terrible eyes shining like yellow lamps in its fanged skull, and came at Ridmark with claw and fang and stinger. He barely stayed ahead of the creature’s poisoned blows. Sooner or later he would stumble, and then the basilisk would have him.

The others could not help him. The bulk of the dvargir warriors strove against Arandar and Gavin. With their soulblades’ power protecting them from the basilisk’s gaze, neither Swordbearer could move with the superhuman speed and power they could otherwise. Kharlacht and Caius and Mara and Jager held their own against the dvargir, the faint glow of Calliande’s power surrounding them, but there were simply too many dvargir.

Morigna cast another spell, sending her will through the stone floor. This far beneath the surface, she could not summon roots to entangle her enemies. She could, however, knock them off balance, and a ripple went through the ground, throwing a half-dozen dvargir from their feet. Arandar and Gavin took the opportunity to strike, killing three of the dark-armored warriors before they recovered.

Then, for just a moment, Morigna had a clear shot at Ridmark. He spun and dodged in front of one of the blast furnaces, the basilisk twisting and snarling. Morigna thrust her staff, summoning all the magic she could muster, and conjured a tight ball of white mist that rolled up the basilisk’s spine. Even over the din of the battle, Morigna heard the sizzling hiss as the acid chewed into the basilisk’s scales, and the basilisk let out a furious shriek of rage and pain. Ridmark darted forward, dwarven axe in both hands, and buried the blade in the basilisk’s side. Again the basilisk shrieked in fury, and its head twisted to bite at Ridmark. Ridmark ducked, but the edge of the basilisk’s head clipped his chest and sent him tumbling, and he rolled to a stop against the base of the blast furnace. Morigna cursed and called power for another spell, intending to distract the basilisk before it could attack Ridmark.

But the basilisk wasn’t staring at Ridmark.

The glowing yellow eyes glared at her. Somehow the basilisk knew that she had cast a spell at it. Morigna had no idea how smart the basilisk was, but apparently it was clever enough to realize that she was the one who had hurt it.

The basilisk shot forward, its yellow eyes fixed on Morigna. The dvargir in its path threw themselves to the side, and with a burst of alarm Morigna realized that the creature was coming right at her.

She had no spell strong enough to stop it. Calliande had no power left to aid her. Antenora could not help her without blasting half of their companions to cinders. For that matter, Calliande could not ward herself or Antenora or Morigna against the basilisk’s gaze, not with all her power focused upon the others.

“Morigna!” shouted Calliande. “Watch…”

Morigna had exactly one option left.

She ran.

The basilisk bowled over the remaining dvargir in its path, and Caius took the opportunity to bash in a dvargir warrior’s skull. Morigna sprinted for the gap between two of the blast furnaces, hoping to lose the basilisk in the gloom there. The streams of lava against the distant walls threw off some light, but hopefully Morigna could conceal herself in the shadows. The poor light would not hinder her altered eyes, and perhaps she could lose the basilisk, or even strike a deadly blow from the shadows.

She cut a meandering path, ducking around the squat domes of the blast furnaces and jumping over fallen carts of ore and coal. A wolf would have had a difficult time following the tangled trail she laid down.

It did not fool the basilisk for a second.

The basilisk bounded after her, and Morigna realized she had made a mistake. She was running through the shadows, yet the creature pursued her unerringly. Was it hunting her by scent? Could it sense the power of her magic? It had absolutely no trouble tracking her.

And Morigna had no way to shield herself from the deadly power of its gaze.

The basilisk was gaining on her. Morigna dodged to the left and stumbled, and the basilisk closed the gap. She whirled, bringing up her staff, intending to fling every bit of earth magic she could summon at the creature.

The basilisk didn’t bite. Instead the hideous yellow light of its eyes fell over her.

Morigna screamed, or would have screamed, but a peculiar cold stiffness spread through her. Some distant part of her mind noted that it was the petrification process, the beginning of her flesh’s transmutation into stone. She wondered if she would make an attractive statue, if she would stand in this gloomy darkness for the rest of time…

The shadows in her mind boiled with wrath.

Again a shell of shadows formed around her, similar to the one she had summoned the night that Antenora had startled her.

The yellow light vanished, and the basilisk jerked back, shaking its fanged head as if annoyed.

And all at once the cold pressure vanished from her limbs.

Morigna cast a spell, flinging all her strength into it. The earth magic gave her the power to influence and control the minds of animals, and the basilisk was an animal. Likely the collar of dvargirish steel around its neck inflamed its mind with permanent rage, preventing Morigna from dominating the creature entirely, just like the mzrokar they had faced in Thainkul Dural, but perhaps she could calm it down long enough to escape.

Her will reached out and touched the basilisk’s mind, and her thoughts recoiled in fear. The creature’s mind was not as twisted as the mind of an urvaalg or ursaar, but it was nonetheless strange and alien. She remembered what the Warden had said about other worlds, and Morigna was certain that the basilisk had come from some world so alien she could scarce comprehend it. There was no way Morigna could control such an alien mind. Not unless she drew on the dark magic within her…

She pushed aside that thought.

Her power could not control the basilisk, but the creature went rigid, twitching as its mind struggled against the intrusion of Morigna’s magic. Morigna considered trying to remove the dvargirish collar, but if her concentration wavered even for an instant, the basilisk would bite her, and she doubted her strange shadows would stop the venom in its fangs.

Perhaps she could distract it long enough to get away. Her eyes fell on a nearby blast furnace. The long-ago attack of the Frostborn had damaged it, tearing a hole in its side. If she crawled inside while clouding the basilisk’s mind, perhaps the creature would lose track of her location.

Morigna backed away, keeping her magic focused upon the trembling basilisk. Her concentration started to slip from the effort of confusing that alien, bestial mind. She reached the side of the blast furnace, levered herself through the small hole, and climbed into the interior. The walls and floor were blackened by generations of soot, save for the dozens of dwarven glyphs, clear and sharp as if they had been carved yesterday.

Morigna released her power with a shuddering breath and stepped back, keeping her eyes upon the hole in the wall, her staff in hand. She heard the wet slap of the basilisk’s feet against the stone floor as it moved back and forth, seeking her, and then the sound faded.

It had lost interest in her. Or, more likely, it had returned to the battle in search of easier prey. Morigna had to rejoin the others. Ridmark and the others were formidable warriors, but so were the dvargir, and Ridmark needed her help to overcome them.

She turned towards the furnace’s square entrance and froze.

The basilisk sat there, watching her.

Apparently it had not lost interest in her after all.

Before Morigna could react, the creature surged forward, jaws yawning wide.

###

Ridmark killed another dvargir and looked around, trying to find Morigna.

Kharlacht and Gavin and Arandar had all taken wounds, and Ridmark’s left shoulder burned from the impact of a dvargir mace. Yet after Morigna had lured the basilisk away, Arandar and Gavin had been able to use their soulblades’ power to make themselves stronger and faster, and they had torn into the dvargir warriors like a storm. The force of their blows drove Heartwarden and Truthseeker through black armor like hammers through paper, and together the two Swordbearers killed dvargir after dvargir. The dvargir had already been demoralized by Rzorgar’s death, the destruction of their mzrokar, and the basilisk’s rampage. The dvargir were falling back, fleeing into the darkness or cloaking themselves with shadow and withdrawing.

But Morigna was still out there, alone in the gloom.

So was the basilisk.

She didn’t have any way to shield herself from the basilisk’s gaze, and while her spells would enrage the creature, they couldn’t kill it. The basilisk had no such hindrance, and if it caught her, it would kill her. Or Morigna would become desperate enough to use her stolen dark magic, and there was no telling what would happen then…

Ridmark spun, using the motion to fuel the momentum of his axe, and drove the blade into a dvargir’s neck. There was a ghastly crunching noise, and the dvargir did a weird, jerking dance as Ridmark ripped the blade free. Another dvargir came at Ridmark, but Kharlacht stepped smoothly into the fray, his greatsword parting the dvargir warrior’s arm from his shoulder. The dvargir fell back with a hoarse scream, and Ridmark finished him off.

He looked around, but the dvargir were retreating.

“Arandar!” said Ridmark. “Take charge here.” He found his staff and picked it up in his left hand, the axe still in his right. “I’m going after Morigna.”

The Swordbearer nodded, and Ridmark ran into the gloom, staff and axe in hand. He supposed that the pale glow from Calliande’s ward would make him stand out like a beacon in the darkness, but the yellow glow from the basilisk’s eyes would serve just as well. Ridmark looked at the ground, but it was too dark to see tracks, and the hard stone floor would not hold footprints anyway. Where would Morigna have gone? She had spent years hunting and trapping in the forests of the Wilderland, so she knew how predators thought. She would have tried to lose the basilisk and circle back to rejoin him. But where could she lose the basilisk in this vast, open chamber?

It had to be one of the blast furnaces. Some of them had been damaged, gaping holes yawning in their side. If Morigna climbed into one, perhaps she could throw off the basilisk’s pursuit…

A flicker of yellow light caught Ridmark’s attention.

He saw the basilisk move around the base of a damaged blast furnace, its movements a peculiar combination of a serpentine slither and a centipede’s skitter. It was moving quietly. That meant it was sneaking up on someone…

Morigna.

Ridmark dropped his staff and sprinted forward, both hands coiling around the axe’s haft. The basilisk tensed before the entrance to the furnace, ready to spring on someone inside. Ridmark ran faster and threw himself forward, raising the axe over his head. At the last moment the basilisk turned as it sensed his presence, and its long, slender tail stabbed forward. The stinger struck Ridmark in the chest, and a bolt of pain shot through him. He wondered if it had penetrated the dark elven armor he wore beneath his jerkin.

But it did not slow him, and he buried the axe in the basilisk’s skull. The basilisk went into a mad spasm, its claws raking at the floor, its tail snapping back and forth in fury. Ridmark hit the side of the doorway, bounced off, and landed hard on the floor. For a moment he could not move as the breath exploded from his lungs, and another wave of pain went through his chest and injured shoulder. At last he managed sat up as Morigna ran to his side, purple fire flickering around her free hand as she started a spell.

The basilisk thrashed once and then went limp, Ridmark’s axe still jutting from its skull.

Ridmark let out a long, aching breath and got to his feet.

“It stung you,” said Morigna, her voice tight.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Could you get a little more light?”

She nodded in the gloom and lifted her hand, a sphere of pale blue light shimmering into existence over her palm. Ridmark tugged aside his jerkin and looked at the plates of blue dark elven steel. He felt a terrible bruise forming across his chest, but the basilisk’s stinger had failed to penetrate the armor.

“I do not believe it reached your flesh,” said Morigna.

“I suppose if it had poisoned me I would have died by now,” said Ridmark. He took a deep breath, ignoring the ache in his chest. “I…am glad you are safe. Why did you charge off like that?”

“Because it would have killed me if I had stayed there,” said Morigna. “And you are hardly one to judge, Ridmark Arban. You are not the only one who can indulge in reckless madness from time to time.”

“I suppose not,” said Ridmark. He tugged his axe free from the basilisk’s skull. It came free with a crackling sound, yellow slime dripping from the blade. “How did you keep it from petrifying you? I was sure I would find your statue.”

She did not answer for a moment. “I ran faster, that is all. Evidently its power only operates in a certain range.”

Ridmark was certain that wasn’t the entire truth, that something else had happened. Perhaps she had resorted to the use of her stolen dark magic again. This wasn’t the time to deal with it, though.

“Come on,” said Ridmark. He found where his staff had rolled to a stop against a cart and picked it up. “The dvargir were fleeing, but I want to rejoin the others as soon as possible. Sooner or later the dvargir will come after us again.”

“Doubtful,” said Morigna with a scornful laugh. “They are not so brave without their pets, and seeing Antenora cook their mzrokar likely stole away their courage.”

“It was an impressive sight,” said Ridmark, walking around one of the blast furnaces.

“An amazingly foul odor, though,” said Morigna. “I suspect the surviving dvargir will flee straight back to Khaldurmar. Mostly they were common soldiers, and they will blame the failure upon Rzorgar, and return to their duties with Great House Mlurzar.” She hesitated. “I am…glad you are uninjured. When the basilisk stung you, I thought…”

He leaned his staff against the wall of the nearest blast furnace, reached over, and squeezed her hand. The fiery light from the flows of lava did not illuminate much, but he did see the brief smile flicker over her face.

“I am glad you are safe, too,” said Ridmark.

“As safe as one can be, anyway,” said Morigna, “while standing in a dwarven ruin filled with creatures that want to kill us.”

“True,” said Ridmark, releasing her hand and recovering his staff. “Then let’s find Dragonfall and get out of here.”

She let out a tired little laugh. “You always make these things sound so easy.”

Ridmark had lost track of his location in the maze of domed blast furnaces and debris, but the light (and stench) from the burning mzrokar made it easy to find his way back to the others. Dead dvargir lay scattered across the floor, and Calliande stood next to Kharlacht, white light glimmering from her fingers as she cast healing spells. Many of the Magistri had the power to heal, but Calliande was the best healer Ridmark had ever encountered. A Magistria had to endure the pain of a wound to heal it, but Calliande never flinched, never complained.

“The basilisk,” said Kharlacht.

“Dead,” said Ridmark. One of the dead dvargir had a cloak, and he cleaned the yellow slime from his axe and returned the weapon to his belt. “An axe to the head does not kill everything, but apparently it will kill basilisks.”

Calliande nodded and made a gesture, and the pale light of her ward vanished. She crossed over, put her hand on Ridmark’s forehead, and nodded to herself. More light flashed around her hands, and she winced a little, and the pain of Ridmark’s injuries vanished as her magic healed them.

“Thank you,” said Ridmark.

Calliande took a deep breath. “Morigna. Any wounds?”

“No,” said Morigna. “It was a close thing, though. If Ridmark had not arrived…”

“Let’s not linger here,” said Ridmark. “Caius?”

The dwarven friar straightened up, scraping a few flecks of bloody flesh from the head of his mace. “If that map is accurate, the entrance to the mine levels should be at the other end of the Forge Quarter. We’ll know it when we see it.”

“How?” said Jager.

“Pulleys and carts and rubble and such,” said Caius. “It’s exceptionally difficult to dig a hole into the heart of a mountain, and many tools are required.”

“Clearly your business ventures never included a mine,” said Arandar.

“Not yet,” said Jager, “though if we escape from here, I may have to diversify my…”

“Gray Knight!” said Antenora. “Enemies come!”

Ridmark spun as Antenora pointed her staff towards the ramp leading back up to the Goldsmiths’ Market.

He didn’t see anything.

“Ridmark!” said Mara. “I see them too! Urvaalgs!”

Antenora thrust her staff, a ball of flame leaping from its end and hurtling towards the archway. It shot across the foundry chamber, struck the floor, and exploded in a billowing snarl of fire. As it did, shapes appeared in the midst of the flames, rolling across the floor with snarls of rage. The air in front of the fire rippled, and resolved into a dozen dark, hunched shapes that moved with terrific speed despite their misshapen limbs. The creatures looked like a grotesque mixture of wolf and ape, their fur hanging in greasy black ropes, their twisted limbs knotted with muscle, their eyes shining like hot coals. The creatures were urvaalgs, the malicious war beasts of the dark elves of old.

Which meant that the Traveler had entered Khald Azalar, and his scouts had found them.

“Defend yourselves!” said Ridmark, taking his staff in both hands as the urvaalgs raced towards them.

Chapter 9: An Extended Family

The urvaalgs bounded across the floor, and Ridmark attacked.

He dashed at the nearest urvaalg and swung his staff, aiming for the creature’s head. The urvaalg made no effort to dodge. Weapons of steel and wood could not harm urvaalgs. Only the spells of the Magistri and the blades of the Swordbearers could kill an urvaalg, so the beast had no reason at all to dodge Ridmark’s staff.

The high elven archmage Ardrhythain had carried the staff for centuries, altering its nature, so when the end of Ridmark’s staff struck the urvaalg’s head, it landed with enough force to shatter the urvaalg’s jaw, to send broken fangs tumbling to the ground with a sound like clay jars clanking together. The urvaalg let out a furious snarl of pain and rage, its claws scraping against the floor, and Ridmark crushed the side of its head with a second blow.

Gavin and Arandar attacked, and their soulblades proved deadly effective against the urvaalgs. The swords shone with white light, flames dancing at their edges, and the enchanted swords cleaved into the urvaalgs’ flesh and bone, burning through the dark magic saturating the creatures. Calliande cast a spell, and more white light erupted from her hands to leap to the weapons of the others. Kharlacht’s great sword began to glow, as did Caius’s mace and Mara’s and Jager’s blades, and even Ridmark’s staff began to gleam in his hand.

An urvaalg reared up before Ridmark, claws reaching for his face. He jabbed the end of his staff into the creature’s belly, and it rocked backwards with a snarl. Before the urvaalg could launch another attack, Ridmark whipped the axe from his belt and swung, plunging the blade into the urvaalg’s neck. The urvaalg shuddered, and Ridmark pulled the axe free and swung again. The spells wrought into the weapon by the dwarven stonescribes held true, and it bit deep into the urvaalg’s corrupted flesh. The urvaalg died, and Ridmark sought another foe.

Around him the others struggled. Kharlacht cut his way through the urvaalgs, spilling the black slime of their blood upon the floor. Caius crushed skulls with his mace. Jager lured in the urvaalgs, and Mara reappeared behind them, stabbing with her short sword. Morigna flung spells of earth magic, throwing the urvaalgs off balance and allowing the others to land blows.

They were winning. In the Northerland and the other frontiers of the High Kingdom, a single urvaalg could wipe out an entire freehold with ease. Yet with two Swordbearers, two sorceresses of elemental magic, and a Magistria, Ridmark and his friends carved their way through the urvaalgs. Yet it was not the urvaalgs that concerned Ridmark. The Traveler had far more powerful servants. A pack of urvaalgs was dangerous. A pack of urvaalgs backed by the might of an ursaar would be far more deadly. For that matter, the Traveler’s orcish soldiers, the Anathgrimm, were stronger, tougher, and more disciplined fighters than the Mhorites. If they attacked while Ridmark and the others were fighting the urvaalgs, Ridmark didn’t know if they could win free.

Best to be long gone by the time the Anathgrimm arrived.

An urvaalg lunged at him, clawed forelegs reaching for his shoulders, jaws yawning to close around his neck. Ridmark ducked beneath the lunge, dropping his staff and swinging his axe, and the dwarven blade bit into the urvaalg’s rear hind leg. The beast roared in fury as its damaged leg collapsed, and Ridmark rolled back to his feet as the urvaalg struggled to stand, his staff in both hands.

Three heavy blows to the head later, the urvaalg died. Ridmark yanked his axe from its quivering carcass and turned to face another.

###

Mara flickered in and out of the battle, using her power to cover a dozen yards in an instant, reappearing and disappearing as needed. She could not possibly face an urvaalg in a fight, and so she didn’t even try. Instead she appeared behind the urvaalgs, using her short sword of dark elven steel to hamstring the beasts. Hindered and in pain, they tried to kill her, only for Kharlacht to behead them with a single massive blow of his sword, or for Arandar to bring Heartwarden down in a blaze of white fire.

From time to time bursts of white fire shot past Mara to strike the charging urvaalgs, the fires chewing into their corrupted flesh. Even while maintaining the spell around the weapons, Calliande still had enough power left to attack the urvaalgs with blasts of killing magic. The magic of the Magistri could not harm living mortals, but it was deadly effective against creatures of dark magic. Calliande had indeed grown stronger since leaving Urd Morlemoch. To Mara’s Sight, the magic of the Well blazed around Calliande like a storm, and the Magistria wielded it with precision. Mara suspected that Calliande was already one of the most powerful Magistri in Andomhaim, and wondered how much stronger she would become with the magic of the Keeper at her command.

Morigna flung spells of earth magic, knocking the urvaalgs over. Mara’s Sight saw the dark magic simmering within Morigna, like boiling water under a pot’s lid, but Morigna kept it under control. Antenora stood next to her, fires crackling around her staff, but the combatants were tangled so close together that she dared not unleash her furious powers.

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.

“Go!” said Ridmark, and the others started running for the damaged blast furnace. Arandar and Gavin reached it first, and began using the augmented strength granted by their soulblades to push the coal carts into the dark furnace. Calliande cast a spell, and Ridmark felt a burst of strength as her magic augmented his speed, making him faster. He surged forward as the others ran into the blast furnace.

Behind him Zhorlacht snarled a spell, and a pulse of shadows and dark fire shot out from him. The dark fire shattered Morigna’s mist, and the Anathgrimm straightened up and resumed their pursuit.

Ridmark dashed into the blast furnace just as Calliande entered ahead of him, glowing with white light as she maintained the spell of speed. Gavin and Arandar finished heaving the final cart into the blast furnace. The domed interior reminded Ridmark of a small wayside chapel, the sort of place that offered travelers in the High King’s realm a place to rest and pray.

His eyes roamed over the walls, and he found what he sought.

“There,” said Ridmark, pointing at a breach in the wall. He returned his axe to his belt and slung his staff over his shoulder from its leather strap. “Go through that hole, and then run for the far end of the foundry level as fast as you can. Caius, I assume the entrance to the next gallery will be there?” The dwarven friar nodded, and Ridmark shoved over one of the carts. Coal spilled everywhere, a cloud of black dust rising into the air round it. “Start running. Go!”

“What are you doing?” said Calliande as Jager and Mara went for the hole in the wall.

“Making a mess,” said Ridmark as he reached into his belt pouch.

He tossed the flat tile of the activation stone to himself.

“Oh,” said Caius. “That…will make quite a mess.”

“Better run,” said Ridmark.

Both Calliande and Morigna gave him disapproving looks, and for a moment they looked so alike that Ridmark had to fight the absurd urge to laugh.

“We must go,” said Caius. “Gray Knight, the stone will activate the glyphs of fire quickly. You will have, at most, only a few seconds to get clear.”

“I know,” said Ridmark. “Go.”

The others climbed through the breach in the wall. Ridmark kicked over another cart of coal and climbed into the breach, bracing himself with his left hand, his right holding the activation stone. He spotted the matching glyph inscribed upon the floor, not far from the door.

He tossed the stone to himself once more, gauging its weight.

A moment later the Anathgrimm appeared before the entrance to the blast furnace. Before they could pour inside and cover the glyph upon the floor, Ridmark tossed the activation stone with a flick of his wrist. It landed upon the glyph, and seemed to click into place like an iron nail caught by a lodestone.

The glyphs upon the walls and the floor burned with fiery light, and a wave of heat washed over Ridmark.

The Anathgrimm edged away from the door in alarm, and Ridmark threw himself backward, hit the floor, and started sprinting.

The explosion came a few heartbeats later. The wall of hot air hit Ridmark like a giant blow, and he stumbled forward, barely keeping his balance. Fire blossomed from the blast furnace’s door, sending the Anathgrimm stumbling away, while gouts of flame erupted from the furnace’s damaged walls and roof. The coal dust and the coal itself went up a moment later, fueling the fire.

The terrible heat and the light made an excellent distraction.

Ridmark sprinted across the foundry chamber, coming at last to the far wall. Another channel of sluggish lava flowed below the wall, perhaps four yards wide, the air rippling over its surface. Calliande and Morigna and the others waited, weapons in hand or spells ready.

“You appear unburnt, mostly,” said Jager.

Morigna said nothing, but she looked relieved.

“Let’s go,” said Ridmark. “The light will throw off the Anathgrimm, and the smoke will confuse the urvaalgs’ noses. I want to be gone from here by the time the confusion wears off.”

A bridge arched over the canal of lava, opening into another high gallery, and Ridmark and his friends crossed the bridge and vanished into the darkness.

Chapter 10: Vault of the Kings

It took a day and a half to traverse the lightless black labyrinth of Khald Azalar’s mines.

If Jager had not found another map, it might have taken much longer. The gallery from the foundry chamber ended in a vast natural cavern, no doubt part of the upper Deeps. Equipment filled the cavern, tables holding pickaxes and helmets and carts and lanterns containing small glowstones, and scaffolding built of dwarven steel covered the walls. A dozen different mine tunnels led in all directions, vanishing into the bowels of the earth. As Ridmark and Caius discussed what to do, Jager found the map of the mines upon a table.

“I believe this is accurate,” said Caius, examining the map. “The date…this was drawn the year that Khald Azalar fell.”

“The mines may have changed since then,” said Calliande. “The dvargir or the deep orcs might have dug new tunnels. Or there could have been flooding or cave-ins…”

“All this is true,” said Caius, “and the mines open to the Deeps anyway. Only God and the saints know what might have wandered up from the darkness. But it is still our best path to reach the Citadel and the Vault of the Kings before Mournacht and the Traveler.”

“We can also lose any pursuers in the mines,” said Ridmark. “Those Anathgrimm and their urvaalgs will be on our trail, and they might figure out where we went. Harder for them to find us in the mines.”

“Agreed,” said Caius, considering the map. Ridmark could make neither heads nor tails of it. It looked like a maze of random lines, marked by dwarven glyphs in dozens of places. “I think our best route is…that way.”

He pointed at one of the tunnels, a rough-cut passageway of stone that vanished into utter blackness.

“Then let us not dither,” said Ridmark.

There were neither glowing glyphs nor dwarven glowstones in the mine tunnel. Ridmark asked Antenora to conjure light, and again she made her staff dance with flickering torchlight, allowing Calliande and Morigna to save their powers for any attackers. As a boy Ridmark had visited the mines upon his father’s lands, but the dwarven mines were far better constructed than the tin mines on the northern edge of Taliand or the iron mines of the Northerland. The tunnel widened, small corridors shooting off in random directions, but Caius kept them marching forward. A draft of warm air struck Ridmark’s face, and he saw a glimmer in the darkness ahead, the pale blue glow of ghost mushrooms.

The mine tunnel opened into a vast cavern of the Deeps. A forest of stalagmites rose from the floor, reaching towards the stalactites hanging from the ceiling far overhead. Glassy-smooth lakes dotted the ground, and thick clusters of glow mushrooms grew at their edges. The silence of the cavern was absolute.

“The Deeps,” murmured Jager, looking around. “A peculiar sort of beauty, to be sure, but one I did not hope to see firsthand.”

“If I am reading this map correctly,” said Caius, “the natural caverns should connect with a different mine about five or six miles in that direction.” He waved a hand at the far end of the cavern, towards the dark, jagged outline of another tunnel. “We can make our way through the city’s reservoir, and then enter the quarter around the Citadel of Kings from there.”

“It seems peculiar, does it not,” said Morigna, “that the old kings of Khald Azalar would have built their Citadel so close to the Deeps. Did they not fear invaders?”

“They did,” said Caius, “but the Citadel of Kings would have had the strongest defenses in Khald Azalar…and almost certainly the Frostborn destroyed them. Given the number of deep orcs and dvargir we have seen, it seems likely the way through the Deeps is passible.”

“It would explain those petrified kobolds,” said Calliande. Ridmark looked at her. “Does it not strike you as odd? We have not encountered any living kobolds in Khald Azalar, nor did the dvargir or the deep orcs mention them. I want to know where those kobolds came from and why. Either the dvargir used their basilisk to petrify them…”

“Or there are other basilisks loose in Khald Azalar,” said Ridmark, “or lairing in the nearby caverns of the Deeps.”

“One finds that an exceedingly unpleasant thought,” said Morigna.

“Remain watchful,” said Ridmark. “Caius.”

Caius consulted the miners’ map once more and led the way into the caverns of the Deeps. They passed through tunnels so narrow that they had to go through in single file, through caverns like soaring cathedrals, their floors covered with forests of ironstalk mushrooms. Here and there Ridmark saw signs of the dwarven mining work – abandoned tools or carts, doorways and arches of worked stone, half-finished tunnels that went nowhere. From time to time he saw the signs of the other denizens of the Deeps. Kobold tracks marked sandy patches on the floor, and murrag bones and skulls lay scattered about. One they saw a dead mzrokar, curled up upon the cavern floor while ironstalk mushrooms slowly consumed its carcass.

At last they came to the reservoir of Khald Azalar, a vast underwater lake so wide that Ridmark could not see the far end. A narrow spit of stone worked its way around the edge of the lake, the stone wall wet and damp, mushrooms and strange, glowing lichen clinging to the rock. It was not a comfortable place, but it was defensible, and Ridmark decided to camp there for the night. The others fell asleep almost at once, and Ridmark kept first watch, listening to the lapping of the vast underground lake.

No foes showed themselves, and Arandar relieved him at watch.

Morning came and they departed, making their way around the edge of the lake. At last the ledge ended in a narrow cavern, and Caius consulted the map again, nodded, and led them deeper into the silent stone maze. They passed through more natural caverns, and here Ridmark saw numerous signs of fighting, with dwarven and Frostborn bones and armor scattered about. It was a grim sight, but he took it as a hopeful sign. They had to be drawing back to Khald Azalar proper.

Finally one of the natural caverns ended in a massive gate, almost as large and ornate as the Gate of the West had been. Like the Gate of the West, this gate had been shattered by some terrible force, the stonework cracked and damaged, the doors of dwarven steel twisted and bent. Hundreds of locusari husks lay motionless before the gate, and beyond Ridmark saw a wide, broad stair climbing higher into the mountain.

“The Gate of the Deeps,” said Caius, his voice solemn as he looked at the bones of his slain kindred. “It seems the defenders made a stand here.”

“A last stand, probably,” said Ridmark, “once the Frostborn had penetrated this far into the city.”

“Aye,” said Caius, taking a deep breath. “Well, at least they made the Frostborn pay for every step.” He gestured at the locusari husks and the scattered piles of Frostborn armor, cold mist swirling around the crystalline bones. “If our maps are accurate, those steps should take us up to Citadel courtyard itself. If the Citadel of Kings is as badly damaged as the Gate, we can probably make our way to the Vault of the Kings without difficulty.”

“And then to Dragonfall,” said Ridmark to Calliande, who stood looking at the Gate of the Deeps with a haunted expression on her face.

“Aye,” she said, meeting his eyes. “My staff…it is very close now. Only a few hours’ walk away, I think.”

“Then let’s not keep it waiting,” said Ridmark, and they passed the Gate of the Deeps.

###

Calliande climbed the broad steps with the others, her heart hammering against her ribs. Not that the stairs were particularly steep.

Something else sent thrills of fear and unease down her nerves.

Somehow she knew this place. Calliande was certain that she had been here before, a feeling that had come to her a few other times in the Vale of Stone Death. The presence of her staff felt like a steady drumbeat within her head. Very soon, she realized, she would find Dragonfall and recover her staff and her memory.

She would learn anew what kind of woman she had been.

What kind of woman could seal herself away in the darkness for two hundred years, losing everyone and everything that she had ever known.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue walking.

“Are you all right?” said Ridmark in a quiet voice.

“Not really,” said Calliande. “This is…harder than I thought it would be.”

He smiled a little at that. “That is true of everything that has happened over the last four months.”

“Yes.” Calliande looked up the stairs. They went on for hundreds of yards. “I’ve been here before, you know. I’m absolutely certain of it.”

“You’ve had that feeling before,” said Ridmark. “At that lake below the Vault of the North in the Vale of Stone Death.”

“I did,” said Calliande. “It is a peculiar feeling. I am certain of something, of some…some fact, some bit of knowledge, but I cannot recall how I acquired it.”

“Soon you will,” said Ridmark.

“I hope so,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath. “I hope so. I know I’ve stood upon these stairs before, Ridmark. I’m certain of it. And I remember…”

“What?” said Ridmark.

“Dread,” she whispered. “That is what I remember. When last I stood here I felt utter dread, I am certain of it.”

For a moment Ridmark said nothing.

“That’s happened before,” he said at last. “The day I found the stoneberries.”

“I know,” said Calliande. That had been one of the few vivid memories she had recovered, an image of her father. He had been a fisherman, and she remembered sitting on a dock with him, gazing at the towers of the High King’s citadel across the River Moradel as they ate stoneberries together. Just thinking of it filled her with longing and regret.

The day she had recovered that memory had also been the day Ridmark had kissed her, which filled her mind with another set of memories. If that damned wyvern had not happened upon them…

No. She could not think on that. What was done was done.

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark, “you may yet find some memories. Ones with joy in them.”

“I hope you are right,” said Calliande, her voice hoarse. “I hope…I don’t know what I hope.”

“Well,” said Jager, glancing back from where he walked with Mara, “I do hope that we get out of here alive. And then I hope for a warm bed, a plate of biscuits, and a rasher of bacon. Then quite a lot of a wine.”

“For a man of such extravagant habits,” said Morigna, stepping back to join them, “you have a taste for simple food.” She flashed a brief look at Calliande before turning toward Ridmark. Calliande felt a burst of irritation. She could not even have a single conversation with Ridmark without Morigna wandering over. Still, she could not blame Morigna. Had Calliande been in her place, she likely would have done the same.

“It’s the simple pleasures that are the best,” said Jager. “Wine. Good food.” He put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Women.”

Mara smiled but said nothing.

“Stoneberries,” said Calliande, looking at Ridmark with a smile. “The simple pleasures.”

“Yes,” said Ridmark.

“Stoneberries,” said Jager. “They grew thick around the Lake of Mourning near Caudea where I grew up. My sister used to make the most marvelous stoneberry pies.”

“Your sister?” said Mara, astonished. “You never talk about your sister. You never even told me her name.”

“Dagma,” said Jager in a quiet voice. “Her name was Dagma. I…” He stared off into space for a while. “I burned down Sir Alan’s domus after he murdered my father. I sent Dagma away the day before I did it, with everything my father left us. Then I burned the domus and fled. I don’t know what happened to Dagma. She fled to one of the cities, Tarlion or Westhold. I…knew Sir Alan and Sir Paul would come after me, I didn’t want Dagma to suffer for it.” He sighed. “I should have found out what happened to her.”

“If she was your family,” said Morigna with a bit of scorn, “then you should have sought her out.”

Calliande expected Jager to argue back, but he only nodded.

“You’re right,” said Jager. “For once, you are right. I should have.”

“If we live through this,” said Mara in a quiet voice, “then that’s what we’ll do, Jager. We’ll find your sister.”

“Thank you,” said Jager. He took a deep breath, his usual cocky demeanor returning. “Though do forgive me, my lady Magistria. Rambling about my fears at a time like this.”

Calliande laughed. Jager did have a knack for cheering her up. “We have no shortage of fears.”

“No,” murmured Mara. “And I think we’re about to find another one.”

“What is it?” said Calliande, her misgivings falling away before the dangers at hand. “The Sight?”

“I see something through the Sight,” said Mara. “But…I’m not sure what it is…”

“Antenora?” said Calliande.

“I perceive a great focus of magical power, above us and a short distance away,” said the ancient sorceress.

“Do you recognize it?” said Calliande with a sudden hope of surge and fear. “Is it the Keeper’s staff?”

“No,” said Antenora. “I know what the staff looks like, both in the material world and with the Sight. This is something else. It is an array of interlocking warding spells of surpassing power, stronger than any I have ever encountered.”

“It looks like the wards upon that trapped door in the Citadel of the West,” said Mara.

“Exactly so,” said Antenora, “but exponentially stronger. These wards could repel almost any magical or material attack.”

“I suspect,” said Caius, “that you are seeing the wards upon the Vault of the Kings itself. The treasury of Khald Azalar would have been the most heavily defended place in the city, built of dwarven steel and warded with the most potent glyphs of the stonescribes.” He hesitated. “It is entirely possible that the Vault did not fall to the Frostborn along with the rest of the city.”

“Could you be seeing Dragonfall itself?” said Calliande.

“Perhaps,” said Antenora. “I do not know what Dragonfall looks like, so I cannot say. Yet the nature of the magic appears khaldari, similar to the glyphs that we have already seen.”

“Can your Sight penetrate the glyphs?” said Caius.

“No,” said Mara and Antenora in unison. They looked at each other, shrugged, and then Antenora kept speaking. “I suspect that is part of the nature of the spells, to obscure whatever is within them from any magical observation.”

“That is part of the nature of the Vault’s defenses, I suspect,” said Caius. “To both defend itself, and to guard the secrets it contains from any spies.”

Mara shook her head. “If we can see it from this far away…even the Warden might have had a hard time breaking through the glyphs, even if he was in Urd Morlemoch at the heart of all his power.”

“Likely that is why you chose to conceal your staff within Dragonfall, Magistria,” said Caius. “The Vault concealed its location from Shadowbearer with centuries, and even if he had been able to find the staff, he would not have been able to enter the Vault.”

Calliande shook her head. “Instead he discovered my location, and waited to kill me. No need to worry about the staff of the Keeper if there was no Keeper to wield it.”

“It might have been a secure location,” said Morigna, “but how are we supposed to get inside?”

That was a good question.

“I…don’t know,” said Calliande. “I hope I left some way to open the doors.”

“Ah,” said Morigna. “Once again you have been foiled by your own cleverness, one takes it?”

Calliande scowled, but Morigna had a point.

“Let’s get to the Vault of the Kings first,” said Ridmark. “Then we can argue about how to get inside. It would not surprise me if the dwarves left some guardians or traps behind.”

###

But they encountered neither enemies nor traps as they climbed the stairs.

The stairs ended in a huge octagonal chamber, the roof rising nearly a thousand feet overhead and terminating in a broad dome. The scale of the engineering involved stunned Ridmark. Massive balconies rose alongside the walls, and Ridmark guessed that tens of thousands of dwarves could have filled the chamber. A pool of lava bubbled in the center of the floor, channels flowing into Khald Azalar and the Citadel of Kings proper.

“This was built in imitation of the Stone Heart in Khald Tormen,” said Caius, “where my kindred first came to this world. The people of Khald Azalar would assemble here to listen to the decrees of the King.”

“It looks like they made their last stand here, too,” said Arandar.

Bones carpeted the gleaming stone floor, hunched and broken in the fiery light of the pool of molten stone, along with a wide array of dwarven weapons and armor. The damaged hulks of a dozen titans stood scattered through the chamber, their glyphs giving off sputtering arcs of white lighting. Scores of Frostborn bones and hundreds upon hundreds of locusari husks lay everywhere. If the individual Frostborn were as formidable as the one that Antenora had faced in the threshold, the dwarves had indeed put up a ferocious fight.

“Be watchful,” said Ridmark. “If the deep orcs were right about their Devourer, it makes its lair near here.”

“Perhaps it is wise enough to avoid two Swordbearers,” said Kharlacht.

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark, “but if it isn’t, we’ll have to teach it otherwise.”

They crossed the vast chamber, picking their way over bones and locusari husks. Caius looked at his map, and then pointed at an archway beneath one of the balconies. A flight of stairs vanished into the gloom, more bones strewn across the steps.

“That way,” he said, “if this map is accurate, goes directly to the Gate of the East.”

Morigna snorted. “We could have saved ourselves much trouble by avoiding the Vale of Stone Death, circling around Vhaluusk, and using the Gate of the East instead.”

Ridmark shook his head. “It might have been worse. The Gate of the East opens into the upper valley of the River Moradel, and those forests are infested with urdmordar and their slaves. Some of the surviving urdmordar fled there after the Swordbearers and the Magistri destroyed their empire four hundred years ago.”

“Either the urdmordar or the gorgon spirit,” said Jager. “A fine choice.”

Gavin shuddered. “If I had the choice, I still would have taken the gorgon spirit over facing an urdmordar again.”

“Though now that you carry a soulblade,” said Kharlacht, “an urdmordar would not be so quick to face you again. Agrimnalazur would not be as eager to kill you now.”

“Just as eager,” said Caius, “but perhaps not as capable.”

They crossed the chamber and came to the gates of the Citadel of Kings. Like the other dwarven gates Ridmark had seen in Khald Azalar, they too had been smashed and broken by the power of the Frostborn, the dwarven steel twisted and crumpled. Defaced dwarven glyphs covered the floor and walls, and the detritus of a colossal battle lay around them, bones and armor and broken swords. The stream of lava glowed beneath the edges of the walls, and beyond opened a vast hall, larger than anything in Andomhaim. Huge pillars supported the high ceiling, carved in the likeness of armored dwarven nobles. Canals of lava flowed beneath them, converging upon a massive dais at the far end of the hall, where sat a single looming throne of red gold, gleaming in the dull light from the molten stone.

“The throne of Khald Azalar,” said Caius in a reverent voice.

“This place is astonishing,” said Mara, looking around in wonder. “Maybe a dark elven ruin like Urd Morlemoch could match it in terms of size…but this has weathered the centuries far better. Nor does it have the malevolence of the dark elven ruins.”

“If I ever need to a hire a stonemason,” said Jager, “I will know where to go.”

“The doors to the Vault of the Kings are behind the throne,” said Caius, and they started across the vast hall.

“All this, then, just to defend the treasury?” said Morigna with some of her usual scorn. “Did the dwarven kings value their gold more than the lives of their people?”

Caius shook his head. “More than just gold resides in the Vault. Any dwarf of Khald Azalar could store his treasures within the Vault, and the kings took solemn oaths before the gods of stone and silence to safeguard those treasures. The complete records of Khald Azalar shall be within the Vault as well, the register of births and deaths, and the history of our kindred since Khald Azalar was founded. The most powerful magical relics will be stored there. The Vault is the very heart of Khald Azalar…and it looks as if it never fell to the Frostborn.”

They climbed the stairs to the dais and passed the ornate throne. Behind it rose a massive pair of doors fashioned from a peculiar red metal. Hundreds upon hundreds of dwarven glyphs marked the doors and the doorway around it, and unlike most of the glyphs Ridmark had seen, the symbols shone with a steady white glow. There were signs of scarring and damage on the nearby walls, but the doorway and the towering doors bore not a scratch.

“This metal,” said Arandar. “I’ve never seen its like.”

“Few other than our kindred have,” said Caius. “It…”

“It is called adamant steel,” said Calliande in a faint voice. She stared at the doors as if stricken. “It is a secret known only to the greatest smiths of the dwarves. It costs a hundred times more to forge than common dwarven steel, but it is lighter and stronger than any other metal upon this earth, and impervious to…to almost anything. God himself could break doors of adamant steel, but no other power could.”

Ridmark looked at her. Calliande’s face was tight, her blue eyes wide.

“You’ve been here before,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I…I remember some of it. These doors. The fear. I was so afraid.” She closed her eyes for a moment, calming herself.

“I hope,” said Morigna, “that you happen to remember how to open those doors. Because while God himself might be able to open the doors, we cannot.”

“There is a keyhole,” said Jager, pointing. In the exact center of the doors, at the height a dwarf would find comfortable, was a keyhole the width of Ridmark’s wrist.

“Can you pick the lock?” said Arandar.

Jager strolled forward and peered into the keyhole for a moment. Then he nodded to himself, straightened up, and stepped back.

“Sir Arandar,” said Jager, “you know I am not one to falsely denigrate myself.”

Morigna snorted. “Or to indulge in understatement?”

Jager did not choose to dignify that with a response. “Give me a hammer and a chisel, and I could sooner turn this mountain into a sandpit than I could pick that lock. It is simply beyond me. Whoever built it was a genius without equal, and his work makes the locksmiths of Andomhaim look like children playing in the sand.”

“So,” said Ridmark. “How do we get the door open, then? Do you remember anything, Calliande?”

Calliande opened her mouth to answer…but another voice came from behind Ridmark.

A voice that he did not recognize.

He whirled, raising his staff for a blow, and the others followed suit.

A dwarven man stood behind them, a few inches shorter than Caius and much thinner, so thin he was almost skeletal. His gray skin had a sallow, unhealthy tinge, and his eyes looked like bloodshot blue marble. He wore a ragged coat and trousers, his feet bare, and a dagger hung at his belt. His bloodshot eyes went wide at the sight of their weapons, and he fell to his knees, raising his hands to protect his face as he shouted a long string of ragged words in the dwarven tongue.

Caius stepped forward and answered him in the same language. The ragged dwarf blinked several times, and they spoke for a while. Then Caius nodded and stepped back, gesturing at Ridmark.

“The orcish tongue?” said the ragged dwarf in that language. “Ugh. A foul, uncouth language. I detest it. I detest it! But…but if we are all to communicate, I suppose I must employ it.”

Ridmark stepped forward. “Who are you?”

The dwarf squinted up at him. “And who the devil are you? You’re the trespasser! I live here, you know.”

“My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark. “We’ve come here on an errand. This is Brother Caius of the mendicant order, Sir Arandar and Sir Gavin of the Order of the Soulblade, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Morigna of Moraime, Jager and Mara of Coldinium, Antenora, the apprentice of the Keeper, and Calliande, a Magistria of the Order of Magistri.”

Yet the dwarf had stopped listening. Instead he stared at Calliande. He got to his feet and took a few hesitant, trembling steps towards her.

“You,” he whispered. “You came back.”

“Do…you know who I am?” said Calliande.

“I remember,” said the dwarf, blinking. “It was such a long time. Two hundred years. Two hundred and thirty years. You said…you said you would come back someday.” The dwarf started to weep and fell to his knees. “You…you came back, I…I had forgotten…”

“Who are you?” said Calliande. “I fear I cannot remember.”

“I…yes, that makes sense,” said the dwarf. “My name is Irunzad. I was the taalklavkar of Khald Azalar…ah, that is, the Master of the Keys of the Vault for the King of Khald Azalar.”

“The Keys?” said Jager. “That could come in handy.”

“Tell me who you are,” said Calliande. “Please. I do not remember. Anything you can tell me would…”

“Wait,” said Ridmark, holding up a hand. “Antenora. Mara. Do you see anything unusual about him?”

“No spells,” said Mara with a shake of her head.

“The dagger at his waist is enchanted powerfully,” said Antenora, “in a similar fashion as your own axe, Gray Knight, and the daggers that your companions bear.”

Morigna gestured, casting the spell to sense the presence of magical forces. “She is correct. I do not believe he can cast spells.”

“Spells?” said Irunzad. “I am not a stonescribe. Why would you think I could cast spells?”

“We have heard rumor of a creature that dwells near the Citadel of Kings,” said Ridmark. “A creature the deep orcs call the Devourer. Perhaps such a creature could take different forms to trick its victims.”

“The Devourer?” croaked Irunzad. “I know of what you speak. It is a devil from the darkest corners of the Deeps, a thing that feeds on the flesh and blood of the living, a creature that can change its shape with a thought. Sometimes the deep orcs bring victims to the Citadel of Kings for the Devourer to consume. It devours them entirely, even the bones.”

“If it lairs here,” said Ridmark, “then why haven’t we seen it already?”

Irunzad shrugged. “Who can say? I do not know what manner of creature the Devourer really is. Sometimes it wanders the upper halls of the city for years on end, consuming any that cross its path. Sometimes it haunts the Deeps and hibernates for decades, waiting. Sometimes it sits upon the King’s throne and broods for days on end.” He shuddered. “I have always tried to hide from the evil thing. Perhaps I have done so. Perhaps it simply has no interest in me. Or it is waiting to kill me until it finds the prospect amusing.”

“Tell me...tell me what you know about my last visit here,” said Calliande. “Please.”

“I remember,” said Irunzad, his bloodshot eyes going glassy. “It was so long ago. The Frostborn wiped us all out, but you and the Dragon Knight defeated them. A few of us were left, and we tried to hold out until the Three Kingdoms sent aid, but the deep orcs came and slew all but me. Then you came with the Dragon Knight. You told me of Dragonfall and the Vault, and that you had to hide your staff within Dragonfall. The Frostborn would return, one day, and when that day came you needed your staff. I opened the Vault, and you cast mighty magic within it. Then you and the Dragon Knight departed. You told me…you told me to conceal the Key and then to flee Khald Azalar, for it would be many years before you returned.”

“Why didn’t you flee?” said Calliande.

“I tried,” said Irunzad, blinking. Tears appeared in his bloodshot eyes. “But…but I…”

“What happened?” said Calliande, her voice gentle. Ridmark saw the regret and the guilt in her face. Likely she blamed herself for what had happened to Irunzad.

“I lost the Key,” said Irunzad, shuddering. “I was the Master of the Keys, and I failed in my trust. I lost the Key!”

“Well,” said Morigna with some asperity, “do you know where it is?”

“I tried to get out through the Gate of the West,” said Irunzad, “but the gorgon spirit had been loosed during the battle. I could not go through the Gate of the East. Urdmordar haunt the forests along the banks of the Moradel, and they would capture and devour me. So I tried to go out through the mines, into the Deeps, and use the Deeps to reach Khald Tormen.”

“The Key was taken from you,” said Ridmark. “The dvargir? The kobolds?” If the dvargir had carried the Key back to Khaldurmar as a trophy, Ridmark and Calliande and the others would have no choice but to go to the dvargir city and steal it back. At least they would not have to worry about the Traveler or Mournacht getting into the Vault of the Kings before they returned.

“No,” whispered Irunzad. “Basilisks.”

“Basilisks?” said Calliande. “Why would they take the Key?”

“They didn’t,” said Irunzad. “There is a nest of basilisks just within the mines. I stumbled into their nest, and I barely escaped with my life. I…I dropped the Key as I fled, and I have been too much of a coward to retrieve it.”

“You cannot blame yourself,” said Calliande. “A basilisk is a deadly foe. That you are still alive is something of a miracle.”

“Or its own punishment,” said Irunzad. “For two hundred years I have tried to get that Key back. I have wandered Khald Azalar, hiding from the deep orcs and the kobolds and the dvargir and the Devourer and every other creature that has wandered up from the Deeps. Yet I have found no way to retrieve the Key.”

“I have a spell,” said Calliande, “that can shield us from the basilisk’s power. We can get the Key back.”

“You can?” said Irunzad. “Oh, by the gods of stone and silence. I can fulfill my trust at last.”

“Where is this nest?” said Ridmark. They had to hurry. The Citadel of Kings was deserted, but there was no telling when the Devourer might return or awaken. Or, for that matter, when the Traveler and Mournacht might arrive accompanied by their armies.

“In the mines,” said Irunzad. “A short distance from here.” He sketched a description of the route, and Ridmark felt a chill.

“God and the saints,” said Jager. “We walked right past it. That one tunnel by the lake with the petrified kobolds? We walked right past it.”

“That is good news,” said Ridmark.

“How?” said Jager. “Well, other than the fact that we are still alive.”

“It means,” said Arandar, “that the basilisks are currently sleeping.”

“Hibernating,” muttered Irunzad. “They don’t sleep. They hibernate.”

“Hibernating, then,” said Arandar. “We can get in and get out without waking the basilisks.”

“That will be difficult,” said Calliande. “My magic…during the fight with the basilisk, I noticed that my magic drew its attention. When Morigna hit the basilisk with a spell, it went right after her, and followed her through the gloom.”

“Do you think your warding spell might wake the basilisks up?” said Arandar.

“I don’t know,” said Calliande. “I suppose we are going to have to find out.”

Morigna took a deep breath. “There might be another way. Ridmark. I have to talk to you alone.”

###

Morigna led Ridmark a short distance away in the great hall, far enough from the doors to the Vault of the Kings that the others could not overhear. Well, Mara would likely overhear. The woman had ears that could put a cat to shame, but she already knew what Morigna had to say.

“What is it?” said Ridmark.

She told Ridmark what had happened to her to the Farmers’ Quarter and the foundry level, how the shadows had risen up around her in response to her fear. When she finished, she braced herself, waiting for him to become angry, for him to push her away in disgust or fear at the dark magic that had tainted her.

He did none of those things.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said at last.

“Because,” said Morigna. “I do…not know what to do. The dark magic is inside me, Ridmark. I should never have touched that damned soulstone.”

He tapped the pouch at his belt. Calliande carried the soulstone that Shadowbearer had apparently stolen from Cathair Solas. Ridmark carried the rough soulstone that had powered the Warden’s trap at Urd Morlemoch. It was not as powerful as Calliande’s soulstone, not as potent, but nonetheless it was dangerous.

“If you hadn’t,” said Ridmark, “we would have died, the Warden would have enslaved Old Earth, and there would have been no one to stop Shadowbearer from calling the Frostborn back to our world.”

“Maybe,” said Morigna. “I always thought power was the only thing that mattered. I never thought that power would turn on me.”

“The Old Man taught you that,” said Ridmark, “and look what happened to him.”

“True,” said Morigna. She took a deep breath, watching his face. “What should we do?” She looked away, alarmed by how well she could see him in the gloom. “I do not think I can reverse the changes. They are likely permanent and will continue. Maybe I…”

He reached up, put his hand on her cheek, and very gently made her look at him.

“You haven’t used dark magic since the Vale, have you?” said Ridmark.

“No,” she said. “Not since I almost lost control of it.”

“Then it seems these changes are passive ones,” said Ridmark. “You cannot control the night vision, and the shadows only come when you are threatened. So long as you don’t use dark magic again, you ought to be safe enough. For now.” He took a deep breath of his own. “You must talk to Calliande, though, once she recovers her powers.”

“I can think of a thousand other things I would rather do than admit any weakness to that woman,” said Morigna.

“You unfairly judge…” He stopped, fell silent for a moment, and then started over. “When she recovers her staff, she will have the memories and knowledge of the Keeper. The Keepers of Andomhaim defended the High Kingdom from dark magic for seven hundred years before Calliande went below the Tower of Vigilance. If anyone will know how to help you, she will.”

“The Keepers defended Andomhaim by destroying wielders of dark magic,” said Morigna. “How do you think Calliande will react?”

“She already knows most of it,” said Ridmark. “She knows you took the dark magic to free us at Urd Morlemoch. And I am certain she will not hurt you.”

“Why not?” said Morigna. “She does not like me.”

“You don’t like her, either,” said Ridmark, “but you’ve both gone into danger together. She knows your heart, and you know hers. You have worked together when necessary. Besides, if she wants to hurt you, she will not, because I will not allow it.”

She blinked. There was such iron certainty in his voice that it made her feel better.

“All right,” said Morigna. “I believe you. So. Are we going to do this?”

“You will be taking most of the risk,” said Ridmark. “Do you want to do it?”

“No,” said Morigna. “But if Calliande does not recover her memory, then the Frostborn return and the world dies, is that not so? I am not terribly concerned about the world, but…you live in the world…so…”

He leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss.

“Then you will do this?” he said.

Morigna nodded.

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “Let’s go rob a basilisk’s nest.”

Chapter 11: Nests

“And here,” Jager murmured, “we are.”

Calliande nodded, gazing at the dark hole that led to the basilisks’ nest.

Irunzad had led the way from the Citadel of Kings, down the stairs, and to the Gate of the Deeps. It had taken less than an hour and a half to return to the natural cavern dominated by a large lake, glowing ghost mushrooms ringing its shore.

That, and a score of petrified kobolds scattered through the cavern. Previously Calliande had thought them the victims of the dvargir. Now, knowing that basilisks slept in the tunnel beyond, she felt a renewed sense of dread. They had passed a few yards from mortal danger and never even realized it, and without the map Jager had found, they might have wandered into the basilisks’ lair.

Though without the map, they might have wandered through the mines until they starved to death.

“Master Irunzad,” said Mara, her voice calm, detached. She had likely sounded that way, Calliande realized, as she planned assassinations as a sister of the Red Family. “Do you recall where you dropped the Key?”

“In there,” said Irunzad, gazing at the tunnel with fearful eyes. A memory floated out of the mists choking Calliande’s past. Dwarves were usually stoic to the point of absurdity. Caius was something of an exception, but to her knowledge he was the first dwarf to have been baptized. Yet Irunzad was not, and for a follower of the gods of stone and silence to show so much fear…

Mara gave no reaction. “Of course. Though if you could recall specifically where, that would be helpful.”

“There…was a tunnel,” said Irunzad, his lined face tightening as he tried to remember. “Then a wider cavern. Beyond that, a large chamber with a…a vent in the floor. Heat rose from the vent, but no toxic fumes. The basilisks were clustered around it, and they had several nests in the chamber.”

“Heat,” said Morigna. “In the wilds, lizards prefer heat, and even with all their power, one supposes that basilisk are simply large, truculent lizards.”

“I found the basilisks in the chamber with the vent,” said Irunzad. “I dropped the Key in there. I think…it should still be in there. The basilisks would have petrified or eaten anyone who has ventured in since.”

“Eaten?” said Gavin.

“They do not always turn their victims to stone,” said Irunzad. “They somehow feed upon those they turn to stone, but they also enjoy meat.”

“Charming beasts,” said Jager. “I can see why they get along with the dvargir so well.”

Kharlacht grunted. “Given that the last basilisk we faced turned Rzorgar to stone, it seems a strained friendship.”

“True,” said Mara, rolling her shoulders as she stepped forward. “We should get this over with.”

Morigna nodded and went to Mara’s side. “It is possible one or more of the basilisks will be awake to keep guard over the others.”

“Then we go in, get the Key, and leave again,” said Mara.

“I am not convinced,” said Arandar, “that this is a good idea.”

Neither was Calliande. Ridmark had said that Morigna could protect herself from the basilisks’ gaze, some ability that would shield her without awakening the creatures. He hadn’t elaborated further, and neither had Morigna. Perhaps that meant the dark magic Morigna had taken from Urd Morlemoch would somehow protect her.

Arandar clearly thought that, too. The Swordbearer’s suspicion was obvious, but so far he had not forced the issue. For once, Morigna was not taunting him, and seemed content to ignore him. Perhaps she had chosen prudence for once.

“Neither am I,” said Jager. “I’m the expert thief. I should go in.”

Mara shrugged. “You don’t have any way to protect yourself from the basilisk’s gaze.”

“You don’t,” said Jager.

“I can travel away,” said Mara. “Morigna can shield herself in a way the basilisks won’t detect. Calliande’s magic and the power of the soulblades will rouse them. We don’t know how many basilisks are in there…”

“There were at least six,” said Irunzad, “when I lost the Key.”

“More could have come since,” said Ridmark. “Which is why we should get this over with before something else comes along. Gavin, Arandar. Keep watch over the tunnel. If the basilisks come rampaging out, you’ll be best able to defend yourselves. The rest of us will keep guard for anything else that comes out of the Deeps.”

Calliande nodded and summoned power, preparing herself to cast the ward against the basilisks’ power if needed. The others moved into position.

“Are you ready?” said Mara.

Morigna nodded. “Of course. This is no different than stealing eggs from a bird’s nest without getting caught. I have done that many times.”

“Uglier birds this time,” said Jager.

Morigna scowled at him. “If I fail, you can enjoy the pleasure of telling my statue that you were right.”

“Be careful,” said Ridmark, and Morigna nodded at him, a flicker of emotion going over her face. She did love him, Calliande thought. Despite her abrasiveness and arrogance, despite her love of power, she did love Ridmark.

Did she love him more than she loved power?

“All right,” said Mara with placid calm. “Let’s go.”

###

Mara moved in silence down the tunnel, her short sword ready in her right hand, the tip pointed low. The floor was rocky and covered with sand, which made it a challenge to move without noise, but she managed it. Morigna followed suit, her expression hard and tight in the gloom. Clusters of glow mushrooms on the walls provided some light, at least enough for Mara to use. Morigna, with her altered vision, likely had no trouble.

Mara noted that there were no ghost mushrooms upon the floor, that many of the sandy patches bore long grooves. As if something with claws had dragged a carcass for later meals.

The faint smell of rotting meat filling her nostrils confirmed that.

Step by step Mara went deeper into the tunnel, her ears straining to detect any sound of movement. Morigna had said the basilisk they fought in the foundry chamber had been able to move in utter silence, but Mara supposed that would be harder in this cramped tunnel.

The tunnel widened and opened into a larger cavern, the floor rough and uneven, the faint scent of rotten eggs coming from a pair of vents in the ground. A dozen petrified statues stood scattered throughout the chamber, deep orcs and kobolds and a few dvargir. Several rotting, half-consumed murrag carcasses lay against the wall. Mara realized that the basilisks preferred to turn living mortals into stone, and simply ate any animals they encountered. She wondered why. Perhaps the basilisks derived one form of sustenance from petrifying living mortals, and another from eating animals.

Distantly, she realized that her father would likely have known the answer among the secrets locked in his cruel mind.

At the moment, she had more pressing concerns.

Specifically, the three archways that led off from the chamber.

Morigna scowled at the archways.  Mara stepped next to the taller woman, and Morigna leaned down and whispered into her ear.

“Irunzad said nothing of this,” hissed Morigna.

“No,” whispered Mara back. “It’s possible he does not remember. His sanity does not appear to be intact.”

“An understatement,” muttered Morigna. “Fine. Which way do we go?”

Mara made up her mind. “The central tunnel.”

“Why?” said Morigna.

“It slopes downward,” said Mara. “Irunzad said he was trying to go to Khald Tormen through the Deeps. We’re still inside the mountain, which is higher than the rest of the Deeps. To get to the Deeps proper and then to Khald Tormen, he would have had to go down.”

“I can think of nothing better,” said Morigna. “Very well. But we if go further than a few hundred yards and find nothing, we should return and investigate the other chambers.”

“Agreed,” said Mara, and they made for the central tunnel. It sloped down steeply, and again Mara saw the signs of the basilisks’ passage upon the walls and floor. At last the tunnel widened into another chamber, and Mara and Morigna both stopped.

It was a large, oval cavern, with a pool of water at one end. A large vent opened in the center of the floor, the air above it rippling with heat. Here and there stalactites hung from the ceiling like stone fangs. Mara noted all that, but her mind paid little attention to them.

The dozen basilisks clustered around the vent captured her attention.

Their yellow eyes stared unblinkingly at her. For an awful moment she was sure that the creatures saw her, but then she realized that in lieu of eyelids the basilisks had hard, transparent sheaths over their eyes in the same fashion as snakes. None of the basilisks moved, and their sides rose and fell with the slow draw of their breath.

The basilisks were all in hibernation.

To Mara’s Sight, she saw the rigid power of their petrifying gazes, waiting in their yellow eyes like a quarrel set in a crossbow.

Something else caught her Sight, an aura of tremendous magical power gathered in one place. It was coming from behind the basilisks, between their sleeping forms and the pool. It matched the aura Mara had seen around the mighty doors of adamant steel behind the King’s throne.

Quite likely it was the Key that opened the Vault.

A Key that was currently surrounded by a dozen hibernating basilisks. Little wonder that poor Irunzad had never been able to retrieve it.

She beckoned to Morigna, and they moved a few feet from the tunnel, ducking behind a cluster of stalagmites. Morigna crouched behind the stone spikes, her hard black eyes fixed on the basilisks.

“I see the Key,” whispered Mara.

“I do not.”

“I see its aura,” said Mara. “Wait here. I’m going to get it.”

“Can you do it without waking the basilisks?” said Morigna.

“I suppose we’re going to find out,” said Mara. “If I do wake them…run. I can travel away, but you can’t. If they wake up, don’t wait for me, but run as fast as you can.”

Morigna nodded, and Mara took a deep breath, settling her nerves, and stepped out from the cluster of stalagmites.

###

Mara picked her way around the edge of the cavern without sound, and Morigna watched, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had spent years living alone in the Wilderland, her only food whatever she could hunt, and so had taught herself to move quietly. Yet Mara moved with the sort of fluid quiet that Morigna had rarely seen. Likely working for someone like the Matriarch of the Red Family was its own sort of brutal school.

Morigna drew on a little of her power, preparing to cast a spell of the earth magic. Not that it made much difference. Morigna could shield herself from the basilisks’ gaze, and Mara could travel away, but if all twelve of the basilisks woke up…

She swallowed.

If all twelve of the basilisks woke up and attacked at once, it didn’t matter that they had two Swordbearers and a Magistria. That many basilisks would kill them all. Their only chance was to get the Key and escape without rousing the basilisks.

Morigna started to draw in more power and stopped herself. If the basilisks could sense magic, drawing in more power might be like lighting a candle in front of a sleeping man.

Mara reached the basilisks, moving past them with careful, slow steps. Morigna could not help but admire her friend’s nerve. Mara’s face a calm mask, her green eyes like cool disks of jade. She took another step, and then another, coming to a stop a few paces from the largest basilisk, a hulking creature with the scars of old battles on its gray-green scales, its yellow eyes staring at nothing.

Mara stood motionless for a moment, and then stooped and picked something up, cradling it in both arms.

It was an enormous key wrought of adamant steel. Dwarven glyphs shone with steady white light upon the key’s haft and handle, and the key’s teeth looked like an intricate maze of metal.

It was the Key to the Vault, Morigna was sure of it. Mara tucked it under her left arm, bracing it with her right, and made her slow way across the cavern floor towards the tunnel. Morigna waited, biting her lip. Just a little further, just a little more…

The biggest basilisk stirred.

Mara froze, and then kept moving at a slow, steady pace.

The basilisk’s claws rasped against the stone floor, its tongue flickering over its long fangs. If the basilisks sensed magic, and the Key was carved with dwarven glyphs, then it was possible the basilisk could sense when the Key was being moved. If the basilisk woke up, if it woke the others up…

There was no time. Morigna cast the spell that allowed her to control animals and focused her thoughts upon the stirring basilisk. She felt the cold, alien presence of its mind against hers. It was not fully conscious, but it would be soon. Its mind was too alien for her to dominate and control, even without dvargir glyphs driving rage into its thoughts.

The basilisk’s mind grew more alert.

Panic flooded Morigna, and a plan occurred to her. With her earth magic, she could not dominate the basilisk. But if she used the dark magic, she could drive the basilisk into a rage, send it to attack the others. Mara and Morigna could escape in the confusion. The dark magic welled up at the thought, responding to her fear.

She forced it back.

She couldn’t control the basilisk, but she could suggest things to it. Nothing that went against its nature, of course…but the creature had not yet become alarmed. She flooded its mind with soothing thoughts, with the notion that it could return to rest and enjoy the pleasant warmth of the hot vent.

For a moment nothing happened, and a flicker of confusion went through the basilisk’s mind.

A drowsy lethargy went through its thoughts, and the creature settled down once more, its scales rasping against the stone.

Mara stared at it for a moment, then turned and strode in swift silence across the chamber. She jerked her head at Morigna, and she followed the shorter woman back up the tunnel and to the chamber with the murrag carcasses.

“I saw what you did,” said Mara in a hoarse voice. “Thank you.” She tapped the Key. “I should have realized. Their eyes are magical, and so is the Key. So when I moved the Key…”

“The basilisks must have a form of the Sight,” said Morigna.

“You didn’t use any dark magic,” said Mara.

“You sound surprised,” said Morigna.

“No,” said Mara. “That spell of earth magic, whatever you did. It worked.”

“I told the basilisk it could go back to sleep,” said Morigna. “We can give the credit to Jager. Given how often I had heard him speak of a warm bed, one could hardly but think of the idea…”

Mara laughed. “He’ll be glad to hear it. Let’s get out of here. The odor of rotting murrags is hardly the worst scent I’ve ever encountered, but I shall be glad to leave it behind nonetheless.”

###

Mara and Morigna emerged from the basilisks’ lair, and Ridmark let out a long, relieved sigh.

“Why,” said Jager, “that was positively quick.”

Mara smiled at him. “I learned from you, husband. In and out quickly, just as a master thief would do.” She gave him a quick kiss. “I could not have done it without Morigna, though. There were a dozen basilisks there, and one of them started to wake up. Fortunately, Morigna soothed it back to sleep.”

Ridmark looked at her, wondering if she had used dark magic to accomplish that feat.

“A simple spell of earth magic,” said Morigna, as if she had guessed his thought. “I cannot control basilisks as I could rats or ravens, but I can suggest things to them. I merely suggested that the basilisk go back to sleep, and it did. We are fortunate that they share Master Jager’s propensity for sloth.”

He smirked at her. “Even basilisks have some redeeming qualities.”

“You have it,” croaked Irunzad, taking a few staggering steps towards Mara. “You…you found it. You found the Key.”

Mara stepped away from Jager, holding out a rod of red adamant steel about two feet long. The glyphs on the haft and the elaborate teeth of the key shone with the same white light as the doors to the Vault of the Kings, and the design looked more elaborate than anything Ridmark had ever seen.

“There is tremendous arcane power bound within that key,” said Antenora, her yellow eyes narrowed as she gazed at it. “Almost certainly it is a match for the wards we saw in the chambers above.”

“It is the Key,” said Irunzad, falling to his knees. “You have found it. Oh, thank you, thank you. I failed in my duty. I could never get it back.” He looked up at Calliande, weeping. “I can fulfill my trust to you as well, my lady Keeper. I said…I said I would conceal the key for you until you returned.”

“Take it,” said Calliande in a quiet voice. “Take it and fulfill your duty, Master of the Keys.”

“Thank you,” said Irunzad, taking the Key with trembling hands. Mara sighed in relief as the weeping dwarf took it. Adamant steel might have been lighter and stronger than normal steel, but the massive Key still looked heavy. Irunzad lifted it without trouble, joy on his face. “Thank you, all of you. May the gods of stone and silence grant you strength and prosperity for your kindness.”

“Let us not linger here,” said Ridmark. He looked at Calliande. “Are you ready?”

She took a deep breath and nodded. “I shall have to be.”

Chapter 12: Dragonfall

“Hasten, my noble lords and ladies,” said Irunzad as they reached the top of the stairs to the assembly chamber. “Hasten, my most noble friends! The hour is at hand! I can finally fulfill my duty.”

Calliande started to answer him, but Ridmark spoke first.

“You have been waiting for this for a long time, I know,” said Ridmark, “but we must exercise caution. It would be grievous to have waited so long only to be undone by haste at the final moment.”

Irunzad shivered for a moment. “Yes. Yes…you are right, Ridmark of the Arbanii. Lead the way.”

They climbed in silence. Calliande walked behind Ridmark and Irunzad, her heart racing, her palms growing damp with sweat. After so long, the way to Dragonfall would be open. After over two hundred years, she would recover her staff, her memory, and her powers. And at last she would understand why she had done it. She knew the reason for it, of course, that she had done it to stop the return of the Frostborn.

But why?

She would find out soon.

Ready or not, she would find out soon.

They reached the assembly chamber before the Citadel of Kings, the domed ceiling rising high overhead. It had not changed.

“Good,” said Ridmark. “We’re still ahead of Mournacht and the Traveler.”

“We should keep moving,” said Arandar. “The Mhorites and the Anathgrimm might catch up to us at any minute.”

“Agreed,” said Ridmark.

They entered the Citadel again, their footsteps ringing off the gleaming stone floor and echoing off the high ceiling overhead. Ridmark climbed the steps to the dais, walked past the throne of the Kings of Khald Azalar, and stopped before the doors to the Vault. The massive doors of adamant steel stood like a metal cliff before them, the glyphs giving off their harsh white glow.

“Be ready,” said Ridmark. “If Antenora and Mara can’t see into the Vault, there’s no telling what’s waiting for us inside.”

Irunzad blinked, still clutching the Key to his chest as if it was an infant. “Nothing will have entered the Vault, Ridmark of the Arbanii. No force or power in this world could break those doors.”

“I know,” said Ridmark. “I am concerned about any defenses within the Vault.” He looked at Calliande. “Or any final defenses around Dragonfall. You were never one to leave things to chance if you could help it.”

“I don’t remember,” said Calliande. A fresh fear twitched through her mind. What if she had left some deadly trap behind, something to kill anyone who tried to claim the Keeper’s staff? What if it killed one of her friends? She couldn’t bear that guilt.

What kind guilt might rest upon her mind once her memory returned?

She rebuked herself. This wasn’t the time to wallow in her feelings. There was far too much at stake…and her life and the lives of Ridmark and the others were just beginning.

“I don’t know,” said Calliande. “We will have to be careful.”

Jager snorted. “Why start now?”

“Irunzad,” said Ridmark. “If you please.”

The dwarf nodded, lifted the Key with shaking hands, and thrust it into the lock. It slipped into the lock with a tremendous, deep clang, far louder than it should have been. Irunzad gripped the Key’s handle with both hands and turned, and for a moment nothing happened. Then a shiver went through the stone of the dais, and a series of rapid metallic bangs came from the door. The glyphs began to flash and flicker, and Irunzad withdrew the Key and stepped back.

“Ah,” said Irunzad. “You should step away. Back to the throne.”

Calliande and the others obeyed, and loud thuds came from the door, the sound of bolts pulling themselves back. A crack appeared in the center of the massive slab of adamant steel, and slowly the doors swung outward, revealing the interior of the Vault of the Kings.

And inside the Vault Calliande saw…

She saw…

“God and his saints,” muttered Jager.

Wealth beyond imagination gleamed in the Vault of the Kings.

The Vault was at least as large as the throne room of the Citadel, and Calliande saw arches opening on the sides of the walls, leading to dozens of side chambers. Ridmark took a few steps forward, staff in hand, and even he looked stunned.

Calliande walked to his side, the others following.

“That,” said Ridmark, “is a lot of money.”

Calliande managed to nod.

Rows of hundreds of stone tables stretched away into the Vault, holding piles of golden coins, caskets overflowing with jewels, ingots of gold, enchanted weapons of dwarven steel, statues and sculptures and tablets carved with glyphs. Hundreds upon hundreds of niches lined the walls between the archways, closed off by doors of steel bars, holding more gold and gems and tablets and treasures. Steel cages hanging overhead held glowstones, filling the Vault with ample light.

“The wealth of the King and the khaldari of Khald Azalar,” said Irunzad, still holding the Key.

“God and his saints,” said Jager. “I could buy Tarlion with this much money.” He shook his head, blinking. “I could buy all of Andomhaim with that much money, and I would have enough left over to…well, buy the rest of this world.”

“All that wealth,” said Arandar, “and it still could not save them.”

“We did not come here for gold or silver,” said Ridmark. “Irunzad. Which way to Dragonfall?”

A jolt went through Calliande at the name. A shiver of memory followed the jolt, and she remembered walking through this very Vault, walking past the same piles of treasure as dread filled her. Dread, and iron certainty. She had to do this. She had to. There was no other choice, no matter how steep the cost, no matter how much pain it inflicted upon her…

She tried to reach for the memory, but it vanished into the mist that choked her mind.

A mist that might not last for much longer.

Calliande realized that she had stopped, that the others were staring at her.

“Are you all right?” said Gavin hesitantly.

“Not really,” said Calliande. “But I have no one to blame but myself, do I?” She felt Morigna staring at her and rebuked herself. She was not going to fall apart, and she certainly wasn’t going to do it in front of Morigna. “Irunzad. Which way to…to Dragonfall?”

“This way, Keeper,” said Irunzad.

“We will see this done, then,” said Ridmark. “Together.”

Calliande hesitated, nodded, and the followed Ridmark and Irunzad. They made their way down the aisle between the stone tables laden with unimaginable wealth. Archways opened off the long hall on regular intervals, revealing chambers just as large as the main Vault, each one filled with relics and treasures. Irunzad kept walking until he came to the very end of the Vault, and then turned to an archway on the left. Unlike the other halls, this one was utterly empty, the floor bare and stark and marching to…

Calliande sucked in a breath as another memory went through her.

The doors at the end of the hall were not dwarven steel, but the golden metal the high elves used in their armor. Above the doors rested a massive skull of dark bone, at least six feet long with fangs like daggers.

A dragon’s skull.

“Dragonfall,” said Irunzad. “The ancient tomb of the dragons of old.”

“I know,” murmured Calliande, talking a step towards the arch.

“Hold, Keeper,” said Antenora, grabbing her arm. “There is a spell upon the arch.”

Calliande blinked, shaking off her reverie. “What?”

“She’s right,” said Mara. “A ward of some kind. Magic of a type I’ve never seen before.”

“I have,” said Antenora, a strange note in her raspy voice. “Long, long ago upon Old Earth. It is the kind of magic wielded by the Keeper.”

“Irunzad?” said Ridmark. “What do you know about this?”

Irunzad hesitated. “It is a secret of the Kings.”

“Please,” said Calliande. “Tell us.”

The gaunt dwarf hesitated for a little longer, and then shrugged. “If the Keeper is not worthy of the secret, who is? Long ago, when the khaldari came to this world, Ardrhythain of the high elves told us to settle here.”

“Ardrhythain?” said Calliande, surprised.

“He said this was a place of power,” said Irunzad. “Long ago, dragons ruled this world, and waged war against the great darkness that the dark elves would later worship. The dragons died out, but their bones lay in Dragonfall, hidden from the world. There was great power in Dragonfall, power the dark elves might claim, so Khald Azalar was built to guard that power. This was a secret trust given to the Kings of Khald Azalar, to defend the power of Dragonfall from any that might misuse it.” The old dwarf lifted his chin. “We have kept that trust. Khald Azalar stood fast against the dark elves and the urdmordar, and the Frostborn destroyed us, but Dragonfall remains safe.”

“Then how did I know about it?” said Calliande, trying and failing to remember. “Ardrhythain must have told me. He said…he said he knew more than he could tell me. Perhaps that was part of it.”

“How do we get past the ward?” said Ridmark.

“I do not know,” said Irunzad. He lifted a hand and waved it into the archway. There was a flash, and for a moment a shimmering curtain of translucent white light filled the enormous arch. The curtain faded away a moment later. “The Keeper cast it when she and the Dragon Knight entered Dragonfall all those years ago. I am not a stonescribe. I do not know how to unravel the spell.”

Calliande cast the spell to sense the presence of magic, and the power of the ward flooded through her. It was unlike any magic she had encountered since awakening below the Tower of Vigilance. It was subtle and quiet, yet seemed to be as strong as the bones of the mountain around her.

She had never encountered it before…but it was familiar to her, as familiar as her own hands.

Before she fully understood what she was doing, she raised her hand and cast another spell, raking her fingers through the archway. White light glimmered, and the ward faded away.

Silence fell over the others as Calliande stared at the doors of golden metal. She felt the presence of her staff behind those doors like the heat of a fire upon her face.

“Well,” said Jager. “I suppose that was one way to get past the ward, wasn’t it?”

“It’s time to finish this,” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Calliande, her throat dry, her pulse throbbing in her temples. The strange, terrifying familiarity of the hall threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted to turn and flee back to the Vale of Stone Death. “Yes, it is. Thank you, all of you. For…”

To her surprise, Morigna spoke. “Come along, Magistria. One cannot save the world by staring at the door.”

Calliande nodded. “I suppose not.”

They walked into the vast, empty stone hall, towards the doors of golden metal with the dragon skull mounted over them. As they drew nearer, Calliande saw that the doors had been carved with elaborate designs of dragons. A flight of shallow stairs led up to the doors, leading to a broad dais perhaps five or six steps above the floor.

“Another spell in front of the doors,” said Mara. “A powerful ward, similar to the first one.”

“I see it as well,” said Antenora. “It is more of the Keeper’s magic.”

“It seems that you shall know how to open that ward as well,” said Morigna.

“I hope so,” said Calliande, watching the golden doors draw closer. “I…”

“Wait,” said Ridmark, his voice suddenly hard.

He stopped and turned, looking towards the main Vault.

A green-clad woman emerged from the Vault, striding towards them. She wore a hooded green cloak that concealed her features.

Calliande blinked, raising her hand in alarm as she summoned power for a spell. Morigna and Antenora followed suit, while the others lifted their weapons. Mara peered at the approaching woman, her green eyes narrowed.

“There’s a spell on her,” said Mara. “A powerful one. I can’t quite tell…”

“Nor can I,” said Antenora. “I have not seen its like before.”

That caught Calliande’s attention. Antenora was ancient, had lived with the Sight for nearly fifteen centuries. If she did not recognize the spell around the woman, that it meant it was magic she had never encountered before.

Though there were any number of deadly creatures on Andomhaim that Antenora would not have encountered before.

The woman stopped twenty yards away, her features obscured by the cowl of her long green cloak. She wore a green dress with golden trim upon the sleeves and hem, a dagger at her belt of black leather. The woman looked oddly familiar…

Irunzad let out a strange croak as he saw her, a twitch going through his limbs.

“Identify yourself,” said Ridmark.

“I…I know her,” said Irunzad. “I’ve…I’ve never seen her before, but I know her…”

The cloaked woman laughed and spoke in perfect Latin. “Do you not know me? You should. I have been waiting a very long time for your return, Calliande of Tarlion.”

Calliande frowned. “You know me?”

An unpleasant scent came to her nostrils. The air in the Vault had been odorless, yet now a smell like wet soil and rotting meat drifted past her. The smell was coming from the cloaked woman.

And both Arandar’s and Gavin’s soulblades began to glow, as the swords usually did in the presence of dark magic.

“Know you?” said the woman. “Perhaps. A more valid question. Do you know me?”

She drew back her cowl, and Calliande flinched.

The woman had blue eyes, a pale face, and long blond hair drawn back in a braid that made her look rather severe.

She had Calliande’s face.

“Who are you?” said Calliande, stunned. Was this a defense she had left around Dragonfall? Another magical trap? She cast the spell to sense the presence of magic, and detected a cloaking spell around her duplicate, one that prevented her from sensing any deeper.

“No,” said Ridmark. He pointed his staff at the green-cloaked woman, his face hard. “No, that’s the wrong question. What are you?”

The duplicate laughed. Calliande hoped she really did not sound that smug. “A better question, Ridmark the Gray Knight. You do seem the smartest one in your ragged little band. Not quite smart enough, alas, but all the better for me. Though you are hardly important in the greater scheme of things. A bonus, as it were.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” said Ridmark.

“Mmm,” said the duplicate. “No, it really doesn’t, does it?” She pointed at Irunzad. “He knows.” She began to speak in orcish. “Tell them, little man. Tell them who I am.”

“The Devourer,” whispered Irunzad. “You are the Devourer.”

“Yes,” said the duplicate. “And you have served your function.”

She reached out and closed a fist and Irunzad screamed, dropping the Key with a clang, and fell to his knees. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth, and the dwarf fell upon his side with a groaning gurgle. Calliande rushed to his side, preparing a healing spell, but it was too late. Irunzad was dead.

“I had to rewrite his brain, you see,” said the Devourer with placid calm. “I needed the Key to get into the Vault, but I couldn’t take the chance that some wandering dvargir might make off with it. So I whispered in his ear and twisted his thoughts, and had him lose it in the basilisk nest.”

“Why?” said Ridmark. “To what purpose?”

The Devourer smiled. “Haven’t you guessed yet? I think the halfling might be starting to figure it out.”

“Your smell,” said Jager in a slow, cautious voice. “It’s familiar. It’s like…”

Calliande got to her feet, white fire crackling around her fingers. “Enough games.” She pointed at the Devourer, preparing to attack with the magic of the Well. “Tell me what you are.”

“Patience,” said the Devourer.

“That still doesn’t answer the question,” said Ridmark.

“I always forget what limited minds you creatures have,” said the Devourer. “Very well, then. I shall explain as you would to a child, or perhaps an idiot.” The blue eyes shifted to Calliande. “A long time ago, I saw you traveling with the Dragon Knight, leaving the kingdom of Andomhaim. I followed you.”

“Why?” said Calliande.

The false face smiled, showing white teeth. “Because I am very hungry.”

“Hungry?” said Calliande.

That smell. That damnable smell. She had smelled it somewhere before, she was sure of it.

“Such great magic you carried,” said the Devourer, her voice almost dreamy. “Such potent magic. I have never sensed its like upon this world. So I followed you here, and watched as you secured your power in the tomb of the dragons. I thought to claim it when you left…but you locked it behind potent wards.”

“One of which she just dismissed,” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” murmured the Devourer, her cloak stirring in the still air of the Vault. “You left after that. I would have taken you then, but the Dragon Knight accompanied you, and I dared not face him. For that matter, I didn’t need to take you. I knew you would return one day. I need only wait. So for two hundred years I have waited, feeding upon the scavengers picking upon the bones of Khald Azalar.” Her smile widened. “But they were only the appetizers, the seasoning upon the feast to come. And now, at last, my patience has been rewarded. You are here…and how I shall enjoy your suffering!”

“Oh,” said Jager. “Oh, I remember. No, no, no. This is bad.”

“What is it?” said Ridmark, not taking his eyes from the Devourer.

“I know that that thing is,” said Jager, pointing at the false Calliande. “Remember Coldinium? The catacombs? The Hunter in the Dark?”

Suddenly Calliande remembered exactly where she had smelled that odor before, and dread flooded through her in a black wave.

“Oh,” said Gavin, raising Truthseeker.

“You’re a malophage,” said Ridmark.

The Devourer’s cold smile widened. “Some of your kindred have named me that.”

The dark elves had summoned several kindreds to this world during their long war against the high elves, orcs and halflings and dwarves and the manetaurs and numerous others. Some, like the orcs and the halflings, they had enslaved, used as soldiers and servants. Others broke away and fought against the dark elves, like the dwarves and the manetaurs.

And others feasted upon the dark elves themselves, like the malophages.

The malophages came from an alien world, and regarded all other kindred as cattle. They feasted upon pain and torment in equal measure, and cared nothing for kingdoms or laws or morals, only their endless hunger. The dark elves could not control them, so they unleashed the malophages upon the high elves. In time the high elves destroyed almost all of them, save for a few who hid themselves away in the Deeps. Calliande and the others had fought a malophage in the catacombs below Coldinium, and while they had driven off the creature, they had not been able to kill it.

“So you’re here to kill the Keeper and consume her power,” said Ridmark.

“Now you understand,” said the Devourer. Orange light glimmered in her eyes, began to flicker in her veins. “I have waited such a long time for this. All that power, locked away behind those wards that only you could access…ah, it was maddening! Now I shall feast! Now I shall gorge myself upon your magic!”

“If you kill me,” said Calliande, “you won’t be able to open the final wards upon Dragonfall.”

“Once I kill you,” said the Devourer, “I will absorb your power, and your magic will be mine. Then I can dissolve the wards and enter myself.” The false face looked back and forth, smiling. “Your other companions carry powerful magic as well. I shall enjoy feasting upon them and listening to their screams.”

“You are making,” said Ridmark, “a dangerous mistake.”

“Oh?” said the Devourer. “Do enlighten me, mortal.”

“We have the magic of a Magistria,” said Ridmark. “We have two sorceresses of elemental magic. We also have two Swordbearers, and soulblades can kill even a malophage. Is this a fight you really want?”

The Devourer let out a reedy, unsteady giggle, the sound bereft of any trace of sanity.

“For two hundred years I have waited to devour the Keeper’s magic,” said the Devourer. “How it has tantalized me! To feast upon it, I would kill you all. I would kill every mortal in Andomhaim! Enough talk! The banquet is at hand…and the time has come to feast!”

The Devourer took a step forward, and her form rippled and changed.

The false image of Calliande vanished, and in its place appeared the true form of the malophage.

It was so ghastly that a scream rose unbidden to Calliande’s throat, her skin crawling with horrified revulsion.

A score of long, whip-like tentacles, each as thick as one of Kharlacht’s legs, swirled and danced over the malophage. The creature’s house-sized body looked like a ghastly fusion of a slug, a jellyfish, and a toad, its hide translucent, revealing dozens misshapen organs floating in thick slime. Orange light blazed here and there from hundreds of nodules scattered randomly upon its flesh, eyes that allowed it to see in every direction at once. A dozen gaping mouths lined with needle-sharp teeth opened and closed on its misshapen body.

Calliande had fought many evil creatures since awakening – urvaalgs and ursaars, undead animations, the Devout and the Anathgrimm. Yet all of them had been at least partly natural creatures, even if twisted by dark magic, and the Warden and the Traveler had possessed their own terrible, corrupted majesty, dark lords mantled in their grim power. She could understand why the Devout and the Anathgrimm had worshipped the Warden and the Traveler as gods, even if she had no wish to do so herself.

The malophage, though, was utterly alien. There was no trace of anything natural, of anything comprehensible, in its twisted form. It was a force of sadistic rage and malevolent hunger, and it wanted to devour her.

Unless she fought back, it was going to consume her.

The Devourer shot forward, moving with terrific speed despite its amorphous bulk.

Chapter 13: Hunger

A tentacle lashed at Ridmark’s face, and he swung his staff with both hands. His old staff would have been useless against a malophage, but the staff of Ardrhythain proved effective against the rubbery, flesh-like material of the malophage’s razor-edged tentacles. The tip of the tentacle rebounded from the staff, and Ridmark landed a quick blow, dodged another tentacle, and then struck again.

He doubted the Devourer even felt the blow.

Around him the others attacked. Kharlacht, Gavin, and Arandar all attacked in a rush, blades rising and falling. Kharlacht’s greatsword ripped into the malophage’s writhing tentacles, but the soulblades bit far deeper, flaring with white fire as their power struggled against the dark magic within the creature. Morigna’s acidic mist rolled over the center of the Devourer’s body, while Antenora flung a gout of flame that left a long burn down the malophage’s flank.

The smell was hideous.

White light flashed around Ridmark, and suddenly he felt stronger and faster as Calliande’s magic closed around him. The white glow spread around the others, and they began moving with greater speed, which was just as well, since the malophage’s tentacles were a blur.

“The body!” shouted Ridmark, dodging around another tentacle. “Aim for the central body! That’s the only place where it is vulnerable.” Already he saw the wounds inflicted upon the tentacles regenerating, even the wounds left by the soulblades. The malophage could recover from almost anything, but it took longer to repair damage inflicted upon the organs in its central core. Ridmark had learned that fighting the malophage in the catacombs below Coldinium several months ago. Though they had not killed that malophage, only driven it off.

They might not be able to drive off the Devourer. For one, this malophage was larger and stronger than the Hunter in the Dark. And if it had waited two hundred years to feast upon Calliande’s magic, the creature might refuse to flee, might insist upon fighting to the death.

Ridmark was willing to oblige.

Of course, the malophage was probably far more capable of carrying out that threat.

Blue fire flickered over the malophage’s central bulk, and Mara appeared atop the creature, her short sword flickering as she stabbed. She landed three blows before one of the Devourer’s tentacles snapped up to remove her, and she vanished, reappearing next to Calliande. All three of her blows had penetrated the malophage’s rubbery hide, but none of them had reached the organs floating in the orange-tinted slime. Her blade had simply been too short.

Another curtain of acidic mist rolled over the malophage, and the Devourer’s dozens of mouths screamed in fury, cursing in Latin and orcish and dwarven and languages that Ridmark did not know. Antenora threw a small fireball at the malophage, and it enveloped the creature’s sagging body in a blast of flame, the horrible stench of burned malophage flesh filling the chamber. The Devourer shuddered in pain, and Ridmark darted forward, slapping aside tentacles. If he could get close enough, he could wound the malophage with his dwarven axe, perhaps damaging one of the organs in the translucent orange slime. That had hurt the malophage below Coldinium, and even if the Devourer was older and stronger, perhaps it had some of the same vulnerabilities.

Yet no matter how many tentacles he knocked aside, others took their place. He could not get any closer. Ridmark stepped back, a new plan coming to him as another wave of acidic mist washed over the Devourer.

“Kharlacht!” he shouted, stepping out of reach of the tentacles. “Help me clear a path! Arandar, Gavin, follow us.” Both the Swordbearers caught his eye and nodded. “Strike once we’ve cleared the way. Morigna, distract it.”

Kharlacht moved to Ridmark’s side, the blade of his greatsword gleaming with the vile ichor of the malophage. Gavin and Arandar followed, their soulblades burning with harsh white fires. A wave of pain went through Ridmark’s head as Arandar drew closer, a legacy of his broken bond with the soulblade, but he ignored it. He would feel far worse pain if they didn’t stop the Devourer.

The huge malophage turned to attack, its tentacles like a storm of razors. Another column of white mist rolled over its body, and the Devourer’s mouths erupted with screams of fury, shouting curses and threats in a dozen different languages. The creature lurched forward, moving towards Morigna, Calliande, and Antenora.

“Go!” said Ridmark.

He and Kharlacht charged. Kharlacht slashed with his greatsword, cutting through one of the tentacles. Ridmark beat aside another tentacle and clubbed aside a second and then a third. Kharlacht severed another of the appendages, and for just a moment the path was clear to the center of the Devourer’s body. Ridmark could not have covered the distance, even with the augmentation of Calliande’s magic.

But Gavin and Arandar had the power of their soulblades.

Both Swordbearers shot forward in a blur of white fire. Arandar reached the Devourer’s body first, and buried Heartwarden to the hilt in the leathery, translucent flesh, the blade piercing one of the misshapen organs suspended in the glowing slime. The Devourer let out a horrible wail, every one of its mouths screaming in unison, and Gavin drove Truthseeker home, striking another one of the organs. The Devourer shuddered again, and Arandar ripped Heartwarden free and struck once more. Calliande loosed a blast of white fire that drilled into the Devourer’s core, and the malophage’s tentacles thrashed like ropes caught in a gale. For a moment Ridmark was sure that the battle was over, that the Swordbearers had dealt a mortal blow to the creature…

Then the Devourer screamed again, and its tentacles spun in all directions.

One of the tentacles caught Ridmark across the chest and knocked him to the floor. Arandar and Gavin and Kharlacht fell as well, and the malophage leaped backwards, its huge, quivering bulk landing thirty yards away.

Then its form blurred and changed. The malophage became…something else.

Ridmark did not have a word to describe the Devourer’s new form. It had an armored shell like a turtle, albeit a shell studded with glistening spikes as long as Ridmark’s arm. It had the legs of a giant spider, their segments covered in bristling black hairs as stiff and as sharp as steel wire. The long, barbed tail of a scorpion rose over its shell, terminating in three barbs that dripped with poison. The serrated pincers of a scorpion reached from below its shell, and three scaled necks rose from its neck, ending in the heads of giant serpents, their yellow eyes malevolent. Perhaps such a creature had once walked whatever hellish world the malophages called home. Or maybe the malophage had simply created the form for itself, stealing the most useful organs from creatures it had encountered upon this world.

“Well,” Jager said. “That’s just not fair.”

Ridmark got to his feet, and Kharlacht and the Swordbearers followed suit. Caius came to Ridmark’s side. He had returned his mace to his belt, and instead carried the massive hammer of dark elven steel he had taken from the Warden’s armory. Antenora flung another blast of elemental fire, and Morigna unleashed a curtain of acidic mist, but both magical attacks bounced off the armored shell without doing noticeable damage.

“Now what?” said Gavin, watching the Devourer.

The creature took a few creaking, skittering steps forward, its poisoned barbs waving back and forth over its shell, the serpent heads hissing atop their long necks.

“Aim for the legs,” said Ridmark. “Caius, try to crack the shell. If we can damage the armor, perhaps we can land blows on the more vulnerable areas.”

Yet Arandar and Gavin had both dealt grievous wounds to the malophage with their soulblades. Ridmark had inflicted a similar wound to the malophage under Coldinium, and that had been enough to force the Hunter to flee until it could recover. The soulblades were a far more powerful weapon than the orcish war axe Ridmark had used, but they had not been enough to drive off the Devourer.

Then the Devourer surged forward, and Ridmark had no more time to plan, only to act.

###

Calliande threw a burst of white fire into the malophage, and the huge creature shuddered.

Ridmark and the others attacked. Kharlacht drove his greatsword through one of the Devourer’s spindly legs, and the creature stumbled. Caius darted into the gap, swinging his massive hammer, and the head of dark elven steel struck the armored shell, breaking off several of the spines and pulverizing a portion of the shell. The serpent heads blurred, jaws yawning wide to bite Caius. Blue fire swirled over the head nearest to the dwarven friar, and Mara appeared atop it, driving her short sword down. The serpent head reared back with a scream, and the other two moved to bite her, but Mara disappeared, reappearing next to Calliande.

Gavin darted under the lashing serpent heads and struck with Truthseeker, driving the soulblade into the malophage’s damaged armor. The Devourer reared back with a scream of fury, and before it recovered, Calliande hit it again with a blast of white fire, striking the damaged section of the armor shell. The magic sank into the Devourer, and the malophage skittered backwards, moving away from Ridmark and the Swordbearers. Calliande drew more power into herself, preparing to strike again. While maintaining the augmentation spells around the others, she did not have much power left to attack. Yet every bit helped, and she concentrated, preparing another strike.

“I fear,” said Antenora in her raspy voice, “that we are doing little damage.”

“They cracked the shell,” said Morigna.

“It does not matter,” said Antenora. “Already the wounds heal. The soulblades are potent weapons, but the malophage has a vast reserve of power. Certainly its reserve will last longer than our stamina.”

The Devourer circled to the right, turning the intact sections of its shell towards Calliande. Before it did, she saw the wounds Gavin had carved into its body healing, new legs sprouting from the severed stumps of its old ones, the damaged shell repairing itself. Ridmark and the others attacked, managing to sever one of the Devourer’s legs, but the malophage moved out of reach long enough to regenerate the leg.

“She’s right,” said Mara. “The malophage’s aura…it isn’t changing. No matter how much we hurt it, its aura doesn’t change. It’s powerful enough that we can’t really hurt it, even with a soulblade.”

“I suspect it exists partially in the material world and partially within the threshold,” said Antenora. “If any damage is done to it in the material world, then it simply draws upon the power of the threshold and reconstitutes itself.”

“You can enter the threshold, can you not?” said Morigna. “Perhaps you can travel there and damage the creature.”

“I could,” said Antenora. “The spell would take time, though. It is also probable the creature is as strong in the threshold as the material world. I might travel to the threshold only to have it kill me.” She shrugged. “The Keeper would have the power to destroy this creature by severing its link to the threshold. Perhaps our best plan is to retrieve your staff and then face it.”

“We can’t,” said Calliande, looking towards the dais and the invisible ward that stretched across the stairs. “If I take down that ward, the Devourer will just follow us inside and kill us.”

“Then we must damage the Devourer enough that it cannot pursue us,” said Morigna. “Perhaps this shall help.”

She struck the end of her staff against the ground, purple fire flaring up its length. Morigna swayed a little on her feet, and Mara caught her elbow, keeping her upright. A ripple rolled through the stone floor, a ripple that intensified as it approached the malophage. The distortion flowed around Ridmark and the Swordbearers and the others without touching them, but the floor snapped like a banner caught in the wind beneath the Devourer. Its narrow legs let it move quickly, but they had not been designed for moving on uneven surfaces, and Morigna’s spell all but flung the malophage into the air. The Devourer struck the floor and bounced, its weight driving cracks into its armored shell and snapping off several of its spikes.

And for just a moment, the Devourer was vulnerable.

Calliande hit the creature with a burst of white fire before it recovered, and the Devourer twitched as it tried to regain its balance. Kharlacht hewed off one of its legs with a sweep of his greatsword, and then took a second, causing the Devourer to fall again. Caius’s hammer split open a section of the shell, luminous orange slime bubbling forth. Gavin and Arandar struck, stabbing Truthseeker and Heartwarden into the damaged shell, the soulblades sinking deep into the malophage’s corrupted flesh. The creature loosed a furious wail of pain and rage, and Gavin and Arandar stabbed again and again, their soulblades pulsing with white fire. Calliande hit the Devourer with another blast of white fire, and the malophage jerked, trying to get its remaining legs beneath it. For a moment Calliande felt a surge of exultation. They were winning! They…

The Devourer screamed and thrust its remaining legs in all directions, the serpent heads and scorpion tails stabbing madly. Ridmark and Kharlacht went down, knocked over by the lash of a leg. Gavin stumbled back, a stinger rebounding from his dark elven armor. Jaws closed around Arandar’s cuirass, lifted him into the air, and flung him. The Swordbearer tumbled and hit the ground with a clatter of armor. The Devourer shrank into itself, and once again its form blurred and changed.

This time it became something like looked like ape nine feet high, albeit an ape with four arms and a scorpion’s tail, its body hairless and covered in overlapping black scales. It had the head of a snake, and claws like daggers jutted from the fingers of all four of its hands.

Calliande summoned power and attacked, but the Devourer’s new form moved with inhuman speed and grace, dodging the attack with ease, and flung itself at Ridmark.

###

Calliande’s shouted warning echoed in Ridmark’s ears, and he snapped his staff up and got to one knee.

It was just in time, too. The Devourer lunged at him, and a sweep of Ridmark’s staff deflected the claws that would have opened his throat. He thrust at the Devourer, but the creature danced aside, moving so fast that even with Calliande’s magic he could barely follow its movements. The malophage flicked one of its four hands at him, and Ridmark dodged, but not fast enough, and one of the claws opened a burning cut down his left forearm.

He gripped his staff, trying to ignore the pain in his left arm, and launched a flurry of swings at the Devourer. The malophage avoided his blows with ease. Its new form had traded size and armor for blinding speed, but the malophage was still hideously strong. Its claws stabbed for his face again, and Ridmark realized he could not get out of the way in time. Instead of dodging, he threw himself into the blow, and the black claws struck his chest, shrieking against his armor of dark elven steel. The power of the strike knocked Ridmark backwards, and he hit the ground hard, the breath exploding from his lungs.

He was pretty sure he had broken a rib, and he could not get his breath back.

The Devourer loomed over him, all four arms drawn back for the kill. Ridmark heard both Morigna and Calliande shout something, and a burst of white fire shot at the malophage. The Devourer twisted around the blow with fluid grace, and dodged the column of acidic mist Morigna conjured. Ridmark had just managed to start breathing again when the Devourer lunged at him.

A wave of frustration rolled through him. He had come close, so close, to keeping his promise to Calliande, only to fail at the very end.

Gavin lunged at the Devourer, Truthseeker a shard of fire in his hands. The malophage twisted away, one of its hands catching Gavin across the arm. Gavin stumbled and went to one knee, and Ridmark hauled himself up, blood trickling down his fingers from the cut on his arm. That was bad. If the cut was bleeding that much, he might bleed out before much longer.

Though he suspected the Devourer would not let him remain alive long enough for that to become a problem.

###

Calliande watched the battle, trying to think of something, anything, to turn the tide. The Devourer’s new shape moved too fast for her to strike with a spell, too fast for Morigna or Antenora to use their magic against it, too fast for Mara to travel behind it and stab it. Ridmark, Kharlacht, Jager, Caius, and the two Swordbearers had regained their feet, and fought the malophage, but the Devourer blurred through them like a storm. All six of them had taken wounds, and were visibly tiring.

She had to think of something.

“Your staff,” said Antenora. “You must go and retrieve your staff as quickly as possible, Keeper.”

“I can’t,” Calliande said through gritted teeth. The effort of maintaining the augmentation spells and striking the Devourer was draining her.

“The Keeper’s magic is the only thing that can stop the creature,” said Antenora.

“If I go through the ward,” said Calliande, “the ward will go down, and the Devourer can claim the staff after it kills us.”

“If the Keeper’s magic is the only thing that can harm the Devourer,” said Mara, “why not use the ward to harm the Devourer?”

Calliande blinked. “How? The creature is not foolish enough to attack the ward.”

“You are the Keeper, whether you remember it or not,” said Mara. “Perhaps the ward will obey you.”

That…actually made a great deal of sense.

Calliande sprinted for the stairs to the dais, casting the spell to sense the presence of magic as she did so. She climbed the stairs, and felt the deep, resonant power of the ward before her. Calliande stretched out her hand and touched the ward, and as with the previous ward, she felt the spell’s power start to unravel.

She commanded it to halt, attempting to shape the power the way she shaped a spell drawn from the magic of the Well.

And to her surprise, the ward responded.

Calliande concentrated, drawing back the power of the ward. White light flickered around the dais, and she felt the ward disarm itself. She focused, holding the power in place. It felt like trying to hold back a tide with her bare hands, and she would not be able to hold it for long.

“To the dais!” she shouted as loud as she could, shooting a glance over her shoulder. “Hurry. Hurry!”

Morigna cast a spell, sending another ripple through the floor. It caught the Devourer and sent the malophage sprawling. Ridmark and the others turned, intending to strike while the Devourer was off its feet.

“Go!” shouted Calliande, desperately wishing she had time to explain. “To me!”

“To the dais!” shouted Mara. Her voice got fainter as she traveled to stand closer to Ridmark. “Calliande has a plan! Run!”

She traveled away, and Ridmark sprinted with the others as the Devourer got back to its feet. Mara appeared next to Calliande, and then Antenora and Morigna reached the dais. Jager was smaller and faster than the others and came next. The Devourer charged after them, running on all six of its limbs, and Morigna cast the spell to fold the earth. The Devourer veered to avoid the ripple, leaping over it, but the leap slowed the creature for an instant. The Swordbearers reached the dais next, driven by the might of their soulblades, and then Ridmark, Caius, and Kharlacht scrambled up the stairs in a knot.

Calliande jumped back and shouted, releasing the power of the ward.

It snapped back into place with a flare of brilliant white fire, and for a moment a translucent glowing haze filled the edge of the dais. It looked faint and ephemeral, yet the Devourer slammed into the haze as if it had been made of granite. The creature rebounded from the wall of light, and the expression on its reptilian face was almost comical.

Calliande released the power she had held, a wave of dizziness rolling through her. Once again she had channeled too much magic in too short of a time. Her knees turned to water, and she started to fall, but Ridmark seized her right arm and Antenora her left.

More white light flashed before her eyes as the malophage flung itself at the ward, striking again and again.

“I’m fine,” croaked Calliande. “I’m fine.” She shook her head. “I just…pushed a little too hard.” She grinned at Mara. “You were right. I could control it. But I was two hundred years out of practice.”

“Is that thing going to break through the ward?” said Jager.

The malophage shifted shape yet again, returning to its previous form of an armored serpent-scorpion creature. Its pincers slashed, its tails stabbed, and its heads darted out as it moved back and forth before the glimmering wall of light. The Devourer was testing the ward for weakness, like a sculptor seeking for a flaw in a slab of rock.

“Doubtful,” said Antenora. “The magic is antithetical to the creature’s nature. It could not force itself through the ward without destroying itself.”

“Then we are safe for now,” said Caius.

“At least from the malophage,” said Ridmark.

The Devourer’s shape blurred again, and suddenly it returned to the duplicate of Calliande. She shivered at the sight. It looked exactly like her, identical to every detail. This time, though, the duplicate’s eyes shone with orange fire.

“You are not safe from me, Calliande of Tarlion, Keeper of Andomhaim,” spat the Devourer in Calliande’s voice. “For two hundred years I have waited to consume you, and I shall not be hindered now. Listen to the lies of your corrupted husk of an apprentice, if you wish.” The orange-burning eyes turned to Antenora, who met the Devourer’s gaze without flinching. “Take up your power. It will not save you. Take up your power and come forth…and I shall have you at last.”

Calliande opened her mouth, but Ridmark spoke first.

“You can wait for us, if you wish,” said Ridmark. “There is an excellent chance that an orcish shaman of considerable power, a dark elven prince, and Shadowbearer himself are about to converge upon the Vault. Can you face all of them?”

“Foolish Gray Knight,” said the Devourer with a hiss. “Do you think to frighten me with those titles? I am older than them all. I was already ancient when I came to this world, and I have feasted upon uncounted thousands. Your precious soulblades could slay a dark elven prince and even the bearer of Incariel’s shadow, but they could not kill me. I am older and stronger than them all…and if I do not wish to be seen, am I not. I will wait for you, Calliande of Tarlion, and then you shall be mine.”

She stepped sideways, and then simply vanished.

“Where did she go?” said Ridmark.

“I don’t know,” said Mara, looking back and forth.

“The creature is powerful enough to shield itself even from the Sight,” said Antenora. “Likely by shifting more of its essence to the threshold, or a spell of masking power that even my experience with the Sight cannot penetrate.”

“Then,” said Calliande with a shudder, “that thing was likely following us the entire time through Khald Azalar.”

“Probably,” said Ridmark, his eyes roaming over the empty stone expanse of the hall. “It waited two hundred years for you to come back. It would have recognized you at once, and it was clever enough to follow us here.”

“Perhaps the Traveler and Mournacht will kill it for us,” said Kharlacht.

“Or it will kill the Traveler and Mournacht,” said Jager.

Antenora shook her head. “I doubt this. If it can conceal itself from my Sight, I suspect it has the power to conceal itself from the powers of Mournacht and the Traveler.”

“For now, it cannot penetrate that ward,” said Ridmark. “The time has come to enter Dragonfall.”

Calliande took a shuddering breath, taking one last look around for the Devourer. The creature had concealed itself perfectly. It seemed the Devourer was yet another complication that her past self had failed to foresee, just as she had failed to foresee that Shadowbearer might destroy the Order of the Vigilant.

But as Ridmark had told her time and time again, no plan of battle survived meeting with the enemy. Despite everything that had gone wrong, despite the labors of Shadowbearer and his servants, she had come at last to the doors of Dragonfall.

The time had come.

“Yes,” said Calliande, turning away from the ward and towards the deep-set golden doors, the empty eyes of the dragon skull staring down at her. “It has.”

Chapter 14: Alone

Calliande procrastinated as long as she could by healing the wounds her friends had taken in the fighting. The pain of the wounds flooded through her, but she embraced it without flinching. Part of her mind knew that it was a distraction, a way to turn her attention from what was about to happen.

A few moments later she had healed the last of the wounds, and she was out of time.

Calliande took slow steps towards the doors of Dragonfall, Ridmark and the others around her. The doors were perhaps twelve feet wide and twenty-four feet high, and stood in an archway set back about six feet into the smooth wall of dwarf-worked stone. The great dragon skull stared down at her. The skull’s gaze did not seem threatening, merely…watchful. As if some mind and will still waited for her beyond the doors. The doors themselves displayed ornate scenes of dragons, wrought with the masterful skill of the high elves of Cathair Solas.

Odd that she knew so little of their history. The dragons had once ruled this world, and then they had died out or departed. The elves remained, and had ruled for a hundred thousand years of peace until the shadow of Incariel lured the dark elves into evil. Over millennia of war, the dark elves summoned kindred after kindred from other worlds to aid them, until at last they summoned the urdmordar and were destroyed. Then Malahan Pendragon and the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm upon Old Earth had come…and now Calliande stood before these ancient doors.

She recognized both the doors and the skull. That no longer surprised her. She could not remember it, but she was certain, utterly certain, that she had once stood here in fear and doubt.

Just as she now stood here in fear and doubt.

“There is another ward across the arch,” said Mara.

Ridmark looked at Calliande. “It will likely yield to you.”

Calliande nodded and lifted a hand. White light suddenly filled the archway, the power crackling around her fingertips. She felt again the deep, solid presence of the magic, the kind of magic she now knew that had once been wielded by the Keeper of Andomhaim. Calliande took a deep breath and stepped forward, intending to stride through the ward and unravel it.

Only to rebound from the wall of ghostly light just as the Devourer had been repelled.

She stumbled back, blinking in surprise. The ward had not hurt, but it had nonetheless been a forceful shove.

Ridmark frowned. “It won’t let you through?”

“I…don’t know,” said Calliande. She lifted her hand, and once again her fingers passed easily through the wall of light. She stepped forward, and again the ward flashed, pushing her back.

“Maybe the Key would open it?” said Jager.

A horrible thought came to Calliande. Maybe she had designed this ward to yield before the magic bound with in the Key to the Vault of the Kings. The Key was still in the Vault, lying near poor Irunzad’s corpse…and to get the Key, Calliande would have to leave the protection of the ward and reclaim it. They had barely survived facing the Devourer. They might not survive a second confrontation with the malophage.

“No,” said Antenora, staring at the ward. “This is more of the Keeper’s magic. The craft of the stonescribes, however potent, would be useless against it.”

“Maybe it will open to you,” said Jager. “You’re the Keeper’s apprentice.”

“Doubtful, as the Keeper did not know of my existence when she worked this ward,” said Antenora, but she shrugged and lifted a black-gloved hand. At once the ward knocked her back a step. “Curious.”

“What is it?” said Calliande, touching the ward again. Her fingers passed through the light without resistance, and did not stop until the ward reached her wrist.

Until it touched her shirt.

“Perhaps you should roll up your sleeve,” said Antenora, even as the idea came to Calliande.

She nodded and rolled up her left sleeve to the elbow, and then pushed her arm forward. Her forearm passed through the light, and stopped when her elbow reached the ward.

No. When her sleeve reached the ward.

“The spell,” said Antenora. “It is linked to you, and will repel anything not of your essence, Keeper.”

“My essence?” said Calliande. “You mean…oh.”

She swallowed as she realized what that meant. Calliande would have to pass the doors of Dragonfall alone. She would have to recover her staff and her memories alone.

Perhaps that should not surprise her. Yet somehow she had always thought Ridmark would be with her when the moment came. Calliande looked at him, and he smiled.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I would have gone with you, if I could.”

“Thank you,” said Calliande. “I would never have made it here without your help.” She looked at the others, at Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin and Morigna and Mara and Jager and Arandar and Antenora. “Thank you, all of you. For everything.”

Kharlacht grunted. “Given the number of our wounds that you have healed, it seems only fair.”

“We will wait here for you,” said Ridmark.

“Thank you,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “Now…ah, if you could all turn your backs, I would appreciate that.”

“What?” said Jager. “Why?”

“Because,” said Antenora, “only the Keeper’s essence may pass through the ward. All other matter and energy shall be blocked.”

“What does that mean?” said Jager.

“It means,” said Morigna, “that only Calliande and Calliande alone can pass through the ward.” There was a bit of amusement in her voice, damn her. “So she will need to remove all her clothing.”

Silence answered that. Jager gave a slightly embarrassed cough and turned away from the doors.

“We should keep watch over the Vault in case any foes arrive,” said Ridmark. He locked eyes with Calliande for a moment. “God go with you.”

Calliande managed to nod. “Thank you.”

Ridmark nodded and turned to face the empty stone hall, the others following suit.

“Mara,” said Calliande. “Could you…”

“Of course,” said Mara, stepping closer.

Calliande pulled off her cloak, then her jerkin, shirt, belt, boots, and trousers, folding them and handing them over to Mara one by one. She passed over her daggers, first the enchanted dagger the Taalkaz of the Dwarven Enclave in Coldinium had given her, and then the dagger that Ridmark had given her before the siege of Dun Licinia, the dagger that had let her find him again after Qazarl’s defeat. Last she handed Mara the pouch containing the empty soulstone that Shadowbearer intended to use on her, the soulstone the Warden had almost used to create his gate to Old Earth.

Then at last she stood naked before the ward. Peculiarly, removing her clothes was almost a relief. The last time she had been able to bathe had been in the Vale of Stone Death, and she had not washed her clothes since leaving the Iron Tower. They were stained with sweat and soot and smoke, and smelled just as bad as they looked.

Perhaps she had come full circle. Her ancient clothes had crumbled into dust after she had awakened below the Tower of Vigilance, and Qazarl’s warriors had dragged her naked before Shadowbearer. Perhaps it was appropriate that she would face her past with nothing but her own flesh and blood and will.

Nonetheless, Calliande wished she could have kept her damned clothes on. She felt a ridiculous urge to look over her shoulder to see if anyone was staring. To see if Ridmark was staring at her…

“Mara,” said Calliande. “Thank you.”

“Go,” said Mara. “We’ll be waiting for you when you come back.”

“Thank you,” said Calliande.

She stepped through the arch, passing through the ward. The curtain of white light flashed and flickered, and the golden doors began to glow before her. Calliande reached out with a shaking hand and touched the doors, and felt a jolt of power from them. The doors swung inward in utter silence, revealing a stone gallery, its walls lined with countless skulls…

Dragon skulls.

Calliande stepped through the golden doors, and suddenly gray mist rose up to swallow her.

The last thing she heard was Ridmark shouting.

###

Ridmark stared into the empty space of the hall, his eyes resting on Irunzad’s corpse.

Anger pulsed through him. Irunzad had clung to his duty for centuries, and had died fulfilling that duty. The Devourer deserved death for that, for all the other murders the creature had wrought over the millennia. However, Ridmark was certain they could not defeat the creature without the aid of the Keeper’s restored magical power.

So they had no choice but to wait. Sometimes the wait before a battle was the hardest part.

Especially since the Key to the Vault of the Kings lay with Irunzad.

Ridmark was beginning to suspect that they should have closed the doors of the Vault behind them. If they closed the doors to the Vault, perhaps they could prevent the Traveler and Mournacht from gaining access to it. On the other hand, maybe the doors could not be closed from the inside. Or, worse, perhaps the doors could not be opened again from the inside, and Ridmark and his companions would be trapped within.

Or Mournacht and Shadowbearer or the Traveler would settle down to wait patiently outside the Vault.

Either way, it was too late now.

Nonetheless, Ridmark was certain they should not leave the Key where the Devourer could claim it, or Mournacht or the Traveler. Part of his mind tried to work out a plan to get the Key back before the Devourer realized it was gone. Another part of his mind watched the empty hall for any sign of attack.

The rest of his mind contemplated the cold, hard fact that he might never see Calliande again.

It was possible that she had left other defenses inside Dragonfall, defenses that might kill her. He wished that he could help her, but Ridmark had gone as far on that path as he could. The rest was up to her.

And if she returned, if she emerged from Dragonfall with her memory and power restored…she might not be the same woman any longer. She had feared the woman she had once been, the Keeper who had been cold enough to seal herself away from the world for two hundred years, to lose everyone and everything she had ever known. That woman would return, once Calliande retrieved her memory…and the Keeper of Andomhaim might not have a use for a man like Ridmark Arban, a branded exile from the High Kingdom

The thought made him sadder than he would have thought.

No matter. Calliande had her task, and Ridmark had his. Another nine months and Shadowbearer would no longer be able to open the way to the world of the Frostborn. They just had to keep the empty soulstone from him for that long…

Ridmark heard a faint rasp, and then the ward in front of him flashed with white light. Calliande was entering the doors of Dragonfall. He wanted to watch her go, but that would not be appropriate. For that matter, Morigna would get angry if he did, and he could not blame her for that.

A quiet voice in his thoughts pointed out that he had already seen Calliande naked on the day they had met, that he had liked what he had seen…

Disgusted with himself, Ridmark shoved his doubts and fears aside and focused upon the hall.

So he was looking right at the Devourer when the creature reappeared a few feet in front of the dais.

Startled, Ridmark raised his staff. The Devourer still wore Calliande’s form. The malophage took a step forward, shifting back to the form of the giant lizard-ape beast, and dove at the ward with a burst of inhuman speed.

“Beware!” shouted Antenora. “The Keeper’s entrance has weakened the ward! The creature can penetrate it!”

“Strike!” shouted Ridmark, and the malophage burst through the ward and onto the dais.

The passage cost the creature. White fire shot up and down its limbs, and the ghastly smell of charred malophage flesh flooded Ridmark’s nostrils yet again. Ridmark whipped his staff around, and the impact broke one of the malophage’s clawed arms. Gavin and Arandar struck, Truthseeker and Heartwarden shearing into the malophage’s torso, and the Devourer let out a scream of rage and pain, white fire pouring from the soulblades and into its wounds.

But the creature kept moving.

It surged forward in a dark blur and leaped across the dais, hurtling towards the closing doors. Antenora hit it with a burst of flame, and Morigna’s acidic mist rolled over it, but neither spell slowed the creature. The Devourer seized the edges of the golden doors with its claws and tumbled into Dragonfall.

Ridmark sprinted after the malophage. He had a brief glimpse of a curtain of gray mist, Calliande’s pale form vanishing into it. Then both disappeared behind the dark form of the Devourer, and the golden doors slammed shut with a pulse of white light. Ridmark crashed into the doors and looked for a way to open them.

He could find none.

“Antenora,” he said.

“There is no way to open the door, Gray Knight,” said Antenora, her raspy voice grim. “The Keeper’s power has sealed it. Only the Keeper can open it.” She shook her head. “Fool, fool, fool.” For a moment Ridmark thought that Antenora rebuked him, but the ancient sorceress kept speaking. “I should have foreseen the danger. When the Keeper opened the doors, the structure of the wards weakened and altered. The creature seized its chance. Fool! A thousand years and I am still as blind as a child!”

“Then there is no way to open the door?” said Ridmark.

“I fear not,” said Antenora. “The ward is absolutely impenetrable.”

In sheer frustration Ridmark struck his staff against the door twice. It did nothing at all. The metal did not even shiver beneath the blows.

“Ridmark,” said Morigna, gripping his shoulder. “We can do nothing for her.”

“She may yet prevail,” said Antenora, though Ridmark saw the fear on that gaunt, gray face. She had spent fifteen centuries seeking for the Keeper, and it was entirely possible that Antenora had just seen Calliande die. “The passage through the collapsing ward inflicted considerable damage upon the creature. It will not be able to draw upon its full power, and there may be other defenses within Dragonfall proper.”

“There may be defenses?” said Ridmark. “Calliande will still have to face the Devourer alone.” Antenora may have blamed herself, but Ridmark was the fool. He should have been paying better attention. He should have anticipated the trap. But what else could he have done? The Devourer had revealed itself right before his eyes, and he still had not been able to stop the creature. “We have to find a way through the door.”

“There is no way,” said Antenora.

A burst of sheer rage went through Ridmark, and he struck his staff against the door again. Once again, it did nothing.

“I am sorry,” said Morigna. She hesitated, looked away from him, and then back to him. “It…may be best if we leave at once. The malophage is trapped within Dragonfall, and both Mournacht and the Traveler are coming here. Perhaps it would be best to ensure the empty soulstone,” she looked at the bundle of clothing in Mara’s arms, “is well away from here. Else the soulstone may fall into Shadowbearer’s grasp.”

“As hard as that counsel is,” said Kharlacht, “I fear it is correct. If Shadowbearer takes the empty soulstone, far more lives than ours shall be lost. Calliande would not want to see Shadowbearer triumph.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “You’re right. Go if you will. I will not gainsay you. But I will wait here until she emerges.”

“Perhaps we should have faith,” said Caius.

Morigna scoffed. “You think your God shall save Calliande?”

“I think he already has,” said Caius. “But I do not think she will perish here, and I believe that because I have watched her. She is as brave as any of us, and her magic is strong. More, she is the Keeper, and she was the woman who rallied the armies of Andomhaim and the other kindreds to victory against the Frostborn. If anyone can overcome the Devourer and emerge alive, she can.”

“I agree,” said Ridmark. “So I will remain here. If any of the rest of you want to leave, go. You can return to the Gate of the West, or ascend the stairs from the assembly chamber and take your chances with the Gate of the East.”

No one moved.

“I go where you go,” said Morigna. “You know that.”

Ridmark nodded, relieved that she had chosen to stay.

“I will not abandon the Magistria,” said Gavin. “Not while there is hope she lives.”

“Gavin Swordbearer speaks truly,” said Antenora. “I have come too far and too long to forsake the Keeper.”

“You gambled everything to save my life at the Iron Tower,” said Mara. “It seems only fair to return the favor for Calliande.”

The others spoke their agreement as well.

“How splendid,” said Morigna. “We have all made such stirring declarations. Now what shall we do about them?”

“First,” said Ridmark, walking from the dais, “we’re going to relieve poor Irunzad of the Key. Then I want to see if the doors of the Vault can be closed and opened from the inside. If they do, we have the perfect defense against the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm. We can wait until Calliande returns from Dragonfall, and then fight our way…”

He stopped in midsentence, a flash of light in the archway to the main Vault catching his eyes.

An orcish warrior clad in leather and mail stood there, a short bow in his hands. His face had been ritually scarred and tattooed crimson, giving his features the likeness of a grinning, bloody skull. His eyes met Ridmark’s, turning crimson with rage.

It was a Mhorite scout.

Ridmark broke into a sprint, hoping to catch the scout before he fled.

Chapter 15: Enemies and Enemies

The Mhorite scout did not flee, but instead took aim with his short bow.

That was good.  Ridmark had a chance of killing the Mhorite before the scout escaped back to inform Mournacht. The Mhorite scout aimed his bow and released, but Ridmark dodged to the side, spinning his staff before him. The staff caught the shaft of the arrow and sent it tumbling to the floor. The Mhorite growled, looked at Ridmark, and then lowered his bow. Ridmark cursed and ran faster.

Blue fire flickered, and Mara appeared behind the orcish warrior. She had discarded Calliande’s clothing, and for an alarmed instant Ridmark wondered what Mara had done with the soulstone. Her short sword darted forward, but the Mhorite turned at the last moment and spotted her. The orcish warrior jerked back, letting Mara’s point bounce off his armor, and drew a short sword of his own. Mara disappeared again and reappeared a dozen yards away, and Ridmark struck. The orcish warrior managed to parry Ridmark’s first swing, but Ridmark reversed the direction of the staff and caught the Mhorite on the knee. The orc stumbled back with an angry growl, and Ridmark’s next strike hit the Mhorite’s temple.

The Mhorite collapsed, his sword falling from his outstretched hand with a clang. The Vault of the Kings was a superb echo chamber, and the clang from the dropped sword rebounded off the stone walls and the high ceiling far overhead, reverberating among the piles of gold and jewels upon the tables.

The seven other Mhorite scouts moving among the stone tables could not miss it. All seven of them turned, their eyes falling upon Ridmark. He gripped his staff, preparing to charge, but the orcs fell back. Three of them lifted war horns and blew long blasts, the sounds ringing through the Vault, and far in the distance Ridmark heard the sounds of answering horns.

The Mhorite scouts were coming. Perhaps even the main Mhorite host itself had beaten the Anathgrimm to the Citadel. Ridmark watched the scouts sprint back to the throne room, wishing that the Devourer had killed a few of them while it had waited for Calliande to open the doors.

Mara appeared next to him in a swirl of blue fire. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

“A considerable amount of it,” said Ridmark. “Where is the soulstone?”

“I gave it to Jager,” said Mara, “along with Calliande’s other possessions. I can’t travel while holding it. Should we try to close the Vault’s doors?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “It’s too late. It also might be impossible to open the Vault from inside.”

“What are we going to do, then?” said Mara.

That was an excellent question.

Ridmark looked back as the others joined them. He spotted the leather pouch with the soulstone and Calliande’s daggers tucked into Jager’s belt. Ridmark supposed it would be safe enough there. Though given the number of Mhorites about to come at them, Ridmark supposed that the soulstone would not be safe with anyone.

“The Mhorites?” rumbled Kharlacht.

“They’ve seen us,” said Ridmark. “They’ve summoned reinforcements. We’ll have to hold out until Calliande returns from Dragonfall.”

“If Calliande returns,” said Morigna, looking at the golden doors.

“She will,” said Ridmark. He would not give up hope now. “When she does, the day will be ours. Both dark elven princes and urdmordar feared to challenge the power of the Keeper in ancient days. If she returns with her power intact, we will win free. Until then, we have to hold here.”

Another blast of a war horn rang in the distance, answered by at a dozen more.

“This is an ill spot for a battle against so many,” said Arandar. Heartwarden flickered in his fist, sending pulses of pain through Ridmark’s head in time with the glow. “We will be easily surrounded.”

“The archway,” said Ridmark, a plan flickering through his thoughts. “We’ll hold them off there.”

“Perhaps,” said Arandar, “but it is still too wide.”

“For swords and bows, yes,” said Ridmark, “but we have other weapons. Antenora?”

The clever woman had anticipated their need. Her staff flickered with fire, and a ball of flame the size of a fist floated over its end, spinning faster and faster.

“I can hold a wall of flame across the archway,” said Antenora, “and shall I have time to prepare a considerable amount of power. However, any one of the Mhorite shamans I saw in the Vale of Stone Death would be able to dispel it.”

“I can deal with the shamans,” said Mara.

“As can I,” said Morigna. “If they try to break through Antenora’s spells, they will have no power left to deflect my attacks.”

“Good,” said Ridmark. “Mara, Jager, Morigna. Stay here and guard Antenora. The rest of you, come with me. We’re going to lure the Mhorites in.” He looked at Jager. “Don’t let that soulstone out of your sight.”

“Given what lengths you went to steal it,” said Morigna, “one supposes it is amusing we hand it freely to you now.”

“Life is just full of these little ironies, isn’t it?” said Jager.

“Also, take the Key,” said Ridmark. “I don’t want either the Mhorites or the Traveler having the bright idea of locking us in here and waiting until we starve to death.”

Jager nodded and ran to Irunzad’s corpse to retrieve the Key.

Ridmark strode through the arch and back to the main chamber of the Vault, his staff in hand, Arandar and Gavin and Kharlacht and Caius following him. The Mhorite scouts might have fled, but they had returned with reinforcements. A large band of Mhorite warriors hurried through the aisles between the stone tables. Ridmark saw no shamans in their number yet, but he knew that would change.

“The main aisle,” said Ridmark. “We’ll make a stand there. Hold them off as long as you can, and when I give the word, fall back to the archway.” The longer they held out, the longer they gave Calliande to return from Dragonfall.

If she returned.

He forced that thought from his mind. Calliande would return from Dragonfall. And if not, Ridmark would make the Mhorites pay in blood for every step they took into the Vault.

He reached the central aisle, the others around him. More Mhorites came into the Vault, some of them staring at Ridmark, others eyeing the massive quantity of treasure heaped in the room. One of the Mhorites snarled a command, and the orcish warriors turned from the wealth of Khald Azalar, their red-gleaming eyes falling upon Ridmark. Beyond them, through the gate to the throne room, more bands of Mhorites emerged from the Citadel of Kings.

More Mhorites than they could hope to defeat.

“Gray Knight!” snarled one of the Mhorite warriors in Kothluuskan-accented orcish. “Surrender yourself. The Voice of Mhor desires your blood. Surrender yourself, and perhaps the great shaman will spare your companions.”

“I doubt that,” said Ridmark. “Since when has Mhor ever offered mercy to anyone? Mournacht is too good a servant of his false god to spare his enemies now.” Several of the warriors snarled in fury, and more of them moved closer, preparing to spread out around Ridmark and the others. “So if the chosen one of Mhor desires to offer my blood to his false god…”

“Blasphemy!” roared the Mhorite, and the other orcish warriors bellowed their agreement.

“If his false god desires my blood!” shouted Ridmark, using the voice he had once employed while commanding men in battle. “If your false god desires my death, then let Mournacht come and claim it! Come, orcs of Kothluusk! Do you think you can take us?” Ridmark gestured at his companions, pointing his staff at Arandar and then at Gavin. “Do you see the soulblades in their hands? You know what Swordbearers can do! Will your false god protect you from the power of a soulblade? Will…”

“Silence!” roared the Mhorite. “Kill them! Kill them as a blood offering to Mhor! Kill them and lay their heads before the great Voice of Mhor!”

The Mhorites charged forward, the bulk of the warriors sprinting up the main aisle, while others spread out along the sides. Ridmark ran forward to meet them. He crashed into the charging Mhorites, his staff a dark blur in his hands. The wide space of the aisles gave him ample room to use the full capabilities of the long weapon, and two Mhorites fell dead in the opening moments of the fight, their skulls crushed from heavy blows of the staff. Another Mhorite sprang at Ridmark, stabbing with a sword, and Ridmark swept his staff to the side, his parry breaking both of the Mhorite’s wrists. The orcish warrior dropped his weapon with a howl, and Ridmark reversed his staff and crushed the Mhorite’s throat. Another Mhorite attacked with a battle axe, and Ridmark twisted, hooked his staff behind the axe’s blade, and yanked. The orcish warrior stumbled forward, and stepped right into a blow from Caius’s mace. The Mhorite’s head snapped to the side in a crimson spray, and then the warrior joined his dead fellows upon the floor.

The battle raged around Ridmark as his friends fought. Caius and Kharlacht battled alongside each other, as had become their custom. The dwarven friar disabled or stunned foes with his mace, and then Kharlacht’s massive greatsword finished them off. Both Arandar and Gavin were like an army unto themselves. With no need to protect themselves from magical attacks, the Swordbearers used the full power of their weapons to make themselves faster and stronger, and it showed. Gavin cut down Mhorite after Mhorite, Truthseeker a blur in his hands. As deadly as Gavin was, Arandar was even more potent, with decades of skill and experience backing up Heartwarden’s power. He left a trail of dead Mhorites in his wake, and soon a ring of slain orcs surrounded Ridmark and the others.

Another knot of Mhorites charged at Ridmark, and he seized the axe of a fallen Mhorite warrior and flung the weapon. The axe had not been balanced for throwing, but his aim was mostly true, and the Mhorites scattered to avoid the missile. Ridmark charged into their moment of hesitation, driving his staff towards the head of the nearest Mhorite. The warrior started to dodge, but too late, and Ridmark’s staff bounced off the top of the orc’s head. The Mhorite fell, stunned or slain, and a second warrior attacked. Ridmark deflected the sword, and a third Mhorite slashed at him. He stepped into the attack, trusting in his dark elven armor to block the strike. The third orc’s blade rebounded from his armor, the blow sending a surge of pain through Ridmark’s chest. The strike left the Mhorite warrior open, and Ridmark attacked, driving one end of his staff into the Mhorite’s throat with crunching sound, and then twisted and swung the weapon like a club. It smacked into the second Mhorite’s temple, sending the warrior to join the gathering collection of dead orcs upon the floor of the Vault. The first Mhorite tried to stab again, and Ridmark ducked, his staff lashing into the orc’s knee. The Mhorite bellowed and tried to recover, and Ridmark beat aside the warrior’s frantic parry and landed a heavy blow to the skull.

The Mhorite fell, and Ridmark spun, seeking more foes.

But the Mhorites had fallen back. Over a score of dead Mhorites lay in a ring around Ridmark and his friends, and not even the most fanatic servant of Mhor wished to throw himself into the jaws of certain death. Yet Ridmark knew the Mhorites had simply gone to summon reinforcements, or maybe even Mournacht himself. Already he saw more warriors pouring through the gate into the Vault, heard the sound of many more rising from the Citadel’s throne room. A troop of Mhorites with short bows hastened into the Vault, no doubt intending to shoot down their enemies from a distance.

“Gray Knight,” said Arandar.

“I know,” said Ridmark. “It’s time to go.”

They ran for the archway leading to the empty hall and the doors of Dragonfall. The Mhorites drew back their bows and released a hail of arrows. Ridmark threw himself to the ground, ducking behind a stone table piled with golden coins. One of the arrows hit the table and tumbled past it, sending a spray of coins against Ridmark. He rolled back to his feet and kept running, more arrows hissing past him as Arandar and Gavin and Kharlacht and Caius scrambled for the archway. An arrow slammed into Ridmark’s side, shattering against his armor, which was just as well, since the resultant stumble knocked him out of the way of an arrow that would have opened his throat. Instead it clipped his shoulder, another burst of pain going through him. He did not let it slow him, but kept sprinting, and soon followed the others into the empty hall. Morigna and Jager and Mara waited there, weapons in hand.

“Good,” said Ridmark. “The Mhorites are right behind us. We’ll…”

He blinked in surprise.

The ball of fire floated above Antenora herself, and it was nearly as wide across as she was tall, throwing its harsh yellow-white glow across the walls and floor. Belatedly Ridmark realized that he felt the heat of the thing beating against his face. It was so hot that it was becoming painful to stand near her, and he could only guess how much magical force she had bound up in the spell.

“I had the time,” said Antenora in her calm, rasping voice, “to gather a considerable amount of power for the spell.”

“So I see,” said Ridmark. “Be ready. The Mhorites are coming.” He hesitated. “Don’t stand in front of Antenora.”

Jager snorted. “Excellent counsel.”

###

Morigna waited, both hands around her staff, her heart drumming in her ears.

Part of her mind pointed out that this was futile madness, that there was no way they could hold out against the army Mournacht had brought with him to Khald Azalar. They should have fled while they still could have done so, before the Mhorites had fortified themselves in the throne room. For that matter, it was likely that the Devourer had slain Calliande already, and would emerge from Dragonfall with the Keeper’s powers added to its own.

But Ridmark had decided to stay and fight, and Morigna had made her choice to follow him to the end, to whatever fate that might be.

Besides, there was no longer any way out of the Vault of the Kings. To escape, they would have to fight their way to the stairs leading to the Gate of the East or back through the Gate of the Deeps, and they would have to hack their way through the entire Mhorite host in order to do it. They had escaped the battle in the Vale of Stone Death with the aid of the manetaurs, but Morigna doubted that Curzonar would return to offer aid.

So that was it. Morigna would make her stand here with the others.

They would either triumph, or they would die.

“Antenora,” said Ridmark in a low voice. “Don’t release your spell immediately. Wait until a good number of Mhorites have gathered in the main Vault. The more we can take down, the longer we have, and time works to our advantage.”

Antenora nodded, the huge ball of flame over her head wobbling a bit. “Give the word when you wish, Gray Knight, and I shall release the fire. Make sure you are well away from the archway. I may not be able to control the fire once I have summoned it.”

Morigna, who had seen Antenora wield her fury against the creatures of the threshold and against the trolls of the Vale of Stone Death, took a prudent step away from the ancient sorceress. Not that it would matter. If Antenora lost control of that much power, it would likely kill everyone in the hall.

The first Mhorite scouts sprinted through the archway. The dark magic whispered beneath the edge of Morigna’s thoughts, murmuring that with its power she might have victory, that she might save her life and Ridmark’s life…

She pushed aside the thoughts. The dark magic would transform her, and if she was going to die then she would die as herself, as Morigna of the Wilderland, not as some twisted horror like the thing Coriolus had become in his final moments.

Instead of the dark magic, she drew upon earth magic and cast a spell, the stone floor heeding her command. The ripple shot through the stone and sent the Mhorites tumbling. Ridmark and the others charged, taking advantage of the Mhorites’ distraction to attack, and killed half a dozen of the orcish warriors before they could recover. More Mhorite warriors rushed through the archway, and Morigna cast another spell. She threw a wave of sleeping mist through the Mhorites, commanding it to roll past them and into the main Vault proper. Spread out among so many, it did little, but it stunned them for a moment, making them groggy and disoriented, and Ridmark and the others were too experienced not to let such an advantage pass. Ridmark’s staff crushed throats and cracked skulls, while the Swordbearers drove their blades through flesh and bone and armor alike. Kharlacht struck deadly blows with his greatsword, and Caius’s mace turned limbs to bloody pulp. Mara flickered through the melee with flashes of blue fire, circling around the edges of the battle. Jager struck whenever she tripped or crippled a Mhorite warrior, calmly driving his short sword into backs and necks. Morigna would have preferred that he stay out of the battle entirely, given that he carried both the soulstone and the Key, but she supposed the common Mhorite warriors were too stupid to recognize the value of those items.

More and more Mhorite orcs poured through the archway, and horns rang out from the Vault proper as more arrived.

“Ridmark!” shouted Morigna. “You can’t hold them!”

“Antenora!” said Ridmark, killing another Mhorite and stepping back. “Now!”

Ridmark disengaged from the fight and ran to Antenora’s left, and the others followed him, breaking away from the melee. That did not deter the Mhorites, and they surged through the archway, dozens of them, weapons in hand and scarred faces livid with battle rage.

Their expressions changed when Antenora thrust her staff.

The ball of fire struck the floor a few yards in front of her, and for a terrible moment Morigna was sure that Antenora had made a mistake, that the huge fireball was about to explode. Instead the sphere rolled forward like a massive boulder, and it passed through the charging Mhorites, leaving a trail of charred corpses in its wake. The stench of burned flesh flooded the hall, drowning out the smell of blood and sweat. The Mhorites scrambled backwards, but they were too densely packed together, and the fireball rolled through them, wobbling a bit as it did so. The Mhorite attack collapsed as they fell backwards, trying to get away from the flames, and the sphere rolled into the Vault proper.

Then it exploded.

A blast of hot air struck Morigna and sent her sprawling to the floor, her staff bouncing away from her grasp. The roar of the flames filled her ears, and she saw a pair of Mhorites go tumbling overhead, wreathed in fire. Morigna grabbed her staff and pulled herself to her knees, and saw a firestorm raging through the central Vault. A wall of flames sealed off the archway, and she glimpsed screaming Mhorites running back forth, trying frantically to quench the flames that chewed into their flesh. Ridmark and all the others had been knocked over by the gale. Only Antenora still stood upright, her long black coat flapping behind her in the heat, the symbols upon her staff burning as she directed her will at the magic.

At last she gasped and stumbled, leaning upon the glowing staff for support.

“Too much,” she croaked. “Too much. I cannot…I cannot control it.”

Some of the Mhorites within the hall had survived the explosion, and staggered slowly to their feet, lifting their weapons.

“Ridmark!” said Morigna, drawing on the earth magic. A ball of acidic mist appeared around the nearest Mhorite warrior’s head, and the Mhorite managed to scream before his lungs drew in the deadly vapors. The Mhorite tottered and collapsed, and Morigna summoned power for another spell, but by then it didn’t matter. Ridmark and Gavin regained their feet, killing the Mhorites who had survived the explosion. Together they helped get the others to their feet and away from the fire, and Morigna ran to assist them.

“That was,” said Caius, wiping sweat and blood from the gray dome of his balding forehead, “a most impressive explosion.”

“It was like the High Gate all over again,” said Gavin.

“A bit more than we probably needed, though,” said Jager. “Though given the number of Mhorites who want us dead, anything that kills more of them is a good thing.”

“I summoned more power than I intended,” said Antenora, her yellow eyes fixed upon the fire. “I told you the fire was often uncontrollable once summoned.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “You did well. Very well.” He shook his head. “If I had been aided by a sorceress with your power at the Black Mountain…well, that battle might have gone differently indeed.”

“Thank you,” said Antenora. “For you are the Keeper’s strong right hand, and your praise means much.”

Morigna found herself annoyed by that description of Ridmark, and pushed the thought aside. They had larger problems.

“The fire,” said Ridmark. “How long can you maintain it?”

“Perhaps another quarter hour at the most,” said Antenora. She was not sweating in the fire’s heat, but she never sweated. She did look increasingly tired, her face tight with strain. “It will take a considerable amount of power to hold.”

“What if you cooled it down?” said Ridmark.

“I do not understand,” said Antenora.

“That fire is hot enough to kill anyone who touches it,” said Ridmark, wiping some of the sweat and grime from his forehead. “It doesn’t need to be that hot. Just hot enough to set their clothes afire.”

“That…is prudent,” said Arandar. “That is often the best use of fire on the battlefield, to confuse and misdirect and frighten.”

“The longer the Mhorites remain confused and frightened,” said Ridmark, “the longer Calliande has to return with her memory and powers.”

If she returned. Morigna glanced at the distant golden doors on the other end of the hall, but they remained closed.

“Very well,” said Antenora. “Additionally, I shall be able to maintain a cooler fire for much longer.”

“How much longer?” said Ridmark.

“Indefinitely.”

She closed her eyes and gestured with her staff, and the snarling curtain of fire dimmed and lowered. Beyond Morigna saw the carnage that Antenora’s fire had wrought. Hundreds of burned Mhorites lay scattered beyond the arch, and the gold coins and bars upon the stone tables had melted and run down upon the floor.

“God and the apostles,” muttered Jager. “Remind me never to ask you to heat up a cup of tea. You’d blow up the building.”

“Now we wait,” said Morigna, “for the Mhorites to get their courage back.”

Ridmark looked at the dead Mhorites through the curtain of flames. “I fear we shall not have to wait long.”

###

Mara closed her eyes, listening to the song in her head.

The song that had been growing steadily louder.

“I think,” said Mara, opening her eyes, “we might have another problem.”

“Oh,” said Morigna, watching the flames. “Just the one?”

Power blazed before Mara’s eyes, invisible to the gaze of most mortals, but sharp and harsh before her Sight. The ancient glyphs that ringed the Vault of the Kings were shields of frozen light, implacable and invincible. The flow of elemental power from Antenora to the wall of flames seemed like a stream of fire. The mighty wards around the golden doors to Dragonfall blazed like a net of solid light, magic unlike any Mara had encountered before.

All that was secondary to her attention right now, though.

The song in her head kept getting louder.

“The Traveler?” said Ridmark. He had spent most of the last hour watching the curtain of fire, but his eyes kept straying back to the gates to Dragonfall.

“Yes,” said Mara. “He is very near.” She concentrated for a moment, trying to make sense of the peculiar sensation. “Within two miles. Maybe less than a mile. I suspect all the solid rock and the glyphs are disrupting his aura. But he is almost here.”

Arandar gave a shake of his head. “The last time were caught between the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm, we were almost killed.”

“Perhaps they will do us a favor and kill each other off,” said Jager.

“We kept saying that in the Vale,” said Morigna with a sour scowl, “and it never seemed to happen. One suspects the Traveler and Mournacht shall join hands in brotherly amity to first kill us, and only then try to slay each other.”

“Why?” said Arandar.

“Because, Sir Arandar,” said Morigna, “of the essential perversity of the cosmos. Why else does every damned thing always seem to go wrong?”

There was silence for a moment.

“That is actually a good theological argument,” said Caius, “for the fallen nature of the world…”

“If we live through this, we can debate theology later,” said Ridmark. “We can assume that the Traveler and Mournacht will come to battle, and whoever is victorious will try to force their way in here. I wonder if there is something we can do to prolong the battle. We need to play for time.”

“Perhaps Antenora can lower the wall of flame and we can sortie out,” said Gavin. “Throw them into disarray.”

“A bold plan,” said Kharlacht

“It is,” said Antenora. “But I may not be able to conjure the wall of flame fast enough to keep the worshippers of Mhor or the spiny orcs from storming this hall. We…”

Her eyes narrowed, and she fell silent.

“What is it?” said Mara, even as she saw the corrupted haze of dark magic swirling in the central Vault.

“Beware!” said Antenora. “One of the shamans of Mhor summons power to undo my spell.”

“That settles it,” said Gavin. “We shall have to charge.”

“No,” said Mara, “I can deal with it.”

She stepped forward, blocking out the Traveler’s song, and reached instead for the fire within her, the song of her fused soul of human blood and dark elven power. Blue fire swallowed her, and when it cleared Mara stood in the central Vault, the stone floor still radiating terrible heat beneath her boots. Bands of Mhorite warriors moved through the aisles, hundreds upon hundreds of Mhorite warriors. The Mhorite shaman stood a short distance away, a gaunt, skeletal orcish man wearing ragged trousers, sigils burning upon his chest and arms and back, bloody fire dancing around his fingers as he summoned power to contest Antenora’s fire.

Mara was in plain sight of the orcish warriors, and they bellowed in fury, but not before she slashed the shaman’s throat with her sword. The warriors charged, avoiding the cooling pools of melted gold, and Mara drew on her song again, the blue fire depositing her next to Antenora. She took a moment to catch her breath. Using the power of her blood to travel had gotten easier with practice, but it was still exhausting.

Jager was at her side in an instant. “One less Mhorite shaman, I take it?”

“Yes,” said Mara, taking deep breaths to slow her heart and still the fire of the song in her mind. “There was just one for now. More shall arrive soon.”

“Well done,” said Ridmark, and to Mara’s surprise, she felt a flicker of pride at the complement. Ridmark knew how to lead people. It was his talent, even more than his prowess with weapons. It explained why Morigna and Arandar had not killed each other, why Arandar and Jager were amicable companions rather than bitter enemies, why the peculiar group that had formed around Ridmark and Calliande had held together.

Mara wondered how that would change if Calliande regained her memories, how Calliande herself would change.

More dark magic flared before her Sight.

“Another one,” said Antenora.

Mara nodded and reached for her song again.

“I will handle this one,” said Morigna, and she squinted into the flames, purple fire burning along her staff. Mara recognized the familiar pattern of the earth magic in Morigna’s spells, and even over the snarl of the flames she heard the sudden agonized scream of a Mhorite shaman as the acidic mist chewed into his flesh.

An agonized scream, but a brief one.

“The fool did not think to ward himself before attacking,” said Morigna with a satisfied smirk.

“The next one will not be so imprudent,” said Arandar.

“Or they will attack in groups,” said Mara. “A group of shamans to dispel the flames, and then bands of warriors to charge through when the spell collapses.”

“Best we continue to wait, then,” said Ridmark.

Arandar shook his head. “In war, fortune favors the commander who takes the initiative.”

Morigna started to spit out a retort, but Ridmark spoke first.

“We’re also outnumbered a thousand to one,” said Ridmark. “If we attack, we shall be killed in short order. Better, I think, to force our enemies to act, and then we can counter them. The attacker always has a harder task than the defender, and this is the best defensive position we are likely to find.”

“It is the only defensive position we are likely to find,” said Kharlacht, “given that there are no other exits from this chamber, and we cannot enter Dragonfall.”

“No,” said Arandar. “We might as…”

A sudden scream drowned out his words.

Mara whirled, seeking the source of the scream, wondering if one of the Mhorites had somehow gotten into the hall. Her brain caught up with her ears, and she realized that the scream was actually hundreds of voices raised as one, that she now heard the sound of fighting and clashing steel through the curtain of flame.

Her father’s song, dark and proud and malevolent, thundered inside of her skull.

“It sounds like a battle,” said Jager.

“It is a battle,” said Arandar. “The Anathgrimm have arrived.”

“They have,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “My father is out there, I am sure of it.”

“Then it seems,” said Caius, “that we shall face the victor of the struggle.”

“Let us hope the victor is considerably weakened,” said Caius.

“I should go have a look,” said Mara. Dark magic flared and burned and snarled before her Sight. Dark wizards were battling one another. Likely the Mhorite shamans and the wizards of the Anathgrimm unleashed their powers against one another. Or perhaps even the Traveler and Mournacht were locked in battle.

“No,” said Ridmark and Jager in unison. They looked at each other, and Jager gestured for Ridmark to continue. “If you travel into the midst of a battle, you might land right in the path of an arrow. Or some Anathgrimm might get lucky and stab you before you get your bearings.”

“Very well,” said Mara.

Then a huge surge of dark magic blazed before her Sight, a dark vortex of malevolent power.

“Beware!” said Antenora. “The enemy comes. The…”

Blood-colored flame blazed in the midst of the fiery curtain, and Antenora stumbled back as her spell shattered, the light from her staff sputtering and flickering. A huge figure strode through the archway, an orcish shaman over seven feet tall. Unlike the other shamans, he was a tower of muscle, his chest and arms huge. The crimson tattoo and stylized skull upon his features seemed to twist his face into a permanent snarl of fury. He wore only trousers, boots, and a broad leather belt, red-painted human skulls dangling on a leather cord from his right hip. In his right hand he held a massive double-bladed battle axe of black steel, taller than Ridmark, the thick blades as wide across as his shoulders. More symbols of bloody fire shone upon the blades, and Mara saw the tremendous dark magic at the shaman’s command.

It was Mournacht.

After him came his elite guard, towering Mhorite warriors in crimson plate armor adorned with skulls, axes and swords in hand.

“Oh, hell,” muttered Jager.

Mournacht looked them over. He was breathing hard, his chest and axe spattered with blood, none of it his own. His guards looked battered as well. Mournacht’s eyes turned back and forth, and then his scarred face lit up in a gleeful smile as he saw Ridmark.

“Gray Knight!” thundered Mournacht, lifting his black axe. “How splendid that you are still alive. Thrice you have escaped me. Now I have you caught like a rat in a trap, and you will not escape a fourth time.”

“Make what taunts you like,” said Ridmark, his staff ready in his hands. “You are Shadowbearer’s puppet and nothing more.”

Mournacht rumbled a laugh. “Shadowbearer? You speak nonsense. I am the Chosen and Voice of Mhor, his champion and his strong right hand, and with the power hidden in this ruin I shall lay all of Andomhaim upon the altar of Mhor as a blood sacrifice.” He pointed the enormous weapon at Ridmark. “Staring with you, a sacrifice that will give me great pleasure.”

“Technically,” said Jager with an insouciant smile, “is it really a sacrifice then?” Mournacht’s red-gleaming eyes turned to him. “A sacrifice is something you don’t want to give up, and you really want to kill the Gray Knight. So, to please Mhor, you’ll have to kill someone you don’t want to kill. Like, yourself. That should please Mhor. Or that fellow standing next to you.” He gestured with his short sword. “Or yourself, preferably. My understanding of Mhorite theology is a little vague, since it is a bunch of lies concocted by murderous madmen.”

He offered Mournacht his sunniest smile, and Mara let out an astonished laugh. The sheer gall of her husband never failed to both shock and amuse her, even in the grimmest circumstances.

“Little worm,” rumbled Mournacht. “You shall regret those words as you die screaming.”

“Well, since I am going to die screaming no matter what I do,” said Jager, “I might as well amuse myself before I go. Did you know that your facial tattoos make you look like a bruised tomato with tusks? Perhaps Mhor is actually a giant tomato, which would make for a poor god. Why, a tomato could not answer prayer, and…”

“Silence!” roared Mournacht.

Mara braced herself, reaching for the dark fire in her blood. She could not travel behind Mournacht and cut his throat. The magical wards written upon his skin prevented her from reappearing anywhere within ten to fifteen yards of him, and his guards would cut her down easily. Maybe her power would not be necessary. Gavin and Arandar were both Swordbearers, and their soulblades could penetrate the dark magic warding Mournacht from harm. Perhaps if they had faced Mournacht alone, they might have a chance of victory.

But Mournacht had his elite guard around him, and there were more Mhorites behind him.

“Kill the Gray Knight’s companions,” said Mournacht. He raised the massive axe in both hands. “I shall kill the Gray Knight myself as a blood offering to Mhor.”

The Mhorites roared and charged, and Mournacht sprinted before them, a blur of blood-colored fire.

###

Ridmark whirled and struck at Mournacht, trying to land a telling blow upon the huge shaman.

He did, and heard Mournacht’s arm shatter from the blow, as it had a dozen times before. Yet it hardly seemed to matter. The dark magic upon Mournacht healed the injury almost at once, so fast that Ridmark heard the crackle of bones as they reset themselves, the bruised and bloodied flesh returning to a healthy green within seconds. Arandar and Gavin had better luck, and the wounds they dealt with their soulblades did not heal nearly as quickly. Yet they still healed, and Ridmark suspected only a blow through the heart or the head with a soulblade would finish Mournacht. The orcish shaman did not give them the opportunity. Mournacht wielded that huge axe with accuracy and power, and his dark magic made him faster and stronger than a Swordbearer. Ridmark dared not stand still, not even for a moment, or else Mournacht would kill him with a single blow of the huge black axe.

He could not help the others. The red-armored Mhorites pressed Kharlacht and Caius hard. Mara and Jager helped where they could, Mara flickered in and out of the battle, Jager stabbing and tripping orcs, but there were simply too many Mhorites. Morigna conjured curtains of sleeping mist, the floor rippling to knock the Mhorites over, and Antenora launched bursts of fire that set the Mhorites ablaze. Their efforts did little good. Step by step the Mhorites stormed into the hall. Sooner or later Ridmark and the others would be overwhelmed, or they would simply run out of room to retreat and Mournacht would have them.

He hit the shaman across the ribs with his staff, and Mournacht snarled and brought his axe around in a sideways slash. Ridmark just barely ducked in time, the huge blades blurring over his head, and jabbed his staff at Mournacht’s belly. Mournacht shifted his axe to one hand, deflecting one of Gavin’s thrusts, and his free fist shot towards Ridmark’s face. Ridmark twisted to the side, and Mournacht’s blow hit him in the shoulder with wrenching force. His left shoulder went numb, and the impact flung him back a dozen feet to bounce off the floor. Ridmark managed to keep his staff in hand, and he used it to haul himself back to his feet as Gavin and Arandar continued fighting Mournacht.

It seemed that they had failed.

He hoped that Calliande had been successful, that she had recovered her staff and defeated the Devourer. Or perhaps they had both failed, and it had all been for nothing. Well, he could still take as many Mhorites with him as he could…

A deep, thunderous roar cut through the noise of the battle, and a dark shape surged through the archway.

It was an ursaar, one of the dark elves’ war beasts, a creature that looked like an enormous, twisted bear. Plates of blue dark eleven steel covered the ursaar, armoring it from snout to haunches, and the hulking beast looked as if it could destroy an army on its own. Atop the ursaar sat a towering figure clad in armor of similar design to the armor Ridmark and the others had stolen from Urd Morlemoch, though this armor was far more ornate, adorned with twisted designs of silver that made Ridmark’s eyes hurt. The figure’s face was chalk white, and his eyes were bottomless black pits into a void. His blue helmet had an ornate crest of silver, and in his armored fist he carried a longsword of dark elven steel that writhed with shadow and blue flame.

The dark elven lord atop the ursaar was the Traveler, the prince of Nightmane Forest, one of the most powerful remaining dark elven nobles…and Mara’s father.

Mournacht let out a deep, rumbling snarl, taking several steps to the side to keep both the Traveler and the Swordbearers in sight. Morigna and Antenora began new spells, while Mara stared at her father with a grim expression, Jager at her side. Dozens of Anathgrimm warriors stood behind the Traveler’s ursaar, and here and there Ridmark spotted the crouched, twisted forms of urvaalgs. The sounds of furious battle still rang from the central Vault, but for a moment silence fell as the Traveler and Mournacht glared at each other.

“So,” said Mournacht, “it seems your pets and your slaves managed to fight their way through after all.”

“Orcish dog,” spat the Traveler, his face twisted with rage. His voice was far deeper than any human voice, and inhumanly beautiful, the beauty made terrifying by his rage. “You think to challenge your betters? You will lie upon your belly and grovel for scraps before I am finished with you.”

“Bold words,” said Mournacht, “since you have yet to defeat me.”

The Traveler shuddered, a spasm going over his expression, and a strange, manic laugh came from his lips. It was somehow more unsettling than his rage. Morigna had spoken of how his moods swung back and forth like the pendulum of an overwound clock. “Indeed? I have let to defeat you, or I have yet to defeat the bearer of Incariel’s shadow?”

Ridmark blinked. He had guessed that Shadowbearer might be with Mournacht, and if the dark elven lord was right…

“Fool,” said Mournacht. “Mhor gives me the power to slay, and I shall slay you.”

Again the Traveler let out that wild, mad laugh. “You are a puppet and you do not even know it. A puppet with strings of sorcery driven into your flesh, dancing to the tune of your unseen master. How delightfully amusing!” Once more he laughed, and his ursaar growling, the beast pacing forward on its massive claw-studded paws. “How exquisitely cruel. Of old I would have shared the joke with the other lords of the dark elven kindred, and we would have laughed as you spent your life in a purpose not your own.”

“You shall not laugh,” said Mournacht, “as I spill your life upon the floor.”

“Will I?” said the Traveler, and his mocking smile turned to a snarl as the pendulum of his mood swept back to rage. “Will I? Orcish dog! Once I claim the power of the Keeper for myself, I shall kill you and your master! I shall rend him from his flesh and send Incariel’s shadow screaming back into the void once more! And then, for your impudence, I will exterminate every last orc of Kothluusk and crucify every last shaman of Mhor upon the altars of your impotent and useless god! I shall…”

The black, void-filled eyes fell upon Ridmark, and the sheer weight and power of the ancient dark elf’s gaze made him want to flinch. The Traveler possessed the same aura of power that had surrounded the Warden, but the Warden had been cold control and iron discipline. The Traveler was simply insane, and almost impossible to predict. Ridmark was not sure if that made the Lord of Nightmane Forest more or less dangerous.

The Traveler shuddered again, and all the emotion drained away from him, leaving his face a bloodless, emotionless mask. He looked a great deal like Mara, almost disturbingly so.

“The Gray Knight,” said the Traveler, his voice toneless and dead. “Interesting indeed. What a disruptive force you are.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark, trying to watch the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm at the same time.

“It is indeed a compliment,” said Traveler. “After the Keeper went into her slumber, the bearer of shadow hatched his plans. Everything that has happened since the Keeper entered hibernation has happened according to Shadowbearer’s will.” A hint of the manic glee entered that gaunt white face. “Your realm of Andomhaim danced as puppets upon strings pulled by the bearer of shadow. Upon the day of the great conjunction, the day the Keeper awakened, his final victory was at hand and the destruction of this world was near…and then you shattered his plans. How he must have raged.” The bottomless black eyes bored into Ridmark. “I would have expected you to be…more. I would have expected a Swordbearer, a great Magistrius, perhaps even a high noble of your feeble kingdom. Instead you are a branded exile with a stick.”

“I suppose that would have made Shadowbearer all the angrier, would it not?” said Ridmark.

The Traveler threw back his head and roared with laughter the way the Warden had done. The sound was horrible, and dug at Ridmark’s ears like knives. Then the laughter stopped, and the Traveler’s face returned to its empty mask.

“Indeed,” said the Traveler. “You have earned the honor of a death at my hand, human.” The black eyes shifted to the side. “And you have brought my wayward daughter into my grasp once more. Splendid. I shall tame her power, and dispose of her impudent rat of a husband.”

“You failed to do so the last time,” said Jager. Ridmark expected the Traveler to fly into a rage at the insult, but the dark elven lord only shrugged.

“You mortals are so impatient,” said the Traveler. “If I kill you today, or if I kill you after seven years of torment…it makes no matter. Ah! The Swordbearers are with you as well, Sir Arandar and Sir Gavin. Their soulblades shall make fine trophies in Nightmane Forest. The peculiar sorceress from Old Earth is in your company, too. I shall enjoy digging the secrets of her magic from her skull.”

“No,” said Mara. “You shall not, father. You should have stayed behind your wards in Nightmane Forest.”

The Traveler stared at her, and his calm mask shattered like a dam bursting from a torrential flood.

“Then perish!” he screamed. “Perish, all of you. Slaves! Kill the Gray Knight and his deluded followers! Kill them all!”

Mournacht laughed, bloody fire blazing to life around his axe once more. “And you shall join them, Traveler! The time of the dark elves is past, and you shall fall into the dust of history to join your kindred!”

“And you, orcish dog,” snarled the Traveler, lifting his sword as shadows and blue fire snarled around the blade, “shall die at my hand.”

The hall exploded into chaos around Ridmark, and once more he fought for his life.

Chapter 16: Lost Lives

Calliande strode alone into the gloom, the clammy gray mist washing over her bare skin.

She felt the cold stone floor beneath her feet, and the strange mist gave off a pale light, but she had no idea where she was. Her gaze could not penetrate the mists more than a few feet in any direction, and she saw no walls, no pillars, no doors, nothing. So she took slow, tentative steps, her hands outstretched before her.

Yet it felt as if she covered some vast, unimaginable distance with every step, as if every stride took her farther into some strange place. And this mist…she had seen this mist before, but where?

Calliande took another step into the misty gloom, and the answer struck her.

She had seen this mist again and again in her dreams. For that matter, she had seen it in the waking world. It was the mist that choked her thoughts, that cloaked her memories from her waking mind. Stunned, she cast the spell to sense the presence of magic, and she felt mighty magic, ancient and potent, all around her.

Suddenly she understood. Dragonfall was not entirely in the mortal world. Parts of it extended into the threshold, into the spirit realm. She had wanted to hide her staff and her memories, and where better to hide them than a place beyond the circles of the world?

Something stirred in the mist behind her.

Calliande whirled, her mist-damp hair slapping her forehead, and summoned power for a spell. A lot of power came at her call, far more than she expected, and her hands seemed to burn as if her bones had transformed into light. Understanding came a moment later. Magic was stronger in the threshold than in the material world. Morigna and Antenora both had been able to wield considerably more power in the threshold. They used elemental magic, but apparently the magic of the Well would be stronger here.

She stared into the gray mist, but nothing moved, and after a moment she kept walking, though she kept her power close at hand. Silence hung around her, and step by careful step she moved deeper into the clammy mist, watching for any sign of danger.

None showed itself. The horrible sense of familiarity deepened, until it seemed to Calliande that she had stood in this very place just a few moments ago. She knew she had suffered pain, terrible pain, here.

Now she was certain that she was about to experience that pain again.

The mist rippled, and Calliande turned, certain that someone or something was watching her. Again she saw nothing. The mist started to spin, pushing away from Calliande in an increasingly clear space, as if she stood in the eye of a storm. As the mist pushed away, she saw that the floor was made of pale white stone, similar to the kind of stone she saw in dark elven ruins. Was Dragonfall inside a dark elven ruin? It was a disturbing thought. She had gone to several dark elven ruins with Ridmark and the others, and they had almost been killed every single time…

The mist drew back further, revealing a vast hall of white stone, and Calliande realized that it was not a dark elven ruin after all. Dark elven ruins had a disturbing, alien sort of beauty, one designed for eyes other than human, a beauty that induced a mild sense of fear and unease. The vast hall of white stone around her was simply beautiful. Niches lined the walls, and in each niche rested the skull of a dragon, black as night and hard as diamond. Each dragon skull could have swallowed Calliande whole without much effort, and she felt the potent magical power secured within each skull. The dragons had been mighty wielders of magic.

Another memory jerked out of the mist that choked her mind. The dragons had been powerful, so powerful that the high elves had sealed their skulls away in Dragonfall lest that power fall into the hands of the dark elves. Perhaps that was why Calliande had hidden the power of the Keeper here.

The mist continued to roll away, revealing a stone plinth in the exact center of the hall. Atop the plinth sat a peculiar crystalline sphere that seemed to give out a faint chiming noise, shining with a ghostly light of its own.

A specter stood next to the plinth, an image fashioned of pale blue light. It was an old man in the white robe and black sash of a Magistrius, his hair and beard tangled and gray, his eyes and face tired and sad. Calliande knew him as the Watcher, and his spirit had stood watch over her in the Tower of Vigilance, and had counseled her in her dreams ever since.

Perhaps, she wondered, the place where they had spoken in their dreams, the mist-shrouded empty plain, had actually been Dragonfall all along.

“Watcher,” said Calliande. She felt peculiar speaking to him naked, but he had been inside of her dreams. Physical nudity seemed almost redundant after that.

The Watcher’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Behind you!” he shouted. “It’s behind you!”

Calliande blinked, spun, and almost screamed.

The Devourer crouched not a dozen yards away, moving forward in absolute silence. The malophage had returned to the form of the scale-armored ape, its four arms extended, the jagged claws ready to rend her unprotected flesh. The Devourer looked badly injured, burns covering its torso and limbs, but it still moved with eerie, fluid grace. The malophage surged towards her, and Calliande raised her hands and called upon her magic. White fire blasted from her palms, more powerful than she had ever called before, and slammed into the malophage. The spell flipped the malophage over, and the Devourer hit the floor hard, its claws scrabbling for purchase on the smooth white stone. Before it could recover, Calliande hit it again, white fire drilling into its armored flesh. The malophage seemed badly weakened. Perhaps passing through the wards around Dragonfall had damaged it.

Enough that Calliande could destroy the creature entirely?

She attacked again, but the Devourer leaped backwards, vanishing into the gray mist that still ringed the chamber. Calliande stared into the mist, breathing hard, but saw no sign of movement. She had driven off the Devourer.

She had no doubts that the creature would be back.

“You must be vigilant,” said the Watcher in his tired voice. “The creature will return. Shadowbearer must have summoned it to wait for you.”

“I doubt it,” said Calliande, shaking her head. “I think the malophage is just an opportunist. It sensed the power within Dragonfall, and has been waiting to catch me ever since. I think that…”

She fell silent.

Her voice…sounded strange to her. Different. More forceful, more confident. Her accent had changed as well. Come to think of it, she sounded a great deal like Morigna.

And Morigna had learned much of her Latin from a man who had known Calliande before she had gone into the long sleep.

“Yes,” said the Watcher in a soft voice. “Yes, you are starting to remember.”

“I…” Calliande stared at him, her throat growing dry. “I…remember you. I think…”

“Go on,” said the Watcher.

“You were a Magistrius,” said Calliande. “One of my teachers. One of the best healers in the Order. You…you taught me how to use the magic of the Well to heal wounds.” She clawed the knowledge from her damaged mind with pain, like lifting iron weights with only her fingernails, but bits and pieces came. “Then…you followed me. Your name. I know your name. Your name is Marius!”

The Watcher, once the Magistrius named Marius, inclined his head. “Yes. You have come to Dragonfall at last, and your memory is returning.”

Calliande felt tears in her eyes. “How could I have forgotten you? You taught me so much. You looked after me after my father…my father…” She swallowed.

“I do not wish to make light of your pain,” said Marius, “but you must hurry. The malophage will restore itself, and once it feels strong enough, it will come after you again.”

“Yes,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath, pulling herself together. “At least the others will be safe.”

“What?” said Marius.

“Ridmark and the others,” said Calliande. “If the Devourer followed me in here, it cannot hurt them. I expect it is trapped in here with me, and will not be able to leave unless it kills me and takes my power.”

Marius managed a faint smile. “As ever, you feel more fear for others than you do for yourself.”

“They are in danger because of me,” said Calliande.

“They are in danger because of the Frostborn and Shadowbearer,” said Marius. “You must hasten. I would answer all your questions, but you shall have all the answers you want once your memory is restored to you.”

“How?” said Calliande.

Marius gestured at the plinth. “The crystals contain pieces of your memory. Touch them and the portions of your memory that they contain shall be restored to you at once.”

“Where is my staff?” said Calliande. “I suspect I need that more urgently.” A flicker of motion caught her eye. She turned, raising her hand, but it was only the undulation of the mist.

Or so she thought.

“It is locked away by your memories,” said Marius.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Calliande.

“As you have likely guessed, we are no longer in Andomhaim proper,” said Marius. “Instead, we are in the threshold. The high elves built Dragonfall long ago, soon after the schism that sundered the elven kindred into the high elves and the dark elves. Ardrhythain and the other archmages of the high elves feared that the skulls of the departed dragons would fall into the hands of the dark elves, who could use the power bound within them to work terrible evils. When the dwarves came to this world, Ardrhythain convinced some of them to settle here, and Khald Azalar was built to protect Dragonfall.”

“I guessed as much,” said Calliande. “What does that have to do with my staff?”

“The laws of reality do not work the same here as they do in the material world,” said Marius. “You concealed your staff with a spell of great power, and it will only reveal itself to someone who possesses all of your memories.”

“I see,” said Calliande, thinking it over. “Part of my memories? You mean there are more than one of these crystals?”

“Yes,” said Marius. “I do not know how many. Only Kalomarus the Dragon Knight accompanied you to Dragonfall, and other than you, he is the only one who knows its secrets.”

“All right,” said Calliande, risking another look around the chamber. There was still no sign of the Devourer. It must have retreated to recover its strength, and once it had recovered, it would try to overwhelm and kill her before she could bring her magic to bear. “Then let us begin.”

“I must warn you,” said Marius. “This experience will likely be…painful.”

“From the spell?” said Calliande.

“No,” said Marius. “You have endured many losses, Calliande. They made you the woman you are today. To recover your memory, you shall have to relive them.”

Calliande hesitated, staring at the crystal sphere upon its plinth. All her doubts and fears flooded through her anew. She had told Caius once that memories shaped a man’s or a woman’s character, that their experiences defined them. Calliande had forgotten all of her experiences, but she knew that those experiences had transformed her into the Keeper, that they had made her into a woman who could forsake everything she had ever known.

Did she really want those memories back?

In the end, it didn’t matter. The Frostborn would return. Her friends would die when the Mhorites or the Anathgrimm caught up to them. More immediately, if she did not take up the Keeper’s staff the Devourer was going to kill her.

So she strode to the plinth and placed her right hand upon the sphere.

For a moment nothing happened.

And then a decade exploded inside of Calliande’s head.

She let out a sound halfway between a gasp and a scream, every muscle in her body going rigid at once, her fingers gripping the crystal.

A storm of memories ripped through her mind, piling upon themselves one after another, years flashing before her eyes in an instant. It should have been too much to process, too much to handle. Yet Calliande had lived all these memories before.

She knew them already.

The cottage where she had been born on the western bank of the River Moradel, the soaring towers and spires of Tarlion and the High King’s citadel rising upon the far bank across the river.

Helping her mother to clean and sew, helping her father to repair his nets and clean his catch for the day.

Names. She remembered her parents’ names. Her father had been Joachim, a fisherman as his father and his father’s father had been before him, a lean, strong man with leathery skin and kindly eyes. Her mother had been named Joanna, and she had looked a great deal like Calliande, with blue eyes and long blond hair that hung to her hips.

More memories ripped into Calliande’s mind.

She remembered learning to read, the kindly old priest teaching her.

She remembered cooking with her mother, making cakes in their stove.

She remembered sitting upon the dock, eating stoneberries with her father.

And then…the fever, Joanna’s racking cough. A Magistrius had been summoned, but too late, too late. Calliande had prayed for days, begging for her mother to live.

She hadn’t.

Then one day Joachim had been caught in a sudden storm, and his boat capsized. He washed to shore, and Calliande pounded on his chest, screaming for him to breathe, and the magic had risen up in her like a storm for the first time…

It hadn’t been enough to save him, though, and Marius came to take her to the Order of the Magistri for training.

The memories swallowed her.

Later Calliande came back to herself.

She was sitting against the plinth, her legs drawn up against her chest, her arms wrapped around her knees. She realized that she was weeping, that she was rocking back and forth. Part of her mind screamed at her to get up, that the Devourer was coming for her, but the pain and the grief were too raw, too new. Her mother and father had been dead for almost two hundred and forty years, yet it had just happened before her eyes…

“They’re dead,” said Calliande. “They’re dead and I couldn’t save them.”

“I know,” said Marius in a quiet voice. “I remember the day we met. The praefectus of your village sent for a Magistrius, said that one of the children had manifested magical power.”

“I was ten years old,” whispered Calliande, the old grief flooding through her in a black wave once more. “Ten years old and already an orphan. I…I didn’t have any other family. Mother and Father had no other children, no siblings. I…I was alone…”

“I said you would have to come with me,” said Marius, “to be trained as a Magistria in the Order. The war against the Frostborn in the Northerland had been raging for decades, and it was turning against the High Kingdom. Every Magistria and Magistrius was needed.”

“I didn’t care about that,” said Calliande, shivering as she hugged her knees to her chest. “The war was so far away. All I wanted…all I wanted…”

“You asked me,” said Marius, “if you could learn to use magic to heal. To save people who would have perished the way your father had drowned.”

“You promised me,” whispered Calliande. “You promised me I could learn to heal.”

And he had kept his word, hadn’t he? Again and again she had healed wounds. She had healed the defenders at Dun Licinia, the orcish warriors and mercenaries at the Iron Tower, the wounds of Ridmark and the others again and again.

“I did,” said Marius. “I told you there would be a cost, that you would have to take the pain of the wounds into yourself. But you did it without flinching. We had never seen an initiate take to healing as you did. That was what drew the eye of the Keeper.”

“The Keeper?” said Calliande.

“Yes,” said Marius. “The staff of the Keeper had been handed down from bearer to bearer for centuries. Always the old Keeper chose a new apprentice. It was her right and her duty. She returned to Tarlion, to counsel the High King in the war against the Frostborn, and you…”

His head snapped around, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the mist.

“Beware!” he said. “The creature returns!”

But Calliande was already moving.

She threw herself to the side as the malophage flung itself from the mist, hurtling towards the stone plinth like a black arrow. The Devourer struck the plinth and rebounded, and as it did, the creature changed shape, abandoning its ape form for something that looked like a hairless lion covered in jagged black scales, a scorpion’s tail rising from its haunches. As the malophage wheeled, Calliande drew upon all her power and called white fire from her palms. The blast slammed into the malophage, and the creature stumbled back with a hideous scream. Yet her fire did not seem to harm the malophage as it had done before.

The Devourer, just as Marius had predicted, was getting stronger.

Calliande gritted her teeth, drawing upon all her power, and hit the Devourer with another spell. The lance of white fire drilled into the Devourer’s side with enough force to flip the creature over and send it tumbling into the mist. Calliande held her magic ready to strike again, but the Devourer did not reappear.

Her shoulders slumped, and she staggered upright, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor. A wave of exhaustion rolled through her. Her magic might have been more powerful in this strange place, yet it still demanded a price in stamina. The raging emotions churning through her mind were draining, sapping at the focus and concentration magic required.

“You must hurry, Keeper,” said Marius. Calliande realized that was the first time he had ever called her that. “Your current strength is not enough to defeat the malophage. You must find the staff before it is too late.”

Calliande nodded, pushing away a few loose strands of hair from her face. “You’re right. I…”

“Run as you wish, Keeper of Andomhaim.” The Devourer spoke with Calliande’s voice, the words bouncing and echoing so Calliande could not pinpoint their source. “Listen to your tattered spirit guardian. Seek your power. It matters not. You are mine. I am the predator, and you are my prey. And when at last I have you, when at last I feast upon your flesh and your magic, your despair shall make the feast all the more…”

“Shut up,” said Calliande. “Marius. Which way?”

“Into the mist,” said Marius. “You make the path. It molds itself to your will and thoughts…and the rest of your memories await.”

Calliande shuddered. Reliving the deaths of her mother and father had been terrible…and the recovered memories only went to her tenth year.

What other horrors had she seen?

Like it or not, she was going to find out.

Calliande walked into the mists of Dragonfall, the spirit of Marius the Watcher following her.

Chapter 17: Fires and Shadows

The damned coins were becoming a nuisance.

Ridmark jumped back, avoiding a spilled pile of coins, blood dripping into his eyes from the cut over his brow. One of the Anathgrimm pursued him with grim determination, a massive shield upon the warrior’s left arm and a heavy mace in his right fist. The warrior’s bone armor and heavy chain mail made him all but impervious to normal blades.

Fortunately, Ridmark wasn’t fighting with a blade.

He dodged a blow from the mace and swung his staff, the impact landing on the Anathgrimm warrior’s cuirass. His staff couldn’t penetrate the warrior’s armor, but that hardly mattered. The force of the staff’s blows communicated through the armor, and already the Anathgrimm warrior limped. Again the warrior swung, and Ridmark jumped back, luring the warrior across a pile of spilled coins.

The Anathgrimm warrior pursued, the coins rasping beneath his boots, and Ridmark struck. The end of his staff went into the warrior’s right knee, and the Anathgrimm lost his footing upon the coins. The warrior fell to one knee with a grunt, and Ridmark drove his staff into the orc’s neck before the warrior could recover.

The Anathgrimm fell over, choking, and Ridmark felt a brief pang of regret. The Traveler’s mutated orcs were fine soldiers, disciplined and dogged and skilled. They were wasted in this kind of fight, and would have been formidable with proper lines and formations. If Ridmark had commanded a thousand Anathgrimm at Black Mountain, Mhalek might never have had the chance to escape the battlefield.

As it was, Ridmark suspected that no one might leave this battlefield alive.

He stepped back, joining his companions as the battle raged around them.

One of the Traveler’s spells had rebounded from Mournacht’s wards with such force that it had blasted into the wall, shattering the ancient dwarven stonework around the archway leading to the golden doors of Dragonfall. Ridmark had feared the entire hall would collapse, burying them alive and sealing the entrance to Dragonfall behind thousands of tons of broken stone, but the wall had remained intact, albeit with a huge smoking crater. The Traveler and Mournacht’s duel had stumbled into the central Vault, along with the battle between the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm.

Ridmark and his companions had been pulled along with it.

Now the central Vault had become a battlefield, with Anathgrimm warriors striving against the Mhorites, the floor becoming slick with orcish blood and carpeted with corpses. The Traveler and Mournacht continued their titanic duel, flinging blasts of dark magic at each other, the air between them crackling with baleful energy. Both the dark elven lord and the orcish shaman had ordered their warriors to kill Ridmark and his companions, but both armies were occupied with trying to kill each other. If a troop of Anathgrimm tried to attack Ridmark and his friends, a band of Mhorites seized the opportunity to attack the Anathgrimm from behind.

So far that was the only thing that had kept Ridmark and his companions alive. Ridmark bled from half a dozen minor wounds, and all the others had taken blows as well. Gavin and Arandar had used their soulblades to heal what they could, but they were not nearly as effective as Calliande.

There was no way to escape, not with the battling armies filling the Vault and the throne room and the assembly chamber beyond. They had to hold out until Calliande reemerged from Dragonfall with her staff. Though Ridmark wondered if even the power of the Keeper could stand against the dark magic Mournacht and the Traveler flung at each other. Perhaps they would succeed in restoring Calliande only for her to die here, and the soulstone would fall into Shadowbearer’s hands anyway.

Regardless of what might happen, there was nothing left to do but to fight, so Ridmark fought.

“Mhorites!” shouted Arandar, pointing with Heartwarden. A band of Mhorites had broken free of the melee and sprinted towards Ridmark, axes and swords in hand.

“Morigna,” Ridmark said, but she was already moving, her staff sputtering with purple fire. Her face was tight and drawn, smudged with soot and blood, dark shadows gathered under her black eyes. Yet despite their peril, she had not yet used dark magic in the fight.

As far as he knew, anyway.

She thrust her staff, and the floor beneath the charging Mhorites rippled and folded, knocking many of them from their feet. Antenora was already casting another spell, a fist-sized ball of fire whirling over the end of her staff. She gestured, and the fireball soared from the end of her staff to land in the midst of the Mhorites. The explosion wasn’t nearly as large as some of the others she had unleashed, but it was enough to kill two of the Mhorites and set several of them ablaze, and their attack faltered in confusion as they fought to put out the flames.

In that moment of confusion, Ridmark and the others attacked.

He killed a burning Mhorite as the orcish warrior struggled to put out the flames chewing at his trousers. One of the uninjured Mhorites came at Ridmark with a sword, and he parried the blow, shoved, and whirled his staff in a circle, driving one end into the Mhorite’s belly. The Mhorite warrior stumbled with a groan, and Ridmark brought the staff down upon the Mhorite’s head. The warrior wasn’t wearing a helmet, and Ridmark heard the crack of shattering bone even over the roaring chaos of the battle. Another Mhorite came at Ridmark, and he tried to dodge, and the edge of the Mhorite’s sword bounced off his armored chest. Ridmark stumbled, and before the Mhorite landed a second blow, Caius swung his mace. The mace of dwarven steel shattered the Mhorite’s elbow with a vicious crunch, and Ridmark recovered his balance and killed the Mhorite.

Gavin and Arandar tore into the orcs, their soulblades blazing with white fire in reaction to the dark magic snarling through the Vault. Kharlacht hewed his way through the Mhorites, his massive greatsword a blur of blue steel.

Yet still Mhorite warriors charged at them, even as blasts of bloody fire and writhing shadow snapped back and forth between Mournacht and the Traveler.

###

Mara held her short sword ready, standing guard over Morigna and Antenora as the sorceresses threw their magic into the battle. From time to time Antenora had a clear shot at the Mhorites or the Anathgrimm, and Morigna regularly threw spells of earth magic into their enemies. It hardly seemed to make a difference. Once again they were in the middle of a battle, caught between two battling armies.

Mara knew she was not much use in a fight like this. She had been trained as an assassin, not as a warrior or a knight, and she preferred to kill enemies that were not fighting back. Additionally, the mighty wards ringing both the Traveler and Mournacht prevented her from using the power of her dark elven blood to travel.

So she hung back with Jager, helping him to kill any Mhorites or Anathgrimm that tried to attack Morigna and Antenora. Not that many did. Ridmark and the others killed any Mhorites and Anathgrimm warriors that drew too close. Yet they were in an untenable position, and she knew it. There was no room left to flee, and neither Mournacht nor the Traveler could withdraw from their titanic battle. Her father was a coward, but his desire to claim the power of the Keeper had apparently overruled his fear. He could not walk away from the fight, and neither could Mournacht. The duel would continue until one of them was dead.

And then the victor would turn his full attention to the Keeper’s companions.

A Mhorite warrior sprinted at Antenora and Morigna, snarling. Jager leapt to the attack, his short sword flashing, and the Mhorite lunged at him. Jager jumped back, barely avoiding the tip of the Mhorite’s sword. Mara darted behind the Mhorite, gauged the angle of the attack, and calmly ripped her sword across the backs of the Mhorite’s legs. The orcish warrior fell to his knees with a screech of pain, and Jager stepped forward and stabbed twice.

The warrior fell face-first to the floor with a thump, his blood joining the corpses and gold already on the ground. Blood and gold would cover the floor before this was done. The Red Family would have rejoiced at the sight…

Mara forced her thoughts to remain on the battle, and a flare of blue light filled her eyes.

“What the devil is that?” said Jager.

The Traveler and Mournacht had moved to the center of the Vault, leaving a trail of corpses, fire, and smoking craters in their wake. Now they stood maybe twenty yards apart. The Traveler waited atop his snarling ursaar, his sword pointed at Mournacht. The orcish shaman gripped his axe’s haft with both hands, the weapon pointed at the dark elven lord. Blue fire snarled up and down the Traveler’s sword, while Mournacht’s axe blazed with crimson fire.

Between them burned something like a small star, a writhing ball of crimson and blue flame. It pulsed and shuddered, wobbling between the Traveler and Mournacht, and seemed to be growing bigger. Mara’s Sight revealed the colossal flows of power surging into the star as Mournacht and the Traveler unleashed magical force at each other.

“It is a spell,” said Antenora in answer to Jager’s question. “A contest of raw strength.”

“So basically they’re…shoving at each other?” said Jager.

“Precisely,” said Antenora.

“Though shoving matches don’t usually result in explosions,” said Mara. The power in the competing spells was building out of control. It was like boiling water in a sealed pot. Sooner or later the steam would need a place to go…

The star shuddered again, and the colors merged, becoming a ball of white-hot flame that expanded like a swelling balloon.

“Oh,” said Mara. “That’s not good.”

“We should take cover,” said Antenora. “Immediately.”

A ripple of silence went over the battle as both Mhorite orcs and Anathgrimm orcs looked at the expanding sphere of fire.

“Get down!” shouted Mara. Jager dove towards one of the stone tables, and Mara followed him. “Now! Go, go!”

The others followed suit, taking cover behind the stone tables. Mara saw Morigna stumble, saw Ridmark grab her shoulders and pull her close…

The competing spells exploded.

###

Morigna threw herself behind the table next to Ridmark, and then the thunderous roar of the explosion filled her ears. The Vault heaved and shook like a drum, and the air jingled and clanged as thousands of coins bounced off the walls and floor. An expanding sphere of ghostly blue flame rushed past, filling the Vault. Morigna suspected it was the release of residual power from the spell, that it did not possess enough strength to hurt anyone.

Yet as it rolled past the table where she sheltered with Ridmark, the dark magic within her rose in answer, and suddenly the shadows mantled her from head to toe. The dark magic within her must have interpreted the blue fire as an attack, had risen in her defense as it had beneath the gaze of the basilisk.

“Are you all right?” said Ridmark.

Morigna coughed out a laugh, and forced the shadows to disperse. “I think so. But does it matter? We can worry about dark magic if we get out of here alive.”

She made herself stand, leaning upon her staff, and Ridmark followed suit.

The explosion had thrown the Vault into further chaos, tipping over stone tables, sending treasures flying in all directions, and killing hundreds of the battling orcs. The Traveler’s ursaar lay dead, its head and forepaws missing, smoke rising from its charred carcass. The Traveler himself stood a few paces away, his blue armor scorched, more ghostly fire snarling around the blade of his sword. Mournacht leaned upon his massive axe like a staff, the blood sigils upon his chest and arms sputtering, his rage-filled eyes locked upon the Traveler.

The shaman roared and sprang at the Traveler, his massive axe raised for a killing blow, and the Traveler snapped his sword up to meet the attack. Around them the surviving Mhorites and Anathgrimm resumed their battle, rushing into the melee anew.

“The damned fools,” muttered Ridmark. “They’ll keep fighting until they’re all dead, and they’ll take us with them in the process.”

“If we could engineer the first and prevent the second,” said Morigna, “that would be the optimal outcome.”

She looked around as the others gained their feet. None of them had been hurt in the explosion. They had already taken wounds fighting the Anathgrimm and the Mhorites, but they were far enough from the duel between the Traveler and Mournacht that the blast had lost much of its force by the time the shock wave reached them.

Mara stared at Morigna, her green eyes narrowed in thought.

“Perhaps we should fall back to the doors of Dragonfall,” said Arandar, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Our foes seem preoccupied with each other.”

“That won’t last,” said Ridmark. Already more orcs, Anathgrimm and Mhorite both, rushed into the Vault from the throne room. “Very soon at least some of them will turn their attention to us. Be ready for another round.” Arandar nodded and began using Heartwarden to heal wounds, and Gavin followed suit. “We ought to…”

“The shadows,” said Mara. “You used the shadows.”

Morigna scowled, a mixture of embarrassed anger and guilt going through her. “Not deliberately. They came in response to…whatever it was that Mournacht and the Traveler did to each other. The way they did when the basilisk first looked at me. I did not call them deliberately.”

Mara nodded, once, and then her green eyes got wide.

“What is it?” said Ridmark.

“I think,” said Mara, “I think I know we can kill both the Traveler and Mournacht.”

Chapter 18: Remember

The gray mist swirled around her, and again Calliande saw a stone plinth rising from the gleaming white floor, yet another crystalline sphere waiting atop it.

A jolt of fear shot through her, and her hands clenched into fists.

Piece by piece, the crystalline spheres restored her memories…and old pains surged through her with every new recollection. The spheres had showed her training as a Magistria in Tarlion, how driven she had become, how focused and determined. Marius and the others had taught her, and her skills grew rapidly. There had been no shortage of opportunity to practice her spells, either. The war with the Frostborn worsened with every passing year. They had overrun the Northerland, and pushed further south into Caerdracon with every passing year.

By the age of fifteen, Calliande was in the camps of the High King’s armies with Marius, attending to the wounded. By the age of sixteen, she had become a full Magistria, so great was her skill at healing and so dire was the High Kingdom’s need. She had seen every possible injury a weapon could inflict, swords and maces and arrows. The pincers of the locusari left long, ragged wounds, and the insect-like creatures favored disemboweling their foes, the men screaming as their viscera hung wet and limp against their legs.

Calliande healed their wounds, absorbing their pain.

She had fallen in love with an older Magistrius, a man named Julian Taborius, one of the Magistri skilled in wards and defensive spells. He treated her kindly, as a younger sister, until one day he explained that she was common-born and he was noble, and therefore any relationship between them was impossible.

That same night the Frostborn attacked in force, smashing the army of the High Kingdom and sending them fleeing south towards Castra Carhaine. Calliande remembered the Frostborn in their grim gray armor, their swords coated in freezing mist, remembered the hordes of locusari swarming across the ground like a chitinous tide. She remembered the spells of ice and frost, remembering seeing villages burn, the villagers rounded up as slaves in the growing empire of the Frostborn.

She remembered Julian screaming, his body pierced by a dozen icy spikes. Marius had pulled a weeping Calliande from the dead man, urging her to flee before it was too late.

Calliande hadn’t been able to save Julian. There had been so many that she had been unable to save that terrible night.

“Must I?” said Calliande in a raspy, raw voice as the mist swirled away from the stone plinth.

“Yes,” said Marius, his voice full of regret. “I am afraid that you must.”

Calliande closed her eyes, taking a shuddering breath. She realized that with the Devourer stalking her, closing her eyes was probably a terrible idea, and she opened them again. Yet she still saw no sign of the Devourer, and the dragon skulls in the walls stared down at her in silence.

“No more,” whispered Calliande. “I don’t…I don’t want to see any more. I was happier not knowing.”

“You must,” said Marius.

“Why?” said Calliande, blinking the tears from her eyes. Her mind seethed and buzzed with the pain of the things she remembered. “Will you force me?”

“No,” said Marius. “I have never forced you to do anything, Calliande. You drove yourself onward. Just as you have driven yourself onward now.”

“All right,” said Calliande. She took a shuddering breath. “All right. Let’s…let’s just get this over with.”

Before her courage could fail, she crossed the hall and gripped the next crystal sphere in her shaking hand.

Again years of memory exploded through her skull in a single instant.

After that battle, after the day Julian died, the war became more and more desperate. Town after town and castra after castra fell to the Frostborn. The High King, who had hitherto ignored the Keeper’s advice, at last began heeding her counsel, and summoned all his vassals and allies, and a great army of humans and dwarves and baptized orcs and manetaurs strove against the Frostborn. Calliande saw battle after battle, healing wounds and lending her powers to the wards against the terrible cold magic of the Frostborn. At last her skills caught the attention of the Keeper, and Calliande became the Keeper’s new apprentice.

She grew to love that old woman with all her heart.

In public, Ruth of Taliand put on the face of the Keeper, stern and commanding and aloof. In private, she was kindly and wise, and taught Calliande a great deal about magic, secrets known only to the Keepers. For the Keepers could use the magic of the Well at Tarlion’s heart, but they also commanded elemental magic, powers that only the wielder of the staff could employ. Just as Marius had become her second father, so too Ruth became her second mother.

Ruth told Calliande the truth about the war, as she had told Marius and a few others she trusted. Most of Andomhaim thought that the Frostborn were simply another kindred of terrible power, like the urdmordar and the dark elven princes. In truth, the Frostborn came from another world. Most of the men of Andomhaim thought Shadowbearer a myth of the dark elves. Ruth knew better. Shadowbearer had opened a gate and summoned the Frostborn for mysterious reasons of his own. He was possessed by the shadow of Incariel, the great demon the dark elves and the dvargir worshipped, and had spent millennia working evil before turning his attention to Andomhaim at last.

The only way to defeat the Frostborn and end the war was to close the gate between worlds on the slopes of the Black Mountain.

Calliande’s fingers tightened further against the crystalline sphere, tears streaming down her cheeks.

At last Ruth had been slain in battle, ambushed as the Frostborn continued their relentless advance from the Northerland to Castra Carhaine. Calliande had taken up the Keeper’s staff, and power and knowledge exploded through her, knowledge that exploded anew through her mind as she stood in the silent white chamber of Dragonfall. Secrets of spells and power, and the truth that the Keeper’s magic was of Old Earth, that there was no power on Andomhaim that could oppose the magic of Old Earth. That secret had allowed the Keeper to defend Andomhaim from dark magic for over five hundred years before Ardrhythain founded the Two Orders.

And then, as Calliande had taken up the staff and become the new Keeper, she understood how to win the war. The high elves did not interfere in the affairs of other kindreds unless asked, and two hundred years earlier the Keeper of that time had journeyed to Cathair Solas to ask the high elves for aid, and in answer Ardrhythain had founded the Magistri and the Swordbearers. So Calliande had gathered the Keeper’s most trusted followers, Marius and the knight Kalomarus and a few others, and set off for Cathair Solas in the distant north, fighting her way through the lines of the Frostborn. At last they reached Cathair Solas, the last citadel of the high elves, beautiful and powerful beyond measure, and Ardrhythain and the mages who ruled the high elves heard her plea.

The high elves gave Kalomarus the power of the Dragon Knight of old, the repository of the terrible power once wielded by the dragons. The power was a terrible burden, but Kalomarus was a seasoned knight, grim and sober yet with a kind heart, and he mastered the power.

Together they won the war, driving the Frostborn back and closing their gate, and after fifty years Andomhaim had peace at last.

Calliande released the crystal sphere and stepped back, breathing hard, her body covered in sweat. She looked at Marius and at the chamber around her, and realized that it looked different.

For the Sight had returned to her.

The Keepers had the Sight. How could she have forgotten it? She saw the power of the threshold flowing around her, the awesome power gathered in the dragon skulls. She saw the flows of power and understood them, the knowledge of generations of Keepers flashing through her mind. Calliande turned to Marius and saw the complex threads of the spell that bound him to the mortal plane, the oath that bound his spirit to her across the long centuries of sleep.

“We won,” she said. “I remember…Kalomarus and the sword of fire. We swept the Frostborn from Caerdracon and the Northerland, and broke their gate upon the slopes of the Black Mountain.” The final battle, she remembered, had taken place where the Tower of Vigilance now stood.

“We did,” said Marius. “After fifty years of bitter war, Andomhaim had peace at last.”

“What went wrong?” said Calliande. “The war was over. We had defeated the Frostborn…wait.” Her new memories clicked together. “The Frostborn were never our true enemy, were they? They were just the tools of our ultimate foe.”

“We defeated the Frostborn and closed their gate,” said Marius, “but Shadowbearer remained. For a hundred thousand years he pursued his goal, Calliande. For years beyond the capability of human minds to count. We had defeated one of his tools…and at last the full weight of his malice turned upon Andomhaim. Come. There is one final crystal, and then you shall have the fullness of your memory.”

“Wait,” said Calliande, scrutinizing the mist with her Sight. She now possessed a mastery of the Sight beyond Antenora and Mara. In fact, if she lived through this, Calliande could instruct them in its use. Yet even with her skill, her Sight discerned no trace of the Devourer. The Keepers were ancient, and their knowledge had passed to Calliande. Keepers had stood guard over humanity in Britannia and the Empire of the Romans upon Old Earth, over kingdoms and nations and empires since the days when the men of Sumer had raised pyramids of mud brick and the Yellow Emperor brought civilization to his people in the lands of the Han.

Yet the Devourer was older than that, older than human civilization, and her Sight could not find it.

“Go,” said Calliande. “Take me to the final crystal.”

Marius bowed. “As you command, Keeper.”

Calliande flinched. Yet she was the Keeper, was she not? She knew it in her bones. It was her duty to protect the people of Andomhaim, and she could not turn away from it.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you, my friend.”

The mist swallowed her again, and Calliande walked into it, her stride purposeful, the Sight guiding her. She noted the way the magic flowed around her, and saw the touch of Ardrhythain in the work, just as she had seen his touch in the soulblades he had forged, the disciplines and the spells he had taught the Magistri. He had done well to build Dragonfall, to hide the skulls of the ancient dragons away from those who might abuse their great power. The dragons’ skulls themselves powered the spells upon Dragonfall. It had been the perfect place to conceal her staff. Shadowbearer could not have come here, even if he had known the location.

But why? Why had she hidden herself away, concealing her memory in this place? The war had been won. The Frostborn had been defeated.

No. The Frostborn had been defeated, but Shadowbearer had summoned them. Shadowbearer had summoned them, and he had faded away into the shadows once they had been defeated, preparing to plot new evil. Suddenly Calliande remembered that she had fought Shadowbearer upon the slopes of the Black Mountain on the day the war had ended, the day she had closed the gate. Their duel had been inconclusive, but the bearer of shadow had promised that he would return, that her victory had been but temporary…

She remembered nothing after that.

Not yet, anyway.

She looked around the mist, wondering where the malophage was.

“What is it waiting for?” said Calliande.

“I do not know,” said Marius. Calliande looked at her old teacher, her old friend, another surge of emotion going through her. “The malophage should not have waited to attack again. You are now stronger than you were when you entered.”

“Perhaps it was not strong enough,” said Calliande, sorting through her recovered knowledge. Before Coldinium, she had never faced a malophage, but other Keepers had, and their knowledge had passed to her. Malophages existed simultaneously in the material world and the threshold, granting them a continuous supply of power to fuel their swift healing and ability to change form. Passing through the wards upon the doors of Dragonfall would have inflicted terrible damage upon the creature, but once here, inside Dragonfall, it could draw upon the magic of the threshold to heal itself …

“Ah,” said Calliande. “I am stronger, too, but so is the Devourer. It is a race, then, to see which of us can become the strongest first.” She glanced around the mist. “It can hear us, you know. It’s probably following along just out of sight.”

She half-expected the Devourer to appear and attack, but nothing moved in the mist save the mist itself.

The gray walls of fog spun around her, revealing another hall of white stone, dragon skulls gazing from the gleaming walls. A plinth rose from the center of the floor, holding another crystal globe that pulsed and flickered with pale light.

“The last memory,” said Marius.

“I know,” said Calliande. At last she would learn why she had done this to herself, why she still lived centuries after she should have been in her grave.

The time for hesitation was past. She strode to the plinth and placed her hand upon the crystal.

The final memories exploded through her mind, years of experiences filling her thoughts in an instant.

The war had been over. The High Kingdom was rebuilding. Yet Calliande was troubled. Shadowbearer would return one day, and he would work evil anew. Perhaps years in the future, centuries in the future, long after Calliande was dead. She took an apprentice of her own, a young woman named Lydia, and began teaching her the secrets of the Keeper.

And then Lydia tried to murder her.

Calliande killed her in the resultant fight, and the truth became clear. Shadowbearer had tried to destroy the realm of Andomhaim through force, summoning the Frostborn to rid himself of the Magistri and the Swordbearers. Brute force had failed, so instead he turned to corruption. He had corrupted the dark elves and the dvargir, turning them to the worship of Incariel in ancient days. Now he did the same thing to Andomhaim, walking among the proud and the powerful, promising them even more power and immortality.

The Enlightened of Incariel, the secret society that had tried to kill Ridmark and Arandar, the cult that spread through Andomhaim like a cancer through a man’s limbs. Shadowbearer started it soon after the Frostborn had been defeated. He would turn the men of Andomhaim away from the God of the church to darkness, to worshipping the shadow of Incariel in hopes of making themselves gods.

And so Andomhaim would rot from the inside…and when the Frostborn returned, the realm would fall like a tree hollowed out by disease.

Calliande could not stop it. She had but a mortal life. Shadowbearer was immortal, and could shape Andomhaim over the centuries as she pleased. The Swordbearers and the Magistri had prevailed against the dark elves and the pagan orcs and the urdmordar and the Frostborn, but they could not defeat a subtle, insidious threat like this. Already Shadowbearer had corrupted the Keeper’s apprentice, and had Lydia not failed, she could have waited until Calliande died and become the Keeper. Shadowbearer could spend centuries infiltrating the nobility and the church and the Two Orders, bringing a few more into the fold of the Enlightened with every passing generation.

When the Frostborn returned again…Andomhaim would not be strong enough to resist, not with the Enlightened eager to carry out Shadowbearer’s bidding. Calliande could have warned the High King and the nobles and the Orders, but it would have been futile. Her warning would pass into history and then obscurity. The Enlightened would soon become free to do as they wished, and no one would have been left to oppose them.

Instead, Calliande formed a plan.

She founded the Order of the Vigilant, devoted to watching for the return of the Frostborn. She spoke with Ardrhythain of her concerns, and the high elven archmage told her of Dragonfall. She concealed the staff of the Keeper there, and then worked a mighty spell upon herself. Her memories went into Dragonfall, into the crystal spheres, and she entered a deep sleep beneath the Tower of Vigilance, to awaken when the conjunction of the thirteen moons allowed the gate to the world of the Frostborn to be opened once more.

And now, over two hundred and thirty years after she had gone into that sleep, she had reached the climax of her plan. The thirteen moons had gone into the necessary conjunction for a day and a month, and Shadowbearer could open the gate if he obtained the empty soulstone.

Here was Calliande’s chance to stop him.

Here was, perhaps, her chance to destroy him once and for all, to put an end to the evil he had worked for uncounted millennia.

The last of her memories clicked into place as she remembered closing her eyes in the darkness below the Tower of Vigilance, and her whole life was restored to her, from her earliest memory to the moment she had walked naked through the golden gates of Dragonfall. Ridmark and the others awaited her there…

Ridmark.

She realized that he had been the only man she had ever kissed. She had been in love with poor doomed Julian, but that had partly been a childish infatuation. It could have become more, but he had been uninterested and had died in battle. Then duty had consumed her life ever since. There had been no time for a husband, no time for children.

Calliande closed her eyes, the deep regret going over her.

But she owed Ridmark everything, owed him and Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin and Morigna and Jager and Mara and Arandar so much. Without them, Shadowbearer would have killed her on the first day she awakened, and it would all have been for nothing. Shadowbearer would have triumphed, the Frostborn would have returned, and the sacrifice of the Order of the Vigilant would have been for nothing.

She opened her eyes and looked at Marius.

“Oh, my friend,” she said. “My oldest and best friend. I am sorry. I am so sorry for all you have endured.”

“I have sacrificed no less than you,” said Marius. His tired face eased into a smile. “It is every teacher’s wish to be surpassed by his students, and you, Calliande, you were the best of my students.”

“I know what I must do,” said Calliande as the mists swallowed them once more. “I will take the empty soulstone and wait for Shadowbearer to come to me. Then I will stop him from opening the gate. Perhaps I can even destroy him and put an end to his evil.”

“It is a grave task you have set yourself,” said Marius. “A grave and dangerous task.”

Calliande blinked, and then burst out laughing.

“What?” said Marius, puzzled.

“A grave and dangerous task?” said Calliande, thinking of what Ridmark might say. “When have I ever done any other kind of tasks?”

Marius blinked, and then smiled. “True.”

The mists spun away from her, and Calliande found herself in another chamber, a vast hall similar to the first, dragon skulls lining the walls. At the far end stood a dais, and atop the dais rested a large block of white stone about the size and shape of an altar in a church.

Her staff, the staff of the Keeper, lay across the altar.

It was ancient, older than Andomhaim, older than Britannia, perhaps older than all the human civilizations upon Old Earth. Despite that, it looked modest, almost humble, a length of wood about six feet long, its top twisted like the roots of a tree. To Calliande’s Sight, it all but shone with the magic of the Keeper, a power different than the magic of the Well or the elemental magic Morigna and Antenora wielded, but stronger than both.

A small wooden chest rested next to the altar, out of place in this tomb of white stone and black bone. Calliande remembered that she had put it there herself, storing clothing and a few other things she might need when she awakened. She laughed a little at herself.

“What is it?” said Marius.

“I had a plan, and it barely worked,” said Calliande. “I didn’t foresee that Shadowbearer might destroy the Order of the Vigilant. I didn’t foresee Ridmark coming to save me. I didn’t guess that something like the Devourer might be waiting in Dragonfall. I failed to foresee any of that…and I still thought to leave myself a change of clothing.”

Again Marius smiled. “You did always attend to the details with great diligence.”

“It seems I could have attended to more important details,” said Calliande, thinking of all the things that had gone wrong.

The spirit of her oldest teacher shrugged. “No one can foresee the entirety of the future. Not even the Keeper of Andomhaim.”

“I suppose not,” said Calliande, and then she pushed aside her regrets and guilt and focused upon the problem at hand.

Namely, how to get to her staff without the Devourer killing her.

The malophage had to be in the chamber with her somewhere. It knew that if she took up her staff again, it couldn’t overcome her. So it had to strike now, right now, before it was too late.

Calliande took a careful step forward, and nothing happened.

Where was the malophage?

She called power, white fire snarling around her fingers. With her recovered memories, she worked a spell of elemental magic as well, fusing the magic of the Well with elemental flames. If the Devourer appeared, the spell would strike it with damaging force, hopefully stunning the creature long enough for Calliande to reach the staff.

Calliande kept walking towards the altar and the dais, her eyes roving back and forth.

There was still no sign of the Devourer.

She paused at the foot of dais, her Sight sweeping the chamber around her, her magical senses straining to detect any disturbances.

“Where is it?” she whispered. The Devourer was deadly, but it was a predator. It preferred to attack from ambush and stealth, killing its victims before they had a chance to defend themselves. Usually, malophages retreated from anything close to an equal fight. Had the Devourer not been so old and strong, had it not desired to consume the power of the Keeper, the malophage would likely have withdrawn. So it would try to ambush her, to overpower her in one blow. But how? The malophage seemed unable to keep itself concealed while attacking her, and there was no place to hide in this long, stark hall. It would have to…

The answer came to her in a burst of fear.

It would have to attack from above.

She looked towards the arched ceiling just as the air rippled and the Devourer flung itself downward.

It had taken the form of a giant, twisted spider, using its legs to cling to the ceiling. Calliande unleashed a blast of white fire at the malophage, striking the creature in the thorax, but its momentum carried the malophage downward. It slammed into Calliande, and its weight overbalanced her and sent her to the floor. She landed hard, the back of her head bouncing off the stone, the malophage’s weight pinning her in place, its armored exoskeleton cold and hard against her bare skin.

The creature’s head jutted forward, pincers yawning wide, and panic surged through Calliande. She summoned power, white fire blasting into the Devourer, and the creature reared back with a scream. For a moment Calliande was free, and she scrambled backwards as the malophage’s jagged legs stabbed down, barely avoiding the blows that would have impaled her. Again she struck, but she could not focus through the pain in her back of her head. Her spell hit the Devourer, but the creature shrugged off the blow, skittering after her. The Devourer’s form rippled, changing back to the form of the twisted lion.

Calliande tried to work another spell, but the Devourer shot towards her in a blur.

Marius sprang upon the spirit, white fire dancing around his ghostly hands. The Watcher’s spell did little harm to the malophage. Yet the Devourer was simultaneously a creature of the material world and the threshold, which meant that a spirit could grapple with it. Marius’s unexpected weight knocked the Devourer to the side, and the creature’s charge went awry, missing Calliande by a few feet. The malophage shrieked and lashed out with a clawed hand, sending Marius tumbling away.

It was Calliande’s last chance.

She raced up the stairs and threw herself upon the altar. A flash of memory went through her, and she remembered lying bound upon the altar of Black Mountain, waiting for the knife to find her heart. Perhaps it was fitting that it would begin and end upon an altar.

But this time, Calliande was no longer helpless.

She rolled, seized her staff, and spun to face the Devourer as it bounded up the stairs after her. Power roared through her like the resonant blast of a horn. Calliande thrust the staff, calling upon that power, and a brilliant arc of dazzling lightning shot from the end of the staff and struck the Devourer, drilling into its corrupted flesh. The spell threw the Devourer down the steps, and the damage reverted the creature to its natural form, to the hideous translucent shape ringed by dozens of razor-edged tentacles. The malophage shuddered, all of its mouths shouting threats, and charged Calliande again.

She got to her feet, casting one final spell, her Sight directing her power. The malophage was a creature of both the material world and the threshold, and the linkage between its two halves was its weak point. White fire lanced from the staff of the Keeper, slicing into the malophage like a knife into a pad of soft butter. Orange slime sprayed from its central mass, and the Devourer shrieked as Calliande severed its link to the threshold. Its body went into a wild, spastic dance, the tentacles lashing in all directions, and then it collapsed, its material form crumbling into smoking, stinking black ash.

Silence fell over Dragonfall.

Calliande lowered her staff with a long breath. The malophage could not truly be destroyed. It would reconstitute its physical form in time. But the damage she had inflicted would take the Devourer centuries to repair, and by then she would be long dead and the fate of Andomhaim would be decided one way or another.

“Marius?” said Calliande. She jumped from the altar. “Marius?”

She spotted the spirit standing near the dais, and her stomach clenched. His pale form was unraveling, dissolving into wisps of light. He smiled as she approached, his face full of relief.

“It is over,” he said. “At long last, my task is over.”

“I need your help,” said Calliande, but even as she spoke the worlds, she realized she could not ask anything more of him. Marius had guided the Order of the Vigilant after she had gone into the long sleep. His spirit had been bound to her, keeping watch after she had awakened with no memory and no magic. He had given everything she could ask of him. He had given ten times what she could ask of him.

Calliande closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the smooth wood of the Keeper’s staff.

“Do not mourn for me,” said Marius. “My time was long ago, Calliande. Only duty has kept me here this long, and now that duty is complete. You are the Keeper of Andomhaim once again, and in your hands rests the fate of the realm.” The spirit smiled, even as his face grew fainter. “I have done all I can, and I wish only that I could have done more.”

“No,” said Calliande. “I owe you everything, Marius. Farewell, my friend. Until we meet again before the throne of the Dominus Christus.”

“I depart in relief, and in gratitude,” said Marius, his voice growing fainter, “knowing that you are here to carry on the work and watch over Andomhaim. Farewell, Calliande, for we shall not meet again until the day when the book of life is opened.”

Calliande nodded, blinking back tears.

“Remember the Gray Knight,” whispered Marius.

“Ridmark?” said Calliande. “What about him?”

“The fate of all depends on him,” said Marius. “He alone may be worthy of the burden. Calliande, my favorite student, the daughter I never had. Farewell.”

He faded away, and Calliande stood alone in the cold stone hall of Dragonfall.

She bowed her head and wept, her fingers tightening against the smooth, ancient wood of the Keeper’s staff. God and the saints, she had not thought there were any tears left in her, but they came anyway. Her shoulders shuddered with them, and she took a ragged breath, and then another, and another.

The tears stopped.

She could not mourn for the dead, not now. Not when there were so many still alive who might die if she did not act. Ridmark might die, along with all her friends. Andomhaim might die if Shadowbearer succeeded.

Now, though…now she was the Keeper again, and she had the means to fight.

Calliande crossed to the dais, opened the chest at the foot of the altar, and got dressed.

She had left a minor spell upon the chest, and the clothes had survived the passage of the centuries with no more damage than a slight musty smell. She pulled on undergarments, trousers, leather boots, a green tunic and cloak, and a black leather belt. A golden ring with the sigil of the Magistri went upon the third finger of her right hand. At the bottom of the chest rested an ancient bronze diadem marked with symbols. It was a symbol of her office as Keeper, and Keepers since the days of Ur and Akkad and Babylon had worn it.

She pulled her hair back into a tail and placed the diadem over her head. It did not weigh very much, but it felt heavier than it should have. Nonetheless, it felt…right. Proper.

For the first time in over two centuries, Calliande of Tarlion was the Keeper of Andomhaim once more.

She strode from the altar, the mist rolling away to reveal the golden doors to the mortal world and Khald Azalar. Ridmark and the others awaited her there. Hopefully the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm had not arrived yet.

If they had…

Calliande’s fingers tightened against the staff, its end clicking against the floor with every stride.

If they had, Calliande would remind Mournacht and the Traveler just why so many dark elven wizards and orcish warlocks had feared the Keeper of Andomhaim.

Chapter 19: An Assassin of the Red Family

“This is a mad plan,” said Jager.

Ridmark had to agree.

The battle raged through the central Vault, fresh waves of Mhorite warriors assaulting the lines of Anathgrimm. Both the Traveler and Mournacht were battered and bloody, their warding spells flickering around them in wild sputters of light, but both the dark elven lord and the orcish shaman still fought with furious rage. They had not yet unleashed another explosion like the one that had killed the Traveler’s ursaar steed and the  hundreds of battling orcs, but Ridmark suspected their duel would eventually kill everyone in the Vault. Or bring the entire Vault crashing down in ruin around them.

It would also bury Calliande alive in Dragonfall, assuming the Devourer had not yet killed her.

“Your wife thought up the plan,” said Morigna, gripping her staff. She looked tired and afraid, her mouth pressed into a thin line, but she did not waver. “One thinks you would approve.”

“I’m usually the one who thinks up the mad plans,” said Jager. “I’m not used to the reversal.”

“It will work,” said Mara, her dark elven short sword in her right hand, Calliande’s dwarven dagger in her left. She looked calm, eerily calm, like a pale statue with green eyes and blond hair. “It will work. Or we shall all be killed.”

“Honest,” said Arandar, “if not reassuring.”

Mara smiled at him. “I’m not a knight or a commander of men, Sir Arandar. I’m an assassin. I can’t give inspiring speeches. I just tell the truth.”

“Well,” said Jager with a sigh, “if we are going to die, we may as well go out in a blaze of glory.” He glanced at Antenora. “Hopefully not too literal of a blaze, if you aim that thing incorrectly.”

Antenora offered no response to Jager’s barb. A ball of white fire the size of Ridmark’s head rotated over the end of the staff, growing hotter and brighter with every revolution. He ignored the banter and the sphere of flame, focusing instead upon the melee raging around Mournacht and the Traveler. A band of Mhorites and a formation of Anathgrimm battled between Ridmark and the dueling dark elven lord and orcish shaman, and that battle was winding down. The Mhorites had been driven back, and slowly but surely the formation of Anathgrimm was gaining ground.

“When the moment comes,” said Ridmark, “Gavin and Arandar, follow me. We’ll make for Mournacht and keep him busy. Kharlacht, Caius, stay with Morigna, Mara, and Jager. If this works, the Anathgrimm will be angry, and someone will have to fight them off. Antenora, join the battle as you think best. You probably have more experience in battle than any of us.”

“To my sorrow, Gray Knight,” said Antenora, her voice hard as she concentrated upon her floating ball of fire. “To my sorrow. But I have not crossed fifteen centuries and the black gulf between the worlds to perish at the moment of the Keeper’s return. We shall either prevail, or those Mhorites who survive shall return to their homeland with such a tale of terror that Khald Azalar will be a name of ill omen among them for a thousand generations.”

Silence answered that.

“Well,” said Jager. “There’s your inspiring speech, Sir Arandar.”

Ridmark said nothing. At last the Mhorite band started to waver, and the Anathgrimm formation charged in pursuit, intending to sweep away the Mhorites and join the larger battle closer to the throne room.

And, for a moment, the Anathgrimm formation and the Mhorites were directly between Ridmark and the duel between the Traveler and Mournacht.

“Antenora!” he said. “Now!”

Antenora nodded, took a step back, and then forward, thrusting her staff. The ball of fire sprang from her staff, blazing like a comet, and slammed into the middle of the battle between the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm. It exploded in a bloom of fire forty feet across, flinging coins and orcish warriors into the air with equal violence. Dozens more Anathgrimm and Mhorites fell, screaming as Antenora’s fire chewed into them. Ridmark felt a burst of regret. Fire was a horrid weapon of war, and he remembered the terrible visions the Warden had showed him of the engines of destruction wielded by the men of Old Earth.

But right now, he would use every advantage he could seize.

“Go!” said Ridmark.

“God be with us!” said Caius, and they surged forward. Mara, Morigna, Jager, Caius, and Kharlacht broke left, heading for the Traveler. Ridmark and the Swordbearers went towards the right, heading towards Mournacht. Dozens of stunned, dying, and dead Anathgrimm lay in Ridmark’s path, and he went on the attack. His staff blurred out, catching an Anathgrimm warrior on the side of the head. The orc fell with a grunt. A burning Anathgrimm staggered into Ridmark’s path, and he hit the warrior once, twice, three times, sending the orc to the floor. Around him the Swordbearers attacked, hewing their way through the stunned Anathgrimm and Mhorites. Ridmark expected the orcish warriors to recover, but instead they broke. Both the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm were surrounded by their enemies, and Antenora’s terrible fire had demoralized them further.

Ridmark and the Swordbearers tore through the stunned and dying orcs, and suddenly Mournacht was only a dozen yards away.

The orcish shaman flung a spell at the Traveler, and then turned in surprise, his red-glazed eyes falling upon Ridmark.

Mournacht’s scarred face twisted into a smile behind his tusks.

###

Morigna kept running as Ridmark and the Swordbearers carved into the Anathgrimm, Mara at her side.

Stunned and dying Mhorites lay between her and the Traveler, and she cast a spell, reaching out with the earth magic. The floor rippled, knocking over the Mhorites as they struggled to regain their feet. Kharlacht, Caius, and Jager raced forward, striking with their weapons. Caius smashed a Mhorite warrior’s skull with his mace, while Kharlacht took off a head with a single blow. Jager, economical as ever, slashed throats and kept running.

Suddenly the Traveler’s void-filled gaze fell over them, and a dozen emotions went over his gaunt, pale face, rage and fury and confusion and annoyance.

He settled on glee.

“Ah, my wayward daughter,” said the Traveler. “You’ve brought me a gift. How splendid.”

He raised his free hand, shadow and blue flame swirling around his armored fingers.

“Morigna!” said Mara. “Now!”

Morigna reached into herself and called the shadows, and again a mantle of shadow enveloped her.

This time, Mara was standing close enough that the shadows enveloped her as well.

###

The Traveler’s song thundered inside Mara’s skull, demanding her allegiance, demanding that she fall down and worship him as a god.

Her own song filled her, resisting the Traveler’s power. Her father surrounded himself with mighty wards, spells to turn aside blade and magical attack, and those spells kept Mara from using her power to travel from place to place.

But the shadows that Morigna summoned had blunted the basilisk’s gaze, keeping the creature from turning her to stone. The basilisk’s gaze had been powerful, so powerful that even Calliande with all her strength had barely been able to turn it aside. If Morigna’s shadows deflect that, Mara wondered, what else could they block?

Her father’s power, perhaps?

Mara had just gambled their lives on that.

She would only have once chance.

The Traveler continued his spell, summoning dark magic strong enough to wither them to ashes in an instant. Mara reached for her song, drawing upon her power to travel from place to place.

She had been right. Morigna’s shadows blocked the Traveler’s power, and Mara could make one journey.

Blue fire rose up to swallow her, and when it cleared, Mara found herself standing behind the Traveler. Her father loomed over her like a tower of blue armor, his right hand holding his sword at his side, his left pointing at Morigna and Caius and Kharlacht and Jager.

He never saw Mara coming.

She jumped up, her legs coiling around his waist, and in one motion drove her short sword into his armpit and raked Calliande’s dwarven dagger across his throat. The Traveler loosed a horrid gurgling scream, his fury and pain stabbing into Mara’s head, and the blood of a dark elf, black as the void between the stars and as cold as ice, splashed across Mara’s fingers. The Traveler jerked, the motion sending Mara tumbling from his back. She landed hard and rolled to one knee, still clutching Calliande’s dagger, the Traveler’s black blood flickering with blue fire upon the blade.

The song in her head grew discordant, angrier, fraying.

The Traveler spun to face her, his eyes wide with shock, his blood sheeting down the side and front of his armor. He staggered towards her, his mouth repeating the same phrase in silent fury over and over again.

“No, Father,” said Mara in a soft voice. “There is only one God. You were never a god.”

He fell to his knees, his face a mask of uncomprehending fury, and then collapsed dead before Mara.

The song shattered in her head, and she screamed in pain, a cry echoed by every Anathgrimm, urvaalg, and ursaar in the Vault. The pain roared through Mara in waves, and she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, fighting against the agony. She felt Jager’s hands close around her shoulders, and she struggled through the pain, wave after wave of it rolling through her as the Traveler’s death throes thundered through her mind.

At last it ended, and Mara managed to open her eyes.

Silence had fallen in the Vault, and every single Anathgrimm stared at her in shock.

“You killed him.”

Mara scrambled to her feet, Jager standing at her side with his short sword. An Anathgrimm wizard stood a few yards away, a troop of warriors behind him, and Mara recognized Zhorlacht, a priest of the Traveler.

A former priest, anyway.

“You killed him,” said Zhorlacht. “You killed our god.”

“He was not a god,” said Mara. She tried to sound angry, but her words only came out flat, tired. “He was a tyrant, a monster, and a coward. He twisted you and tortured you so he would believe that he was a god, so that you would fight and die to protect him from his enemies.”

“But…he was our god,” said Zhorlacht. The huge orc sounded as if he might weep. “He was our god. He…what shall we do now?”

Mara opened her mouth, and before she could answer, Zhorlacht turned and fled, as if the sight of the Traveler’s corpse was too much to bear. The other Anathgrimm followed suit, and soon the Traveler’s host fled the Vault, the stunned Mhorites watching them go. Belatedly Mara realized the Traveler’s death meant that the Mhorites could turn their full attention against the Keeper’s companions.

Even as that realization came to her, Mournacht’s bellow of fury filled the Vault of the Kings.

###

For a moment shock ruled the Vault as the Traveler fell, as the Mhorites watched their demoralized foes flee.

In that moment, Ridmark struck.

He raced forward and swung his staff, and Mournacht started to turn, but Ridmark’s blow hit the orcish shaman across the ribs. There as a loud crack, and Mournacht howled in fury, the sigils of fire upon his limbs and chest blazing brighter. Ridmark heard the crackle as Mournacht’s wound started to heal, and he knew the shaman’s dark magic would have been enough to heal anything Ridmark might have been able to inflict upon him.

It was not, however, up to the task of dealing with a soulblade.

Arandar attacked as Mournacht bore down on Ridmark. Mournacht twisted to the side as the last minute, but not before Heartwarden ripped across his side, the sword’s white fire leaving a smoking gash in Mournacht’s green hide. Mournacht roared and attacked, swinging his axe, and Arandar danced aside, moving with the speed that Heartwarden granted its bearer. In that moment, Gavin circled to the side and struck, Truthseeker biting into Mournacht’s thigh. Again the big orc roared, his attention split between three foes, and Ridmark brought his staff hammering onto Mournacht’s wrist, hoping to knock the axe from his grasp. Mournacht twisted at the last moment, and Ridmark’s staff bounced off his forearm, leaving a black bruise upon the green skin.

A bruise that did not heal nearly as fast as it had before. The soulblades were attacking his dark magic, disrupting his ability to heal quickly. Mournacht snarled and backed away, eyes narrowed as he assessed the new threat. More blood-colored fire blazed around his axe, and he shouted for the Mhorite warriors to aid him.

Even as he did, blue fire flickered, and Mara appeared behind him. The soulblades must have damaged Mournacht’s wards enough for Mara to use her traveling power near the shaman. She drove her short sword into the back of Mournacht’s leg, and the shaman let out a shocked bellow of pain. He whirled to face her, black axe hammering down, but Mara wrenched her sword free and traveled away. Before Mournacht recovered his balance, Arandar stabbed, Heartwarden piercing through the wards to open another deep, smoking cut upon the shaman’s chest. Mournacht staggered right into Gavin’s path, and Truthseeker opened a gash on Mournacht’s arm.

Hundreds of Mhorites sprinted to aid their beleaguered warlord, but Antenora had not been idle. From the far end of the Vault, she thrust her staff, sending another fireball soaring across the open space. It struck the ground and exploded, spreading across the Vault in a wall of flame. It was not nearly as intense as the fire she had used to seal off the archway to Dragonfall, but it was enough to bring the Mhorite charge to a halt…and to trap Mournacht with Ridmark and the others. The wall of flames would not last long, and once the Mhorite shamans recovered they would dispel it with ease.

But it would last long enough.

Mournacht retreated, trying to get away from Ridmark and the Swordbearers, and Ridmark felt a grim surge of triumph.

He had dueled Mournacht inconclusively outside the walls of Vulmhosk, and Mournacht had withdrawn from Tarrabus Carhaine’s domus in Coldinium. This time, though, Mournacht could not escape, and for all the power of his dark magic, it was no match for the fury of a soulblade. Ridmark had been in a lot of fights, and he felt in his bones that this one was almost over.

Mournacht felt it, too. The huge shaman did not show any sign of fear, but his rage grew more ferocious, his blows more frenzied and savage. Mara reappeared behind him, and this time Mournacht jumped away, forcing Mara to travel to avoid his fist. That gave Ridmark another opening to strike, and he hit Mournacht in the face with his staff. Mournacht’s head snapped back with a crunch of bone, and Gavin chopped at the shaman. Mournacht staggered back, and Truthseeker sank to the bone in Mournacht’s left thigh. The shaman wrenched himself away, reeling, and managed to lean upon his axe like a staff for balance.

Ridmark, Gavin, and Arandar advanced on him, and Kharlacht and Caius and Jager sprinted closer. Blue fire flickered again, and Mara appeared next to Ridmark, and Morigna hurried forward, her staff glowing as she began a spell.

Ridmark stepped forward, intending to draw Mournacht’s attention so Arandar and Gavin could land killing blows with their soulblades. Mournacht roared and swung his axe, and Ridmark ducked beneath it. He came up and landed one, two, three hits with his staff, forcing Mournacht back onto his wounded leg. Mournacht retreated, and his wounded leg bucked, dropping him to one knee, his axe clanging off the floor.

Ridmark, Arandar, and Gavin raised their weapons to land a killing blow.

Then the wall of fire winked out, and shadows exploded through the Vault.

A deathly chill went through Ridmark, and Gavin and Arandar flinched back, their soulblades blazing brighter as the magic of the swords struggled against the darkness writhing through the Vault. Tendrils of shadow shot in all directions, and Ridmark saw Kharlacht and Caius fall, the shadows plunging into them. Jager fell next, and Mara stumbled and went to one knee, shaking her head. Both Morigna and Antenora fell, the light from their staffs winking out. Arandar and Gavin stood in place, struggling to move forward like men fighting against a gale, their soulblades blazing.

Yet the strange chill did not seem to touch Ridmark.

He looked at his staff and saw symbols glowing along its length, throwing a pale circle of light around his feet. The tendrils of shadow warped around the light like water flowing around a stone. Ridmark took a tentative step forward and found that he could move, even if the others could not.

Mournacht scrambled backwards, his wounds closing as his wards recovered from the assault of the soulblades.

“Mara!” shouted Ridmark, keeping an eye on Mournacht. “What is happening?”

“Dark magic,” croaked Mara. He could barely hear her. “Powerful. More powerful than…”

“I can barely hold it back,” said Gavin through gritted teeth.

Mournacht went motionless, a glassy look coming over his face. Behind him Ridmark saw that the Mhorites had been overcome by the tendrils of shadow as well, many of them stunned and motionless.

Boot heels clicked against the floor of the Vault.

A tall figure in a long, red-trimmed black coat strode down the central aisle of the Vault, and the maze of shadows seemed to pour from him, as if he could somehow cast a shadow in every direction at once. Beneath the coat he wore a stark white shirt, black trousers, and gleaming black boots. The man had the lean features and pointed ears of a high elf, but there was something wrong with him. His skin was the grayish-white of a corpse, and black veins throbbed beneath his hands and face, like fingers of corruption digging into rotting flesh. His bloodshot eyes were the color of mercury, of quicksilver, and Ridmark glimpsed his reflection in the high elf’s eyes.

A jolt of dark recognition went through Ridmark. He had never seen this high elf before, but Ridmark knew him.

The red-coated form stopped twenty yards from Ridmark, and Mournacht walked to his side with a halting limp.

“So you do recognize me,” said the high elf in perfect Latin. His voice was strange, distorted, as if two voices spoke through his mouth at once. One was the inhumanly deep and melodious voice of a high elf. The second was a strange, snarling hiss, distorted and furious, the rasping growl of a hungry shadow. “How appropriate. Do you know who I am?”

Ridmark took a deep breath. Here was the archmage who had summoned the Frostborn to Andomhaim. Here was the founder of the Enlightened of Incariel. Here was the man who had set Andomhaim to civil war to destroy the Order of the Vigilant, who had spent centuries planning to kill Calliande.

Here was the man who would summon the Frostborn again.

“Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark.

Chapter 20: A Constant Thorn In My Side

For a long moment Shadowbearer said nothing, his head tilted to the side as he considered Ridmark. The vast maze of shadow that stretched from him seemed to twitch and writhe, hissing and stirring like a den of restless serpents. Ridmark was not sure, but he thought Shadowbearer seemed…uncertain, perhaps even hesitant. Why? Ridmark could not hurt him. The Swordbearers might be able to hurt him, if they got close enough, but the shadows held them in place.

Ridmark met Shadowbearer’s eyes, and felt the hideous weight and power of the ancient wizard’s gaze. He had felt something similar from the archmage Ardrhythain, but Ardrhythain had been without malice. Shadowbearer possessed a great deal of malice, and he wanted Ridmark dead.

“You’re so young,” said Shadowbearer at last, shaking his head.

“I don’t feel it,” said Ridmark, wondering why Shadowbearer was bothering to talk.

“But you are,” said Shadowbearer, Mournacht standing motionless at his side. “Twenty-eight years? Thirty years? Thirty years is nothing. A pebble dropped into the abyss of the years of I have seen.” He shook his head again, incredulous. “Thirty years.”

“Why are you telling me this?” said Ridmark.

“You are nothing,” said Shadowbearer. “A flicker upon a pond. A flower the blooms in the morning and withers in the dusk. You are nothing…and yet do you have any idea how much difficulty you have caused me?”

Ridmark blinked.

Shadowbearer was talking because he was annoyed.

Ridmark looked at the archmage, and then back at his staff, at the pale glow shining from the symbols written upon its length. The staff wasn’t magical, but the spells Ardrhythain had cast while holding it had altered the wood, allowing it to wound creatures of dark magic. Had it also altered the wood so that the staff protected its bearer from Shadowbearer’s power?

Had Ardrhythain foreseen this confrontation and given the staff to Ridmark for that reason?

Ridmark had to keep Shadowbearer talking.

“And just how much,” he said, “difficulty have I caused you?”

Shadowbearer let out a sound that was halfway between an exasperated sigh and a growl, a sound made all the stranger by his eerie double voice. “Everything worked exactly as I intended. Your imbecilic High King and the insipid children of the Two Orders wiped out the Eternalists, but my Enlightened of Incariel spread through your realm like a cancer, eating it out from the inside. The Pendragon princes were so easy to manipulate into a bloody civil war.” His eyes roved over the Vault, as if seeking for something, and he glanced at Arandar, who struggled to move against the tendrils of shadow as Heartwarden shone in his fist. “You shouldn’t be so ashamed of being a bastard, Sir Arandar. Some of your ancestors were complete idiots.” He took several steps closer, and his gaze snapped back to Ridmark, its terrible power falling over him. “But none of them caused as much trouble as you did, Ridmark Arban the exile. I weakened Andomhaim. I crushed the Order of the Vigilant that Calliande left behind to trouble me. I seized the great soulstone from the caverns of Cathair Solas, and I was there waiting when Calliande awoke on the day of the conjunction.” A smile spread over his gray face, the black veins beneath his skin pulsing. “You should have seen her confusion, her fear. She had maimed herself in hopes of stopping me, and yet had delivered victory in my hands.”

“I know,” rasped Kharlacht, struggling against the tendrils of shadow that bound him. “I was there.”

“What?” said Shadowbearer. “Ah, of course. Qazarl’s cousin. The fool could do nothing right.” He turned back to Ridmark. “My plans worked perfectly. The Order of the Vigilant was destroyed, and the Enlightened crippled Andomhaim, so there was no one left to stop me. The Keeper had maimed herself, and was as weak and helpless as any other human bitch. I would draw away Ardrhythain’s attention, and Qazarl’s acolytes would kill Calliande upon the altar of the Black Mountain, opening the way for the Frostborn once more. I was an hour away from triumph.” Hate flashed over the black-veined face. “Then you wandered along.”

“I take it that disrupted your plans?” said Ridmark, taking another cautious step closer to Shadowbearer. Still the corrupted archmage did not seem to care. Ridmark had seen Ardrhythain wield his power against the Warden, and if Shadowbearer had anything like Ardrhythain’s magical power, there was no way Ridmark could kill him. Yet if Shadowbearer did not see him as a threat, if the staff kept Ridmark free of the entangling shadows for a little while longer, perhaps he could catch Shadowbearer off guard.

“Maybe I should have foreseen it,” said Shadowbearer, the snarl in his double voice growing deeper. “Ardrhythain did, certainly. Else why did he send you to Urd Morlemoch? The Warden foresaw it as well. He was ever the cleverest of his kindred, thought that is hardly high praise. Your future…the shadow you cast over the potentiality of time was immense.” He raked a hand through the air, as if pushing aside something that irritated him. “Do you know what is wrong with humans?”

“I suspect you are about to tell me,” said Ridmark, taking another step towards the archmage. Just a little closer…

“You don’t live long enough,” said Shadowbearer. “You change too quickly. You are impossible to predict. Centuries of planning and preparation, and you stumble across Calliande.” A shiver went through the maze of shadow surrounding him. “Perhaps God put you into my path. I still don’t know how humans came to Andomhaim. The dark elves summoned all the other kindreds here. I summoned the Frostborn, offered them this world like a roast upon a platter. Yet humans…your Keeper must have found a wild gate and wandered through it. It could have been a coincidence, yet a most unlikely one. But God ever loves to wield coincidence against his foes.”

“What do you want?” said Ridmark. “Why do all of this? The Frostborn, the Enlightened…all of it? A hundred thousand years of war, if the Warden spoke true.”

Shadowbearer laughed. “Didn’t your beloved Ardrhythain tell you? No? Well, he wrought your kindred into his weapons, the Magistri and the Swordbearers, but one does not tell secrets to one’s sword. But I will tell you the truth, Ridmark Arban. Do you want to know why I have done what I have done?”

Ridmark said nothing.

“Freedom,” hissed Shadowbearer, both his voices snarling with rage. “I shall have it at last. And when I do, this world shall burn as my vengeance.” His smile returned. “And it seems the instrument of my freedom is at hand.”

He took a step forward and vanished in a swirl of blue flame. Ridmark spun, trying to find him, and Shadowbearer reappeared above Jager. The halfling thief tried to raise his short sword, but the tendrils of shadow held him fast. Shadowbearer stooped, tore the pouch with the soulstone from Jager’s belt, and straightened up.

“You have no idea,” said Shadowbearer, “how much trouble it was to obtain this thing. First to steal it from Cathair Solas. Then to get it back from you. Coriolus couldn’t retrieve it from you. Tarrabus Carhaine failed to steal it from you, and Sir Paul Tallmane failed as well. Perhaps the old proverb is still the wisest. If you want something done right, do it yourself.”

“Stealing that soulstone was a lot of work,” said Jager, his voice shaking as he fought against the tendrils of shadow holding him. “You just used magic. That’s cheating.”

Shadowbearer ignored him, his gaze turning to Mara. “Surprised, my dark elven bastard? You are not the only one who knows how to travel through the edge of the threshold. You know, in a way, you and I are kin. Distant kin, to be sure, but kin nonetheless. I really must thank you for killing the Traveler. He posed a constant problem ever since rousing his cowardly hide from Nightmane Forest.” He looked at the Traveler’s corpse and laughed. “He was afraid of so many things – the Warden, Ardrhythain, the urdmordar. Me.” He laughed again. “I doubt he ever imagined one of his half-breed spawn would kill him. It’s his own fault, really, for using human women as concubines.” He turned from Mara and grinned at Caius. “You see, Brother Caius? A sin really is its own downfall.”

“Perhaps you should heed that warning yourself,” said Mara, struggling against the shadowy bonds.

“Mortal laws do not apply to me,” said Shadowbearer, hefting the leather pouch in his right fist. “Still, it does have a pleasing sort of symmetry, does it not? I had planned to fill this great soulstone with the power of the Keeper, to use her magic to power the gate upon the Black Mountain. A pity I will not have the chance, since she is dead.”

“Are you sure about that?” said Ridmark.

“Entirely,” said Shadowbearer, his malice turning back towards Ridmark. “Do you think I would have been foolish enough to show myself if there was any threat here? You killed the Traveler for me. Mournacht is my puppet.” He smiled at that. “Do you know how I did it? A very minor spell, one to twist the jelly between their ears that serves as their brains. They think that my voice is the voice of Mhor. They would fall on their swords, if I asked it of them. And the greatest threat, Calliande the Keeper, is dead. The Devourer followed her into Dragonfall, and it killed her immediately.”

“You don’t know that,” said Ridmark.

“I do,” said Shadowbearer. “You see, Gray Knight, the Devourer is now trapped within Dragonfall. Even after it consumed Calliande and the power of the Keeper, it would not be able to break through the wards Ardrhythain placed within it. The malophage will make a useful tool once I free it from the trap. If Calliande had reclaimed her staff, she would have returned within a few moments.” He smiled. “She has not, has she?”

Ridmark said nothing. Shadowbearer’s logic made grim, remorseless sense.

“But since Calliande is dead and therefore cannot fill the soulstone,” said Shadowbearer, “another source will have to serve.”

He turned towards Morigna, and she tensed.

“I remember you,” sneered Morigna. “Coriolus’s master, are you not? Given what a cringing toad the Old Man was, it seems only fitting that his master is little better.”

Both of Shadowbearer’s voices laughed. “You were to have been Coriolus’s new vessel, but he failed me. It is only fitting that I make better use of you. Your feeble elemental magic is meaningless, but you imbibed of the Warden’s power, did you not? That will prove powerful enough to open a gate to the world of the Frostborn. Your death shall accomplish more than your life ever would have.”

Shadowbearer pointed his free hand at her, shadowy fire dancing around his fingers, and Ridmark was out of time.

He raced at Shadowbearer, drawing back his staff to strike.

Shadowbearer did not turn, did not even so much as flinch. Instead he merely crooked a finger, and suddenly Ridmark froze in mid-step. Something held him immobile, and he struggled against the invisible force. Even as he struggled, it began to squeeze tighter around him.

It was becoming harder to breathe.

“Ardrhythain’s staff can hold the shadow of Incariel at bay,” said Shadowbearer. “A useful trick, to be sure, but there are other forms of magic. This, for one, a simple spell I learned long ago.” He turned to face Ridmark, the red coat swirling around him. “The Keeper could break it. Either one of your pet sorceresses could dispel it. But the Keeper is dead, alas, and neither one of your sorceresses can act.”

Ridmark heaved against the invisible spell, but it held him in place like a plank pinned by iron nails.

“Do you wonder why I told you all that?” said Shadowbearer, stepping closer. Ridmark saw his reflection in the ancient archmage’s quicksilver eyes, the black veins pulsing and throbbing beneath the corpse-pale skin. It was not blood that flowed through Shadowbearer’s veins, but shadow, the raw darkness of Incariel, the same darkness the dvargir commanded, the same darkness that the Enlightened of Incariel wielded and spread through Andomhaim like a poison. “Did you wonder why I was so forthcoming, spilling all my secrets into your inquisitive ears?”

Ridmark could say nothing, pinned in place by Shadowbearer’s magic.

“Because this is the end,” said Shadowbearer, stepping so close that Ridmark could have struck with his staff. “Is there such a thing as destiny? Even I do not know, not after all these millennia. Yet if there is, you had a mighty destiny upon you, Ridmark the Gray Knight. Every step upon your path, your journey to Urd Morlemoch, the defeat of Mhalek, the death of your wife, your long quest in the Wilderland…all of it has brought you here, to bring back the Keeper to the realm of Andomhaim.”

Shadowbearer leaned closer, his quicksilver eyes glimmering, shadow veins pulsing and writhing beneath his skin.

“A destiny can be stolen, Ridmark of the Arbanii,” said Shadowbearer in a quiet voice. “Subverted. Perhaps God ordained a destiny that you would bring the Keeper to Andomhaim again. Instead you have brought about the Keeper’s death, carried the soulstone into my grasp, and supplied me with a means of empowering the stone.” He waved a negligent hand in Morigna’s direction. “Such good work you have done me.” Shadowbearer strode away, gesturing with his free hand, and blue fire, harsh and stark, burned to life over his palm. “But you are too dangerous to leave alive. Far too dangerous. Such havoc you have wrought, and the chaos you bring might turn against me once more.”

“Ridmark!” shouted Morigna, forcing the words through the shadowy tendrils binding her.

“As for your companions,” said Shadowbearer, “the Mhorites think that I am Mhor, their precious little sham of a blood god. They have done me good service. Should they not offer up blood sacrifices to Mhor?” He smiled again and turned back to Ridmark. “Let us set an example for them.”

He pointed, the blue fire brightening, and Ridmark struggled one last time against the invisible force. A lance of blue fire burst from Shadowbearer’s free hand, bright and harsh.

It shattered against a dome of pale white light.

Suddenly the force holding Ridmark vanished. He lost his balance and fell, rolling to one knee. The dome of pale light spread through the Vault, shattering the tendrils of shadow, the cords of darkness snapping and unraveling like overstressed ropes. Ridmark got to his feet, the staff in both hands, and prepared to attack. Yet Shadowbearer retreated backwards, his eyes narrowed, the blue fire shining harsher and hotter around his free hand. His attention was not on Ridmark, yet Ridmark was nonetheless certain that Shadowbearer would kill him in an instant if he moved.

He saw the others get to their feet, saw the Mhorites recover themselves, Mournacht growling and lifting his axe as his wounds closed. Ridmark moved towards Morigna and Kharlacht, and the others followed suit, drawing together in a defensive cluster.

As they did, a woman walked from the archway leading to Dragonfall. She wore a green cloak and tunic over trousers and sturdy leather boots. A bronze diadem rested upon her blond hair, and she held a long wooden staff in her right hand. She did not look that old, no more than a few years younger than Ridmark, yet her expression was confident, her blue eyes calm.

It took Ridmark a moment to recognize Calliande. She looked exactly the same, seemed exactly the same, yet something about her had changed.

She was the Keeper of Andomhaim once more.

Shadowbearer’s lip pulled back in a snarl, all trace of his mocking confidence gone.

“You,” he spat.

“Tymandain,” said Calliande, her voice ringing off the walls. “The apostate of Cathair Solas. We meet once again.”

Chapter 21: Reunion

Calliande’s Sight swept the hall, noting the magical flows throughout the vast Vault.

She saw her companions, her friends who had helped her in time of need. Great power shone in the soulblades of Gavin and Arandar, roused in response to the shadow of Incariel gathered within Shadowbearer. Elemental fire waited at Antenora’s call, and Calliande saw the scars upon the ancient woman’s soul, the curse she had brought upon herself in Old Earth long ago. Earth magic simmered around Morigna, tainted with dark magic, and Mara watched Calliande with green eyes, her altered soul unlike any Calliande had seen before. Kharlacht and Jager and Caius waited with weapons in hand, looking back and forth between Calliande and Shadowbearer. Ridmark himself stood closest to the archmage, staring at Calliande with surprise. Mournacht was a few yards from Shadowbearer, his aura tainted and armored with dark sorcery.

Calliande looked at her friends and smiled, a wave of affection going through her. Relief, as well, that they were still alive, and a swell of gratitude. She had been vulnerable, so vulnerable, when she had awakened. She had almost been killed on the first day, and if she had fallen into the hands of lesser men than Ridmark and Caius and Kharlacht, any number of dire fates might have befallen her.

Ridmark, especially.

She was relieved, so relieved, they were still alive.

But they might not be for long.

For Shadowbearer held the bulk of Calliande’s attention.

Her ancient enemy stood a few yards from both Ridmark and Mournacht, his shadows billowing behind like a long black banner. In his right hand he held a leather pouch, likely holding the empty soulstone Calliande had taken from the Mhalekites on the day she had awakened. In his left hand brilliant blue fire snarled and hissed, killing fire summoned with all the skill of a high elven archmage and all the dark power of Incariel’s shadow behind it.

His shadow began to rotate around him, faster and faster, and his quicksilver eyes narrowed with hatred.

And, perhaps, a trace of fear.

“You,” said Shadowbearer in his double voice. One half of his voice belonged to Tymandain, the high elven archmage who had forsaken his people.

The other half of his voice was the shadow of Incariel itself.

“Eloquent as ever, Tymandain the apostate,” said Calliande. “Perhaps your allegiance to Incariel has eroded your rhetorical skill?”

Morigna let out an incredulous laugh.

Calliande considered the power gathered around Shadowbearer. He held enough power gathered to kill everyone in the Vault in a storm of fire, or to bring the ceiling crashing down upon their heads. She didn’t expect him to fight. As his title implied, Shadowbearer preferred to work from the shadows, manipulating puppets and dupes, and fled from direction confrontation unless victory was certain.

So why was he still here?

“You were not so bold,” said Shadowbearer, “when last we met.”

“I didn’t know who I was then,” said Calliande. “I do now. You had your chance, Tymandain, but you squandered it. You could have killed me on the Black Mountain, but you failed. Your servants have failed to kill me ever since.”

Shadowbearer laughed. “Do not boast of your prowess, Keeper of Andomhaim. You have not the strength for it. You only live because your allies have kept you alive.”

“Of course,” said Calliande, taking a step closer to him. “I am alive because of their help. Do you expect me to be ashamed of that? I could not have come this far without them. Who stands with you? The Mhorites? Your duped slaves in the Enlightened?”

His mirrored eyes narrowed, and the shadow spun faster around him, seeming to hiss and snarl. Again she wondered why he did not flee. He had the soulstone, and surely he could find some orcish shaman or kidnap a Magistrius to empower the stone for the gate.

“Do you really believe you can stop me?” said Shadowbearer, both his voices soft. “You are an interloper, Calliande of Tarlion. This is not your world. Your predecessors brought humans here a thousand years ago, but that is only a blink of an eye in the depths of time I have seen. I came among the high elves and turned them to the worship of Incariel, and the dark elves were born. I walked among the dwarves and the dvargir arose. Now I have corrupted your kindred as well, and the Enlightened of Incariel stand ready to serve me…”

“No,” said Calliande, interrupting his boasts. “The shadow of Incariel did all these things. You, Tymandain, are merely its latest vessel. A tool to be used and then cast aside. You are not my enemy. You are merely the vessel of my enemy.”

The shadow lashed around him like a banner caught in a gale.

“Foolish child,” said Shadowbearer. “I shall be free, and this world shall burn…”

“You?” said Calliande. “Or the shadow of Incariel? Is there a difference any longer?”

Shadowbearer said nothing, the fire in his hand blazing brighter.

“Why don’t you flee?” said Calliande, a realization starting to come to her. “You have the empty soulstone. Take it and travel away. You can likely use it before Ardrhythain finds you again.”

Still Shadowbearer said nothing, his shadow stirring around him like a restless serpent.

“But you can’t, can you?” said Calliande, certain at last. “You can’t travel with magic while holding an empty soulstone.” Mara had given Calliande the answer. After the fall of the Iron Tower, Mara had tried to travel while holding the soulstone, but was unable to do so. She had claimed the soulstone felt too heavy to move, which Calliande had not understood at the time. Now, with the knowledge of the Keeper restored to her, she understood. Mara’s power allowed her to cut across the threshold, and the soulstone was too magically powerful to enter the threshold.

The same limitation, it seemed, bound Shadowbearer so long as he carried the soulstone.

“So you have a choice,” said Calliande, striking the end of her staff against the ground. It flared with brilliant fire as she drew upon its power. “Leave the soulstone and flee, and wait another two or three centuries for the proper conjunction of the thirteen moons. Or stay…and we shall settle this now.”

“Such pride,” said Shadowbearer. “Such confidence. I almost brought your realm of Andomhaim to its knees once before, and I shall do so again.”

“Perhaps,” said Calliande. “Or maybe your hundred thousand years of war will end today. Perhaps all your countless thousands of victims who cry out to the heavens for vengeance will receive it today.”

Shadowbearer started to answer, and then his left hand snapped up. A blast of blue fire and writhing shadow burst from his palm and hurtled towards Calliande, a spell of dark magic strong enough to kill a hundred men in a heartbeat.

Calliande was ready for it.

She called on the power of the Well, channeling it through the mantle of the Keeper, and cast a ward around herself. Shadowbearer’s spell struck the ward and shattered into nothingness, breaking like glass against the Keeper’s granite-hard power.

For that was the secret of the Keeper’s power, the secret of how the Keepers had defended Andomhaim for five centuries before Ardrhythain had founded the Two Orders. Calliande was not stronger than Shadowbearer. She did not have his skill and knowledge. Yet the power of the Keeper was unlike any other magic upon this world, and no magic of this world could resist it, just as an iron nail could not resist the pull of a lodestone. That secret had allowed the Keeper to defy orcish warlocks and dark elven wizards and the fury of the urdmordar.

And perhaps that secret would allow Calliande to put an end to Shadowbearer’s evil at last.

She cast another spell, this one of elemental magic, similar to the ones her predecessor must have taught Antenora centuries ago. Calliande called elemental fire to her hand, fed it through the mantle of the Keeper, and focused it into a tight beam. The shaft of fire leapt from her hand and arced towards Shadowbearer. It would have sliced through his wards and ripped him in half, but the corrupted archmage gestured with his free hand. One of the stone tables leapt from the floor and intercepted Calliande’s spell. Her beam sliced the table in half, its glowing halves falling to the floor with a thunderous crash, the cut edges smoking and white-hot.

“Kill them!” screamed Shadowbearer, both his voices thundering through the Vault of the Kings. “Kill the Keeper! Kill them all! Kill them all now!”

He began another spell, and Calliande summoned more power as chaos erupted around her. The Mhorites charged, likely believing that Mhor had commanded them to kill. Mournacht sprang at Ridmark, his black axe a blur of dark steel and bloody fire, and Ridmark barely got out of the way in time. Calliande would have aided him, but she dared not turn her attention from Shadowbearer.

Either she would kill him, or he would kill her.

She cast another ward as Shadowbearer unleashed his power at her.

###

Mournacht charged, and Ridmark fought for his life.

He was tired and wounded, his limbs aching, his chest and stomach battered and bruised beneath his dark elven armor, which he supposed better than having his guts split open by a Mhorite axe. But his exhaustion and pain did not matter, not when the battle still hung in the balance.

Not when there was a chance of final triumph.

So he ducked Mournacht’s next attack, spun, and put all his strength into the blow. Again his staff struck Mournacht’s face with a loud crunch, the orcish shaman’s head snapping back. Mournacht had healed the previous damage Ridmark had dealt to him, but the blow still hurt, sending the shaman reeling back. Ridmark hit him again, and again, trying force his advantage home before Mournacht recovered.

The Mhorite warriors separated them, rushing to the aid of their shaman. Ridmark retreated as four Mhorite warriors attacked, slashing with swords and axes. He parried a sword blow aimed for his head, ducked under an axe, and crushed a Mhorite’s throat with a sharp blow from his staff. A sword bounced off his stomach, and another opened a cut upon his left leg, and Ridmark stumbled. The Mhorites pursued him for the kill, and then the floor rippled around him. Morigna’s earth magic knocked over the Mhorites. Ridmark seized the opening and killed two Mhorites in quick succession, but more warriors charged into the gap. Mournacht himself pursued, pushing aside his warriors to get at Ridmark, his black axe burning anew with his dark magic.

White fire flashed against the bloody fire of Mournacht’s power, and Gavin and Arandar charged into the fray. Mournacht roared and withdrew, slipping back to a defensive posture. The soulblades had taught Mournacht caution. He had been strong enough to fight the Traveler to a standstill, but even the Traveler had feared the soulblades carried by the Swordbearers of Andomhaim.

Kharlacht and Caius joined the battle, and the melee swirled through the wreckage of the Vault as the bearer of shadow and the Keeper of Andomhaim unleashed their powers at one another.

###

“I think I can get behind him,” said Mara, taking a deep breath. “If I surprise him…”

“No!” said Antenora, her staff beginning to burn again. “The bearer of shadow is too well warded from attack. A soulblade would penetrate his wards, but even a blade of dark elven steel would not.” She shook her head, her dark cowl rustling. “If you stand too close to him, the Keeper’s power might well destroy you by mistake.”

Morigna had to admit that seemed likely.

Ridmark, Gavin, Arandar, Kharlacht, and Caius fought with vigor, attacking the Mhorites that swarmed around them. Mournacht hung back, bellowing commands to his warriors. He no longer seemed as eager to engage Ridmark. Likely he hoped to avoid the killing fire of the soulblades. It was a ferocious, bloody fight, with Mhorite after Mhorite falling to the skill of Ridmark and the others.

Yet it seemed like a tiny thing compared to the fury snarling back and forth between Calliande and Shadowbearer.

Calliande attacked, and she no longer wielded just the power of the Well. Now she also struck with blasts of elemental fire similar to Antenora’s magic, but with far more focus and precision. The Keeper unleashed attacks of elemental stone, the floor exploding beneath Shadowbearer, or gales of elemental wind to drive back the ancient archmage. Even with all that, Calliande still attacked with blasts of the Well’s white fire. Ardrhythain and the Warden had been more powerful, but Morigna had never seen a human unleash such a display of magical prowess as Calliande did now, not even the Old Man himself.

It frightened her a little.

Shadowbearer frightened her much more.

The bearer of shadow defended himself with savage fury, conjuring blasts of ghostly blue fire and lances of darkness to attack the Keeper. Even without casting the spell to sense the presence of magical forces, Morigna felt the raw power of those attacks. Those spells should have shattered Calliande’s wards, killed her instantly, and left her and everything around her for a hundred yards reduced to lifeless ash. Yet her wards held firm beneath the assault.

And to Morigna’s astonishment, Shadowbearer seemed unable to ward himself from Calliande’s attacks. Whenever Calliande’s spells touched his wards, they collapsed like paper. To defend himself, Shadowbearer interposed objects between him and Calliande – stone benches, chests of dwarven steel, even the corpses of dead Mhorites. Whenever Calliande attacked him, whether with white fire or elemental flame or fists of stone that reached from the ground, he stopped his attacks and used invisible force to pull something to use as a makeshift shield.

“I think,” said Jager, his voice awed. He had fallen back to protect Mara and the others. “I think she’s winning.”

“How?” said Morigna. “Calliande’s magic is not strong enough, even with the staff of the Keeper.”

“The power of the Keeper is potent,” said Antenora.

“That’s not it,” said Mara. “Her magic…the magic of Shadowbearer cannot resist it. I think it is because the power of the Keeper originated upon Old Earth. It is alien to the magic of this world. Shadowbearer’s power cannot stand against it.”

“Why does Shadowbearer not simply drop the soulstone and travel away?” said Jager. “Tarrabus and the other Enlightened said he could travel from place to place in an instant.”

“He should,” said Mara, and her green eyes widened. “He won’t! He’s spent too long trying to reclaim the soulstone, and he won’t let it go now. He needs it, but he cannot escape so long as he holds it. We have to find a way to help Calliande!”

“How?” said Morigna. Blue fire contested against white, thunder and the screams of battle echoing through the Vault.

“This is Calliande’s chance to kill Shadowbearer!” said Mara. “He founded the Enlightened. He trained your Old Man. He’s trying to summon the Frostborn. If Calliande kills him now, it all ends!”

“I do not dispute your logic,” said Morigna, “but one wonders how we can possibly help! This is beyond my skill. We should aid Ridmark and the others instead.” So far they were holding their own against Mournacht and his guards, but the shaman had begun flinging spells into the battle. Every time he did, Gavin or Arandar had to use their soulblades’ power to deflect the spell, allowing the Mhorites to gain another few steps. Very soon the Mhorites would encircle them, and the battle would end after that.

“No,” said Antenora. “The lady of shadows speaks truly. If we defeat Shadowbearer, the Keeper can crush the orcish shaman in a matter of moments.”

“Mara and I will assist Ridmark,” said Jager. “You two are the sorceresses, you figure out how to help Calliande. If Mara or I tried, we’d be dead in three seconds.”

Mara nodded and followed Jager as he sprinted across the open space. She flickered into blue fire and reappeared behind a Mhorite, hamstringing him with a quick slash of her sword. Jager finished off the Mhorite warrior with a casual stab, and the two of them went on the attack, causing chaos among the Mhorites struggling against Ridmark and the others. Morigna wondered what their courtship must have been like. Had Jager invited her to come rob a nobleman? Or had Mara asked his help for an assassination?

She pushed aside the thought. Fatigue was making her light-headed, her thoughts scattering at random.

“Now,” said Antenora, pointing her staff. “Let us strike as one.”

Morigna nodded and gestured, forcing her weary will to call more earth magic. A soft whisper in her mind suggested using dark magic against Shadowbearer, but she rejected that idea at once. Trying to use dark magic against him would have been like trying to put out a forest fire with a lit candle. Instead she called a pillar of acidic mist that wreathed him like a bank of cloud, and Antenora flung a fireball that exploded against him with a booming roar.

Neither spell did anything. Morigna’s mist sputtered and dissolved against Shadowbearer’s wards, while Antenora’s fire crackled into smoke. For a moment Morigna feared Shadowbearer would direct his wrath against them, but the corrupted archmage did not even look away from the Keeper. Calliande held his full attention and concentration. Even as Morigna watched, Calliande sent another lance of white fire at Shadowbearer, only for a stone table to leap from the floor and block the attack, coins flying in all directions.

A stone table…

Morigna blinked as an idea came to her. She could not batter down Shadowbearer’s wards. She could not even hurt him. She could, however, command the element of stone.

And those tables were made of stone.

###

Ridmark beat aside the thrust of a Mhorite sword, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulders and chest. The Mhorite warrior came on, and Ridmark retreated, letting the orc pursue him. At last the Mhorite stumbled over the outstretched arm of a dead Anathgrimm warrior, and Ridmark drove his staff forward, crushing the warrior’s throat. The Mhorite fell, choking and gagging, and joined his comrades upon the floor.

Between the dead orcs, the blood, the rubble, and the melted patches of gold, the footing was becoming increasingly treacherous.

Blue fire flashed behind another Mhorite, and Mara appeared behind the warrior, driving her short sword into his armpit. The Mhorite bellowed and jerked free of the blade, turning to face her, and Ridmark swung his staff. The length of black wood struck the Mhorite’s head, the shock traveling up Ridmark’s arms and into his shoulders, and the Mhorite went limp and joined to the growing collection of corpses upon the floor.

Mournacht roared and thrust his axe, and shadows and crimson fire leapt from its massive blades. Gavin moved to defend, raising Truthseeker, and a shell of white light shimmered around him. An instant later Mournacht’s spell of dark magic struck him, his power snarling and clawing against the soulblade’s protection. Mournacht’s power proved no contest against the might of the soulblade, but it did force Gavin to stop.

The Mhorite warriors closed around Gavin, hoping to take down a Swordbearer. Ridmark rushed to defend him, collapsing a Mhorite’s skull with his staff and tripping a second warrior, bringing his weapon around in time to deflect a sword thrust that would otherwise have taken him in the throat. Arandar rushed to Gavin’s aid, swinging Heartwarden with enough power that the soulblade took off a Mhorite’s head with a single mighty blow. Mournacht bellowed a spell, and another bolt of shadow-wreathed fire leaped from his axe. Arandar spun, Heartwarden blazing as the soulblade protected him from the killing wrath of the spell. The charging Mhorite warriors shifted to attack Arandar, and Gavin released his own protections, coming to attack. Truthseeker’s power gave him speed and strength, and he beheaded one Mhorite and took the sword arm from another. Ridmark joined the attack, and killed three Mhorites in quick succession, while Jager and Mara caused chaos and Kharlacht and Caius fought in skillful unison.

They were holding their own, but it would not last. For every warrior that Ridmark killed, ten more could take their place. More Mhorites stormed through the doors from the Citadel of Kings, pressing into the Vault. Ridmark supposed all the Anathgrimm must have fled, driven into despair by the death of their false god. With no Anathgrimm and no Traveler to distract them, Mournacht and his warriors could turn their full attention to Ridmark and his friends.

And since they believed that Shadowbearer was Mhor, they would fight with all the more ferocity.

Ridmark risked a glance back, saw Calliande still locked in her duel with Shadowbearer, magic snarling back and forth between them. Then another pair of Mhorite warriors came at him, and Ridmark could spare her no further attention if he wanted to survive.

###

Calliande felt her strength wavering.

Even with the power of the Keeper augmenting her magic, even with her full skills and knowledge restored, she still was exhausted. She had already been exhausted when she had passed through the golden doors of Dragonfall, and the fight with the Devourer had drained her further. Shadowbearer had been rested before this fight, and he had far more experience wielding magic than she did. Furthermore, he had no choice but to stand and fight. When she had fought him before, centuries earlier, he had withdrawn rather than risk defeat. Now, though, he had no choice but to fight.

A fight he might be able to win by sheer attrition.

Calliande gritted her teeth, deflecting one of his spells and flinging a shaft of fire at him. She could not yield, not now, not after so many had sacrificed so much so she could stop Shadowbearer. Her plan, the work of centuries, hinged upon this moment.

Another stone table heaved itself from the floor and intercepted her bolt of fire, coins scattering in all directions.

Shadowbearer’s wards might be useless against the Keeper’s power…but Calliande could not seem to hit him.

A volley of writhing, twisting shadows shot at her, and Calliande waved her staff before her, summoning a ward to turn them aside. Again Shadowbearer’s dark magic crumbled against her defense, but the effort strained her, and the spell sputtered a bit. Again she called on elemental fire, her free hand crackling with yellow-orange light, and she infused the fire with the power of the Keeper and the magic of the Well. The shaft ripped from her hand with a howl, and Shadowbearer smirked again as he gestured, another table ripping from the floor to block the attack.

But this time, Calliande’s Sight detected a spell of earth magic.

The spell sank into the table as it tumbled, and Morigna’s magic made the table fold and ripple, just as it did when she used the spell to trip charging warriors.

It made the table fold just enough that Calliande’s shaft of fire slashed across the left side of Shadowbearer’s face and chest.

The corrupted archmage stumbled back with a horrified scream, both his voices furious, his free hand clutched to the left side of his face. Calliande did not hesitate, but leveled her staff, drawing upon all the power of the Keeper and all the magic of the Well. The staff shone like a shaft of white-hot metal, and a lance of white fire launched from it and struck Shadowbearer. The fury of the spell threw him backwards, and she glimpsed the charred ruin of the left side of his face, his damaged features twisted in rage. He struggled against the spell, his shadow whipping back and forth, and for a moment Calliande was sure that she had him.

Shadowbearer screamed and thrust his free hand over his head, blazing blue fire erupting from his fingers. The spell missed Calliande entirely.

It did, however, strike the arched ceiling, ripping through the dwarven stonework. A booming crack echoed through the Vault, and tons of stone fell from ceiling with a roar.

Something hard clipped the side of Calliande’s head, and everything went black.

###

The explosion rocked the Vault, and Ridmark staggered. The blast knocked the Mhorites off-balance, and Ridmark looked over his shoulder just as a rain of boulders fell from the ceiling, blocking Calliande from view. Had Shadowbearer just buried her alive?

“Aid me!” Shadowbearer’s double voice snarled through the Vault. “To me! We return to the Gate of the West! To me, warriors of Kothluusk! Your god commands it! Now! Now!”

“Mhor has spoken!” Mournacht’s voice rolled over the battle and the ominous sounds of cracking stone overhead. “To Mhor!”

Shadowbearer staggered from the cloud of dust surrounding the fallen boulders, the left side of his face a charred ruin. He looked on the edge of death. If Calliande hit him with another spell, perhaps she could finish him off entirely. Or maybe the Swordbearers could cut him down before he escaped.

Before Ridmark could speak, dozens of Mhorite warriors rushed to surround Shadowbearer, and Mournacht himself sprinted to join his false god. Shadowbearer did not wait for them, but ran for the Citadel of Kings, still clutching the empty soulstone in his right hand. His mercury-like eyes fixed upon Ridmark, bright and mad against the charred skin covering the left side of his face, and his lip twisted with hatred.

“Follow me if you can, Gray Knight!” screamed Shadowbearer, the melodious side of his double voice rasping and hissing with pain. “Follow me and strike me down! Or stay and rescue your precious Keeper! Choose!”

He stabbed his free hand towards the ceiling and again a brilliant cone of blue fire lashed from his fingers, ripping across the damaged stonework. Cracks spread across the ceiling in a widening web, and a disturbing rumble went through the floor.

Shadowbearer was about to bring the entire Vault of the Kings crashing into ruin.

The Mhorites turned and fled for the throne room of the Citadel, and Ridmark dashed across the rubble-strewn floor, dodging chunks of stone that fell from the trembling ceiling, jumping over corpses and tables and the scattered wealth of the Kings of Khald Azalar. A huge pile of broken stone stood at the rear of the hall, and Ridmark feared that Calliande, Antenora, and Morigna had all been entombed beneath it.

Or, more accurately, that they had all been crushed to a pulp beneath the massive slabs of broken stone.

“Ridmark!”

Morigna’s voice sent a wave of relief through him.

He found Morigna and Antenora standing together, Calliande lying on the ground between them. At first glance Ridmark thought that she was dead, but her chest rose and fell with her breath, and blood leaked from a cut on her left temple. One of the falling pieces of stone had clipped her. Antenora stared at the Keeper as if stricken, both hands clutching her staff.

“We have to go, now,” said Ridmark, passing his staff to Morigna. He knelt, picked up Calliande, and slung her over his shoulders. His muscles trembled with fatigue, but he forced them to obey. “Antenora, take her staff. We came all this way to get the damned thing, I’m not leaving it behind. No, don’t argue, either of you. Go!”

He ran towards the throne room, Calliande bouncing against his shoulders. He felt a wet trickle of blood from her scalp soak through his right sleeve and against his arm. Perhaps one of the Swordbearers could heal her before she bled out. The others waited halfway to the door to the throne room, weapons in hand.

“Gray Knight,” said Caius. “Is she…”

“Still alive,” said Ridmark. “Quick, heal her.” Gavin nodded, stepped forward, and put his hand on her injured temple, his hand flashing with white light as he drew upon Truthseeker’s power. The cut scabbed over, the flow of blood stopping. Swordbearers could not heal as well as Magistri, and Ridmark had met few Magistri with Calliande’s skill at healing. Yet Truthseeker’s power was enough to stop the bleeding.

“We must withdraw at once,” said Kharlacht, giving the ceiling a wary glance.

“No,” said Ridmark.

“You intend to stay here and be buried alive, then?” said Morigna.

“Nonsense!” said Jager with manic cheer. “The stones would crush us long before that.”

“No, we’re going after Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark. “He’s wounded. He can’t have much power left in reserve. If we can get close enough, Gavin or Arandar can kill him with a soulblade.”

“Through that many Mhorites?” said Arandar, his doubt plain.

“We must take the chance,” said Ridmark. “He has the empty soulstone, and we can’t let him get away with it. And if we defeat him here, if we kill him now…it’s over. The Frostborn will never return.”

“You speak truly,” said Caius, and a thunderous growling noise came from overhead, a wide crack spreading over the Vault’s ceiling.

“The time for talk is over!” said Ridmark. “Run!”

He led the way, dashing through the wreckage of the Vault, Calliande limp against his shoulders. His arms and back burned with the effort of carrying her, and his legs screamed with the strain, but he kept going. The others ran around him, dodging as chunks of stone began to fall from the ceiling. Ridmark pushed himself harder, his chest hitching as he tried to draw in enough air. The doors to the throne room of the Citadel of Kings yawned before him, and he sprinted through them, the floor starting to vibrate beneath his boots. Ahead of him the Mhorites fled through the throne room, withdrawing to the great assembly chamber outside of the Citadel.

“Run!” said Ridmark, and they raced across the vast empty space of the throne room. A few moments later a thunderous roar came from the Vault of the Kings as the ceiling collapsed, a billowing cloud of dust rolling out of the gates of adamant steel. Ridmark wondered if the Traveler had expected to be entombed within Khald Azalar. They burst from the throne room and into the assembly chamber. Already the Mhorites fled for one of the pillared galleries leading back to the higher levels of Khald Azalar. Ridmark spotted Shadowbearer at the edge of the chamber, just within the gallery proper. He had expected the corrupted archmage to have already regenerated his injuries, but the hideous burns on the left side of his face and neck remained as livid as before. Perhaps it took longer to heal such an egregious wound. Or perhaps Shadowbearer could not recover from the Keeper’s power.

Ridmark’s eyes met Shadowbearer’s, and even across the vast space of the assembly chamber, he felt the terrible weight and power of the quicksilver gaze.

“You might have restored the Keeper, Ridmark Arban!” boomed Shadowbearer. “But it doing so, you have guaranteed my victory. Catch me if you can!”

He thrust his free hand, and a blinding shaft of blue fire erupted from his fingers, slicing through the balconies overhead as if they were soft bread and drilling into the domed ceiling. A tearing, grinding sounded echoed through the chamber, and Shadowbearer fled into the gallery with the rest of the Mhorites. An instant later three rows of balconies collapsed, sealing off the entrance of the gallery behind tons of broken stone. Ridmark cursed in fury, coming to a staggering halt beneath Calliande’s weight. With the empty soulstone, Shadowbearer would flee Khald Azalar and make for the Black Mountain as fast as he could.

Then he would open the gate and summon the Frostborn.

Another grinding noise came from overhead, and in the dim glow from the lava canals Ridmark saw more cracks spreading over the ceiling. Shadowbearer’s spell had blasted away large chunks from the dome, and Ridmark doubted it would last much longer in its weakened state.

“Which way?” shouted Caius.

Shadowbearer had blocked the way to the Gate of the West. They could withdraw back down the stairs to the Gate of the Deeps and escape through the caverns to the surface. Unfortunately, Caius’s map of the mines extended only so far, and with Irunzad dead, they had no guide. They could wander for weeks in the Deeps, trying to find a route back to the surface, or fall dead to one of the countless dangers that wandered the Deeps. The Gate of the East was nearer, and it led right to the surface.

Unfortunately, it would put them on the opposite side of the mountains from Shadowbearer. But Ridmark knew where Shadowbearer was going, and the Gate of the East would put them a few days closer to the Black Mountain and Dun Licinia.

If they hastened.

If the dangers of the northern Wilderland did not kill them first.

And if the Gate of the East was even still open.

All this flashed through Ridmark’s mind in a moment.

“The Gate of the East!” said Ridmark. “Run!”

They hastened through the chamber, dodging the vast chunks of stone falling from the ceiling. A boulder the size of a large horse landed a dozen yards away, the shock almost sending Ridmark sprawling, his exhausted legs starting to buckle. Morigna caught his elbow and steadied him, and he nodded his thanks to her as they crossed the chamber, ducked under a crumbling balcony, and raced up the broad stairs to the Gate of the East. The sound of crashing and collapsing stone grew louder, and Ridmark glanced over his shoulder to see the archway disappear in a rain of stone, dust billowing up behind them.

They kept climbing, and a pale glow touched his eyes. It was sunlight, which meant the Gate of the East still stood open. Relief flooded through him, and Ridmark kept climbing. The stairs ended in a massive stone hall, the high roof supported by blocky pillars. It looked a great deal like the Hall of the West on the other side of Khald Azalar.

On the far end of the Hall stood the Gate of the East, its massive doors of dwarven steel standing open. Sunlight leaked through the doors, and beyond Ridmark saw rough foothills and a green forest stretching away in the distance.

“We ought to be safe from pursuit,” said Kharlacht, looking down the broad stairs. “I doubt even Shadowbearer could get through that much fallen rock.”

“Perhaps he could,” said Ridmark, going to one knee and setting down Calliande as gently as he could manage. Antenora helped him, and Calliande slumped against the polished stone floor, her eyes closed. “But he will not bother. Instead he will make his way to the Gate of the West and then head for the Black Mountain to summon the Frostborn.”

“Then,” said Gavin, looking back and forth between the rubble-choked stairs and the Gate of the East, “then what will we do next?”

“We’ll rest here until dawn,” said Ridmark, squinting at the light in the Gate of the East. It looked like it was almost sundown. “Then tomorrow morning we’ll leave and head for Dun Licinia ourselves.” He shook his head as Arandar knelt next to Calliande, summoning Heartwarden’s healing power. A wave of pain went through Ridmark from his broken bond to the soulblade, and Morigna handed him his staff. He took it with relief, fearing that he might have to lean upon it for support. “Now it’s a race.”

Chapter 22: Pursuit

Bit by bit, Calliande came back to consciousness.

For a moment she could not remember where she was, which filled her with fear. Her father’s house, yes, that was it. It was before dawn, and her father had gone to his boat.

But why was she lying on a cold stone floor? Her father’s house had wooden floors. The only stone was the hearth in the main room, and she wasn’t stupid enough to fall asleep so close to the fire…

Then she remembered the Tower of Vigilance. Had the time come at last? The Order of the Vigilant would be waiting for her, and she would have to return to Khald Azalar and Dragonfall as quickly as possible, to retrieve her staff and stop Shadowbearer from summoning the Frostborn anew.

Shadowbearer…

The memories exploded through her head, and she sat up with a strangled cry of alarm, reaching for her staff. It lay next to her right hand, and she snatched it up, preparing to call power. The falling rubble must have stunned her, and Shadowbearer would not hesitate to strike her down…

But there was no sign of Shadowbearer, and she was no longer in the Vault of the Kings.

Calliande almost thought that she was back in the Hall of the West. It looked identical, but there were no bones upon the floor, no signs of battle. The massive doors of dwarven steel were still intact, and they stood open, revealing foothills and a forest beyond them.

That wasn’t the Gate of the West.

“Good,” said a man’s voice. “You’re awake.”

She turned her head. A tall man of about thirty stood a short distance away, a black staff in his right hand. He had hard features and a coward’s brand of a broken sword upon his left cheek, his blue eyes cold and sharp, his black hair close-cropped. He wore a gray high elven cloak and a cuirass of overlapping plates of blue dark elven steel, a dwarven war axe hanging at his belt.

Her mind snapped back into focus, her disjointed memories sliding back into their proper order.

“Ridmark,” she said.

“Keeper,” rasped a woman’s voice, old and worn and tired. Antenora stepped to Ridmark’s side, her yellow eyes glittering in her gaunt gray face. “You are alive, God be praised.”

“How do you feel?” said Ridmark. She felt, Calliande thought, about as battered and tired as Ridmark looked. Blood stained his clothing and armor, some of it his own, and she saw the scabbed cuts upon his jaw and arms. That he was alive at all was something of a miracle in its own right. With no magic, he had fought the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm, challenged one of the most powerful wizards ever to walk the face of Andomhaim, and had survived.

“I have a monstrous headache,” said Calliande, “and I feel as I spent the day carrying blocks of stone up and down a flight of stairs, but I cannot complain. One does not have the right to complain, given that one is still alive.”

Ridmark blinked.

“What?” said Calliande.

“You…sounded a great deal like Morigna,” said Ridmark.

Calliande frowned. “I…suppose I did, did I not? Morigna learned most of her Latin from Coriolus, and Coriolus would have been a young Adept when I went into the long sleep. Oh!” She rubbed at her aching head. “I just remembered him. Aye, but he was arrogant and rude, and he had the most appalling bad breath. Little wonder he turned into an Eternalist. I…”

Ridmark was laughing.

That was so unusual that it caught Calliande’s attention.

“What was funny?” said Calliande.

“He became an Eternalist because of his bad breath?” said Ridmark. “Perhaps that is why he used his magic to steal a different body.”

It was so absurd Calliande started laughing as well. Antenora looked back and forth between them, bewildered.

“Forgive me,” said Ridmark. “It has been…an exhausting day, and my mind wanders afar. And I wonder…”

“What?” said Calliande.

“Who are you now?” said Ridmark.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande, levering herself to her feet. “I think I am who I always have been. Just more so, now. Hold still.”

Ridmark shook his head. “You need to rest before…”

Before he could finish objecting, Calliande reached up, put a hand on his forehead, and summoned the power of the Well, augmenting it with the mantle of the Keeper’s power. He shivered, his muscles clenching as her magic washed through him. Calliande grimaced as she felt the pain of his injuries pass into her, feeling them as keenly if the blades had slashed and bruised her own flesh. He was hurt more than he let on, with some cracked ribs and an arm that likely had a hairline fracture. But she absorbed the hurts, enduring them without flinching, and her magic commanded the wounds to heal.

She stepped back, catching her breath, and Ridmark wobbled a little and leaned on his staff for balance.

“That is always a bit of a shock,” said Ridmark. “Thank you.”

“Where are the others?” said Calliande. “I should tend to them as well. Unless…” A horrible thought occurred to her. “Were they killed?” She had already lost so many friends. All the initiates who had entered the Order of the Magistri with her had been killed fighting the Frostborn. Marius and the Order of the Vigilant had passed away. If only Ridmark and Antenora had survived, that would be a terrible blow…

“No,” said Ridmark. “We all got out alive, barely. Gavin and Arandar patched up the worst of the wounds, though I’m sure they would welcome healing. They went out to scout. We’re in the Hall of the East, and that’s the Gate of the East. I would have gone with them, but Morigna more or less demanded that I stay here, and Antenora volunteered to keep watch with her Sight.”

“What happened?” said Calliande. “Something hit me in the head…”

“A rock, I think,” said Ridmark. “Shadowbearer brought down the ceiling. He buried the entire Vault of the Kings, and sealed off the Citadel for good measure. I suppose Caius won’t have to worry about the dvargir or the deep orcs carrying off the treasures of Khald Azalar.” He grimaced. “Shadowbearer escaped with the empty soulstone. He fled with the Mhorites toward the Gate of the West, and collapsed the gallery behind him. The assembly chamber was about to collapse, and we had to flee ourselves. It was either the Gate of the Deeps or the Gate of the East.” He shrugged. “The Gate of the East put us on the wrong side of the mountains of Vhaluusk, but if we took the Gate of the Deeps, we could have wandered in the Deeps for weeks. At least now we know where we are going.”

“The Black Mountain,” said Calliande. “Dun Licinia.” She shook her head. “Where all of this began.”

“He can’t transport himself with magic while carrying the soulstone, can he?” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Calliande. “Travel through magic involves…well, essentially bouncing the physical self against the threshold and redirecting it to another location in the material world. The soulstone has too much magical power to be moved in that way, and it will anchor down anyone holding it. So long as he’s holding it, he cannot travel with magic. He will have to travel to Dun Licinia on foot.” She thought for a moment. “He might find some means of quicker travel, like dominating a wyvern and riding it.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “He’s traveling with the Mhorite host. Mournacht and most of his shamans are still alive, and they withdrew as well. Shadowbearer is traveling to Dun Licinia with an army around him, and it will not surprise me if he picks up additional allies. So long as he has that soulstone, he can’t hide in the shadows any longer. Another dark elven lord like the Traveler might try and take it away from him.”

“If he has to travel with an army,” said Calliande, “then we can move faster. We can get to the Black Mountain before he does and wait for him.” She swallowed. “Assuming we survive the trip through the northern Wilderland.”

“It is dangerous,” said Ridmark, “but we’ll have the Keeper with us, will we not?”

“We will,” said Calliande. “Wait. What happened to the Traveler? Is he pursuing Shadowbearer? Or is he sealed in Khald Azalar?”

“He’s dead, actually,” said Ridmark. “Mara killed him.”

“Mara?” said Calliande. For a moment she was so astonished that she could not speak. The Traveler had been a mighty wizard, a skilled wielder of potent dark magic, so strong that Shadowbearer had not been willing to confront the dark elven lord in open battle. “How?”

“Morigna helped,” said Ridmark. “The shadows she could summon blocked the Traveler’s protective wards. Mara was able to make one jump, and she cut the Traveler’s throat from behind before he reacted. Oh, she still has your dwarven dagger.”

Calliande shook her head. “She can keep it. Ridmark…in all of Andomhaim’s history, only a few men have slain dark elven nobles in direct combat. Most of them were either Swordbearers, or protected by the magic of past Keepers. For Mara to do that…that is astonishing. The Traveler has been an enemy of Andomhaim ever since the Northerland was first settled. Were the High King to hear of this, he would surely give Mara lands and a title as a noble of Andomhaim.”

“I doubt she would take it,” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Calliande. “I suppose not.” She rolled her shoulders, trying to ignore her weariness. “We should set out at once.”

“Tomorrow,” said Ridmark. “We need rest first, and this is as safe of a location to camp as we are likely to find. There are urdmordar in the forests of the northern Wilderland, and I hope to avoid them. Easier to do that if we’re rested and we have our wits about us.”

“Yes,” said Calliande. “You’re likely right.” She took a deep breath. “Ridmark. Thank you for saving my life. Again. I recovered my memory and my powers, and you still had to carry me out of there, didn’t you? No, don’t deny it. I just healed your wounds. I sensed the ache in your shoulders.”

“You saved our lives, as well,” said Ridmark.

Calliande looked at him and felt a flicker of regret. She had not realized that he had been the only man she had ever kissed. Perhaps it was just as well. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and even if they defeated Shadowbearer and kept the Frostborn from returning, she still had the duty of defending the realm from dark magic

“Keeper,” said Antenora in a soft, tense voice.

Calliande looked at her.

“Now that you have recovered your powers,” said Antenora, drawing back her cowl, “can you remove the curse upon me?” Her gaunt face was tight with fear and hope, her brittle black hair hanging loose and ragged about her head. “Can you let me die at last?”

Calliande hesitated. “Perhaps.” Antenora’s power would be useful in the battles ahead, and Calliande did not want to lose her help. Yet the poor woman had spent fifteen centuries trying to undo her curse, trying to find a way to redeem that long-ago betrayal. “Let me look at you.”

Antenora nodded and went still, her head bowed.

Calliande focused her Sight upon Antenora. She saw the aura of magical power around the ancient sorceress, the lingering echo of the elemental fire she had called for centuries. The Sight revealed deeper wounds upon Antenora, the marks of the dark magic she had wielded long ago, the scars left when Mordred Pendragon had stolen her magic to fuel his own. Mordred’s death at the hands of the High King had shattered that connection, and the dregs of Mordred’s power had backlashed into Antenora, binding themselves to her spirit. That had kept her alive for all those centuries, chaining her spirit to her flesh in a corrupted form of life that required neither food nor rest. The spell was ancient and profound, one that was beyond Calliande’s skill to unravel. It would have been beyond even Ardrhythain’s power to break.

But Calliande saw the spell’s weakness.

“It can’t be broken,” said Calliande. “But it can be undone.”

“How?” said Antenora.

“Your curse was created by an act of treachery,” said Calliande. “Therefore it can only be undone by an act of fidelity. You must swear to a task and hold faith with it until the end.”

“So be it,” said Antenora. “Then I swear by God, the Dominus Christus, and all the saints that I shall follow you, Keeper of Avalon and Andomhaim, until Shadowbearer is defeated and the Frostborn are banished from this world once more.”

“Are you sure?” said Calliande. “I have no hold over you…”

“I am your apprentice,” said Antenora.

“If you wish,” said Calliande, “but this task will be a dangerous one. You saw Shadowbearer’s power, and he will call many potent allies to his side.”

“It matters not,” said Antenora. “My life ended long ago, destroyed by my folly. All that is left is to atone, to enter the grave I earned long ago. I swear that I will aid you until the end, until Shadowbearer is defeated and the Frostborn no longer threaten Andomhaim. This I swear.”

The curse binding her seemed to stir, like an old house swaying in a gale, and then went still again.

“It is done, then,” said Calliande. “I am the Keeper, and you shall be my apprentice.”

Antenora bowed her head. “I am not worthy of the honor.”

“Given that my last apprentice tried to murder me,” said Calliande, “I suspect you will do well.”

“Truly?” said Ridmark, frowning. “Your apprentice tried to murder you?”

“Yes,” said Calliande. “Lydia was one of the first Eternalists. That was one of the things that set me upon this path, one of the things that helped me to realize that Shadowbearer would try to corrupt Andomhaim from within.”

“I may have to ask you some questions,” said Ridmark. “I have spent the last five years trying to find the answer for the mystery of the Frostborn. We did, in Urd Morlemoch, but there are so many other questions I would like answered.”

“Of course,” said Calliande. “You can ask me to do whatever you want.”

Belatedly she realized just how that sounded, and then felt a burst of embarrassment, followed by sadness. Ridmark, thank God, did not notice. Or he was polite enough to pretend that he didn’t notice.

“The Dragon Knight,” said Ridmark. “Kalomarus. What happened to him? He simply disappeared from the pages of the histories of Andomhaim.”

“I…don’t know, actually,” said Calliande. He had been a grim and formidable warrior, but nonetheless a good friend. “Ardrhythain gave him the Dragon Sword, containing the power of one of the ancient dragons. After the war, he took me to first Dragonfall and then the Tower of Vigilance…and I don’t know what happened to him after that. I think…”

The sound of running footsteps interrupted her thoughts.

Gavin raced into the Hall of the East, using Truthseeker to augment his speed.

“What’s wrong?” said Ridmark.

“The Anathgrimm,” said Gavin. “They’re coming up the foothills. They must have retreated through the Gate of the East.”

Ridmark nodded and started for the gate, staff in hand, and Calliande and Antenora hurried after him. “How many of them?”

“I think,” said Gavin, “all of them.”

Chapter 23: The Dead God

Mara stood alone at the edge of the platform, gazing at the Anathgrimm warriors standing motionless below.

Well, not alone. Jager was at her side. Hundreds of Anathgrimm warriors stared up at her, probably thousands of them, and Jager had not hesitated to join her. Mara felt a wave of affection for her husband, the man who had accompanied her through so many dangers.

“So,” said Jager in a low voice. “Are they just going to…stand there? Staring? It’s very strange. Rude, too.”

“I…don’t know,” said Mara.

She glanced back towards the massive Gate of the East, a towering façade carved from the face of the mountain. The Gate of the West had opened into a small valley, but a broad flight of stairs descended from the Gate of the East, ending at a hill that had been carved into a fortified platform. Below the stone platform the vast forest began, and the Anathgrimm waited there, stark and forbidding in their steel armor and bone masks.

Arandar and Gavin and Morigna and the others waited at the base of the stairs, weapons in hand. Mara had stood with them at first, waiting to see what the Anathgrimm would do, but something had drawn her out. Something had made her come out, ignoring Arandar’s and Morigna’s calls to come back, and she had told the others to remain on the stairs.

The Anathgrimm had not hurt Mara. They had not attacked.

She did not think they were going to attack anyone.

Mara watched her father’s slaves. At least, they had been her father’s slaves. He had enslaved them on a deep and profound level, twisting their hearts and minds to regard him as a god. Yet Mara had just killed their god. What would they do now?

“Look,” murmured Jager.

A figure moved among the ranks of the Anathgrimm, a towering shape in fine armor, his bone mask stark against his green skin. Mara recognized Zhorlacht, dark wizard and priest of the Traveler. Zhorlacht stepped away from the waiting Anathgrimm orcs and stopped, gazing up at Mara.

It was hard to judge his expression beneath the bone mask, but Zhorlacht seemed…lost. Sad, even.

For a moment Mara and Zhorlacht stared at each other.

“Daughter of the lord Traveler,” said the orcish wizard at last.

“I have a name,” said Mara. “Mara.”

Zhorlacht hesitated. “Mara. Yes. Is that not an ancient word from the Old Earth of the humans? It means ‘bitter’, I believe.”

“It does,” said Mara, surprised that he knew it.

“Bitter,” said Zhorlacht. “It is appropriate. For you have brought bitterness to our lives, Mara of Andomhaim. You slew our god.”

“Your god?” said Mara, her exasperation bursting through her self-control. “Your god?” She stepped forward. “He was a monster! He made my mother a slave and forced himself upon her, and she died making sure I wouldn’t become one of his slaves for the rest of my days. He turned all of you into his slaves, twisting your flesh into weapons and warping your minds so you would kiss his boots.” Mara realized that she was shouting, but she was too upset to care. “All of that and he was a coward, too! He hid in Nightmane Forest behind his wards while the urdmordar devoured the rest of his kindred! When you fought the Mhorites in the Vale of Stone Death, he would have hidden behind his precious wards had Mournacht not forced him to fight. He spent your lives by the hundreds to seize the Keeper’s power, and cared nothing for your deaths! Now at last he is dead, and you still think he is your god?”

She fell silent, shaking a little with anger and sadness.

“Do you think us fools?” said Zhorlacht. There was no anger in his voice, only weariness. “We know what our god was. We were not blind. Yet he was our god. Our entire purpose was to serve him. What are we now that our god is dead?”

“Free,” said Mara at once. “You are free of him.”

“What is freedom?” said Zhorlacht. “It is useless with purpose. Our entire purpose was to serve the Traveler. Without our purpose, we are nothing.”

“Then what are you going to do?” said Mara.

“We are going to kill ourselves,” said Zhorlacht.

“What?” said Mara. “Why? No!”

“Why not?” said Zhorlacht. “We are without purpose, we are without meaning. Our god has died, and we must die with him.”

Mara stared at him, and the dark truth occurred to her.

Zhorlacht and the other Anathgrimm were going to kill themselves because the Traveler had designed them to do it, had used his dark magic to burn a final command into the brains of his mutated orcs. It was his one last, spiteful blow, his final act of malice. If he was ever killed, he would make sure that all his slaves died with him.

“No,” said Mara. “Don’t you see? This is something else he did to you. You’re not killing yourself because your god is dead. You’re killing yourselves because the monster that pretended to be your god is trying to torture you one final time.”

“He was our god,” said Zhorlacht. “Our purpose is gone.”

“You don’t understand,” said Mara, groping for words. God and the saints, but she wished she was more eloquent. “He did this to you. He’s making you kill yourselves out of spite. That’s all! You haven’t lost your purpose.”

“He was our god,” said Zhorlacht. “Now we have no other reason to live.”

Mara wanted to scream in anger. They were going to do it. They were going to kill themselves, and the Traveler would have one final victory over those he had tortured for centuries…

“Wait!” said Jager.

Mara looked at him, and Zhorlacht and the others followed suit.

“This is not your concern, halfling,” said Zhorlacht.

“Of course not,” Jager agreed, brushing some dust from his sleeve. “Not my concern at all. In fact, I don’t even like you all that much. If you want to kill yourselves out of grief for that shrieking coward you called a god, well…far be it from me to stop you.”

Zhorlacht just stared at him. Mara did, too, wondering where he was going with this.

“Though if you do kill yourselves,” said Jager, “you will be failing your god.”

“How?” said Zhorlacht. “The Traveler is already dead. How could we fail him further?”

“Pardon?” said Jager. “Your god is dead? You are quite mistaken. Your god still lives.”

“Madness,” said Zhorlacht.

Jager raised an eyebrow. “Madness? Me? Well, I’ve done my fair share of risky things, I do admit, but I’m not the one who thinks that a dead dark elf is God.”

“The Traveler is slain,” said Zhorlacht. “Mara of Andomhaim slew him. I saw this with my own eyes, as did hundreds of others, and we felt his song end with his death.”

“True, true,” said Jager. He grinned and pointed at Mara. “But his heir yet lives.”

“Heir?” said Zhorlacht.

“Heir?” said Mara, blinking, and suddenly she realized what Jager was doing. “Husband, wait, this isn’t…”

He made a quick, small shushing motion with his right hand.

“The Traveler is dead, but his heir yet lives,” said Jager, gesturing at Mara. “So your allegiance must now transfer to her. She is your new god. Well, goddess, technically. Therefore you cannot kill yourself. Your service to your god has not yet ended.”

For the first time Zhorlacht looked bewildered. Yet around him the other Anathgrimm started to murmur, speaking to each other in low voices.

“But,” said Zhorlacht at last, “but…the lord Traveler had other daughters, and they all became urdhracosi. They were his slaves as well.”

“Does she seem like the Traveler’s slave?” said Jager. “She defied him. God and the saints, she killed him! Could any of his other daughters have performed such a mighty deed? She was supposed to have transformed into an urdhracos years ago, yet here she stands!” His voice grew louder, more forceful, and with a surreal shock Mara realized that he was doing an excellent imitation of Ridmark. “So tell me, Anathgrimm of Nightmane Forest. Would you rather fall upon your swords and kill yourselves? Or shall you follow the heir of your god? You served the Traveler all your lives, and you know that he was a cruel and capricious master, a coward and a scoundrel. Yet you served him devotedly and without fault, and there is no man in Andomhaim who could doubt the valor of the Anathgrimm! So ask yourselves this! What might you do, I wonder, if you followed a master who was not cruel and capricious, a master whom no one could claim was a coward?” He smiled. “Or mistress?”

“Jager,” said Mara. “I can’t do this. I’m not a goddess, and the Traveler was not a god. There is only one God…and it’s neither me nor the Traveler.”

“That’s true, that’s true,” said Jager, tapping his chin as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Well, if you can’t be a goddess…how about a Queen, then?”

“Queen?” said Mara.

“How about it, Zhorlacht?” said Jager. “You can kill yourselves if you like. Or maybe you can live, and maybe your lives can be better than you ever thought possible. Maybe instead of worshipping a madman who thinks he is a god, you can instead follow the Queen who slew your oppressor and talked you out of killing yourselves.”

For a long time Zhorlacht said nothing, a muscle in his jaw working.

“If we followed you,” he said at last, “what would you do with us?”

“We’re going after Shadowbearer and the Mhorites,” said Mara. “He’s going to try and open a gate to another world to bring the Frostborn back to Andomhaim. We’re going to stop him, or at least we’re going to try. He still has Mournacht and all the Mhorites around him. We’ll have to fight.” Mara shrugged. “I won’t lie. If you follow me, there will be fighting. And after, if we win…after I will try to dismantle what my father built in Nightmane Forest. I will try to free all of his slaves.”

“Good,” rumbled Zhorlacht. “We were made to fight, and we have unfinished business with Mournacht and his dogs. I will speak with the other headmen and priests.”

He strode back into the ranks of the warriors, and Ridmark, Calliande, and Antenora hurried onto the platform, the others following. Ridmark crossed to Mara’s side, looked at Mara, at the Anathgrimm, and then back at Mara.

“What’s happening?” said Ridmark.

“Well,” said Jager. “The Anathgrimm wanted to kill themselves in honor of the Traveler. I wouldn’t have minded very much, but Mara seemed upset. So instead I think I convinced them to make Mara their Queen.”

Silence answered him.

“That,” said Morigna, “is not funny, even by your usual standards.

“It’s not funny because he’s not joking,” said Mara. She didn’t want to be a queen, didn’t want to be a leader of any kind. Yet she did not want the Anathgrimm to kill themselves. For that matter, she had wanted to do something for her father’s slaves, something to free them from the prison of misery the Traveler had constructed around them. The Traveler was dead by her hand, but if Jager was right, if she really was his heir, all his evil works had passed to her.

If they had, she could undo them. She could undo them all.

They waited, the day growing darker as the sun slipped away behind the mountains of Vhaluusk to the west. Calliande busied herself by going to the others and healing their wounds. To Mara’s Sight, the white light of the Well’s magic was joined by the deeper power of the Keeper, lending Calliande’s healing spells greater effectiveness. The staff had been the vessel for the Keeper’s mantle, and that mantle had returned to Calliande once again.

At last Zhorlacht returned from the ranks of the Anathgrimm and gazed up at Mara.

“We accept your offer,” said the orcish wizard. “If you will be our Queen, then we shall be your subjects. The halfling spoke truly. Our duty is not yet ended. If you lead us we shall follow…and we shall show your foes why the foes of the Traveler feared the Anathgrimm.”

Mara took a deep breath, closed her eyes and opened them again.

“So be it,” said Mara.

With those words, she had just become the Queen of Nightmane Forest.

The Anathgrimm shouted and cheered, banging the flats of their swords against their shields. On and on the thunderous noise went, until at last it faded away.

“What are your commands, then?” said Zhorlacht.

Mara blinked and looked around. Ridmark stepped closer and lowered his voice.

“Tell them,” he murmured, “to make a camp here and post sentries. They should prepare to march for the Black Mountain and Dun Licinia tomorrow.”

Mara nodded and gave the commands to Zhorlacht, who in turn shouted orders to his men. The Anathgrimm host went to work, constructing a camp for themselves at the base of the hills. Somehow, it seemed, they had gotten most of their baggage and supplies out of Khald Azalar.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Jager. “I’m going to become a king, aren’t I?”

Zhorlacht made a displeased growl.

“Prince consort, I mean,” said Jager.

Zhorlacht’s next growl sounded only somewhat less displeased.

“If you didn’t want to be prince consort,” said Mara, “then you shouldn’t have made me their Queen.”

Jager shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do. You didn’t want them to kill themselves. And we might have a use for them.”

“You have to help me,” said Mara. “Both of you. I don’t know anything about being a Queen. You’ve led armies in battle, Ridmark, and…husband, you just talked an army into swearing itself to me. I need your help.”

“You’ll have it,” said Jager, taking her hand. “As long as we both shall live.”

###

“Mara has an army,” said Morigna, still stunned by the unexpected events.

“She does,” said Calliande.

They stood together just within the Gate of the East, next to the roaring bonfire that Kharlacht and Caius had built. Ridmark and the others were with the Anathgrimm, giving the mutated orcs instructions before they began the long march south. Or, more precisely, they were giving Mara advice, and she in turn gave the Anathgrimm instructions.

“She also has a kingdom, apparently,” said Morigna. “Nightmane Forest. I expect the High King will try to make war upon her and destroy her.”

“Probably not,” said Calliande, her voice distant as she gazed at Morigna. “I suspect, should we survive the events of the next few weeks, that Mara will swear as a vassal to the High King. It is not without precedent. Some of the orcish kings swore to the High King after accepting baptism. Our friend Crowlacht, for instance. His lord the king of Rhaluusk is sovereign in his own domain, but still comes at the High King’s call, and provides warriors for the defense of the realm.”

“Tarrabus Carhaine will not like it,” said Morigna.

“He will not,” said Calliande. She tilted her head to the side, frowning as she scrutinized Morigna. Morigna wondered what the Keeper’s Sight detected. “He may not have a choice in the matter, though. If Mara becomes a vassal monarch of the High King, she will be Tarrabus’s equal in rank. If we defeat Shadowbearer and stop the Frostborn, that will help when it comes time to root out the Enlightened of Incariel from Andomhaim.”

“Poor Jager will be wroth,” said Morigna. “All his disdain for the nobles of Andomhaim, and he becomes one.”

Calliande smiled briefly. “Technically, I suppose he would be the Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest. Given that the position did not exist until about an hour ago, I expect he will bring his usual flair to it.”

Morigna snorted. “A kind way to put it. And as for you? If we are victorious, you will go to Tarlion and advise the High King, and never trouble yourself with the problems of commoners again?”

She expected Calliande to react to the barb, but the Keeper did not even blink.

“I am the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Calliande, still staring at Morigna, “and I will defend the realm from dark magic, whether that takes me to the courts of Tarlion or the hills of the Northerland.”

A little chill went through Morigna.

The Keeper defended Andomhaim from dark magic…and Morigna had powerful dark magic within her now. Was Calliande simply going to kill her? She might decide that she had the right. She certainly had the power. There was no way Morigna could match her power, even if she used every scrap of dark magic she had taken from the Warden. The Old Man’s teachings echoed in her head. Power was the foundation of strength and security…and Calliande had far more power than Morigna now.

“Well?” said Morigna at last, unable to wait any longer. “Are you going to kill me?”

“What?” said Calliande, her calm demeanor shifting to surprise. “Of course not. Why would I?”

“I have used dark magic,” said Morigna. “I am from outside the realm of Andomhaim. I am a user of elemental magic, which is forbidden in Andomhaim. One would think the Keeper would defend the realm from a dire threat like me.”

“For God’s sake,” said Calliande. “I’m not going to kill you. Ridmark would never forgive me. What, do you think I’m going to murder you and take your place at Ridmark’s side?”

Morigna opened her mouth and closed it again.

“The thought did occur to me,” said Morigna.

“I do love him, you know,” said Calliande. She stared off towards the Anathgrimm for a moment.

“I know,” said Morigna.

“I am jealous of you,” said Calliande. “I’ve never had anyone. There was never time. You had Sir Nathan, even if you lost him, and now Ridmark.”

“You…still could, if you wanted,” said Morigna. She tried to keep her voice scornful, but more fear leaked into it than she would have liked. “I am sure he would not turn away from the noble and mighty Keeper.”

“No. I am the Keeper,” said Calliande. “I have a duty, and I cannot flinch from it. And you are good for him, Morigna. If there was a chance such a love would have been part of my life, that chance ended the day the Keeper chose me to be her apprentice.” She sighed and gave Morigna a sad smile. “Please make him happy. That is all I will ask of you.”

Morigna let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding.

“What about me?” she said. “The dark magic?”

“I cannot remove it without killing you in the process,” said Calliande.

“I see,” said Morigna. “Then there is no hope? I am going to transform into something?”

“Probably not,” said Calliande. “Not unless you keep using it. The physical changes, the night vision and the shadows, those are permanent. But the dark magic isn’t part of you, the way it was with Mara or with something like an urdhracos. It’s like…oh, a tumor, let us say. But it is a tumor that only grows if you use it. So long as you do not use the dark magic again, in time it will atrophy and vanish.”

“That is good to know,” said Morigna. She swallowed. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” said Calliande. “If you had not intervened, Shadowbearer would have killed me in the Vault. And I would never have reached Dragonfall without your help.”

“I…see,” said Morigna, puzzled. “Are…you trying to make peace with me?”

“Why not?” said Calliande. “Shadowbearer must be stopped. He’s going to open the gate to the world of the Frostborn unless we defeat him, and then the Frostborn war will begin anew. All the horrors of that time will begin once again.” She shook her head, lost in a dark memory, and then looked at Morigna. “I need every ally I can find to stop him. Will you help me?”

She had changed, Morigna thought. There was an iron confidence in Calliande now, an utter certainty of her path. It was peculiarly charismatic. She could see how Calliande had rallied the High Kingdom to follow her, how she had defeated the Frostborn the first time.

It was the same sort of purpose she saw in Ridmark, and that was one of the things she loved in him.

“The Old Man murdered my parents and blighted my life,” said Morigna. “We slew him, but Shadowbearer was his teacher, and this will not be over until Shadowbearer is slain, will it?”

“No,” said Calliande.

“Then let us defeat Shadowbearer,” said Morigna, “and see this done.”

Calliande nodded, and they descended the stairs to join the others.

Chapter 24: One Last Throw

The next morning, Ridmark and his friends left the Gate of the East and headed south into the trackless forests of the Wilderland.

They left the Anathgrimm behind out of necessity. The Anathgrimm could travel quickly, especially for infantry, but they still moved at the speed of an army. The only advantage Ridmark and others had against Shadowbearer was their head start and their ability to travel faster than the Mhorite host. They had to reach Dun Licinia and the Black Mountain as soon as they could. If they stayed with the Anathgrimm, Shadowbearer might reach the Black Mountain first.

That would be a disaster.

Ridmark thought of Dun Licinia, of the people he had met there on the day of the omen of blue fire, the day this had begun. His old friend Sir Joram Agramore was there, along with all the other people he had met during the Mhalekite attack on the town. Would Shadowbearer send the Mhorites after them?

Perhaps Ridmark could reach Dun Licinia before it was too late. Or perhaps Zhorlacht and his warriors would be as good as their word, and arrive to aid against the Mhorites.

Ridmark stopped at the edge of the forest, looking back at the others. Calliande came after him, calm, even serene, the staff of the Keeper in her right hand, Antenora following after like a yellow-eyed shadow. Then came Morigna in her tattered cloak, Kharlacht and Caius, Mara and Jager, and the Swordbearers Arandar and Gavin brought up the back.

“We shall have to travel quickly,” Ridmark told them. “With speed and stealth. There are urdmordar in the forests of the northern Wilderland, and tribes of savage arachar orcs that worship them. I would prefer to avoid both if at all possible. We cannot afford any delays.”

“The Anathgrimm,” said Mara in a quiet voice, “will not be so fortunate.”

“The Anathgrimm also have numbers and discipline,” said Ridmark. “They have wizards among their number. The urdmordar will likely let them pass unchallenged. We may not be so fortunate.”

“If they mean to try us,” said Gavin, “they will regret it. When we faced Agrimnalazur, we had no soulblades. Now we have two.”

“As we get closer to the borders of the realm,” said Calliande, “I can try and send a message to any Magistri in Dun Licinia.” She frowned. “Assuming they all have not been corrupted by the Enlightened. We can warn Sir Joram of the storm that is about to fall upon his doorstep.”

“Any advanced warning would aid him,” said Ridmark. “Zhorlacht thought that only about five thousand of the Mhorites survived to escape from Dun Licinia. That number would take all the knights and men-at-arms of the Northerland to defeat. If Shadowbearer summons more allies along the way, we might need the entire army of the realm to drive them back.”

“Depending on which nobles have been seduced into the Enlightened,” said Calliande, “we might wind up summoning enemies instead of allies.”

Suddenly Morigna laughed.

“What is so funny?” said Ridmark.

“Only this,” said Morigna. “After thousands of years of plotting, after the Keeper spent centuries asleep, after wars and kings and battles, it all comes down this. Simply a race. Whoever reaches the Black Mountain first will end this.”

“Then let us win the race,” said Ridmark, “and put an end to Shadowbearer’s evil for all time.”

He led the way into the forests of the Wilderland, and the others followed.

Epilogue

Shadowbearer walked through the High Pass from the Vale of Stone Death, the Mhorite host behind him. The shamans led the warriors in a monotonous chant of devotion to Mhor, promising him a constant flow of blood for his altars. The sound was damnably irritating, and Shadowbearer wanted to turn and kill them.

Not yet. He might need them to hold off his enemies soon enough.

The soulstone rested in his right hand, heavy and cold with potential power. Without it, he could have traveled from the Vale of Stone Death to Dun Licinia in the blink of an eye. With it, he could only travel one step at a time…but without it, he could not open the gate and summon the Frostborn.

So the stone came with him.

It was a hideous risk. Sooner or later Ardrhythain would return from the threshold, and the high elven archmage might find him. Or some other power might decide to claim the soulstone, or the Keeper might locate him and challenge him again…

The hideous burns upon his face tightened. They would not heal, and the pain was tremendous, but pain was of no importance. He would keep going, he would defeat his enemies, and he would open the gate and gain freedom at last…

This was a bad idea.

Shadowbearer’s instincts told him to drop the soulstone in the middle of the High Pass, abandon the Mhorites, and disappear back into the shadows. The plan with the Enlightened and the soulstone had been a good one, but it had nearly fallen apart. He should disappear and wait for the next time the moons reached the proper conjunction. The Keeper and her allies would have died by then, and Shadowbearer could continue his work uninterrupted.

Yes. That was what he should do.

His hand tightened against the soulstone.

The shadow within him screamed with fury. It demanded its freedom, and its freedom was at hand. Shadowbearer would be free then as well. Or would he? Once he had been the archmage Tymandain of Cathair Solas, but now he was the bearer of Incariel’s shadow.

Sometimes he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the shadow.

Maybe there was no longer any difference. Perhaps he was Incariel and Incariel was him.

He would not turn back now. Victory was at hand, and no triumph came without corresponding risk. All he had to do was reach out and seize it.

After a few appropriate preparations, of course.

He had sent agents of the Enlightened to Dun Licinia in preparation for this day. Shadowbearer reached out, seeking for the darkness within his servants, and found it.

###

Imaria Licinius, daughter of Dux Gareth Licinius, sister of the slain Aelia Licinius Arban, opened her eyes.

She stood in her bedroom at Dun Licinia’s only inn. As a deliberate insult to Sir Joram Agramore, she had refused his offer of guest rooms at the town’s keep, and had instead rented the entire top floor of the inn. Her father would be appalled when he found out, as would her superiors in the Order of the Magistri, but that was not important. She cared nothing for what Sir Joram or her father or the Magistri thought, and her allegiance to them had become a lie. Once she had thought herself in love with Tarrabus Carhaine, the leader of the Enlightened, but of late her ardor for him had cooled as the shadow in her mind whispered of the truth.

Her true allegiance was to the shadow of Incariel, for Incariel had promised her what she dearly desired.

Vengeance upon Ridmark Arban, the man who had murdered her sister. And then, perhaps, revenge on all the realm.

Imaria blinked several times, clearing her head. Lately, when Shadowbearer’s voice had filled her mind to impart instructions, there had been…echoes. Lingering whispers. As if the shadow of Incariel still stirred within her, filling her with power.

Those whispers suggested a potential future, a realm crushed beneath giants of frost and ice, a realm crushed in vengeance for Imaria’s loss.

That thought pleased her.

She opened the door and went to the sitting room. The furnishings were crude and far beneath her station, but they were the best that Dun Licinia had to offer. A wooden table sat in the center of the room, circled by chairs.

The Weaver sat in one of the chairs, staring at her.

He was an Initiated of the Sixth Circle of the Enlightened, one of the oldest and most powerful of the Enlightened. As far as Imaria knew, he was at least a century and a half old, and maybe even older. Right now, he affected the appearance of a gaunt, ascetic-looking old man with close-cropped white hair and pale, gentle blue eyes, clad only in a simple white robe.

He smiled as she approached…and his head exploded into a spray of black threads. The shadowed threads danced and tangled around each other, and then merged, weaving themselves back into a head.

Specifically, into a perfect copy of Imaria’s head, with the same green eyes, olive skin, and long black hair.

“Darling child,” said the Weaver in a perfect imitation of Imaria’s voice. “What news from our master?”

“I told you not to do that,” said Imaria, irritated.

The Weaver considered that, smiling with a copy of her mouth, and then his head exploded into a maze of black threads, weaving itself back into the guise of the ascetic old man. Imaria was surprised. The Weaver usually ignored what she said. Now, though, he looked at her with something like…

Respect?

“You hear it, don’t you?” murmured the Weaver. “The voice of our master?”

“Shadowbearer speaks to me,” said Imaria.

The Weaver’s sardonic smile seemed out of place on that ascetic face. “The shadow of Incariel. You hear it now, don’t you? Your hatred has brought you close to it. You hear Incariel’s voice.”

Imaria nodded, and the Weaver’s smile widened.

“So,” he said. “What does Shadowbearer wish of us?”

“Ridmark Arban is coming to Dun Licinia, along with the restored Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Imaria. The Weaver’s smile vanished at the last part. “We’re going to kill them both.”

“I see,” said the Weaver. The smile returned. “And then, darling child? What does Incariel have planned for us then?”

Imaria felt herself smiling in answer. “Vengeance.”

“Well,” murmured the Weaver. “Shall we begin?”

THE END

Thank you for reading FROSTBORN: THE BROKEN MAGE. Look for Ridmark's next adventure, FROSTBORN: THE WORLD GATE, to appear in late 2015. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

Other books by the author

The Demonsouled Saga

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.

Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.

But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.

The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.

The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael’s power can hope to defeat them.

The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.

To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.

Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.

For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.

Unless Mazael can stop him.

Read Demonsouled for free. Mazael's adventures continue in Soul of Tyrants, Soul of Serpents, Soul of Dragons, Soul of Sorcery, Soul of Skulls, and Soul of Swords, along with the short stories The Wandering Knight, The Tournament Knight, and The Dragon's Shadow. Get the first three books bundled together in Demonsouled Omnibus One.

The Ghosts Series

Once CAINA AMALAS was the shy daughter of a minor nobleman, content to spend her days in her father’s library.

Then sorcery and murder and her mother’s treachery tore her life apart.

Now she is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, an elite agent of the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar. She is a master of disguise and infiltration, of stealth and the shadows.

And she will need all those skills to defend the Empire and stay alive.

Corrupt lords scheme and plot in the shadows, desiring to pull down the Emperor and rule the Empire for their own profit and glory. Slave traders lurk on the fringes of the Empire, ready to seize unwary commoners and sell them into servitude in distant lands. Yet both slave traders and cruel lords must beware the Ghosts.

The Magisterium, the Imperial brotherhood of sorcerers, believe themselves the rightful masters of the Empire. With their arcane sciences, they plan to overthrow the Empire and enslave the commoners, ruling all of mankind for their own benefit. Only the Ghosts stand in the path of their sinister plans.

And the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend and terror, waits in the shadows, preparing to launch a war upon the gods themselves. She will make the gods pay for the suffering of mankind...even if she must destroy the world to do it.

Caina Amalas of the Ghosts opposes these mighty enemies, but the cost might be more than she can bear.

Read Child of the Ghosts for free. Caina's adventures continue in Ghost in the Flames, Ghost in the Blood, Ghost in the Storm, Ghost in the Stone, Ghost in the Forge, Ghost in the Ashes, Ghost in the Mask, and Ghost in the Surge, along with the short stories Ghost Aria, Ghost Claws, Ghost Omens, The Fall of Kyrace, Ghost Thorns, Ghost Undying, Ghost Light, and Ghost Dagger. Get the first three books bundled together in The Ghosts Omnibus One, and get the first four short stories bundled together in a World of the Ghosts Volume One.

The Ghost Exile Series

Caina Amalas was a nightfighter of the Ghosts, the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar, and through her boldness and cunning saved the Empire and the world from sorcerous annihilation.

But the victory cost her everything.

Now she is exiled and alone in the city of Istarinmul, far from her home and friends. Yet a centuries-old darkness now stirs in Istarinmul, eager to devour the city and the world itself.

And Caina is the only one that stands in its way...

Read Ghost in the Cowl, Ghost in the Maze, Ghost in the Hunt, Ghost in the Razor, and Ghost in the Inferno along with the short stories Ghost Sword, Ghost Price, Ghost Relics, Ghost Keeper, Ghost Nails, and Ghost Lock.

The Third Soul

RACHAELIS MORULAN is an Initiate of the Conclave, the powerful order of mighty mages. But to become a full Adept of the Conclave, she must first survive the Testing. Those who survive the Testing never speak of the trials they endured.

Those who fail the Testing are never seen again.

And now the Magisters of the Conclave have come to take Rachaelis to undertake the Testing. And there she shall face perils to both her body and her sanity.

And creatures that yearn to devour her soul.

If Rachaelis survives the Testing, she will face even more dangerous foes. The demons of the astral world watch the world of mortal men, desiring to rule it for themselves.

And some Adepts of the Conclave are eager to help them.

Read The Testing for free. Rachelis's trials continue in The Assassins, The Blood Shaman, The High Demon, The Burning Child, The Outlaw Adept, The Black Paladin, and The Tomb of Baligant. Read the entire series in The Third Soul Omnibus One and The Third Soul Omnibus Two.

The Frostborn Series

A thousand years ago, the last grandson of Arthur Pendragon led the survivors of Britain through a magical gate to a new world, a world of magic and high elves, of orcs and kobolds and stranger, darker creatures. Now the descendants of the exiles rule a mighty kingdom, peaceful and prosperous under the rule of the High King.

But a shadow threatens to devour the kingdom.

RIDMARK ARBAN was once a Swordbearer, a knight of renown. Now he is a branded outcast, stripped of his sword, and despised as a traitor.

But he alone sees the danger to come. The Frostborn shall return, and unless they are stopped, they will cover all the world in ice and a neverending winter.

CALLIANDE awakens in the darkness, her memories gone, and creatures of terrible power hunting her.

For she alone holds the secret that can save the world…or destroy it utterly.

The secret of the Frostborn.

Read Frostborn: The First Quest, followed by Frostborn: The Gray Knight, Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife, Frostborn: The Undying Wizard, Frostborn: The Master Thief, Frostborn: The Iron Tower, Frostborn: The Dark Warden, Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit, and Frostborn: The Broken Mage along with the short stories The Orc's Tale, The Mage's Tale, The Thief's Tale, The Assassin's Tale, The Paladins's Tale, and The Knight's Tale. Read the first three books combined in Frostborn Omnibus One.

Mask of the Demonsouled Trilogy

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK has prevailed over terrible foes and now rules the Grim Marches with firm justice. Yet ancient evils are stirring in the shadows, freed at last by Mazael's own hand. Unless Mazael fights with all his strength, the world will fall.

SIGALDRA is the last holdmistress of the Jutai nation, the final defender of her people. Now the darkness comes to devour the final remnant of Sigaldra's home and family. Even Sigaldra's courage may not be enough to turn aside the darkness.

Read Mask of Swords along with the short stories The Ransom Knight and The Serpent Knight.

The Tower of Endless Worlds

THOMAS WYCLIFFE just wants to finish his dissertation in peace and quiet. So when a man in a black robe appears in his closet, claiming to be the last of the Warlocks, Wycliffe figures it is a bad joke.

But he soon realizes the last of the Warlocks can give him power beyond imagining.

And all it will cost is his soul.

SIMON WESTER needs a job. Badly. So when a rich and powerful Senator offers him employment, he jumps at the chance. Sure, Simon expects to find some corruption, some shady deals.

He doesn't expect to find black magic.

LIAM MASTERE is a Knight of the Sacred Blade, defender of the mortal races. But can swords stand against guns? As bullets and bombs destroy his kingdom, Liam must risk everything to save his homeland's one chance of salvation.

By daring the horrors of the Tower of Endless Worlds…

Read The Tower of Endless Worlds for free. The saga of the Tower continues in A Knight of the Sacred Blade, A Wizard of the White Council, and The Destroyer of Worlds.

About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

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Table of Contents

Description

Chapter 1: Frost

Chapter 2: Ruins

Chapter 3: Siege Doors

Chapter 4: Night Visions

Chapter 5: Sacrifices

Chapter 6: Images In Stone

Chapter 7: Wayward Pets

Chapter 8: Stone Eyes

Chapter 9: An Extended Family

Chapter 10: Vault of the Kings

Chapter 11: Nests

Chapter 12: Dragonfall

Chapter 13: Hunger

Chapter 14: Alone

Chapter 15: Enemies and Enemies

Chapter 16: Lost Lives

Chapter 17: Fires and Shadows

Chapter 18: Remember

Chapter 19: An Assassin of the Red Family

Chapter 20: A Constant Thorn In My Side

Chapter 21: Reunion

Chapter 22: Pursuit

Chapter 23: The Dead God

Chapter 24: One Last Throw

Epilogue

Other books by the author

About the Author